companion fic to and you did it for me. you, moon, ask the world for its hand, but you court the sun under the shade of the night sky. the closer you get, the brighter you beam. showing, knowing. you foolish child.
i'm sorry for sleepy five a.m. writing about sleepy romance that isn't really romance. title from elliott smith's placeholder which has nothing to do with the fic at all. crossposted to ao3.
He doesn’t mean for it to happen. For him to see them, like that. They’d probably figured he’d go out with the other two kids, out to play, and leave them at bay. He really—he really doesn’t mean to see them there, in the kitchen.
Jimin doesn’t walk in. Jimin doesn’t announce his presence with a loud call. Jimin stands there in the doorway, clutching at his snapback absently. He stands there, almost frozen in place, and sees Hoseok run his mouth down the side of Yoongi’s neck, both their backs facing him, one hand sneaking up the front of Yoongi’s worn-out white shirt that he always wears at home. Neither of them see him. Neither of them realise that they are being seen.
He backs away, slow. Yoongi is beginning to shift around to face Hoseok, voice rumbling low, through the air, “I’m trying to wash the dishes.”
“Later,” comes Hoseok’s voice in turn, in that melodic little singsong that twists its way around his words whenever he’s weary and sleep-logged. “There’s time to do other things, too.”
Jimin doesn’t mean to see them. He really—it had been an accident. He ends up seeking out the kids in one of the company practice rooms, and spends the rest of the day replaying the moment in his head. The way Hoseok had smiled against Yoongi’s skin. The way Yoongi had said Hoseok’s name as Jimin had opened the front door with all the silence of a mouse.
Later, much later, when he gets back with the others, and they are all gathered together for dinner, Jimin can’t help but steal glances towards the two of them. Have they—have they been doing this for long? What are they doing, really? What are they, really? Are they—are they together?
“Jimin,” says Yoongi crossly, “you’re getting sauce on the floor.”
“Shit, sorry,” mutters Jimin, diving for a tissue. At least, he guesses, this hasn’t changed anything. If he hadn’t seen them, he never would have guessed that they were... doing things together.
But his gaze lifts, and there’s a quiet moment that no one else catches, Yoongi shifting a piece of meat from his bowl to Hoseok, and tapping his chopsticks lightly against the edge of his bowl, murmuring for him to eat more, he’s getting too thin these days. Hoseok glances up, and that twisted flash of an almost-smile only seems to make Yoongi frown more.
Later, much later, Jimin makes sure to leave Hoseok’s favourite flavour of Pocky under his pillow. At least, if Yoongi can do one thing, it’s to look after Hoseok when none of the others realise that they should.
They don’t see it as much as they hear it.
It comes in the form of whispered words, soft and trailing, through the living room, and through the crack of the open door of the room. Jeongguk and Taehyung have their phones in their hands, backs propped up against their beds, but their ongoing game of Crash Bandicoot has gone silent, for the voices that overtake the air are of much more interest.
“We can’t keep doing this,” says Yoongi first, only slightly muffled, and that’s when Jeongguk glances over at Taehyung, who shrugs back, unknowing. They don’t know what’s going on. Possibly an argument in the works. The hyungs do argue, sometimes. Over music. Over things that they have to do. It’s only a few more months to debut, and they’ve been spending a lot more time together.
A sharp exhale. “I know,” whispers Hoseok, “but what do you expect me to do? Pretend you don’t even exist? Christ, Yoongi,” and that makes both of them look up at each other, because they’ve never heard Hoseok talk to Yoongi that informally before, they’ve never heard Hoseok call him anything other than Yoongi-hyung or Suga-hyung, and this is Hoseok here, that we’re talking about, “you know I can’t do that.”
“Three months, Hoseok.” Yoongi’s voice dips down low, dangerous. Taehyung abandons his phone, scoots a little closer to the door. Jeongguk hesitates. The conversation sounds awfully private. In a way, they probably shouldn’t be listening. They should close the door. They should stop listening. “We’re going to debut in three months.”
Footsteps, light, but still there. Hoseok’s voice comes again, this time even quieter, and both of them have to strain their ears to hear what he says next. “You think I don’t know that?” Almost desperate, he sounds. Taehyung hasn’t heard him sound like that since the time he’d sprained his ankle and begged to be allowed to join in on dance practices early anyway. “You think I don’t know how much is at risk? We’re both risking the same things, Yoongi.”
“Hoseok,” says Yoongi, voice cracking, and there’s the rustle of fabric, the sound of hands, maybe. Jeongguk lines up his vision with the tiny crack in the doorway, and sees Yoongi with his hands fisted into Hoseok’s shirt. Are they going to fight? Jeongguk glances back at Taehyung, who only looks anxious, but then he’s pressing his eye back to the gap, and oh.
“What is it?” hisses Taehyung, but Jeongguk just shakes his head, scooting back, shaking his head and making his way back to his spot. Jeongguk watches Taehyung echo his actions, then pull back with a strange expression on his face.
Taehyung quietly pushes the door closed all the way, shutting out whatever else might float through, before scuttling back into his place too, picking up his phone again.
They resume their game, silent, until three rounds have passed.
Only then, does Jeongguk ask, “Did you see them—”
“Yeah,” says Taehyung. His grip on his phone is strangely tight. Jeongguk doesn’t realise he’s holding his phone the same way until he glances down for a second. “Should we—”
“No,” says Jeongguk immediately. They should have closed the door. It wasn’t their conversation to hear. Those aren’t their words to tell. That—that hadn’t been theirs to see. “No, they’ll. They can sort it out themselves.”
“Yeah,” repeats Taehyung, nodding, biting his lip. “They can.”
For the next three days, Yoongi and Hoseok do not look at each other. On the fourth, Yoongi sits next to Hoseok in the van on the way to the recording studio, and offers him one side of his earphones. Jeongguk and Taehyung watch Hoseok accept it cautiously, before letting show the slightest hint of a smile. And Yoongi, Yoongi smiles back.
Jeongguk looks at Taehyung, and the unsaid is traded between their gazes. They can handle it themselves, says Jeongguk, and Taehyung replies, yeah.
The way Yoongi smiles is different, now.
Months pass, weeks roll in, and the days stumble in, one after the other, but they do not seem to deter Yoongi in the slightest. They are five months into debut, only five months and already worked to the bone, but Yoongi is smiling more than he’s ever smiled before, and if Seokjin can see that, then, so can the rest of the world.
But Seokjin has always been just a little more observant, when it comes to human nature. Emotions. Ranging from teaspoon to fireworks; there’s always something more to a person, in the way they act, in the words they speak, in the set of their features after a long day. It comes down to many things. Good news. Bad news. The changing of the tides. The weather, perhaps. A bout of luck. Heatstroke of the mind. A switch in paces.
Jung Hoseok, maybe.
Don’t figure Seokjin for a blind man. It doesn’t take two to tell that Yoongi turns brighter when Hoseok’s in the room, even if he denies it with the passing over of phrases, even if he ignores it through the desert-dry words he fires. It doesn’t take many to tell that Hoseok has done something to him, for the better, for the worse?
For the better. Seokjin watches them, a precarious dance of one and the other, one and the other, one and the other together. They are immersed in each other, constantly backing each other up against the wall, constantly keeping each other on their toes. It’s almost fun to witness.
He might be the least visible of the group, in terms of just about everything. He’ll always come in fourth-best to Jeongguk, to Jimin, to Taehyung. He can dance just about a fraction better than Namjoon. He doesn’t have a million charming lines that he can drop on a whim, he doesn’t have the banter and the easy play that they others have with each other, sometimes. But Seokjin witnesses many more things, the things that most people do not really ever catch.
Hoseok, his gaze lingering a little too long whenever he catches sight of Yoongi in the mirror during dance practices. Yoongi, his arm stretched out across the back of Hoseok’s shoulders in the car, fingers absently toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. Hoseok, stumbling into their room after a late night running moves, and accidentally finding his way to Yoongi’s bed first, before making it to his own.
Seokjin sees a lot of things. Seokjin—Seokjin sees, but never tells. He figures, it’s not his story to tell. It’s theirs.
But, he supposes, he’s allowed the slightest bit of envy. He’s always wanted someone to smile at him the way Yoongi does at Hoseok. But, well. You can’t have everything. Or anything at all, sometimes, when it comes to Seokjin.
“Hyung,” calls Hoseok, head poking through the doorway, “come on, it’s your turn to record.”
Seokjin clears his throat, stands, and sings his verse to himself once more, as he makes his way to the door.
Contrary to popular belief, Namjoon is not the deep sleeper everyone figures him to be.
It’s not very possible to be one, considering their schedules, the way he attempts to nap anywhere and everywhere he can. In dressing rooms, in the car, in between practices and schedules piled-on to no end in sight.
He falls asleep on the couch in the room one night, working late into the early hours of the morning with the others, and stirs to the sound of a pencil clattering onto the table, followed by the soft exhale of a word.
Namjoon lets a single eye crack open. Hoseok and Yoongi are still awake. Hoseok and Yoongi are murmuring something about the song, something about his name. Hoseok—oh. Hoseok has his face nuzzled into Yoongi’s neck, and Yoongi’s arm is draped casually around Hoseok’s shoulders. “What if he wakes up right now?” comes Yoongi’s voice, soft, and Namjoon nearly snorts, “what if he sees us, right here?”
Too late for that. “It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before,” replies Hoseok, almost playful, but there’s a strange lilt to the words, as if he’s given up. As if he figures that Namjoon waking up to see the two of them together won’t be the worst thing that could happen.
They sit like that for a long time. Namjoon almost drifts back into the land of sleep, just watching them sit like that, leaning against each other, until Hoseok straightens up and announces a food break, followed by Yoongi’s complaints, and Hoseok’s coercing.
Going without him, too? They’d better bring him back something if they go. Namjoon keeps his eyes closed, letting out one or two feigned snores for added effect, and waits for them to leave, the door closing behind them before he gets up, blinking wearily.
It’s almost funny, really. Namjoon gets up, sits in the seat that Yoongi’s just vacated, and picks up the loose sheaf of paper that Yoongi had been scribbling on. The lyrics that read are too honest, too raw, and too real to be theirs. No relationships, they always tell the radio show hosts, embarrassed grins and regretful shakes of the head, we’re not allowed to, how would we know what love really is like?
Namjoon sets the paper back down again, and glances up at the monitors, eyes following the wavelengths that are scrawled across the screen. They should probably get rid of that sustain, in the middle. He’s going to have to argue with Yoongi about it, tomorrow.
But, really, how funny. How strange it is, that Namjoon is always the one trying to keep the group patched together. From falling apart. Is he the only one who actually cares, these days? No wonder he’s the leader. Hoseok and Yoongi are too busy with each other to realise just how much Namjoon puts into making sure everything is fine. That they’re all fine. That they’ll always be fine.
Then again. Namjoon picks up the sheet of lyrics. These are about someone.
He settles back onto the couch, hoping to get just a little bit more shut-eye before they return, and it’s a blessed forty minutes before they do. Namjoon awakens to the smell of fresh, hot instant coffee filling the room, and the soft thud of a ramyun cup against the surface of the work table.
Then, “Hello,” whispers Hoseok, and Namjoon will never be able to forget, not ever, how one word can contain so much adoration within it, just one single word, “that was nice.”
“Yes,” comes Yoongi’s reply, even fonder, doused even more in the same kind of emotion that had wrapped itself around Hoseok’s very first word. It almost hurts to hear these words that are not meant for the ears of anyone else. “It was.”
They fall silent for a few moments, save the soft sound of hands moving and clothes brushing together. Namjoon blocks out the sound of his friends kissing right behind him, and focuses more on the fact that he can’t do anything about them, because they’re so fucking in love they don’t even realise it, and there’s really no saying anything about it.
Funniest thing of all, love is. They sing about it constantly, they write about it, they hear it played out across the airwaves, put on a pedestal and lifted up above the masses, to the masses, for the masses. Nobody ever really realises, when it hits, except the ones who see it from the outside.
And then, a fist is being knuckled against his temple, most unwelcome, and Namjoon groans, because it means work, work and more work, and Hoseok’s godawful voice is in his ear, calling for him to get up, or he’s drinking all the coffee himself.
No way he’s going to let that happen.
It’s almost fitting that Hoseok and Yoongi are the ones who fall asleep later, heads together on the couch. Namjoon pulls the ugly old maroon blanket over them, and lets out a sigh through his teeth. Even in their sleep, they angle towards each other, hands seeking each other out. Namjoon pauses for a moment, tucks the blanket over their entwined fingers, and says quietly, “You guys are more trouble than it’s worth.”
What would he have done, anyway?
He sits down at the desk, picks up a pen, and begins to write. He writes about the affection in a person’s words, he writes about the intensity in a person’s gaze, he writes about the trading of breaths and phrases and little deaths, hidden behind nonsense-rhymes and words of the same kind.
How would we know what love is like, rings true in his mind.
We watch. We take. We learn.
And some of us, thinks Namjoon, some of us just end up loving, in the end.
They will never call it love.
But it’s getting pretty damn close.