Archive of Our Own

Min Yoongi 


Namjoon stares blankly at the inside of his left wrist before rubbing at the neatly inked black lettering, feeling his world tipping and falling out of balance because who the fuck is Min Yoongi? Namjoon doesn’t know a Min Yoongi, has never even heard the name uttered within his circle of friends (and Namjoon has a lot of friends), but he does know a Kim Seokjin.

Kim Seokjin. Senior and the epitome of high school sweetheart. He sits two seats down from Namjoon in his Accelerated English class and Namjoon may or may not have written a couple (or twenty) songs about him throughout the course of his three years of high school, lead pencil scribbles that cover pages and pages of his lyrics notebook. Namjoon met Seokjin last year, if opening his locker in the other’s face counts as a meeting. He’d stumbled over a “holy shit I’m so sorry” before proceeding to run to the third floor, slamming open the dance studio’s double doors and whine to Hoseok about how clumsy he is and holy shit Seok, I swear he came from one of those manhwas Taehyung loves reading so much.

Hoseok laughs when Namjoon tells him he’s found his soulmate, flushing bright red as he gushes like a schoolgirl over Kim Seokjin’s eyes and his lips and his neck (“what the fuck Namjoon? His neck?”) and Namjoon had been so, so sure that there could be only one name that would be etched into his wrist by the time he turns twenty. 

“It’s not Seokjin is it?” are the first words out of Hoseok’s mouth when he sees Namjoon’s eyes, all red and puffy that there is absolutely no question what he’s spent the better part of the morning doing, leaving all of Hoseok’s messages unanswered.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Hoseok reaches out, as though to grab Namjoon’s wrist but he jerks it away, eyebrows pinching together and locking his jaw.

Hoseok sighs, “Who is it?”

Namjoon hisses, right hand covering his left wrist (out of sight, out of mind) “Does it fucking matter?”

And Hoseok pulls back, both hands up in the universal gesture for surrender because no, no it doesn’t matter. It doesn't matter to Namjoon who the name on his wrist belongs to, because whoever they are, they aren’t Seokjin and that’s all Hoseok needs to know.

“Namjoon-ah.”

And that’s all it takes for the metaphorical dam to break, words spilling out of Namjoon a mile at a minute and Hoseok just lets him, knows that Namjoon needs to get it all out of system otherwise he’ll bottle it up and let it fester. He stays silent. Silent because, if he’s being honest with himself, he saw it coming ages ago, from the first day Namjoon declared Kim Seokjin would be his soulmate, stars in his eyes and high on the giddy teenage notion of love. And Hoseok had laughed, laughed because he didn't have the heart to remind Namjoon that Seokjin is older than them both and Hoseok’s seen the name tattooed on the inside of the senior’s wrist, and the letters didn’t spell out “Kim Namjoon”.

“—and I was just so fucking sure Seok-ah. I was so fucking sure it couldn't be anyone else...”

Namjoon trails off, the “but it is” left unsaid, and Hoseok takes a deep breath. “What are you gonna do now then?” 

The fingers on Namjoon’s right hand dig into the skin around his left, and if he hadn’t bitten down his nails, he would’ve drawn blood. “I don't know,” he finally says, turning to Hoseok with wide, unblinking eyes, “what can I do?”

Hoseok’s never felt more helpless and maybe he should’ve just told Namjoon the truth, when the younger boy first came to him. Maybe he should tell Namjoon now. Maybe he shouldn’t tell Namjoon at all.

Turns out the decision isn’t Hoseok’s to make because Namjoon finds out about it anyway. In the first week of winter, in between fifth and sixth period, on his way out of the fourth floor music room, stopping when he hears voices floating out of one of the rarely-used drama classrooms.

“You want to see my tattoo?”

It’s a voice he doesn’t recognise and he’s just about to continue walking when—

“Y–yeah. I need to check something.” 

He freezes, heart leaping to his throat because that’s a voice he recognises. A voice he’s heard many, many times in Accelerated English, drifting from two seats in front of Namjoon as he absentmindedly scribbles more lyrics of the margins of his workbook. 

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t because whoever Kim Seokjin is with, they’re in a classroom on the fourth floor and it’s clearly a private affair but if Namjoon just takes one more step forward he’ll be able to see through the crack in the door—

Curiosity wins (as it always does) and Namjoon takes a step forward, chest immediately clenching.

Seokjin is facing a brunette, shorter than him (though not by much), baby fat still clinging to his cheeks and he must be a junior because Namjoon’s never seen him in any of his classes or between classes, but he puts a name to the face in the next second. 

Jeon Jungkook. In neat, black letters on the inside of Seokjin’s left wrist, the sleeve that usually covers the name is rolled up to his elbows. It looks a lot less elevated than Namjoon’s one and he realises with a pang that Seokjin’s probably had it for quite a while. Definitely longer than Namjoon, who’s only had his for half a year.

Namjoon stays long enough to see Jungkook pull up his own sleeve – Kim Seokjin in fresh black letters, the surrounding skin still a reddish-pink and it can’t be any older than a couple of days.

He doesn’t see Seokjin pull Jungkook in for a kiss but he hears the “I finally found you” that escapes the senior’s lips in a giddy breath and he bolts back into the music room, locking himself in the soundproof recording booth until Hoseok finds him, way after the bell has rung for the end of the day and Seokjin and Jungkook have long since left the fourth floor.

Namjoon spends the rest of the year tearing holes in the lines of his notebook when he presses down too hard with his black ballpoint. On some days, it’s not so bad. Some days, he can look at the name on his wrist in the reflection of the bathroom mirror, fogged up after a longer-than-usual shower, and his heart won’t clench and he won’t crumple up the tear-stained pages of his notebook. He’ll catch himself thinking about what Min Yoongi looks like and if he sounds anything like Kim Seokjin and it’ll hurt, but it’ll be okay because the name on his wrist is proof that at the very least, there’s someone out there for him. But in school, where Namjoon sees Jungkook and Seokjin pressed up against each other in empty classrooms and hidden corridors, he keeps his sleeves down, even in the sweltering summer heat, and does his best to forget about Min Yoongi.

It gets better when autumn comes around again, bringing with it a new school year and a packed schedule. Namjoon enters his last year of secondary education and it only hurts in the afternoons, when he sees the recently graduated Kim Seokjin outside the school gates, no doubt waiting for Jeon Jungkook. Most of the time, though, he forgets about Seokjin and Jungkook, he forgets about Min Yoongi. He forgets about soulmates.

Namjoon graduates high school at the top of his class and enters university with a name on his wrist that he’s long stopped thinking about, yet remembers as clearly as his own.

Autumn falls into Winter, bringing with it a chill that seeps through Namjoon’s scarf and jacket and settles against his skin with something that feels a lot like loneliness. He’s nearing the end of semester, and maybe it’s the dull grey skies or the craving for warmth, but Namjoon finds himself brushing the pads of fingers over insides of his wrists, more and more. The letters are no longer elevated, like they used to be, and Namjoon easily superimposes a different name to the one that he knows, whether he wants to or not, is inked into his skin.

“Yoongi?”

The name ends in a question, just loud enough to be heard above the hustle and bustle of the university’s most popular cafe and Namjoon stops with his fingers above his phone screen, head snapping up fast enough to send a sharp jab of pain to his spine. But it doesn’t matter, because it’s the first time he’s heard that name come from the lips of someone other than himself in a long, long time and he has to know. He watches, eyes on the barista, waiting to see who, in the huddle of university students, the order belongs to. 

A boy, significantly shorter than Namjoon and wrapped up tightly in a grey scarf, sleepy eyes half-hidden by soft brown locks, moves out of the crowd, both hands wrapping around the paper cup and he looks so cold and Namjoon moves without thinking, leaping out of his chair and pushing through the crowd because the boy is already leaving and holy shit that boy might be the owner of the name that’s been on his wrist for the past two years. 

“Yoongi!” 

Namjoon doesn’t stumble over the name, not when it’s the same name that’s slipped past his lips more times than he’s willing to admit, but the boy either doesn’t hear it, or it’s not his name and Namjoon panics, reaches out as though to grab the boy’s wrist— 

Because it’s Namjoon, and Hoseok had nicknamed him ‘god of destruction’, after Namjoon broke his third chair, way back in middle school, he trips over the perfectly smooth walkway and crashes into the boy, sending both them and the boy’s coffee flying onto the asphalt.

“H–holy shit I'm so sorry! Fuck…” 

Because the boy above him is cute, even as he’s looking at Namjoon like he’d like nothing better than to boil Namjoon in the coffee that’s now splattered to the side, thankfully having missed both of them completely, and Namjoon might be freaking out just a little.

“Oh-my-god-I-fucked-up-so-bad-holy-shit— I'm so sorry. I'll buy you another coffee. Sorry. Fu—”

The boy raises an eyebrow and sighs, long and loud. It’s a bit better than the glare he was giving Namjoon just seconds before, but not by much.

“Okay, kid. Chill.” Namjoon wants to ask the shortie how the hell he’s the kid, but he did just spill the guy’s coffee so he keeps his mouth shut. “It’s alright.”

The boy pushes himself off Namjoon, checking himself over for any injuries, before holding out his hand as though to pull Namjoon up, jacket sliding up his arms and exposing the skin of his wrists.

Kim Namjoon.

His name. In neat black letters. On the left wrist of someone who may or may own the name on the inside of Namjoon’s one. 

“Tha— Y–Your—” Namjoon shakes his head, his right hand coming to grip the edge of his left sleeve with shaky fingers, ever so slowly pulling the fabric up, lips fumbling around the name that leaves him no louder than a whisper. “M– Min Yoongi.”

Yoongi’s eyes follow the movement, changing from exasperated to...to something that resembles panic and Namjoon watches as Yoongi’s right hand flies to cover his left wrist, fingers wrapped in a grip so tight it looks painful.

“K– Kim Namjoon.”

The words come out choked, as though they’re torn out of Yoongi’s throat against his will and Namjoon tenses, swallows the air stuck in his windpipe and nods, “Y– yeah…”

“Fuck.”

Kim Seokjin would never swear like that, comes unbidden into Namjoon’s mind and suddenly it’s harder to breathe and Namjoon digs his nails into his palms, desperately trying to hold onto his composure.

“Sorry. I’ll… Uh– I'll buy you another coffee…” 

Yoongi raises an eyebrow at him, no doubt catching onto the shift in the atmosphere, but doesn’t ask any further. “Yeah… Thanks…”

Namjoon shoves both clenched fists into his hoodie and follows him back to the store, and if his world had been off-balance before, it was a fucking mess now. But to Yoongi he says, “What… What coffee was it?”

“Double-shot cappuccino, two sugars.” 

He nods, standing behind the three other people still in line and god could they move any slower?

Finally, finally, he gets to the front, repeating the order in a rush before he forgets it and shoving notes and coins into the barista’s hand, before he stops short and turns to Yoongi.

“This can't be right. You're not— You're not him. I'm sorry. I have to go.”

He doesn’t stay long enough to see the way the shutters fall over Yoongi’s eyes, bolting out the door and collapsing into one of the university’s hidden alcoves, shoulders shaking and fingers digging into his sides, painful with the effort of trying to still the sobs wracking through his body and scratching at his lungs.  

If Namjoon’s world was thrown out of balance before, vaulted into outer space and spun off its axis – it’s a fucking supernova now. An explosion of celestial proportions because Min Yoongi is nothing, nothing like Kim Seokjin. But somehow Min Yoongi feels like the warmth Namjoon so desperately craves and he is so, so lost.

He doesn’t leave the university until well after sundown, clambering into bed, shoes and all, and passing out the second his head hits the pillow.

A week passes and Namjoon starts writing again, pulling his neglected notebook out of the drawer in his bedside table and covering the pages with his black ballpoint in between lectures and during study breaks that end up lasting far too long. He looks back at the near-illegible scribbles at midnight, by the light of his desk lamp, and he almost tears the pages out. Min Yoongi. They’re all so clearly about the short brunette Namjoon crashed into outside the coffee shop. The same boy he ran from– has been running from for the past two years and it feels like there’s something lodged in between his chest and his throat. He caves the next morning, searching up the directions to the university’s Performing Arts Faculty and walking into the first recording studio he happens across, notebook in hand.

He’s so focused on trying not to think about Min Yoongi that he completely misses the boy himself until he’s right in front of him and Namjoon freezes, something between an apology and an accusation on his lips.

“Did you want to use this?”

Yoongi’s voice is colder than the winter chill outside and Namjoon’s eyes immediately fall to the floor, addressing his next words to the wooden floorboards.

“U–uh… It's okay. I'll come back later… I'll just put my name down for the booking…”

Quietly he makes his way to the other side of the room, scribbling down his name on the clipboard pinned up to the wall, before turning on his heel and high-tailing it out of the studio, flight instinct becoming too strong to ignore.

It isn’t until he’s huddled under the covers, reflexly reaching into his bedside drawer that he realises his notebook is missing. There’s a moment of panic when he realises he must have left it in the studio and holy shit what if Yoongi read his lyrics? He doesn’t sleep till long past midnight that night, agonising over whether or not the brunette would’ve found his notebook, before resolving to just check the studio first thing tomorrow morning.

He ends up sleeping through all five of his alarms and by the time he arrives at the studio, there’s already someone there and he freezes, instantly recognising the words coming from behind the door. His lyrics, distorted in a low, accented rasp and shit if they don’t sound even better than he’d imagined but they’re still his lyrics, so he bursts in, ready to give whoever has taken his notebook a good long lecture about copyright laws and artists’ rights—

“What the fuck, Min Yoongi?”

The brunette in front of the studio mic freezes, turning around ever so slowly and Namjoon digs his nails into his palms for the upteenth time this week, eyes once again on the wooden flooring as he clenches and unclenches his fists and he’s just so fucking angry. Angry that Yoongi sounds better rapping the lyrics he wrote for Kim Seokjin than Namjoon ever did, angry that Yoongi read the lyrics he wrote for Kim Seokjin in the first place, and fucking terrified for a reason he can’t quite put into words. 

“Shit.” Namjoon’s head snaps up to meet Yoongi’s eyes, wide with realisation. “These are yours?”

He stops, mind short circuiting and anger fizzing out because Yoongi didn’t know. Yoongi clearly didn’t know who the lyrics belonged to and Namjoon should just deny it, make up some excuse, grab the notebook and leave.

“Well... Fuck. I mean, yes? Who else would they have fucking belonged to?” 

It’s like his feet move of their own accord and he takes a step forward, holding one hand in front of him.

“How the fuck was I supposed to know? Anyone could’ve left it there.” Yoongi is looking at him with furrowed brows, a mix between confusion and what looks like irritation and Namjoon feels his face heat up again.

“Even if you didn't know that it was mine, what right do you have to read, and worse, record someone else’s lyrics?” He takes a step closer, grabbing the notebook from where it hung loosely between Yoongi’s fingers, holding it to his chest and some part of him knows he’s being immature right now, but he’s past the point of caring.

“I didn’t mean to read them. I was flicking through trying to find out who they belonged to and like, shit they were actually good.” Yoongi glares at him, and if Namjoon wasn’t fuming already, he's certain he’d be six feet under and frozen in by those eyes. “Well. That’s what I thought before I realised who they belonged to.”

“Are you fucking serious? Great. So now some asshole has recorded my lyrics. The same asshole that’s going to be fucking engraved in my wrist for the rest of my life.” Namjoon knows it’s a low blow and he almost takes it back at the look of utter hopelessness that flits over Yoongi’s face, but the next words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. “You know what? Fuck you, Min Yoongi.”

Then he turns and bolts out of the recording studio for the second time, sprinting the entire way to his apartment and slamming his fist into cold bathroom tiles.

He fucked up.

In the privacy of his bathroom, without Min Yoongi standing a couple of steps away, looking at Namjoon with those impossibly cold eyes, it’s a lot easier to think, and yeah, he fucked up. He couldn’t before, but now, with the hot water hitting his back and fogging up the bathroom mirrors, Namjoon can admit he catapulted over the metaphorical line and no, Yoongi didn’t deserve that.

It’s a lot easier, Namjoon concludes, standing outside what he prays is Yoongi’s door before class the next day – It’s a lot easier in his head. In his head, he goes back to the studio, apologises for being out of line, and then leaves for class. Except Yoongi isn’t in the studio, and Namjoon ends up texting everyone on his contact list with the excuse that he found “Min Yoongi’s wallet and what looks like important exam notes”, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind reminding him that he’s sure putting in a lot of effort for a guy he’d been swearing his head off at just the day before.

He shivers, raising his hand to knock for what he swears is the tenth time and Shin Donghyuk better not have texted him just any random room number or he swears—

There’s the sound of footsteps just behind the door and Namjoon freezes, eyes falling to the scuffed toes of his converses. The door opens with a clang of metal and a squeak and Namjoon glances up, letting out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding because thank god Donghyuk wasn’t being a jerk, for once, and actually gave him the right room number.

“U–uh…” Fucking hell Namjoon, get a grip. “I'm-sorry-about-before-I-was-being-a-real-dick.”

Yoongi squints up at him, head tilted to the side, messy bed hair falling into half-closed eyes. “Huh?”

Namjoon groans quietly, running one hand over his face. “Look. I'm… I'm sorry about before. I was upset and I– I had no right to say any of that to you.”

“Oh.”

He takes a deep breath, trying hard not to shuffle his feet under Yoongi’s blank stare. “I'm being serious… Just— A lot of stuff has been happening and I snapped and you got the bad end of it. I really am sorry—” He breaks off in a laugh, harsh and scratchy and tilts his head back blinking rapidly. “It was completely my fault for taking it all out on you…” He takes another breath, composing himself before looking at Yoongi again and Yoongi looks… he looks unsure.

“Do you uh… d'you wanna come in and sit down? Or something?”

No, fucking hell. No! Namjoon’s head screams, limbs locking and shoulders tensing.

“O– Okay…” He takes a step forward, relaxing his shoulders and giving Yoongi the smallest upward twitch of lips. “Sure.”

Yoongi holds the door out wider and it’s like Namjoon’s on autopilot, following the shorter boy inside even as everything in him is telling him to run the hell away.

“Do you uh– You want something to drink, or…?” Yoongi trails off, letting the question hang awkwardly and Namjoon shifts his weight from his left foot to his right.

“Th– That would be nice, actually… Thanks.”

He takes the glass of water Yoongi hands him, standing around for a moment before sitting down on the couch, acutely aware of the distance between his shoulders and Yoongi’s.

“Sorry. I– uh… I read through your lyrics.”

Namjoon sighs, eyes on his glass of water, and nods ever so slightly. “Yeah, I kind of figured you had... It's my own fault for not being more careful with them.”

“They were…” From the corner of his eye he can see Yoongi running a finger around the rimming of his own glass. “They're good. I know I said they weren't… I didn't mean it. Sorry.”

“Thanks…” He brings his glass up, taking a sip before running his tongue nervously over his lower lip, eyes trained on the way the water distorts the shape of his fingers. “Your rapping… It's actually really good. Just— I was surprised. I didn't expect to hear my lyrics spoken by anyone else… It threw me off.”

There’s a pause, longer than usual and Namjoon’s just about to say something else when Yoongi looks up, looks at him.

“They're about someone, right? Your lyrics?”  

Namjoon tenses, reminds himself it’s not an attack, looks down at his lap, and nods. “Yeah. You could say that.”

“And that someone isn't m— Isn't your soulmate. Right?”

They’re both avoiding the elephant in the room and Namjoon chuckles, soft and sad, shaking his head. “No…” He looks up, and Yoongi’s already looking at him, eyes open and unguarded for the split second before he drops his gaze, and Namjoon lets out a breath. “In all honesty, I thought they would be. You read the book, right? Do you remember where the lyrics stopped being written in pencil, and started being written in pen?”

Yoongi’s looking at him again, guarded still, but curious. “Yeah…?”

“That– That was the day I saw your name on my wrist. The name that wasn't his.” Namjoon shifts, settling his glass down leaning forward to rest his forehead against interlaced fingers. “It was something I was planning on doing the whole time. Write everything in pencil until it was set in stone…”

“I see…” There’s a sad smile on Yoongi’s lips and for some reason Namjoon suddenly feels like he could say anything, and somehow, the boy sitting beside him would understand. “You must still like him a lot, huh?”

Namjoon nods, maybe a bit too quickly. “It's not really until I see him that it gets me. I mean, I can go a week without thinking about him sometimes, and then I think, oh, I must be getting over him, but then I'd drive past him on my way to University and I just… I realize that it's really not that easy and—” He breaks off, next words caught behind his tongue because Yoongi looks so sad, even as the cupid’s bow of his lips is curved upwards in a smile. “I– I'm sorry… I didn't mean to go on about it…”  

Then Yoongi blinks, and he looks unsure again. “No, I…” He shifts ever so slightly, turning his torso towards Namjoon. “I don’t—”

An inhale. Exhale. Eyes that flutter closed.

“I don't believe in soulmates, Kim Namjoon.”

“What?” Yoongi opens his eyes and Namjoon has never felt more confused. “I don't… I don't follow.” He sighs, words spilling out of him in a rush. “I mean, it's all very well not to believe in something with no physical proof. But… But everyone gets a name on their wrist. So– So that means that they are definitely real, right?” And he can hear the shake in his own voice, hear the desperation.

Yoongi leans forward, mimicking Namjoon’s position. “I don’t believe in them.” And then quieter, so quiet Namjoon has to strain to catch it, “all they do is hurt people.”

Oh.

Oh. That– that makes sense. It makes sense, but…

“But that doesn't really explain to me why your name is written right here—” Namjoon rubs a finger over the letter on his left wrist. “—Instead of Seok–… Instead of the person my lyrics are about.”

Yoongi tilts his head to the side, away from Namjoon, and when he speaks next, his voice sounds clogged up with tears. “Exactly.” Namjoon still doesn’t get it. “That's why I don't believe in them. I'm your soulmate but you don't… you don't like me. And you like… you like the boy in your lyrics but he's not your soulmate.”

He draws in a shaky breath. “But still. I can't just accept that this damn name on my wrist means nothing. Maybe it doesn't mean soulmate. Fuck, I don't know. But—” He runs a hand through his hair, biting his way through the next words. “—I can’t just completely disregard something that I have to look at every damn day of my life.”

“What do you…” Yoongi’s eyes are on Namjoon again, tears clinging to his eyelashes and god it hurts. “What do you want to do, then?”

“I don’t know.” He runs his fingers through his hair, again. “I really don't know. All I know is that you have to mean something to me. Fuck. Even if soulmate just means friend or whatever. I don't know. I just—” He draws in a breath, dry and stinging against his throat. “I just know that there's got to be more to it than this.”

Yoongi laughs. And the sound is so disbelieving he wonders what on earth could’ve happened to the boy sitting in front of him, eyes a blank slate and not leaving Namjoon’s own. “You gonna convince me that this—” He waves a hand through the air between them. “— fucked up notion of romance is real?”

Yes. Namjoon wants to say, never one to back down from a challenge. Instead he worries his lower lip between his teeth, eyebrows drawn tight together. “I'm going to prove to you that it doesn't mean nothing.” He closes his eyes. The opens them and holds Yoongi’s gaze with an intensity tingling in the tips of his fingers. “So help me, Min Yoongi. I will make it so that when you look at that fucking name on your wrist, you’ll see more than some weird dude that just appeared in your life for no reason.” He pauses, swallowing down the air caught in his throat. “I'll make you see a reason.”

The silence stretches between them, not as awkward as before, but not quite comfortable either and when Yoongi speaks next, it’s soft, and resigned.

“Okay Kim Namjoon. And if they exist? If soulmates exist? What then?”

It’s not a challenge but Namjoon smirks anyway. “When you realise that soulmates exist, I'll make sure that you never forget it.”

It’s not his claim to make. Not when he’s spent a good two years wishing for a different name, might still be wishing for different name, but the light pink flush that tints Yoongi cheeks makes it kind of worth it.

“Don’t let me down then.”

Somehow, Yoongi sounds both hopeless and hopeful and “I won’t” slips pasts Namjoon’s lips in a quiet promise before he can stop himself.

The silence that falls this time is comfortable, warm, and Yoongi is smiling, just the slightest curve to his lips, but a smile all the same.

Namjoon grins, “Let’s make a bet. I bet, that in 3 months, I'll be your best friend at least. How ‘bout it?”

Yoongi tilts his head to the side. “A bet, huh? And if you win?” He grins, all gums and crescent eyes. “What do you want?”

“I want you to admit that you were wrong about these—” Namjoon gestures to both of their tattoos. “—And accept that I will be a huge part of your life from then on.” He grins widely, dimples and all, before adding, “And if you win, which you won’t, I'll accept that you think that this is all bullshit, and I'll step right out of your life. You can pretend you never even met me.” He leans back in the couch, crossing his arms. “How does that sound?”

“Okay.” Yoongi holds out his hand. “Sounds fair.”

Namjoon takes the offered hand and tugs Yoongi towards him in the surge of confidence, lips inches away from his ear. “Try not to fall in love with me yet. That would prove me too right.”

Yoongi pulls back, flushed from neck up in that pretty pink colour and Namjoon laughs and lets go, offering to walk with the shorter boy to class, lest they both end up missing their lectures.

They end up sharing Yoongi’s playlist between them as they walk to the university, exchanging numbers outside Studio B. Namjoon throws an “I’ll text you later!” over his shoulder as he sprints to the Languages and Arts Building, arriving ten minutes late for his lecture.

Winter melts into Spring and Namjoon spends the coldest months of the year learning about Yoongi.

He learns that Yoongi is older than him, when they meet up for coffee at the start of semester break and Yoongi insists on paying.
“What year are you born in, Kim Namjoon?”
“1994.”
“1993. I’m the hyung, I’m paying.”
Namjoon doesn’t mind as much as he should, because he gets to call Yoongi, “hyung” and the older will respond with “brat” and an affectionate hair ruffle.

He learns that Yoongi frequently sleeps through all ten of his alarms, so Namjoon gets into the habit of texting him in broken messages.
[Sent 08:59] hyung
[Sent 09:02] are
[Sent 09:03] you
[Sent 09:05] awake
[Sent 09:06] yet
[Sent 09:06] ?
[Sent 09:06] :)
[Received 09:10] am now.
Yoongi uses little words and even less emoticons. But it’s alright, because his lyrics tell the story he can’t quite put into words and Namjoon talks enough for both of them anyway.

He learns that Yoongi is perpetually cold and ridiculously forgetful, so Namjoon takes to carrying an extra scarf with him whenever they meet. He learns that they share the same taste in music – Hip Hop and RnB – and they get into a two hour long heated debate about Kanye vs. Kendrick, over rapidly cooling coffee and muted studio beats. He learns about the older boy over midnight conversations as the first of the winter snow starts; surrounded by holiday lights when they meet up for last minute Christmas shopping (they get each other the same new Epik High album and Yoongi thinks it’s fucking hilarious); under New Year’s fireworks, Yoongi’s face lit by the spectacle of colour and for one, wild second Namjoon wonders what would happen if he leant across the space between them and stole his first kiss of the year.

He learns everything about Min Yoongi and nothing at all.

[Sent 13:04] hyungggg
[Received 13:06] brat. i’m in a lecture.
[Sent 13:06] which lecture hall?
[Sent 13:10] hyungggggggggg
[Received 13:12] istg kim namjoon. 203M.
[Received 13:20] why?

“Mornin’”

There’s the sound of a notebook being slammed closed and a quiet ‘fuck’ from the back of the 203M lecture hall.

“Shit Namjoon. Don’t do that.”

Namjoon grins, sliding into the empty lecture seat beside Yoongi, reaching up with one hand to ruffle the older’s soft, messy brown locks.

“Yah!” Yoongi yelps, ducking away and narrowing his eyes, light shadows still prominent on his lower eyelids, “why are you here?”

He grins, shrugging, “Got bored. Came to see you.” The grin pulls up on one side. “Feel special yet?”

“I’m in the middle of a lecture.”

Namjoon mimes looking around the lecture hall, before gasping and whispering, “Really? I had no idea.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes skyward, resisting the urge to reach over and punch the younger boy in the shoulder. “How is this supposed to make me like you again?”

Namjoon grins again, dimples and eyes crinkling into crescents, “You’ll see.”

He gets a laugh and a shake of the head from Yoongi, before the older turns back to his notebook, scribbling in the margins and Namjoon leans over, resting his elbows on the flimsy flip-up writing ledges.

“Whatcha writing, hyung?”

Yoongi responds by shifting ever so slightly, arm coming up to hide the notebook’s pages. “Lyrics.”

Namjoon pouts, lower lip jutting out under the upper, “Can I see?”

There’s a pause, then Yoongi shrugs, sliding the notebook across the ledges, muttering, “I did see your ones accidentally…”

He grins triumphantly, eyes scanning the ink-covered pages, deciphering the words scrawled in a way so similar to his own. “Holy shit. These are good…” Yoongi’s hands come up to his face but Namjoon can still see the pink flush through the gaps in his fingers and he smiles to himself, turning back to the notebook open in front of him. “These are actually… really deep.”

Unlike Namjoon, Yoongi’s lyrics aren’t about a specific person, yet, they still somehow seem like they’re meant for someone. They read like a private conversation and Namjoon can see his own curiosity reflected in Yoongi’s eyes as he slides the book back to the older, lower lip between his teeth and a million questions on his tongue.

Yoongi runs his tongue over his lower lip. “You can… you can ask… I won’t bite. Although…” He glances around them, “the middle of my lecture probably isn’t the best place for conversation.”

Namjoon chuckles, nodding and kicking his feet up onto the (thankfully unoccupied) seat in front of him.

“Yah!”

He smirks, lifting his legs up and dropping them into Yoongi’s lap with a wink, “Better?”

“What the hell, Kim Namjoon?”

He shrugs, taking in Yoongi’s red face with amusement. “What? I’m not doing anything bad.” He leans closer, dropping his voice, “I can do a lot worse,” and maybe this is sending mixed signals but the pink that tints Yoongi’s cheeks whenever he gets flustered is too pretty to ignore.

Like now, face burning and shoving his books and pens together, slinging his bag over his shoulder and standing up.

Namjoon winks, “Ah, I get it. You want me to show you. But not here. Gotcha.”

The punch to the shoulder he receives for his sass is painful, but the flush across Yoongi face doesn’t leave even when he’s well out of the lecture hall, Namjoon following behind with an ear-splitting grin.

They end up on the other side of the university, Yoongi sitting down cross-legged on the lawns in front of the Arts Library, pulling out his notebook from his bag and resuming what he’d been doing in the back of the lecture hall, Namjoon sitting in front of him. 

“Do you usually sit on the grass to write?”

Yoongi hums, crossing out a line and rewriting it underneath. “When it’s sunny. Like today. Otherwise it’s the studio, or my apartment or the corner cafe… I like writing outdoors though. Change of place and all that.”

Namjoon nods, “Yeah… New places can give off new inspiration.”. He flops onto his back next to the older, tucking his hands behind his head.

Yoongi glances at him, “Anything interesting up there?”

His eyes follow the clouds, flicker to Yoongi’s face, then back to the clouds again. “Yeah… I guess the sky makes me think of a lot of things. Often, I'll look to the sky for inspiration. Have you ever tried it?”

The ballpoint hovers over the pages of his notebook and Yoongi laughs, “Used to. Not so much now though.” He resumes writing. “Is it making you feel inspired?

“Sure,” he says, lips curved upwards in a content smile, before suddenly sitting up, leaning forward to look at Yoongi. “Where do you get most of your inspiration from?”

The older sighs, setting his notebook face down on the grass and leaning back, propping himself up with his elbows. “Everything.” And of course, it’s nowhere near enough of an answer so he continues, “mostly things that happen to me, or people I know. Sometimes it’s the books I read or music I listen to…Sometimes it’s people I used to know…”

He trails off and Namjoon’s never really heard the older boy talk like this, so he smiles, “I guess lots of things can be inspirational depending on the way you look at them.”

Yoongi falls back gently, eyes on the sky, mimicking Namjoon’s position, arms behind his head. “What about you then? What inspires you? Lyrics boy I’m guessing?”

It actually takes Namjoon a couple of seconds to make the connection that lyrics boy is Seokjin, but when he does, he sighs, eyes back on the expanse of blue and white above his head. “He used to be my main lyrical inspiration. But recently, it's been the sky. Definitely the sky.”

The sky above them is the sky of a typical Spring – light scattering of fluffy, cotton-ball white clouds over an endless stretch of cornflower blue. “Looks pretty normal to me…”

“Yeah. It does.”

He turns onto his side, pillowing his head under his hands, facing the younger boy. “Enlighten me then, Kim Namjoon. How does that—” He glances up. “—Inspire you?”

“Well, it's just always there, y’know? Like, it will always be there, no matter what might be happening in day to day life. The sky will never change. But at the same time, it is always changing.” Namjoon pauses, “I mean, I’ve never seen it look exactly the same, twice,” glances back at Yoongi, head tilted to the side. “Have you?”

Yoongi shrugs, the movement slightly awkward with one shoulder still pressed into the grass. “Guess not.”

Namjoon chuckles, eyes still trained on the older. “Maybe it’s just me… but I like having something around that will never change with time.”

“Guess that’s why you like soulmates so much, huh?”

It’s the first time the word had been uttered between them since that time Yoongi had spontaneously invited Namjoon into his apartment and it throws him for a beat. “I guess so,” he finally says.

Yoongi closes his eyes, and it’s quiet for what feels like hours, just the sound of their breathing, soft, measured, in time with each other, and Namjoon wonders whether the older boy is has fallen asleep.

“When I was in middle school, before anyone had gotten their tattoos, I knew someone…”

It’s Yoongi’s voice, no louder than a murmur and Namjoon’s never heard it sound so fragile, like it could snap off and break with the smallest movement. He’s looks like there’s a million words swimming in his eyes so Namjoon nods, silent assent for the him to continue.

“He was a couple of months older than me, lived three houses down from mine and we walked to school together, sat next to each other in all our classes.” Yoongi pauses, eyes on the sky above them. “I called him my best friend…he called us soulmates.” He laughs, a dry, humourless chuckle and Namjoon almost says something, but then Yoongi continues, voice even quieter than before. “Soulmates. Before either of us knew what it meant. And I believed him.” He looks and Namjoon, eyes dry but fists clenched. “I believed him y’know? ‘Cause he was my best friend and like, yeah, maybe I loved him…or something…”

Namjoon leans up, supporting his weight with one hand and resting the other on Yoongi’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he says, because what else can he say to a confession like that?

Yoongi sighs, but doesn’t comment on the hand. “Anyway. We dated for a while and it’s pretty uncommon y’know? Dating without the soulmate tattoos but he was so sure and I was so sure…” He trails off and it’s at this point that Namjoon realises it hurts— actually hurts to hear Yoongi talk about the boy he used to love, but it hurts more hearing the broken sound that escapes the older’s lips – something between a scoff and a choked up laugh. “He used to tell me…that it didn’t matter who the name on his tattoo was…’cause I was the only soulmate he knew…” He laughs again, and this time it’s closer to a scoff. “Cheesy shit like that. He was really good at saying that sort of thing."

He ends the sentence, voice thick and heavy and Namjoon sighs, “He really hurt you? Didn't he?”

“Yeah… He got his tattoo on the last day of our third summer together and he promised me it didn't mean anything, so I believed him and—” His voice breaks, reconnects impossibly softer than before and so, so fragile. “I couldn't find him anywhere on the first day of autumn.”

“Oh.” Then Namjoon moves forward, pulling Yoongi up and wrapping his arms tight around the older, something in him snapping, like an elastic pulled far too tight and he feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes. “I'm sorry.”

And then Yoongi’s crying, fingers curling into the cotton of Namjoon’s shirt, head buried in the crook of his neck, words pressed into his shoulder, broken, stuttered, stopping and starting. “I–I’m not— I’m not looking for sympathy.” Namjoon can feel the lengthened rise and fall of Yoongi’s chest against his. “I’m not looking for pity but yo– you deserve to know why.”

Yoongi pulls back, hands on Namjoon’s shoulders and holds him there, lashes wet with tears and eyes red and burning into the younger boy.

“I don’t believe in soulmates, Kim Namjoon. But you’re the name that appeared on my wrist the day after, and you deserve to know why.”

Yoongi is inches away, chocolate brown eyes locked on Namjoon’s onyx ones, cheeks damp with tears, tongue darting out to swipe over his lower lip and fuck, maybe it’s the confession or maybe it’s their proximity, but Namjoon wants to taste those tears on his own tongue, kiss them away one by one, fingers resting on Yoongi’s temple, hands curved to the shape of his jawline, lips against his skin and fuck—

Namjoon squeezes his eyes closed, Yoongi’s tear-stained face burning the back of his lids. “You might not— You might not believe in soul mates, but imagine what would have happened if it was your name on his wrist that day. Imagine staying with him for the rest of your life, not knowing the kind of person he could be. The kind that can tear someone apart in a day, after years of building them up.” He pauses. Inhale. Exhale. “Min Yoongi. You deserve better than someone who can cause a storm and brush it off as a rain cloud.”

Silence falls in the inches between them and Namjoon doesn’t dare open his eyes. Then Yoongi laughs, breath ghosting over Namjoon’s jaw before pulling away. “That was poetic, Joon-ah.” And his heartbeat trips over itself at the nickname he’s never heard before.

Yoongi shakes his head slightly, lying back down, one arm resting on the grass above his head. “I might like you just a little Kim Namjoon.” He turns onto his side, eyes crinkling into crescent moons, adorable even with the still-red lids. “Just a little.”

Spring burns into Summer and somewhere between longer days and shorter evenings, heady Sunday heat and cool midnight drives, windows down and mixtapes blasting through warmer nights, Namjoon becomes lost in Yoongi. 

It starts small.

They start meeting up more often for coffee before classes, and he’d walk Yoongi across the university to the Performing Arts Faculty afterwards, always arriving late for his own lecture, and eventually skipping it entirely – the prospect of staying in the too-hot recording studio with the older becoming much more appealing than sitting in the back of an air-conditioned lecture hall.

Daylight stretches late into the afternoons and the view from the top of the Art and Languages building is nothing short of fascinating. So Yoongi finds Namjoon after class, notebook and pen in hand, and together they sit on the building’s roof for hours, only trading the occasional word or two, as the sky fades from blue, to yellow, to orange and pink and purple and after a while, Namjoon stops looking at the myriad of colours across the sky and instead watches Yoongi, face cast in the glow of the sunset.

Sunsets fade into twilights and Namjoon lies awake, tossing and turning on top of crumpled bedsheets.
[Sent 00:06] hyung are you still up?
[Sent 00:10] hyung
[Sent 00:13] hyung it’s too hot i can’t sleep :(
[Sent 00:15] hyungggggggggg
[Received 00:20] joon-ah, it’s midnight
[Sent 00:21] hyung! you’re awake!
[Received 00:24] was working on a song
[Sent 00:25] i can’t sleep :(
[Received 00:26] i’ll come over then
Yoongi is waiting at his door, dressed in a thin white t-shirt and ripped jeans, keys hooked around his ring finger, cheshire-cat grin dancing across pale-pink lips. “C’mon Namjoon-ah, let’s go for a drive.”

They speed down the highway in Yoongi’s Miata, top down and bass beats swallowed up by the thrum of the engine, a cherry-red blur under city lights and looking like something out of a cliché-ridden, Hollywood hit, and Namjoon turns away from the window, looks to Yoongi with the wind stinging his eyes, and god, he’d follow him anywhere.  

“And who’s to say you won’t fall for me first?”
Namjoon stops, one hand on Yoongi’s door and chuckles, winking at the older. “Absolutely nothing.”
Yoongi joins Namjoon at the door, stepping through and locking up, then looks at him with a cheeky grin. “So, do you like me yet?”
He laughs, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I don’t fall that easily, Min Yoongi.”

Autumn comes early, in reds and oranges and text messages from old friends.

“Are you going?” Hoseok asks, over the phone on a Saturday afternoon.
“Yeah,” Namjoon replies, “why wouldn’t I be?”
“Seokjin’s gonna be there.”
“Yeah,” he says again, “he is.”

[Sent 11:01] yoooon gi hyuunnnng
[Sent 11:03] hyungggg the bass is too louuuuud
[Sent 11:04] hyuuunnnng
[Sent 11:04] hyunggggggggggggg
[Received 11:08] what the fuck joon-ah?
[Sent 11:09] !!!!!!!!!!!!!!
[Sent 11:09] hyungggg!!!!!!!!!!!
[Sent 11:12] hyung my head hurts
[Sent 11:13] hyung y is there two seok’s
[Sent 11:14] hyunggggggg
[Received 11:17] are you drunk?
[Sent 11:18] no
[Sent 11:19] mb?
[Sent 11:20] ♡ ♡ ♡
[Received 11:20] …
[Received 11:22] you’re at your high school reunion right?
[Sent 11:23] yep!!!!
[Received 11:24] i’m coming
[Sent 11:24] ♡ ♡ ♡

Namjoon shoves his phone back into his pocket and turns around to find Hoseok staring at him intently, a glass of alcohol clutched in his right hand, the left wrapped around his soulmate’s waist.

“Whaa~t?”

“Who’re ‘ya texting?”

“Yoon~gi hyuuung~”

“Ohhhh~”

The slight slur in Namjoon’s words is mirrored in Hoseok’s and Jimin raises an eyebrow at them both, “Who’s Yoongi-hyung?”

“Namjoonie’s souuul~mate.”

Jimin tilts his head to the side. “I thought Namjoon likes Kim Seokjin?”

If Namjoon had been sober, he would’ve stayed silent, eyes on his glass and ‘not anymore’ caught in his throat with everything else he’s still not ready to say. Unfortunately for everyone present, Namjoon is far from sober, so he defaults to a response that won’t force his alcohol-hazed mind to think.

“Yeahhhh~”

Hoseok squints at Namjoon, making vague hand motions towards his left wrist. “Thaaa’ says ‘Miiin Yoo~ngi thoughhh~”

Jimin glances down, just making out the ‘Min’, the rest of the name hidden by Namjoon’s sleeve.

“I’ll prooo~ve it.”

Hoseok chuckles, alcohol-laced laughter, “How’re ya g’nna do thaaa’?”

“Dunno~”

“Shoul’ give Jin~nie a kiiiiiiss~”

The only thing more dangerous than a suggestion put forward by Hoseok is a suggestion put forward by a drunk Hoseok and Jimin’s head snaps up, tearing his eyes away from the tattoo on Namjoon’s wrist. “No. No Namjoon. You shouldn’t.”

Namjoon, of course, completely ignores him and Jimin is torn between wanting to punch his boyfriend or take both of them and leave. Before he gets a chance to do either though, Namjoon pushes himself off the bar stool, muttering, “jus’ watch me.”

Jimin watches, half horrified, half amused as Namjoon stumbles across the bar floor, tapping Kim Seokjin lightly on the shoulder and then wraps his arms around the older, chin resting on Seokjin’s shoulder and smirking at Hoseok.

Hoseok laughs and mimes kissy faces, so Namjoon grins (challenge accepted) and turns his face the same moment Jimin catches sight of a short brunette in his peripheral, eyes locked on Namjoon and hands curling into fists at his sides. Hoseok shoots Namjoon a thumbs up when he pulls away, the arm around Jimin’s waist pulling him closer and by the time Jimin looks back to the door, the brunette has either been swallowed by the crowd, or left. 

The tenth knock goes unanswered and for the hundredth time since he woke up in Hoseok’s apartment, head about to split into two and Jimin informing him over water and aspirin about the short brunette who came looking for Namjoon at the reunion, he swallows down the lingering bitterness on his tongue, maybe from the painkillers, maybe from something else.

He raises his hand for the eleventh knock then sighs, nails digging into his palm and falling to his sides as he turns away from Yoongi’s door, chest painfully tight. 

[Sent 10:11] hyung please answer your phone
[Sent 10:13] hyung. please.
[Sent 10:14] yoongi
[Sent 10:16] yoongi i know you’re seeing these
[Sent 10:18] min yoongi please don’t ignore me
[Sent 10:19] fuck
[Sent 10:30] can we at least talk about it?
[Sent 10:31] please?
[Sent 10:35] yoongi?
[Received 10:40] i’m in the studio.

Namjoon arrives at the studio out of breath, heart pounding in his ears and fingers shaking as he opens the door and steps inside. “Hyung…?”

Yoongi’s sitting in front of the monitor, studio headphones on over a grey beanie (Namjoon’s one that Yoongi continuously forgets to return), music so loud that he can hear the low bass leaking into the room. He takes a step forward, reaching out to hit the pause button.

Half-lidded eyes. Swollen, rimmed red around the edges with dark shadows under the lids. Then realisation dawns and Yoongi’s chocolate irises harden to a black, black onyx and Namjoon freezes, shivers running down his back. “Hyung...Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

“I was working on my song.”

There’s only the slightest bite in Yoongi’s voice and if Namjoon hadn’t spent the past year burning Yoongi into him the same way his name is imprinted on the older’s wrist, he would’ve missed it.

“Yeah, but... I mean, you still could have as least said so…” Yoongi looks at him blankly and Namjoon sighs, “Look, we really need to talk about last night.”

Yoongi stares, then removes the headphones around his neck and places them next to the sequencer. “Talk, then.”

Namjoon shudders. “Okay… Last night… I was really drunk. And— And when I'm drunk, my friends like to convince me to do things that I wouldn't usually do, because it's easy when I'm drunk and sometimes that goes really badly, as you can probably see…” He trails off, and some part of him knows it’s not Hoseok’s fault but Yoongi’s looking at him with eyes he’s never seen and damn does he regret, everything.

“Right.”

And Yoongi’s voice is so, so empty and Namjoon might’ve spent an entire Winter learning about Yoongi but he’s never heard it sound so much like a stranger.

He can’t look the older in the eye so he settles for the spot above Yoongi’s shoulder. “Look, hyung. Last night was a mistake. It was a fucking huge mistake. I shouldn't have even gone and fuck do I regret what happened there. I don't like—”

He cuts himself off, words caught behind his tongue again and Yoongi tenses ever so slightly, something like fear flashing in his eyes, gone as quick as it came. “It’s fine.” He turns to face the computer screen. “It’s not like I own you. You can kiss whoever you want.”

Namjoon stares at the back of Yoongi’s head, tears pricking the corners of his eyes and what the fuck where did those come from? Yoongi’s just told him ‘it’s fine’ and it’s okay now and he should say sorry, then thank you, then leave as quietly as he came—

“You know what? You're right. You're absolutely right.” He draws in a breath, eyes falling shut and words spilling out, “I don't actually need to apologise. I tried. I tried to make things better but if you're gonna be like this over something that doesn't even affect you, then fuck it.”

Then he turns, bolts out of the recording studio with too many thoughts in his head and tears clogging his chest and there’s such a pressing sense of déjà vu that he stops outside the Performing Arts Building.

He leans against the sandstone wall as maples leaves swirl like flower petals around him, drifting down in blurs of oranges and reds, a reminder of the approaching December chill and god, he fucked up, again, didn’t he?

He stays there, head tilted back against the sandstone for god knows how long, watching the students coming in and out of the building, and some part of him wonders if he’s actually waiting for Yoongi.

There’s a blur of grey coming out of the building, grey beanie pulled over soft brown locks and face half-hidden by a grey scarf and Yoongi looks so cold, so much like the first time he saw him, way back last September, in that cafe, that Namjoon doesn’t think, reaching out and wrapping a hand around the older’s wrist, the way they do it in those melodramas.

“Hyung? Can we… talk?”

Yoongi turns, and everything about him is screaming exhaustion – from the slouch of his shoulders and the way he curls into himself to his face, eyes and lips downturned in a way that’s not quite a frown, just tired.

“Again?”

“No— Yes!” Namjoon tenses. “Yes, but different. I want to really talk about things.” He looks at the ground. “I want to— to apologise…”

“I thought you said you don’t have anything to apologise for?”

And it’s not an attack. It’s not an attack because Yoongi just looks confused and maybe a little exasperated. “Yeah, I know… I know what I said. But I was wrong. I was really, really wrong. And…” He looks up, still unable to meet Yoongi’s eyes. “I want to make things better again…”

Yoongi looks at him for a long second, then sighs, closes his eyes and tilts his face heavenward. “Do you like me, Namjoon-ah?”

It’s like he hears the words through a filter - eyes wide, mouth agape and water clogging his ears, or it’s like he’s trying desperately not to hear the words at all, because where the hell did that come from?

The silence stretches between them and it’s never felt this heavy before, even heavier when Yoongi opens his eyes, chocolate brown boring into onyx, unblinking and waiting.

And Namjoon doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know which of the thousands of words caught behind his clenched teeth are the right ones to let fall past his lips, so he tears his eyes away from Yoongi’s and studies the crumpled maple leaves beneath his feet.

Yoongi sighs, pulls the grey beanie off with one hand, running his fingers through his hair with the other. “I like you, Namjoon-ah.”

His head snaps up fast enough to hurt his neck and he gapes, heart jumping up and lodging itself straight in his throat. “You… You what?” 

Yoongi’s eyes shutter closed, flutter open.

“I like you.”

Namjoon doesn’t know what to say and Yoongi doesn’t wait for him to say something.

“I like you, Namjoon-ah. Not because you’re my sou— soulmate, or whatever. I like you because of who you are.” And Namjoon gapes, because it’s the first time either of them have used the word to describe the other in such plain, certain terms, and the heart lodged in his throat skips a beat.

Yoongi sighs, resigned and sad, and closes his eyes again.

“The last time this happened to me, it took you crashing into me to pull me back from that mess and I’m—” The sentence breaks, falls, and Namjoon already knows what’s coming next. “—I’m not ready to go through that again.”

“Hyung, I—”

Yoongi cuts him off, fingers running through his hair again.

“Look, Joon-ah. I can’t…I can’t spend an entire summer with you looking like you’re—” He cuts himself off, waving a hand towards the rapidly darkening expanse of blue. “—Like you’re the fucking sky you love so much, and then walk right into the middle of a goddamn thunderstorm.”

It’s his own words thrown back at him, and Yoongi talks the same way he writes his lyrics – all honesty and no secrets… and Namjoon doesn’t know how to respond.

Yoongi takes a step back and Namjoon fights the urge to take a step forward.

“I’m not playing this game anymore.”

Another step.

“You won our bet, Kim Namjoon—” Yoongi pauses, lips curving upwards ever so slightly, and it’s a smile, but god is it sad. “—but I’m breaking the rules. I’m sorry.” 

Then Yoongi turns away, hunching in on himself and Namjoon watches as he walks away, grey amongst the swirling red and darkening blue and his world, which had been falling back into orbit in a way he hadn’t even noticed, stills completely and frosts over.  

Hoseok calls him two days later, apologies spilling out of the receiver but Namjoon can’t find it in himself to feel anything other than empty and he almost hangs up on his childhood friend. 

“Wait, Namjoon-ah.”

He pauses, phone already away from his ear and finger hovering over the screen.

Hoseok takes a deep breath, rushed words intermingling with phone static, “I think you should forget about Seokjin-hyung now.”

Namjoon freezes, screen pressed back against his ear, fingers gripping his phone so tightly it’s a miracle the device hasn’t given in and snapped. “What do you mean?”

“Min Yoongi.”

“What about him?”

“He’s your soulmate.”

Namjoon swallows. “I know.”

Hoseok pauses, sighs, air crackling in the receiver, “Do you?”   

And he fights the urge to scream, because Hoseok is talking like he knows how to set Namjoon’s world in motion again, but he’s also talking in riddles that Namjoon’s just too goddamn tired to try and decipher.                             

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just—” Hoseok stops, and Namjoon pictures him waving his hands in the air, the way he does whenever words fail him. “—You… Do you still like Seokjin-hyung?”

“No.”

Not anymore. Not since the beginning of January.

“Do you like Yoongi-hyung?”

Yes.

Namjoon stays quiet and Hoseok sighs.

“Just answer me this. Do you write about him?”

“I—… Yeah…”

“Since when?”

“Huh?”

Air crackles in the receiver and Namjoon pictures Hoseok closing his eyes. “Since when have you been writing about him?”

He pauses, thinks back. “Don’t know.” The words are quiet, and he’s toeing the edge of the precipice, eyes trained on the dark, swirling water below.

“You should find out.”

He takes a step forward. Inhale. Exhale.

“Yeah.”

The first entry in his notebook is short, no where near a full song, barely even a full verse, but it’s so clearly about Kim Seokjin that Namjoon almost cringes, reminded vividly of why he doesn’t read back through his old lyrics. He tears the page out, folds in up with shaky fingers.

He knows exactly when he’d written the second entry – three days after the first one, in Accelerated English, notebook hidden under his copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, eyes trained on the boy he’d smashed his locker door into a few days back; a boy who responded to the name of Kim Seokjin with a soft-spoken ‘present’.
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream;
Brief as the lightning in the collied night.
He folds up the page without reading the rest of the lyrics (he already knows how it ends).

After the twentieth entry, Namjoon stops counting. A couple of pages later, the smudged graphite lines morph into black ink, words blotted out in places where tears no doubt fell. And Namjoon traces the disfigured lyrics with his finger, laughter scraping at his throat, before crumpling the page into a ball and tossing it to the side.

The pages after the fourtieth or so entry are either torn out, almost torn out, or covered by so many dried teardrops it’s impossible to make out what the words were meant to say. He knows exactly when he’d written these and he rips them all out at once, not even bothering to crumple them up before tossing them aside. 

The first entry about Min Yoongi isn’t even about Yoongi at all. It’s about warmth and grey scarves and double-shot cappuccinos. It’s about the feel of asphalt grazing his palms and the way his voice sounds so much louder bouncing off the sides of one of the university’s many alcoves. It’s about a boy with a heavily accented rasp and sleepy eyes. It’s about Min Yoongi before Namjoon knew anything about him.

The entries after that aren’t complete verses – they’re barely even complete bars, but Namjoon knows exactly when they were written. There’s a line about “your voice at midnight – and suddenly I feel warmer” that he wrote huddled up under the covers as the first of the winter snow drifted down outside his window. There’s a line about the reflection of holiday lights on the glass of record shops and the distance between the sparks that exploded into sky on the last night of the year. There’s a line for everything he learnt about Min Yoongi and if he stuck them all together, they might just form a song.

About halfway through the book the single-line lyrics lengthen into verses, and they’re mostly about Spring. The not too hot, not too cold temperatures of both the days and the nights. The sky, an always-changing, never-ending stretch of blue – cornflower, caribbean, azure. There’s a verse there about pretty pink on pale cream, though, and one about rich, chocolate depths and the phantom taste of tears on his lips. And those ones have nothing to do with Spring, and everything to do with Min Yoongi.

The next songs are all about drowning. Drowning in summer heat and the sweat that clings to cotton t-shirts like a second skin. Drowning in heavy bass beats that vibrate through stuffy, humid studios. Drowning in the rainbow-coloured sunsets and shadows cast by the muted sunlight. 

Breathing in warm, summer-night breezes and the city light bokeh, beautiful even as they fly past him, quick as a heartbeat.

“Since when have you been writing about him?”
Since Winter. Last year.
“Do you like me, Namjoon-ah?”
Yeah. Yeah, I do.

He doesn’t burn the pages he tore out – that’s far too melodramatic and he’s not some overly-emotional male drama lead. He leaves them as they are: folded, crumpled, scattered around his room.

He turns to a fresh page in his now, significantly transformed notebook, and uncaps his black ballpoint pen, a familiar weight between his fingertips.

Thank you for letting me be me

For waking me from being suffocated
For waking me from a dream which was all I was living in

(Thank you. For being ‘us’)

Autumn frosts into Winter and the December chill still feels like loneliness.

[Received 10:03] i heard your songs. they're good.
[Sent 10:04] …
[Sent 10:05] can we meet up
[Sent 10:05] ?
[Received 10:27] coffee?
[Sent 10:28] okay
[Received 10:30] do you know where?
[Sent 10:31] yes
[Sent 10:31] thank you hyung

When he enters the cafe the typical morning crowd of university students is already dwindling to single digits.

There’s two young couples near the windows, sleeves rolled up even with the biting wind howling outside, soulmate tattoos proudly on display. There’s a couple of older students lingering around the counter, agitatedly checking their phones and Namjoon guesses they must be late to their lectures. There’s a girl sitting near the entrance, a cup of coffee next to her laptop and textbook open in her lap.

Yoongi is sitting in the furthest corner, at the very back and secluded from everyone else, eyes trained on the door and hands in his lap.

Namjoon slides into the seat opposite him with a hesitant smile and Yoongi responds by sliding a crystal CD case across the table.

“These are really good.”

Yoongi’s voice is soft and Namjoon’s smile is softer.

“Really? Thank you, hyung.”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “You know I wouldn’t lie about music…”

Namjoon grins. “Yeah.”

Silence falls between them, complemented by the background murmur of the cafe.

Yoongi looks up, fingers fiddling with the napkins. “I already ordered both of us coffee...well...chai latte for you.” He smiles, tilting his head to the side. “Right?”

Namjoon looks up with slightly larger eyes. “You remembered…”

Yoongi’s eyes trace the wood-grain of the table. “Yeah…”

His eyes fall to his hands in his lap and briefly Namjoon wonders what they must look like to the other cafe-goers.

When he lifts his head up again, Yoongi’s has his elbow on the table, chin resting in his hand, studying Namjoon intently.

“Y’know,” Yoongi says, “I used to wonder why you didn’t choose a music major, with lyrics like yours…”

Namjoon stays silent – he used to wonder the same thing.

“You stopped writing for a while… right?”

His eyes widen slightly. “Oh… Well… Y–yeah…”

Their coffees arrive and their eyes flicker up, thanking the waitress. Yoongi wraps both his hands around the ceramic and Namjoon traces the rim of his cup, then looks up. “How did you know… that I’d stopped writing?”

Yoongi laughs softly and it’s the same laugh that fell past his lips the first time they went to get coffee together, a week before Christmas. “I looked through your notebook after you left it at the studio… It looked like you’d stopped writing in it sometime ago and only recently started again.” He pauses. “Did you forget?”

Namjoon stares. “No.” He looks down, smiling despite himself. “I hadn’t expected you to be that perceptive…”

“Me neither…”

There’s something in Yoongi’s voice. Something not quite like sadness, but not quite happiness either and Namjoon glances up, head cocked to the side. “What do you mean by that?”

He mirrors Namjoon’s position, lips slightly pursed. “It… surprised me… when I realised how much I picked up about you…”

Namjoon’s eyes narrow only slightly, studying the older curiously. “And just how much have you picked up about me, hyung?”

Yoongi laughs, and the sound is lighter, less sad. It relaxes Namjoon’s grip around his latte and Yoongi’s around his cappuccino.

“More or less the same amount you seem to have picked up about me… judging by your songs.”

Namjoon’s lips pull up just a little. “Yeah…”

Silence falls between them again but Yoongi’s eyes are warm and it reminds him of when he sat in the older’s apartment, glass of water between his hands and the overwhelming feeling that, somehow, he could tell Yoongi anything, and it’d be okay.

“You were right you know,” Namjoon says, after both their coffees are almost-empty.

“About what?”

“The soulmates thing.”

Namjoon doesn’t specify and Yoongi doesn’t ask.

He finishes the remaining coffee and stands up. Namjoon follows suit, hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

“You were right too,” Yoongi finally says, shivering as the wind bites at his exposed skin.

Namjoon stops, unwinds the scarf around his neck and wraps it around Yoongi’s, sliding his hands back into his pockets. “About what?”

Yoongi looks up at Namjoon with a tentative smile. “The soulmates thing.”

Yoongi’s hands are cold and Namjoon’s are warm.

He glances down. “What do you want to do now?”

It’s an echo of Yoongi’s question to him months and months ago, tears clinging to his lashes. And Namjoon had responded with frustration, recklessly, because nothing made sense.

It still doesn’t make sense, but now it doesn’t matter.

Yoongi looks at him, the first flakes of winter snow caught in the strands of his hair.

“What do you want to do?”

Namjoon feels heat spread across his cheeks and he takes his hands out of his pockets.

“Can I hold your hand?”

Yoongi laughs, eyes curving into crescent moons.

It’s the same laugh that filled his summer nights, breathy, exhilarated – driving too fast, loving too hard.

“Yeah.” He takes Namjoon’s hand in his, interlaces their fingers. “You can.”

Winter that year is reportedly the coldest in decades. He spends it with Yoongi’s hands in his pockets, pressed close against his side and Namjoon’s never felt so warm.

Spring brings with it a new semester and Namjoon leans his textbook against Yoongi side as the older lies stomach-down on the university lawns, ballpoint between his fingers, playlist looped between them. 

Summer is heady. Heated like the temperature in Yoongi’s apartment – lips against lips and sweat-slicked skin, legs tangled between thin, white bedsheets.

Autumn is the crunch of dry maple leaves beneath their feet as they walk to their lectures, Yoongi’s hand in his and stealing kisses behind sandstone buildings.

“Do you believe in soulmates now?” Namjoon asks him absentmindedly, as they watch the sky change colours from the top of the Arts and Languages building. 

Yoongi reaches for his hand.

“Does it matter?”

Namjoon laces their fingers together and shakes his head.

“Not anymore.” He rests his head against the older’s. “I’m just curious.”

Yoongi turns, cheshire-cat grin on his lips and eyes dancing.

“I still don’t believe in soulmates, Kim Namjoon.”

He leans in, chocolate brown irises softening in the afternoon light, and presses his lips against the younger’s.

“I believe in us.”

Namjoon shrugs, wraps an arm around the older’s waist and pulls him into an embrace as the sky fades into the pretty pink against Yoongi’s cheeks.

“That's more than enough for me.”