There is a List of Things one should always be aware of when Min Yoongi comes into the picture:
- Sharks are vicious, violent predators who attack when they smell blood in the water, and feel no remorse for the souls they have taken, afterwards usually found smiling with all their teeth showing like happy little puppies gnawing on chew-toys. This describes Min Yoongi.
- Sloths are soft, slow creatures who hang from branches and take one and a half hours to make a left over a zebra crossing with full traffic unless assisted via human-powered hoist videotaped and uploaded to Youtube with a dub-over of I Believe I Can Fly. This also describes Min Yoongi.
- Min Yoongi is a music major.
- Min Yoongi is not a music major.
- Like a four o’clock documentary that comes on the television when one lazily flicks through channels with one hand on the clicker, about the migratory patterns of Buphagus erythrorhynchus when winter is coming in a perfunctory non-Game of Thrones reference manner, Min Yoongi is utterly predictable right up until the point where a sleepy hippopotamus in a balmy mud-puddle yawns and accidentally engulfs three of the poor things in one go (as far as analogies go, one should be aware that Lists are Generally Untrustworthy for these things).
- Anyone who comes into contact with Min Yoongi for the first time should be sufficiently confused until the next Tuesday that comes, when his favourite coffee place’s Drink of The Day is in stock, and he comes in for class in a Much Better Mood than all of the days prior, combined.
Jung Hoseok does not get the memo.
On hindsight, it seems that the university might have made a mistake in allowing sign-ups for evening classes to be held in the lobby of the office, a couple of miserable-looking forms hastily taped to the counter in fear of flying away due to the increasingly mob-like students who have devolved very quickly in terms of shoving and elbowing just so they don’t have to wake up early in the mornings for a 14.01 Economics lecture.
Beside where Hoseok has seated himself at a table in the cafe opposite the main lobby to the office, Namjoon leans back in his chair and taps a finger on the cover of his copy of The Brothers Karamazov, and says, matter-of-fact, “A modern proletariat uprising.”
“Stop,” says Hoseok, already knowing where this is going. Kim Namjoon is a hopeless English Literature major with a language minor that keeps changing on a whim. Recently, Namjoon has fallen in love with Russian history. Along with it, the idea that he now can compare everything he knows to the books he’s been reading. Hoseok prays to all the gods above that Namjoon doesn’t ever discover medieval Christian works. (Three Months Later: “Blasphemy!” says Namjoon, pointing at a poor sophomore, who’s just taken a selfie of himself in the courtyard, “your narcissistic usage of your shoddy point seven megapixel front camera will send you straight to the eighth circle of hell!”) “Do not.”
“Yes, exactly, thank you, my friend. Do not let the nomenklatura topple you, my fellow citizens!”
“You’re not even using the right time periods! Give it up, you pretentious git.”
“I’ll give it up the second you admit the fascist state is exploiting us all!”
“The university’s administration is not a fascist state!”
“We’ll see,” says Namjoon solemnly, floating away to terrify a couple of freshman into joining literature through his supreme(ly limited) knowledge.
Why are you friends with him again? goes a little voice in Hoseok’s head that sounds awfully like his mother, the day Namjoon came over to his house and accidentally broke three dinner plates and a teacup.
Because you have no other friends at this university, goes the other little voice in Hoseok’s head that sounds a little like Hoseok himself, but much quieter and just a little sad. Hoseok frowns, and banishes the voice back into that compartmentalised part of his brain where he keeps all the things he doesn’t like to think about: his lack of friends, his sister’s cooking, the time he fell down in front of the girl he’d really liked in kindergarten (she’d laughed at him, poor six-year-old him).
It’s times like these that Hoseok begins to miss the kids, the rambunctious juniors he’d had in high-school that he’d shared lunches with. They’d hung out together a lot, the four of them. A right prankster team they’d been, instilling a rightful fear into the hearts of all the students who whispered, “the Marauders reincarnated,” as they gleefully tied people’s shoelaces to their chairs and replaced their due-on-that-day homework with copies of Enoby Raven Dark’ness Dementia Raven Way’s first monologue from the internet cult classic My Immortal (“It’s my favourite novel,” Taehyung had said, completely serious, during an English class once. “Would you like to hear me recite all forty-four current chapters word for word, Miss?”).
He wonders if Jimin is still wheedling the other two into doing his homework for him. He wonders if Jeongguk’s got a girlfriend yet. He wonders if Taehyung will ever stop eating glue.
That last one might prove to be a bit tricky, but Hoseok has faith in the child.
Heart warmed once more, Hoseok turns his attention back to the crowd of hungry students inching closer to the counter, the sole receptionist beginning to regret her choice of job as the minute hand ticks past. Hoseok is probably one of the only people on campus who doesn’t care enough to grab an evening class, since he wakes up at, as Namjoon so puts it in such a genteel manner, the ass-crack of dawn every single day.
The spectator sport proves to be amusing enough in Namjoon’s absence, as at least five students end up tripping (possibly on purpose), another two get their glasses knocked off their faces (most likely on purpose), and almost all of them end up with bruises (definitely on purpose). Hoseok considers cheering on teams designated by t-shirt colours, before changing his mind to bet on whether the small Chinese girl in the back will manage to stomp her way through the lines by way of everyone’s unknowing toes.
Hoseok sips at his Sprite cheerfully. He should film this. Would make for a great final year project. A Study on the Social Behaviour of the Average Student and What Occurs When the Fundamental Economic Problem of Scarcity Takes Place on a Small Scale. Or Something.
In the lobby, someone groans, and hobbles away to the side. Small Chinese Girl smugly moves up to the front of the counter. Hoseok cheers internally.
“Coming through,” comes a voice from the back of the line, snapping, “move,” like he’s just risen from the flames of hell, dead-set on getting to the front of the counter in that space of thirty seconds. Nobody gets in his way, instead parting like a pseudo-Red Sea in a soup bowl. He must have some kind of reputation. “Fucking lines,” grumbles the voice, and it’s coming from a guy who’s wrapped from head to toe in a padded green jacket, tiny stature amongst the crowd of students. “I hate lines.”
“You’re not the only one!” calls a brave soul, seven heads away to the right.
“You got a deathwish? No? Good. I don’t particularly feel like killing anyone today. Dry cleaning cost a bomb, the last time.”
Almost as soon as the guy’s scratched his name into a form on the counter, he’s slipping out of the throng of students, that terrifying visage smoothing out into something soft. As if he’s just woken up after two hours of non-REM sleep after seventeen hours of studying. “Mm, coffee,” he mumbles, padding off to the cafeteria, a penguin-shuffle hidden in the back of his soles.
1. Sharks are vicious, violent predators who attack when they smell blood in the water, and feel no remorse for the souls they have taken, afterwards usually found smiling with all their teeth showing like happy little puppies gnawing on chew-toys.
2. Sloths are soft, slow creatures who hang from branches and take one and a half hours to make a left over a zebra crossing with full traffic unless assisted via human-powered hoist videotaped and uploaded to Youtube with a dub-over of I Believe I Can Fly.
“Hey,” says Hoseok, dragging Namjoon back to their table (away from the relieved freshman who mouth at Hoseok to never let him come near them again armed with anything remotely concerning literature), and jabbing a finger in the guy’s direction. “What’s his name?”
“Who, Min Yoongi?” Namjoon shudders. “He’s that music major everyone’s afraid of. With good reason, too. I think he killed a man, once. Or a plant. The story keeps changing. I’m really sure it’s a man, though. The plant might have just had the same name.”
7. Music major. Check.
“Or something,” adds Namjoon, his pondering face on, “nobody actually really knows what he does. Music is the most likely option, since people spot him in the music rooms sometimes.”
8. Not a music major. Check.
Hoseok waves this allegation off. There are much more important things at hand right now than murder. “I think I’m in love,” says Hoseok, very simply, so that Namjoon’s brain can comprehend something that isn’t a metaphor or an analogy or some terrible use of a fallacy that nobody else can understand, “or something.”
(Now, if this scenario had been a movie, there would be a narrator with a fantastic radio-baritone smoothly sweeping in to articulate a particular monologue concerning the words that have just been said. It is to be noted that this story’s budget could not, in fact, afford such a narrator voice.)
Love, or something, is a particularly complicated situation. It happens in the most mysterious of ways, as all cliched sequences pan out in the beginning. It occurs when nobody realises it. Very few actually catch onto that strange, fluttery feeling that arises in one’s chest. Thankfully, it comes in the form of a violently speeding steam-powered train instead, and knocks Hoseok completely off-kilter.
He’s always had a thing for serial killer types, anyway.
Namjoon stares at him for a long, long time. And a little longer. Just a little longer than that. Hoseok wonders if Namjoon is attempting to do his infamous Leonardo DiCaprio squinting impression. It’s not really working. Hoseok’s seen it seventeen times. Finally, Namjoon just says, “You don’t even know the guy! What, did you just happen to fall in love at first sight or something?”
“Probably,” says Hoseok, “you’re a Literature student, doesn’t that happen? Thought you studied this stuff. How did you even get an A for your Shakespeare, Film and Media course?”
Namjoon splutters for a few moments. Hoseok just watches him, wondering if he should take a video of his flailing. Eventually, Namjoon calms, choosing instead to rest his cheek against the cool surface of the table. “I can’t believe you want to date Min Yoongi. Please don’t date him. He’s like a stack of really heavy encyclopedias that someone put out on the edge of a table just so someone could walk past and trip against one of the table’s legs and cause all the books to fall and smash their toes.”
5. Terrible and Generally Untrustworthy analogy. Check.
"Who said anything about dating," says Hoseok, "we're going to get married right away and have six children and a cactus. Kidding," he says, when Namjoon looks like he's about to have a coronary, "really. Just kidding. I don't propose to strangers. Unless they're on the internet and they've typed up a Livejournal post about something I feel very strongly about. Then I propose to strangers. But not in real life, of course not. My mother told me never to propose to strangers. It's a rule."
"Okay," says Namjoon, "fantastic rule. You should definitely keep to that."
There is a definitive pause where the both of them try to remember the script for this story, but then again, the story's budget couldn't afford a script anyway. Free-style!
"Okay," says Namjoon, "why are you telling me this, then?"
"In case I get murdered," says Hoseok, "so you know who to look for."
"Great plan." Namjoon nods. "Buddy systems are important."
So, on this great day of adventure and romance, Jung Hoseok sets out to woo the mysterious Min Yoongi who seems to put the fear of God firmly into everyone's hearts with a single glare. Hoseok finds this terribly attractive. Hoseok wonders if Yoongi would be amenable to snogging on the first date.
It doesn't seem to be very hard. Min Yoongi is a nice person. Hoseok doesn't know what everyone else is talking about when they call him scary.
"He's nice," says Hoseok, a day later. "We exchanged phone numbers. He didn't murder me. And I think he smiled. It was like the corner of his mouth kept trying to move upwards. It was cute. I'm in love."
"You're hopeless," says Namjoon.
Hoseok smiles brightly.
Here is how things happened:
“Hello!” says Hoseok out of nowhere, making the guy in front of him jump a foot into the air, “I mean hey, man. You dropped your book back there.”
“Oh,” says Min Yoongi, and he takes the copy of Godel, Escher, Bach from Hoseok’s hand, sounding surprised. “I didn’t realise. Thanks. I haven’t seen you around before, have I?”
And here he is. Half a head shorter than Hoseok, eyes rimmed dark with a lack of sleep, hair ruffled by the eight a.m. wind, glasses perched ridiculously low on the bridge of his nose. The slow simmer of attraction tickles Hoseok’s wrists and spreads through the rest of his joints like the smooth warmth of creamy tea down the throat on a winter evening.
“Not unless you drink a lot of coffee,” says Hoseok, shrugging away the little blips in his facade, attempting to come off as casual, “then you might have noticed me hanging around the muffin stand in the coffee shop.”
“Oh, hey, you’re the kid who likes the vanilla bean ones. I know the girl who bakes those. She’s always going on about how nice it is that someone buys those. No justice to be held when there’s chocolate around, eh?” Yoongi smiles, or well, almost smiles. It’s close enough. Hoseok will take it. “Yeah, I remember now. You and that one guy who keeps going on about Chinese folktales. Never realised how much I could inadvertently learn about fox spirits and succubi at seven in the morning.”
“It’s Russian history now,” says Hoseok sadly, “I think he might get banned from the cafe soon.”
“Good,” says Yoongi, “I do enjoy my mornings Dostoevsky-free.”
Hoseok laughs a little, and Yoongi’s eyes lighten, and Hoseok suddenly thinks, hey, Min Yoongi isn’t that terrible. Not at all, really. “I’m Jung Hoseok.”
“Min Yoongi.” Yoongi considers him for a moment, and then asks, “Could I make up your giving the book back to me in a cup of coffee, maybe?”
Hoseok tilts his head. “If it comes along with a muffin, maybe.”
Yoongi motions. “After you.”
It only takes one hour, two cups of coffee, and a tremendously delicious muffin for Hoseok and Yoongi to trade social media accounts, phone numbers, and the promise of, “See you soon.”
6. Min Yoongi in a Much Better Mood after having his favourite drink. Check.
Hoseok finds him the next day, early in the morning, and saves three people from being chewed up when he cheerily hands Yoongi a paper coffee cup containing the brew of his choice. “Just thought I would,” explains Hoseok, hands in his pockets.
It’s a good move to make. The next time Yoongi sees him, he asks Hoseok on an actual date.
Hoseok can barely contain his excitement.
Here is how Namjoon reacts:
Here is how Hoseok reacts to Namjoon: “See? He is nice. I like him. I hope we get to make out soon.”
Here is how Namjoon reacts to that:
There is a List of Things one should always be aware of when Min Yoongi comes into the picture. Jung Hoseok doesn’t bother with that List. Instead, he scratches out his own memo, and sticks it on the side of the room next to the mirror. It reads, Tuesday, 1pm!!! :) Lunch w/ Yoongi!!!
Somewhere high above in the sky, past the atmosphere and into the sphere of infinity that concerns the deities, Chance rips up the List and hands the pieces to a disgruntled Fate.
Jung Hoseok runs a thumb over the sealant edge of the sticky note once more, smiles, and heads off to his morning Economics class.
“So,” says Yoongi, hands around a cup of coffee, “contestant number one, tell me about yourself.”
“I like long walks on the beach, Mountain Dew, and I’m currently in the middle of a very serious relationship with that stool you’re sitting on. And only one of those is correct.”
“God, I hope it’s not the Mountain Dew.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint.”
“Ding, ding,” says Yoongi, “you’ve made it through the Passable Humour Possibly Copied Off A Whose Line Episode test.”
“Do I get, say, a million or so points for that?”
“You get lunch,” says Yoongi, “and lunch definitely matters more than the points do, here. You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”
Hoseok’s stomach gives a decisively-timed rumble, making known its outrage in not being fed recently. “Oh, yeah,” says Hoseok glumly, pulling the nearest menu towards him, “big test coming up. I don’t usually do the whole cramming thing, but the module is soundly kicking my ass right now.”
“It’s okay,” says Yoongi, “happens. I’ve gotten more than enough flak myself for forgetting food even exists, sometimes.”
Hoseok laughs. “We probably should have gone for a movie instead of getting lunch.”
“But, coffee!” says Yoongi. “Also, the only movie playing right now is a Nicolas Cage one.”
The day goes surprisingly well, joke-filled and banter-led.
“So,” says Hoseok, when they’re walking back to the dorms (same building, different floors) (so close, goddamn), “how amenable are you to kissing on the first date?”
“This is the first date?” says Yoongi, a hint of a joke in his voice, “figured we were already married by now.”
Hoseok blinks at him. Perhaps, somewhere in his mind, a sensor (much like the kind that goes off when cars reverse into foreign objects) beeps alarmingly loudly, notifying Hoseok of the impending actions his limbs are about to engage in.
“Does that mean what I think it does?”
Yoongi pauses right in front of the stairs. “Whose room is closer?”
“Forget about rooms, are you kidding me,” says Hoseok, and he curls his fingers into Yoongi’s collar, tugging him up close, nearly tripping them both on the bottom stair. Yoongi leans back in almost immediately, reaching to steady them both against the wall with one hand.
God, that’s good. That’s a damned good kiss, thinks Hoseok, letting Yoongi run his hands through Hoseok’s hair, letting his own hands slip up along the hem of Yoongi’s shirt, shy fingertips skirting along skin. Yoongi’s mouth is warm, and the kiss is slick and wet, and Hoseok likes it far too much for his own good. If this keeps up, he’ll have to steal Yoongi away to some faraway country just so no one else can know how well he snogs.
“Christ,” whispers Yoongi, their noses brushing when they pull away for a momentary blip, “a hundred million points to you if we get to do that for the rest of the night.”
“Are those in Bitcoin?” says Hoseok, a half-grin on his lips, and Yoongi snorts, much cuter than Hoseok would have ever thought possible, and Yoongi kisses him again, and again, and again, until they manage to stumble into Hoseok’s room.
So that happens.
“I can never visit your room ever again!” declares Namjoon. “Never. Cooties everywhere. Nope. Never. Never ever, man. Never. Serious.”
“Get over yourself,” says Hoseok, “I know about your secret boyfriend who works nearby. You can’t fool me.”
And the guy’s cute, too. Suits up well. Seokjin, his name is, probably. Not that Hoseok has spent a couple of hours tracking the guy down and spying on him to make sure he’s good enough for Namjoon. Nope, nothing of the sort. Hoseok totally didn’t bribe his contacts in the computer science department to help him dig up the guy’s file either. Nope.
Namjoon goes into a surprisingly accurate imitation of an audible keysmash.
Hoseok just watches. “Good on you, though. Stole some dude’s heart, and now you’re lawyering up, eh? Eh? Eh?”
“That’s the worst pun I’ve ever heard,” says Namjoon. “And that’s not even counting the liti-gator one about the crocodile and the zebra.”
“Come on, you can’t tell me that wasn’t a stroke of genius.”
“It was in the comics section of that day’s newspaper.”
Namjoon points at him triumphantly for a whole thirty seconds.
Hoseok just looks at him. “Why am I friends with you?”
“Because you have an incessant need to tell someone about all the naughty you got up to with one Min Yoongi the other night,” says Namjoon matter-of-factly, “and even though I could run away screaming with my hands over my ears, I’ve chosen to stay exactly where I am and suffer through your commentary on how great his tongue is. Look at how good a friend I am! I’m such a good friend.”
“The best,” says Hoseok dryly.
“Anyway,” says Namjoon, “so, tell me. Is Min Yoongi just about what everyone supposes him to be?”
“Well,” says Hoseok, “not really. All he is really is just grumpy because of a lack of caffeine. And someone stole his favourite pencil two weeks ago, so he’s still in for that. And he just gets really jumpy whenever anyone asks him what he’s planning to do after university. Always segues into some weird, offhand topic.”
“Aha!” says Namjoon. “He must be a spy.”
“Stop,” says Hoseok, already agitated, like a calm pool of water disrupted by the presence of a large flowerpot (read: Kim Namjoon) suddenly falling in out of nowhere as it thinks to itself, not again, “please don’t tell me you’re into conspiracy theories now.”
“Oh, no, of course not. I just like assuming that everyone is a spy. Makes daily routine so much more interesting, don’t you think?”
“Is that why you jumped the accounting lecturer two days ago?”
“He was acting sneaky!”
“He—get this—was wearing a purple tie. Purple!” Namjoon shakes his head. “Everyone knows wearing a purple tie is a sure sign of treachery and illicit doings.”
“Of course,” agrees Hoseok, mentally making a reminder to burn all his purple ties when he gets back to his room. If he has any. “I’ll just be going now. You know. Busy university student and all. No time for frat parties or anything.”
“Frat party!” yells a token frat boy, five hundred metres away somewhere, destined to cheer whenever he hears anyone say variations of the words ‘frat’ and ‘party’ in the same sentence. “Yeah!”
“Yeah!” calls back Namjoon, somewhat confused, but enthusiastic anyway.
Hoseok wipes away an imaginary tear, and resigns himself to the rest of his university life hanging around Kim Namjoon.
“So,” says Hoseok one evening, as he takes in his surroundings. “Nice place you got here. I, for one, think that the dilapidated wallpaper really makes the room here. The peel is a nice touch.”
“Kind of you to think so.” Yoongi motions somewhere in the general direction of the bed. Or maybe it’s the desk. Or maybe the floor. Hoseok can’t tell. Yoongi’s room is a cramped single one, with him having scared away potential room-mates via that accursed murder story (“It was the plant!” says Yoongi exasperatedly, “I’m a terrible plant-sitter, okay?”).
The privacy’s a great perk, though.
Hoseok considers this point in detail as he takes a seat on Yoongi’s bed, involving several crudely drawn diagrams and graphs plotted out in his head as to how much they can achieve in the span of time before Hoseok has to get back to revise for his (terrible) business paper tomorrow.
Yoongi probably has considered something similar in the past five minutes too, with the way he locks the door behind them and hastily shuffles over to sweep a bunch of papers off the desk.
“What’s that?” asks Hoseok, when one of the papers flutters down to the floor, right in front of Hoseok, but upside down so Hoseok conveniently cannot see anything properly, therefore rendering the paper a mystery. Just like in the movies! Wow.
Yoongi immediately makes a slow-motion crushing football-style lunge for it. “Noooooo,” he goes, his Darth Vader imitation cracking through his obvious panic, “that’s, uhm, that’s confidential.”
“Oh,” says Hoseok, and because he’s never been one for tact, “why?”
“Because, uhm.” Yoongi scrambles to shove the paper (and the rest of the other papers) behind the headboard of his bed, wincing when he hears a loud tearing noise. “It’s my—uhm, final year project on—on, uh. Electric ballet.”
“And the various styles of, uh, the boogaloo.” Yoongi flaps a hand at him. “Terribly boring, you would hate to read it, I know, let’s move on to something much more interesting than assignments I have lying around the place that may or may not be real! You pick a topic.”
“Okay,” says Hoseok slowly, resolving to find out why he acts so weird about his studies all the time,“Digimon or Pokemon?”
Yoongi pauses. “Please don’t make me answer that. That’s sacrosanct. And to cover any other follow-ups, I’m a Gen I and III fan, and I only subscribe to the original Digidestined, thank you very much.”
“Thank god,” says Hoseok, relieved, “if you honestly answered that question, I’d have to kill you.”
Yoongi sits down next to Hoseok. “You’re the only person I’ve ever met with this many things in common,” he says, impressed. “Let’s make out.”
“Great!” says Hoseok.
And because they’re university students, and totally of age, and this masterpiece of a narration is only half-humour (okay, seventy percent, fine), the mood dips into something much steeper, and a little less on the light side.
Hoseok’s palms skirt across skin and cotton, trailing up arms and past elbows and coming up to rest against Yoongi’s neck, thumbs rolling up to stroke softly along the edge of Yoongi’s jawline. Sharp, all of his angles are, wicked-acute like the verbal jabs he pulls, salient and tapered. Hoseok runs his teeth along Yoongi’s lower lip, licking over the sting that comes. “Mm.”
Yoongi’s hands are resting on Hoseok’s hips loosely, but sure enough, his fingertips dance along the hem of his jeans, coming up to brush against his belt-loops, button, zipper, slow and full of intent. “Yeah?”
“Go on.” Their fingers find each other momentarily, threading together for the slightest of seconds, before breaking apart to move to different places. Yoongi’s fingers slip through Hoseok’s hair, the soft designations of his hands a welcome feeling. Hoseok’s own hands move up Yoongi’s shirt, careful little brushes and ghosts of skin, stretches of vivid pale for as far as he can see.
Hoseok kisses him continuously, even as Yoongi moves nearer, pressing him against the wall, shifting to swing a knee over his lap. There’s scant space between them, heat emanating from the warmth of the too-small room, and from the places Hoseok’s fingers traces across Yoongi’s collar, and stomach, and chest.
There’s a quiet moment where Hoseok contemplates just how attractive Yoongi is, before he’s acting on that impulse, kissing Yoongi even harder than before. It’s a fierce respond he gets. A bit of spit, a couple of accidental nips here and there, a whole lot of fire swirling about in Hoseok’s gut whenever Yoongi’s lips cover his in full, sucking at his tongue in a way that makes his head spin.
“Yoongi,” breathes Hoseok, voice trembling when Yoongi pulls away to kiss down his neck, head tilting inadvertently, and he repeats Yoongi’s name, only to have it devolve into a sort of half-moan when Yoongi squeezes his hardening cock through his jeans. God, Hoseok should have worn thinner pants. Or maybe he should just take them off right now.
He voices this idea, and they both take a few moments to remove their clothes, haphazardly dropping them onto the floor, shirts and jeans and underwear complete. “Wow,” says Yoongi, drinking Hoseok in when they’re both stark naked, and to his credit Hoseok actually flushes. He hasn’t gotten that kind of a look before. “You’re really—wow.”
“Come here and tell me that with your mouth,” says Hoseok, eyebrows wiggling suggestively, and Yoongi barks out a laugh, before pressing Hoseok into the sheets and kissing him again.
It’s double the sound now, both groaning into each other’s mouths, cocks rubbing together when Hoseok rolls his hips up. Hoseok has never been more thankful for the flexibility that dancing during his free time has provided him.
“Yoongi,” he says once more, and Yoongi shifts as much as he can, nearly knocking his heel against the cupboard that’s right up against the foot of the bed, “Christ.”
“Good try, but my surname is Min,” says Yoongi, and Hoseok manages a snort, before the words get stuck in his throat. Yoongi’s dipped down low enough to wrap a hand around Hoseok’s cock, just barely pressing his lips to the head. “I’m going to suck you off, now.”
“I noticed,” Hoseok gets out, words hitched and jumbled, and he can’t take his eyes off Yoongi, can’t tear his eyes away when Yoongi slides his mouth down inch by inch, that fucking tease, the wet heat of his mouth making Hoseok’s hips jerk up instinctively, seeking more. “Oh my god,” says Hoseok, and he thinks that the rumbling sound coming from between his legs might be Yoongi laughing at how desperate Hoseok sounds in this very moment. “Don’t—don’t you fucking dare pull off.”
True to Hoseok’s hopes, Yoongi doesn’t, instead taking him in as far as he can go, before dragging his tongue up along the underside, lips moving up and down Hoseok’s cock with the most obscene of sounds. Hoseok doesn’t think it’s possible to even be more turned on than he already is, even with the pressure building up and the tightening of his balls, the obvious signal that he’s going to come, the process speeding up when Yoongi’s hand continues to move along the base, pumping in time with every lick.
There’s a bundle of expletives, and Hoseok thinks he might have hit his head on the board behind him when he comes, mouth stretching in an embarrassingly loud groan. That might have possibly been the best blowjob he’s ever gotten. Or, well, the only one. For now.
Yoongi leans back up over him, wiping away a little bit of white from the side of his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s really hot,” says Hoseok absently, watching Yoongi run his tongue along his mouth, gaze matching Hoseok’s. “Please tell me we’re not done.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth,” declares Yoongi.
It’s an easy decision to flip positions. Yoongi lies down, propped up on his elbows as he watches Hoseok slick up his fingers, face a perfect form of concentration as he slicks himself up in turn, rim tight around the first finger, but soon he’s got two, and then three, and the look on Yoongi’s face is more than enough incentive for Hoseok to slow down, take his time and draw it out. Lips parted, eyes half-shuttered, breathing a little harder than before. Yoongi watches with his fingers almost twitching, wanting to put his hands on Hoseok himself again.
Hoseok bites his lip, and makes a sound in the back of his throat when he lowers himself down on Yoongi, so very carefully, and despite the prepping it’s still tight, and just a little wet, and all kinds of good. Cautious movement, a moment to find their bearings, but then Hoseok is rocking back against his heels once, and rolling his hips down again, and Yoongi lets out the most toe-curling moan he’s heard in all their time today.
“Yoongi,” says Hoseok, the word punctuated by a moan of his own, “oh, fuck—”
“Yeah,” breathes Yoongi, thrusting up into Hoseok’s movements, adding to the pressure and the friction and the good pleasure they’re both immersed in, “like that—ah.”
It’s almost filthy, the way Hoseok grips at Yoongi’s shoulders this tight, riding him like this, and what seems filthier are the sounds the both of them are making. Gasping little breaths, strangled in the way they squeeze through their gritted teeth. Loud, unadulterated moans. Hoseok lets out something that sounds like half a hiccup when Yoongi wraps a hand around his cock, his entire body folding in on himself when Yoongi begins to stroke him again, the sensitivity reaching an all new high.
Hoseok doesn’t remember the last time he’d let himself go like this, just succumbing to the waves that roll over the both of them, heady and loose. The tide sweeping in, forceful and determinedly calm at the same time. Something like the sun unraveling in his chest, burning him up through his skin and his teeth and his hair and every nerve in his body.
There are a million words perched in the back of his throat, but all of them fizzle together to form Yoongi’s name when he comes, Yoongi first with a low sweeping sound that strikes Hoseok right where it buzzes the most, like a fist slamming in to just melt on impact, all heat and pent-up tension and the sweet slow burn of something overriding affection by a fraction of a degree.
Hoseok flops down, completely spent. Yoongi wriggles over to make more space on the single bed, and Hoseok curls in on him, the tip of his nose catching Yoongi’s ear. “That was nice,” murmurs Hoseok, and Yoongi hums his assent absentmindedly.
They stay like that for a few more moments.
They stay like that for an hour.
They stay like that until both of them end up falling asleep, Hoseok’s chin tucked into the dip of Yoongi’s shoulder; Yoongi’s arm thrown over Hoseok’s side, a single curl of his thumb hooked over his hip marking possession.
And maybe Hoseok wakes up a little earlier than Yoongi, about ten minutes pre-alarm ring. Maybe Hoseok doesn’t want him to wake up just yet, eyes still half-shut and groggy, taking in the sunlight that patters in soothingly through not-thick-enough curtains.
He watches Yoongi sleep, at peace, unaffected by the world the way he usually is during the day. He lifts a careful finger, so very carefully, and brushes along Yoongi’s cheek, heart pounding as he does. Yoongi doesn’t rise, even when Hoseok leans in and kisses against his neck, the slightest flutter of lips. Yoongi doesn’t rise, even when Hoseok brushes the hair off his forehead.
Yoongi does rise, however, when Hoseok attempts to slip out of bed first, catching his wrist in a fluid motion that almost seems to suggest that he’s been awake for much longer than Hoseok would think. But his voice is laden with sleep as he says, tongue thick in his mouth, “Stay.”
And Hoseok settles back easily, more than happy to. It’s a Saturday. He has nowhere to go. Nowhere to be. And why would he want to be anywhere else right now, anyway?
Yoongi’s hand comes up to rest around him again. Hoseok leans into the touch, and feels Yoongi smile against his back, between his shoulder-blades, a resting force. Magnetising. Hoseok can’t pull himself away.
Hoseok won’t lie. He doesn’t know what love tastes like, but it might be close to this.
They don’t spend all their waking moments together, contrary to what Namjoon believes, and contrary to what people do in romantic comedies. Yoongi is, unsurprisingly, very hard to get a hold of in real life, and only ever responds to phone calls if Hoseok calls six times in under four minutes. Don’t even bother with texts.
But Hoseok isn’t surprised.
It’s been a few months now, nearly four, and he’s only beginning to become familiar with Yoongi’s habits, and Yoongi’s snark, and all that Yoongi seems to be. Hoseok isn’t really all surprised that Yoongi likes his solitude, preferring to slink away into the shadows of the university during his free time rather than spend it out with other people.
It’s almost a strange contrast to the way Hoseok bounds all about the place, constantly cheery, always social enough to speak to everyone and anyone. It’s never lasting, though. Surface relationships are easy enough. Everything else is heavy-handed and difficult.
He’s glad for the easiness of Namjoon’s friendship. He’s lucky that the Line chat group he shares with Taehyung, Jeongguk and Jimin never stops pinging, even when he’s in classes (six hundred goddamned messages in under an hour, he’s going to murder them anyway). He’s also somewhat pleased that Namjoon has eased up enough to bring that Seokjin guy around for lunch once in a while too.
(“So, how much does he pay you to put up with him?” asks Hoseok, the first time they meet, as Namjoon does his customary splutter behind them.
Seokjin answers, “Not enough.”
Namjoon falls over.
Hoseok beams. “We’re going to be great friends.”)
And he’s glad for Yoongi, even if people constantly wonder how the two of them fit together.
It’s like two sides of a coin, perhaps. Opposites, but they work. They match.
A balance that keeps.
Hoseok finds himself stepping into the quiet hallways of the music building after hours one night, feet leading him to wonder about the place. He’s never visited, and he knows that during the day is when it clamours with sound and cacophony, a harmonic caterwauling that probably only jars the ears of those uninitiated with the higher learnings of the music students.
It’s empty, maybe. Or not, figures Hoseok, when he hears sound coming from down a corridor. A single room, and the soft tinkling of a piano.
The door pushes open easily, quietly. Yoongi doesn’t look up, but by the way his shoulders stiffen slightly, Hoseok knows that Yoongi is aware of his presence.
He listens to Yoongi play a song, something reminiscent of the past, for a few minutes, before Yoongi sets his hands on his knees and says, “Sit down.”
Their knees bump together as Hoseok slides onto the piano bench with practiced ease, Yoongi on the left side and Hoseok the right. Hoseok has never been able to play the piano, so he lets the alternating ivory and ebony sound under Yoongi’s hands instead, as he inspects the lack of sheet music in front of Yoongi.
Yoongi goes on without another word, falling into a rhythm that seems well worn-in, and well familiar. Paced, and wild all at the same time. Beginning soft, and ending strong. Yoongi plays a classical piece, before switching into something that sounds like the tip of the jazz industry, before glancing up to ask, “You’re a fan of oldies, right?”
Hoseok just nods.
Yoongi plays something from before their time, something Nam Jin, and Park Sangmin, and Im Jaebum, fingers deft and swift over the keys. He plays with all the wit of his words, and all the sorrow in the innate loneliness he seems to hold in the tensing of his shoulders, and all the joy he’s ever shared with Hoseok, and maybe a little more.
He stops after a quiet rendition of You Drifted Away, and says, “Were you looking for me?”
“I wasn’t looking for anything,” says Hoseok, “but I found you.”
Yoongi hums. He does that, when he’s thinking. Hoseok likes it. “That would be nice in a song.”
“You should write it,” says Hoseok, “something for your course, maybe.”
A flicker of something passes over Yoongi’s face, before it disappears. Hoseok doesn’t know what it is, but it’s gone before he can even begin to guess. “Maybe,” says Yoongi, and he plays a quick succession of notes, one after the other, little staccato hops that brighten the room by a snippet.
“You really like music, huh?” says Hoseok. “Why?”
Yoongi shrugs. “I like a lot of things. I like you,” he tacks on at the end, earning a harrumph from Hoseok, who’d expected an actual answer.
But Yoongi seems content to let it lie as it is.
Hoseok stays for a little while more, until Yoongi ceases playing some time later, choosing to kiss Hoseok instead, and by the time Hoseok says anything, it’s to breathe out Yoongi’s name as Yoongi fucks him on the piano bench, elbows propped against the keys, and laughter in their throats at the thought of someone accidentally walking in on them at two in the morning.
Something happens after that night, maybe. Hoseok isn’t sure. All he knows is that Yoongi has been avoiding him, and he doesn’t know why.
Every phone call, missed. Yoongi keeps creating excuses to remove himself from Hoseok’s attention, too. It’s aggravating. Hoseok can’t understand why. And he thought things were going really well too.
“I knew he was an asshole,” says Namjoon, “let me assemble my team of counter-spies to take him out.”
“No,” says Hoseok, “you’re not taking out my boyfriend. Context included, and excluded. Also, he is not a spy!”
“I could have him whacked?” suggests Namjoon. “Tactfully?”
“I’ll whack you myself if I hear another word out of your mouth,” says Hoseok, holding up a dangerously thick copy of the Reader's Digest New Encyclopaedia of Garden Plants and Flowers that seems to have materialised out of nowhere. “Here, this is for Seokjin.”
Namjoon takes the book from him. “Thanks! He’ll love it. Probably. Maybe. I don’t know. I think he’s planning to start a garden. It was either start a garden or become a prison warden. The phone line was really bad that day.”
“Either way,” says Hoseok, “he can always start a garden while he’s in prison. What am I going to do? Should I talk to him?”
“About what, flower hybrids that grow in dank, dark places?”
“No, you fool, not Seokjin! Yoongi.” Hoseok sighs, and rests his chin on the heel of his palm. “I don’t know if I should just go ask him what’s wrong. What if it makes things worse?”
“Well,” says Namjoon, sounding serious for once, “I think if you really want this to work, you have to find out why he’s avoiding you. What, does he have some kind of deep, dark secret he doesn’t want you to know? Maybe you’re on the trail of it and he’s trying to throw you off.”
“I don’t know about any deep, dark secret,” says Hoseok, “but he’s definitely hiding something. I don’t know, maybe I’m just worrying too much. I mean, people need their time alone sometimes too, right?”
“Hoseok,” says Namjoon, “just go talk to him. Or I’ll gather my intrepid group of certified assassins—”
“Okay, okay!” Hoseok sighs again for added effect. “Would it kill you to not act like you’re on crack for once in your life?”
“I can’t help it,” says Namjoon, shrugging. “I was written this way.”
Hoseok considers this for a moment, and then looks up through the screen, The Office-style. Damn you, omniscient all-seeing narrator! thinks Hoseok very hard, hoping that his message gets through to the deity apparently controlling his every thought and movement. And let me have more muffins, for god’s sake. I only get one in this story. One! I counted!
Namjoon follows his gaze, and squints. “Why are you looking at an umbrella like that?”
“Never mind,” says Hoseok. “We can break the fourth wall once this subplot has been dealt with.”
“Cool!” says Namjoon.
It is surprisingly difficult to carry out Hoseok’s plan of cornering Yoongi and making him talk to him when one cannot even begin to locate Yoongi in the first place.
“Have you seen Min Yoongi?” asks Hoseok, popping into the music department.
“Why would he be here?” says a student who seems to be stuck in their own tuba, and Hoseok narrows his eyes suspiciously before disappearing to another block.
“Have you seen Min Yoongi?” asks Hoseok, sliding past the cafe, grabbing three vanilla muffins for the journey.
“He was here yesterday!” says the chipper barista, completely no help at all. “Hey, you have to pay for those. Come back! Pay for those! Wait!”
Hoseok zips back and drops a small bag of coins on the counter.
“Thank you, and have a nice day,” says the barista automatically, and Hoseok zooms off again.
“Have you seen Min Yoongi?” asks Hoseok.
The cat sitting on the bench in the courtyard mewls, and rolls over, pawing at the air. Totally no help at all. But cute. Still cute.
“Aw,” says Hoseok, rubbing its belly. “Cute kitty wants a pat! Yes, it does. Who’s the cute little cat, huh? Who’s the cute kitty cat? Who’s the—wait, stop, those are my muffins. Mine! No! Stop! Jesus Christ, somebody contain this animal!”
“Have you seen yourself?” asks Namjoon, when Hoseok finally appears at their usual meeting spot, looking worse for wear, “what the hell happened to you?”
“Got into a fight with a cat over food,” says Hoseok tiredly, “it’s a lot more complicated that it sounds.”
“Do not mock my efforts!” Hoseok plants his face on the surface of the table, done with today. Totally and completely done. He’ll continue his search tomorrow after making another fifty missed calls to Yoongi’s phone. Or maybe he should just give up. “Maybe I should just give up,” he says, to no one in particular.
“No, man,” says Namjoon consolingly, “you can’t give it up now. You really like him, don’t you?”
“Sure I do.” Hoseok lifts his head. “I just... what if he doesn’t like me as much as I like him to begin with?”
“Then he doesn’t deserve you,” says Namjoon immediately. “Break up with the little shit. And let me kill him with my bare hands. Or my new taser.”
Hoseok scoots his chair two feet away before continuing. “When did you get a taser?”
“Yesterday,” says Namjoon happily, “it was on sale on Amazon.”
“You amuse me and scare me all at the same time,” says Hoseok, “it’s a compliment.”
“Thank you!” says Namjoon. “Pleased to be of your service.”
“The only way you can be of my service right now is by tracking down Yoongi so I can actually figure out what the hell is going on with him right now.”
“Oh, that’s easy.” Namjoon points over Hoseok’s shoulder. “He’s right there, conveniently walking into the dorms. Probably to his room. You should follow him in the next twenty seconds or he might disappear again.”
Hoseok jumps up. “You’re a lifesaver!” he announces, and he jogs off, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll buy you another taser to thank you!”
“Sweet,” says Namjoon, watching Hoseok split, “double the fun.”
Hoseok trails Yoongi quietly, watching him head up to his room with a strange sadness in the curve of his shoulders, only making his presence known when Yoongi opens his door, and prepares to go in. “Surprise,” says Hoseok, putting his hand against the door-frame, effectively stopping Yoongi from closing the door, and nearly getting his fingers snapped off in the same motion. “How have you been?”
“Hoseok,” says Yoongi, swallowing hard, “uhm—”
“Save it!” says Hoseok. “Let’s talk inside, yeah?”
Yoongi allows him in, and locks the door behind the both of them.
The room doesn’t look any different in the week or two that Hoseok hasn’t visited. Still cramped, mucked-up, messy. Hoseok leans against the desk, and says, “So.”
“I’m sorry,” says Yoongi immediately, “I can explain. Really. It’s just—I don’t know how to say this—there’s just—”
“Stop making excuses!” Hoseok’s brow furrows. “Why have you been avoiding me?”
“I—” starts Yoongi, wringing his hands tersely, as if he’s got a million things on his mind that he needs to say, but he has no idea how to begin. “I guess I figured I was just setting myself up for heartbreak again, dating you.”
“Why would you say that?” asks Hoseok, genuinely confused.
“Because you’re just going to break up with me in the end, anyway,” says Yoongi.
Hoseok is past the point of understanding the situation right now. “Back up there,” says Hoseok, “from the beginning, yeah? Why would you think I’m going to break up with you?”
“Because,” says Yoongi, shrugging. “That’s what always happens whenever I tell whoever I’m dating what I plan to do in the future. The ambitious don’t go for—well. Mathematicians.”
The last word hops up and pokes Hoseok in the face before the rest of the sentence does. “You’re a math major? I thought you were in the music department?” Then, the rest of Yoongi’s words follow through. “Wait, people break up with you for that?”
Hoseok stares at him. “That’s it? Really?”
“What do you mean that’s it? This has been plaguing my life for years now! God, it's so embarrassing.”
“This is like something out of a movie. Or a fantastically written story jesting about tropes,” says Hoseok, “the latter sounds slightly more accurate. Anyway. Back to the situation at hand. You’re telling me that everyone just seems to have overlooked your other fantastic qualities just because you enjoy math to a truly terrifying degree?”
“Yeah, uhm.” Yoongi shrugs. “Something like that. Or, at least, that’s how the trope goes. Hold on a second. What other fantastic qualities?”
Hoseok coughs. Whoops. He’s been caught. “I said nothing!”
“You said something!” says Yoongi. “Quick, or I’ll start withholding kisses.”
“You can’t hold your affection ransom!”
“I can now.”
Hoseok mumbles incoherently, conveniently covered by the narrator’s censorship. “Fantastic qualities such as the fact that you’re attractive?”
“I knew you only liked me for my looks.”
“And your taste in video games—”
“I knew you only liked me for my Steam account.”
“—and your love of music—”
“I knew you only liked me for my 8tracks playlists.”
“—and the fact that you’re one of the sweetest, nicest, least scary people I’ve ever met.”
Yoongi pauses. “Really?”
“Really,” declares Hoseok, shuffling into Yoongi’s space to take advantage of his momentary evaluatory thought, slinging his arms around Yoongi’s shoulders, “and I’ll tell you this. Everyone who dumped you is just losing out.”
“Everything,” says Hoseok, “who knows what things could have happened? Then again, I’d be losing out too, because I wouldn’t have been able to meet you. Or go out with you. Or do unspeakable NC-17 rated things in this room right here.”
“You’re unreal,” murmurs Yoongi, a laugh half-stuck in his throat, “honest to God, unreal.”
“You’re unreal,” replies Hoseok, nudging their faces together again, “seriously, that’s probably one of the most ridiculous reasons I’ve ever heard for wanting to break up with someone.”
“We’re in a fictional story set in a universe where everyone including the narrator is on crack,” says Yoongi dolefully, going terrifyingly meta for a moment. “There isn’t much to expect here. Also, people just really don’t like math?”
“That’s stupid too,” declares Hoseok, and he tugs Yoongi down, their noses bumping again when Yoongi shuffles up to lean over Hoseok. “Tell me why you like it,” whispers Hoseok, kissing Yoongi on the corner of his mouth, the tip of his tongue licking over his lip, an inviting tease. Yoongi shivers. “Tell me all the reasons you love it.”
Yoongi blinks up at him for a moment. “What?”
“Go on,” says Hoseok, “talk dirty to me. The way you’ve always wanted to.”
“Oh my god,” says Yoongi.
Hoseok grins wickedly. “An experiment in kink, hmm?” He tugs Yoongi in for another kiss, and he breathes, “Come on, Yoongi.”
“I could go on for days,” Yoongi finally says, and he takes the opportunity to undo Hoseok’s shirt buttons, as Hoseok gazes up at him. “It’s God’s own handwriting. Numbers and figures,” he says, letting Hoseok shrug out of his shirt, before reaching down to kiss him again, open-mouthed and wet, “all arranged to form perfect outcomes,” he breathes, “impossibly beautiful. A little bit like you, I’d suppose.”
“Like me?” asks Hoseok, words hitching in his throat when Yoongi kisses down his throat, and then nuzzles another kiss against the base of his neck, before moving to suck another over the jut of his clavicle. Carefully planned, recklessly executed kisses. Mouth moving down Hoseok’s body like a careful compass over the points on a map, making sure to mark down each designated stop.
“I could tell you about Euler’s identity,” begins Yoongi, letting Hoseok slide his fingers leisurely into Yoongi’s hair, soft and secure, “I could talk about Gauss’ Theorema Egregrium,” slowly pushing down both their jeans, shucking off the rest of their clothes, hands reaching to pull each other closer in between the words that fall from Yoongi’s lips, “but I won’t.”
“Then?” Hoseok watches Yoongi press his lips against Hoseok’s hip, biting back the sound in his throat.
“The golden ratio,” whispers Yoongi, and he traces an imaginary line down Hoseok’s front, “in human proportions. Impossibly harmonious, incredibly masterful. You know,” he says, almost casually, as Hoseok sucks in a deep breath, gaze constant as Yoongi’s hands make their way further down, “even the canon of Polykleitos wouldn’t do, for you.”
“Tell me,” whispers Hoseok, and he knows Yoongi’s caught; Yoongi’s never had anyone else who has wanted to know and wanted to hear just exactly what he could tell them with those words. Yoongi will tell Hoseok these words, and Hoseok will be the first person to hear these things straight from Yoongi himself, and god, Hoseok is burning under his skin just to know that fact. “Come on.”
Yoongi pulls back up to kiss him, their mouths engaging again, intense want and need surfacing with each heavy push and pull of their tongues, the scraping of their teeth against skin and lip and groan. Yoongi kisses like he wants to convey everything he’s never been able to say to anyone over the years, and Hoseok kisses him back like he’s drowning, drowning in air and looking for someone to drag him back up again.
“God,” says Yoongi, the word thick in his mouth with longing, “there aren’t enough geometric progressions in this world to describe the distance between your fingers,” and Yoongi reaches down to curl the fingers of one hand through the fingers of one of Hoseok’s, the other hand sliding down to palm at Hoseok’s cock, “or the length of your clavicle from one end to the other,” and he pauses on a tight breath when Hoseok dips his head to suck a hard kiss into Yoongi’s skin, against his collarbone, “or the curve of your hip,” whispers Yoongi, feeling Hoseok roll up into Yoongi’s grip, “I wouldn’t dare.”
Hoseok catches his mouth in another kiss. “Prove it to me, Min Yoongi,” he says, and they are all the right words to say, much like the words Hoseok utters later when Yoongi fucks him first with his fingers, lubed up and slick and slow, one hand warm on his hip and the other making good time, and then later with his cock, good and hard, bent up against the headboard and breathless with the knowledge of something heady and something glittering, like fire crackling on a candle wick, like the bright wink of a star five parsecs away from where they lie, tangled together by literary devices gone astray.
Later, Hoseok lies on his side with a hand tucked under his pillow, smoothing out the breath in his lungs, as Yoongi absentmindedly taps J. S. Bach’s Canon 1 à 2 along Hoseok’s back, his spine a flattened Möbius strip that remembers the traces of Yoongi’s fingertips even after his hands fall, even more so when Yoongi kisses the back of Hoseok’s neck and says, “You’re different than I expected.”
“What did you expect?” Hoseok glances over his shoulder, and shoots him a smile. “Some hyper to a fault, constantly grinning kid with a knack for getting on people’s nerves?”
“I didn’t expect you staying, that’s for sure.” Yoongi smiles, and it’s one of those rare, real smiles that Hoseok really likes. The kind that Hoseok would pay in a million vanilla bean muffins to see just once more.
“I don’t actually believe in love at first sight,” says Hoseok, sighing when Yoongi tugs him nearer, “but this is way better than the movies make it out to be.”
“It better be.”
They’re both silent for a moment, before Hoseok adds, “I’d totally marry a mathematician, by the way.”
Yoongi chokes on his own breath. Hoseok smiles, satisfied.
In the morning, Yoongi will accidentally destroy his alarm clock when it rings at five a.m. to wake them both up, and Hoseok will chuck his phone into a pile of clothes at the sound of the ringtone signaling that he needs to get up. In the morning, the both of them will end up draped across each other like bedsheets getting tangled overnight. In the morning, they will both sleep in and forget about classes and quietly bicker about video games (“It’s all about the hats,” says Yoongi exasperatedly) in between casual blowjobs and a little bit more sex (a lot more sex).
Scratch that ‘quietly’ part. Make that, bicker so loudly about video games that Yoongi ends up getting a stern warning from the floor monitor about Having Guests Over and Talking With Your Inside Voice (they obviously will not abide by this rule in the slightest).
And in the morning, the sun will smile much wider than the days before.
“So, things are all good now?” asks Namjoon.
Hoseok smiles. “Yeah. They are.”
“They better be,” says Yoongi, and Namjoon jumps, as if Yoongi’s just come out of nowhere and hasn’t been sitting there for the past half an hour. “I didn’t agree to lunch knowing I’d be bombarded with Buzzfeed articles turned audio.”
Namjoon says, “Please don’t murder me. I have a family. And a garden.”
Hoseok leans over, and whispers inconspicuously, “He has a lawyer.”
Yoongi coughs. “Weather’s been nice, hasn’t it?”
Hoseok smiles. Yes. Things are good, now. Utterly so.
- Sometimes the day skies spell rain. Other times, a spot of cloudy bother. Maybe a little bit of snow, if the firmaments are so inclined. But those rare days, those ones where the dawn rises quiet and simmers silently on the horizon, those rare days are the ones to live for. They don’t come often, but they do come, in the end. This describes Min Yoongi.
- Does this list need anymore statements?
“Nah,” says Hoseok, and he crumples up the paper. Why did Namjoon even give him the first one in the first place? It’s not like he even needed to know anything about Yoongi. Useless piece of paper.
(Though it does come in handy one night when he gets stuck in the wilderness on a camping trip with the three high-school kids during their monthly meet-up, and they manage to make a campfire out of scraps of paper in Hoseok’s pockets, Taehyung’s copy of My Immortal, and all of Jeongguk’s English assignments. But that’s a story for another day.)
There had been a List of Things one should always be aware of when Min Yoongi comes into the picture.
It doesn’t exist anymore.
Jung Hoseok writes him a new one.