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effortandmore · 1 year

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all that we wouldn't say (myg x knj)

summary: if yoongi told someone that letting go of BTS and namjoon at the same time was hard, it would be a gross understatement. it was, in fact, the worst year or so of his life, but he’s managed to somehow move on. he’s had time, therapy, and lots of friends, family, and work to distract him. things are good now—the best they’ve ever been, maybe. but yoongi knows better than anyone that good things don’t always last, and that point is proven when namjoon shows back up in his life out of nowhere with an album that needs producing and questions yoongi doesn’t have the answers to.

pairing: yoongi x namjoon, yoongi x ofc

rating: explicit (18+ please)

genre: smut, angst, ambiguous (happy tho) ending

au: canon divergent, post-disbandment idolverse

warnings: a little angst, this is post-disbandment so like... they disbanded and that seems like it should be a warning. the ending is hopeful but not concrete... not unhappy but not like... your traditional happy ending either. smut! bisexual!yoongi (he sleeps with a woman and a man in this fic). penetrative sex, anal sex, oral sex (f!receiving, m!receiving), namjoon has a praise kink a little bit prob, anal fingering, kissing, idk... bottom!kim namjoon... i think that's probably everything but as always pls tell me if i missed something...

word count: 20k

a/n: sorry that this fic is two months late! this was written for the composition of the century yoongi collaboration. thank you to @kithtaehyung for the banner, and to @ugh-yoongi and @the-boy-meets-evil for reading this over. you are all very lovely people and i'm so so happy that we were able to see yoongi together!! that said, all mistakes are mine and they're lovely people who would have caught anything if i asked them to. let's be honest, we're just here for vibes at this point.

read on ao3

He wakes up, and not that he’s counting, but it’s been eight hundred and fifty two mornings that he’s been on his own (he’s definitely counting). By now, that shouldn’t be the first thought that crosses his mind each day, but without fail, it is.

When they were younger, he would tease Namjoon about his penchant for forgetting details—”Namjoonie, everyone knows you didn’t mean to change your stage name, you just forgot what it was supposed to be one day”—to a predictable chorus of responses: falling on the floor laughter from Tae and Jimin, surprise from Hobi, stifled almost-giggles from Jungkook and Jin…

Now, he wishes he could forget like that.

Briefly, he wonders what it would be like to wake up in the morning (afternoon, but don’t tell his mother) and not know how many days it had been, to have just a small break from remembering what his life was like before. Instead, every day he wakes up feeling half-right, ruffled, a little on edge, and a lot alone—the last remnants of something like pain that all the therapy in Seoul hasn’t managed to ease.

Just like the previous eight hundred and fifty one days, he shakes off the disorientation. It happens pretty quickly now—he does it much faster than he used to be able to. His routine now is good, grounding. Coffee first. He goes through the motions, humming a little and tapping out a beat on the counter while he waits for the fancy machine (Jin bought it for him, he was perfectly happy with his old french press) to pull his espresso shots. When it’s ready, he takes it to the piano bench and sits facing the window while Holly spins until he finds himself a seat on top of Yoongi’s feet. Over coffee, he has his first (sometimes only) conversation of the day,

“Who’s the best boy?” he coos softly.

“You are… yes, you are.”

“Are we gonna have a good day, Holly? Hmm?”

(It’s not for lack of trying that Holly only responds with wide eyes and a wagging tail).

Then it’s pilates, which he’s done for a while now. Long enough that he can remember getting Namjoon into it, can remember taking online classes together eventually, can remember the first time he tried it again on his own. It’s almost mindless at this point, which today makes him pause to wonder if he should try something new. Is it really a workout if you don’t have to try that hard anymore? Maybe he’s gotten complacent. Or just stronger? He looks at his thin arms in the mirror and smiles. Complacent, he thinks.

In the shower, he contemplates calling Jin to get together over the weekend. They don’t see each other as much as they used to before Jin stopped coming around the company to record. He knows if he texts he’ll get a call back relatively quickly at least, which is more than he can count on from Jungkook. It’s like this nearly every day—he thinks about who he could call: music friends, old friends, new friends (except you can’t always be sure they’ll actually turn out to be friends, Yoongi knows), and decides to stick with what he knows best. It’s always Jimin, Hobi, or Jin. Always. Tae and Jungkook are too busy, and while he misses them, he loves seeing them so successful and happy. Small victories.

More coffee while he walks Holly. It’s cold outside, so he’s in as many layers as he could find and cutting their morning stroll a little shorter than he normally would. Jimin always teases him for complaining about the cold, but he lives at least a quarter mile closer to the river than the rest of them, so what would they know, anyway? It’s definitely colder at his apartment than any of theirs, and he’ll die on that hill.

Finally it’s time for work. He’s lucky that he makes his own schedule and can dick around for a few hours from whenever he wakes up until whenever he decides to work. Not that he doesn’t have things to do and deadlines to meet, he just knows himself well enough to put in the right amount of time and effort nowadays. It’s not worth being burnt out over, which is something a younger version of him would have never thought he’d be someday saying. It’s one of the only things he thinks Namjoon was right about eight hundred and fifty two days ago.

Here’s where his routine varies. Sometimes he drives, sometimes he calls a driver, sometimes he walks when he’s feeling especially ambitious or nostalgic (it’s not often). Today, he calls a driver. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be there or if he’ll feel like driving when he’s finished, and he hates leaving his car at the company overnight. It’s inexplicable because their security is great, of course. It just makes him feel like he’s stranded in his stupid large apartment with no way out. Trapped. He despises that feeling even if he doesn’t actually end up wanting to leave.

In the back of the car, he decides it’s a good day. The sun is out, but not harsh, Holly woke up happy, he’s working on a couple of tracks he’s really proud of with people he likes collaborating with, and he’ll probably see Jin this weekend if everything goes to plan. He’s lucky, he knows. Some people don’t have the privilege to decide if their days will be good or not. So, he tries to simply let himself feel content. It’s a challenge, but on the days he succeeds, it’s worth it. And on days like today, he really believes it when he repeats affirmations of his own success and happiness in a silent mantra as the car crosses the river into Gangnam.

“Morning,” he greets the receptionists. It’s not bright or cheery, because he’s not onto coffee number three yet, but they smile regardless. Neither of them correct him to say it’s afternoon, because he’s who he is and they’re probably intimidated. He wishes it weren’t like that, but his whole last fifteen years has been a testimony to the importance of keeping professional distances, so he lets it slide. It’s not about him; not really.

The nice thing (one of many, he knows), about being his own boss (more or less) is that he doesn’t have to worry about running to his email inbox first thing to see if anyone needs anything from him. People perpetually do, but hardly any of them sign his paycheck, so they can usually wait a bit. So, he doesn’t bother. He gets his computer on, opens Cubase straight away, and starts work (after he texts to see if someone will bring him coffee number three). It’s peaceful, he likes this track so much it’s going to almost hurt when he’s done with it. That’s the moment he loves and hates the most—the one where something he’s put his soul into transfers ownership to someone else. If you love something, let it go, as they say, but Yoongi’s never really been very good at that.

The songs he’s been writing for himself have been sad. They’re too honest—pure and crystalline, each verse a surface reflecting another way in which his breakup with Namjoon ruined him piece by piece. The rest of the storyline, where he’s gradually started to put himself back together, has only shown up in his ability to produce songs that are happy, angry, defiant, hopeful… Still can’t write anything like that, though. Has songs he’s worked on for months and the lyrics simply sit in his notebook unedited, unfinished. For someone like Yoongi, words turn the theoretical into the tangible. So, if he never finishes those songs, his pain remains as an idea—the remnants of it haunt him, but he never has to let anyone know that, not really.

Instead, he can take the words and ideas of others and bring those to life. Maybe it’s healing for them, maybe they’re braver than him, but he plays a small part in their happiness and their success and that’s as worth clinging onto and being proud of as getting his own thoughts to paper would be.

Later, after coffee and before lunch, he’s immersed in the song, but his phone won’t stop buzzing. It’s annoying and incessant and he can feel it more than he can hear it as he tries to ignore it in favor of working out a harmony on his keyboard. Finally, on what he assumes is the fourth or fifth missed call, he tugs his headphones off and grabs the phone. It’s the fourth missed call, it’s Bang-PD each time, and he can’t place why the man would call him so many times in a row. Then he gets a text that just reads, “Check your email, please.” Ominous or curious, he can’t really tell.

In his inbox there are a hundred or more unread emails, but one sitting right at the top from his old boss—the subject line reads “Favor,” and it has an attachment.

The email is simple; just that Bang-PD needs a favor. Needs someone to lead production on an album, and the artist has personally requested Yoongi. Yoongi doesn’t work for him anymore; their former boss has been long replaced by someone a little younger, a little more interested in running the company now that it’s bigger than big with divisions and sub-corporations so numerous that Yoongi can’t even count them all. But… even though he’s not the boss, he’s certainly someone Yoongi owes a favor to. Their relationship is complex—somewhere between friendship and mutual respect… When everything had ended, when Yoongi was lost and low and scared, his old boss was there for him. An ear to listen, a guest room to sleep in, a job when he was ready to do something with himself again… So, even before he knows who the artist is, Yoongi knows he’ll do it. It’s not like Bang-PD sends him shit usually, anyway. If he’s onboard, it’s probably at least half-good already.

Yoongi pops his headphones back on and opens the attachment. A demo, rough around the edges but well-executed. Good ideas musically, superior ones lyrically. He doesn’t recognize the voice on the track, but he supposes it may or may not actually belong to whomever the song belongs to, anyway. There’s something about the song… something about how the words manage to be melancholy and optimistic at the same time, something about how there are maybe one too many competing sounds in the track… It’s so familiar. He likes it instantly, he also knows he can fix it, he knows it’s good but that he can make it great—doesn’t even finish the whole thing before he texts back. I’ll do it, this is good. Really good.

The response is immediate. “I knew you’d like it. I’ll be in touch.”

And just like that, Yoongi has a new gig as the current one is winding down. He still doesn’t know why it carried the urgency of an email and four missed calls and a text, still doesn’t know who the artist is that asked for him, but that’s how it goes sometimes. He’ll know all the details soon enough, he decides. No use in overthinking.

***

So, life goes on. Work and routine and warmer days as spring rolls through Seoul, and meetings with rappers and singers and other producers… It’s busy in the way he likes, keeps him just on the healthy side of distracted, keeps him feeling productive, human even. His therapist, it seems, was right all along: things seem better with time and distance.

When he meets Jin a couple Saturdays later for drinks, everything is as it should be, everything is squarely in its place in Yoongi’s carefully crafted world.

“Yoongi-chi!”

Seokjin looks happy—bright smile, bright voice, always a little hint of a tease in it.

“Jin-hyung, I’m glad to see you.” And he is. These are always his favorite parts of the week. He’s wrapped in a crooked hug—Seokjin is and always has been a little awkward with this kind of contact (unless it’s with Jeongguk).

“Glad to see you, too,” he says into Yoongi’s hair.

They sit, they flag down the server to place their order, and they catch up. Jin’s not making music anymore, but he’s busier than ever with all of his other endeavors: restaurants, makgeolli, commercials, MC gigs… the list is almost endless. It’s good to see him happy, trying new things with his friends. Of all of them, Seokjin’s always been one of the most private, so Yoongi likes seeing him this way, happy and open. It feels like something gifted to him, a part of his friend that not many people will ever get to see.

“So…” Jin says lazily, and Yoongi knows he isn’t going to like what’s coming next—he knows this tone. It’s the “I’m planning something and I know you won’t like it so I’ve taken it far enough that you can’t back out or argue about it without looking like a dick” tone. Usually only reserved for Yoongi (and used to be Namjoon, too, but Yoongi—thankfully—doesn’t know much about Namjoon and Jin’s current relationship, if they’re still close enough for Jin to pull this kind of shit anymore).

“You might as well spit it out,” Yoongi murmurs.

Jin laughs and takes a long drink of his beer. “Well… There’s someone I want you to meet.”

“No.”

“Yoongi, just hear me out.” He draws out the vowels of Yoongi’s name like he’s already begging. This means one of two things. A music favor or a date he doesn’t want.

“What’s his name?”

“Her name.”

“A singer?”

“No…”

Yoongi sighs and picks at the label of his beer bottle. “I don’t think I’m ready,” he says.

“It’s been almost three years.”

“Time is a construct,” Yoongi retorts. He means for it to be under his breath, but he knows Jin heard him, knows it wasn’t quiet enough.

“Her name is Hiah. She owns a small soju brand we brought into one of the restaurants. She’s smart, Yoongi, really smart. And interesting, too. She plays the guitar and volunteers at the childrens’ hospital with Iseul. They get along great, and I know you’d like her.”

Ah… So the truth comes out. Kang Iseul is a force to be reckoned with; you’d have to be to put up with Jin, Yoongi thinks. But Yoongi likes Iseul, respects her, and if she likes this girl… Maybe. “So you want a double date or something?” he asks.

Jin’s grin reappears as he taps his temple. “Ah, Yoongi-chi, you were always the smartest one in the group.”

Yoongi scoffs. “When?”

“Next weekend. Saturday. A fundraiser for the hospital. Wear a suit and get someone to do your hair.”

“Hiah, huh?”

Jin nods. “Hiah. She’s great, you’ll see.”

A week later, Yoongi finds himself at the mercy of a stylist at the company who is ensuring he looks photograph-ready. It’s been a while since he’s been forced to shoot anything, dress any certain way, wear any makeup that isn’t of his choosing… He forgot that he kind of likes it—just a little bit, anyway. It’s nice to let someone dress you up and make you look like a different (hopefully better and less tired) version of yourself.

It’s hard not to sit in the chair and be reminded of how he used to share these moments with the rest of them: how Jeongguk and Jin used to play-fight while the makeup team yelled at them, how Taehyung and Jimin would tease each other and Hobi and whoever else would pay attention to them… and Namjoon—how Namjoon would sit in the back of the room on his phone, always finished first, always pecking out a lyric or a text, meeting Yoongi’s eyes in the mirror every so often and giving a wink or a smirk or just a barely there flash of a dimple when no one was paying attention.

“That’s a big sigh.” He hears Jin’s voice before he sees him, pulling him back into the present moment.

“Who let you up here?” Yoongi teases in reply.

Jin makes flower hands around his chin and pushes his lips out in a half-kiss, half-pout. “Ah, this face still gets me everywhere. Almost ready?”

The stylist nods for him, and pushes the front of his hair back with one last spritz of hairspray before she signals that he can leave. He stands and bows to her quickly and then checks himself out in the mirror. Not bad, really. Actually, pretty good. His hair is long again, but she’s got it swept off his face, and he looks good in the suit she chose. It’s simple, navy, which isn’t his usual first choice, but looks pretty nice. When he checks out his profile, he decides maybe the pilates are still working just fine. He looks good.

“Done preening?” Jin asks.

Yoongi feels himself flush a bit under his makeup. “It’s been a while,” is all he says in return.

“I know it has.” Jin loops his arm over Yoongi’s shoulders as they make their way to the elevator bank. “But you can do this,” he says.

Yoongi’s not sure Jin’s right, but he’s gotten this far, so he figures he might as well give it a shot.

***

Turns out, he ends up being glad he gave Hiah a chance. As promised, he does like her. The fundraiser actually ends up being fun, and it’s mostly thanks to her. She keeps up with Jin, she isn’t shy around Yoongi, she makes jokes (and Yoongi finds a great satisfaction in announcing to Jin that Hiah’s jokes are funnier than Jin’s, which Iseul agrees with, sending Jin into a panic of telling even worse dad jokes than he had been before). Jin was right: Hiah is smart, pretty, and interesting. She doesn’t just play the guitar, she plays the guitar in an indie band, which Yoongi thinks is painfully cool even though he really isn’t supposed to be impressed by that kind of thing anymore. She’s taller than him in her heels, probably a little taller than him without them, too, and looks incredible in her dress, which is off-white and off-the shoulder and shows off her collarbone and the delicate, fine-line tattoo that runs across the length of it, as well as her tanned skin, which Yoongi never has himself and has always been a sucker for.

When the speeches start, the part of these kinds of events that Yoongi hates the most, Hiah leans in and whispers to ask if he wants to get some fresh air, and then promptly tows him out of the ballroom to a balcony on the next floor.

“So…” she starts, looking a little unsure and a little wild as they lean against the railing. “Can I be forward with you Yoongi-ssi?”

Oh, he likes her already.

“Of course. And just Yoongi is fine.”

“Iseul tells me you might not be over your last relationship.”

“Does she?” It isn’t what he expected to hear from her; he was hoping to avoid the ex talk.

Hiah nods and then turns to look out over the city, holding her weight off of her heels when she leans over the balustrade. “I don’t know if I am either,” she says quietly. “Over my ex, you know. But you’re interesting, and handsome, and pretty obviously out of my league, so…” She lets herself down with a hop. He likes watching her, he realizes, likes her playful body language, likes that she seems to have these bits of energy bubbling in her veins just under the surface of her skin that she needs to let out. She’s different from him in that way. “I think we should just kiss and get it out of the way.”

“What?”

She smiles widely. “You know, just see if anything’s there. If there is, maybe we see each other again, take things slow. If there’s not, then… Well, we can tell Iseul and Seokjin we tried and maybe they’ll get off both our backs for a while.”

“You’re an interesting woman, Hiah.”

One step closer… then another, and then Hiah is right there, breathing the same air as him, looking down a little at him with a smirk. “I’ve heard that before.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm,” she murmurs, and then brings her hands to his lapels to smooth them down over his chest. Something in the back of his poorly-functioning-at-the-moment brain tells him that they were already smooth, that she’s touching him just for the sake of touching… And he thinks he likes it. “I’ve also been told I’m a good kisser.”

“Interesting…” He chokes it out, nervous, anticipating. Hiah’s clearly holding the reins and Yoongi’s excited, he realizes, to see what she does next.

What she does is dip her head down and press her lips to his, all softness and kindness and something sweet that Yoongi immediately realizes has been missing from his life for a couple years. Hiah is warm and her lips are plush and when her tongue slips into his mouth, licking softly against his own, she tastes like strawberries and a little like the champagne they’ve been drinking. It’s nice—nice to feel wanted, nice to have the taste and smell of someone else weaving their way through his senses. It’s mostly nice to feel connected to someone. His chest hurts, thinking about how long it’s been since someone touched him like this, since someone showed him affection like this. The kiss is nice, tender, and a little bittersweet as he realizes how different it is… kissing someone that isn’t Namjoon. Without meaning to, he whimpers quietly when Hiah pulls away, already missing the feeling of her mouth on his. Missing the closeness.

“That was…” he starts at the same time Hiah speaks.

“Maybe there is a little something there,” she says, eyes wide. He’s relieved that it’s not just his unadmitted loneliness making him think there was a bit of a spark between them, that maybe she felt it, too.

They share a few more sweet and quick kisses on the balcony, and then the sound of applause floating through the air decides for them that they should go back inside. He isn’t really sure how long they’ve been gone—kissing and laughing and sharing some sense of anticipation under the crescent moon.

Seokjin literally giggles when they make their way back to the table, as Iseul politely points out that Yoongi has the dark red stain of Hiah’s lipstick on the side of his mouth. He would be embarrassed under most circumstances, but Hiah is laughing when she grabs his jaw gently and dabs at it with a damp cloth napkin. It makes him feel light and more free than he has almost since he can remember.

He doesn’t escape the teasing from Seokjin for the rest of the night, and for weeks after that. He takes Hiah out a few times, keeping Iseul and Jin in the loop on how things are progressing. Each time he sees her, he likes her more. On the days when they have dates planned for the evening, he finds himself smiling more, focusing less, and even a little giddy looking forward to his time with her. She’s a good companion, still making him laugh like she did the first time they met, still easy on him and a little hard on herself—Yoongi can relate to that.

Everything is going well, and he has to stop himself from thinking it’s going “too well,” that he doesn’t deserve this kind of happiness, that it’s not meant for him.

***

The first time Yoongi invites Hiah back to his place after a date, he’s had an objectively good day. He finished the track he’d been working on for Younha, he met with one of the company’s girl groups to see if a song he’d written a while back could work for their new album—they loved it—and he finally got a meeting set up with the management of the artist whose album Bang-PD asked him to produce a couple months prior.

His date with Hiah that night was great; they met at the company building and then walked to a cat cafe. It was stupid and simple, but they drank wine and ate cake and played with cats, and she was so funny and kind, and whip-smart with her conversation… He felt like he just stared at her the whole time with big, dopey eyes—this girl in baggy jeans and a hoodie with cats crawling all over her lap while she made stupid jokes about Schroedinger—and he knew that he was going to take her home, knew he wanted to try and take things further with her, knew he was about to cross into new territory and he was shitting bricks just thinking about it.

“Hiah?”

“Hmm?” She looks up at him and smiles, hands carding through the soft fur of a calico kitten that hasn’t left her side since they got there.

“Do you… maybe want to come back to my—”

“Yes.” Hiah nods emphatically before he can even finish his sentence, and then they’re both immediately reduced to nervous laughter and shy smiles, downing the rest of their wine more quickly than people should, and scurrying to get a taxi back to his flat.

As soon as they’re through the door, they’re on each other, Hiah pressed against his door, his hands pushing under her hoodie, and hers in his hair as he kisses up her neck and jaw, warm and soft skin pricking up with goosebumps as he goes.

“Want the tour?” he asks, a little breathlessly.

“Not now,” she replies. “Just the bedroom, yeah?”

And then it’s happening. It’s like a fever dream, and he doesn’t even remember how they got there, but she’s naked on his bed (and Yoongi hasn’t had someone naked on his bed in a shamefully long time—not since Namjoon, not since tanned skin and long, thick legs, and playful dimpled grins that are still etched into his brain), and she’s also long and tan and fuck, she’s wet already, he can see it when she opens her legs for him…

The first thing he thinks when he sees her is that she’s so different from Namjoon. And he hates himself a little for even thinking about him in this moment. He wants to give his attention to Hiah—doesn’t love her, but loves spending time with her, wants her to feel good and special and cared for, and thinking about how her legs are long and tan like Namjoon’s but that nothing else is the same isn’t achieving that.

It’s been so long since he’s been with someone, longer since he’s been with a woman, but he finds, as he brings his focus back to Hiah, that it’s the same now as it has been in his memories and fantasies for the last couple of lonely years. She rolls her hips into his touch when he slides one, and then two fingers inside her. When his thumb finds her clit, she whimpers, tells him it’s been so long and he feels so good. She whines again when his lips close around one of her nipples, rolling his tongue around where it peaks and letting his teeth sink in just enough for her to feel it, not enough to hurt.

He’s hard and he’s self-conscious, because as good as he knows he is at making other people feel good, he also hasn’t been naked in front of anyone since Namjoon. Namjoon with his, “God, you’re so gorgeous, hyung,” and his deep, deep moans, and his jaw clicking around when Yoongi would tease him, making Yoongi feel sexy… powerful even, like he could do anything, ask for anything, and Namjoon would let him, would give it to him. Except when you asked him to stay, his traitorous mind tells him as he slides his briefs off and gives Hiah her first view of all of the rest of him.

“Fuck,” she says. “Pilates works for you, huh?” as she sits up on her elbows and smirks. It makes him blush, makes him feel good, makes him decide that maybe dating Hiah, bringing her home with him, was one of the best ideas he’s had in a long time.

“I do okay,” he replies.

“You look great,” she assures him. “Now will you please fuck me?”

Sex with Hiah starts out fun. They laugh, and their teeth clack together a few times when they try to kiss, and it’s clear that it’s been a little while for both of them, but they eventually find a good rhythm. She’s a little whiny, a little desperate, and Yoongi likes that—it’s a confidence booster, makes him feel like he’s still got “it.”

At one point, after he’s given her one orgasm already, she gets him on his back, straddles him, and slides slowly onto his dick. It’s the closest to perfect he’s felt in ages. She moves her hips against him, grinding more than bouncing, and it’s just like Namjoon. Just like him. There’s a warm wave of nostalgia that washes over him, and even though her hips feel different, and the soft skin of her stomach isn’t as firm under his hands, if he closes his eyes, he can almost swear he’s gone back in time. Namjoon grinding down on him, whining when Yoongi thumbs at the head of his cock, dragging precum and lube down to the base and fisting him tight. It’s so clear in his memory, the little grunts he would let out, the breathy, “fuck, hyung,” with each upstroke, getting more desperate as he got closer to release.

Soon, Hiah is moving up and down, riding him fast and hard and he’s got his fingers wound tightly into the bedsheets because she’s not Namjoon—because he doesn’t know where to touch her, doesn’t know what she might like, and if he tries something, it might ruin the fantasy playing out in his head. The one of his best friend fucking himself on Yoongi’s cock until there’s cum all over Yoongi’s hand and chest, until they’re breathless and Namjoon feels like dead weight on him, reeling in his orgasm and just letting Yoongi fuck into him until he’s finished too, letting Yoongi use him to get off and moaning quietly through the overstimulation. It’s perfect, really, because Hiah is bent over him now, kissing her way along his collarbone and chest and it’s warm and wet just like Namjoon would have made him. And she’s giving him soft whimpers that he can distort in his mind to make them sound like Namjoon’s, and nothing is the same about them, not really, but nothing is so different that he can’t imagine it.

He’s coming before he knows what’s happening, almost saying Namjoon’s name, his hands releasing their tight grip on the sheets to land on Hiah’s hips, to hold her down as he thrusts up into her hard, spilling into the condom. He knows she hasn’t had another orgasm, knows it’s selfish that he didn’t even try to give her one while he was still inside her. As his orgasm fades, the guilt sets in. It’s not fucking normal, he thinks, to be thinking about your ex-boyfriend while some near-perfect girl is hot and tight and wet on your cock, while she’s telling you how much she likes you, how good you make her feel. He feels himself turning red with shame, hopes she thinks it’s sex related… Pulls the condom off and tosses it before he dives back between her thighs to hide his embarrassment.

It works, at least a little bit, because he loses himself in the way she feels and tastes, and she fucks his face like she’s taking something that doesn’t belong to her, and she whispers something when she comes that doesn’t sound like his name at all. Her eyes are pinched shut and there’s a tear slipping out of the left one, and right then, he remembers what she said the first night they met about maybe not being over her ex, knows what they’re doing is fucked up, but at least they’re in it together.

They both clean up quietly, he invites her to stay, and she accepts, and he’d be willing to bet money that they’re both in it for the same thing—the delay of the crash that’s coming, the loneliness that will set in when they’re not curled up next to someone warm, someone who shares their pain, someone who gets it.

Her breath is shallow and warm on his chest, and she’s kind and sweet and sexy, and he wishes he could have done this differently.

“Are you alright?” she whispers.

“No. Are you?” It’s honest; probably too honest, but he owes her that, at least.

Hiah smiles against his skin. “No.”

“At least we have each other,” he says, knowing it’s not enough and hoping it’ll do, anyway.

“Could be so much worse,” she says.

“The cats were nice.”

She lets out a loud, bright laugh. “The cats and the orgasms,” she agrees.

***

When he wakes in the morning, he tries to stick to his routine, even with Hiah there. It’s strange to have someone in his space like this, he’s not used to it and it throws him off a little. He doesn’t know anymore how to make the right amount of coffee for two people. Doesn’t remember that Holly has to go for a walk and Hiah is probably a person who eats breakfast and those two things seem exceptionally challenging for him to coordinate properly. But Hiah is easy, relaxed about things in general, so she takes Holly for a walk while Yoongi cooks for them, and by the time they’re done eating and Hiah is borrowing a toothbrush and a towel so she can get ready for work, he almost forgets that he doesn’t know how to do this.

They part ways when a car comes for each of them, one to take Hiah to her office in Sinchon, and one headed to Gangnam for him. She gives him a kiss before she gets in the car, and they make plans to see each other again on the weekend, and they don’t talk about how she cried, don’t talk about how he was picturing someone else on top of him. It seems like they don’t need to.

He’s halfway through the day when he gets a “Good job” text from Seokjin with eggplant emojis because apparently they’re still fifteen, which means Hiah told Iseul that they’d slept together, and Iseul told Jin, and Jin is going to want to tease him relentlessly about it—worse than the teasing he was getting for not sleeping with anyone, probably. But they go back and forth for a bit, and Yoongi gets one of the interns to bring him coffee and the good dakgalbi from the place down the street, and he’s still on a bit of a high from the orgasm and the friendship and the food when there’s a knock on his door.

It’s time for his meeting with that mystery artist, and he’s excited. He’s prepared for it, has ideas for each track that he thinks will help, but also needs to hear all the lyrics so he has a better idea of what they’re trying to accomplish with the songs.

He’s got a smile on his face when he opens the door to Genius Lab, and it lasts approximately half a second when he realizes that standing in the hallway in front of him, for the first time in years, is Kim Namjoon.

“Hi, hyung.”

“No.”

Confusion crosses Namjoon’s face, Yoongi sees it—Namjoon has never hidden his thoughts well, never had a good poker face. “Sorry, I’m not sure what to say,” he says.

“Me either,” Yoongi says, still in disbelief that this is happening.

“Can I come in?”

And that feels… like something Yoongi doesn’t want. Or, at least not right now. That’s his place. It’s private and it’s safe and it’s been redecorated since Namjoon left—the pictures of him all gone except for one of the seven of them at the Grammy awards a long time ago that Yoongi couldn’t bear to shove in a box.

“I don’t think so,” he says.

Namjoon looks crestfallen. “Well… okay. Alright… I guess… I guess I can go. Or can we go somewhere else?”

“I have a meeting with…” And something dawns on Yoongi at that very second. “You. They’re your songs. You’re the one who asked for me.”

“I did.” Namjoon nods, hands shoved in his pockets, just the right amount of sheepish. It pisses Yoongi off. How does Kim Namjoon have the audacity to think Yoongi owes him anything after everything they went through? After Namjoon left him…

Yoongi scoffs. “Bold.”

“Hyung…”

“I can’t do this right now. I was having a good day, Namjoon.”

“And now you’re not. Because of me?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Yoongi mutters it, but not quietly enough that Namjoon misses it. It’s catty and shitty and everything Yoongi has tried so hard not to be. It’s not who he wants to be, but seeing Namjoon in front of him just makes him so fucking mad. Like all of that hurt and sadness and feeling like he wasn’t good enough is just right there, taking a human form. A fucking gorgeous human form, because of course he is, because the universe isn’t fair enough to make him anything but the man of Yoongi’s dreams. It fucking sucks.

“That’s not fair,” Namjoon says softly.

“I don’t think you get to decide that.”

Namjoon’s shoulders slump. “Fine. I deserve that,” he concedes. “But I really need your help with this one, hyung. I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important. I know what a big deal this is.” And then he digs one of his toes into the carpet, twisting it around nervously. “I know I don’t deserve it. But I’m here, begging. You’re the only one who can make these songs right. I need you.”

I need you. Those three words hang in the air between them. Namjoon’s face contorts as soon as they come out, like he knows there’s so much more meaning associated with them than he meant for there to be. He has to know that Yoongi has waited for years to hear those words from him. Fucking literal years. He’s had dreams about hearing Namjoon say those three words to him. And yet, now that it happens, he doesn’t feel anything he expected to feel. Not hope, not love, not even anger. It’s just hollow.

“I need to think about it.”

Namjoon pauses and sucks in a breath. “Okay, sure… That’s fair, yeah. Thank you. I mean, for even considering it. I know there’s a lot of… stuff here between us and… Well, I’m ready or willing to talk about it… Or whatever you want. If you’re ready, hyung. The ball’s in your court.”

It takes a lot for Yoongi not to give a snarky reply. He knows it’s fair, more than fair. He doesn’t owe Namjoon anything, doesn’t owe him closure or support or his time. Where was Namjoon when Yoongi wanted to talk years ago? When Yoongi wanted to work through things? But he’s trying, really trying, to not feed his own negativity. So, instead of making things more awkward, he lets out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and nods. “I’ll be in touch, Namjoon,” he says quietly before he shuts the door, leaving Namjoon on the other side.

There’s something surreal about knowing Namjoon is right there, he thinks as he slumps against the door. Close enough to touch, and Yoongi has been thinking about that touch for years. Part of him is mad—over time, he’s run through a million scenarios in his head, what he would say when he ever had the chance to speak to Namjoon again. None of them had played out like this: more wistful than angry, more heartache than rage. He’s dreamt about giving Namjoon a piece of his mind, and still, given the chance, he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t bring himself to hurt Namjoon, not really. Doesn’t even think it would be worth it—nothing he could do to Namjoon would come close to hurting as much as what Namjoon did to him, so what’s the point?

A while ago, if this had happened, Yoongi might have panicked. Now, he feels eerily calm about it. He does want to ask some questions, though, so he makes his way back to his desk and sends an email to Bang-PD, asking why he wouldn’t tell Yoongi that the mystery artist was Namjoon. It feels a little like a betrayal, and he wonders if anyone else knew. Did Jin know? Did Hoseok? Yoongi knows he and Namjoon are close. Maybe it doesn’t matter. If he hadn’t been blindsided, he wouldn’t have taken the meeting. So, perhaps, this was the only way to get them in front of each other.

He leaves early that day, feeling a little shaken and more than a little confused about what he should do.

So, he does nothing. He doesn’t go into the studio for the rest of the week, doesn’t call Jin, doesn’t leave the apartment except to walk Holly. He spends four days sort of frozen—reminiscing, thinking, trying to figure out the right next move. After four days of thinking and delivery chicken and self-admitted sulking, he pulls out the box.

It’s a pretty morning in Seoul—the sun is soft in the deceptive way, where you could be tricked into thinking you can go outside without a jacket, but it’s hiding a bitter chill. Yoongi likes these mornings, not the cold, but the apricity—likes the way the pale, dissipated light filters through his living room. Likes the way the air smells when he cracks a window open, reminds him of stolen mornings with Namjoon at Naksan. Which reminds him of the box.

It’s tucked in his guest room, hidden deep deep deep in the back of the closet under old equipment. It’s not big—it’s a shame or a wonder that you can fit ten years of memories into a 40x40x10 centimeter box, he can’t decide which. He hasn’t opened the box since he filled it, but he knows what’s inside. Everything that he needs to be reminded of Namjoon, including one particular picture he’s looking for. It’s halfway down in the stack of photographs and tickets and memories. Probably from 2014. In fact, he knows it’s from 2014 because Namjoon has that ridiculous hair, the swept back blond with the undercut that’s darker than dark. He’s standing on Naksan Beach, with the ocean on one side of him and the mountains of Seoraksan Park on the other and he looks like the love of Yoongi’s life.

Even then, back when they were young and scared and stupid, he looked radiant. Namjoon has always had this quality about him that Yoongi can’t resist—it’s magnetism, magic of some kind. Even when they fought and scrambled to survive and things were shit, there was no one Yoongi would rather have done that with than Namjoon. And that day, on the beach, before the real fame and the complication and the endless travel, he seemed perfect. Yoongi still remembers it—early summer, sneaking out of the dorms early in the morning without sleep, clambering into his shitty car, driving all the way to Seoraksan before Namjoon begged him to keep going to the beach, said he just needed to remember he was small, that he didn’t matter in the big big scope of the world, that everything would be okay.

The sun rose on them as they pulled up, and Namjoon took his shoes off and ran to the sand as soon as the car was in park. Despite the sun, it was wickedly cold, but Namjoon didn’t even seem to notice. Head back, tan skin glowing, stupid haircut and all, and Yoongi’s only (terrifying) thought as he watched from the hood of the car was, “I’m so in love with him.”

In his hand, the picture still feels like love. Feels like the day Yoongi handed his heart to a young blond boy from Ilsan in a quiet transaction. Namjoon smiles so wide you can barely see his eyes, his dimples are crater deep, and his palms are out wide—looks like he’s just trying to absorb all that sun and steal it, let it become him. Sometimes, back then, Yoongi was sure he’d figured out how, too.

Certainly, at the very least, he stole something important from Yoongi that day.

Nothing happened then, not between them, but it was a big day. The biggest. He took all those big feelings and shoved them into his chest and did what he thought was the right thing for the group, for him, especially for Namjoon. He didn’t know until later that Namjoon felt the same way, didn’t figure it out until they were in a hotel room in Osaka three years later, high off their world tour and finally alone for the first time in months. Yoongi lamented all the time they’d wasted not talking about how they felt, and Namjoon said that no moment with Yoongi could ever be a waste. And again, Yoongi’s thought was, “I’m so in love with you.” But that time, he said it out loud, and Namjoon said it back.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until a tear lands on the picture, right on Namjoon’s face, like the clouds opened up and dropped a bit of salty rain right there, Namjoon with his face titled, ready to receive it. It’s still precious, he wants to keep it, thinks he’ll save that picture until he dies, probably. It gets carefully wiped off on his soft hoodie and put back in the box, but this time, he puts it right on top.

And when he puts the lid back on the box, it doesn’t feel at all as final as it had nine hundred days ago.

***

On the weekend, he still has plans with Hiah, so he drags himself out of the house for the first time and meets her at a hole in the wall restaurant near Ehwa. It takes her all of five minutes to realize something’s up with Yoongi.

“You can tell me,” she says after one of the women working there takes their order.

“Tell you what?”

“You’re not subtle.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Hiah takes his hand in hers on top of the small table. “Would talking help?”

“I’m not sure,” he says honestly. “I saw my ex this week.”

“Namjoon,” she replies softly. It’s not a question.

Yoongi nods. “Yeah… How’d you know?”

“Iseul told me. She thought I should know what I was getting into. A little more complicated between you two than a typical relationship, maybe.”

He just hums in agreement. It’s true, and it’s a wild understatement.

“How long has it been?” she asks.

“Since we disbanded… So, about a month before it was announced if you were keeping up with it back then.”

“I wasn’t,” Hiah says, “but it was hard to miss even for people like me who weren’t big fans.”

Yoongi brings a hand to his heart in faux insult. “You weren’t a fan?”

This, at least, makes Hiah laugh. “Not really. But I wasn’t not one, either. If that means anything. And I’m a fan of you, now.”

It makes his cheeks flush—Hiah is sweet. He’s a fan of hers, too. It should make him feel good that they have this mutual attraction, but instead he just feels kind of sick. He should be thinking about her, and instead he’s thinking about the box, about the pictures in it, and the boy in the pictures. About how the boy in the pictures became the man who stood in front of him at his studio the week before: beautiful, contrite, and small in a way Yoongi had never really seen before.

So, when their food is in front of them and they’re settled in, instead of telling Hiah he feels the same way about her in return, he says, “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

Across from him, her expression doesn’t change. She takes a big piece of pork off the grill and wraps it in lettuce, chews it carefully and rolls her eyes back with pleasure just like Seokjin would. It’s funny, or would be anyway, but neither of them are laughing.

“You’re not over him,” she says once she’s finished eating.

“I don’t know if I am or not. That hasn’t changed. But I know that before, I really, really wanted to be.”

Hiah gives him a smile he doesn’t deserve, understanding and more kind than his behavior warrants. “And now?”

“Now I’m not sure.” Yoongi takes a shot of soju and pours more for each of them. “I’m still hurt. But… I don’t know. I think he might be, too. And maybe I owe it to myself to find out why. Maybe I don’t and I’ll just get hurt more but…”

He trails off, but she picks it up for him. “But you were together for a long time and you need to know why it ended.”

“I think so. And I don’t feel right about this while that’s still hanging out there unfinished.”

Hiah doesn’t placate him with a nod of agreement or a murmured “that’s okay”. It’s fine really, he doesn’t deserve her grace, he thinks. He certainly isn’t giving much to himself, and isn't proud of himself at this moment. He picks at the potato salad and tries to will himself out of this situation. It doesn’t work, of course. He’s always been an honest person. He knows he’s not ready, knows he’s probably going to hurt her or at least not be available emotionally if Namjoon is back in his life. Not at first anyway.

“I think I get it,” she finally says.

“I can’t do both things at once,” he adds. “Not well, anyway. Can’t get closure with him and give you what you need at the same time… It’s not fair, but I think I need this.”

“As long as it’s for you and not for him,” Hiah says, with authority in her tone. It sounds like the advice of someone who has done this before. Someone who has been in his shoes.

Yoongi doesn’t know what to say to that—doesn’t know if in the time that he’s been apart from Namjoon if he’s figured out what separates what’s for him and what’s for Namjoon. It used to always be interconnected, and he’d like to think it’s not that way anymore, but there’s a part of him that he thinks might never get over wanting to see Namjoon happy and secure. The same part of him that couldn’t tell Namjoon off the other day in the studio, the same part that still thinks of that day at Naksan as one of the best days of his life because Namjoon was happy, because he was giving Namjoon what he needed and that was enough. That’s always been enough; at least for Yoongi.

But Hiah doesn’t need to know all that. So, Yoongi nods his agreement and makes a non-committal murmur over his bottle of beer. Tries his best to make it through dinner without feeling like he’s making another Namjoon-induced mistake, the kind he thought he was done making a long time ago.

After a semi-awkward dinner, he turns down Hiah’s offer for coffee. She doesn’t owe him any kindness and he just wants to be alone with his thoughts again. They agree to stay friends, but it feels hollow, the kind of promise only made because both parties know the other won’t deliver. He might see her around, definitely wants to stay friendly, but can’t picture a future where Hiah pursues a friendship with him after he dumped her. He wouldn’t if he were in her shoes. He didn’t with Namjoon.

It makes him want to scream, the way his traitorous brain relates everything back to Namjoon, every thought just seconds away from being connected to his past somehow. It feels like years of progress are reduced to nothing. He walks through the crisp night air and thinks he should go back to his therapist soon, thinks he’s probably actually going insane this time.

The next day, he ignores his messages from Jin and Iseul, both asking why he’s broken up with Hiah, both not scolding but coming close enough that he doesn’t want to hear it. Both worried, he knows, Hiah’s probably told them that Namjoon had something to do with it and he’s sure Jin has thoughts about that. Honestly, though, he’s got no idea what they might be, because he and Jin have never talked about what happened with Namjoon—not out of the context of what happened with BTS, anyway. It’s actually one of the things Yoongi appreciates most about his hyung. One time, right when it happened, when it became abundantly clear to everyone that Yoongi and Namjoon were no longer sharing a car at the end of the work day, when Namjoon kept later than usual hours at the studio despite claiming he needed a break, when Jin caught Yoongi crying on the floor of one of the practice rooms at two in the morning… Then and only then did Jin ask. “Things are over, right?”

Back then, Yoongi nodded through his tears and let his head slump onto Jin’s stupid shoulder when he took a seat on the floor beside him.

Jin stayed quiet and just let Yoongi cry there until he didn’t have any more tears. And then finally, after a long stretch of silence, he poked Yoongi in the side and said, “Well, everything goes.”

Yoongi looked up, ready to lose his shit completely, only to see Jin stifling a laugh. Sent Yoongi into laughter, too, and soon the two of them dissolved into a fit of giggles in the quiet city morning, laughing because one didn’t know what to say and laughing because the only alternative for the other was to cry again.

“Thanks, hyung,” Yoongi said when they were done with hysterics and gathering all their stuff to leave.

“We can talk if you want,” Jin replied.

But they never did. So, Yoongi really doesn’t know what Jin ever made of the whole situation, doesn’t know if Namjoon and Jin ever talked about it, either. All this time, he’s made the assumption that Namjoon talked to someone about it, Hoseok probably, maybe Jimin, too. But he doesn’t really know. Doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to ask.

His phone is a graveyard of missed calls, missed texts, and email waiting for responses, but he ignores it all in favor of sending one message in a long-dormant kakao chat. He shouldn’t send it, he knows better, he’s pretty confident this is going to end up in more therapy and more tears, and probably a lot of whisky consumption, but he can’t tell his heart to shut up. It’s always been as loud or louder than his brain. An advantage usually, but sometimes he’s his own worst enemy.

It’s just a few words, but he can’t help but remember that’s more than Namjoon used to break his heart.

We can start work on your album tomorrow at noon.

Yoongi doesn’t wait for a response—Namjoon will show up or he won’t, and Yoongi decided a long time ago that he deserved better than to wait around for someone who couldn’t make up their mind about him. The circumstances are different, but the principle is the same. He plugs his phone in and leaves it while he takes Holly for a walk. He hopes the fresh air will clear his mind, but knows it probably won’t.

***

There’s something like a loud crash against his studio door exactly at noon. If Namjoon is the same as he always was, he’s probably been standing out in the hallway worrying about how loud to knock or if he should knock at 11:59 or if 12:01 would be more polite.

“Come in,” he says, spinning around in his chair.

There’s a soft thud and a groan. “Can’t.”

So, Yoongi gets up and opens the door for Namjoon, tries to push down the intrusive, cheesy thought that it’s a metaphor for something bigger.

“Hi,” Namjoon says quietly. His hands are full, coffee in each one and a bag of takeout hanging from one of his wrists. He’s bundled up, mask still on, a fluff of dyed brown hair poking out from under his hoodie.

“Hey.”

“I brought food. You haven’t eaten?”

“Not yet,” Yoongi admits. He doesn’t like that he’s still this kind of predictable to Namjoon, but he doesn’t want to lie either, and if Namjoon owes him a lot for what they went through, rice and kimchi is a good down payment. “Sit, and we can eat and go over some ideas for the album.”

Namjoon lights up—Yoongi can see it even under his mask. “Sounds good,” he says, more calmly than he looks.

They accomplish the first step; Namjoon sits on the small couch and his eyes dart around, probably trying to take in what’s changed since he was last in the room. Yoongi sits in his work chair across the coffee table and unpacks the food. It’s awkward. Awkward enough that they don’t quite make it to the second step: talking. Yoongi feels queasy, Namjoon looks like he is, and so they shove food in their mouths and avoid eye contact and the silence is simultaneously safe-feeling and painfully uncomfortable.

Until Namjoon breaks it.

“Are you sure you want to do this, hyung?”

Yoongi’s usually careful with his responses to questions like that, and takes time to choose his words. But he doesn’t have to this time. “No.”

“Why are you, then?”

“I’m not sure, honestly. Curiosity, maybe?” It’s not quite the right word, but he can’t think of a succinct way to say that he needs to know why Namjoon stopped loving him, why he wasn’t good enough to stick around for.

“Hmm…” Namjoon just murmurs, nothing coherent in response. It’s so terribly awkward, and Yoongi hates that they’re in this situation. He’s frustrated with himself for not being mad or angry, he’s frustrated with Namjoon for everything… But more than that, he wishes they could just be normal with each other. Just for a few hours. Just pretend like nothing ever happened and go back to 2014 when things were simple. He wishes they were at Naksan.

“Do you remember the day we drove all the way to Naksan for the sunrise?” he blurts out. He regrets it immediately when he sees Namjoon freeze, chopsticks in midair, eyes wide.

Then Namjoon nods, a cautious smile making it onto his face. “I do. That was a good day,” he says fondly. And then more quietly, he says, “That was the day I think I knew I loved you.”

And Yoongi doesn’t know what to say to that. Almost doesn’t believe it. It’s his turn to let his eyes go wider. “What?”

“Sure,” and Namjoon’s blushing now, bashful in a way that makes Yoongi’s heart feel like an instrument. “I remember thinking I was so lucky to have you in my life. So lucky that you would go out of your way to do something like that for me for no real reason other than that I wanted it.” He finally makes eye contact with Yoongi. “I remember thinking that it had to be what loving someone was; making sure they were happy. Putting them first. I felt so loved by you that day.”

Yoongi swallows. They’d never talked about it, not once. Never had that, “when did you know?” conversation that he thinks most young couples probably have.

“I would have done anything for you,” Yoongi replies. “That’s the day I realized that. That’s the day I knew I was in love with you, that I would choose you over me.”

Namjoon’s face falls a little. He’s not frowning, but it’s the look he gets when he’s really considering something, when he’s trying to put the pieces of some puzzle together. “Is that why you’re doing this?” he asks. “I don’t want you to do this if it’s like that. I don’t want you to choose me over you, hyung.”

He sounds a little desperate, a lot concerned. It’s not what Yoongi expected from him. Really, he’s not sure what he expected. Album talk, glossing over the past, asking about polite things like their military service, how their families are, what trouble their dogs are getting into… It wasn’t this.

“I don’t think so,” Yoongi answers.

“Good. If you’re sure.”

Yoongi nods, still a little shaken up from their conversation, ready not to talk about it more. Which is ironic, because the whole reason he’s agreed to this is to get answers and now that he has Namjoon here, seemingly willing to give them, he can’t even bring himself to ask the questions.

“Let’s get to work, then.”

They do, and it’s still weird, and the air feels thick and sticky and uncomfortable between them, but the music helps. Yoongi outlines his ideas for each track, Namjoon scribbles in his notebook and hums along, chewing on the end of his pen in between writing notes. They don’t get to the lyrics yet, just Yoongi’s initial impressions and thoughts, and Namjoon promises to review everything and make some adjustments and let Yoongi make some of his own. It starts to feel a little more natural, working on music together, and Yoongi almost lets himself feel good about it, in his element.

“I think what I really need to know is what you want to accomplish, you know?” he asks Namjoon as they start to wrap up for the evening. “What’s the message overall? And then, from there, we can get working on the individual tracks.”

Namjoon stares at him for a beat too long, pen pinched between his lips. He drags it out slowly and taps the other end on his notebook—one of the same nervous habits he’s had since Yoongi can remember.

“It’s a love letter, kind of,” he says. “Maybe more like an apology. I’m not entirely sure yet.”

Yoongi tries not to throw up or yell or just storm out of his own studio. A love letter. Kim Namjoon dragged him into producing some sort of love letter to someone after everything they’ve been through, after all this time. It’s fucking unbelieveable. His head feels like it’s spinning around in his skull and his heart isn’t cooperating much better. But, much to his surprise, he keeps his voice steady and calm when he replies, thinks he schools his expression into something stoic. “And you think I’m the right person to help you with this?”

“You’re the only one, hyung.”

And as much as Yoongi wants to tell him to fuck right off, something on Namjoon’s face doesn’t let him do that. He looks sad, hopeful, serious… Yoongi knows that for whatever reason, Namjoon means what he’s saying. And he may not like it, and it may drag up some shit that Yoongi’s been eager to keep to himself, but he may also get what he needs from this. If Namjoon’s so bent up over someone that he needs Yoongi to help him write an album of love letters to them, then he’s definitely moved on. And maybe he can help Yoongi move on, too. It’s dumb, but Yoongi’s always been a little dumb about Namjoon.

“Okay.” He stands, walking toward the door to let Namjoon out. “Same time next week?”

Namjoon’s voice is low and soft when he replies, a careful smile on his lips as he meets Yoongi at the door. “Thank you. You won’t regret this.”

Yoongi wishes he could believe that.

***

Whether it’s for better or worse, Namjoon was right. Yoongi doesn’t regret working with him on the album. There are times, of course, when things are tense, when the awkwardness between them seems to fill the room and threaten to suffocate him. But then one of them, somehow, lets the air out, and they move forward.

And they work so well together—Yoongi wishes he could say he’d forgotten about that, but of course he hadn’t. He and Namjoon had always managed to sink into a familiar rhythm together when they were making music, and working on Namjoon’s album was proving no different. When they were caught up in a track, it was easy to forget that Yoongi was supposed to be hurt, that Namjoon had chosen to walk away, easy to forget that Yoongi still didn’t truly know why Namjoon was back.

“Hyung!” The voice outside the door is unmistakable, and Namjoon and Yoongi both respond to it.

“Come in,” they say in tandem before Namjoon seems to realize it’s not his studio to invite anyone into, and Yoongi realizes that maybe Namjoon’s been in closer contact with the other members than he’d known.

Jungkook swings the door open, two coffees in hand, and freezes just inside the doorframe when he spots Namjoon sitting on the floor across from Yoongi with his lyrics notebook spread open on his lap.

“Hyungs?”

“Hi, Jungkookie,” Namjoon says fondly. “How’ve you been?”

“Good… I’ve been good. Busy. I, uh… I wasn’t expecting to see you.” He tilts his chin to the drink carrier he’s holding. “I would’ve brought you one, too.”

Namjoon just gives him a fond smile and lifts up the iced coffee he’s been nursing since dinner. “I’m okay, thank you.”

Jungkook seems nervous, eyes darting between Namjoon and Yoongi, not knowing what to say or where to sit.

“Well, can I have the coffee, or what?” Yoongi teases.

It at least seems to shake Jungkook out of his shock. “Right! Yes, here you go.” After he hands the drink to Yoongi, he adds, “What are you two doing?”

“Ah, working on Namjoon’s album.”

This seems to be even more surprising to Jungkook than finding Namjoon in Yoongi’s studio. His eyes go a little wide and he turns to Namjoon, whispering, “You played it for him?”

Namjoon’s cheeks flush and he scribbles in his notebook, pointedly not making eye contact with either of them. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “He’s helping me with the production.”

“Oh…” Jungkook seems like he’s considering the idea pretty seriously. “And how’s that going?” He’s cautious sounding; like he’s trying to ask something else but can’t find (or doesn’t want to find) the right words.

“Pretty good, I think,” Namjoon spits out quickly. “You know how it is with Yoongi and me.”

“Boy, do I,” Jungkook says under his breath, probably not realizing he’s louder than he thinks he is.

Yoongi feels a little lost, like they’re having a whole conversation that he’s not hearing, and he doesn’t know why Namjoon looks like he just got caught out doing something he shouldn’t. It makes him feel strange, like an outsider in his own studio with the idea that there’s something else going on. So, he interrupts them. “You’ve heard the songs, too?” he asks, head tilted up at Jungkook.

“Oh, I… Yeah. Hyung played them for me a few months ago when he was trying to figure out what to do with them.” He pauses for a second, taking a drink of his coffee, and then finishes. “They’re pretty personal… I think the album will turn out well.”

“Me too,” Yoongi agrees, and to his side, he practically hears Namjoon shrink under the praise, embarrassed probably, to be spoken about like he’s not in the room.

“Well,” Jungkook says with a shrug, “I should go. I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about.” His smile brightens. “Or, maybe you already have if you’ve heard the so—”

“Bye, Jungkook!” Namjoon practically shouts, too loud for the room.

Yoongi definitely does not know what’s going on with these two, and he’s not sure he wants to. By the time they all agree to get together for dinner in the next couple weeks, and Jungkook is shuffled out of the studio with lots of confusing murmurs to Namjoon as he leaves about being proud of him, Yoongi feels lost—he’s missed something, but he’s not quite sure what. He’s replaying the last five minutes over and over in his head before Jungkook’s even to the elevator bank.

“Still a strange kid,” he says as he sinks back into his chair.

Namjoon never really responds, just nods into his notebook and hums noncommittally.

***

Things, as they’re prone to do, finally come to a head a few weeks later. They’re in the studio, Namjoon recording a verse that hasn’t been sitting quite right with either of them. The more Yoongi hears it, though, the more he thinks it’s the lyrics that he’s taking issue with, not the delivery.

He spits out a line about nights being as long as eternity, another about getting out his words and then feeling empty inside, and all Yoongi can think of is how much those lyrics feel like all the sad and lonely lines he’s been writing since Namjoon left. It makes something pull at his chest, makes a lump in his throat start to swell for some reason he can’t quite identify. If Namjoon keeps going, Yoongi might assuredly do something stupid, might cry in front of his ex or try and pull him into a moment too intimate for what they are to each other now.

“Joon, can we take a break for a second? I want to talk about these lyrics.”

“Sure, yeah.” Namjoon pulls his headphones off and sits on the couch with a bottle of water. “What’re you thinking?”

He should have thought about this more, because now that he needs to say it, there’s no way to make it sound professional. Probably also no way to get Namjoon to drop it and put his headphones back on, so he’s a bit stuck.

“Maybe I’m missing something,” he says, trying to be as careful as possible, “but this seems so sad for a love song. They all do, really. And I… Well, I just want to make sure it’s saying what you want it to say to whoever you want to say it to. If I’m being honest, right now it sounds like you just feel sorry for yourself and that’s… That’s okay if that’s what you want to say, but if I put myself in the shoes of whoever it is you’re dating, this might make me think you’re still thinking about someone else.” He takes a long pause and watches Namjoon carefully for any sort of reaction. There isn’t much of one, just a crease in his brow that only appears when he’s thinking about how to say something he’s thinking. Yoongi knows that look, it’s familiar in the same way as the lyrics they’re talking about now—it’s Namjoon’s alone, but Yoongi knows it in his soul because nothing used to belong to only one of them.

Then Namjoon speaks, and it’s so quiet, Yoongi barely hears him. “Not dating anyone… haven’t for a long time.”

“Oh…” It takes Yoongi by surprise, because this whole time he’d been under the impression that Namjoon wrote this album for someone. Why write a love letter when you haven’t got anyone to write it to?

“I am, for what it’s worth.”

“You are what, Joon?”

Namjoon slides his fingers through his fringe and blows out a long breath, puffing his cheeks out. “Thinking about someone.”

The twist of feelings in Yoongi’s chest is rough. Confusion, a little hope, a little anger, because if Namjoon doesn’t mean him, it would hurt too much to know there was someone after him that meant more. If Namjoon does mean him… That’s almost worse. He tries to be measured in his response. “Well, I think we all do that sometimes.”

“Yeah… Maybe we do,” Namjoon agrees. Then more tentatively, he asks, “Do you?”

“Do I still think about people I used to be with? Of course I do.”

“Do you still think about me?”

And there it is, the question he’s been simultaneously hoping to get and hoping to avoid. He’s thought a million times about what he would say if they ever actually spoke about this, about them. Now that they finally are, though, he feels dumbstruck.

What he thinks is, every goddamn day. What he says is, “Yes, sometimes. You and I were…”

“Yeah,” Namjoon agrees. “We really were.” His voice just sounds like nostalgia, and Yoongi recognizes it in the way he’s been delivering these lyrics, choruses and verses bound with sadness and hope, a plea for absolution and to be loved.

It’s a startling realization when he has it, but at the same time, he wonders if he should have seen this coming all along. Little pieces of information start to snap together in his head—Namjoon asking for him specifically to work on this, and on every song, which is unusual in their business… Jungkook being so strange, Namjoon himself being cagey about who the album was for, about why he was inspired to write these kinds of songs, too wistful even for him.

“Who’d you write this for, Namjoon?” He’s firm in asking, not wanting to show how vulnerable he’s feeling, even though he’s asking for that vulnerability from Namjoon.

“Hyung, I…”

“Just tell me, please.”

Namjoon looks like he wants to sink into a hole, and Yoongi has no idea what Namjoon thought would happen, if he thought they could make this whole album and never have this conversation, or if he just thought he’d be able to control the timing and environment when they did. That would be classic Namjoon, thinking he has to plan out even his feelings so that they don’t pop up and inconvenience him.

It’s soft when he says it, a whisper almost. “You. Of course it’s for you.”

And Yoongi knew that, but having it confirmed sends him reeling. So he asks another question he’s not sure he wants the answer to.

“Why?”

On the couch, curled in on himself and looking uncharacteristically scared, Namjoon stays quiet for a while. Feels like Yoongi might sit here until his bones brittle before he gets an answer. Feels like that might be okay, like he’s probably not ready for whatever Namjoon is going to say anyway.

“Because you deserve an apology. You deserve to know that not one single day has gone by that I haven’t thought about you, about us… About how things ended when… when I didn’t even want them to. I have tried, hyung. I’ve tried to move on. And I can’t, you know? Feels like I lost everything and all this time I’ve been running trying to get it back, trying to fill some space in my heart that feels like a chasm and I… I just can’t do it. No matter what. It always comes back to you, and how we were—How good we were. I just…”

“You’re just selfish,” Yoongi interrupts.

Namjoon is crying now, glassy eyes filling and slowly spilling trickles down his cheeks. Was crying before he got called selfish, but now he’s crying and he looks like Yoongi just slapped him, surprise written across his face like a stain.

“What?”

“Selfish. You heard me. You say I deserve an apology, and I do, but not like this. Not with some grand gesture bullshit. A whole fucking album, Namjoon? You could have called. Did you even think about me when you did this, really? Or did you think about needing to feel less guilty?”

“I tried at first… I called, left you messages you never returned… and then… I don’t know,” Namjoon says. He looks like the leaking tears might turn into something harsher at any moment. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.”

Yoongi’s not sure why he says the next thing he does. Wants Namjoon to hurt a little, maybe. Doesn’t care anymore if Namjoon knows how much Yoongi’s still affected by him. “You know I was seeing someone when you came around?”

“No… I didn’t know.”

“She was great, you know? Smart, funny, beautiful. She was good for me, too. And then you showed up, and just the faintest idea of you being back in my life… It made it impossible to keep seeing her. It wasn’t fair to her, to be trying to build something with her when I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Knowing you were going to be around… I couldn’t give my attention to her the way she deserved. After all this time…”

It’s cruel, the way Yoongi saying he broke things off with Hiah puts this look on Namjoon’s face… One that’s part empathy and part anticipation. Cruel that he would give Yoongi the idea that they could be something again, cruel that he thinks that’s possible after what happened, after so much time has passed. Does he think so little of Yoongi that he thinks they can go back? Pretend like nothing happened?

“You should go, Namjoon.”

“Hyung…” It’s desperate when he says it, like he’ll take any crumb Yoongi will give.

And equally as desperate, Yoongi replies, “Please, Joon. Just go.” He can’t let Namjoon see him cry, and it’s going to happen soon. He doesn’t even want to have these feelings, but especially not in front of Namjoon. Not when he doesn’t know yet exactly what they are or what they mean.

Mercifully, Namjoon gets up to leave, packing his headphones and his notebook quickly, mumbling unwelcome apologies under his breath. Yoongi’s not sure he even knows what he’s apologizing for, still doesn’t think Namjoon really understands what happened between them or why it hurt so much. Certainly, Yoongi doesn’t begin to fathom why Namjoon seems like he was as damaged as Yoongi by the whole thing. Can’t understand what Namjoon said, that he didn’t want things to end with them. Because that day, he’d said plain as day, sitting them all at the big table in their old dorm, “I need a break from this.”

Everyone knew what that meant—a break from BTS, from the pressure and the lack of privacy and the heavy weight of expectation. And Yoongi knew, too, that their relationship went hand in hand with that. More pressure, more secrets… Hiding is work, it’s exhausting, it looms over every moment, and once you get over the excitement of something illicit, the constant fear isn’t fun anymore. So, Yoongi gave Namjoon what he wanted: a break. No matter how painful it was, no matter how unloved it made him feel, no matter how much he wanted to call, text, touch… anything.

As he leaves the studio, he turns to Yoongi one last time, tears still welling up but a little angry now, and says, “I wanted a break from the group, but you’re the one who took a break from us.”

This time, it’s Yoongi who feels like he’s received a verbal slap in the face.

All that night and the next day, it’s the only thing Yoongi can think about. How can they possibly see things so differently? How can their perceptions be so starkly opposed?

“Can we talk?” He says vaguely into the phone.

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, voice breaking. “I’m not sure.”

Jin is at his apartment within the hour. It’s good, he knows, to have a friendship like this. Even when they’re both busy and on separate paths, that they’re still there for each other when it matters, that they carve out time to maintain their friendship of over a decade. There’s something so comforting about knowing someone cares for you as much as you care for them. There’s a quiet confidence in his relationship with Jin that’s hard to achieve with most people.

“What’s going on with you?” Jin asks, fussing in the kitchen for whiskey and water and probably trying to find something to feed Yoongi, too.

“Do you remember,” he starts, “that day when Namjoonie sat us all down and said he needed a break?”

Jin snorts out a laugh. “Of course I do. Our lives sort of changed that day.”

He knows Jin isn’t laughing because it’s funny, more because it’s ridiculous to think any of them wouldn’t have the memory of that day imprinted on them… “What do you think he meant?”

The look he gets in return is part thoughtful, part surprised. “I think he meant he wanted a break, Yoongi. Not much gray area there.”

“A break from what?”

He hums in consideration before he answers, “The pressure mostly, I think. We all needed it, all wanted it. He was just the first one to say it. It was a lot. To write songs we didn’t love, and for him to be the spokesperson, to not have time for his own creativity to bloom anymore.”

“And?”

“And nothing, Yoongi. Sometimes people say what they mean. Namjoon usually says what he means.”

“So… Did you think… Didn’t you think he wanted a break from me, too?”

Jin stares at him like he’s just said the most outlandish thing. “No. No, I never thought that. Did he tell you that?”

“Not exactly…”

“Oh, Yoongi…” The look of pity on Jin’s face is enough to make Yoongi want to vacate the planet, but instead, he just turns his eyes to the carpet and listens. “I think you and Namjoon should talk.”

“Maybe,” Yoongi shrugs.

“I don’t think I have to tell you how ridiculous it is that the two of you might have given up years of being happy over something so…”

“Stupid?”

Jin gives him a sympathetic smile. “Yeah, sorry to have to say it.”

“Did you know? This whole time, did you know?”

There’s a long pause before Jin speaks again, and it’s fine. Yoongi knows it's a question that puts his friend in the middle—maybe makes him choose between honesty and loyalty. And aren’t those sort of the same thing anyway?

“No. Not really. We never talked about it, you and me. And Joon is so…” Jin waves a hand around for emphasis.

It’s clear what he means though. Some combination of smart, closed-off, quick to surrender. “He is, yeah…”

“He told me you weren’t taking his calls at first. Then when he enlisted… he told me he only regretted that you and he hadn’t found a way to talk through things. But he didn’t tell me what happened, not really. I assumed he said something without thinking, hurt your feelings, assumed you broke things off properly… But Yoongi, if you just… stopped speaking to him…”

It’s a little clearer now, in Yoongi’s head, what happened versus what he’s been telling himself. Namjoon got the group together, said he needed time to focus on himself, and Yoongi took that to the extreme, assumed the worst, let his biggest insecurities get the best of him. Maybe Namjoon did just mean a break from BTS. Maybe he didn’t mean a break from Yoongi. He had called a lot those first few days—left voicemails saying he knew he should have talked to Yoongi first, shouldn’t have blindsided him in a team meeting like that. Said he loved Yoongi and he was sorry. It’s so easy to see how what Yoongi thought he meant could have been wrong; how it could have just been taking things one step further than Namjoon was trying to take them.

“Fuck.”

“Sounds about right.”

“I should talk to him.”

“Couldn’t make things worse.”

***

It’s been one thousand days since Namjoon broke his heart, and the thought and those words weigh heavy on his heart and feel thick on his tongue. One thousand. It’s ten one hundred days. It's been almost three years. It’s all the time that he’s been running in place trying to get his life back but always feeling a little off kilter. Jin was right—Yoongi needs to talk to Namjoon, needs to confirm his worst fears, that he made this happen, that he shut Namjoon out preemptively, before Namjoon could do it to him. That, contrary to what he’s been telling himself, it’s been one thousand days since he broke his own heart.

Maybe the line between self-preservation and self-destruction is thinner than he’d ever thought.

It’s difficult though, hard to swallow his pride and his nerves and pick up the phone.

So, he doesn’t. He packs a bag and sends an email to work that he’ll be out for a few days and messages Jin to let him know he’ll be gone, too. When Jin asks him where, he just says he needs to go back to where things started. It’s vague enough that he knows Jin won’t track him down, probably thinks he means Nonhyeon-dong or Daegu. He wouldn’t know about Naksan.

The drive is longer than he remembers, quieter without Namjoon beside him rambling about Murakami or Skinner or some other author that most people would have choked through in college but Namjoon read by choice.

For the first time in a long time, he lets himself reminisce without trying to shut it down. He thinks about those drives: Namjoon reading out loud to him, Namjoon snoring in time with the rain beating down on Yoongi’s hood. Later, Namjoon sliding his fingers across Yoongi’s thigh and squeezing softly, his head thrown back and eyes scrunched closed with his smile in the passenger’s seat. Thinks about the first trip when he knew he loved Namjoon, thinks about the last one where they walked along the beach, Namjoon shirtless and glowing in the sun until Yoongi couldn’t stand not having him alone and dragged him back to their cottage.

He’d love to say it wasn’t intentional, booking that same hanok again—the quiet, cozy cottage tucked in closer to the forest than the ocean—but of course it was. Really, he just didn’t know where else to go, and well… if he’s planning to think (wallow) he might as well do it right.

When he pulls the car into the driveway, the cottage looks like it’s been stamped directly from his memory onto the landscape. It’s so funny how whenever it seems like everything in Yoongi’s life has changed, he somehow stumbles on the little things that remain the same.

Walking through the hanok, he sees vignettes of his past playing out on the low walls, across the countertops, and all over the sofa and beds.

Namjoon, sheepish, bringing a tray to the bed with something that vaguely resembles breakfast on it. Laughing when Yoongi runs a hand through his hair and tells him it’s the thought that counts.

Later, Namjoon’s fucked out moans when Yoongi shows him exactly what he’d had in mind for breakfast instead, his tongue moving in languid circles around Namjoon’s rim, fingers pulling his cheeks apart to slip deeper and deeper.

Sand covering the floor of the foyer as Namjoon panics because he didn’t realize he’d brought his new crab friend all the way back to the cottage. Yoongi in tears from laughter, Namjoon mortified at his potential animal abuse before making his way back to the beach to right his wrong.

The two of them, backs against the sofa and legs tangled at the ankles in front of them, arguing about the form of a song that would never even make it to an album. “Why don’t you just listen to hyung?” Yoongi says.

Namjoon’s muttered response as he pouts because he knows he’s wrong but he’s argued too long to admit it now—always so stubborn. “Because it sounds better my way.”

Yoongi shutting him up with a soft kiss that doesn’t stay soft for long.

He stands in that living room today, swearing he can see the two of them still on the floor: argument forgotten, song abandoned, panting into each other’s mouths and slick with sweat as they came to an understanding in their own way.

In the kitchen, he sees a golden-skinned Namjoon, perched on a barstool saying, “I love you so much I think I could drown in it,” as he watches Yoongi make him a sandwich. “Love you so big I can’t breathe around it sometimes,” he adds as an explanation as he twists his t-shirt around in his fist right above his ribcage. Sucks the air right out of Yoongi’s lungs, too, with the way Namjoon is looking at him.

All that for a sandwich.

Neither of them knew then what they know now—neither of them knew that they would drown in it, but that they’d also be the other’s fresh air, until the day the ugliest parts of their self-doubt snuffed it out like a spent cigarette.

Yoongi knows one thing: he’s barely been in that hanok for an hour and he needs to get out.

It should be easy to distract himself that day—he walks along the beach and only thinks about Namjoon a little bit. He runs to the closest store and gets some essentials for the next few days: whiskey, pork, rice, kimchi… He grabs what he needs to make jajangmyeon, too, even if he doesn’t like it all that well anymore. It’s just that it’s Namjoon’s favorite and Yoongi used to make it for him all every time they came to the hanok—slurping cold noodles together in the yard and drinking cheap beer until they were so full they both complained they’d never be able to move again. Then somehow finding the energy to move when Namjoon looks at Yoongi through his eyelashes in his best approximation of coy and says he should probably properly thank his hyung for the meal.

It should be easy, but it’s so very difficult to distract himself from thoughts of what used to be, he thinks woefully as he tries not to get hard in the market.

That night, he puts on a movie and eats quietly on the couch. He doesn’t return the missed calls he has from Jin, but he decides he likely will in the morning when his thoughts start to run away from him again. For now, it’s easier to be on his own—easier to worry silently over if this whole painful three years was a terrible misunderstanding, whether or not he took away his own happiness instead of letting someone else do that for him.

Neither is good, but one makes him feel so so so much worse.

***

There’s low, buzzy thrumming through his head when he wakes in the morning. There’s an ache in his shoulder that matches it—dull and persistent… He should know better than to fall asleep on the sofa like this. Warm beams of sunlight make the hanok feel a little stifling—he gets up to open some windows, lets the swift, salty breeze off the sea take away some of the stuffiness in the room.

Over coffee, he pulls his notebook out of his bag. He hasn’t touched it in ages, hasn’t thought about it much in between work and Namjoon. But it’s just as he left it, full of the words that he’s been afraid to turn into reality, too sad, too true, too much of his life on display. But knowing that things may not have (probably didn’t) actually happen the way he always told himself they did, the words take on a different temperament.

While it sits worse with him that he might have at least partially put himself in this position, it also seems easier to let it go. Seems like he needs to, like it’s time. People always say it’s hardest to forgive yourself, but Yoongi’s had a lot of experience with that. He knows he’s bound to betray himself at times, he knows he’ll do things that are stupid or reckless or thoughtless. It’s been harder for him to forgive Namjoon because he never thought Namjoon would take him for granted, never imagined Namjoon would hurt him in a significant way. Yoongi might hurt himself as a part-time job, but Namjoon treated him like something precious—cautious and sweet, kind and compassionate. Namjoon was more graceful with Yoongi in their time together than Yoongi could ever imagine being with himself back then. Before he and Namjoon even got together, he promised himself he wouldn’t look back on his mistakes as such anymore—they’re just him. He did his best, he’ll do better in the future.

It’s not easy to forgive yourself, but he’s practiced at it.

So, he sits with his coffee in the sunlight and lets those words breathe the sea air with him, gives them life, makes them real, and tries his best to start giving himself the grace he knows he deserves.

***

The day passes like that, Yoongi writing furiously, ignoring the cramps in his hands and the crick in his neck. When it’s nearly golden hour, Yoongi’s stomach rumbles and breaks his concentration for the first time.

It occurs to him that he’s strayed from his routine for the first time in a long time, and it feels surprisingly good. His heart is splayed out on the pages in front of him, and his stomach is painfully empty, but he is more full inside than he has been in three years. It’s not over, he knows he has to talk to Namjoon, knows there’s still forgiveness he needs to extend and receive in that relationship to really find some closure, but he’s far more equipped to do that now than he was when he arrived, certainly more than when he forced Namjoon out of his studio days prior.

When he goes back to Seoul, Namjoon’s will be the first number he dials, he promises that to himself while he grabs some fruit to stick in his pocket and leaves the hanok to spend at least a few minutes out of the house before sunset.

Outside, he can see a storm coming over the sea. There’s still time, but the sunlight is filtered in stripes through thickening clouds. It’s hazy and low, perfect for photos, but ominous for the small number of families Yoongi sees trudging toward him, away from the beach, weaving around him as he carefully makes his way down the path toward the ocean.

When he reaches the sand, the incoming storm has shooed enough people away that it’s nearly unoccupied. Rare for any place in Korea, but welcome. Yoongi likes being able to walk undisturbed, likes the sound of the waves giving a rhythm to his steps, likes to see if he can pattern his breath to match when they hit the shore. It makes music in its own way, and as he walks, he thinks about the songs he worked on that day, about what it might sound like to give a Pacific Ocean backbeat to some of the more hopeful of the lyrics he’s finished.

Ahead of him, someone sits in the sand facing the sea, knees pulled up to their chest and what looks like a backpack next to them. It looks like a man, although Yoongi’s far enough away he still can’t make out any of their details, not really. The folded body looks like it’s probably long when stretched out, but it’s curled in on itself as if whoever owns those long limbs is trying to coil them inward and gather some momentum from them.

Yoongi feels a twinge of empathy—something about their posture makes him think they’re gathering courage just like he is. He wonders what it is they have to do that they’re afraid of. Wonders if they’ve felt the freedom of finally putting words to their turbulent thoughts.

He’s probably reading too much into a man sitting on the beach.

He gets closer, and the person must hear him—their gaze finally breaks from the water and they turn their head in his direction.

It’s silly—Yoongi laughs silently at himself for thinking this guy looks like Namjoon. He’s spent too many hours shut in the hanok, too much time hunched over his notebook thinking about the past.

But then, the man stands up and plants himself in the sand, facing Yoongi, and runs a hand through his marine-air mussed brown hair.

“I knew you’d be here,” the man says... Namjoon says.

It’s enough to make Yoongi stop in his tracks, he tries to rationalize, tries to think of any possible reason his brain would actually hallucinate Namjoon standing on this beach talking to him in a perfect imitation of his deep voice.

“Jin told me you were going away for a while. He said he didn’t know where, but that you told him it was ‘back where things started’. So, I figured…” Namjoon’s nervous, his words trail off into the breeze. Yoongi’s still in shock, maybe, unable to move.

“Why are you here?” he asks softly. He can’t decide if it’s lucky or unlucky that the wind blows toward Namjoon, carrying his words along with it. They’re harsh, but his tone isn’t, it’s soft like the sand, the rocks in his heart already smoothed over more than he’d like to admit.

Namjoon gives him a one-sided grin that’s just as soft in return. “Wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice,” he says as he takes a couple cautious steps toward Yoongi.

“I don’t know what that means, Joon.”

“You said I didn’t try back then. I could have tried so much harder. I should have—you were right. I should have stood in front of you and made you listen, made you hear that you were the last thing I needed space from.”

Yoongi doesn’t know what to say to that—of all the ways he pictured his next conversation with Namjoon panning out, this wasn’t one of them. The wind is picking up around them, and so is Yoongi’s heartbeat and the speed with which Namjoon’s speaking.

“Hyung, I’m going to try this time. I’m here to try.” His dimple is gone, but the smile has been replaced with Yoongi’s favorite of Namjoon’s looks. It’s fierce determination—youthful and reckless and exactly the way he was when Yoongi started loving him (and a lot of things change, but oh, all the small things that stay the same, he thinks in a flash).

“I wanted a break from the group, but not from you. I wanted a break from that so that I could focus on me and what I wanted, but what I wanted was you. I wanted us to have a future, I wanted us to have time. We never had time… We deserved that.”

The storm is there now, and Yoongi can’t tell if the salt water on his cheeks is ocean spray or tears. Doesn’t think it matters either way, still doesn’t have the words to respond to Namjoon, still wishes they could have had this conversation years ago, still can’t separate the hurt from the fear from the love.

Rain starts, the sky splitting open above them as Namjoon watches, waits for Yoongi to respond. There’s water everywhere, and everything is overflowing and Yoongi thinks he must have wasted every good syllable he ever had writing lyrics today because he doesn’t know a goddamn thing anymore except this: he fell in love with a boy on the beach once, and he’s pretty sure he never ever once stopped loving him.

When Yoongi moves, it’s like the lightning that’s streaking across the sky above them. Namjoon’s eyes fly open when Yoongi’s arms fling around him, and he’s finally just as speechless as Yoongi when their lips meet. It’s rain-soaked and cold but Namjoon’s lips are warm and his arms around Yoongi are home and when he finally kisses Yoongi back it’s like drowning all over again.

They stay like that until Yoongi can’t feel his fingertips and Namjoon’s shivering into each slide of Yoongi’s tongue against his. When they pull apart, Yoongi’s found a few words, so he just repeats them into Namjoon’s soaked hoodie. “I’m sorry, let’s talk… I’m so sorry…”

And Namjoon holds his jaw carefully, thumbs wiping raindrops off Yoongi’s cheeks but losing the battle against the clouds, whispers back, “I’m sorry too, I never stopped loving you… Please, Yoongi, please…”

Their icy fingers are threaded together as they scramble back to the hanok. Sometime as they run along the beach, Yoongi realizes he doesn’t even know how Namjoon got there, doesn’t care really, but maybe someone’s waiting for him or expecting him…

“Joon-ah!” he calls over his shoulder, into the wind, realizing he never actually asked the question. “Do you want to come over and talk?”

Namjoon’s smile is bright enough to break the storm, and he looks like love with his wet hair stuck on his face, water flowing down his cheekbones like waterslides to his lips. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask for so long,” he says, squeezing Yoongi’s hand in his.

Jin’s car is in the driveway of the hanok, and it’s running, and the window opens just a crack when the pair rushes up through the yard. “You need me to stay, Namjoonie?”

“No, hyung, thank you… I don’t think so.” He turns to Yoongi, and it’s obviously a question: can I stay? Are we going to fix this? Do you want this?

Yoongi’s not sure what he expected, but Jin in his driveway after apparently driving Namjoon three hours there wasn’t it. He nods his head in agreement and mouths a “thank you” to Jin as he pulls Namjoon a little closer. The rain’s slowing, but they’re soaked and shivering and Jin has a long drive back to Seoul if that’s indeed where he’s going, so they wave and keep moving toward the house, peeling off shoes and hoodies as they enter. They see Jin flash his lights as he backs out, and Yoongi makes a mental note to buy Jin all the meat in Seoul when he gets back for what he’s done today.

They don’t really talk until they’re inside, dripping onto the foyer floor, Namjoon looking around curiously. Yoongi wonders if he’s trying to see how much has changed, wonders if he has the same film highlight reel of their greatest moments there playing across his field of vision as Yoongi did a day ago.

“Let me get you a towel and some dry clothes,” he says.

When Namjoon emerges from the hanok’s bathroom a few moments later, hair now half-wet and fuzzy from the towel drying, he’s wearing a pair of Yoongi’s sweatpants—comically short and not even covering his ankle bones.

It’s a stupid thing, probably, the way that Yoongi loves his ankles. Namjoon is big, that isn’t a secret, and he’s especially large in comparison to Yoongi. But his ankles are so delicate, tendon narrow and bone sharp against his maple wood skin. For years, Yoongi’s admired them, how they keep Namjoon’s long frame so (mostly) steady—they’re a miracle of physics and a good parallel for Namjoon as a person. Larger than life and painfully delicate at the same time.

“You’re staring,” Namjoon notes, drawing Yoongi’s attention away from his lower half.

“Those pants look stupid on you,” is all Yoongi says in return, and he doesn’t even mean it. Namjoon can probably tell; the words are delivered with a specific fondness that he doubts has been forgotten.

“I’d say that means I should take them off then, but maybe we should talk, instead.”

That’s a consideration, certainly. Kissing in the sand, Yoongi hadn’t let his thoughts get that far. Should they talk? Doesn’t he want to? Yes, and eventually, but mostly he wants to get that feeling back—the one of Namjoon’s thick bottom lip on his, the one of Namjoon’s arms holding him firm and insistent against a broad chest.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too, hyung. All the time and every day.”

“I think I know that now,” Yoongi admits quietly.

Namjoon gives him a hint of a grin in return, but it’s not an entirely happy one. “I wrote you letters,” he says. “Once a month. Never got brave enough to send them, though. Turned them into all those songs, instead.” Yoongi sits on the sofa while Namjoon speaks, and he pats the spot next to him in encouragement.

“I never knew you were so sad, Namjoonie…”

“No one asked,” he shrugs. “Don’t blame them… Things were hard for a while and that was mostly my fault. I know that. I guess Jungkook did once, though. That’s when I showed him all the lyrics.” Namjoon laughs, mostly to himself. “He cried for like an hour after he read them. He’s always been so soft.”

“They are pretty sad,” Yoongi agrees.

“I have another track for it. One with a little more hope. Haven’t been able to get it quite right—didn’t feel the right way inside to finish it, I think. But maybe…” He trails off, eyes lifting from where he’s been staring at the rain outside to look at Yoongi. “Maybe I could finish it now.”

And there is so much they need to talk about, so much to resolve, to hash out, to work through. This morning, Yoongi was just thinking they might be able to salvage a friendship, and now it’s confusing and bigger and all he can focus on his Namjoon’s lips on his and how nice nice nice it felt and how safe safe safe he would be with Namjoon if he just let himself forgive—let himself forget.

Just for a while, he thinks.

“Just for tonight,” he says, “maybe we can not talk…”

“Can I kiss you again?” Namjoon asks.

Yoongi doesn’t answer, just scoots himself forward until he can fit Namjoon’s jaw in his hands and his thumbs on those pretty pretty cheekbones and presses his lips careful careful quiet (but not nervous) to Namjoon’s.

They both hum into the kiss, Namjoon’s deep like a moan and Yoongi’s with the higher pitch of relief and release. Letting go of all the nerves and the fear and breaking everything down to the basest of parts: lips and tongue and teeth and hearts and he swears he can feel Namjoon’s beating steady like the waves and right in time with Yoongi’s.

They’ve always had the same rhythm.

It’s like that for a while—time feels fake because Yoongi thinks they must have been kissing for years, they must have never been apart. It gets messier and deeper and more intense as they kiss, and somehow he ends up in Namjoon’s lap with his fingers twisted in damp hair, pulling Namjoon as close as he can. Namjoon’s long fingers are teasing along his back, light touches under Yoongi’s shirt, moving across the back of his hip bones in a way that’s driving him wild, pricking up goosebumps on the thin skin there and daring to skim his waistband every now and then. It’s a question unspoken and one that they both already know the answer to.

“Take me to the bedroom,” he breathes against Namjoon’s lips. It’s not a request, not really.

Namjoon nods furiously, out of breath and flushed as he lifts them both from the couch at the same time in a display of strength that makes Yoongi’s insides tumble and twist.

They kiss their way down the hall, and Namjoon’s still clumsy in the precise way Yoongi remembers—his pointy elbows bump into the drywall to keep Yoongi from taking the hit and his teeth tug on Yoongi’s lips as he licks and groans into Yoongi’s mouth.

It’s an eternity before they make it to the bed—feels like the kind of forever Yoongi wants when Namjoon lays him down in the middle of the mattress and slowly pulls his joggers and briefs off.

“You’re so fucking pretty, hyung.” It comes in an exhale and Yoongi feels just as breathless when his mostly-hard cock bounces against his own pelvic bone.

“Did you forget?” He teases Namjoon instead of giving away quite how affected he is (beyond the obvious). “Used to tell me all the time, remember?”

Namjoon wraps a hand around Yoongi’s cock and strokes slowly, still looks surprised to be there, surprised Yoongi’s naked under him. “Didn’t forget… Pretty skin, so smooth and perfect. Pretty face,” he says fondly. “Pretty cock, too.” He squeezes around the shaft at that and leans over to kiss Yoongi again, tongue insistent and just as skilled as Yoongi remembers.

Yoongi’s already lost in it—it’s a little dry and a little less confident than he thinks Namjoon used to be, but it’s still so good. Namjoon thumbs over his slit and with his other hand, he swirls around Yoongi’s balls just the way he likes and it’s all so much. Unfair, Yoongi thinks, that Namjoon’s still not naked, but Yoongi doesn’t even think he can open his eyes anymore, so maybe it doesn’t matter.

“You still with me?” Namjoon whispers into his ear, teeth tugging gently at his earlobe and then lips moving down the column of his neck to tease at the thin skin there.

“Yeah, yeah Joonie… I’m here. Feels so good. You’re so good for hyung.”

Namjoon sounds like he might cry, voice cracking when he replies, “I missed this so much… Missed you.”

When Yoongi opens his eyes, Namjoon’s eyes are glassy, his pupils are blown and he’s got love and lust written in ee cummings trickles across the planes of his face. It’s a look Yoongi never thought he’d see again, makes him feel wanted and proud and so fucking turned on he might pass out before he comes.

“Want to feel you, Namjoon,” he whispers. “Please… need to see you.”

Namjoon kisses him lazy and deep before he sits on his knees and yanks his (Yoongi’s) shirt off with a hand behind his back. His body has changed—Yoongi can see all the soft spots gone a little firmer since his enlistment. His chest looks wider and more filled out, his abs are more defined… The way Yoongi’s sweatpants sit low on his hips is beyond indecent. He can almost hear himself swallow his arousal.

“I think I look a little different than last time,” Namjoon says in the most absurd understatement Yoongi’s heard this month. He looks bashful, and Yoongi can’t possibly think of what Namjoon would have to be ashamed of—he thinks he’s perfect.

“I think you look perfect,” he mumbles. It changes Namjoon’s bashful smile into a smug one as he climbs off the bed and pulls Yoongi’s sweats off. His back is to Yoongi, and it’s a view he’s seen more times than he can count, but it’s still as good as the very first time.

“You still keep lube in your bag when you travel?” Namjoon asks, throwing Yoongi a look over his shoulder. “In the small pocket?”

Yoongi nods, a little embarrassed to be known like this, a little awkward since it’s been so long since he’s been with Namjoon like this. He wonders, briefly, if anything’s changed about what Namjoon likes, wonders if he’ll still know how to make him come untouched. Wonders if Namjoon’s as predictable still as he seems to find Yoongi to be. Wants that, and also wants the small thrill of discovering all the new things, too.

Namjoon gets back on the bed and Yoongi moves to make room when Namjoon taps on his hip to scoot him over. He’s always been like this, a little bossy, a little quiet until he’s got something brushing his prostate—then he’s pliant, talkative, a bumbly mess in the best way. Filth spills from his lips but it never makes much sense, just fragments of feelings and always a little bit of desperate pleading mixed in, always wanting more and deeper and harder.

When Yoongi scoots down the bed and sits on his knees, expecting to slick up his own fingers and work Namjoon open slowly the way he likes, he gets his first surprise. Namjoon’s on his back with a pillow under his hips and he’s already two fingers deep, cheeks pink with a sheen of sweat on his forehead and staring right at Yoongi.

It takes a lot of self-restraint not to try and slide one of his own fingers in alongside the two already there. “Oh, Joonie… You look so good like this, opening yourself up for hyung.”

“Want to be good for you,” Namjoon says, a little whiny. “Think about you all the time when I do this. Always you…”

The angle’s all wrong, Yoongi knows it can’t feel great on his wrist, but then he sees the moment Namjoon finds the spot he’s been looking for—Namjoon’s eyes roll back in his head and he lets out a groan that sounds a lot like, “Yoongi,” and Yoongi has to kiss him.

He pushes Namjoon’s hair off of his forehead and presses their lips together, slides his tongue across Namjoon’s and then pulls away to whisper praise into his ear—tells him he’s a good boy, he’s so pretty, he’s doing so well, Yoongi can’t wait to be inside him.

They kiss slow and heavy, Yoongi’s dick is pressed up against Namjoon’s hip, and as Namjoon works a third finger in himself and moans long, Yoongi moves in little grinding motions against him—can’t help himself, needs just a little relief while he waits for Namjoon to be ready for him. He’s not huge, but Namjoon’s always needed a good amount of prep and they both like this part, like the anticipation and the teasing and the kissing.

“I’m ready,” Namjoon says, voice shaky. “Need you to fuck me now… Please,” he adds.

Always so polite while he makes Yoongi lose his mind.

Yoongi sits up, makes a point of mouthing along Namjoon’s cock before he goes—it’s nothing too intense, just wet and open lips across Namjoon’s length, a little swirl of his tongue around the crown that makes Namjoon whine loudly and repeat himself. “Please, hyung… Please, I need it…”

“Okay, yeah…Want to take care of you,” Yoongi agrees. He finds the condom Namjoon had left on the bed earlier and rolls it on, then sets himself between Namjoon’s thighs. He pauses then, because in movies, this is the moment when everything changes. When sex makes the feelings irreversible, sets two people on a path that they can’t walk backward along. Whatever he and Namjoon have isn’t a movie, it’s absolutely no fairytale, and even if Yoongi never slides into Namjoon’s tight heat, things will have changed between them. So, there’s nothing to lose, not really, and he’ll get the whole fucking world, he decides when he looks in Namjoon’s eyes, if things keep changing for the better.

Before, they weren’t careful and slow. Before, when Namjoon said he was ready, Yoongi would believe him and give him everything all at once. It was always deep and deeper and fast. But this time, he takes his time sliding into Namjoon. Wants to remember this, wants to document each still frame in case this is the last time. It’s something he’s always regretted about before, that he took their last time for granted.

Or, what he thought would be the last time, anyway.

“Oh, holy shit,” Namjoon sighs as Yoongi’s tip enters him. It’s followed by that mumbling, slurred rambling that Yoongi’s missed so much. It’s a mess of, “feels so good… hyung, please… fuck me, please” but never comes out coherent like that and Yoongi bends over to kiss the words right out of his mouth. When their lips part, Namjoon whispers, “Please hurry...” in the most desperate voice Yoongi thinks he’s ever heard.

“You’re so tight, Namjoon, give me a second… Feels too good, don’t want to come already.”

Namjoon’s coherent enough to smile at that, his lips so close to Yoongi’s still that it’s almost as much a feeling as it is a sight.

Finally, finally, Yoongi works all the way in, his hips flush with Namjoon’s skin. He pauses for a minute, finds one of Namjoon’s hands and tangles their fingers together at their sides, and then he pulls out halfway and thrusts back in.

“Oh my god,” Namjoon groans. “Don’t stop, please…”

And Yoongi doesn’t. Keeps licking the curses out of Namjoon’s mouth and pushes one of his thighs back further so he can get the right angle. When he starts hitting Namjoon’s prostate on every thrust, he feels Namjoon’s fingers tighten around his, feels him moan into Yoongi’s mouth, sees the tears gather in the corners of his eyes.

“You’re so good, Namjoonie, feel so good around my cock.”

“I’m so close, hyung,” he whines, follows it with a little begging, just like always, greedy for more.

“Are you gonna come for me,” Yoongi asks. “Just like this?”

Namjoon can only nod because Yoongi’s picked up his pace, curves his back so he can get one of Namjoon’s nipples in his mouth, teases and nips at the skin there and makes Namjoon absolutely keen underneath him.

This is what Yoongi remembers, the almost nonstop, “Please, please, please… wanna come, hyung,” that Namjoon’s repeating.

“Yeah, come on, baby, want to see you,” he agrees, out of breath and so enamored all over again.

Yoongi lets go of Namjoon’s thigh and runs just the tip of a finger along Namjoon’s cock—that’s all it takes. Namjoon lets out a long moan and then he’s coming, body tightening around Yoongi and cum streaked across his own stomach before he goes lax and loose.

“Want you to come, hyung,” he says, and it comes out a little raspy and foggy, and Yoongi loves him like this.

Loves him.

“Fuck, I love you… Love you, Namjoon.”

Namjoon wraps long arms around Yoongi’s shoulders and pulls him closer. “Love you so much, hyung.”

And that’s what does it for Yoongi. He gives a couple of staccato thrusts into Namjoon and then he’s spilling into the condom and trying not to collapse down on top of the man underneath him.

They’re kissing again, drawn out and soft, and they stay that way until they can’t really anymore, Yoongi slipping out of Namjoon and disposing of the condom while Namjoon closes his eyes and wipes leaking tears out of his eyes.

In the bathroom, Yoongi grabs a washcloth and looks in the mirror. He doesn’t look any different than he did this morning, but he feels like he’s been reborn a little. It’s dangerous to feel this hopeful, but it’s a hell of a lot more interesting than feeling so sad.

He cleans Namjoon as best he can, and gets water for both of them before climbing back into bed.

“We should talk tomorrow,” he says as he pulls Namjoon tight against him and presses a kiss to his shoulder.

“Yeah, we’ll talk tomorrow… Need to talk,” Namjoon agrees sleepily.

“Go to sleep, Namjoonie.” Fond, fond, fond.

“G’night, hyung.”

Namjoon’s asleep before he can say it back.

Yoongi lays in the dark bedroom and he holds Namjoon tight, and sleep evades him. There’s so much unsaid, so much they really do need to figure out. They can’t just pretend the last three years didn’t happen, and there’s so much Yoongi wants to know, so much he wants to tell Namjoon, too.

But it’s late, and he’s tired, and Namjoon’s already started snoring, so it will wait. They will sleep, and in the morning, they’ll walk this new path together and this time, Yoongi will say what he means and ask questions and get all the information before he decides what someone else is thinking on their behalf. If Namjoon can try, he can, too.

They both deserve at least that much.

It’s been less than one day since he let Namjoon back into his life, and the last thing he thinks before he slips into sleep is that for once, he might not still be counting the days when he wakes up in the morning.

#yoongi x namjoon #yoongi fic #namjoon fic #yoongi imagine #namjoon imagine #bts fanfic #bts smut #yoongi smut #namjoon smut #bts writing #kvanity #btshoneyhive #btswritersclub

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