Coming Home (pt. 3)
Yoongi didn't believe Namjoon when he said that Hoseok wouldn't be in the apartment for much longer, but they return home to dark rooms and washed dishes and Namjoon laughs, hallow and empty like the world is ending behind heavy curtains and walls surrounding them.
"Let's go somewhere to eat," he proposes at the doorstep, one foot in the apartment, the other in the hallway. Yoongi agrees; he's not much of a cook and Namjoon seems like the type to hard boil eggs in a microwave.
They end up in a nearby burger place. It's full of people, of endless chatter and laughter. Children are running between the tables, knocking half-full drinks as they go. The employee behind the counter shakes his head and calls somebody to clean the mess the kids have made. Teenagers have occupied the tables in the corners of the diner; their food is left intact. Their focus is on the phones in their hands, on group chats on Line and KakaoTalk. They're talking with each other, laughing at stupid jokes, but all of it is happening online, in a world they have control over, and their faces are blank, all emotions washed out in front of a computer or tablet screen.
Namjoon opts for drawing concentric circles with ketchup using fries as a paintbrush instead of eating. Yoongi takes his time to chew every bite.
"He'll be home when we come back," Yoongi says. He's not sure why, but he does.
Namjoon looks up from his masterpiece. His features are soft, his smile falters when he says, "He won't. At least not tonight. Right now," and he lets his mind wander. "He's on his way to Busan, or Daegu, or Jeju Island. I don't know."
There's something in the tone of his voice that drowns the noise. A bubble of silence is enveloping them as Namjoon stops speaking. It turns the chatter of other guests into white noise, barely audible, like a glimpse of static between channel flips. Everything slows down. Time drags just like the seconds before the detonation do. Everybody dreads that last second. It's a vacuum sucking everything in it and yet it seems fragile like a soap bubble. Does the light reflect off it, Yoongi doesn't care to find out; he just wants to burst it. He's never been the talkative one, but Namjoon is getting trapped in his own words, the bubble is shrinking, soon it'll be hard to breathe and Namjoon's lungs will collapse on themselves.
"If Hoseok won't be back soon, then I'll stay as your flatmate," Yoongi says.
The sound swells around them, carrying meaningless promises of Christmas presents and New Year Eve's parties and Namjoon smiles, genuinely this time.
"Will you marathon movies with me?"
"Anything but The Twilight Saga."
Time flows. December turns to January with a hurricane of red, silver and green ornaments, with fireworks above the frozen Han River and too much alcohol in the youth's veins. Millions of people count down the last minutes of the worst year of their lives and hope for a better one to come. It's false hope, but as the clock ticks away the last second, it's all they have.
It snows for days. News is full of information about car accidents on highways and the reporters warn all viewers to be careful with fireworks.
Yoongi gets used to Seoul winters; to wind that never truly stops blowing, to Namjoon who listens to everything from Beethoven to Kanye West. Namjoon who dresses like the death reaper on bad days and like a kid whose mum still buys him clothes on good days. Namjoon who hates mornings but still gets up early and drinks hot cocoa while watching the news. Namjoon who wakes Yoongi up in the middle of the night because he had an idea for a song.
Namjoon who is Seoul as much as Seoul is Korea with its flamboyant lights and dark corners, with its dreams and nightmares.
It doesn't take them long to fall in a routine of writing sessions, recordings and performances. Namjoon drags Yoongi to every gig, every club in Hongdae; introduces him to artists whose mixtapes Yoongi had on repeat for weeks.
They meet Jiho who buys them drinks to celebrate the release of his new single.
"I don't see any bruises or black eyes on either of you, so I'm assuming that you're still getting to know each other," Jiho laughs. The drink in his hand is alarmingly green; one of the cocktails Yoongi would only drink if it's dare and he can benefit from it.
Namjoon downs his vodka and says, "Nah, we're all good. You were right about Yoongi-hyung being a great producer. I owe you a favour."
"Don't sweat it. Just remember me when you reach the top and stop hanging out with mere mortals like us." Jiho bites down on his knuckles.
Namjoon shoves him aside. Yoongi laughs, slightly tipsy.
"Shut up, hyung. You'll reach the top before me."
Jiho shakes his head and moves closer to Yoongi. Throwing his arm over Yoongi's shoulders, he says "I don't have an amazing producer like Yoongi. Now that I think about it, introducing you two was the worst idea I ever had. I should've kept him for myself."
He fakes sadness, wipes false tears of his cheeks. Yoongi rolls his eyes; Jiho will never change.
"Don't be sad, hyung," Yoongi says. "You'll always be the one who pulled me from the gutter."
His words float above the music, syllables mixing with bass, vowels getting lost in ad-libs, but Namjoon still hears them. They resonate in his mind.
On their way home, he musters up the courage to ask “What did you mean by that?”
Yoongi walks carefully over thick ice covering the pavement; his hands are tucked in his pockets. The scarf around his neck doesn't stop his cheeks from turning red from the cold. “By what?” he asks in return.
“The gutter and Jiho-hyung. What'd you mean by that?”
It was wrong to expect Namjoon not to notice that. Yoongi just hoped that it take much longer for him to ask.
Yoongi takes a deep breath. The crisp air burns his lungs; winter still has the city in its embrace. It's freezing. Exhaling the words “My semi-tragic life story” he brushes past Namjoon and heads down the street. With his back turned to Namjoon, he opts how much he should tell him. Nothing would be the best option. Nothing is the only option he doesn't have.
Before he reaches the corner, Namjoon has caught up with him. He's expecting an answer but Yoongi just wants to laugh it off, God, he really does. But Namjoon isn't laughing with him, he's observing - the twitch of Yoongi's lips, the words he swallows, the way his shoulders drop like the weight of the world is pulling him down.
“I want to hear it,” Namjoon says firmly.
“So that you could pity me and play my saviour?” Yoongi snaps, voice acidic, burning the inside of his mouth.
“So that I could understand why every song you compose has a melancholic undertone,” Namjoon retorts and Yoongi stops in his tracks.
They're standing in the middle of the empty street, no one is passing by in the early hours of the day, when Seoul resembles a ghost city, a winter dystopia. Everything's frozen, buried under ice and snow, waiting for better days to come.
Namjoon turns around, locks eyes with Yoongi. It's fragile, the trust between them. With a single harsh word it could be broken and never restored again.
Namjoon waits, Yoongi counts to twenty before speaking.
“Do you love your father, Namjoon?” he asks.
“Yes, of course, but - ”
“I've never met mine. The asshole left after finding out that my mum was pregnant. He said that he wasn't ready for commitment and took off. Just like that,” Yoongi laughs, his voice breaks. “I'm a,” it snaps, reconnects at a different pitch, “bastard, Namjoon. And whatever I do, wherever I go, I carry that sign with me. When I was a kid, I was convinced that it was written on my forehead since the other kids always laughed at me. Hell, they even went as far as beating me up after school because I didn't allow them to call my mum a whore.”
Namjoon just listens. He has no words he could offer Yoongi. His parents always loved him, supported him even when he admitted he had no plans on going to university and becoming a doctor or a lawyer or whatever they wanted him to become. He admitted that music was what he wanted to do in life. It was a shock for them, his mother even cried, but they didn't try to convince him that his decision was wrong, that they knew better. They wished him luck, cheered him on.
He doesn't know what Yoongi is feeling. He won't even pretend.
“We moved a lot, my mum and me. From South to North, East to West, but the neighbours always found out, the kids as well. Some teachers looked at me with pity, the other were disgusted.”
“And Jiho?” Namjoon asks. His voice is small. Yet it echoes in the silence of the night.
In the distance stray dogs are barking, fighting over left-overs they found in the trash. The last train has left the station hours ago. Street lights flicker as if warning the lost souls roaming the streets of all dangers hidden in the dark corners of this metropolis.
Yoongi's freezing. Were winters always this cold?
“He was the first one who didn't judge me. He understood me, you know. His mum raised him, all alone. He got it. Everything. During those years, he got me into music and he thinks that he doesn't deserve all the credit I give him, but to be honest, if it weren't for him, I'd probably be behind the bars now.”
“For beating some poor asshole in high school?” Namjoon asks.
Yoongi smirks, his shoulders feel lighter. “Yeah, I guess.”
“I'll remember that for future reference. Not to make you mad and end up with a black eye.”
They're walking again, down pavements covered in snow, as the city wakes up. Namjoon can feel the string of trust pulling them closer as Yoongi becomes less rough around the edges, and he can almost see outlines of a new friendship.
- - -
On Valentine's Day, Namjoon releases a mixtape full of songs about break-up. Melancholy follows verses and rhymes; heartbreak present even on the cover art. Medicine for lonely souls.
Statistics say that many couples break up on the holiday of love. Namjoon laughed when he first heard this, but, as time passed, he stopped finding it funny.
In the credits, under every song, Yoongi's name is listed as the producer, just below Namjoon's as the lyricist.
They are in the studio working on a new song. Yoongi keeps refreshing the comments on their title song, drumming crazy rhythms with his fingers on the desk. Namjoon only rolls his eyes at him, he had long stopped wishing for praise from these self-proclaimed critics only try to rip apart every new artist, dissect their verses and twist the words in their mouths. They'll find a hundred meanings in every bar, and conclude their sweet report with the already infamous sentence “The young generation still lacks knowledge and this, ladies and gentlemen, was just a poor attempt to explain the feeling not even the wisest men could do.”
Namjoon's phone rings. He reaches for it, seeing an unfamiliar number calling. A few seconds he debates whether to pick it up. He's not in the mood for talking; for listening to people who just always happen to know better than him. So what if his mixtape flopped?
His fingers are tapping on the phone case as the ringing fills the space. Yoongi looks at his phone with disgust and commands, “Pick it up before your ring tone makes me throw up.” Namjoon shrugs his shoulders and complies.
There's traffic noise coming from the other end of the line. Along with it, comes Hoseok's voice, loud and excited.
“The new mixtape is awesome. I think that you and Yoongi-hyung are a good match.”
Namjoon leans back in his chair. He listens to Hoseok rambling on and on about the songs and lyrics. He's nothing but a disembodied voice on the other end of the line; the static is filling the space between his words, truck horns ripping syllables, Hoseok's laughter resonating deep within Namjoon's bones regardless of how many miles are separating them.
But before Namjoon can even utter a single word, the line gets cut off and the voice machine tells Namjoon that the caller has spent all his credit. Namjoon knows that if he called the number Hoseok used, he'd get a public phone in a busy street somewhere in Korea.
“What good news did you get since you're grinning like an idiot?” Yoongi asks after Namjoon puts away his phone.
“It's Hoseok,” he says. “He heard the songs and wanted to congratulate us for doing well.”
“Is he coming back?”
“I don't think so. He said something about us being a good match when it comes to music.”
But Hoseok does come back with first days of March just as cherry blossoms have started blooming. He didn't plan to, but meeting up with Hunchul in Gwangju had made him change his mind.
The Seoul Station is filled with passengers - people returning from work, families that planned visiting countryside on a warm spring day. All of them patiently wait as trains come and go; but somehow the trains never take them where they have to go. Information about time, date and temperature flies across large screens showing departures and arrivals of trains.
A train slows down to a stop. Metal doors slide open and the mass of people rushes forward, moving in every direction trying to find an exit and Hoseok is afraid of getting lost in this sea of people. But he knows this station like the back of his hand and his fear is nothing but a play of his nerves. It's been a while since he was here.
When he finally stumbles out of the station, he realises just how much the city has changed.
Seoul looks different without blackened piles of snow on its streets and ice on pavements. It seems less cruel in spring than it does in winter, but that's not enough for Hoseok to miss this concrete jungle. He never does.
As he rides the bus to what he hopes is the right neighbourhood, he fumbles with the apartment key in his pocket. It's the same one Namjoon gave him years ago. He's lost the keychain, the metal having been worn down through all his travels.
Hoseok holds the front door open for an older woman. Her hands are full of grocery bags but she declines his offer to help.
“It's okay, sweety,” she smiles. “I'm on the first floor. But thank you.”
The elevator is out of function. To be honest, Hoseok doesn't remember a time when it worked. That happens when neighbours don't get along and nobody cares for public property. He climbs the stairs to the third floor, turns right and goes down the hallway.
When he unlocks the front door, he sees that things have changed. Framed black and white photographs are hanging on the once bare walls, the collection of CDs has grown; he finds books about pop culture on the coffee table, new cushions on the couch. Music sheets and unfinished lyrics are scattered on the floor in the living room, two bowls in the kitchen sink, two mugs left on the table.
He stumbles backwards, almost losing his balance. It hits him hard, all of this, an ambush.
He can't stay, not now.
Hoseok barely makes it to the hallway, when the front door flies open. Yoongi is the first one who comes in, words “We'll order pizza, I won't let you burn the kitchen down” on his lips. Following him, Namjoon drags himself inside muttering something about instant ramen and microwaves.
The sudden realization has Hoseok gasping for air.
Yoongi drops his umbrella near the shoe rack and kicks off his sneakers. Namjoon sneezes; his clothes are wet, water drops falling on the floor. From the hallway Hoseok says “Bless you.”
They look in the direction of the voice and time stands still for a moment.
Yoongi watches as Hoseok shifts his weight from one foot to the other, as he tucks his hands in the pockets of his washed-out jeans. It seems like he's just passing by, not planning to stay. He doesn't remember Hoseok like this, with dark red hair and boyish features. It seems like he's wearing a face of a kid not older than fourteen - round cheeks and unblemished skin. Maybe time doesn't pass for him or maybe he's one of the Lost Boys. Yoongi doesn't know where Hoseok leaves to. It might as well be Neverland. Or maybe the truth is that Yoongi tried to erase Hoseok's face from his memory but failed at it, over and over again.
Namjoon says “Thanks” and a smile spreads across Hoseok's face, his cheekbones becoming more prominent.
Hoseok looks like he just returned from vacation - sun-kissed skin and a sleeveless top under his thin jacket and Namjoon can't take his eyes off him. Just like every time Hoseok comes back, just like the first time.
“So, you're flatmates now?”
Hoseok's voice shatters the silence to pieces and Yoongi says “Yes” as they move to the living room. There are things to be caught up with, things that should be asked and said, but the sound of the rain against the window panes overpowers everything.
That night Hoseok will find his way to Namjoon's bed just like many times before. He'll trace butterfly kisses on Namjoon's skin erasing all bruises he made when he left. Namjoon will welcome him in his arms and, inhaling Hoseok with every breath, he'll finally be able to breathe again.
As Namjoon's name escapes Hoseok's swollen lips and fingertips dance on bare skin, Namjoon will love again. Touches will burn; his kisses will be rough, his fingers bruising the skin of Hoseok's thighs. The sound of their clothes wrinkling, breaths quickening, bodies kneading into each other will fill the bedroom to the brim and over. Hoseok's skin will catch fire, Namjoon's tongue will paint promises across Hoseok's sharp collarbones, and together they'll fall. In the abyss of wishes that will never come true and sweet nothings they will never say.
Hoseok will squeeze his eyes shut and let Namjoon guide him on that starless night.
- - -
Yoongi wakes up to a knock on the door. He mumbles “Come in” before pulling the covers over his head. It's early, too damn early.
Hoseok comes in without bothering to close the door. He carries a tray with two cups of freshly brewed coffee with some toast and marmalade - a bribe. He sets it down on the night stand, on top of the latest issue of The Rolling Stone.
Sunlight pours in the bedroom when he opens the curtains. Behind the glass, there's Seoul bathing in spring light. Before his eyes, there's a lump on the bed and few strands of black hair sticking out. Gently, he peals the blankets away but Yoongi isn't willing to give up on his sleep that easily so he rolls on his stomach and buries his head under the pillow. Hoseok can hear him saying “Jesus Christ, Namjoon. Leave me alone!” and he chuckles.
“It's not Namjoon,” Hoseok says and Yoongi tosses the pillow on the other side of the bed. Resting his cheek on the mattress, he looks in Hoseok's direction. There's too much light; Hoseok resembles a saint with a false halo around his head.
“What the hell do you want?” Yoongi demands. His voice is hoarse, hair a mess.
“Come shopping with me,” Hoseok responds, enthusiastic and bright just like the light hurting Yoongi's eyes.
“No,” Yoongi says and Hoseok's expression falls.
“I thought you'd say that, so I prepared something to bribe you - breakfast is on your right. I hope you'll change your mind after a cup of coffee.”
Yoongi realizes that there is no silence with Hoseok around.
After some convincing and breakfast in bed, which has just shaken up Yoongi's resolved “no”, they leave the apartment before nine o'clock. Hoseok leaves a note for Namjoon on the fridge saying that he doesn't need to call the police and that they just went to the market.
If Yoongi was the one who planned this trip, they would have ended up in the first supermarket their way. But Hoseok has his mind set and they pass by many stores before reaching one of the older market stalls. Old ladies working on the stands chit chat with Hoseok as he picks fruits and vegetables. Yoongi follows him through colourful passageways carrying bags that Hoseok pushed in his hands. He regrets allowing Hoseok to drag him from bed, it's too early for his liking and surprisingly cold but Hoseok is cheerful and in a great mood, and maybe Yoongi doesn't mind too much being dragged around the market.
“Does Namjoon do this as well? I mean, the bag carrying.”
Hoseok laughs as he hands the right amount of money to the lady selling lettuce. “No,” he says. “Namjoon gets a headache or toothache or any kind of ache when I mention grocery shopping.”
“So that's the reason why you picked me as the victim this morning,” Yoongi says and Hoseok turns around to face him, pouting.
“Don't say that, hyung. You make me seem like a super villain. I swear, I'm not mean.”
By the time they return to the apartment, Namjoon has traded his bed for the couch and the remote control. Hoseok hears a cacophony of voices when he opens the door.
“How was shopping?” Namjoon throws his head back to look at them and Hoseok beams at him.
“It would've been better if you came along,” he says heading to the kitchen. Yoongi drops the bags on the counter and joins Namjoon.
“Move,” Yoongi demands and he collapses on the cushions when Namjoon moves aside.
“I see you survived,” Namjoon chuckles and Yoongi side-eyes him.
“Shut up.”
They spend Sunday doing nothing.
Hoseok dances around the kitchen singing pop songs off-key and occasionally asking for some help. When Namjoon almost chops off his fingers while cutting onions, Hoseok patches him up using more than half of the band-aids in the first aid kit.
Yoongi comments on Namjoon's obvious lack of skills and Namjoon dares him to do better. Never in his life has Yoongi refused a dare and he gets up from the couch, pushes Namjoon aside on his way to the kitchen. Hoseok hands him an apron with a grin so wide Yoongi could swear that it stretches from one ear to the other.
“Give me that onion,” Yoongi demands and Hoseok tosses him the biggest one from the grocery bag.
To Namjoon's surprise, Yoongi doesn't end up crying. He sniffs from time to time, drinking large gulps of cold water while he works. By the time the ice cubes in his glass have melted, onion is chopped and added to the dish cooking on the stove.
Yoongi takes off the apron and throws it at Namjoon. “Praise me, peasant.”
Namjoon rolls his eyes and says “Oh great onion chopper!”
Hoseok sticks around longer than Yoongi expected. Sometimes he visits them in the studio, commenting on lack of happiness in his songs; asking if Namjoon is making an album for funerals. He's the first one to get up, open all the windows, even on rainy days, to get the fresh air in.
Yoongi wakes up cranky in the morning, feet dragging against hardwood floor, hair a mess, eyelids heavy. He collapses on the chair next to Namjoon and watches as Hoseok hums some unfamiliar melody while making breakfast.
“Is he always this cheerful?” he asks.
Namjoon swallows a mouthful of cereal.
“You finally noticed?” he chuckles. “Don't worry, you'll get used to it.”
And he does, eventually, get used to Hoseok; Hoseok, whose laughter bounces off the walls, whose voice rings in Yoongi's ears. Hoseok who doesn't seem to understand the concept of personal space and the many times he rests his head on Yoongi's shoulder.
Hoseok who is too clingy and too loud for Yoongi's taste, but there's something about him that stops Yoongi from snapping at him when he is tired and in bad mood.
- - -
Namjoon's name finds its way in the line-up for the Speak Show. On the black promotional poster, it's written in white bold font and the organizer calls him up for rehearsal few days before the event. The venue is huge; the stage bigger than any other on which Namjoon stood before. On stage, he feels like on the top of the world. It's home away from home, a piece of paradise in the ninth circle of Hell. It's ecstasy, artificial happiness in few songs and deep bass. It's everything he's ever dreamed of.
The venue opens its doors hours too early. The performers gather shortly before the show starts. Namjoon sees familiar faces - old friends. Ikje wishes him good luck before heading to the stage and Namjoon is left with his nerves. He plays with the mic in his hands, mutters lyrics over and over again. His mouth is dry and he gulps down some lukewarm water from his bottle. He knows Yoongi and Hoseok are somewhere in the crowd. Donghyuk's with the production team making sure that everything goes well.
As he steps on the stage, the audience welcomes him with applause and Namjoon forgets everything but his lyrics.
Hoseok and Yoongi don't make it to the performance. Tickets are still lying on the coffee table in the living room; forgotten among magazines with glossy pages. All lights are turned off, only shadows from the TV screen dance on walls, furniture. The volume is low.
They should have gone, they planned to. Hoseok even joked about making a poster with Namjoon's name on it in neon pink or orange.
It didn't happen.
- - -
Hoseok makes mistakes. Sometimes he manages to fix them, on other times he simply hopes for the best. He stays with Namjoon and Yoongi; watches as they click together like pieces of a puzzle. Edges are rough, but friction is minimal and they slide together. A perfect match.
There's something that keeps him in the small apartment. He sleeps in Namjoon's bed, their feet tangled. After showering Namjoon's hair smells like ocean and summer and Hoseok finds himself missing the beach.
“You're still here,” Namjoon says as he towel dries his hair.
“Do you want me to go?” Hoseok smiles, but it's artificial. Namjoon sees it in the twitch of his lips.
“No,” he says. “But I know that you will,” he adds as he plants a kiss to Hoseok's cheek. “And tonight is the perfect chance.”
Hoseok moves away, opening the closet. “I won't. Tonight is your big night. I have to be here and see you slay.”
Namjoon drops the towel on the bed and watches Hoseok rummaging through his closet.
“Don't you have something that's not black and baggy?” he asks and Namjoon laughs.
Namjoon leaves early.
Yoongi looks up from his laptop and the song he's composing to wish him good luck.
“See you in a few hours. Don't chicken out,” he jokes but Namjoon's already out the door.
Yoongi's fingers fly over the keyboard. He's working on a slow paced R'n'B song. He's been adding and deleting fractions for hours now. Whenever he thinks of a melody, it seems too much. When he strips it of all the unnecessary notes, it seems too bare.
Hoseok taps him on the shoulder when the clock shows 9 pm. “We should get ready,” he says. Yoongi hasn't noticed when it became so dark, lights in the apartment dim, shadows soft. Hoseok's voice sinks in his bones.
“Do you want to hear this?” Yoongi asks. He usually doesn't like showing his work until it's done and he's satisfied with it, but there's something about the way Hoseok's eyes light up when they talk about music that makes Yoongi click the play button.
Hoseok moves closer, sits beside him. As the first notes fill the air, Yoongi holds his breath. Hoseok listens tentatively to the voice of fragile feelings vowed in melodies. Rhythm matches his breathing
Yoongi leans in closer, kisses the corner of Hoseok's lips. He forgets all questions he planned on asking. He expects Hoseok to push him away, to stand up and leave. But he doesn't. He tilts his head slightly, and kisses him back.
The space between them becomes smaller, centimetres turning into millimetres. As they disappear and blood slowly starts to boil, a set of luscious lips replaces sharp teeth on Yoongi's bottom lip and kisses gently, almost timidly. There's artificial innocence blooming behind every touch and Yoongi feels Hoseok slowly standing up.
They stumble towards Yoongi's bedroom; faint glow from the window being their only guide. Shaky hands get rid of clothes scattering them on the hardwood floor. Cushions are soft like feathers and welcome Hoseok when his back meets with the bed. He inhales deeply. Smell of vanilla mixed with something unfamiliar, something that tickles his nose. The scent is mild and reminds him of sunsets, warm orange and red. He can feel Yoongi’s lips on his neck, his hands exploring.
Hoseok’s skin feels like silk under Yoongi’s fingertips, sun-kissed and smooth. His collarbones are untouched, unmarked, sinfully pure and inviting - oh so inviting. Yoongi bites down, sharp teeth on equally sharp bones, and a trail of crimson roses follows his lips. One by one, they decorate unblemished skin with dark red petals and start a fire that consumes them both, eating them alive. Hoseok hisses, pain blinding him, but it's already too late to back down. He's already decided to follow his desires, he just hopes they won't lead him to a dead end.
At this point, he’s too deep in this game of sweet yet false promises and touches that burn - fire in his veins, on his skin, on his lips - when he plants kisses on Yoongi’s jaw line a few moments later; it’s just a few moments that they need to fully escape, disappear under the sheets, into the familiar unknown that has never been within their reach.
This isn't a love story for the new age. Neither of them is sure what this is; how should they call skipped heartbeats and touches that don't seem to last long enough.
There's no alcohol in their veins; no drugs in their bloodstream. Excuses are forgotten, roads not travelled are in front of them. All they can do is try, painfully try, to mask passion with unspoken wishes upon a falling star, to hide physical and animalistic behind a few sweet moments and tender touches that have no real purpose.
Yoongi whispers sweet nothings in Hoseok's ear, his lips moving down his neck. It’s always the same, unnecessary words spoken - an illusion that love is behind every touch, a mere excuse to justify the pain, the suffering because what is love if not pain and bones that ache, broken muscles and hearts that bleed blue ink instead of red.
Roses are bloody and Hoseok’s skin is a blank canvas in the hands of a skilled artist, waiting to be filled by rough hands and lean muscles.
Heavy breaths and short seconds, Yoongi reaching for the drawer in his nightstand, his fingers searching around a bit before they find a condom and lube.
Hoseok is small details and warm smiles, dusty pink cheeks and sheepishly spoken apologies for things he didn't do. Full of contrasts, sinful yet pure, known but never really touched, hunter and prey at the same time - traps covered by soft moans resonating between four walls and mussed hair in the morning, hickeys on his neck. Yoongi never planned to notice but he did. And there's no way back. He’s helpless, his knees are weak. Hoseok will be his biggest mistake, the one he shouldn't make, but the one he won't regret in the morning.
The small tube of lube is half-empty, light even, between Yoongi’s knobby fingers. He opens it quickly because time is ticking away; midnight is approaching; somewhere people are loving, praying for another day, for better tomorrow; somewhere music is pounding out of the large speakers, bodies moving in sync, bass deep and beats intoxicating.
They’re ready, as ready forbidden lovers can be. Hoseok is watching him, little smile playing on his plump lips, almost unnoticeable but Yoongi sees it.
One question before their world ends.
One question before everything breaks and shards of glass cut their skin.
One question before Yoongi loves again, before he will feel unbroken, finally not alone, before they become one, sharp bones and flexed muscles, pale and tanned skin, opposites meeting halfway.
“Are you ready?” somebody whispers, voice cracking on every syllable. Somebody nods because words won't be enough tonight.
Heated skin on skin; nails digging into Yoongi’s shoulders.
Warm, tight, inviting, painfully delicate and fragile - crystal shattering with every thrust.
Hoseok shuts his eyes, few tears rolling down his cheeks. He lied, he always has and always will. He’s never fully ready but his pride doesn’t allow him to admit the truth, never will. The teardrops burn his skin, acid and salt on fresh wounds. It’s never easy and his nails are cutting deeper, drawing blood, pulling Yoongi closer until he can feel a pair of lips on his own, lips that heal the wounds, erasing evidences of salt.
Yoongi’s slowly picking up pace, closer to the edge with every thrust, every contact. Hoseok can feel it in the core of his being; pleasure mixed by pain travelling through his veins. Mixing with blood and passion, sweet addiction and the taste of poison on his tongue, the taste of oxygen when he screams and the taste of chocolate when Yoongi closes his mouth with his own, trying to turn mere seconds into minutes, minutes into hours, but their time is running out.
Memories dissolve in thin air, past is forgotten, future uncertain. The only thing that counts is now, the present; skin on skin and hot sensations as they come.
Everything hurts and nothing is right, stars turn to explosions and tears are the reminder of sleepless nights. The faint sound of music melts with heavy breaths and the remains of pleasure, passion; purple marks on Hoseok’s collarbones and red scratches on Yoongi’s shoulders.
Satin and silk, sheets that are no longer white, decorated with red drops of liquid that strangely resemble paint.
Lips on lips, one last time, sugar and poison mixed with guilt and words murmured between kisses, words that nobody hears because they carry hopes and dreams and things that they are not prepared to hear, not now, not ever.
Words like “I love you” and “I’m sorry I hurt you”.
- - -
In late February, Hoseok remembers many things that he'd buried deep. They whisper nonsense to him, a conglomeration of voices echoes in his mind.
Memories are strange, full of colour yet achromatic, dead, but with a pulse. They catch him off guard and he ends up painting phoenixes rising from the ashes instead of monochrome mosaics. An explosion of red and orange slips through his fingertips and bleeds onto the jaded wall.
In Gwangju, he meets with Hunchul in front of a convenience store that works 24/7. Hunchul's wearing an expensive suit. His pockets are full of business cars cut thin enough to slice open unskilled hands. But he still wears the same reckless grin. A black and white tattoo peaks under his dress shirt when he loosens his tie. They sit on the pavement in the dead hour of the night. Hunchul's shift has long ended.
“Do you like it?” Hoseok asks. “The job.”
Hunchul smiles. “Yeah, I went to university for this, didn't I? My grandma is proud. The wage is good as well.”
“Do you miss Seoul? The stage?” Hoseok asks again.
“Not really. I miss you guys. How's Namjoon?”
“Fine, I guess. He works with a new producer now, they're a good match,” Hoseok replies and takes another sip of his drink.
“And you feel out of place so you'll never go back?”
Hoseok shrugs. That did use to be his plan. Make sure Namjoon has somebody and leave, for good. There's only one thing Hoseok didn't count on. When he puts Yoongi in the equation, he doesn't get the desired result. Yoongi throws things out of balance.
“I guess,” he finds himself saying. “Namjoon will go great places with Yoongi. They're different but still very alike. They just don't see it.”
“But you do,” Hunchul says. No reservations, no gentle words. Hunchul's always brutally honest, even though it hurts.
“Hyung, that's not how things work.”
“Why not? Just because someone said so? You can keep on running, Hoseok, but we both know that you'll come back. You always do. And Namjoon knows it too. That's why he has had the same phone number for years, the same address. You always left without saying anything, you never saw him on the following day. But I did and, Hoseok, no matter how great this new guy is, Namjoon will always love you.”
During the first week after his arrival, Hoseok finds himself enjoying Yoongi's company. It starts with grocery shopping, something Namjoon would always find an excuse not to do, and it continues with small things.
A few days are all it takes to establish something close to a routine. It comes naturally, with movies (even though Hoseok hates horror movies and grabs both Namjoon and Yoongi's hand when the scary parts begin) and music recordings which he finds boring, but the passion in their voices when they discuss their songs stops Hoseok from leaving.
Yoongi's rough around the edges, sharp even. He gets easily annoyed and Hoseok finds it amusing how much he and Namjoon bicker over trivial things.
When that happens, Hoseok can't help but laughing and Namjoon throws the nearest pillow at him.
“Shut up, you're not helping!” Namjoon says.
“But he is. He's laughing at how unreasonable you sound,” Yoongi retorts.
- - -
Namjoon comes home to the muffled laughter and the voice of Jim Carrey coming from the TV. He kicks off his sneakers, hanging his jacket. Going down the hallway, he lets his fingers draw lines on the white wall. It's a childhood habit he never managed to shake off. The hardwood floor is cold under his feet. When he comes in the living room, he expects to find Yoongi on the couch entertaining himself with bad comedy and beer. But all he sees are figures on the TV screen and soft shadows. The comedian does something stupid and the audience laughs. Namjoon's lips tremble.
He reaches for the remote control and turns off the TV. The apartment sinks in darkness. Through the curtains comes the milky light from the street lamps, it falls on carpet, on furniture, on cushions carelessly thrown to the floor. Hoseok's silhouette clings to the edges dividing the darkness from the faint light, but he is probably gone by now. A week has become almost two months, that's the longest he's been home for years.
Namjoon stumbles into the hallway, his hand searching the light switch in the dark. After turning on the lights, he heads towards his room. On his way there, the open door of Yoongi's room catches his attention. He reaches for the doorknob to close it, eyes drifting from one piece of furniture to the other, until they land on people lying in bed.
Even with dim light coming from the hallway, Namjoon can recognize Hoseok in Yoongi's embrace, a small smile gracing his features. Yoongi stirs in his sleep, Namjoon's hand stills on the doorknob. He holds his breath, doesn't move, in case Yoongi wakes up. But he doesn't and Namjoon carefully closes the door.
He spends the rest of the night sitting on the kitchen tiles drinking beer. It washes down his raw throat, cold and bitter.
His thoughts are a mess; words won't shut up inside his head. They're whispering everything he doesn't wish to hear. They're mocking him and all he wants is to drown them in alcohol, that golden liquid that is too often the only friend left.
Namjoon could do with some instructions, but sadly, there is no manual for life. He knows the essentials, but no one's ever told him how to convince your heart to stop loving.
He pulls his knees up, rests his elbows on them, lowers his head. The can in his hand is half-empty. And yet he feels no change. Just emptiness. He should be mad, punching blood into the walls, breaking things, fragile things, like his heart, but he can't. There's no anger, no disappointment, just a feeling that he's not enough, that he was never enough. The realisation hits him hard.
He sits there, back against the wall. The black and white tiles create a mosaic underneath him. Pattern stretches across the floor, disappearing in the darkness of the hallway. Namjoon drinks can after can; until the beer turns lukewarm and light peers through the window.
Around dawn, he hears a door in the hallway being opened followed by footsteps. They're closer with every second but Namjoon lacks the strength to move. A moment later, Yoongi enters the kitchen in nothing but his boxers and an oversized t-shirt.
“Shit,” he hisses when he sees Namjoon on the floor. Empty cans are scattered on the tiles. “Are you okay?” Yoongi asks, kneeling beside Namjoon.
Namjoon lifts his head, looks him in the eyes and says, “You're probably feeling better, since you got laid last night.” His words are venomous and accusing. They pierce Yoongi's skin like needles and he winces. “But,” and he continues, “if that's what he wants, who am I to stop him, right? He deserves to be happy, after all the shit he went through. I just,” Namjoon's voice snaps. When he speaks again, he can barely hide the pain. “I hoped that it could be with me.”
“Namjoon-”
“It's fine if it's you, totally okay,” he wants to laugh, God, he really does, but Yoongi's looking at him with concern, guilt in his eyes, and Namjoon can't do it.
“But he's your boyfriend and I messed up.”
“Don't,” Namjoon says simply. “Hoseok can do whatever makes him happy and if you're making him happy, that's great. I want him to be happy. Did you ever have a bird as a pet when you were younger, hyung?”
Yoongi shakes his head. Namjoon takes the last sip of his beer.
“Good,” he says, “because you shouldn't cage birds, hyung. When you do, they only sing sad songs about the sky that you took away from them. They despise you as much as they love the sky. And maybe in another life, Hoseok was a bird. I can't cage him; you shouldn't either.”
Yoongi stands up, opens the fridge and takes out a water bottle. He sits cross-legged on the tiles opposite of Namjoon. As he unscrews his bottle, he asks “What do we do now?”
Namjoon tries to smile. “We let things be.”
Hoseok wakes up with a headache. The other side of the bed is empty, cold. Sheets are heavy on his skin. When he opens his eyes, the white ceiling is staring back at him. Constellations of empty promises are written on it in transparent ink.
He can't stay here, in this bed that feels like a prison cell. He crawls up, grabs his clothes from the floor. With every move he makes, his mind is screaming at him louder and louder and louder. His hands are shaking.
Hoseok drags himself to the bathroom, looks in the mirror. Crimson roses are blooming on his collarbones, at places Yoongi sucked and nibbled his skin.
Images flash before his eyes. A fusion of red and black. White bleeds on still frames, creating bittersweet memories. Hoseok gasps for air. He's drowning in his mistakes, bony hands pulling him in the abyss.
He turns on the tap. As the cold water fills the sink, he splashes some on his face.
He looks awful, he feels even worse. Why did he have to test the ground under his feet; to taste Yoongi's lips? He should have known better. He gambled with Namjoon's trust and lost it. His grip on the sink is tight, knuckles white, fingers digging in ceramic.
When he looks in the mirror again, consequences are staring back at him; ghostly fingers of guilt around his throat choking him, sucking his breath until his lungs collapse on themselves.
Water fills the sink to the brim and over. Drops fall on the tiles.
Coming back was the wrong decision. Staying was the wrong decision.
He falls to his knees, pushing his head into the cold water.
Seconds tick away painfully slow and it's Namjoon's voice that pulls him back to the surface. When Hoseok opens his eyes, he sees Yoongi hovering over him, feels Namjoon's hands on his shoulders. His head is in Namjoon's lap.
“Christ, Hoseok,” Yoongi mutters.
Namjoon lowers his head until his forehead is touching Hoseok's and whispers, “You idiot, don't ever do that again.”
Hoseok takes a deep breath and listens to the rhythm of his heart. He is, he is, he is.
- - -
Thunder storms come in April.
Heavy clouds open above the city; celestial tears soak every part of the glass metropolis. Wind blows, carrying the last cherry blossoms down wide avenues.
Hoseok spends the days staring at the TV screen, not remembering what he just saw. The volume is low. Drumming of rain against the window panes provides comfort that words can't. It's white noise, static sound. He swallows down a million questions. They're bitter in his mouth. Acidic almost.
His mind wanders - back to his childhood, to teenage years, to Namjoon's hand in his, to sloppy kisses and skipped heartbeats, to run-down buildings and vivid colours he sprayed on the walls of their past, to every time he left without saying goodbye.
When Hoseok closes his eyes, still frames of memories flash behind his eyelids. They lack the colour he desperately needs in his life. They're achromatic and sharp, brutally detailed. He sees the way light reflects in Yoongi's irises, the way the veins branch on his wrists.
Mindlessly, he taps his fingers on the remote control. He's nervous, caught in a concrete cage. The walls will close in on him.
His duffel bag sits half-open in the hallway, ready for him to grab it and leave, just like many times before. But this time, things are different. Running away won't solve things.
So Hoseok stays; with no solution and no explanation for Namjoon acting like everything is okay, for Yoongi leaving the door of his room open.
He can hear footsteps in the hallway. The sound of running water comes from the small kitchen. Both Namjoon and Yoongi are home.
Yoongi enters the living room and sighs. On the couch, there's Hoseok staring at a blank spot just above the TV. There are no photographs on the wall, absolutely nothing that could possibly hold his attention for hours to no end.
As he collapses on the couch next to Hoseok, Yoongi says “You're an idiot, Jung Hoseok. Are you aware of that?”
From the corner of his eye, he sees Hoseok tense. The volume of the TV gets higher and foreign voices fill the space between them. Yoongi reaches for the remote control. He turns off the TV to force Hoseok to listen to him.
“I was watching that,” Hoseok protests but doesn't look in Yoongi's direction.
“You weren't,” Yoongi says with a certain finality and Hoseok bites his lips. The tone of Yoongi's voice leaves no room for protest and Hoseok unwillingly admits defeat.
For a few minutes they do nothing until Namjoon comes from the kitchen, glass of water in his hand. As he takes the first sip, he says “You're such a child, Hoseok.”
Yoongi throws his head back to look at him. Things fall out of sync, get turned upside-down. Namjoon offers him a smile before speaking again.
“You're acting irrational,” Namjoon adds.
Hoseok has his back turned to him but Namjoon can see the slight shake of his head. “I'm not. I'm confused. Both of you are acting like best friends, like nothing happened.” His voice snaps at the last syllable. This is his battle to fight and yet he doesn't have the strength for it.
“Well, if you expect us to yell at you, we won't. We won't fight each other to the death either. This isn't a drama,” Namjoon says and Yoongi laughs.
Lightning strikes outside, illuminating the night. Streets are empty save for a few stray dogs. Owners are closing their shops, restaurants are bidding farewell to their guests. Somewhere students are studying for the incoming exams, trying to memorize formulas they'll probably never use again. Somewhere lovers are trying to say goodbye and convince the other to hang up first.
“Besides, we are good friends who just happen to like the same person. Simple as that,” Yoongi adds. “And if we're lucky, this person might like us back.”
When Hoseok says “I do”, his voice is small, barely audible. He's looking in front of him but he can't prevent the blush creeping up his cheeks and he doesn't know what to blame it on. He feels like he's fifteen again, young and reckless and utterly clueless about life. His feelings are out in the open, ready to be crushed, broken. They're fragile, like the wings of a butterfly.
Hoseok squeezes his eyes shut and prepares for the worst.
“He doesn't get it, does he?” Yoongi says annoyed. Namjoon bursts out laughing.
“Nope. Try drawing it,” he proposes and Yoongi glares at him.
“Hoseok, listen,” Yoongi tries again. “Me and Namjoon -”
“Namjoon and I,” Namjoon interrupts him.
“Fine, whatever.” Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Namjoon and I have talked and we won't force you to do anything you don't want. And if you want to be more than friends with both of us, we're okay with that.”
- - -
Rain stops with Hoseok's smile.
He kisses Yoongi good morning, who grumbles “Go bug Namjoon” before pulling the covers over his head. Hoseok laughs. His voice is hoarse from sleeping, lower than usual.
He crawls up, runs his hand through his messy hair.
A month has passed, nothing changed. A part of him expected the world to be turned upside-down, to crush and burn. It didn't.
Namjoon still writes, Yoongi still produces; they still laugh and bicker and occasionally get drunk to celebrate finishing a new song. Namjoon performs every weekend. They mingle with the audience and cheer him on. That is, Hoseok yells and claps while Yoongi stays near the bar to talk to other producers. He and Donghyuk immediately click and in no time, making Namjoon miserable one way or another becomes their favourite hobby.
Hoseok balances them - he pulls Yoongi up when melancholy finds its way in his songs, pulls Namjoon down when he gets too cocky and confident and only fills his spiral notebook with diss raps. He still draws on the trains passing through suburbia. He quotes Bukowski and Plath in bold letters scribbled on the walls, paints phoenixes on the sides of the warehouses.
He kisses Yoongi hungrily, pressing himself closer, closer until the distance between them melts to nothing and he can feel Yoongi's heartbeat under his palm. He kisses Namjoon like the world is ending, no questions asked and explanations needed, drawing constellations on Namjoon's collarbones.
The truth is that love is an equation that can't be solved. There are too many variables and conditions that you never really take into consideration.
Every day you fall in love with a stranger on the bus, a boy in the library, a girl waiting for somebody in front of the theatre. You love them for few fleeting seconds until the next bus stop. You make plans and dream about what could happen.
You love a million people in a single day without knowing their name, their favourite colour or what flavour of ice-cream they like.
Maybe none of them is right for you; maybe all of them are.
And if you're lucky, some of them will love you back, as the snow falls in front of the library, as wind plays with long scarves down the boulevards.
But you wouldn't know that, and that's perfectly fine because love is like drops of paint seconds before they hit the canvas. You never know what picture they'll paint, but there will always be somebody who will appreciate it.
a/n: thank for you reading! ♥
"Let's go somewhere to eat," he proposes at the doorstep, one foot in the apartment, the other in the hallway. Yoongi agrees; he's not much of a cook and Namjoon seems like the type to hard boil eggs in a microwave.
They end up in a nearby burger place. It's full of people, of endless chatter and laughter. Children are running between the tables, knocking half-full drinks as they go. The employee behind the counter shakes his head and calls somebody to clean the mess the kids have made. Teenagers have occupied the tables in the corners of the diner; their food is left intact. Their focus is on the phones in their hands, on group chats on Line and KakaoTalk. They're talking with each other, laughing at stupid jokes, but all of it is happening online, in a world they have control over, and their faces are blank, all emotions washed out in front of a computer or tablet screen.
Namjoon opts for drawing concentric circles with ketchup using fries as a paintbrush instead of eating. Yoongi takes his time to chew every bite.
"He'll be home when we come back," Yoongi says. He's not sure why, but he does.
Namjoon looks up from his masterpiece. His features are soft, his smile falters when he says, "He won't. At least not tonight. Right now," and he lets his mind wander. "He's on his way to Busan, or Daegu, or Jeju Island. I don't know."
There's something in the tone of his voice that drowns the noise. A bubble of silence is enveloping them as Namjoon stops speaking. It turns the chatter of other guests into white noise, barely audible, like a glimpse of static between channel flips. Everything slows down. Time drags just like the seconds before the detonation do. Everybody dreads that last second. It's a vacuum sucking everything in it and yet it seems fragile like a soap bubble. Does the light reflect off it, Yoongi doesn't care to find out; he just wants to burst it. He's never been the talkative one, but Namjoon is getting trapped in his own words, the bubble is shrinking, soon it'll be hard to breathe and Namjoon's lungs will collapse on themselves.
"If Hoseok won't be back soon, then I'll stay as your flatmate," Yoongi says.
The sound swells around them, carrying meaningless promises of Christmas presents and New Year Eve's parties and Namjoon smiles, genuinely this time.
"Will you marathon movies with me?"
"Anything but The Twilight Saga."
Time flows. December turns to January with a hurricane of red, silver and green ornaments, with fireworks above the frozen Han River and too much alcohol in the youth's veins. Millions of people count down the last minutes of the worst year of their lives and hope for a better one to come. It's false hope, but as the clock ticks away the last second, it's all they have.
It snows for days. News is full of information about car accidents on highways and the reporters warn all viewers to be careful with fireworks.
Yoongi gets used to Seoul winters; to wind that never truly stops blowing, to Namjoon who listens to everything from Beethoven to Kanye West. Namjoon who dresses like the death reaper on bad days and like a kid whose mum still buys him clothes on good days. Namjoon who hates mornings but still gets up early and drinks hot cocoa while watching the news. Namjoon who wakes Yoongi up in the middle of the night because he had an idea for a song.
Namjoon who is Seoul as much as Seoul is Korea with its flamboyant lights and dark corners, with its dreams and nightmares.
It doesn't take them long to fall in a routine of writing sessions, recordings and performances. Namjoon drags Yoongi to every gig, every club in Hongdae; introduces him to artists whose mixtapes Yoongi had on repeat for weeks.
They meet Jiho who buys them drinks to celebrate the release of his new single.
"I don't see any bruises or black eyes on either of you, so I'm assuming that you're still getting to know each other," Jiho laughs. The drink in his hand is alarmingly green; one of the cocktails Yoongi would only drink if it's dare and he can benefit from it.
Namjoon downs his vodka and says, "Nah, we're all good. You were right about Yoongi-hyung being a great producer. I owe you a favour."
"Don't sweat it. Just remember me when you reach the top and stop hanging out with mere mortals like us." Jiho bites down on his knuckles.
Namjoon shoves him aside. Yoongi laughs, slightly tipsy.
"Shut up, hyung. You'll reach the top before me."
Jiho shakes his head and moves closer to Yoongi. Throwing his arm over Yoongi's shoulders, he says "I don't have an amazing producer like Yoongi. Now that I think about it, introducing you two was the worst idea I ever had. I should've kept him for myself."
He fakes sadness, wipes false tears of his cheeks. Yoongi rolls his eyes; Jiho will never change.
"Don't be sad, hyung," Yoongi says. "You'll always be the one who pulled me from the gutter."
His words float above the music, syllables mixing with bass, vowels getting lost in ad-libs, but Namjoon still hears them. They resonate in his mind.
On their way home, he musters up the courage to ask “What did you mean by that?”
Yoongi walks carefully over thick ice covering the pavement; his hands are tucked in his pockets. The scarf around his neck doesn't stop his cheeks from turning red from the cold. “By what?” he asks in return.
“The gutter and Jiho-hyung. What'd you mean by that?”
It was wrong to expect Namjoon not to notice that. Yoongi just hoped that it take much longer for him to ask.
Yoongi takes a deep breath. The crisp air burns his lungs; winter still has the city in its embrace. It's freezing. Exhaling the words “My semi-tragic life story” he brushes past Namjoon and heads down the street. With his back turned to Namjoon, he opts how much he should tell him. Nothing would be the best option. Nothing is the only option he doesn't have.
Before he reaches the corner, Namjoon has caught up with him. He's expecting an answer but Yoongi just wants to laugh it off, God, he really does. But Namjoon isn't laughing with him, he's observing - the twitch of Yoongi's lips, the words he swallows, the way his shoulders drop like the weight of the world is pulling him down.
“I want to hear it,” Namjoon says firmly.
“So that you could pity me and play my saviour?” Yoongi snaps, voice acidic, burning the inside of his mouth.
“So that I could understand why every song you compose has a melancholic undertone,” Namjoon retorts and Yoongi stops in his tracks.
They're standing in the middle of the empty street, no one is passing by in the early hours of the day, when Seoul resembles a ghost city, a winter dystopia. Everything's frozen, buried under ice and snow, waiting for better days to come.
Namjoon turns around, locks eyes with Yoongi. It's fragile, the trust between them. With a single harsh word it could be broken and never restored again.
Namjoon waits, Yoongi counts to twenty before speaking.
“Do you love your father, Namjoon?” he asks.
“Yes, of course, but - ”
“I've never met mine. The asshole left after finding out that my mum was pregnant. He said that he wasn't ready for commitment and took off. Just like that,” Yoongi laughs, his voice breaks. “I'm a,” it snaps, reconnects at a different pitch, “bastard, Namjoon. And whatever I do, wherever I go, I carry that sign with me. When I was a kid, I was convinced that it was written on my forehead since the other kids always laughed at me. Hell, they even went as far as beating me up after school because I didn't allow them to call my mum a whore.”
Namjoon just listens. He has no words he could offer Yoongi. His parents always loved him, supported him even when he admitted he had no plans on going to university and becoming a doctor or a lawyer or whatever they wanted him to become. He admitted that music was what he wanted to do in life. It was a shock for them, his mother even cried, but they didn't try to convince him that his decision was wrong, that they knew better. They wished him luck, cheered him on.
He doesn't know what Yoongi is feeling. He won't even pretend.
“We moved a lot, my mum and me. From South to North, East to West, but the neighbours always found out, the kids as well. Some teachers looked at me with pity, the other were disgusted.”
“And Jiho?” Namjoon asks. His voice is small. Yet it echoes in the silence of the night.
In the distance stray dogs are barking, fighting over left-overs they found in the trash. The last train has left the station hours ago. Street lights flicker as if warning the lost souls roaming the streets of all dangers hidden in the dark corners of this metropolis.
Yoongi's freezing. Were winters always this cold?
“He was the first one who didn't judge me. He understood me, you know. His mum raised him, all alone. He got it. Everything. During those years, he got me into music and he thinks that he doesn't deserve all the credit I give him, but to be honest, if it weren't for him, I'd probably be behind the bars now.”
“For beating some poor asshole in high school?” Namjoon asks.
Yoongi smirks, his shoulders feel lighter. “Yeah, I guess.”
“I'll remember that for future reference. Not to make you mad and end up with a black eye.”
They're walking again, down pavements covered in snow, as the city wakes up. Namjoon can feel the string of trust pulling them closer as Yoongi becomes less rough around the edges, and he can almost see outlines of a new friendship.
- - -
On Valentine's Day, Namjoon releases a mixtape full of songs about break-up. Melancholy follows verses and rhymes; heartbreak present even on the cover art. Medicine for lonely souls.
Statistics say that many couples break up on the holiday of love. Namjoon laughed when he first heard this, but, as time passed, he stopped finding it funny.
In the credits, under every song, Yoongi's name is listed as the producer, just below Namjoon's as the lyricist.
They are in the studio working on a new song. Yoongi keeps refreshing the comments on their title song, drumming crazy rhythms with his fingers on the desk. Namjoon only rolls his eyes at him, he had long stopped wishing for praise from these self-proclaimed critics only try to rip apart every new artist, dissect their verses and twist the words in their mouths. They'll find a hundred meanings in every bar, and conclude their sweet report with the already infamous sentence “The young generation still lacks knowledge and this, ladies and gentlemen, was just a poor attempt to explain the feeling not even the wisest men could do.”
Namjoon's phone rings. He reaches for it, seeing an unfamiliar number calling. A few seconds he debates whether to pick it up. He's not in the mood for talking; for listening to people who just always happen to know better than him. So what if his mixtape flopped?
His fingers are tapping on the phone case as the ringing fills the space. Yoongi looks at his phone with disgust and commands, “Pick it up before your ring tone makes me throw up.” Namjoon shrugs his shoulders and complies.
There's traffic noise coming from the other end of the line. Along with it, comes Hoseok's voice, loud and excited.
“The new mixtape is awesome. I think that you and Yoongi-hyung are a good match.”
Namjoon leans back in his chair. He listens to Hoseok rambling on and on about the songs and lyrics. He's nothing but a disembodied voice on the other end of the line; the static is filling the space between his words, truck horns ripping syllables, Hoseok's laughter resonating deep within Namjoon's bones regardless of how many miles are separating them.
But before Namjoon can even utter a single word, the line gets cut off and the voice machine tells Namjoon that the caller has spent all his credit. Namjoon knows that if he called the number Hoseok used, he'd get a public phone in a busy street somewhere in Korea.
“What good news did you get since you're grinning like an idiot?” Yoongi asks after Namjoon puts away his phone.
“It's Hoseok,” he says. “He heard the songs and wanted to congratulate us for doing well.”
“Is he coming back?”
“I don't think so. He said something about us being a good match when it comes to music.”
But Hoseok does come back with first days of March just as cherry blossoms have started blooming. He didn't plan to, but meeting up with Hunchul in Gwangju had made him change his mind.
The Seoul Station is filled with passengers - people returning from work, families that planned visiting countryside on a warm spring day. All of them patiently wait as trains come and go; but somehow the trains never take them where they have to go. Information about time, date and temperature flies across large screens showing departures and arrivals of trains.
A train slows down to a stop. Metal doors slide open and the mass of people rushes forward, moving in every direction trying to find an exit and Hoseok is afraid of getting lost in this sea of people. But he knows this station like the back of his hand and his fear is nothing but a play of his nerves. It's been a while since he was here.
When he finally stumbles out of the station, he realises just how much the city has changed.
Seoul looks different without blackened piles of snow on its streets and ice on pavements. It seems less cruel in spring than it does in winter, but that's not enough for Hoseok to miss this concrete jungle. He never does.
As he rides the bus to what he hopes is the right neighbourhood, he fumbles with the apartment key in his pocket. It's the same one Namjoon gave him years ago. He's lost the keychain, the metal having been worn down through all his travels.
Hoseok holds the front door open for an older woman. Her hands are full of grocery bags but she declines his offer to help.
“It's okay, sweety,” she smiles. “I'm on the first floor. But thank you.”
The elevator is out of function. To be honest, Hoseok doesn't remember a time when it worked. That happens when neighbours don't get along and nobody cares for public property. He climbs the stairs to the third floor, turns right and goes down the hallway.
When he unlocks the front door, he sees that things have changed. Framed black and white photographs are hanging on the once bare walls, the collection of CDs has grown; he finds books about pop culture on the coffee table, new cushions on the couch. Music sheets and unfinished lyrics are scattered on the floor in the living room, two bowls in the kitchen sink, two mugs left on the table.
He stumbles backwards, almost losing his balance. It hits him hard, all of this, an ambush.
He can't stay, not now.
Hoseok barely makes it to the hallway, when the front door flies open. Yoongi is the first one who comes in, words “We'll order pizza, I won't let you burn the kitchen down” on his lips. Following him, Namjoon drags himself inside muttering something about instant ramen and microwaves.
The sudden realization has Hoseok gasping for air.
Yoongi drops his umbrella near the shoe rack and kicks off his sneakers. Namjoon sneezes; his clothes are wet, water drops falling on the floor. From the hallway Hoseok says “Bless you.”
They look in the direction of the voice and time stands still for a moment.
Yoongi watches as Hoseok shifts his weight from one foot to the other, as he tucks his hands in the pockets of his washed-out jeans. It seems like he's just passing by, not planning to stay. He doesn't remember Hoseok like this, with dark red hair and boyish features. It seems like he's wearing a face of a kid not older than fourteen - round cheeks and unblemished skin. Maybe time doesn't pass for him or maybe he's one of the Lost Boys. Yoongi doesn't know where Hoseok leaves to. It might as well be Neverland. Or maybe the truth is that Yoongi tried to erase Hoseok's face from his memory but failed at it, over and over again.
Namjoon says “Thanks” and a smile spreads across Hoseok's face, his cheekbones becoming more prominent.
Hoseok looks like he just returned from vacation - sun-kissed skin and a sleeveless top under his thin jacket and Namjoon can't take his eyes off him. Just like every time Hoseok comes back, just like the first time.
“So, you're flatmates now?”
Hoseok's voice shatters the silence to pieces and Yoongi says “Yes” as they move to the living room. There are things to be caught up with, things that should be asked and said, but the sound of the rain against the window panes overpowers everything.
That night Hoseok will find his way to Namjoon's bed just like many times before. He'll trace butterfly kisses on Namjoon's skin erasing all bruises he made when he left. Namjoon will welcome him in his arms and, inhaling Hoseok with every breath, he'll finally be able to breathe again.
As Namjoon's name escapes Hoseok's swollen lips and fingertips dance on bare skin, Namjoon will love again. Touches will burn; his kisses will be rough, his fingers bruising the skin of Hoseok's thighs. The sound of their clothes wrinkling, breaths quickening, bodies kneading into each other will fill the bedroom to the brim and over. Hoseok's skin will catch fire, Namjoon's tongue will paint promises across Hoseok's sharp collarbones, and together they'll fall. In the abyss of wishes that will never come true and sweet nothings they will never say.
Hoseok will squeeze his eyes shut and let Namjoon guide him on that starless night.
- - -
Yoongi wakes up to a knock on the door. He mumbles “Come in” before pulling the covers over his head. It's early, too damn early.
Hoseok comes in without bothering to close the door. He carries a tray with two cups of freshly brewed coffee with some toast and marmalade - a bribe. He sets it down on the night stand, on top of the latest issue of The Rolling Stone.
Sunlight pours in the bedroom when he opens the curtains. Behind the glass, there's Seoul bathing in spring light. Before his eyes, there's a lump on the bed and few strands of black hair sticking out. Gently, he peals the blankets away but Yoongi isn't willing to give up on his sleep that easily so he rolls on his stomach and buries his head under the pillow. Hoseok can hear him saying “Jesus Christ, Namjoon. Leave me alone!” and he chuckles.
“It's not Namjoon,” Hoseok says and Yoongi tosses the pillow on the other side of the bed. Resting his cheek on the mattress, he looks in Hoseok's direction. There's too much light; Hoseok resembles a saint with a false halo around his head.
“What the hell do you want?” Yoongi demands. His voice is hoarse, hair a mess.
“Come shopping with me,” Hoseok responds, enthusiastic and bright just like the light hurting Yoongi's eyes.
“No,” Yoongi says and Hoseok's expression falls.
“I thought you'd say that, so I prepared something to bribe you - breakfast is on your right. I hope you'll change your mind after a cup of coffee.”
Yoongi realizes that there is no silence with Hoseok around.
After some convincing and breakfast in bed, which has just shaken up Yoongi's resolved “no”, they leave the apartment before nine o'clock. Hoseok leaves a note for Namjoon on the fridge saying that he doesn't need to call the police and that they just went to the market.
If Yoongi was the one who planned this trip, they would have ended up in the first supermarket their way. But Hoseok has his mind set and they pass by many stores before reaching one of the older market stalls. Old ladies working on the stands chit chat with Hoseok as he picks fruits and vegetables. Yoongi follows him through colourful passageways carrying bags that Hoseok pushed in his hands. He regrets allowing Hoseok to drag him from bed, it's too early for his liking and surprisingly cold but Hoseok is cheerful and in a great mood, and maybe Yoongi doesn't mind too much being dragged around the market.
“Does Namjoon do this as well? I mean, the bag carrying.”
Hoseok laughs as he hands the right amount of money to the lady selling lettuce. “No,” he says. “Namjoon gets a headache or toothache or any kind of ache when I mention grocery shopping.”
“So that's the reason why you picked me as the victim this morning,” Yoongi says and Hoseok turns around to face him, pouting.
“Don't say that, hyung. You make me seem like a super villain. I swear, I'm not mean.”
By the time they return to the apartment, Namjoon has traded his bed for the couch and the remote control. Hoseok hears a cacophony of voices when he opens the door.
“How was shopping?” Namjoon throws his head back to look at them and Hoseok beams at him.
“It would've been better if you came along,” he says heading to the kitchen. Yoongi drops the bags on the counter and joins Namjoon.
“Move,” Yoongi demands and he collapses on the cushions when Namjoon moves aside.
“I see you survived,” Namjoon chuckles and Yoongi side-eyes him.
“Shut up.”
They spend Sunday doing nothing.
Hoseok dances around the kitchen singing pop songs off-key and occasionally asking for some help. When Namjoon almost chops off his fingers while cutting onions, Hoseok patches him up using more than half of the band-aids in the first aid kit.
Yoongi comments on Namjoon's obvious lack of skills and Namjoon dares him to do better. Never in his life has Yoongi refused a dare and he gets up from the couch, pushes Namjoon aside on his way to the kitchen. Hoseok hands him an apron with a grin so wide Yoongi could swear that it stretches from one ear to the other.
“Give me that onion,” Yoongi demands and Hoseok tosses him the biggest one from the grocery bag.
To Namjoon's surprise, Yoongi doesn't end up crying. He sniffs from time to time, drinking large gulps of cold water while he works. By the time the ice cubes in his glass have melted, onion is chopped and added to the dish cooking on the stove.
Yoongi takes off the apron and throws it at Namjoon. “Praise me, peasant.”
Namjoon rolls his eyes and says “Oh great onion chopper!”
Hoseok sticks around longer than Yoongi expected. Sometimes he visits them in the studio, commenting on lack of happiness in his songs; asking if Namjoon is making an album for funerals. He's the first one to get up, open all the windows, even on rainy days, to get the fresh air in.
Yoongi wakes up cranky in the morning, feet dragging against hardwood floor, hair a mess, eyelids heavy. He collapses on the chair next to Namjoon and watches as Hoseok hums some unfamiliar melody while making breakfast.
“Is he always this cheerful?” he asks.
Namjoon swallows a mouthful of cereal.
“You finally noticed?” he chuckles. “Don't worry, you'll get used to it.”
And he does, eventually, get used to Hoseok; Hoseok, whose laughter bounces off the walls, whose voice rings in Yoongi's ears. Hoseok who doesn't seem to understand the concept of personal space and the many times he rests his head on Yoongi's shoulder.
Hoseok who is too clingy and too loud for Yoongi's taste, but there's something about him that stops Yoongi from snapping at him when he is tired and in bad mood.
- - -
Namjoon's name finds its way in the line-up for the Speak Show. On the black promotional poster, it's written in white bold font and the organizer calls him up for rehearsal few days before the event. The venue is huge; the stage bigger than any other on which Namjoon stood before. On stage, he feels like on the top of the world. It's home away from home, a piece of paradise in the ninth circle of Hell. It's ecstasy, artificial happiness in few songs and deep bass. It's everything he's ever dreamed of.
The venue opens its doors hours too early. The performers gather shortly before the show starts. Namjoon sees familiar faces - old friends. Ikje wishes him good luck before heading to the stage and Namjoon is left with his nerves. He plays with the mic in his hands, mutters lyrics over and over again. His mouth is dry and he gulps down some lukewarm water from his bottle. He knows Yoongi and Hoseok are somewhere in the crowd. Donghyuk's with the production team making sure that everything goes well.
As he steps on the stage, the audience welcomes him with applause and Namjoon forgets everything but his lyrics.
Hoseok and Yoongi don't make it to the performance. Tickets are still lying on the coffee table in the living room; forgotten among magazines with glossy pages. All lights are turned off, only shadows from the TV screen dance on walls, furniture. The volume is low.
They should have gone, they planned to. Hoseok even joked about making a poster with Namjoon's name on it in neon pink or orange.
It didn't happen.
- - -
Hoseok makes mistakes. Sometimes he manages to fix them, on other times he simply hopes for the best. He stays with Namjoon and Yoongi; watches as they click together like pieces of a puzzle. Edges are rough, but friction is minimal and they slide together. A perfect match.
There's something that keeps him in the small apartment. He sleeps in Namjoon's bed, their feet tangled. After showering Namjoon's hair smells like ocean and summer and Hoseok finds himself missing the beach.
“You're still here,” Namjoon says as he towel dries his hair.
“Do you want me to go?” Hoseok smiles, but it's artificial. Namjoon sees it in the twitch of his lips.
“No,” he says. “But I know that you will,” he adds as he plants a kiss to Hoseok's cheek. “And tonight is the perfect chance.”
Hoseok moves away, opening the closet. “I won't. Tonight is your big night. I have to be here and see you slay.”
Namjoon drops the towel on the bed and watches Hoseok rummaging through his closet.
“Don't you have something that's not black and baggy?” he asks and Namjoon laughs.
Namjoon leaves early.
Yoongi looks up from his laptop and the song he's composing to wish him good luck.
“See you in a few hours. Don't chicken out,” he jokes but Namjoon's already out the door.
Yoongi's fingers fly over the keyboard. He's working on a slow paced R'n'B song. He's been adding and deleting fractions for hours now. Whenever he thinks of a melody, it seems too much. When he strips it of all the unnecessary notes, it seems too bare.
Hoseok taps him on the shoulder when the clock shows 9 pm. “We should get ready,” he says. Yoongi hasn't noticed when it became so dark, lights in the apartment dim, shadows soft. Hoseok's voice sinks in his bones.
“Do you want to hear this?” Yoongi asks. He usually doesn't like showing his work until it's done and he's satisfied with it, but there's something about the way Hoseok's eyes light up when they talk about music that makes Yoongi click the play button.
Hoseok moves closer, sits beside him. As the first notes fill the air, Yoongi holds his breath. Hoseok listens tentatively to the voice of fragile feelings vowed in melodies. Rhythm matches his breathing
Yoongi leans in closer, kisses the corner of Hoseok's lips. He forgets all questions he planned on asking. He expects Hoseok to push him away, to stand up and leave. But he doesn't. He tilts his head slightly, and kisses him back.
The space between them becomes smaller, centimetres turning into millimetres. As they disappear and blood slowly starts to boil, a set of luscious lips replaces sharp teeth on Yoongi's bottom lip and kisses gently, almost timidly. There's artificial innocence blooming behind every touch and Yoongi feels Hoseok slowly standing up.
They stumble towards Yoongi's bedroom; faint glow from the window being their only guide. Shaky hands get rid of clothes scattering them on the hardwood floor. Cushions are soft like feathers and welcome Hoseok when his back meets with the bed. He inhales deeply. Smell of vanilla mixed with something unfamiliar, something that tickles his nose. The scent is mild and reminds him of sunsets, warm orange and red. He can feel Yoongi’s lips on his neck, his hands exploring.
Hoseok’s skin feels like silk under Yoongi’s fingertips, sun-kissed and smooth. His collarbones are untouched, unmarked, sinfully pure and inviting - oh so inviting. Yoongi bites down, sharp teeth on equally sharp bones, and a trail of crimson roses follows his lips. One by one, they decorate unblemished skin with dark red petals and start a fire that consumes them both, eating them alive. Hoseok hisses, pain blinding him, but it's already too late to back down. He's already decided to follow his desires, he just hopes they won't lead him to a dead end.
At this point, he’s too deep in this game of sweet yet false promises and touches that burn - fire in his veins, on his skin, on his lips - when he plants kisses on Yoongi’s jaw line a few moments later; it’s just a few moments that they need to fully escape, disappear under the sheets, into the familiar unknown that has never been within their reach.
This isn't a love story for the new age. Neither of them is sure what this is; how should they call skipped heartbeats and touches that don't seem to last long enough.
There's no alcohol in their veins; no drugs in their bloodstream. Excuses are forgotten, roads not travelled are in front of them. All they can do is try, painfully try, to mask passion with unspoken wishes upon a falling star, to hide physical and animalistic behind a few sweet moments and tender touches that have no real purpose.
Yoongi whispers sweet nothings in Hoseok's ear, his lips moving down his neck. It’s always the same, unnecessary words spoken - an illusion that love is behind every touch, a mere excuse to justify the pain, the suffering because what is love if not pain and bones that ache, broken muscles and hearts that bleed blue ink instead of red.
Roses are bloody and Hoseok’s skin is a blank canvas in the hands of a skilled artist, waiting to be filled by rough hands and lean muscles.
Heavy breaths and short seconds, Yoongi reaching for the drawer in his nightstand, his fingers searching around a bit before they find a condom and lube.
Hoseok is small details and warm smiles, dusty pink cheeks and sheepishly spoken apologies for things he didn't do. Full of contrasts, sinful yet pure, known but never really touched, hunter and prey at the same time - traps covered by soft moans resonating between four walls and mussed hair in the morning, hickeys on his neck. Yoongi never planned to notice but he did. And there's no way back. He’s helpless, his knees are weak. Hoseok will be his biggest mistake, the one he shouldn't make, but the one he won't regret in the morning.
The small tube of lube is half-empty, light even, between Yoongi’s knobby fingers. He opens it quickly because time is ticking away; midnight is approaching; somewhere people are loving, praying for another day, for better tomorrow; somewhere music is pounding out of the large speakers, bodies moving in sync, bass deep and beats intoxicating.
They’re ready, as ready forbidden lovers can be. Hoseok is watching him, little smile playing on his plump lips, almost unnoticeable but Yoongi sees it.
One question before their world ends.
One question before everything breaks and shards of glass cut their skin.
One question before Yoongi loves again, before he will feel unbroken, finally not alone, before they become one, sharp bones and flexed muscles, pale and tanned skin, opposites meeting halfway.
“Are you ready?” somebody whispers, voice cracking on every syllable. Somebody nods because words won't be enough tonight.
Heated skin on skin; nails digging into Yoongi’s shoulders.
Warm, tight, inviting, painfully delicate and fragile - crystal shattering with every thrust.
Hoseok shuts his eyes, few tears rolling down his cheeks. He lied, he always has and always will. He’s never fully ready but his pride doesn’t allow him to admit the truth, never will. The teardrops burn his skin, acid and salt on fresh wounds. It’s never easy and his nails are cutting deeper, drawing blood, pulling Yoongi closer until he can feel a pair of lips on his own, lips that heal the wounds, erasing evidences of salt.
Yoongi’s slowly picking up pace, closer to the edge with every thrust, every contact. Hoseok can feel it in the core of his being; pleasure mixed by pain travelling through his veins. Mixing with blood and passion, sweet addiction and the taste of poison on his tongue, the taste of oxygen when he screams and the taste of chocolate when Yoongi closes his mouth with his own, trying to turn mere seconds into minutes, minutes into hours, but their time is running out.
Memories dissolve in thin air, past is forgotten, future uncertain. The only thing that counts is now, the present; skin on skin and hot sensations as they come.
Everything hurts and nothing is right, stars turn to explosions and tears are the reminder of sleepless nights. The faint sound of music melts with heavy breaths and the remains of pleasure, passion; purple marks on Hoseok’s collarbones and red scratches on Yoongi’s shoulders.
Satin and silk, sheets that are no longer white, decorated with red drops of liquid that strangely resemble paint.
Lips on lips, one last time, sugar and poison mixed with guilt and words murmured between kisses, words that nobody hears because they carry hopes and dreams and things that they are not prepared to hear, not now, not ever.
Words like “I love you” and “I’m sorry I hurt you”.
- - -
In late February, Hoseok remembers many things that he'd buried deep. They whisper nonsense to him, a conglomeration of voices echoes in his mind.
Memories are strange, full of colour yet achromatic, dead, but with a pulse. They catch him off guard and he ends up painting phoenixes rising from the ashes instead of monochrome mosaics. An explosion of red and orange slips through his fingertips and bleeds onto the jaded wall.
In Gwangju, he meets with Hunchul in front of a convenience store that works 24/7. Hunchul's wearing an expensive suit. His pockets are full of business cars cut thin enough to slice open unskilled hands. But he still wears the same reckless grin. A black and white tattoo peaks under his dress shirt when he loosens his tie. They sit on the pavement in the dead hour of the night. Hunchul's shift has long ended.
“Do you like it?” Hoseok asks. “The job.”
Hunchul smiles. “Yeah, I went to university for this, didn't I? My grandma is proud. The wage is good as well.”
“Do you miss Seoul? The stage?” Hoseok asks again.
“Not really. I miss you guys. How's Namjoon?”
“Fine, I guess. He works with a new producer now, they're a good match,” Hoseok replies and takes another sip of his drink.
“And you feel out of place so you'll never go back?”
Hoseok shrugs. That did use to be his plan. Make sure Namjoon has somebody and leave, for good. There's only one thing Hoseok didn't count on. When he puts Yoongi in the equation, he doesn't get the desired result. Yoongi throws things out of balance.
“I guess,” he finds himself saying. “Namjoon will go great places with Yoongi. They're different but still very alike. They just don't see it.”
“But you do,” Hunchul says. No reservations, no gentle words. Hunchul's always brutally honest, even though it hurts.
“Hyung, that's not how things work.”
“Why not? Just because someone said so? You can keep on running, Hoseok, but we both know that you'll come back. You always do. And Namjoon knows it too. That's why he has had the same phone number for years, the same address. You always left without saying anything, you never saw him on the following day. But I did and, Hoseok, no matter how great this new guy is, Namjoon will always love you.”
During the first week after his arrival, Hoseok finds himself enjoying Yoongi's company. It starts with grocery shopping, something Namjoon would always find an excuse not to do, and it continues with small things.
A few days are all it takes to establish something close to a routine. It comes naturally, with movies (even though Hoseok hates horror movies and grabs both Namjoon and Yoongi's hand when the scary parts begin) and music recordings which he finds boring, but the passion in their voices when they discuss their songs stops Hoseok from leaving.
Yoongi's rough around the edges, sharp even. He gets easily annoyed and Hoseok finds it amusing how much he and Namjoon bicker over trivial things.
When that happens, Hoseok can't help but laughing and Namjoon throws the nearest pillow at him.
“Shut up, you're not helping!” Namjoon says.
“But he is. He's laughing at how unreasonable you sound,” Yoongi retorts.
- - -
Namjoon comes home to the muffled laughter and the voice of Jim Carrey coming from the TV. He kicks off his sneakers, hanging his jacket. Going down the hallway, he lets his fingers draw lines on the white wall. It's a childhood habit he never managed to shake off. The hardwood floor is cold under his feet. When he comes in the living room, he expects to find Yoongi on the couch entertaining himself with bad comedy and beer. But all he sees are figures on the TV screen and soft shadows. The comedian does something stupid and the audience laughs. Namjoon's lips tremble.
He reaches for the remote control and turns off the TV. The apartment sinks in darkness. Through the curtains comes the milky light from the street lamps, it falls on carpet, on furniture, on cushions carelessly thrown to the floor. Hoseok's silhouette clings to the edges dividing the darkness from the faint light, but he is probably gone by now. A week has become almost two months, that's the longest he's been home for years.
Namjoon stumbles into the hallway, his hand searching the light switch in the dark. After turning on the lights, he heads towards his room. On his way there, the open door of Yoongi's room catches his attention. He reaches for the doorknob to close it, eyes drifting from one piece of furniture to the other, until they land on people lying in bed.
Even with dim light coming from the hallway, Namjoon can recognize Hoseok in Yoongi's embrace, a small smile gracing his features. Yoongi stirs in his sleep, Namjoon's hand stills on the doorknob. He holds his breath, doesn't move, in case Yoongi wakes up. But he doesn't and Namjoon carefully closes the door.
He spends the rest of the night sitting on the kitchen tiles drinking beer. It washes down his raw throat, cold and bitter.
His thoughts are a mess; words won't shut up inside his head. They're whispering everything he doesn't wish to hear. They're mocking him and all he wants is to drown them in alcohol, that golden liquid that is too often the only friend left.
Namjoon could do with some instructions, but sadly, there is no manual for life. He knows the essentials, but no one's ever told him how to convince your heart to stop loving.
He pulls his knees up, rests his elbows on them, lowers his head. The can in his hand is half-empty. And yet he feels no change. Just emptiness. He should be mad, punching blood into the walls, breaking things, fragile things, like his heart, but he can't. There's no anger, no disappointment, just a feeling that he's not enough, that he was never enough. The realisation hits him hard.
He sits there, back against the wall. The black and white tiles create a mosaic underneath him. Pattern stretches across the floor, disappearing in the darkness of the hallway. Namjoon drinks can after can; until the beer turns lukewarm and light peers through the window.
Around dawn, he hears a door in the hallway being opened followed by footsteps. They're closer with every second but Namjoon lacks the strength to move. A moment later, Yoongi enters the kitchen in nothing but his boxers and an oversized t-shirt.
“Shit,” he hisses when he sees Namjoon on the floor. Empty cans are scattered on the tiles. “Are you okay?” Yoongi asks, kneeling beside Namjoon.
Namjoon lifts his head, looks him in the eyes and says, “You're probably feeling better, since you got laid last night.” His words are venomous and accusing. They pierce Yoongi's skin like needles and he winces. “But,” and he continues, “if that's what he wants, who am I to stop him, right? He deserves to be happy, after all the shit he went through. I just,” Namjoon's voice snaps. When he speaks again, he can barely hide the pain. “I hoped that it could be with me.”
“Namjoon-”
“It's fine if it's you, totally okay,” he wants to laugh, God, he really does, but Yoongi's looking at him with concern, guilt in his eyes, and Namjoon can't do it.
“But he's your boyfriend and I messed up.”
“Don't,” Namjoon says simply. “Hoseok can do whatever makes him happy and if you're making him happy, that's great. I want him to be happy. Did you ever have a bird as a pet when you were younger, hyung?”
Yoongi shakes his head. Namjoon takes the last sip of his beer.
“Good,” he says, “because you shouldn't cage birds, hyung. When you do, they only sing sad songs about the sky that you took away from them. They despise you as much as they love the sky. And maybe in another life, Hoseok was a bird. I can't cage him; you shouldn't either.”
Yoongi stands up, opens the fridge and takes out a water bottle. He sits cross-legged on the tiles opposite of Namjoon. As he unscrews his bottle, he asks “What do we do now?”
Namjoon tries to smile. “We let things be.”
Hoseok wakes up with a headache. The other side of the bed is empty, cold. Sheets are heavy on his skin. When he opens his eyes, the white ceiling is staring back at him. Constellations of empty promises are written on it in transparent ink.
He can't stay here, in this bed that feels like a prison cell. He crawls up, grabs his clothes from the floor. With every move he makes, his mind is screaming at him louder and louder and louder. His hands are shaking.
Hoseok drags himself to the bathroom, looks in the mirror. Crimson roses are blooming on his collarbones, at places Yoongi sucked and nibbled his skin.
Images flash before his eyes. A fusion of red and black. White bleeds on still frames, creating bittersweet memories. Hoseok gasps for air. He's drowning in his mistakes, bony hands pulling him in the abyss.
He turns on the tap. As the cold water fills the sink, he splashes some on his face.
He looks awful, he feels even worse. Why did he have to test the ground under his feet; to taste Yoongi's lips? He should have known better. He gambled with Namjoon's trust and lost it. His grip on the sink is tight, knuckles white, fingers digging in ceramic.
When he looks in the mirror again, consequences are staring back at him; ghostly fingers of guilt around his throat choking him, sucking his breath until his lungs collapse on themselves.
Water fills the sink to the brim and over. Drops fall on the tiles.
Coming back was the wrong decision. Staying was the wrong decision.
He falls to his knees, pushing his head into the cold water.
Seconds tick away painfully slow and it's Namjoon's voice that pulls him back to the surface. When Hoseok opens his eyes, he sees Yoongi hovering over him, feels Namjoon's hands on his shoulders. His head is in Namjoon's lap.
“Christ, Hoseok,” Yoongi mutters.
Namjoon lowers his head until his forehead is touching Hoseok's and whispers, “You idiot, don't ever do that again.”
Hoseok takes a deep breath and listens to the rhythm of his heart. He is, he is, he is.
- - -
Thunder storms come in April.
Heavy clouds open above the city; celestial tears soak every part of the glass metropolis. Wind blows, carrying the last cherry blossoms down wide avenues.
Hoseok spends the days staring at the TV screen, not remembering what he just saw. The volume is low. Drumming of rain against the window panes provides comfort that words can't. It's white noise, static sound. He swallows down a million questions. They're bitter in his mouth. Acidic almost.
His mind wanders - back to his childhood, to teenage years, to Namjoon's hand in his, to sloppy kisses and skipped heartbeats, to run-down buildings and vivid colours he sprayed on the walls of their past, to every time he left without saying goodbye.
When Hoseok closes his eyes, still frames of memories flash behind his eyelids. They lack the colour he desperately needs in his life. They're achromatic and sharp, brutally detailed. He sees the way light reflects in Yoongi's irises, the way the veins branch on his wrists.
Mindlessly, he taps his fingers on the remote control. He's nervous, caught in a concrete cage. The walls will close in on him.
His duffel bag sits half-open in the hallway, ready for him to grab it and leave, just like many times before. But this time, things are different. Running away won't solve things.
So Hoseok stays; with no solution and no explanation for Namjoon acting like everything is okay, for Yoongi leaving the door of his room open.
He can hear footsteps in the hallway. The sound of running water comes from the small kitchen. Both Namjoon and Yoongi are home.
Yoongi enters the living room and sighs. On the couch, there's Hoseok staring at a blank spot just above the TV. There are no photographs on the wall, absolutely nothing that could possibly hold his attention for hours to no end.
As he collapses on the couch next to Hoseok, Yoongi says “You're an idiot, Jung Hoseok. Are you aware of that?”
From the corner of his eye, he sees Hoseok tense. The volume of the TV gets higher and foreign voices fill the space between them. Yoongi reaches for the remote control. He turns off the TV to force Hoseok to listen to him.
“I was watching that,” Hoseok protests but doesn't look in Yoongi's direction.
“You weren't,” Yoongi says with a certain finality and Hoseok bites his lips. The tone of Yoongi's voice leaves no room for protest and Hoseok unwillingly admits defeat.
For a few minutes they do nothing until Namjoon comes from the kitchen, glass of water in his hand. As he takes the first sip, he says “You're such a child, Hoseok.”
Yoongi throws his head back to look at him. Things fall out of sync, get turned upside-down. Namjoon offers him a smile before speaking again.
“You're acting irrational,” Namjoon adds.
Hoseok has his back turned to him but Namjoon can see the slight shake of his head. “I'm not. I'm confused. Both of you are acting like best friends, like nothing happened.” His voice snaps at the last syllable. This is his battle to fight and yet he doesn't have the strength for it.
“Well, if you expect us to yell at you, we won't. We won't fight each other to the death either. This isn't a drama,” Namjoon says and Yoongi laughs.
Lightning strikes outside, illuminating the night. Streets are empty save for a few stray dogs. Owners are closing their shops, restaurants are bidding farewell to their guests. Somewhere students are studying for the incoming exams, trying to memorize formulas they'll probably never use again. Somewhere lovers are trying to say goodbye and convince the other to hang up first.
“Besides, we are good friends who just happen to like the same person. Simple as that,” Yoongi adds. “And if we're lucky, this person might like us back.”
When Hoseok says “I do”, his voice is small, barely audible. He's looking in front of him but he can't prevent the blush creeping up his cheeks and he doesn't know what to blame it on. He feels like he's fifteen again, young and reckless and utterly clueless about life. His feelings are out in the open, ready to be crushed, broken. They're fragile, like the wings of a butterfly.
Hoseok squeezes his eyes shut and prepares for the worst.
“He doesn't get it, does he?” Yoongi says annoyed. Namjoon bursts out laughing.
“Nope. Try drawing it,” he proposes and Yoongi glares at him.
“Hoseok, listen,” Yoongi tries again. “Me and Namjoon -”
“Namjoon and I,” Namjoon interrupts him.
“Fine, whatever.” Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Namjoon and I have talked and we won't force you to do anything you don't want. And if you want to be more than friends with both of us, we're okay with that.”
- - -
Rain stops with Hoseok's smile.
He kisses Yoongi good morning, who grumbles “Go bug Namjoon” before pulling the covers over his head. Hoseok laughs. His voice is hoarse from sleeping, lower than usual.
He crawls up, runs his hand through his messy hair.
A month has passed, nothing changed. A part of him expected the world to be turned upside-down, to crush and burn. It didn't.
Namjoon still writes, Yoongi still produces; they still laugh and bicker and occasionally get drunk to celebrate finishing a new song. Namjoon performs every weekend. They mingle with the audience and cheer him on. That is, Hoseok yells and claps while Yoongi stays near the bar to talk to other producers. He and Donghyuk immediately click and in no time, making Namjoon miserable one way or another becomes their favourite hobby.
Hoseok balances them - he pulls Yoongi up when melancholy finds its way in his songs, pulls Namjoon down when he gets too cocky and confident and only fills his spiral notebook with diss raps. He still draws on the trains passing through suburbia. He quotes Bukowski and Plath in bold letters scribbled on the walls, paints phoenixes on the sides of the warehouses.
He kisses Yoongi hungrily, pressing himself closer, closer until the distance between them melts to nothing and he can feel Yoongi's heartbeat under his palm. He kisses Namjoon like the world is ending, no questions asked and explanations needed, drawing constellations on Namjoon's collarbones.
The truth is that love is an equation that can't be solved. There are too many variables and conditions that you never really take into consideration.
Every day you fall in love with a stranger on the bus, a boy in the library, a girl waiting for somebody in front of the theatre. You love them for few fleeting seconds until the next bus stop. You make plans and dream about what could happen.
You love a million people in a single day without knowing their name, their favourite colour or what flavour of ice-cream they like.
Maybe none of them is right for you; maybe all of them are.
And if you're lucky, some of them will love you back, as the snow falls in front of the library, as wind plays with long scarves down the boulevards.
But you wouldn't know that, and that's perfectly fine because love is like drops of paint seconds before they hit the canvas. You never know what picture they'll paint, but there will always be somebody who will appreciate it.
a/n: thank for you reading! ♥