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There are few things in the world Yoongi hates more than early mornings.
Early-morning Seokjin is one of them.
“Yoongi-chi!” he yells with enthusiasm, as Yoongi joins him on the subway platform. “My bro! Good morning!”
Yoongi blinks at him through bleary eyes, and reminds himself that he loves Seokjin, that Seokjin loves him, and that if he murders his hyung they’ll have to find someone else who has the energy to wrestle and play fight and bicker with Jungkook on a regular basis. “Hyung.”
“Aish, no good morning for me? Is it not a good morning?”
Above-ground, the sun hasn’t risen yet. Yoongi wishes he hadn’t, either. “Ask me again in six hours.”
“In six hours it will practically be the afternoon!” Seokjin says, at a volume and energy level that should be illegal at all hours of the day, but especially those that happen pre-dawn. “I’d have to change my question to was it not a good morning, and that’s something completely different!”
Yoongi thinks longingly of the store-fronts two stories above, and all the potential caffeine acquisition opportunities he’d squandered in his haste to not be late in meeting Seokjin. Seokjin takes his deep-sea fishing seriously — if they somehow lost any of their half-hour of buffer time because Yoongi was tracking down extra caffeination Yoongi knows he’d never hear the end of it. Still, the prospect of enduring a lengthy subway ride in the presence of an excitable, wide-awake, Kim Seokjin, while working off only the one (1) cup of coffee he managed to scarf down before he got on the bus does not fill him with joy.
“Sleep well?” Seokjin asks, rudely interrupting Yoongi’s personal pity-party.
Yoongi shrugs, hunching his shoulders against the indignity of being vertical. “Well enough.”
“Any news to share?”
There’s an insinuation in Seokjin’s tone that Yoongi is not awake enough to deal with. “Since you saw me last night?” he grumbles.
“A lot can happen in a night!”
Yoongi sighs, and reminds himself murder really is not an option. “Nothing happened last night, hyung.”
“Uh huh,” Seokjin says, in tones of clear disbelief. “If nothing happened last night, why are you wearing Namjoon’s shirt?”
Seokjin makes the pronouncement with all the vigour and enthusiasm of a detective who has cracked the case in an incredibly cheesy drama. Yoongi blinks at him twice, then looks down. He had stayed at Namjoon’s the night before, since it would let him sleep in for a precious forty-five minutes longer, and since Namjoon had offered, but both the shirts he’s wearing, one short-sleeved, one long, plaid, and unbuttoned, are his own, which he’d pulled out of the overnight bag he’d packed.
“I’m not?”
“Now, now Yoongi, there’s no need to lie to your hyung.”
Yoongi thinks longingly of Namjoon’s couch, with its deep cushions, and plush pillows, and the gentle rumble of Namjoon’s snore emanating from the bedroom loft. It would’ve been so easy to ignore his alarm, and cook breakfast while Namjoon ran to get the good iced-Americanos from the place down the street, and continue the discussion about the new Epik High album they’d started at the bar the night before, while hiding from the muggy July heat in the blissful cool of Namjoon’s once-again-working airconditioner. “I’m not lying!”
“Your lack of trust wounds me!” Seokjin whips out his phone, unlocks it, and taps industriously for a few seconds. Yoongi wonders if it’s too late to run. “There. See?”
Yoongi finds himself looking at Namjoon’s instagram, more specifically at one of Namjoon’s posts from the weekend before. He and Taehyung had gone to an exhibit together — the shot Seokjin has pulled up shows them posing with some sculpture or other, Taehyung’s expression serious, Namjoon’s trying to be serious and utterly betrayed by the dimples carved deep in his cheeks. Yoongi is willing to bet that in every other attempt at the picture Namjoon’s smile is even wider. Once he starts laughing he always finds it hard to stop.
But the dimples aren’t why Seokjin is showing him the picture, so Yoongi turns his attention to the shirt Namjoon is wearing and— huh. Seokjin is right. Namjoon is wearing the same shirt Yoongi has on now (or maybe Yoongi is wearing the same shirt Namjoon had worn then?), a boxy, grey thing, with a lighter box on the chest and the words FEAR OF GOD emblazoned across it.
“Huh. I guess he bought one, too. Nice to know I’m not the only person instagram advertising works on.” He squints up at Seokjin. “What size do you think I wear?”
“You’re sure?” Seokjin waves his phone in front of Yoongi’s eyes, as if that will somehow change Yoongi’s answer.
Yoongi grabs at Seokjin’s hand to still the motion, then points at Namjoon’s shirt, which hangs loosely across his broad shoulders and well-developed chest. “See how big it is on him?” He points at himself. “Do I look like I’m wearing a tent?”
Seokjin hesitates, mouth half open, then sighs as if heartbroken and pockets his phone. “And here I was, getting all excited about knowing the secret of a scandalous liaison before Park Jimin. You have spoiled my good morning, Yoongi.”
Yoongi suppresses the automatic urge to apologize. He is not going to apologize because he and Namjoon aren’t hooking up. “Sounds like you spoiled it for yourself.”
“You’re no fun.” Seokjin pouts hugely.
“I’m going fishing with you,” Yoongi points out. “I’m plenty fun.”
Seokjin sighs again, less dramatically, and Yoongi does not let himself wonder if Seokjin is genuinely disappointed. Instead he casts about for another topic of conversation, one that has nothing to do with himself, or Namjoon, or the clothes they are wearing, or whether or not they are hooking up. “Did Jimin tell you Jungkook beat your time on that rainbow track, on that Mario racing game you always play?”
“He what?” Seokjin screeches. “Also don’t pretend like you don’t know it’s called Mario Kart and Rainbow Road, Yoongi, I’ve heard you use their names before, I know you know them, but why is Jimin telling you and not me? Was it on our tournament cartridge? Why are they playing the tournament cartridge outside of tournament day, oh, oh, kids these days!”
Within seconds Seokjin’s phone is in his hands again, and he’s muttering to himself as he composes message after message. Yoongi takes the opportunity to lean against the platform wall and close his eyes. According to the screen that displays the upcoming train arrivals they’ll be waiting another four minutes. That’s plenty of time to squeeze in a nap.
Namjoon is a half hour late to the reservation at the trendy new barbeque place Seokjin found and insisted they get dinner at. His arrival is heralded by an excessive amount of cheering — half an hour is long enough for Yoongi to have made good progress into grilling the pork belly the servers eventually brought to their table, and more than long enough for the rest of the table to have consumed a sizeable amount of their drinks.
Namjoon’s face is red with embarrassment as he slides into the seat beside Yoongi. Yoongi doesn’t bother to suppress his grin as the din of greetings subsides.
“Serves you right for being late,” he mutters while Namjoon gets settled.
“Serves your face right,” Namjoon mutters back nonsensically, because he gets embarrassed when he’s the centre of attention, and he probably wishes he’d had the nerve to skip. At least the dressing-down Seokjin would give him for last-minute cancellation of plans would happen without an audience of strangers.
“Did you forget your phone?” Jungkook asks eagerly, tilting forward across the table.
“No.”
“Wallet?” asks Jimin, mirroring Jungkook.
“No.”
“Transit card?” Taehyung asks, leaning so far forward that both Jungkook and Jimin start to complain that he’s blocking their view.
Namjoon opens his mouth, glances at Yoongi, and closes it again.
“I knew it!” Seokjin crows. “I knew it, I knew it, you all owe me a drink! Seok-ah, you owe me two!”
“What?!” Hoseok says, the table descending into chaos as Jimin and Jungkook start to argue that silence cannot be taken as an admission of guilt, Taehyung claims that he should get a free drink for finding out The Truth, and Seokjin loudly wonders if he should insist they all call him the best and smartest in addition to getting their free drinks.
Yoongi stays out of it. Namjoon did not forget his transit card. Namjoon had been working on an application for his dream job, and had lost track of time, and had said I’m so sorry I’ll be there soon please don’t tell anyone why I’m late before, knowing Namjoon, running out of his apartment with his shoes untied. Yoongi presses his knee against Namjoon’s under the table, out of sight of the others, and hopes it conveys the twin ideas of of course I wouldn’t tell and you’re lucky they’re already tipsy, you’re a horrible liar. Namjoon presses back. Message received.
“What?” Namjoon asks, and Yoongi realizes that he’s missed the last few seconds of the conversation. He busies himself rearranging the meat on the grill, just in case he needs an excuse for why he wasn’t paying attention.
“Yoongi-hyung’s hoodie!” Hoseok says, his voice full of eager curiosity. “How did you get it? He’s so possessive of his clothes.”
Yoongi frowns as he flips over one of the thick slices of meat. He’d have noticed if Namjoon were wearing his hoodie when he sat down, wouldn’t he? Which of his hoodies would Namjoon even have? The last time Yoongi had done laundry—
“It’s not his though?”
There’s a brief pause, as if Hoseok is processing what Namjoon said, before Hoseok says, “It isn’t?”
Namjoon’s shoulders brush Yoongi’s as he shrugs. “There’s more than one grey hoodie in the world, Hoseok. You’ve seen me wear this before.”
Yoongi makes the mistake of looking up then, directly into Hoseok’s pleading eyes. “Hyung?”
Yoongi turns to look at Namjoon, who spreads his arms as wide as the cramped quarters will allow him. There certainly are similarities between Yoongi’s hoodie and the one Namjoon is wearing — they’re the same shade of grey, with a drawstring hood, and a pouch pocket on the front — but the shoulders are cut differently, and the aglets on Yoongi’s drawstring have long been chewed through, and most importantly, Yoongi had folded his (perfect) hoodie that afternoon after he washed it, and stored it in his closet.
“Hmm,” Yoongi says, drawing out the sound because he, too, has had most of a beer, and Hoseok looks torn between hopeful anticipation and heartbreak, and sometimes it’s fun to fuck with Hoseok. “Mmm, no, no, I can confirm that one belongs to Namjoon.”
“His has different shoulder seams,” Namjoon says, pointing at his own shoulders helpfully. “And he still chews the aglets on his drawstring—” Hoseok disappointed face flashes a brief, grossed-out-slash-horrified grimace, “Even though we’ve all told him he shouldn’t, and that it’s introducing even more microplastics to his system, and is probably full of bacteria, and the hem is starting to fray on the left side where he fidgets with it.”
Yoongi hadn’t noticed that. He’ll have to check when he gets home, and, if true, patch it before it gets worse.
“But they are pretty similar, right?” Hoseok asks, after a few seconds of furrow-brow’d thought. “You can see why I thought you were sharing? It’s not that farfetched!”
“They pulled this on me two weeks ago!” Seokjin yells, abandoning his argument with Jungkook in favour of their conversation and a chance to sow even more chaos. “Three weeks ago? Whenever we went fishing, anyway, how long ago doesn’t matter. What matters is, I meant to tell you and I got distracted by the Mario Kart issue—”
“It was a legitimate time!” Jungkook protests, accompanied by a few inarticulate noises from Jimin and an embarrassingly loud cackle from Hoseok.
“—and also my absolutely amazing catch—”
“Two fish?” Namjoon asks, bemused, clearly unaware of the gravity of the situation that they are about to enter.
“Five fish, thank you very much,” Seokjin says without missing a beat. To Yoongi’s horror, and in an eerie echo of his experience on the subway platform, he watches as Seokjin finds his phone, hidden under Jungkook’s at the far end of the table, taps at it for a few seconds, and then turns the screen so his eager audience can see the familiar picture of Taehyung, straight-faced, and Namjoon, dimpled, standing in front of a statue. Yoongi looks away.
“First, look at Namjoon’s shirt!”
Yoongi has to focus on the meat, or else it will start to burn, and they’ll have wasted their money.
“And now, look at Yoongi’s!”
Yoongi can’t help it. He peeks at the screen, and the grinning picture of himself, bearing a fresh-caught fish aloft. His plaid shirt is tied tight around his waist, carelessly discarded when the sleeves kept annoyingly rolling down to cover his hands. His grey FEAR OF GOD shirt is on proud display.
There’s a collective gasp, a moment of silence, and then an explosion of noise as everyone starts talking at once. The only words Yoongi can make out are Namjoon’s, spoken directly into his ear and deathly serious.
“Was it the instagram ads?”
Yoongi sighs explosively and looks around, hoping to find one of the well-dressed waitstaff dressed all in black. He has a feeling he’ll want another drink, and fast.
The problem with attending outdoor music events in the summer is that they’re hot. Even with his oversized, breezy shirt and uncharacteristic shorts Yoongi can feel sweat starting to coat the back of his neck as he winds his way through the reasonably-large crowd in search of his friends. The sun is not helping — in addition to turning the park into a gross, hot, sauna, it’s bright. Yoongi wishes he’d brought his sunglasses along with his hat.
In the end, his friends find him first.
“Hyung!” yells an excited voice from behind him. It’s all the warning Yoongi gets before Jungkook has plastered himself grossly across Yoongi’s back, his arms, one hand holding a pair of ice-cold water bottles, looping across Yoongi’s shoulders to squeeze tight.
“Kids these days,” Yoongi says to the soupy air clinging to them. “They have no respect.”
“Absolutely none!” Jungkook agrees, sliding off Yoongi’s back. He leaves his arm around Yoongi’s shoulders though, and uses it to start steering them around the blankets and lawn chairs of their fellow audience members, set up facing the bandshell at the end of the open field. “Too headstrong and wild by half! Why, just the other day Mingyu was saying— aish, hyung, let me guess. Those are really your shorts right? Not Namjoon-hyung’s?”
Yoongi looks down, just to make sure. “Yes?” It comes out more a question than he’d like. He tries again. “Yes. Why?”
Jungkook provides further proof for Yoongi’s statement about kids these days and their no respect by snickering hugely. “Did you plan it?”
“Plan what?” Yoongi asks, although he has a sinking feeling he already knows.
“You remember when the rest of us went camping, when you were being boring and went to your grandfather’s birthday lunch instead? And how Namjoon-hyung forgot to bring shorts, even though it was like thirty degrees and we’d planned on going hiking, and you’d put them on his list of things to pack?”
It would be hard to forget. His friends had been very busy in the group chat, trying their (joking) best to make him jealous. He’d had to turn his phone off to stop his parents giving him pointed looks every time the screen lit up with a new message.
Jungkook doesn’t bother to wait to hear if Yoongi remembers. “Well. You’ll never guess what shorts he picked out when we did our emergency shopping trip.”
From Jungkook’s tone alone, Yoongi’s pretty sure he can.
“Fuck,” he sighs, tipping his head back, and then “Fuck,” again, when he catches sight of the rest of their group. They’re a few feet ahead, lounging around the sunflower blanket Hoseok brings whenever they’re attending an outdoor event, with one glaring exception. Namjoon seems to have just arrived, towering above the others as they shuffle around on the blanket making room for him to sit, his well-muscled, sun-kissed thighs extending out from—
“I can’t believe it,” Jungkook whispers, his joy as palpable as the humidity. “This is— I can’t— ha!”
“They’re just black shorts,” Yoongi grumbles. “It was going to be hot today, and I needed some, so I bought them.”
“You did!” Jungkook agrees, still with an insulting amount of snicker in his tone. “And he did! The same ones! And then you both wore them! At the same time!”
There’s a headache brewing behind Yoongi’s eyes, and it isn’t just from his lack of sunglasses. “You’re going to make this a thing even though it’s not a thing, aren’t you.”
“It’s absolutely a thing, and it’s hilarious. Hey, everyone! Look who I found!”
Yoongi fights the urge to flee as their friends turn to look him. For one thing they all have his phone number, and unless he fled to Antartica, or maybe the moon, he’d have to face the music eventually. For another, Jungkook would be able to tackle him before he took more than three steps. He gives an awkward wave. “Hey, guys.”
“You’ll never guess—” Jungkook starts to say, but he’s interrupted by Hoseok saying couples shorts? in the split second before he bursts into laughter. It’s for the best that he’s already sitting on the ground — it means he doesn’t have far to fall when he topples over, clutching his chest.
“Why haven’t we ever worn couples shorts?” Jimin demands of Taehyung. “We’re soulmates, aren’t we?”
“Everyone knows that without us having to wear matching clothes,” Taehyung assures him, linking their hands together. “But we can, if you want to. We can go shopping right after this.”
“Where’s my phone?” Seokjin demands, “Has anyone seen my— Jungkook, that is not funny, how am I supposed to document this occasion if you steal it from me?”
Moving to Antarctica is sounding more appealing by the second, especially now that their group is attracting attention from those seated around them, but one look at Namjoon’s face, crimson under the golden glow he seems to wear the entire summer, and Yoongi knows he can’t run. He can’t leave Namjoon to face the teasing alone, and he certainly won’t let Namjoon think he’s embarrassed to be wearing the same clothes. Namjoon has enough to worry about, between waiting to hear back about his interview, and his hopefully-soon-to-be-former manager chewing him out for yet another thing that wasn’t his fault.
So they match. Couple’s shorts. Big deal. Their friends just like making a fuss, and this is their latest excuse.
“C’mon,” he says, sidling over to Namjoon and setting what he hopes is a comforting hand on his back. Namjoon flinches, but he always flinches. He doesn’t pull away. “You know hyung won’t be happy until he takes the picture. Better get it over with, so it doesn’t interrupt things later.”
For two impossibly long seconds Yoongi thinks he’s read the situation wrong, and somehow fucked things up further. Namjoon stares down at him, his face frozen in his I would really like to be anywhere else but here and I can’t let anyone know expression, and his chest immobile under Yoongi’s hand. Then he shivers, and smiles, and turns to face Seokjin, his arm looped lazily around Yoongi’s neck.
Yoongi finds he can breathe again.
“Okay then,” Namjoon says, sounding confident, cocksure, and as far from embarrassed as it’s possible to get. “Are we being serious, or silly?”
“One of each?” Yoongi offers. Why is his voice the one that has gone slightly squeaky? He clears his throat and tries again, aiming to match Namjoon’s tone. “After all, we’re marking an occasion.”
“On the count of three say kimchi!” Seokjin says, while behind him Jungkook makes kissing noises, like he’s trying to attract the attention of an obstinate baby, and behind Jungkook, Hoseok keels over with laughter. “One, two, three!”
After a morning spent doing gross adult things like cleaning and groceries and balancing his budget, and then a lunchtime and early-afternoon spent listening to his parents be politely but unsubtly concerned that he is going to die alone and unloved, Yoongi is tired. He wants very badly to be on his couch watching mindless tv, or maybe having a nap. Instead he’s sitting in a creaky leather chair, across a dark-wood table from Jimin, squinting through the dim light at some admittedly very tasteful decor. If he wasn’t so tired he might even be having fun.
“Flights of espresso!” Jimin hisses as the server walks away. “With tasting notes and snack pairings and everything! And look, coffeetails, we can get a couple of those for after!”
Yoongi gives himself a mental shake by the shoulders. It’s not fair to Jimin if he lets his parents’ last-minute visit spoil the reservation they’ve had for weeks. “Are you trying to stay awake straight through until tomorrow?” Yoongi asks, leaning back in his chair. “With that much caffeine in your system—”
“Please,” Jimin scoffs. “At this point it’s when I don’t have caffeine that people should be worried. Oooh, and they have actual cocktails with coffee too! Look!”
Jimin spins around the menu he’s been perusing and points at the page before Yoongi can reach for it. Espresso is nice, and normally it would be enough, but with the afternoon he’s had so far a drink, an alcoholic drink at that, sounds more his speed. Unfortunately, when he glanced down at the page all he’s able to make out are the words coffee and cocktail in their large font, and nothing else. Squinting doesn’t improve the situation, especially not with the very aesthetic but not very functional lighting, so Yoongi sighs, reaches into his bag, and pulls out his glasses case.
His eyes aren’t yet so bad that he feels the need to wear corrective lenses full-time, but he’s finding he needs them more and more for things like computer work, and reading road signs while driving, and, apparently, reading menus. He’d even gotten a new prescription the last time he’d been to the optometrist, and new glasses to go with it. He doesn’t consider the fact that Jimin might not have seen them yet until he’s put them on, and Jimin asks, “Those new?”
“Oh, yeah,” Yoongi says, pulling them off again so he can admire them. He’s very happy with his choice. “Picked them up last week maybe? Or the week before?”
“Very nice,” Jimin agrees, holding one hand out for Yoongi’s glasses and waking up his phone camera with the other. Yoongi dutifully hands them over. Jimin loves to try on other people’s glasses and admire how cute he looks. “And they— hey, hang on. These aren’t Namjoon-hyung’s.”
“Why would I be carrying Namjoon’s glasses?”
“So he doesn’t lose them,” Jimin answers without hesitation, which, fair. That is how Yoongi often ends up with Namjoon’s glasses if they’re out, and Namjoon has taken them off. “Or because we made such a big deal out of your couples shorts, and the hoodie, and the shirts, and you thought it would be a funny joke and planned ahead. But these ones are yours. That you bought. For you.”
“Jimin—”
“And they match his,” Jimin continues, throwing up a peace sign and snapping a few selfies as he speaks, “And you just— I mean, hyung, I appreciate the commitment to the bit, but don’t you think that’s taking things a bit far?”
“They don’t match his!”
Jimin peers at him over the top of his own glasses. “They absolutely do.”
“They don’t!” Yoongi says, holding out a hand until he can get his glasses back. “Okay, fine, they’re a little similar, but look.” He pointsto the nose bridge. “My nose bridge is different, and the nose pads too, and his arms are completely different, they’re silver, and not square at all, and they have that extra annoying hinge, where you have to fiddle a bunch to get the screw back in when it comes loose.”
He should know. The glasses repair kit he carries around in his bag isn’t primarily for him.
Jimin doesn’t look convinced. “So you’re telling me that if I took him both pairs and asked him which were his there wouldn’t be a fifty-fifty chance that he’d grab a pair, put them on, and say oh, these aren’t mine.”
“Absolutely,” Yoongi says, with a confident nod. Jimin doesn’t need to know about all the times Namjoon has seen Yoongi’s glasses sitting out on his coffee table and said why are my— oh, right. If they’re side by side it would be much easier to tell which is which.
“Hmm,” Jimin hums, but before he can press further their server is back with water, and Jimin is distracted asking some clarification questions about the cocktails that have caught his eye.
Yoongi takes the opportunity to slip his glasses back on his face and start reading through the list of cocktails for himself. There’s an espresso martini that sounds interesting, and an Irish coffee that sounds great. There might even be more, but Yoongi’s phone buzzes once, twice, three times in quick succession, and with Jimin still chatting with the server Yoongi doesn’t feel bad about turning his phone over to see who it is.
The messages are from Namjoon.
Hope lunch with your parents wasn’t the worst, and that the espresso bar is fun!
If you’re tired and don’t want to I completely understand, but I’m craving chicken and beer for dinner, and you’d be welcome to join!
We could even do facemasks and put on the basketball ;)
Yoongi grins down at his phone. He knows that Namjoon knows it isn’t basketball season — they’d talked about it earlier that week, when Yoongi had been bemoaning how long the offseason was — but he also knows that Namjoon thinks the face he makes when Namjoon gets sports things wrong is hilarious. He has no doubt that Namjoon is chortling over his phone, wherever he is.
Are you just angling for free food? he asks, as if that will change his answer at all.
Namjoon’s reply is instantaneous. Which of us is the hyung? Yoongi snorts, and is in the middle of selecting a rude sticker to send back when he gets another message. Now stop ignoring Jimin, I’ll see you later.
“Who was that?” Jimin asks, as Yoongi puts his phone back on the table.
Yoongi shrugs, affecting a disinterested expression. “Someone more interesting than you.”
Jimin laughs and cocks his head to the side, so his fringe falls across his forehead. “Please, nothing is more interesting than me.”
There are a lot of people who would agree with Jimin’s assessment, but Yoongi is determined to be contrary. “I dunno Jimin, there might be a few things. Couple historic events, the new Cubase update, watching paint dry—”
“All of that is a lie,” Jimin says, completely unphased, “And just for that, you’re covering my cocktail.”
It’s a Thursday night, and Yoongi has work the next morning, but it’s also Jungkook’s birthday, and Yoongi is a pushover where his friends are concerned. As a result, Yoongi finds himself out past his bedtime, tipsier than is probably wise (Jimin is an absolute menace about shots, and Yoongi is no longer as resilient as he was in his youth), sunk deep in a couch whose springs have long since moved on to wherever springs go when they die, surrounded by some of his closest friends and a surprising amount of strangers.
Yoongi’s always known that Jungkook has other friends outside their little group, the same way they all do, from his other classes, or his job. It’s just one thing to know that, and another thing to see it. Yoongi doesn’t like feeling outnumbered, especially when they’re all so youthful. They’re using words Yoongi doesn’t recognize, and making jokes he doesn’t understand, and falling all over themselves with an energy he’s not sure he’s ever possessed. He can feel his hair going grey, one strand at a time.
Thankfully the youths have ignored him for the most part, more interested in cat-calling whoever’s turn it is on mic, so Yoongi’s been able to mostly ignore the concept of his own mortality. Unfortunately that seems to be changing — the youth currently on deck keeps trying to catch Yoongi’s eye as he hits his high notes effortlessly, and gyrates his hips without any wavering in his tone. It’s an impressive display, and Yoongi is sure he’d be able to appreciate it much more if it wasn’t clearly directed at him. The room is getting very warm. He doesn’t have to look to know that Seokjin and Hoseok are snickering.
“Don’t worry hyung, I’ll protect your virtue,” Namjoon says, dropping heavily onto the couch beside Yoongi. The couch sags even more under his weight, tipping Yoongi towards him, which does not help with Yoongi’s the-room-is-getting-very-warm problem. The very cold cider he passes over will though, and Yoongi is taking a grateful drink when he adds, “Unless you don’t want me too? You’re doing a lot of blushing.”
Yoongi doesn’t snort his cider out of his nose, but it’s a close thing. “He’s a child!”
“He’s Jungkook’s age,” Namjoon says with a shrug.
“Who is a child,” Yoongi reiterates, since it apparently needs repeating.
“He’s twenty five,” Namjoon says, his lips twisting into his I’m about to be a little shit and I’m thoroughly going to enjoy it grin, “And I’m going to be twenty eight soon, and next March you’re going to be—”
“Lalalala, I can’t hear you!” Yoongi says, loud enough to make his point, not so loud anyone else is likely to notice. “And if I just keep talking—”
“Hey, hyungs!”
Yoongi experiences a momentary flash of relief as someone sits on Namjoon’s other side, before he registers that it’s Taehyung. Taehyung, who has had at least half a bottle of wine, in addition to the shots. Taehyung, who has had his head bent next to his chief co-conspirator Jimin’s for the last two songs. Taehyung, whose expression is full of an unbothered serenity that spells nothing but trouble.
“Hey, Tae,” Namjoon says, friendly, and welcoming, and completely oblivious to Taehyung’s deviousness. “Welcome to the couch! We were just talking about—”
“Nothing!” Yoongi cuts in. He might be nervous about Taehyung’s reasons for appearing, but that doesn’t mean he wants to talk about getting old.
“How that kid wants to fuck hyung?” Yoongi buries his face in his hands. “I can’t blame him. You guys were hot up there. It’s too bad you don’t perform much anymore.”
They’d performed Fly, by Epik High, when Jungkook insisted it was their turn. The plan had been to do it over the top and goofy, in an attempt to make Jungkook laugh, but by the end of the first chorus they’d been in to it, and as the song wound down the whole room had been bouncing and singing along with them like it was a real concert. When it was over Yoongi had had to avoid looking directly at Namjoon, for fear his chest might burst from the sheer joy of the experience. It might have been embarrassing, except Namjoon hadn’t been looking at him, either.
“Although you could have asked me to join,” Taehyung pouts. “You know how much I like that song.”
“We’ll do another one with you later,” Namjoon promises, which, they absolutely will not. Yoongi had just barely survived the first round. He can still feel Namjoon’s smile like an electric current under his skin. He doesn’t want to consider what a second round would do to his near-geriatric existence.
“Absolutely!” Taehyung nods so his hair flops in his eyes. “I’ll go make sure we’re on the list just as soon as I ask this very important question.”
Something in his tone sets warning sirens to screeching in Yoongi’s brain. On instinct he looks over to Jimin, who looks away so quickly Yoongi almost doesn’t catch him staring intently. He does catch him, though. The sirens get louder.
“Oh?” Namjoon asks, because he lacks a self-preservation instinct, and because his external self-preservation instinct (Yoongi), was too tipsy to get ahead of him.
“I was wondering, where do you buy your underwear?”
It is admittedly not the question Yoongi expected, and not one he was prepared for. Truth be told, he’d been trying his best not to think about his underwear, or the way it’s currently fitting, or how Namjoon’s pinkie had skimmed the top of the waistband when he’d patted Yoongi’s stomach in a drive-by verse handoff, or the rush of adrenaline that had surged through him. It was probably the performance, that had him all jittery. Performances could be like that, especially when Namjoon—
“I mean, since you both wear it, it must be good,” Taehyung adds, when he doesn’t immediately get an answer. “And a friend was wondering —”
“Taehyung is this really the time?” Namjoon asks, his blush evident even under the flashing, multicoloured lights of the room. Yoongi is impressed by his ability to speak. He’s still stuck on the words since you both wear it.
The same underwear? Since when?
From the way Namjoon’s flush darkens Yoongi realizes that he spoke aloud. Oops.
“You went on a rant once, remember? About how after a certain point the increase in cost of a product doesn’t correlate to quality, and you used your underwear as an example?”
Now that Namjoon mentions it Yoongi does remember, but not vividly, because it had been years ago. He and Namjoon had been the last ones standing after a night out, reluctant to let it end. Yoongi had been tipsy, and the rant had spilled out of him, and— and Namjoon had listened, and remembered, and, apparently, been influenced.
“They’re very comfortable,” Namjoon adds, almost defensively, when Yoongi doesn’t speak. Then he says something else, this time to Taehyung, only Yoongi can’t hear it over the realization that they are, apparently, wearing couple’s underwear.
He’s still sitting in that realization seconds later when Taehyung, apparently satisfied with whatever answer Namjoon gave him, leaps off the couch with a bright “Thanks, hyung!”, and skips his way back to Jimin. Yoongi watches him go, grateful for the excuse not to look at Namjoon. They’re already pressed together from shoulder to knee in the too-hot room. Looking at him would be too much.
Wait. How does Taehyung know what underwear they wear?
For once, it isn’t Namjoon who forgot something.
He carries that knowledge with him like a torch, or a treasure, as he unlocks the car Yoongi rented, opens the door, and reaches in to grab the charging cable plugged in to the centre console. He carries that knowledge with him as he breezes back through the lobby of the hotel they’d booked. He carries that knowledge with him all the way until he gets to the door to their hotel room, and realizes he’s left his key inside it.
Yoongi answers the door eventually, sighing and grumbling about wasn’t the whole point of you going that I wouldn’t have to get up and could’ve just stolen yours. Namjoon isn’t fooled. He can see Yoongi’s poorly-suppressed smile in the twitch of his lips.
“At least you didn’t have to go outside,” Namjoon points out as he hands the charging cable over. “Or deal with saying good morning to the people in the hall, or—”
“Shhhhh.” Yoongi holds a finger to his lips. “Shhhhh, Joon-ah, too early.”
“Too early?” Warm, bright sunlight floods the room, stretching lazily across the single large bed and revealing the mess of clothes strewn around it. They’d almost been late for their dinner reservation the night before, courtesy of a delayed flight, and had had to scramble to find their dress shirts and slacks. By the time they’d stumbled back to their room they’d barely had the energy to change out of their finery and crawl under the blankets, nevermind pick through the myriad of clothes and toiletries and make things neat.
“Early is a state of mind,” Yoongi says seriously, as he starts picking his way over to the end table on his side of the bed. “Have I had coffee? Too early.”
Namjoon grins. Recently awoken Yoongi is one of his favourite Yoongis, with his ridiculous hair, and the low rumble of his voice in his chest, and the lingering softness left by sleep. As much fun as the dinner had been, both of them primped and polished and acting as if their bank account balances had several more zeroes in them than they actually do, he thinks this might be even better.
The trip had been Yoongi’s idea.A new job! he’d said, Your dream job! No more evil manager, and a twenty-five per cent raise, and a better commute! How long have you been sighing about getting away for a weekend? What more of an excuse do you need?
It was a persuasive argument, and the next thing Namjoon knew he’d been throwing things in his suitcase while Yoongi kept insisting you just pack, let hyung take care of the planning.
So far Yoongi’s planning has been perfect. Namjoon loved the restaurant, an upscale steakhouse with burgundy tablecloths and dim lighting and candles, and the bar afterwards, with its view of the harbour, and the hotel, tastefully decorated with art but not so opulent that Namjoon feels like an interloper. He’d have been just as happy with a night in at one of their apartments, but he has to admit that he’s been enjoying doing something different, too. He’s already started brainstorming trips he can badger Yoongi into taking that will suit his tastes so perfectly. The prospect fills him with a giddy delight. He keeps finding himself smiling for no other reason than sheer happiness.
Until he can take Yoongi on a trip of his own he can show his thanks in other ways, starting with figuring out how the coffee machine on the small counter above their minibar works. It’s the kind with pods — even Namjoon can’t mess that up, and soon he has a steaming mug in hand, milk- and sugar-less (recently woken up Yoongi is a monster), ready for delivery.
He turns around slowly, careful not to spill, to find Yoongi squinting at him through his glasses. There’s a furrow of confusion between his eyebrows, and he’s chewing absently on his nails.
“What?” Namjoon asks.
“What?” echoes Yoongi, and then, “Oh, nothing, it’s just…”
“It’s just?” Namjoon prompts, handing over the coffee.
“Have you been working out more?”
Namjoon savours the warmth that blooms from his chest. He works hard on his muscles, and appreciates when they’re appreciated, even if he hasn’t been trying to make gains lately. “No, I haven’t. Why?”
“You look, uh, bigger, than usual. Muscles-wise.”
He does? He hadn’t thought so, but Yoongi wouldn’t lie to him about it, so…
Namjoon meanders over to the mirror by the door, hung in the narrow hallway between the coat closet and the bathroom.
“Yah, are you really going to check yourself out?”
“I’m just curious!”
“That’s not how you pronounce vain!”
It probably is vain to be checking himself out, but the shirt he’d thrown on so he wouldn’t scandalize anyone on his way to their rental car, grey, with a lighter square bearing the words FEAR OF GOD across the chest, does seem to be fitting him more snuggly than usual. Almost too snug, and this after he’d tried to buy the shirt a size too big to get that cool, effortless, oversized look.
In the reflection, he can see himself frown. “Hey, hyung? When stuff shrinks when you wash it, how much does it shrink by?”
Yoongi snorts. “They usually only shrink the first time, maybe the first couple times if you’re unlucky.” There’s a pause. “Are you trying to tell me—”
“No!” Namjoon spins and shuffles to the side, just enough he can see Yoongi propped up in bed again. “No, I just—”
He blinks, finally taking in the shirt Yoongi is wearing. It’s grey, with a lighter square bearing the words FEAR OF GOD across the chest. It’s also swallowing Yoongi, hanging loosely off his shoulders, the sleeves ending near his elbows, the neck pulled to the side far enough to catch a glimpse of Yoongi’s collarbone. It’s— it’s Namjoon’s shirt.
For one blissful second, Namjoon’s mind is filled with nothing but static. Then it explodes, a radio swinging wildly through the frequencies, thoughts coming in and out of focus with a speed that is dizzying. Yoongi is wearing Namjoon’s shirt. Yoongi must have put it on the night before thinking it was his, when they were both tired, and tipsy, and wanted nothing but to be asleep. Yoongi then spent the night sleeping beside Namjoon, curled into Namjoon’s pool of warmth, his cold feet pressed up against Namjoon’s legs, all while wearing Namjoon’s shirt.
It’s a lot to process.
Worse still, if Yoongi is wearing Namjoon’s shirt that means Namjoon must be wearing Yoongi’s. The thought sends a thrill down his spine before he can stop it, made worse a scant heartbeat later as it’s followed by the knowledge that Yoongi had been admiring Namjoon’s muscles while Namjoon wore his clothing, because of it, really. It feels like he’s swallowed fireworks. It’s a wonder his head hasn’t exploded.
He glances up from Yoongi’s collarbone (how long had he been staring? Had he made Yoongi uncomfortable? He wouldn’t— he’d never—) just in time to watch Yoongi’s expression clear from confusion to understanding to—
“Oh,” Yoongi says, the word more a breath than a sound. His eyes flick from Namjoon’s face, to Namjoon’s chest, and then back again. He flushes red with a speed Namjoon hadn’t known was possible, which makes him feel a bit better about his own burning cheeks. “Oh, oh.”
They met eleven years ago, almost to the day. Over those eleven years Namjoon has come to know Yoongi’s expressions almost as well as he knows his own. He knows what Yoongi looks like when he’s aroused. He just never thought — never hoped — he’d see it directed at him.
It’s like a physical blow, a punch to the gut that leaves him winded and aching. “Hyung?” he asks, taking a tentative step forward. “Hyung are you— can you—”
“But you’re so bad at lying!” The words are almost a wail. “I was sure I would’ve seen, even a hint! But there weren’t any!”
Namjoon laughs, torn between despair, that for two people who preached open, honest, communication, that it had taken them this long, and unbridled, overwhelming joy. “I had a lot of practice.” He also hadn’t known until Yoongi had left to complete his service, and then he’d left for his own, so he’d had years to perfect the art of secreting away his thoughts in a box he’d mentally labelled CAREFUL!!! Don’t screw up the best thing in your life.
He’d let himself wonder, just once, after they were reunited, after Yoongi had hugged him so tightly the imprint would forever be on Namjoon’s soul. Yoongi hadn’t said anything though, and they’d fallen back into their relationship as if no time had passed, and Namjoon had seen no reason to rock the boat. He knew Yoongi’s favourite takeout for bad days, and his favourite whisky for good ones, and he could make Yoongi smile, and laugh, more than anyone else they knew. There were many ways to love, and Namjoon loved what they had.
“I’m so mad at you,” Yoongi says, the words at odds with his hands, outstretched toward Namjoon, and the smile he’s failing to hide. “Furious, enraged—”
“Fuming?” Namjoon suggests, almost tripping in his haste to join Yoongi on the bed. “Incensed?”
“I hate you.”
Yoongi’s kiss is not the kiss of a person who hates him. Yoongi’s kiss is soft, slow, and savouring, his lips warm and a little chapped against Namjoon’s eager mouth. One of his hands has found its way to Namjoon’s head, winding his fingers in Namjoon’s hair. The other is between Namjoon’s shoulder blades, warm through the fabric of Yoongi’s t-shirt. It’s the most perfect first kiss Namjoon has ever had. He knows, in his bones, that it will be his last first kiss, too.
His back is starting to hurt though, twisted awkwardly as it is, and it’s not fair that Yoongi has the use of both of his hands while Namjoon has to use one to brace himself against the mattress. He starts the process of shifting positions, and—
“Wait,” Yoongi says, putting a hand on his chest. “Wait, I— ah, Kim Namjoon, no, not like that.”
Namjoon relaxes sheepishly, having recoiled from Yoongi at the first wait. “Sorry, hyung.”
“No, I’m sorry, I—” Yoongi drags a hand down his face, then ruffles his hair. “I thought we’d go for a drive along the coast today, and try to find the dolphins? But we slept in, and we can… kiss… or you know…” He’s blushing. Yoongi’s blushing. Yoongi, who’s never been shy about sex, who will rap the filthiest things without batting an eye, is blushing. “Whatever we feel like, at whatever speed we want, later? There aren’t any dolphins in Seoul, and only so much daylight, and—”
He’s too cute. Namjoon can’t take it. He sits back on his heels, take’s Yoongi’s face between his hands, and kisses him soundly. Yoongi lets out a mmph! of surprise that quickly turns into a laugh, but he doesn’t pull back until Namjoon does.
“I love you,” Namjoon tells him, making deliberate eye contact, and delighting as the words send a shiver through Yoongi’s body. “A lot. And after we find the dolphins, and after we get dinner at the most romantic place I can find online, we are going to—” What were Yoongi’s words? “Do whatever we feel like, at whatever speed we want. Okay?”
“You’re embarrassing,” Yoongi tells him, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. It reveals quite a lot of his throat. Namjoon is only human. “But fine, I guess I— ah! Dolphins, Namjoon! Dinner!”
“Don’t be so tempting then!” Namjoon whispers against the softest skin he has ever had beneath his lips. “What do you expect me to do when—”
“Show self restraint!” Yoongi grumbles, planting his hands on Namjoon’s chest and shoving him away. “I love you too, but you don’t see me going around— yah! Yah, Kim Namjoon what did I just say?”
“That you love me, too,” Namjoon says, face buried in the crook of Yoongi’s neck. He’s not the least bit embarrassed at the faint tremor in his voice. Yoongi’s said he loved Namjoon before, but never like this, and never after they’d kissed. “And anyway this is hugging, not kissing.”
“It’s still not getting ready to see the dolphins.” Yoongi wriggles out of Namjoon’s arms and slips out from under the covers to stand beside the bed. Namjoon’s shirt hangs off him like a tent, undercutting the glare he’s trying to direct Namjoon’s way. “And the sooner we get going…”
The sooner they get back.
Namjoon scrambles to his feet and over to the pile of clothes strewn about the vicinity of his suitcase, hunting for his jeans. Yoongi’s laugh fills the room, and out of the corner of his eye Namjoon can see the smile on his face. He can also see Yoongi slip a sweater over his — no, Namjoon’s — t-shirt, glancing at Namjoon almost as if to dare him to say something, or challenge him. Nothing could be further from Namjoon’s mind — in fact it’s an idea Namjoon steals without a second thought. Yoongi’s t-shirt might be smaller but it isn’t small, and will be more than comfortable for a day of driving and dolphin watching. No point in needlessly dirtying the other shirt he’d brought with him when Yoongi’s will be perfectly serviceable.
Besides, he likes the idea of wearing it while they tour, and he likes the idea that when he next takes it off, it might be with Yoongi’s help. To judge by the smile Yoongi’s wearing when Namjoon, now fully dressed, turns around, and the kiss Yoongi steals before Namjoon slips into the bathroom to brush his teeth, Yoongi feels the same.