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Namjoon’s eyes flick to the clock against the wall to his right. Just after two in the morning, another three hours before he can leave. He hasn’t had a customer since midnight and he’s been standing in the same place for what feels like years. He wonders, idly, if he stayed like this for the rest of the night, if he might put down roots. Sink right through the floor and dig into the linoleum, questing limbs probing through the grout and cracking through the dirty grey tile. Another thing to anchor him, to keep him trapped within these four walls.
His ear itches but he can’t find the energy to lift an arm from the surface of the counter to scratch it. Maybe it’s his brain finally leaking out of his head. Would it look like the strawberry milk someone had spilled last week? Glowing neon under the fluorescent lights, zigzagging along grout lines and slipping under shelves. A toxic waste explosion that someone else would have to clean up this time.
He glances at the clock again. Two minutes have passed. He should pull out his notes and study, skim another chapter in his book so he’s ahead on the reading. But his backpack, tucked in the corner, may as well be leagues away instead of two arm lengths. His eyes already burn behind his glasses, he can’t imagine how they would ache if he added trying to decipher his own chicken scratch to the mix.
It’s been two days he thinks, two nights really, since it’s always only nights, since Namjoon’s had any...excitement? It’s not excitement, but it’s change. Or maybe now it’s routine. The new normal? Every night, every few nights, sometimes not for ten days, sporadic. But a craving, an itching tap in his fingers for a little more. The smell of burning nicotine and tar, the astringent sharpness of antiseptic, the coppery tang of blood and saliva spat onto the asphalt.
Movement under one of the streetlights catches his eye, he snaps his head to the side so quickly his neck cracks. The movement disappears, far out on the sidewalk, and he loses hope. He’s turning his head back to the rows of shelves when he sees it again, closer now, in the middle of the lot. He can make out a figure, curled in, dark jacket, dark cap pulled low. He straightens from his slump against the counter. His heartbeat picks up. The figure disappears again.
The thump of his pulse is in his ears, fluttering in his throat, hot in his mouth. His fingers clench around the end of the chipped counter, nails digging into the pocked surface. The tick of the clock slices through his mind, off-beat with his heart, the thump tick thump tock rushing through him, he thinks he’s trembling. And there -
In the closest light, still a few meters from the door, hunched and dark, the peek of platinum under a black ballcap, the flash of dark eyes in the light. Namjoon thinks they make eye contact. And then the figure is skirting around the light toward the back of the store, never the front, never inside under the lights.
Namjoon still feels stuck, his feet glued to the dirty floor. Maybe the soles of his sneakers have permanently affixed to the linoleum, chewing gum and sticky soda residue trapping him in fluorescent hell forever. He shakes himself like a dog, a full body shudder wracking him. It loosens his feet, loosens his limbs, and he moves. A shove of his hands against the counter and he’s stepping backwards, knees cracking, pins and needles shooting from his ankles up to his hips.
He knows this dance well now. New routine. The first aid kit is under the counter on the left, his hands find it without looking, lifting the plastic handle. He tucks it under his arm, makes his way around the counter and to the front door. The snick of the lock echoes like a gunshot in his mind, ricocheting like a sparking bullet around the shelves and coolers, off the glass windows. He flips the sign to Be Right Back and turns. The cold air from the cooler shocks him as he opens it, clearing some of the fog and fuzziness in his head. He stands for a moment, breathing in the frosty air, before grabbing two bottles of water and spinning to head to the back door.
He’s there, sitting on the cracked concrete steps, leaning forward over his knees in the dim orange light of the flickering bulb above the back door. Namjoon can’t see much from this angle, just hunched broad shoulders under a black jacket, a head hanging low. “Hyung,” he calls out, breathy and nervous. He gets a grunt in return.
He’d been told to call the other man hyung after their fifth time meeting like this. A bitten out “Fucking Christ, Namjoon, you’re shoving a fucking tampon up my nose, just call me hyung,” had caused a blushing Namjoon to stammer and quickly agree. Secretly, he felt a rush through his body, like warm water spreading from his core to his fingers and toes.
He sits carefully on the step, leaving space between them so their thighs don’t touch. He passes over a bottle of water, a pale hand, trembling slightly, takes it. Split bloody knuckles on pale skin. The crack of the bottle opening, plastic cap separating, has Namjoon flinching. He wonders if those split knuckles made that sound, or if whatever they connected with did. Whoever.
How much of that blood is a stranger’s?
Namjoon swallows hard as the bottle is lifted, hears the crinkle of the plastic as it’s squeezed, drained in one long sitting. Namjoon tries to see his face when he tilts his head to drink, but the bottle and ball cap are blocking his view, the glow of the light barely penetrating the shadows.
The bottle drops to the ground and rolls away. Namjoon opens the first aid kit. He had restocked it the other night, more gauze and antiseptic, more bandages. A few packets of painkillers tucked under the disposable gloves.
Namjoon fishes out a few small packages of individual antiseptic wipes and tears one open. The astringent tang makes his nose wrinkle, the clinical smell of hospitals and sterile rooms overpowering his senses.
“Hyung, your hands,” he prompts, and there’s a shuffling as they both turn on the steps and then bruised, bloody hands are offered to Namjoon. Namjoon thinks that, without the bruising, these hands would be beautiful, breathtaking. Without the split skin and blood, the torn cuticles and bitten nails, there would be a quiet beauty. They are an artist’s hands, a virtuoso pianist or a crafter of tiny sculptures. Something that requires patience. Steadiness. Nimbleness.
Milky skin, looking wan and almost waxen under the dirty light above them, blotched with pink and red, flower petals on undisturbed snow. Long thin fingers with knobby knuckles, they could almost be delicate if not for the swelling, if not for the obvious strength they hold.
There’s a small cough and Namjoon snaps back to attention, feeling his cheeks heating. He pulls the hands into his lap and they rest on his leg, one on his thigh, the other on his knee. Namjoon can feel them through the denim. Hot, heavy, searing through to his skin. His fingers tremble a bit as he lifts one, gripping lightly at the thin wrist.
Delicately, as gently as he can manage, he dabs at the swollen knuckles of a shaking left hand. He wipes away the blood, most of it dry, before focusing on the torn and split skin. A hiss, fingers twitching, the fingers of a shaking right hand curl around his knee, squeeze. Namjoon licks his lips, lets out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.
He tries to work quickly, sopping up blood and cleaning wounds, the fingers of his other hand cupping the thin wrists, feeling the thrum of a pulse. There’s silence between them as Namjoon patches him up, Namjoon never knows quite what to say. He presses the bloodied antiseptic wipes back into the packaging to dispose of. Tiny bloody letters in torn envelopes, a story of pain and violence.
He pulls a cotton swab and a foil packet of antibiotic cream from the kit, smearing it quickly over the torn flesh. It glistens in the orange light, a trail of viscous liquid gel that he covers with gauze, winding a bandage around and around the center of each hand. Like the wrappings of a boxer, the ragged scraps of a mummy. When he finishes they both sit back, leaning their backs against the concrete steps and staring in silence toward the dumpsters.
Namjoon peers over when he hears shuffling. A crumpled pack of cigarettes appears from thin air, one plucked from the depths and placed between parted lips. Namjoon tries to focus at this point, watching as the Zippo clicks and flares to life, the scent of butane fills the air. A tiny explosion, a flare that blinds him momentarily. He’s always looking too closely and he always regrets it.
It’s the only time, he thinks, that he can really see the older man’s face fully illuminated. By the glow of a tiny flame his features are highlighted. The dark, feline eyes, wary and hooded. A button nose and high cheekbones, pouty rosebud lips looking so perfectly pink. The features are always not entirely what Namjoon imagined they should be. They’re too soft, despite a sharp jawline, lips too kissable. Namjoon swallows, trying to quiet his thoughts, stop his racing heart. As the lighter is flicked closed, he barely catches the purple and red bloom of a bruise under his eye, high on his cheekbone.
He has to clench his fingers in his lap to prevent himself from reaching out and touching the swollen flesh. From running fingers over it to feel the swell, to soothe the ache, to brush down pale cheeks and thumb over chapped pink lips.
Namjoon blinks, coming back to himself as a cloud of smoke is exhaled in front of them. It drifts and dissipates, the acrid smell burning his lungs. Namjoon sees it fading into lingering wisps in the still night air. Namjoon follows the trail of smoke drifting up from the lit cigarette. He wonders how high the smoke goes, if there are enough holes in the ozone layer could it reach space? Could it float right out into the cosmos and into another galaxy? Taking all of Namjoon's nervous whispers and carefully constructed sentences with it.
There’s blood on the end of the cigarette, Namjoon’s eyes zero in on the red on the white and he leans forward. It seems obscene, a testament to violence, more real than the bloody knuckles. “Hyung,” he begins, voice quiet, trying not to shatter the moment, “Is your lip split?”
Silence for a few minutes, a grunt and then a globule of blood and saliva is spat onto the ground in front of them. “No.” A short answer, the first word the other man has said to him tonight. His voice is hoarse, raspy, the deep timbre sends a chill down Namjoon’s spine just with one word.
Even in the dim orange light, Namjoon can clearly make out the brilliant red of the blood on the asphalt in front of them. Either it’s a lie, and it is a split lip, or it could be a broken tooth, cut cheek, tongue? If he knew how the injuries actually occurred maybe he could identify the wound.
Namjoon leans back against the step again, staring out at the dingy alley, the dumpsters and the chain link fence a few feet away. He wracks his mind desperately for something to say, something to break the silence. They’re always quiet like this, Namjoon knows that, and has mostly accepted it. For all of his desire to know more about the older man, he never gets much out of him. He stopped asking questions a while ago, knowing he would be met with grunts and silence.
Namjoon’s eyes are drawn back as the other man ashes the cigarette off the steps. Namjoon’s eyes roam over the bandages, a little blood has soaked through in a couple of spots. The hand holding the cigarette is trembling slightly. Eventually the cigarette is gone, finished in their silence, heartbeats and quiet breaths the only sound between them.
With a groan and a wince the other man rises to his feet, flicking the butt away. He tugs his cap down lower and turns to Namjoon. Namjoon can’t see his face at all like this, it’s an endless shadow that makes him feel a little nervous.
A large hand claps down on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Namjoon feels electrical currents shoot down his arm and rush through his body. The warmth through his shirt is palpable, the weight of a strong hand through the layer of fabric turns his insides to jelly.
Namjoon’s hands come up automatically as the other steps off the steps and stumbles, legs wobbly. He reaches out, almost grabs his hips to steady him but stops himself, hands hovering in the air before he slowly pulls them back and clenches them in his lap. The other man doesn’t even notice.
“Thanks, kid,” a gruff dismissal. The same as every time.
“Bye, Yoongi hyung,” he calls to the retreating figure, watching him go until he’s swallowed up by the blackness of the parking lot, back into the nameless void he appeared from.
---
The rest of Namjoon’s shift passes in a haze. When he goes back inside, squinting at the blinding fluorescents, wincing at the electric hum of the world around him, he unlocks the door and takes his place behind the counter again. When Seokjin arrives to relieve him at five Namjoon mumbles a quiet goodbye before shrugging on his backpack and heading to the bus stop.
His head feels full of cotton, his thoughts drifting in and out of his mind like the smoke from Yoongi’s cigarette. As he sits on the bus, head leaning against the cool glass of the window, he watches the sky lighten around him. He wonders if Yoongi is home now, if he’s safe, if he’s tucked comfortably into a warm bed. Alone, maybe, or with a lover, curled together with Yoongi’s bruised knuckles kissed by soft lips and held in careful hands. He could be those soft lips. He could be those careful hands.
His apartment feels too small as he unlocks the door and closes it behind him, kicking off his shoes and standing still in the entryway. It’s quiet, the low hum of his refrigerator and the soft sound of the fan he left on. The studio feels like a shoebox today, tiny kitchenette and small sitting area with his sofa and tv. The paper screen hiding his small sleeping area from view, the edge of the queen futon is barely visible past the end, is painted in swirls of green and blue. A touch of color, hyung, his friend, Taehyung, had said happily as he knelt on Namjoon’s floor and swept careful strokes along the paper.
Everything is creams and grays, pale and lifeless, sterile, so he knows Taehyung was right. He loves the bit of color, loves how it compliments his tidy row of greenery on the windowsill. Bonsais and succulents, tiny flowering cactuses and air plants arranged in small bowls and dishes. Namjoon is pretty sure he spends more time talking to his plants than he does anyone else.
He throws his backpack onto the couch and makes his way into the shower. As he stands under the hot spray, letting it beat against his back and cascade in rivulets down his chilly skin, he thinks of Yoongi again. Wonders if he did the same when he got home, washed any additional blood and residual violence off of him. As Namjoon scrubs himself he feels like he’s washing away a crime, an accessory to some sort of violence. Maybe he’s complicit. Maybe he doesn’t even care.
Maybe Yoongi has someone to help him wash up when he stumbles home, beaten and bloody. Someone to wash his hair, gently, reverently, so the bandages don’t get wet. The bandages that Namjoon so, so carefully winds and secures around his wounded hands. But if he has that...why would he need Namjoon?
As he tucks himself into bed after, curled under crisp, cool sheets in warm pajamas, he thinks about Yoongi again. His mind wanders to their first meeting, a few months ago.
---
It happened like this...
Taking out the trash was definitely one of Namjoon's least favorite things to do. He's not even sure how it gets so disgusting, but it always tends to leak and drip around his shoes from spilled drinks and who knows what else. The color always seems a little bit off to be just drinks. He's tired, not in the mood to haul the bag out the back door and heave it into the stinking dumpster. He considers just dragging it across the floor but knows he'll just have to mop it up later. It's awkward, lifting the bag up in his arms and shuffling toward the entrance to the back alley.
He can feel the bag leaking onto his shirt, slime and goop soaking into his vest and through his t-shirt. He can feel it on his skin. It's strangely warm, like oozing blood seeping into his skin, dripping down his chest. The consistency is horrible, viscous and thick. Namjoon is afraid to see what color it'll turn out to be. Sickly pink like melted ice cream. Neon green like toxic sludge.
Maybe it's radioactive. Hoseok would make a joke about him turning into a superhero. Namjoon just desperately wants a shower.
Namjoon groans, the bag shifting against him as he pushes through the first door to the back of the store, feeling wetness on the front of his pants now. Why he thought it was a good idea to wear a new shirt to work is completely escaping him now. He won't make this mistake again.
He pushes open the door to the back steps and takes a deep breath in, hoping to replace the smell of the leaking trash with crisp outside air. But it's acrid. Bitter. A cloud of smoke floats in front of him and he freezes, one foot poised over the top step.
"You fuckin' mind?"
The rough voice shocks Namjoon back into action. He sets his foot down on the step and jerks his head to the side, toward the voice.
It's a man, a slumped figure curled into himself like a hedgehog, the prickly spines of white-blonde hair poking from underneath a black cap. He can barely make out the back of a pale neck, tucked into the shoulders of a dark bomber jacket. A trail of smoke drifts from a cigarette held in a shaky hand on a knee, pale skin visible through ragged rips in the denim.
"You gonna just stand there with the fuckin' trash?"
Namjoon blinks, feels himself flush. The man isn't even looking at him, probably couldn't make it out in the dirty orange light anyway, but he's embarrassed.
"Why are -" he breaks off, walking down the two steps. "What are you -" He stops in front of the dumpster and heaves the bag in. He is silently thankful that it didn't burst on him like last week. He turns around slowly.
"Who are you?" His voice trembles a little. He doesn't know this man and he looks kind of dangerous. Slumped on the back steps of the convenience store where Namjoon barely exists from eight PM to five AM on five, sometimes six nights per week. Something like this has never happened before. His shift is supposed to be mind-numbing, dreamlike in it's late night haze. This is...unexpected.
The man raises his head, just barely, Namjoon can make out the curve of a jaw, sharp as a knife, in the dirty ragged light, the rest of the face shadowed by the hat. "Nobody." A rasp, final, uninterested.
Namjoon takes a hesitant step closer, squinting through the lenses of his glasses. The stranger doesn't seem like a dream or hallucination brought on by fatigue and six hours of staring at fluorescent lights. His outline is a little blurry, but that could definitely be ascribed to Namjoon's general exhaustion from only three hours of sleep after classes.
Another step, he hesitates as he's nearly within touching distance. If he were to reach out he could almost brush his fingertips along the lapels of the jacket, the curve of a knee. He could find out if this man is a mirage or if he's really there.
"The fuck are you staring at?"
Namjoon feels cut open by the harsh tone, the words sticking in his chest like arrows. He wants to turn and run, dash around the store and in through the front door, pretending this never happened. But he takes a step closer instead, eyes caught on the pale hand holding the burning cigarette.
It's trembling. Faintly, nearly unnoticeable, but the tremor is there. And he recognizes, as he takes another step closer, that the harsh anger in the tone sounds more like fear. Now, less than an arm's distance away, he can see the blood. Splashes of red decorate the trembling hands, the bright crimson of new blood, dripping a little down long fingers, the rusty maroon of deep cuts, clotting wounds.
"Your hands," Namjoon whispers.
He sees the other man stiffen, tension zips through his body and his fingers twitch on his knees. There's no response. Namjoon wonders if he even spoke.
"Let me help you."
There's still no response and Namjoon is rushing back through the doors, locking the front door and slapping the Be Right Back sign over the window. He fumbles under the counter for the first aid kit, snapping it open to see a measly stash of bandages and antiseptic wipes, a sorry tube of antibiotic ointment. He hesitates before heading back out the door, grabbing a bottle of water from the cooler.
He squares his shoulders before walking back outside. He's about 80% sure that when he steps through the door, there’ll be no one there. And he won't be able to tell if it was a dream or reality. If there had really been a bleeding man smoking a cigarette on the back steps five minutes before. Namjoon shudders, feeling suddenly cold. He realizes, with a little bit of a start as he's shouldering open the door, that he wants the stranger to still be there.
And he is, just where Namjoon left him. The cigarette is gone now and the man's head hangs down low, chin against his chest. He doesn't raise his head when Namjoon steps down and sits next to him, keeping a careful distance between them.
Silently, Namjoon offers the bottle of water. The other man takes it, cracking open the cap and draining the bottle in one go. The plastic crunches as he sucks down the liquid, bloody knuckles shining in the light as long fingers contract around the bottle. He drops it on the ground when he finishes.
Namjoon waits a few moments, opens the first aid kit and pulls out some supplies, setting them on the step. “Can I?” He holds out a hand.
There’s a hesitation, a charged moment. Then a sigh and the man is shifting on the steps, turning toward Namjoon. Namjoon mirrors him, their knees very nearly brushing. The stranger extends his hands, milk white, bruised with rosy blooms and Namjoon takes them gently, reverently.
The man hisses, fingers twitching, at the first swipe of the antiseptic wipe along his knuckles. Namjoon tries to be gentle and quick, cleaning the wounds and wiping any other traces of blood from the hands. They’re beautiful hands, really, strong and long-fingered. But they’re cool to the touch, as if he’s been in a snowstorm without gloves.
“What’s your name?” Namjoon asks, after a few minutes of silence. He’s dabbing some of the antibiotic cream onto a cotton swab now. Silence. “I’m Kim Namjoon,” he offers, “I’m twenty four.”
The silence continues as he begins to wind gauze around the man’s hands. They’re not shaking as badly now, not as cool to the touch. He can feel the man’s eyes on him, studying him as he tends to his cuts. Namjoon doesn’t look up, keeping his head down and gaze focused.
“Yoongi,” he says, finally. His voice is a quiet rasp, Namjoon almost feels like he imagines it.
Namjoon nods once in acknowledgment, tries to not make it a big deal. Feels a surge of... something in his chest.
“There’s something on your shirt,” Yoongi deadpans. Namjoon looks up quickly, Yoongi’s eyes have zeroed in on the stain on the front of his shirt. His cheeks feel hot. Namjoon glances down at himself quickly. The stain is red. He finds it oddly fitting.
“The trash…” Namjoon mumbles lamely. The other man snorts but doesn’t say anything else.
When Namjoon is finished, he tucks the edges of the gauze in and, without thinking, gives the ends of the fingers a squeeze. It’s strangely intimate and he has no idea why he did it. The other man withdraws his hands slowly, curling them into fists and placing them in his lap. He turns away again.
Namjoon turns as well, facing the dumpster and staring at the asphalt in front of them. He tries to think of something to say. He has so many questions, his mind feels like a mess. He’s too tired to process anything that’s happening, he’s still pretty sure this is a dream. He jumps when he feels a nudge against his wrist, looks over.
A crumpled pack of cigarettes held out to him. An offering.
He shakes his head. “No, thank you, I don’t…”
A grunt and the pack is retracted. Three long fingers pluck one of the cigarettes from the pack, place it between lips that Namjoon can barely see. The shiny zippo lighter glimmers in the dingy light.
The flame is bright, loud, an eruption. Like a tiny volcano or fire storm, shocking to Namjoon’s eyes that have become so accustomed to the dim lighting. He should have looked away, shouldn’t stare so long at the sun. In the flash though, before stars and fireballs take over his vision, he sees the sharp line of a jaw. Pale skin with round cheeks, pouty pink lips. Maybe a button nose. He can’t see his eyes.
Maybe he doesn’t have any, his brain unhelpfully supplies, still partly convinced this is all a dream. Namjoon suppresses a shudder.
The man stands, shakily, with a grunt and steps down to the asphalt. He turns and seems to look Namjoon over, up and down, down and up. “Thanks.”
“Any time,” Namjoon’s voice follows the other man as he turns and sets off down the alley. He disappears into the darkness and Namjoon has only the bloody wipes and cigarette butts to convince himself this really happened.
He expects to never see the man again. To relegate the late night encounter to some kind of cryptid sighting, a one off. But apparently the man took his “any time” as a promise. Three nights later, Namjoon is sweeping in front of the counter when he looks up and spots a hunched figure under the lights. And the dance begins.
---
He doesn’t see Yoongi again until four days later. He has one day off in that time and he wonders if Yoongi shows up that day, wonders if he’s ever showed up on his days off and sat on the step, waiting for a Namjoon that never came. He hopes that isn’t true. He never wants to let Yoongi down. But the four days have been good, there’s been the antsy itchy waiting, the hope that he’ll see the dark jacket and even darker eyes. But, it’s given him time to think. To plan.
Namjoon wants to know more about Yoongi. He had written it out in his notebook, everything he knew about the older man. It looked like this:
- Name is Yoongi
- Older than me
- Smokes Marlboro reds
He was very unimpressed with his list, ripping the page from his notebook and crumpling it up to throw into the trash. So he’s determined to find out more, he doesn’t even know the man’s family name. But he can’t push, he knows from experience that Yoongi will just clam up and shut down. He needs to start small, start innocuous. He wonders if he can slowly break down the walls that Yoongi so clearly puts up, climbing ivy wiggling into any tiny crack and crevice to get at the heart within. Namjoon loves a good challenge.
So now, sitting on the dirty concrete with Yoongi beside him, fingers ripping open an antiseptic wipe, Namjoon will put his plan into action. He cradles Yoongi’s hand and gently begins dabbing at the knuckles. “Hyung?” he ventures, voice quiet.
Yoongi grunts in response, shifting a little on the step toward him. Their thighs brush and Namjoon nearly drops the wipe. He can feel the heat of Yoongi’s skin through the layers of fabric. He wonders if his legs are as milky pale as the rest of him, how soft his skin is.
“What’s your favorite color?”
There’s silence weighted and heavy. Namjoon waits, unsure how to proceed if Yoongi doesn’t answer.
But then he snorts and Namjoon sees him shake his head out of the corner of his eye. “White,” he says quietly, voice rough like he’s been yelling.
Namjoon thinks about this for a few moments, it’s not what he expected. Yoongi, a pale white canvas covered in a riot of colors, reds and pinks, yellows and blues, furious blossoms decorating milky skin. Maybe it does fit.
“What about your favorite animal?” Namjoon asks, feeling a little emboldened.
Yoongi makes a soft humming sound, as if he’s considering the question. “Dogs, corgis.”
Namjoon expected something fierce, like a tiger or a dragon. Not something cute. Maybe his innocent questions are giving him more than he expected?
“How about your favorite food?”
Yoongi shifts as Namjoon begins winding the gauze around his hands. “Meat,” a pause, “Pork ribs.”
Namjoon nods, grabbing Yoongi’s other hand to wrap the last of the gauze. “Sport?”
“Basketball,” another pause, this time longer. Namjoon hears him swallow. “I used to play.”
Namjoon’s hands still as he finishes with the gauze, fingers still loosely holding the other man’s wrists. Clearly he’s getting a lot more than he expected. He looks up and smiles, and when he does, he sees Yoongi already looking at him. The brim of his hat is tilted up and Namjoon can see blood on the side of his face.
“Is your face bleeding?” he blurts, squinting in the dim light.
Yoongi brings a hand to the side of his face. “Eyebrow, it’s fine,” he huffs, tugging his cap down again.
Namjoon’s hands come up unbidden and gently wrap around Yoongi’s fingers, stopping his fiddling with the cap. “Let me?”
There’s silence for a heartbeat, two, five and then a defeated sigh. Namjoon pulls his hand back as Yoongi slowly removes his hat. Namjoon can see him so much more clearly now, the fall of fluffy platinum hair, a little sweaty and sticking up oddly, but looking so soft. Namjoon has never seen his face so exposed, without the shadow of the hat, he looks younger than Namjoon realized, softer and with rounder cheeks.
He rips his gaze away to open another packet of antiseptic and leans forward, into Yoongi’s space, to dab at the split skin just above his left eyebrow. Namjoon can feel Yoongi’s eyes on his face as he works, he keeps his fixed resolutely on the cut, cleaning away the blood. He feels too hot, a little clammy, they’re just centimeters apart at this point.
“Namjoon,” Yoongi’s voice startles him so badly he jumps a little. He hears a low chuckle in response and Yoongi’s hand comes up to gently encircle his wrist. Namjoon realizes belatedly that he’s pressing too hard, he pulls back.
“Sorry, hyung,” he mumbles, reaching for a bandage for the wound.
“No,” Yoongi begins, and Namjoon freezes, turning again to face him, “You didn’t tell me…” he trails off.
Namjoon looks at his quizzical, brow knit in confusion.
“Your favorite things, you didn’t tell me,” he sounds almost embarrassed, shy by the last word, voice getting quieter.
Namjoon bites his lip to reign in his smile and nods. As he sticks the bandage to Yoongi’s skin he goes through his own favorites, receiving quiet hums of acknowledgement from Yoongi in return.
When Yoongi disappears again, a cigarette between his fingers, it’s with a quiet Later, Joon-ah , that has Namjoon’s heart skipping.
---
“Earth to Namjoon hyung, come in Namjoon,” Jimin’s bright voice drags Namjoon out of his thoughts. He blinks a few times and lifts his head, focusing on his best friend.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, cheeks pink, “I was distracted.”
“Clearly,” Jimin quips, leaning back against his chair and pointing at Namjoon with his chopsticks, “You look love sick.”
Namjoon snorts, trying to calm the blush heating his cheeks. “I am not love sick, Jimin.”
Namjoon had been distracted all day, he barely remembers what he learned in class, his notes are just scribbles and doodles. He had even drawn a Welsh corgi on one page under a math formula. Jimin clicks his tongue again and Namjoon refocuses.
“Are you seeing someone or something?” Hoseok says from beside Jimin, leaning on his elbows over the table to peer quizzically at Namjoon.
Seeing someone. Namjoon doesn’t understand that phrase at all. Of course he’s seeing someone, he sees lots of people. And he’s getting defensive for no reason. He wants to see Yoongi, wants more of him all the time. Sometimes he wonders if Yoongi even really exists outside the orbit of the convenience store, which sounds frankly ridiculous. But that’s their world, their whole universe relegated to the dirty back steps of Namjoon’s workplace between one and four in the morning. Namjoon wants to see him in any other universe, maybe when he’s not covered in bruises and spitting blood onto the ground.
“Hyung?” Jimin’s voice comes again and Namjoon blinks, trying again to focus. “Are you alright?”
“Tired,” Namjoon mumbles, scrubbing at his eyes with his hands. When he takes them away, Hoseok and Jimin are both watching him, looking concerned and wary.
“Namjoon you’ve been acting off for weeks, is everything okay?” Hoseok asks, picking up a piece of beef with his chopsticks and feeding it to Jimin. Namjoon rolls his eyes as Jimin preens.
“I just -” he breaks off, unsure how to continue, “I guess I have kind of met someone?”
Hoseok and Jimin both perk up, eyes widening. “Hyung!” Jimin cries, nearly throwing himself across the lunch table, upsetting a bottle of honeyed tea that goes tumbling off the surface. Hoseok scrambles to grab it. “Do you have a secret boyfriend?”
Namjoon shakes his head. “No, no! It’s nothing like that, it’s um, it’s someone who comes to the store sometimes. Sort of?”
“Sort of?” Hoseok says, handing Jimin the bottle of tea and draping an arm across his shoulders.
“Well, he’s not really a customer?”
“Is he...a burglar?” Jimin asks, brow furrows in confusion.
“Is it your coworker Seokjin? He’s cute, I wouldn’t -” Hoseok breaks off as Jimin pinches him hard in the side and glares at him.
“So, um, a few months ago I was taking out the trash and I opened the back door and there was this guy sitting on the steps and -”
“I knew it! A burglar!” Namjoon is cut off by Jimin’s yell.
“Not a burglar, Jimin,” Namjoon replies wearily, “Anyway,” he continues, and Jimin mimes zipping his lips, “He was all hunched so I asked him if he was okay and he just grunted at me. Then I got a look at his hands when I went down the stairs and he was bleeding.”
Hoseok and Jimin stare at him, uncomprehending. “Was he shot?” Hoseok asks.
“Stabbed ?” Jimin chimes in, head tilted to the side.
“No, no,” Namjoon scrubs his face with his hands again, groaning, “I’m not explaining well. Look, his hands were all bruised and his knuckles were all bloody like he had been in a fight. And his nose was bleeding. I ran inside and got the first aid kit to patch him up.”
“So kind, Namjoon-ah,” Hoseok says, smiling.
“More like, stupid,” Jimin snorts, “He could be a mugger!”
“Anyway!” Namjoon repeats, interrupting them with his raised voice. They fall silent again. “I helped him out and he comes back every few nights with bruises and I patch him up. I don’t know how he gets them but I just…” he flounders. He doesn’t know how to explain the feeling in his chest when he sees Yoongi, the almost frantic desperation to help and heal and fix when he sees the bruises and blood. He doesn’t know how to explain the itching in his fingers when he stares at the clock, hoping he’ll show up. Can’t explain the trembling in his hands that begs to be relieved with touch. “I don’t know, I just, I help him and he keeps coming back.”
Hoseok licks his lips, glancing at Jimin before looking at Namjoon again. “Namjoon, this is very strange. This guy could be a criminal. Do you know anything about him?”
“He told me last night that he likes corgis,” Namjoon mumbles weakly, he stares down at the table.
There’s silence from across the table, Namjoon doesn’t look up. He flinches when Jimin’s small hand closes over his own where it rests next to his plate.
“Joonie hyung, this is strange. You don’t know anything about him. He sounds dangerous,” Jimin says quietly, voice soothing.
Namjoon frowns and pulls his hand away. “He’s not dangerous,” he says fiercely, “Yoongi hyung would never hurt me.” He’s not sure where that comes from but he knows instinctively that it’s true. Yes, obviously, he’s not sure how Yoongi gets the bruises or what he does or, well, really anything about him, but he knows he’s safe with him. Yoongi makes him feel safe.
“Namjoon,” Hoseok starts, voice coaxing, like he’s talking to a frightened animal.
“No,” Namjoon interrupts, shaking his head, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I have to go to class.”
He stands abruptly and storms away, ignoring his friends’ pleas for him to come back.
---
Namjoon is actually helping a customer when he spots Yoongi’s distinctive form under the streetlights five days later. He seems more hunched than usual, head tucked into his shoulders, the light illuminating a chin smudged with blood as he passes the window. Their eyes meet as Namjoon counts change, and then he’s gone. Namjoon hurries through the rest of the transaction, shoving items haphazardly into a bag and bowing the customer out of the store so he can lock the door.
He grabs an extra bottle of water and some paper towels from behind the counter before tucking the first aid kit under his arm and stepping out the back door. Yoongi is already smoking when he comes outside, half a cigarette dangling between his bloody fingers.
“Hi hyung,” Namjoon says in quiet greeting as he sits next to him.
“Namjoon-ah,” Yoongi responds, his voice a rasp.
Namjoon cranes his head to try to get a look at him. Yoongi’s hands are battered, as always. Namjoon wonders, with the frequency he’s been seeing Yoongi, if his hands ever actually heal. If the cuts he’s always patching are just that, patch jobs to hold him over to the next night when they’re split through. Never actually healing, the skin never really knitting together again. A constant canvas of pain.
Namjoon can see a smear of blood on his chin as he ducks his head a little. He wants to thumb at it, press fingers under his jaw and tilt his head up, examine the wound and the face. Those dark cat eyes that he’s seen so much more clearly now, the button nose and strong brow. He aches for it, another look.
Namjoon lets himself work slowly. He’s compiled another list of questions and he wants to take his time easing him in as he tends to his hands. His dabs and swipes with the wipes are languid, thorough. Yoongi doesn’t seem to mind.
“Hyung,” Namjoon asks, after a few minutes of silence. He receives a grunt in return. “What’s your favorite movie?”
A shaky inhale, a shake of the head. “This again?” Yoongi’s voice is a rasp but it sounds almost fond. He hums to himself, clearly thinking. “I like Inception,” he says quietly.
Namjoon nods, a good movie. “I like that one.”
He moves to Yoongi’s other hand, dabbing at the weeping cuts. They almost seem fresher this time. “Favorite song?”
Yoongi tilts his head. “I like Epik High, maybe Fly? Or Rap God by Eminem.”
Namjoon is surprised at the Western artist. “I like Eminem a lot,” he offers, dragging one of the wipes down Yoongi’s fingers, clearing away the blood.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Namjoon agrees. “What about your favorite season?”
“Season?” Yoongi echoes, confused.
Namjoon just nods. There’s silence again, thoughtful and not uncomfortable.
“Maybe spring,” Yoongi says softly, his fingers twitch in Namjoon’s grasp as antibiotic ointment is spread on his swollen knuckles. “I don’t like being cold, and I like,” he pauses, “New beginnings.”
Namjoon blinks, unsure what to say, what to think. New beginnings. Snow melting to give way to green shoots and buds. Cherry blossoms blooming and falling under a spring sun. Yoongi sitting on a bench in Namjoon’s favorite park, face tilted to the sun, smiling. Namjoon aches.
“You know,” Namjoon begins after a few moments, after his heart stops pounding in his chest, “I have some theories about you.”
Yoongi huffs. “Oh?”
“Maybe you’re a secret superhero, fighting off villains.”
Yoongi’s fingers twitch again in Namjoon’s hands, he snorts. “Definitely not a superhero. Maybe a villain.”
“I don’t think so,” Namjoon says quietly, reaching for the roll of gauze. “Maybe a secret agent? And you keep going on dangerous missions?”
Yoongi’s fingers curl around Namjoon’s knee, squeezing gently. There are rips in Namjoon’s jeans, they are, embarrassingly, not there by design. Namjoon had tripped up the stairs at school and skinned his knees, ripping the fabric. But Jimin told him it looked cool so he kept them and played it off as intentional. Yoongi’s fingers press into his skin through the tear, cool and callused. It feels like a shock of ice against his warm skin, the touch zinging through his entire body. His heart pounds again. He can hear his blood rushing in his ears.
“If I was a secret agent,” Yoongi says neutrally, “Wouldn’t I have some fancy team to treat my injuries?”
Namjoon frowns, nodding. “That makes sense.” He tucks the strip of gauze around Yoongi’s first hand. “Okay, how about a space alien and your spaceship crashed?”
“And it keeps crashing?”
“Well, okay that one isn’t really thought out. My friend thought of that one.” Taehyung had eagerly explained the idea as they walked across campus the day before, Jimin having told him about Namjoon’s secret friend.
“You talk to your friends about me?” Yoongi’s voice is careful.
Namjoon stiffens. He didn’t mean to mention that. He’s not sure if he’s made a mistake, maybe he shouldn’t be telling his friends about Yoongi? He doesn’t know how to answer. “I -” he breaks off, unsure what to say.
Yoongi just hums and squeezes his knee, patting it gently before offering Namjoon that hand to wrap.
Namjoon doesn’t turn away after wrapping Yoongi’s other hand, he shifts a little closer until their knees brush. Yoongi doesn’t comment, he moves to withdraw his hand but Namjoon keeps hold of his fingers. There’s silence between them, heavy, pressing, silence. Namjoon feels it in his bones. He wants to ask. Wants to know. Is afraid to push.
He wonders, if he pushed too hard, if Yoongi would stop coming back. It plagues him sometimes, when he’s staring at the clock silently pleading to see the hunched figure under the lights, or when he’s curled in bed unable to sleep. Yoongi could just disappear and never return. It’s not like they have some sort of schedule. He doesn’t know enough about the other man to be able to find him if he did vanish. And it scares Namjoon.
That ephemeral quality, like Yoongi could slip through his fingers like sand. That Namjoon is just a fleeting thought to him, that he could be pushed out of mind as easily as breathing. It keeps him quiet. Keeps him tongue tied. He knows he’s been bolder, asking Yoongi questions and trying to get under his skin, see the bits of light inside the dark shell. And Yoongi has humored him, responded. But only so far, only so much.
Namjoon knows there’s an edge, a line he shouldn’t cross. But he wants so badly.
“Hyung,” he begins quietly. His voice is barely a whisper, floating away on the slight breeze. Like talking to a frightened animal, begging it not to flee. “Will you tell me?”
Yoongi deflates a little, shoulders slumping. It seems like his hand in Namjoon’s is the only thing even keeping him upright. “It’s nothing so grand or exciting, Joon-ah.”
“Please,” Namjoon whispers, leaning forward.
“Boxing,” Yoongi says, shrugging. “I fight for money, underground shit, you know.” He says it flippantly, like it’s not a big deal.
Namjoon doesn’t know. He’s seen Fight Club, but he doesn’t remember it being for money in the movie.
But it sounds like a big deal.
“Is it…” he trails off, not sure where he’s going with the question. Legal? Safe? The only option?
Yoongi shrugs again and Namjoon notices, this time, that he winces as he does it. Boxing. It explains his hands, beaten and raw, the split lips and cut eyebrow. He wonders what’s under the bomber jacket and jeans. If his skin is a tableau of bruises. A topographical map of pain tattooed on his body by aching fists.
Namjoon’s chest feels tight.
“I have to go.” And Yoongi is standing, tugging his hand from Namjoon’s now limp fingers. He limps, Namjoon sees, as he steps away.
Neither of them say goodbye.
---
A Naver search for underground boxing doesn’t bring up much of interest when Namjoon is curled in his bed a few hours later, phone a few inches from his eyes. Honestly, he’s not sure why he thought it would give him much. What was he expecting? A location with easy to follow directions and fight times?
Underground boxing definitely sounds dangerous. Dangerous and illegal. And obviously, obviously, it’s dangerous. He’s seen the bruises on Yoongi’s body, the way his hands tremble and the blood he spits onto the ground. The urge to protect is strong in his chest. To protect this man he barely knows, who is older than him and definitely stronger than him. But he just wants to wrap his arms around the smaller man and hold him close, soothing his aches and injuries.
He’s in deep. He might as well throw himself off this precipice into the swirling maelstrom below.
[Kim Namjoon]
Hey Kook, want to get lunch tomorrow?
[Jeon Jungkook]
Ah, I’d love to hyung but I have a project I’m supposed to work on with Tae Tae hyung
[Kim Namjoon]
Hyung’s treat
[Jeon Jungkook]
Taehyung who?
Lamb skewers please
[Kim Namjoon]
Fine, meet me at the plaza at noon
---
“Why did you want to meet, Joonie hyung?” Jungkook asks around a huge mouthful of lamb.
Namjoon doesn’t really even like lamb skewers but he just needed to get Jungkook alone. “A hyung can’t invite his favorite dongsaeng out for lunch?”
Jungkook rolls his eyes, wiping grease from his chin. “We both know Jiminie hyung is your favorite. What do you want?”
Namjoon feigns mock hurt, pressing a hand to his chest and gasping in shock. “So ungrateful. I buy you lunch and you have the nerve to be this rude to me?”
Jungkook flaps a hand at him and reaches across the table to Namjoon’s plate. “You gonna eat that?” He doesn’t wait for an answer as he plucks the skewer and brings it up to his mouth. “Just tell me, hyung. It must be important if you’re letting me eat my weight in meat. Speaking of, can you order more?”
Namjoon waves a hand to flag down a waitress and sighs. “Okay, look. You still train at that boxing gym right?”
Jungkook nods, nose scrunching as he chews. “Yeah,” he mumbles around a mouthful of food. He swallows and continues, “Why, you thinking about learning? No offense, hyung, but I don’t think you’d be good at it. You can barely control your limbs as it is, you’d probably hurt yourself.”
Namjoon can’t find it in himself to argue with Jungkook’s (most likely correct) assessment. “No, I, rude, but anyway. What do you know about underground boxing?”
Jungkook freezes, his glass of beer halfway to his lips. He sets it down gently on the table and licks his lips, folding his hands in front of him. He looks wary, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Why?”
Namjoon doesn’t know how to explain. Taehyung has taken it the best so far out of his friends, but he was still in disbelief about the whole situation. He’s not sure how Jungkook will react. Maybe now that he knows more about Yoongi it won’t be as bad, it’s not like he’s a criminal. Or, actually, does fighting in underground boxing rings make him a criminal?
Namjoon can feel his thoughts spiraling, a thread unraveling as the pit in his chest grows. Worry and fear piling in and stretching him until he feels like his skin is going to split. It’ll spill out then, like the liquid from the trash bags at work, all over the floor and table in front of him. Desperate pleas and nervous screams that make him want to scratch at his arms and pick at his cuticles. He clings to the thread, a tether, tugging it back and forcing himself to be still. He swallows hard and looks back up at his friend. Jungkook’s face has morphed from suspicion to concern.
“Hyung is everything okay?” Jungkook asks quietly, leaning across the table. His doe eyes are wide with worry, bottom lip pushed out in a pout.
“I’m okay, Kook-ah.”
“You’re not thinking of fighting, right? It’s like I said before, you’d just hurt yourself.” He pauses. “You’re not going to try betting on these right? They’re usually rigged hyung, you’ll get yourself in trouble. You can’t trust these people, they’ll,” he pauses, voice dropping, looking around, “Hyung, they’ll hurt you.”
Namjoon feels his careful control slipping. Hurt you. Hurt him. Hurt Yoongi. “It’s not me, Jungkook. I have a -” he pauses, unsure what to call Yoongi, “A friend who fights.”
Jungkook nods and gestures for him to continue.
“I’m worried about them. They’re always really hurt and I just want to help them.”
Jungkook sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Okay, well, obviously I know about them. But I don’t fight,” he must see the look on Namjoon’s face, “Hyung, I swear. I don’t fight. But I go to watch sometimes with Yugyeom.”
“Have you seen a guy fight named Yoongi?” Namjoon is leaning forward, fingers gripping the edge of the table like a lifeline.
Jungkook taps his lips with greasy fingers, thinking. “Doesn’t sound familiar. But most people don’t use their real names. Everyone has an alias or whatever. What does he look like?”
Namjoon will stick to facts here and not describe the way Yoongi looks under dingy orange light, beautiful and fragile. “He’s shorter than me, but has broader shoulders. Really pale, dyed blonde hair. Eyes like a cat.”
Jungkook is nodding along, lips quirking to the side as he considers. “That sounds like Suga, he’s one of the best there. He’s small, smaller than most of the other guys, but he’s fast and strong. He wins a lot.”
He wins a lot. Namjoon is terrified to see what Yoongi would look like after a loss if he’s mostly seen him after wins. He’s seen so much blood and bruising already, he’s not sure how much worse he could stand.
“That sounds like it could be him.” Small and fast, a winner. It feels right, feels like Yoongi.
Suga. He wonders what the name means. Sweet like sugar? He isn’t sure about that. Pale like sugar? Definitely true. He doesn’t know. Wants to know.
“Okay, so,” Jungkook says with a sigh, he deflates a little. “There’s a fight on Saturday. Do you want to go?”
Namjoon mentally runs through his schedule. He doesn’t work that night. A shock zings through him, imagining Yoongi fighting and showing up at the store. No Namjoon to take care of him, sitting on the back steps smoking as his blood drips into the concrete. He’s thought about it before. What does he do if Namjoon isn’t there to patch him up and wind his pieces and parts back together?
“Please, yeah, please, Kook.”
---
The next few days and nights pass in a haze. Yoongi doesn’t appear, probably because there isn’t a fight until Saturday night. Namjoon wishes, sometimes, that Yoongi would show up when he isn’t bleeding. Just to say hello, just to see Namjoon. But that’s not what their relationship is. Namjoon isn’t his boyfriend. Isn’t really even his friend, right? He’s a convenient pitstop on his way home where he can get some free medical care and water.
Yoongi doesn’t even buy his cigarettes at his convenience store. At least not that Namjoon knows. He wonders what brought Yoongi there the first night, why it was the back steps of his store that Yoongi chose to sit on to smoke. What was it that brought them together? Fate? Or something more simple, dumb luck, exhaustion. Maybe somewhere in the infinite cosmos whoever is in charge heard Namjoon’s quiet pleas for more.
For anything new, something to break up his monotony of work and school. Something to bring him change, to spark anything in him. He’s been disillusioned for a long time, subsisting on shitty instant noodles and way too little sleep as he wished for a catalyst. Like a spark from Yoongi’s zippo, an accelerant to fuel change.
And Yoongi. Yoongi. Why does he keep coming back? It can’t just be for the free bottle of water and the bandaging up. It can’t. It’s been going on for months now. And Namjoon knows he hasn’t imagined things. The way Yoongi’s fingers will curl around his knee, the way he says his name. A low rasp, but there’s more there. It always feels loaded, weighty. There has to be a reason Yoongi comes back, why he’s told Namjoon these tiny details about himself.
Welsh corgis. Basketball. Inception. They’re nothing, tiny tidbits he’d learn at a networking meet up. But they’re something. Anything. Everything. They’re all he has right now. And he craves so much more.
“Keep your head down and don’t talk to anyone,” Jungkook hisses as they approach a warehouse.
It’s clear they’re in a bad part of town. Rusty chain link and broken bottles along the sidewalk, leering eyes as they walk past, hunched in their jackets. Jungkook had texted him earlier in the day to not dress like a nerd. Namjoon was low key offended, until he looked in his closet and felt very exposed. He had hunted through his dresser and closet until he found something acceptable.
Dark ripped jeans, a black t-shirt and a leather jacket he borrowed from Seokjin with promises to have it dry cleaned before returning it. He even opted for his contacts, nearly having to call Hoseok to have him come over to put them in. But he succeeded and he looks...good. He looks different, tall and broad in the form fitting clothes, his hair styled back and his face free from thick frames. He feels like he looks like someone who could belong at an underground boxing fight. Maybe? Jungkook seems pleased enough, in his own jeans and dark jacket.
“Just stay by me and don’t even look at anyone.”
“How am I -”
“I mean it, hyung, this isn’t a joke,” Jungkook interrupts, raising his head as they near the doors. “Just be quiet and play it cool.”
Jungkook fist bumps the guy at the door, a huge man with a scowl and arms full of tattoos.
“Who’s this?” the man asks, jerking his chin at Namjoon.
“Just a friend, he wanted to check it out. He’s cool.”
The man eyes Namjoon for a moment before nodding and shoving open the large door, gesturing them inside.
Namjoon’s eyes widen as they walk inside. The warehouse has been set up with seats all around a taped off dirt circle in the center. There are risers that elevate the benches in the back, giving a good view. There have to be at least a hundred seats, many of them already full, around the building. For something underground , this seems like a pretty big deal.
Jungkook maneuvers them around groups of men talking and drinking, nodding to a few people but not speaking to anyone. He leads Namjoon to a row in the back, tucked nearly in a corner of the warehouse. Namjoon recognizes the tall man in the end seat who stands and claps Jungkook on the back as they approach.
“Gyeom, you remember my hyung, Namjoon?”
Yugyeom nods and holds out his hand, Namjoon shakes it. “Good to see you again Namjoon-ssi. What brings you to uh, here?”
“Nice to see you, too. Um, just looking for a friend,” he says carefully, not really sure how to explain it.
Jungkook sits next to Yugyeom and Namjoon sits on Jungkook’s other side, curling his hands in his lap, fidgeting with his fingers.
He looks around, trying to be surreptitious about it and not draw attention to himself. Most of the people in the crowd look older, meaner. There are a few men in suits that look way too fancy for a place like this, the rest are in work clothes, leather, denim. Tattoos and scowls decorate most of the attendees.
Namjoon is nervous, his leg is shaking and he’s trying not to pick at his fingernails. Jungkook nudges him, shooting him a glare and Namjoon tries to relax and calm down. He knows he must look ridiculous, hunched in this leather jacket with wide terrified eyes. He needs to get it together. He can do this. For Yoongi.
Namjoon sits up straight as a man with a microphone walks into the center of the dirt circle. The crowd roars as he raises an arm. He greets the crowd, voice screeching through the speakers around the room. Namjoon tries to understand what he’s saying but he’s shouting into the mic and the feedback is so bad he can barely make out the words.
Before he can process anything, the man is pointing to one side of the room and gesturing another man forward. He’s shirtless and huge, hands wrapped in tape, scowling at the crowd as he walks out. He repeats the process and another man, equally as large, steps into the ring. They glower at each other as the announcer quickly explains some rules, the din of the crowd mostly drowning out his words.
It happens in an instant, one minute there are three people in the ring and then he blinks and there are two and there’s blood on the ground. Namjoon watches, mouth agape, as punches rain, fists flying in a whirlwind. Even from his seat at the back Namjoon thinks he can hear the smack of fists, the crack and crunch of bone with contact. The crowd is screaming, yelling and chanting.
Jungkook and Yugyeom are on their feet beside him, yelling along with the crowd as the men demolish each other. Namjoon’s not sure how long it takes, it feels like seconds and hours at the same time, too much to take in. It seems like he hasn’t even breathed and suddenly one of the men is on the ground, face in the dirt.
The announcer counts down and then raises the still standing man’s first, declaring him the victor. A couple of guys on the side come forward to drag the other man away. Namjoon gulps.
Two more fights happen, just as brutal and bloody as the first one. He hates it, cringing away from the violence as the men fight like it’s their only chance to survive. And maybe it is. Yoongi must do this for a reason. He must be desperate enough to put himself through this torture.
All of the men he’s seen so far have been huge, muscular and tall with broad shoulders and bulging necks. Yoongi is not like these men, at least that Namjoon has seen. He may have broad shoulders and large, strong hands, but he’s shorter, slight. He disappears into his bomber jacket when he’s huddled on the back steps, curled into himself. Namjoon is afraid.
He’s gotten better at deciphering the announcer's words so when he hears Suga! shouted above the roar of the crowd, he sits up straight again, eyes peeled. His breath catches, his heart pounds. There he is.
Yoongi is making his way to the center of the circle and Namjoon wants to scream.
He’s shirtless and barefoot, in a pair of ripped jeans that hang dangerously low on his hips. Namjoon has never seen him in light like this. His blond hair glows under the harsh lights, cat eyes narrowed and dark. His hair is a nimbus around his head, a beautiful halo. He looks like an avenging angel come to destroy the sinners in this warehouse. The curve of his shoulder blades as he stands straight, chest puffed out, is like the jut of wings. Stripped as he fell from heaven to land on the bloody dirt below.
Namjoon’s eyes move from his face and take in his body. The broad shoulders revealed in their true form, matching the large hands Namjoon has cradled in his shaking fingers. He’s muscular and toned, firm chest and abs, as he clenches his fists Namjoon sees his biceps pop. But compared to the other men he’s seen, Yoongi is tiny, thin and wiry. A ragdoll ready to be tossed into the stands. Namjoon’s blood runs cold, thrums in his ears.
He doesn’t belong here. This man, delicate like porcelain, so terribly beautiful that it makes Namjoon’s heart ache in his chest.
The bruises that cover his body make Namjoon want to fall to his knees. It’s like a painting, a portrait mapped across a pale canvas. From shoulders to chest, down his stomach and onto protruding hip bones, along the curve of his spine. Blooms of red, pink, purple, yellow and blue. A colorful tableau of watercolor flowers pressed into his skin. Memories of pain and suffering.
Namjoon has only seen his hands, bloody and bruised, nearly broken. He should have known how much worse it would be, especially after seeing the first three fights. He should have expected this. But it still takes his breath away.
The urge to jump off his seat and rush to the floor is almost overwhelming. Namjoon curls his fingers around the underside of the bench to prevent himself from leaping up. He wants to gather Yoongi into his arms and whisk him away to safety. Hold him tight and tell him everything will be okay. Namjoon already takes care of him, he wants Yoongi to really let him.
A savior complex, Hoseok had once called it. Namjoon’s urge to help, to comfort. Always saying it would get Namjoon into trouble in the end. And maybe it has, maybe it will. But staring down at the floor, where Yoongi stands tall and straight, defiance in his dark eyes, Namjoon welcomes it with open arms.
He jumps, suppressing a scream when Jungkook nudges him. “Is that him?” Jungkook asks, nodding toward Yoongi’s pale form.
Namjoon watches a man emerge from the other side of the room to join Yoongi in the ring. He’s huge in comparison, a good head taller than Yoongi and corded with thick bands of muscle. Namjoon can only nod, his mouth too dry to speak. He’s sure if he tried to open his mouth to talk right now, only screams would come out. Or sobs.
“He’s good, hyung, don’t worry,” Jungkook whispers as the announcer steps out of the ring and Yoongi and the other man begin to circle each other.
Yoongi looks like a child next to the other man but he can see what Jungkook means. He’s fast, nimble, dodging punches and ducking in with quick jabs of his own to chest and face. The other man is staggered a few times, the grimace on his face growing, as Yoongi, Suga , circles him like a cat.
But it can’t last. This isn’t a movie.
The other man catches Yoongi on a feint, a hard punch landing squarely on his jaw. Yoongi’s head whips to the side, Namjoon’s pretty sure he can hear the crack. But he doesn’t go down, slowly righting himself and turning back, fists up. He spits blood onto the ground and moves back in.
It’s fast and dirty. Yoongi manages to avoid more hits to his face, but he’s battered otherwise. Punches connect with his chest and shoulders, a hard hit to his side sends him reeling and nearly to his knees. But he recovers every time, eyes narrowed and a feral snarl on his face as he charges back in.
Namjoon doesn’t see how he can win, it’s clear he’s tiring, movements more sluggish, not as quick and agile on his bare feet. “Just watch,” Jungkook promises, patting Namjoon’s knee.
Yoongi must feel himself flagging too and redoubles his speed. It’s only a few seconds later that he does it, a harsh elbow to the other man’s nose and he goes down in a spray of blood. Yoongi stands over him and spits a mouthful of blood next to the man’s face.
The announcer raises Yoongi’s arm in the air. Namjoon sees the wince he tries to hide as his arm is hoisted. The crowd roars and Namjoon is on his feet.
Jungkook grabs his arm. “Where are you going?”
“I have to find him.” Namjoon knows his eyes are wild.
“Hyung, let me at least go with you.”
Namjoon shakes his head, shrugging Jungkook off. “No, stay with Yugyeom. I’ll call you if I need you.”
Jungkook lets him go, hand falling away as Namjoon rushes through the crowd. Yoongi had disappeared through a door in the far wall. Namjoon feels like he’ll never make it, the press of bodies stemming him in. He can’t breathe, can’t break through. His brain screams, Yoongi, Yoongi, Yoongi on repeat. He might even be whispering out loud at this point, through teeth gritted so hard his jaw twitches.
And then he’s through, pushing past a group of men and he sees the door, a portal to the outside. Namjoon shoves it open, emerging into an alley, and spins around, eyes wild, searching for - there.
Yoongi is leaning against the wall, a thin gray t-shirt pulled over his chest, boots on his feet. He’s holding a cigarette between his fingers, unlit and poised halfway to his mouth. But he’s frozen, eyes wide as he takes in Namjoon.
“Namjoon?” Yoongi asks, lowering his hand, it trembles. His voice is shaky, “What are you doing here?”
Namjoon steps forward, he feels like he’s moving through quick sand. “Hyung.” The ground sucks at his shoes, tries to tether him to the earth. “I had to come.”
Yoongi’s eyes are wary, he looks like a cornered animal. Namjoon takes two steps closer, Yoongi hunches in a little. The cigarette falls to the ground as he wraps his arms around himself, looking small.
“Why?” his voice is a whisper.
Namjoon takes another step forward. He’s within touching distance. He reaches out, tentative, slow, Yoongi doesn’t move away as Namjoon’s fingers curl around his elbow. “I had to see you.”
And then he can’t stop himself, he tugs and pulls Yoongi flush against his chest, wrapping tight arms around his back and burying his face in Yoongi’s sweaty hair. He smells like cigarette smoke and salt, the metallic tang of blood. But under that, sweetness, a citrus smell like fresh tangerines and peeled oranges.
Yoongi stiffens, fingers tightening on his own arms and Namjoon holds him tightly, nuzzling into his hair. And then it’s like something snaps, a string holding him together frays and breaks and Yoongi is melting against him. Lean arms wind around Namjoon’s waist and Yoongi presses his face into Namjoon’s chest. His arms are under Namjoon’s jacket, fingers fisted in the back of his t-shirt, gripping hard as if he’s afraid Namjoon will disappear.
He vaguely wonders if Yoongi has felt the same. That Namjoon is a figment of his imagination, that their encounters are dreams or hallucinations. That Namjoon is not real, a dream creature soothing him after a fight. He holds Namjoon like he’s the only buoy in a raging sea, the only lifeline holding him to the earth in a tornado. Namjoon holds him back just as tightly.
He registers that Yoongi’s shoulders begin heaving, he’s already been shaking, trembling in Namjoon’s embrace like a leaf. But this is different, he feels wetness against his chest and knows that Yoongi is crying, silent hot tears soaking into Namjoon’s t-shirt. Namjoon rubs along his back, tangles the fingers of one hand into Yoongi’s hair to rub at his scalp, card fingers through matted blond locks.
They spring apart as they hear laughter, the door opening. Yoongi turns away, wiping at his face. Namjoon can see tear tracks, puffy eyes, bitten lips.
“Let me take you home,” he whispers, stepping back in, a hand on the small of Yoongi’s back. His waist is so tiny, Namjoon’s hand nearly encompassing the full span of his back.
Yoongi nods and stoops a little, picking up a heap of fabric that Namjoon recognizes as his bomber jacket. He shrugs it on, wincing a little as he pulls it over his shoulders.
Yoongi leads the way out of the alley, swaying a little on his feet. Namjoon wants to touch him again, wrap an arm around his shoulders or waist, but he’s not sure if he’s allowed to now. He follows a step behind, glancing around nervously.
Once they’re back on the street a man approaches them, smiling an oily smile. “Suga,” he says, smile growing to a feral grin. “Great fight tonight, as always.”
Yoongi nods, doesn’t respond. He’s straightened up, shoulders back, chest out.
“Your cut,” the man says, holding out a hand with a rolled wad of bills. Yoongi snatches it from his hand, nods again. “Next fight’s Tuesday, hope to see you there.”
Yoongi doesn’t speak, just watches the man turn and head off back to the front doors of the building. Namjoon feels fingers close around his wrist, long and cool, and tug him along down the sidewalk. “This way,” he mutters, voice low.
Namjoon follows him along the street and through a few turns to the bus stop. “What stop are -” Namjoon begins, then cuts off. He doesn’t know where Yoongi lives, if he even really has a home. “Come to my place?”
Yoongi nods and slumps onto the bench at the bus stop. Namjoon sits next to him, they have a few minutes until the bus arrives. He gives Yoongi space, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. He jumps, just a little, when he feels Yoongi shift and move to lean against him. Namjoon looks over and down, Yoongi has scooted over to press their thighs together. His jeans have spots of blood on them.
Slowly, in halting movements, Namjoon lifts his arm and wraps it around Yoongi’s shoulder. He expects the older man to pull back, but instead he curls into Namjoon’s warmth, tucking his face into Namjoon’s shoulder, a hand fisted in Namjoon’s black shirt. Namjoon can see blood on the split knuckles, oozing in the dim light from the street light next to them.
He’s never seen Yoongi’s wounds so fresh, he’s sure he sees him an hour or two after the fights. But the warehouse is a good distance away, Yoongi has to travel a reasonable distance to get to Namjoon. The blood has time to clot usually in that time, to dry a little along his knuckles. It’s harder to look at like this, as the split skin glistens in the light. Namjoon wants to press kisses to each cut, soft lips healing each scratch and rip in his tender skin.
He startles as the bus arrives. Standing, he pulls Yoongi with him up the steps. He pays the fare for both of them and ushers Yoongi into a seat, pushing him against the window to sit at his side, legs pressed together. It’s a little more than half an hour to his apartment but at least they don’t need to change buses.
They don’t speak on the ride even though the bus is mostly empty. Yoongi keeps his face pressed to the window, watching the city pass. About half way through the trip, Namjoon feels a soft touch against his hand and looks down to see Yoongi’s fingers winding through his own. Yoongi hisses, obviously in pain from the contact, but his fingers squeeze Namjoon’s tightly. Namjoon squeezes back a little more gently.
---
“It’s not much,” Namjoon says quietly as he holds open the door to his studio apartment. It’s messy, Namjoon knows, books scattered across his couch and the coffee table, empty coffee mugs piled on the counter next to the sink.
“It’s nice,” Yoongi says quietly, hunching to remove his boots.
Namjoon feels cramped in the tiny space on the best of days. But he doesn’t know what Yoongi’s living situation is like. This could be a big improvement.
“Do you want to shower?” Namjoon asks.
Yoongi nods, fingers curling in the hem of his t-shirt. “Is that okay?”
“Of course, this way.” He leads Yoongi to the small bathroom and flicks on the light. He switches on the shower and turns, finding Yoongi lurking nervously in the doorway. “Let me help you?” Namjoon asks, reaching out.
Yoongi nods again and Namjoon steps forward, slipping the jacket gently from his shoulders. He’s careful, fingers light and moving slowly as he lifts the hem of Yoongi’s t-shirt. Pale skin is revealed centimeter by centimeter, milk white and beautiful. Namjoon wants to follow the fabric with his lips, press kisses to the jutting hip bones, the soft trail of hair from his navel that disappears into his waistband. And further, soft kisses to the bruises coloring that pale skin, soothing the hurt with butterfly light presses of his lips to hurt flesh. He barely resists.
Yoongi winces, a tiny whimper leaving his lips as he lifts his arms for Namjoon to pull the shirt over his head. “Sorry,” he murmurs, pulling the shirt away. Yoongi seems tousled and small, looking up at Namjoon with wide eyes, so full of raw emotion.
Namjoon’s never seen him like this, eyes so expressive, so vulnerable. There’s been vulnerability of course, Namjoon has been tending his wounds for months. But Yoongi has always been in control there, always been the one with the upper hand. It’s clear he’s giving it up here, bending to Namjoon. Trusting him.
“I’ll leave a towel and some clothes for you while you’re in the shower, if that’s okay?”
Yoongi nods, shaky fingers moving to unbutton his jeans. Namjoon turns away as Yoongi begins to tug them down his legs, giving him privacy.
“Call me if you need anything, okay?” And he steps from the room, closing the door.
He sinks down on his bed then, head in his hands.
This doesn’t feel real. But it’s clear it is, so much more real than their nights at the convenience store.
This is the first time he’s seeing Yoongi in a new environment. Outside of the shitty orange bulb at the back of the convenience store. Outside of the bubble of the back steps where Namjoon uses patching Yoongi’s bloody hands up as an excuse to hold them. It’s felt like a contained environment for so long, a dream bathed in wan light that washes them out in sepia tones. A dusty old photograph or a tiny scene in a snowglobe. But now the bubble has popped, Namjoon has seen the other side. He’s seen the Yoongi outside of the snowglobe, or at least one part of him. Now it’s real.
Everything is real, in technicolor and high definition. Though, still dark tones and shadows. He’s still only seen Yoongi at night. Only seen him in the darkness and in the light of cheap bulbs. He wants, aches, yearns, to see him in the light of day. Maybe across the table at his favorite cafe, cuddled up on Namjoon’s couch in one of Namjoon’s big sweaters, curled in Namjoon’s bed on a winter morning as they watch snow fall through the windows.
These thoughts come to him like snapshots, unbidden, unasked for. But he welcomes them anyway, embraces them regardless of how out of reach they seem. He doesn’t know enough about Yoongi to want this, to ask for them. Doesn’t know if they’re at all possible, if these are things he can want. If these are things he can have.
Yoongi has been part of Namjoon’s world for months, but he feels now, finally, like he’s entering into Yoongi’s world. Stepping through a curtain to see the man behind it. And he is beautiful and delicate and so much . He is so much to Namjoon and he wants to give him everything.
The convenience store may be where they started, but they don’t have to stay there. They can step out of the fluorescent bubble of a dream and into reality. Together.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there but he’s sure it’s been too long. The water is still going, at least. He quickly grabs a fresh towel and some clothes for Yoongi. A soft t-shirt, briefs, some sweatpants and heads back to the bathroom. He taps on the door.
“I’m just going to leave these on the sink, okay?” Namjoon calls.
“Okay,” Yoongi’s voice is small. Namjoon pushes open the door and sets the bundle on the sink. He gathers Yoongi’s dirty clothes and carries them with him. He can throw them into his washing machine a little later.
He rummages in his kitchen cabinets after, finding a first aid kit under his sink. Most likely a gift from his friends, nervous about him cutting himself in the kitchen with his clumsy hands. He checks the contents, pleased to see it’s well stocked. He’s grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge when he hears Yoongi’s voice.
“Namjoon?”
“Coming!” Namjoon calls, picking up the first aid kit and rushing for the bathroom.
Yoongi is standing on his bathmat, shoulders curled in on himself, chest flushed pink. He’s just in the pair of grey briefs Namjoon left, the t-shirt held against his stomach. Namjoon tries not to stare at the pale lines of his legs, the curve of his thighs. “I -” he begins, cutting off and looking away.
Namjoon steps forward. “Can I help you?”
Yoongi nods, handing the t-shirt over. Namjoon is as gentle as he can be as he slips it over Yoongi’s head, mindful of the swelling bruise on his jaw. He’s careful as he feeds Yoongi’s arms through the sleeves. The shirt is oversized so it’s easier to slip on. Yoongi drowns in it, the fabric reaching to the middle of his thighs.
“The pants are too big,” Yoongi says quietly, “Is this okay if I...” he trails off, gesturing to himself.
“Of course,” Namjoon says, nodding. “Now sit, I want to take a look at your injuries.”
This is the most forceful Namjoon’s ever been with Yoongi. He’s always asked first. But not this time. Yoongi obeys immediately, sinking onto the toilet seat, knobbly pink knees falling open as Namjoon crouches in front of him. He shuffles between Yoongi’s legs, unconsciously bringing up a hand to curl around his thigh.
Yoongi sucks in a breath and Namjoon realizes what he’s doing, his fingers wrapped around smooth, warm skin. His thighs are so slight, thin and corded with lean muscle. He moves to pull his hand away but Yoongi catches his wrist. “It’s ok,” he whispers, looking down at the floor.
Namjoon squeezes gently, running his hand along the smooth skin as Yoongi lets out a shaky breath. “Are you okay?” he asks quietly, peering up to catch Yoongi’s eyes.
Yoongi makes hesitant eye contact, his feline eyes so dark, so wide. He looks scared, a little teary. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it again.
“I’m here now, it’s okay,” Namjoon whispers, fingers rubbing soothing circles into Yoongi’s skin.
Yoongi’s shoulders begin to shake, silent tears tracing down his cheeks as he curls in on himself again. His hands grip into his arms, so tight Namjoon’s afraid his fingernails will pierce his skin. “Hyung, Yoongi, it’s okay,” Namjoon soothes, bringing his other hand to Yoongi’s other thigh. He strokes along the skin in soft circles, whispering quiet comforts.
Yoongi shakes and shivers, Namjoon feels helpless. He reaches up to wrap his arms lightly around Yoongi’s waist, not pulling him forward, just holding. “I’ll take care of you,” he whispers.
With a broken sob Yoongi throws himself forward off the toilet lid and into Namjoon’s arms. He’s shaking, breathy sobs tearing from his throat as he clings to Namjoon’s back, face buried in his neck. This isn’t the Yoongi from the convenience store, not this broken boy in Namjoon’s arms.
Namjoon holds him tight, stroking Yoongi’s hair and whispering quiet comforts, any soothing words he can think of. He means it. He wants to take care of him, keep him safe, treat him as something so, so precious.
He’ll do it, if Yoongi will let him.
Namjoon doesn’t even realize he’s started crying until he tastes salt on his lips. He’s pressing soft kisses to Yoongi’s hair, his cheek, wherever he can reach. Yoongi pulls back, staring at him with red-rimmed eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
And the words hold so much. Sorry for this, for crying. For imposing. For dragging Namjoon into his world colored rosy red by blood and violence.
“You don’t have to be sorry.” They stare at each other, centimeters apart. Namjoon’s eyes flick to Yoongi’s lips and back to his eyes. “Can I -”
His words are cut off as chapped lips press against his own, Yoongi’s hands fisted in his shirt tugging him closer. Yoongi pulls back to rest their foreheads together. “Namjoon, Namjoon-ah, you don’t want this.”
“I want it,” Namjoon whispers, leaning back in for another soft kiss, “I want whatever you’ll give me.”
Yoongi makes a soft sound in his throat, maybe a whimper, and then his lips are on Namjoon’s again in another kiss. Yoongi tastes like cigarettes and blood. But there’s the sweetness underneath, ripe citrus bursting on his tongue as Yoongi licks into his mouth, hands grasping, gripping, tugging.
Namjoon feels like he’s projected out of his body, sprawled on his bathroom floor with Yoongi in his lap, their lips connected in a heated kiss. Hungry, desperate, mouths working together as their tongues wrestle and roll over each other. Namjoon lifts a hand to cup Yoongi’s cheek and the other man cries out, flinching away.
“Shit,” Namjoon says, the moment broken. “Shit, I’m sorry, your jaw.”
Yoongi whimpers. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Let me get you fixed up, okay? Then sleep. We can talk in the morning?”
Yoongi nods, curling his fingers in the front of Namjoon’s shirt as he sniffles. He looks up through his lashes, meeting Namjoon’s eyes. “I want it, too.”
Namjoon settles Yoongi back on the toilet lid and hurries to the kitchen, grabbing a bag of frozen peas and directing Yoongi to hold them to his jaw. Namjoon crouches again, between pale legs, and tends to Yoongi’s wounds. They’re quiet as Namjoon begins, until Yoongi breaks the silence with whispers.
He talks, voice tiny, as Namjoon applies antibiotic ointment to his hands and winds gauze. Not full stories, just bits and pieces. A broken home, broken family, abuse and beatings and living on the street. Traumas and tragedies unfolding like a tangled web in front of Namjoon’s eyes. The boxing was better than alternatives, better than it could have been. Selling his body to fight was better than selling his body for... other things. He wanted out, of course, but what else could he do?
As Namjoon lifts the t-shirt to check on the bruises on Yoongi’s chest and stomach, Yoongi continues through choked sobs. Dreams, dreams he had before the fights, before bad people, before gripping hands and leering looks. Basketball, music, art. He whispers about panting pictures and writing songs, selling beats he produced for enough money to eat dinner that night. Being burned, shunned, ridiculed. Dreams crushed under heels and laughing threats of what are you gonna do about it ? Dreams of college, careers, a better life.
Namjoon would give it to him if he could. Thinks maybe he could try.
When Yoongi is patched up and the condensation from the peas is dripping onto his shirt, Namjoon gathers a shivering, weeping Yoongi into his arms and carries him to his bed. He tucks Yoongi under the blankets, watches the smaller man curl in on himself, the hedgehog back again, still damp blond hair spiky on the pillow.
Namjoon stands, goes to move to the couch. Yoongi catches his wrist, tugs him back. “Stay with me, please.”
Namjoon does, stripping off his jeans to curl under the blankets. Yoongi rolls over, tucking his face into Namjoon’s neck and crying again, quietly now, for a while. Namjoon holds him, rubbing his back and whispering desperate pleas. His own dreams, hopes, wants. Ideas about fate, destiny, love. Yoongi laughs and sniffles into his neck.
“Destiny and fate?” he asks, pulling away to look at Namjoon again.
“Destiny and fate,” Namjoon affirms.
Yoongi kisses him again. It’s lazy, unhurried, hands holding tight and lips and tongues moving in an intricate dance. Tiny moans leave their mouths, swallowed down eagerly. But they don’t do anything more, don’t go further. He can feel the exhaustion in Yoongi’s limbs, in the way his lips drag against Namjoon’s own. Namjoon presses a final kiss to Yoongi’s lips and helps him turn over on his other side, he smiles softly.
As he curls around Yoongi’s back, tugging the smaller man into his chest, he feels tension leak from both of their bodies. “Do you have somewhere to go, after this?” Namjoon asks. After tonight. After whatever this is.
“I -” Yoongi cuts off, “I don’t know.”
Namjoon wants to keep him, hold him safe and secure in his arms. He tangles their legs together. They don’t need to rush. He knows now. They have time. All the time in the world to figure it out.
As he nuzzles his nose into the soft hair at the nape of Yoongi’s neck he whispers the words he’s said so many times. “Hyung, let me help you?”
Yoongi stiffens for a moment in his arms before Namjoon hears a quiet sniff and fingers are intertwining with his on Yoongi’s stomach. Tension leaks out of him, collapsing back and melding himself to Namjoon’s chest. “Okay, Namjoon,” he whispers, “Okay.”