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kat_lair***
Title: lift you up (hold you when you fall)
Author:kat_lair / Mistress Kat
Fandom: 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Pairing: Kim Namjoon | RM/Min Yoongi | Suga
Tags: Power Dynamics, Dom/sub Undertones, Exhaustion, Accidental D/s, Like 'Ooops I Accidentally Put My BFF Under And Now I Have To Deal With It', Denial of Feelings, Soft Dom Kim Namjoon | RM, Sub Min Yoongi | Suga, Emotionally Repressed, Caretaking, Canon Compliant
Rating: T
Word count: 4,081
Disclaimer: Very clearly not true.
Summary: Just because he didn’t mean for this to happen doesn’t mean he isn’t responsible.
Author notes: This is a continuation to the gorgeous hit-all-my-kinks fic Get up when I fall (fly, run, walk or crawl)dreamersdare wrote to me for ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fandomtrees last year and will make little sense without reading that first. She said I should write the opposing perspective from Namjoon's pov and well, here we are, year later. A gift which she more than earned by betaing it too :D Let's all look forward to the next instalment from her, next Christmas :D
lift you up (hold you when you fall) on AO3
The cold night air outside seems to wake Yoongi up a bit, and he straightens from his exhausted slump when they’re standing by the curb, waiting for the car. Namjoon lets his arm drop from Yoongi’s shoulders but not far. His hand stays hovering around the small of his back, touching, then not touching, then touching again when Yoongi shifts on his feet, shivering a bit. He’s fidgeting but not pulling away, which is enough of an anomaly to tell Namjoon just how tired Yoongi is despite his best efforts to appear otherwise.
“You cold?” he asks when Yoongi wraps arms around his middle, pulling the too thin for the season jacket tighter around himself.
“No,” Yoongi says. He’s wearing a hoodie underneath, the hood pulled up, and the glare he throws at Namjoon from the depths of it is frankly adorable.
Namjoon suppresses the urge to coo and maybe bop the tip of Yoongi’s nose for the fear of getting his finger bitten off. For all he knows exactly how goddamn intimidating Yoongi can be – spitting on stage, fierce and shining, wrapped in unbreachable focus behind his decks, collaring the younger members with indomitable kindness – in moments like this he looks nothing so much as a bedraggled kitten that Namjoon kind of wants to gather up against his chest. The image is somehow graphic enough that he can feel his cheeks heat with a flush he hopes Yoongi chalks up to the cold.
“You’re lying,” he says and pulls Yoongi closer by his waist. If their height difference means that this close Yoongi can’t see his face without tilting his own right back, then that’s just a happy coincidence. “I’m cold and I’m not the one covered in six hours’ worth of sweat.”
Yoongi grunts something that sounds indignant but makes no effort to put any distance between them. Namjoon is both gratified and concerned, but before he can think about it too much, the car is pulling up finally.
The drive back to the dorms is quiet. The heating seems to sap the rest of Yoongi’s energy and Namjoon lets him doze, quietly checking his emails and social media, occasionally watching the way streetlights and shop signs and advertising billboards blur outside the window.
It’s late enough that most of the dorm is dark and quiet when they get in. There’s a glow and the soft murmur of the television coming from the lounge, and by the clink of dishes, Namjoon figures someone is still tidying up in the kitchen. They’d all eaten earlier, and it was Yoongi’s absence from dinner that had prompted Namjoon to go looking for him as soon as he’d put his own bowl down.
Yoongi kicks off his sneakers, almost stumbling in the process if not for Namjoon gripping his elbow at the last minute. Yoongi blinks at Namjoon’s hand on his arm for long seconds and Namjoon watches the way his mouth drops open just slightly, eyes half-lidding. They are standing close in their cramped entryway, surrounded by discarded coats and scarves and shoes and when Yoongi swallows, it’s barely visible in the dim light but Namjoon still feels it in his own throat somehow.
“Got to take my jacket off, Joon-ah.” The words come out quiet, raspy.
“Yeah,” Namjoon agrees. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realise that Yoongi is waiting for him to remove his hand so that he can actually do that. “Oh! Yeah.” He lets go and turns away slightly to deal with his own coat.
“Okay, so I’m gonna go to bed,” Yoongi says once he’s thrown his jacket somewhere toward the hooks.
Namjoon, who’s in the process of picking up and carefully hanging Yoongi’s discarded jacket, ends up whirling around so fast he almost trips. “No!” he snaps, harsher than he intended, though still low.
Yoongi, who has already turned toward the bedrooms, stops.
A slow pulse of something heated, something all-encompassing rises inside Namjoon like a tidal wave. He thinks he could name it, should name it, because this… He didn’t mean… He just…
He pushes it away and instead croaks “Food,” by way of explanation. His hand finds its way to Yoongi’s shoulder, curled inwards. Underneath the thin, sweat-damp t-shirt his skin feels cold and clammy. “You need to eat,” Namjoon says. He tries, but he can’t make it sound like a request because it isn’t. Yoongi needs to eat, he needs to get warm and Namjoon…
Right now, Namjoon needs to make sure he does all of that. “C’mon,” he says, nudging Yoongi toward the kitchen.
“I’m not really hungry,” Yoongi says, but he lets himself be herded in the direction of Namjoon’s choosing. “Stop fussing.” The griping is familiar enough to settle some of the worry that had been niggling at Namjoon’s insides since dinner, only intensifying since finding Yoongi. The tone, however, isn’t quite right, lacking much of its usual bite.
Namjoon pushes Yoongi into one of the chairs. The kitchen is thankfully empty by now, the dishwasher humming quietly. Only the light above the sink is on and Namjoon takes one look at Yoongi’s tired face, the way he’s squinting like his contacts are hurting him and decides not to turn on the main lights.
Quickly, he pulls together a portion of Seokjin’s excellent bulgogi and shoves it into the microwave, busying himself with digging for clean chopsticks and pouring a glass of water while Yoongi’s dinner bathes in electromagnetic radiation. There’s a bright ping and Namjoon almost burns his fingers in his haste to get the dish out.
There’s a huff of amusement, a murmured “Careful, Joon-ah,” and by the time he turns back to the table, Namjoon can feel the pull of a small smile twitching in the corner of his mouth, fond and exasperated.
“Pot, kettle,” he says, depositing the bowl in front of Yoongi and then, because he can’t make himself just leave, sits down on the opposite side of the table.
Yoongi picks up the chopsticks but makes no move to put them to actual use. “My fingers are burn free,” he points out with a raised eyebrow.
Namjoon rolls his eyes. “Sure, and the rest of your body is five minutes from collapsing.”
It isn’t much of an exaggeration, but Namjoon had meant it as a jest. However, something in Yoongi’s expression shutters and the inward curl of shoulders from the hallway is back. Namjoon doesn’t like it at all.
“I wasn’t getting it,” Yoongi says. “I still don’t. What would you have me do? Sit on the edge of the stage and kick my heels while the rest of you perform the choreo?” The words are bitter, belligerent even, but the tone is all wrong. Something in Yoongi’s voice wavers as if this is nothing but false bravado, as if he half expects Namjoon to say ‘yes, actually, if Yoongi wouldn’t just mind sitting this one out rather than embarrass them all by tripping over his own feet.’
Namjoon can feel the smile drop off his face, a frown taking over, his brows drawing together. To his horror Yoongi flinches, an almost imperceptible pull back that most people would miss entirely, except Namjoon has known Yoongi, has watched Yoongi, for too many years to not be intimately versed in every small nuance of him. Yoongi opens his mouth and Namjoon knows, knows with bone-deep certainty that Yoongi is about to apologise, which is both so uncharacteristic – Yoongi usually apologises in actions, not in words – and so wrong that if he lets him, they’re going to be unpicking this mess for days.
He doesn’t think, he acts. “Stop!” The word lands like a slap, much like Namjoon’s hand over Yoongi’s mouth, still half-open against Namjoon’s palm.
Both of them freeze; Namjoon half out of his chair, leaning over the table, Yoongi’s eyes blown wide and dark. His chopsticks clatter to the table, falling out of his lax fingers.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Namjoon blurts out, desperate to make things right, except that too is wrong, wrong, wrong because Yoongi shrinks back further, his gaze dropping down, lips dragging over Namjoon’s skin as they press together tightly.
Shit. Shit, fuck, shit. He is supposed to make sure Yoongi doesn’t beat himself up over this, doesn’t push himself too far, and all he’s managed to do so far is microwave some leftovers and loom over him like a bully. And normally Yoongi would’ve been all up in Namjoon’s space already, giving it as good as he got, better most days to be honest. But not tonight. Not right now.
Right now, Namjoon needs to do better. Yoongi needs him to do better.
“Hyung,” Namjoon says, gently, pulling his hand away, gently, gently. “Please don’t apologise.” This time it’s a request, a plea.
It brings Yoongi’s eyes back up at least, though his face is unreadable still. Namjoon sits down, gathers the chopsticks and holds them out like a peace offering. “If you do,” he says, daring to smile a little self-deprecatingly, “then I’m going to have to do the same, and we’ll never get to sleep because apologising for every single time I didn’t get the choreo on the first or the twentieth try, or every time I messed up the steps, is going to take us all night.”
Yoongi’s posture relaxes. “Yeah, no,” he says. “I’m too tired for that kind of self-pity fest.” And there it is, a veiled acknowledgement that occasionally Namjoon may have a valid point. He tries not to let it go to his head, but it’s Yoongi, the person he’s looked up to for longer than he’s been an adult, so that’s pretty much doomed to fail from the start.
As if sensing his thoughts, Yoongi snatches the chopsticks off Namjoon’s fingers. “Gimme those,” he grumbles and – finally! – proceeds to shovel food into his mouth. Namjoon sits back, trying, and likely failing, to not look too smug about it.
By the time Yoongi’s bowl is empty, he is flagging again. So is Namjoon, to be honest. He dumps the dishes in the sink to be dealt with in the morning, maybe the following evening even.
“Right,” Namjoon says, rolling his neck and shoulders to loosen them up. “Now shower, c’mon.”
“Now I’m too tired,” Yoongi whines, but he gets up when Namjoon nudges him, shuffling toward the bathroom while complaining all the while. “Now I want to faceplant into bed and not move for a year.”
“And stink up your fancy mattress?” Namjoon lets himself smile as fondly as he feels like because Yoongi isn’t looking in his direction, walking – well, stumbling – down the corridor ahead of him. Because Yoongi like this, all of his edges softened, walls lowered to almost non-existent is…
Namjoon’s hand comes up to rest over the back of Yoongi’s neck without a conscious decision, bringing them both to a halt just outside the bathroom door.
“You coming to wash my back, Joon-ah?” It’s clearly meant as a joke but something in Yoongi’s voice wavers, and instead answering Namjoon just presses closer and reaches over his shoulder to open the door.
Yoongi’s next exhale stutters.
Namjoon thinks his would too if he let it.
“Go get warm,” he murmurs, giving Yoongi a gentle push between his shoulder blades.
Yoongi goes.
What Namjoon should do now is call a cheery ‘goodnight hyung’ through the door and go to his own room, his own bed. Yoongi is fed. Yoongi is in process of getting clean and warm. Yoongi, Namjoon knows, is more than capable of getting himself to sleep as well.
Instead, Namjoon goes to Yoongi’s room, switches on the bedside lamp, straightens up the messy covers and pulls out clean clothes from his drawers; softest jogging bottoms, oversized hoodie, underwear. He hesitates for a minute, considers taking the clothes to the bathroom, ready for when Yoongi gets out of the shower. Then he considers Yoongi getting out of the shower, warm, and wet and pink all over and leaves the clothes on the bed instead, neatly folded on the pillow.
What is he doing? What is he doing, pushing Yoongi around the house, crowding into his space, touching…
Okay, no. Namjoon knows. He may not have decided to do this, not consciously, but he knows, can recognise his own actions and now…
Now he needs to stop. Because Yoongi never asked, certainly never consented to or would even want… Namjoon needs to stop before it’s too late because…
“Joon-ah?”
Namjoon whips around, sees Yoongi in the doorway. He’s wearing a bathrobe, hair falling damply in his face. All visible skin – his bare toes, his knobbly knees, the hand nervously rubbing the back of his neck, the swoop of throat-collarbone-chest that Namjoon tries and fails not to let his gaze dip into – is pink, pink, pink and…
“What are you…? Oh.” Yoongi has walked over to his bed and is staring down at the pile of clothes waiting for him. Something about it seems to render him defenceless and Namjoon watches – in helpless, heart-wrenching wonder, in a mix of dread and disbelief and awe and hunger – as Yoongi’s hands fall down to his sides, as his whole posture softens into something vulnerable, something open. “You didn’t have to,” he says, whispers really, and it sounds nothing like a rebuke this time, the words slow and slurred and shit, shit, shit.
It's already too late. And Namjoon can’t stop because to stop now would be worse.
“Yoongi-yah,” he calls, taking a tentative step closer. “Can you turn around for me?” He’s careful to make it a question but he needs to see Yoongi’s expression, just in case…
Slowly, as if half-asleep or dazed, Yoongi shuffles around until he’s facing Namjoon. His gaze is still cast downwards, chin dipped low.
Namjoon swallows, steps closer, right into Yoongi’s space, watches a flush dusk his cheeks, the vulnerable curve of his neck. “Hey,” he says, and it comes out needlessly rough, like he’s been growling on stage for hours. “Can you…” He brings his hand up, touches the tips of his index and middle fingers to the hinge of Yoongi’s jaw, just a hint, a mere suggestion, but Yoongi follows it beautifully like Namjoon had known – like he’d always known, at the back of his mind, when he’d let himself to think about this – he would, and lifts his face up.
Yoongi is gone. His eyes are unfocused, pupils blown wide, his mouth lax and open, lips chapped and…
Fuck. It’s not like Namjoon has done this a lot, it’s not like he’s experienced, not exactly, but he knows what he’s looking at and he knows he’s the cause of it. Just because he didn’t mean for this to happen doesn’t mean he isn’t responsible.
“Good boy.” It slips out unbidden, instinctual and true, because Yoongi is good, always and just because Namjoon hasn’t been able to tell him – because Yoongi normally would never let him – doesn’t mean he hasn’t thought it.
But maybe it’s for the best that Namjoon hasn’t been allowed this before because the way the words land – Yoongi’s eyes growing even wider, something in his expression crumbling, his whole body swaying toward Namjoon – is devastating. “Thank you,” Namjoon breathes. “Shh, Yoongi-yah, thank you,” because Yoongi may not have intended to give this – and the possibility that it’s something Namjoon took without permission is going to be something they have to deal with at some point – but it’s a gift nonetheless and Namjoon is grateful.
“Namjoon, I…” Yoongi is blinking at him, trying to shake himself aware, but his hand is curled into Namjoon’s shirt and he’s not focusing.
“It’s okay, hyung,” Namjoon soothes. “It’s okay, you’re just tired.” It’s a lie, wrapped in truth, because Yoongi is tired, but this isn’t just that, and yet saying anything else right now would not help. “You should go to sleep.”
Yoongi hums, agreeable and absentminded, and then just stands there, eyes half-lidded and trained somewhere around Namjoon’s shoulder, occasionally flicking up as if checking on his expression.
Responsible, Namjoon reminds himself. He can fall apart later, right now he needs to make sure Yoongi doesn’t. “Do you…?” He breathes; in, out, steady. Steady. “Do you want me to help?”
Yoongi stares at him, for a span of few heartbeats except it feels like the whole universe expanding between them, time stretching out like taffy. He glances sideways at the bed, the clothes on it, hand twitching at his side. His mouth opens but no sound comes out.
Yeah. Okay. Ask a stupid question and all that. Namjoon is not going to get anything like clear, unequivocal consent now, is he, because he’s already taken them past that point by not paying good enough attention. This will have to do. It isn’t that bad, surely? He’s done this before – helped Hoseok into his pyjamas when he’d sprained his ankle, poured Jungkook into bed after he got too drunk to make it on his own, tucked in Jimin and Tae when they were feeling sad and needed a bit of coddling – just never with Yoongi who was always fiercely independent and resented any suggestion that he couldn’t do things on his own.
Even right now, Namjoon thinks Yoongi could. He could change into the clean clothes on his own, could get into the bed on his own. Sure, it might need Namjoon to tell him to do it in no uncertain terms at the moment, but Yoongi could.
Namjoon just doesn’t want him to, not when he can help.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay. Let me just...” He casts about, spotting a towel over a chair and grabbing it. Yoongi hasn’t done a particularly thorough job with his hair and it’s still dripping water into the collar of his bathrobe, down the side of his neck.
Yoongi makes a low hum at the back of his throat when Namjoon gently rubs the towel over his head and then a series of bitten off noises when he works out worst of the tangles from Yoongi’s hair, fingers catching on the knots and Yoongi’s head tilting back slightly with every pull.
“Good?” Namjoon asks, tossing the towel back where he found it. He’s not really expecting an answer but Yoongi’s mouth curves up just a little and his hand comes back up to brush against Namjoon’s side, pinching the fabric of his shirt between his fingers briefly. He’s shivering every so slightly, and Namjoon makes himself focus on what’s important, not what Yoongi doesn’t mean.
“Okay. Clothes now,” he says, grabbing the boxer-briefs from the bed and crouching down. Maybe it should be awkward, and it almost certainly will be tomorrow, but right now it’s the easiest thing in the world to lift first one, then another, of Yoongi’s feet up and through the legs. Namjoon ignores the smooth skin of Yoongi’s thighs against his knuckles, the swell of his ass when Namjoon’s hands disappear under the robe, tucking the garment up. Yoongi’s hand has come up to clutch at Namjoon’s shoulder, probably for balance, and it stays there when Namjoon repeats the steps with the jogging bottoms.
“Good,” Namjoon says, getting up, and this time it’s not a question but a statement. He watches the way Yoongi’s eyes grow heavier, the way his mouth goes soft, and doesn’t let himself cup his face, doesn’t let himself tip his head back, definitely doesn’t…
“Hoodie next,” Namjoon says, grabbing it off the pillow.
He gives it a moment to see if Yoongi does the next step at his own volition but no, of course not.
Namjoon puts his hands on the belt of the bathrobe, the hoodie tucked under one arm. He’s almost surprised to see they’re not shaking even a little bit.
“Got to take this off first,” he says, aiming for casual.
Yoongi says nothing, doesn’t even twitch when Namjoon unties the knot and pushes the robe off his shoulders. It’s not exactly the first time Namjoon has seen Yoongi topless, not even the hundredth – even if you ignore the countless hurried backstage outfit changes, living together for years would’ve done it – but looking and touching are very different things. He keeps it light, careful and matter of fact, pulling the bathrobe down Yoongi’s arms, threading them into the sleeves of the hoodie, his palms barely skimming over Yoongi’s ribs – too prominent under pale skin – when he tugs the garment down. The hood has settled on Yoongi’s head in the process and Namjoon pushes it back just enough to see Yoongi’s eyes, more sleepy than anything else now, which is good.
“‘m tired, Joon-ah,” he mumbles.
“I bet.” Namjoon pulls down the duvet, nudging Yoongi toward the bed. “Get in.”
Yoongi climbs in and curls onto his side, facing the wall. He looks small, even though Namjoon knows he isn’t. He looks lonely, which Namjoon hopes he isn’t, hopes Yoongi at the very least knows that he isn’t alone. Maybe he needs to be better at reminding Yoongi of that.
“Goodnight, hyung,” Namjoon murmurs, leaning over to pull the covers back up, tucking them around Yoongi for good measure. He starts to straighten up but doesn’t get very far before Yoongi’s hand shoots out and latches onto Namjoon’s arm. He doesn’t turn to look, face half-hidden by his hood and arm awkwardly stretched out behind him, and he doesn’t say anything either, but it’s not difficult to interpret the gesture.
Namjoon’s heart thuds in his chest, heavy and somehow painful, and he’s not exactly afraid, but he’s not exactly not-afraid either because… Because if he does this, if he stays, they will have to talk about it tomorrow. If he doesn’t, if he pries Yoongi’s grip loose – Yoongi will let him, Yoongi will not ask again, maybe never, and that realisation definitely makes cold fear squirm in his belly – and goes to his own room, if both of them wake up in their own beds tomorrow, there’s a good to excellent chance that they won’t. Sure, they probably should anyway – the need to apologise, to explain is there – but he knows at the same time that that might actually make things worse. That is, if Yoongi even remembers or understands what they slipped into accidentally, without meaning to but not without consequences, just because Yoongi was too tired to keep his normal defences up and Namjoon was too focused on his own needs to take care of everyone, to take care of Yoongi in particular, to do the same.
While he’s hesitating, Yoongi’s grip grows weaker until his fingers slip away and he folds his arm back against his chest, curling tighter, giving up. Namjoon’s whole chest aches at the sight of it, unbearably hollow and he can’t, he can’t leave, not even if it’s the smartest choice by some measure. The only measure Namjoon cares about right now is the distance between them, the way he can feel it widening by the second even though neither of them has physically moved.
Responsibility, he thinks again. And then; privilege.
Four quick steps to shut the door, four even quicker ones back and he can tell from the way Yoongi is pushing up onto his elbow, trying to see over his shoulder, hood pushed down out of the way, that he’s surprised, that he didn’t expect Namjoon to come back.
“Joon-ah?”
“Scoot over,” Namjoon says, rough and low, even though Yoongi is already pressed almost to the wall. Quickly, he shucks out of his jeans, sees the way Yoongi’s movements still at the thump of the belt buckle hitting the floor, the way he breathes, slow and measured while Namjoon climbs in behind him. Under the covers it’s warm and smells like Yoongi’s shower gel and Yoongi’s shampoo and Yoongi’s clean skin, everything Namjoon’s brain recognises as familiar and safe, and he can feel himself relax because this isn’t the first time they’ve shared a bed even if the context of it is.
He doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arm around Yoongi’s middle, doesn’t hesitate to tug him close into the curve of his own body, feeling the way Yoongi’s breath hitches a bit, his muscles tensing and then, all at once, flowing loose and pliant in Namjoon’s hold. “Sleep,” Namjoon whispers into the warm, still shower-damp space between Yoongi’s neck and shoulder and it may come out like an order, but it’s aimed at himself as much as Yoongi.
They sleep.
***
Title: lift you up (hold you when you fall)
Author:
kat_lair / Mistress KatFandom: 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Pairing: Kim Namjoon | RM/Min Yoongi | Suga
Tags: Power Dynamics, Dom/sub Undertones, Exhaustion, Accidental D/s, Like 'Ooops I Accidentally Put My BFF Under And Now I Have To Deal With It', Denial of Feelings, Soft Dom Kim Namjoon | RM, Sub Min Yoongi | Suga, Emotionally Repressed, Caretaking, Canon Compliant
Rating: T
Word count: 4,081
Disclaimer: Very clearly not true.
Summary: Just because he didn’t mean for this to happen doesn’t mean he isn’t responsible.
Author notes: This is a continuation to the gorgeous hit-all-my-kinks fic Get up when I fall (fly, run, walk or crawl)
dreamersdare wrote to me for fandomtrees last year and will make little sense without reading that first. She said I should write the opposing perspective from Namjoon's pov and well, here we are, year later. A gift which she more than earned by betaing it too :D Let's all look forward to the next instalment from her, next Christmas :Dlift you up (hold you when you fall) on AO3
The cold night air outside seems to wake Yoongi up a bit, and he straightens from his exhausted slump when they’re standing by the curb, waiting for the car. Namjoon lets his arm drop from Yoongi’s shoulders but not far. His hand stays hovering around the small of his back, touching, then not touching, then touching again when Yoongi shifts on his feet, shivering a bit. He’s fidgeting but not pulling away, which is enough of an anomaly to tell Namjoon just how tired Yoongi is despite his best efforts to appear otherwise.
“You cold?” he asks when Yoongi wraps arms around his middle, pulling the too thin for the season jacket tighter around himself.
“No,” Yoongi says. He’s wearing a hoodie underneath, the hood pulled up, and the glare he throws at Namjoon from the depths of it is frankly adorable.
Namjoon suppresses the urge to coo and maybe bop the tip of Yoongi’s nose for the fear of getting his finger bitten off. For all he knows exactly how goddamn intimidating Yoongi can be – spitting on stage, fierce and shining, wrapped in unbreachable focus behind his decks, collaring the younger members with indomitable kindness – in moments like this he looks nothing so much as a bedraggled kitten that Namjoon kind of wants to gather up against his chest. The image is somehow graphic enough that he can feel his cheeks heat with a flush he hopes Yoongi chalks up to the cold.
“You’re lying,” he says and pulls Yoongi closer by his waist. If their height difference means that this close Yoongi can’t see his face without tilting his own right back, then that’s just a happy coincidence. “I’m cold and I’m not the one covered in six hours’ worth of sweat.”
Yoongi grunts something that sounds indignant but makes no effort to put any distance between them. Namjoon is both gratified and concerned, but before he can think about it too much, the car is pulling up finally.
The drive back to the dorms is quiet. The heating seems to sap the rest of Yoongi’s energy and Namjoon lets him doze, quietly checking his emails and social media, occasionally watching the way streetlights and shop signs and advertising billboards blur outside the window.
It’s late enough that most of the dorm is dark and quiet when they get in. There’s a glow and the soft murmur of the television coming from the lounge, and by the clink of dishes, Namjoon figures someone is still tidying up in the kitchen. They’d all eaten earlier, and it was Yoongi’s absence from dinner that had prompted Namjoon to go looking for him as soon as he’d put his own bowl down.
Yoongi kicks off his sneakers, almost stumbling in the process if not for Namjoon gripping his elbow at the last minute. Yoongi blinks at Namjoon’s hand on his arm for long seconds and Namjoon watches the way his mouth drops open just slightly, eyes half-lidding. They are standing close in their cramped entryway, surrounded by discarded coats and scarves and shoes and when Yoongi swallows, it’s barely visible in the dim light but Namjoon still feels it in his own throat somehow.
“Got to take my jacket off, Joon-ah.” The words come out quiet, raspy.
“Yeah,” Namjoon agrees. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realise that Yoongi is waiting for him to remove his hand so that he can actually do that. “Oh! Yeah.” He lets go and turns away slightly to deal with his own coat.
“Okay, so I’m gonna go to bed,” Yoongi says once he’s thrown his jacket somewhere toward the hooks.
Namjoon, who’s in the process of picking up and carefully hanging Yoongi’s discarded jacket, ends up whirling around so fast he almost trips. “No!” he snaps, harsher than he intended, though still low.
Yoongi, who has already turned toward the bedrooms, stops.
A slow pulse of something heated, something all-encompassing rises inside Namjoon like a tidal wave. He thinks he could name it, should name it, because this… He didn’t mean… He just…
He pushes it away and instead croaks “Food,” by way of explanation. His hand finds its way to Yoongi’s shoulder, curled inwards. Underneath the thin, sweat-damp t-shirt his skin feels cold and clammy. “You need to eat,” Namjoon says. He tries, but he can’t make it sound like a request because it isn’t. Yoongi needs to eat, he needs to get warm and Namjoon…
Right now, Namjoon needs to make sure he does all of that. “C’mon,” he says, nudging Yoongi toward the kitchen.
“I’m not really hungry,” Yoongi says, but he lets himself be herded in the direction of Namjoon’s choosing. “Stop fussing.” The griping is familiar enough to settle some of the worry that had been niggling at Namjoon’s insides since dinner, only intensifying since finding Yoongi. The tone, however, isn’t quite right, lacking much of its usual bite.
Namjoon pushes Yoongi into one of the chairs. The kitchen is thankfully empty by now, the dishwasher humming quietly. Only the light above the sink is on and Namjoon takes one look at Yoongi’s tired face, the way he’s squinting like his contacts are hurting him and decides not to turn on the main lights.
Quickly, he pulls together a portion of Seokjin’s excellent bulgogi and shoves it into the microwave, busying himself with digging for clean chopsticks and pouring a glass of water while Yoongi’s dinner bathes in electromagnetic radiation. There’s a bright ping and Namjoon almost burns his fingers in his haste to get the dish out.
There’s a huff of amusement, a murmured “Careful, Joon-ah,” and by the time he turns back to the table, Namjoon can feel the pull of a small smile twitching in the corner of his mouth, fond and exasperated.
“Pot, kettle,” he says, depositing the bowl in front of Yoongi and then, because he can’t make himself just leave, sits down on the opposite side of the table.
Yoongi picks up the chopsticks but makes no move to put them to actual use. “My fingers are burn free,” he points out with a raised eyebrow.
Namjoon rolls his eyes. “Sure, and the rest of your body is five minutes from collapsing.”
It isn’t much of an exaggeration, but Namjoon had meant it as a jest. However, something in Yoongi’s expression shutters and the inward curl of shoulders from the hallway is back. Namjoon doesn’t like it at all.
“I wasn’t getting it,” Yoongi says. “I still don’t. What would you have me do? Sit on the edge of the stage and kick my heels while the rest of you perform the choreo?” The words are bitter, belligerent even, but the tone is all wrong. Something in Yoongi’s voice wavers as if this is nothing but false bravado, as if he half expects Namjoon to say ‘yes, actually, if Yoongi wouldn’t just mind sitting this one out rather than embarrass them all by tripping over his own feet.’
Namjoon can feel the smile drop off his face, a frown taking over, his brows drawing together. To his horror Yoongi flinches, an almost imperceptible pull back that most people would miss entirely, except Namjoon has known Yoongi, has watched Yoongi, for too many years to not be intimately versed in every small nuance of him. Yoongi opens his mouth and Namjoon knows, knows with bone-deep certainty that Yoongi is about to apologise, which is both so uncharacteristic – Yoongi usually apologises in actions, not in words – and so wrong that if he lets him, they’re going to be unpicking this mess for days.
He doesn’t think, he acts. “Stop!” The word lands like a slap, much like Namjoon’s hand over Yoongi’s mouth, still half-open against Namjoon’s palm.
Both of them freeze; Namjoon half out of his chair, leaning over the table, Yoongi’s eyes blown wide and dark. His chopsticks clatter to the table, falling out of his lax fingers.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Namjoon blurts out, desperate to make things right, except that too is wrong, wrong, wrong because Yoongi shrinks back further, his gaze dropping down, lips dragging over Namjoon’s skin as they press together tightly.
Shit. Shit, fuck, shit. He is supposed to make sure Yoongi doesn’t beat himself up over this, doesn’t push himself too far, and all he’s managed to do so far is microwave some leftovers and loom over him like a bully. And normally Yoongi would’ve been all up in Namjoon’s space already, giving it as good as he got, better most days to be honest. But not tonight. Not right now.
Right now, Namjoon needs to do better. Yoongi needs him to do better.
“Hyung,” Namjoon says, gently, pulling his hand away, gently, gently. “Please don’t apologise.” This time it’s a request, a plea.
It brings Yoongi’s eyes back up at least, though his face is unreadable still. Namjoon sits down, gathers the chopsticks and holds them out like a peace offering. “If you do,” he says, daring to smile a little self-deprecatingly, “then I’m going to have to do the same, and we’ll never get to sleep because apologising for every single time I didn’t get the choreo on the first or the twentieth try, or every time I messed up the steps, is going to take us all night.”
Yoongi’s posture relaxes. “Yeah, no,” he says. “I’m too tired for that kind of self-pity fest.” And there it is, a veiled acknowledgement that occasionally Namjoon may have a valid point. He tries not to let it go to his head, but it’s Yoongi, the person he’s looked up to for longer than he’s been an adult, so that’s pretty much doomed to fail from the start.
As if sensing his thoughts, Yoongi snatches the chopsticks off Namjoon’s fingers. “Gimme those,” he grumbles and – finally! – proceeds to shovel food into his mouth. Namjoon sits back, trying, and likely failing, to not look too smug about it.
By the time Yoongi’s bowl is empty, he is flagging again. So is Namjoon, to be honest. He dumps the dishes in the sink to be dealt with in the morning, maybe the following evening even.
“Right,” Namjoon says, rolling his neck and shoulders to loosen them up. “Now shower, c’mon.”
“Now I’m too tired,” Yoongi whines, but he gets up when Namjoon nudges him, shuffling toward the bathroom while complaining all the while. “Now I want to faceplant into bed and not move for a year.”
“And stink up your fancy mattress?” Namjoon lets himself smile as fondly as he feels like because Yoongi isn’t looking in his direction, walking – well, stumbling – down the corridor ahead of him. Because Yoongi like this, all of his edges softened, walls lowered to almost non-existent is…
Namjoon’s hand comes up to rest over the back of Yoongi’s neck without a conscious decision, bringing them both to a halt just outside the bathroom door.
“You coming to wash my back, Joon-ah?” It’s clearly meant as a joke but something in Yoongi’s voice wavers, and instead answering Namjoon just presses closer and reaches over his shoulder to open the door.
Yoongi’s next exhale stutters.
Namjoon thinks his would too if he let it.
“Go get warm,” he murmurs, giving Yoongi a gentle push between his shoulder blades.
Yoongi goes.
What Namjoon should do now is call a cheery ‘goodnight hyung’ through the door and go to his own room, his own bed. Yoongi is fed. Yoongi is in process of getting clean and warm. Yoongi, Namjoon knows, is more than capable of getting himself to sleep as well.
Instead, Namjoon goes to Yoongi’s room, switches on the bedside lamp, straightens up the messy covers and pulls out clean clothes from his drawers; softest jogging bottoms, oversized hoodie, underwear. He hesitates for a minute, considers taking the clothes to the bathroom, ready for when Yoongi gets out of the shower. Then he considers Yoongi getting out of the shower, warm, and wet and pink all over and leaves the clothes on the bed instead, neatly folded on the pillow.
What is he doing? What is he doing, pushing Yoongi around the house, crowding into his space, touching…
Okay, no. Namjoon knows. He may not have decided to do this, not consciously, but he knows, can recognise his own actions and now…
Now he needs to stop. Because Yoongi never asked, certainly never consented to or would even want… Namjoon needs to stop before it’s too late because…
“Joon-ah?”
Namjoon whips around, sees Yoongi in the doorway. He’s wearing a bathrobe, hair falling damply in his face. All visible skin – his bare toes, his knobbly knees, the hand nervously rubbing the back of his neck, the swoop of throat-collarbone-chest that Namjoon tries and fails not to let his gaze dip into – is pink, pink, pink and…
“What are you…? Oh.” Yoongi has walked over to his bed and is staring down at the pile of clothes waiting for him. Something about it seems to render him defenceless and Namjoon watches – in helpless, heart-wrenching wonder, in a mix of dread and disbelief and awe and hunger – as Yoongi’s hands fall down to his sides, as his whole posture softens into something vulnerable, something open. “You didn’t have to,” he says, whispers really, and it sounds nothing like a rebuke this time, the words slow and slurred and shit, shit, shit.
It's already too late. And Namjoon can’t stop because to stop now would be worse.
“Yoongi-yah,” he calls, taking a tentative step closer. “Can you turn around for me?” He’s careful to make it a question but he needs to see Yoongi’s expression, just in case…
Slowly, as if half-asleep or dazed, Yoongi shuffles around until he’s facing Namjoon. His gaze is still cast downwards, chin dipped low.
Namjoon swallows, steps closer, right into Yoongi’s space, watches a flush dusk his cheeks, the vulnerable curve of his neck. “Hey,” he says, and it comes out needlessly rough, like he’s been growling on stage for hours. “Can you…” He brings his hand up, touches the tips of his index and middle fingers to the hinge of Yoongi’s jaw, just a hint, a mere suggestion, but Yoongi follows it beautifully like Namjoon had known – like he’d always known, at the back of his mind, when he’d let himself to think about this – he would, and lifts his face up.
Yoongi is gone. His eyes are unfocused, pupils blown wide, his mouth lax and open, lips chapped and…
Fuck. It’s not like Namjoon has done this a lot, it’s not like he’s experienced, not exactly, but he knows what he’s looking at and he knows he’s the cause of it. Just because he didn’t mean for this to happen doesn’t mean he isn’t responsible.
“Good boy.” It slips out unbidden, instinctual and true, because Yoongi is good, always and just because Namjoon hasn’t been able to tell him – because Yoongi normally would never let him – doesn’t mean he hasn’t thought it.
But maybe it’s for the best that Namjoon hasn’t been allowed this before because the way the words land – Yoongi’s eyes growing even wider, something in his expression crumbling, his whole body swaying toward Namjoon – is devastating. “Thank you,” Namjoon breathes. “Shh, Yoongi-yah, thank you,” because Yoongi may not have intended to give this – and the possibility that it’s something Namjoon took without permission is going to be something they have to deal with at some point – but it’s a gift nonetheless and Namjoon is grateful.
“Namjoon, I…” Yoongi is blinking at him, trying to shake himself aware, but his hand is curled into Namjoon’s shirt and he’s not focusing.
“It’s okay, hyung,” Namjoon soothes. “It’s okay, you’re just tired.” It’s a lie, wrapped in truth, because Yoongi is tired, but this isn’t just that, and yet saying anything else right now would not help. “You should go to sleep.”
Yoongi hums, agreeable and absentminded, and then just stands there, eyes half-lidded and trained somewhere around Namjoon’s shoulder, occasionally flicking up as if checking on his expression.
Responsible, Namjoon reminds himself. He can fall apart later, right now he needs to make sure Yoongi doesn’t. “Do you…?” He breathes; in, out, steady. Steady. “Do you want me to help?”
Yoongi stares at him, for a span of few heartbeats except it feels like the whole universe expanding between them, time stretching out like taffy. He glances sideways at the bed, the clothes on it, hand twitching at his side. His mouth opens but no sound comes out.
Yeah. Okay. Ask a stupid question and all that. Namjoon is not going to get anything like clear, unequivocal consent now, is he, because he’s already taken them past that point by not paying good enough attention. This will have to do. It isn’t that bad, surely? He’s done this before – helped Hoseok into his pyjamas when he’d sprained his ankle, poured Jungkook into bed after he got too drunk to make it on his own, tucked in Jimin and Tae when they were feeling sad and needed a bit of coddling – just never with Yoongi who was always fiercely independent and resented any suggestion that he couldn’t do things on his own.
Even right now, Namjoon thinks Yoongi could. He could change into the clean clothes on his own, could get into the bed on his own. Sure, it might need Namjoon to tell him to do it in no uncertain terms at the moment, but Yoongi could.
Namjoon just doesn’t want him to, not when he can help.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay. Let me just...” He casts about, spotting a towel over a chair and grabbing it. Yoongi hasn’t done a particularly thorough job with his hair and it’s still dripping water into the collar of his bathrobe, down the side of his neck.
Yoongi makes a low hum at the back of his throat when Namjoon gently rubs the towel over his head and then a series of bitten off noises when he works out worst of the tangles from Yoongi’s hair, fingers catching on the knots and Yoongi’s head tilting back slightly with every pull.
“Good?” Namjoon asks, tossing the towel back where he found it. He’s not really expecting an answer but Yoongi’s mouth curves up just a little and his hand comes back up to brush against Namjoon’s side, pinching the fabric of his shirt between his fingers briefly. He’s shivering every so slightly, and Namjoon makes himself focus on what’s important, not what Yoongi doesn’t mean.
“Okay. Clothes now,” he says, grabbing the boxer-briefs from the bed and crouching down. Maybe it should be awkward, and it almost certainly will be tomorrow, but right now it’s the easiest thing in the world to lift first one, then another, of Yoongi’s feet up and through the legs. Namjoon ignores the smooth skin of Yoongi’s thighs against his knuckles, the swell of his ass when Namjoon’s hands disappear under the robe, tucking the garment up. Yoongi’s hand has come up to clutch at Namjoon’s shoulder, probably for balance, and it stays there when Namjoon repeats the steps with the jogging bottoms.
“Good,” Namjoon says, getting up, and this time it’s not a question but a statement. He watches the way Yoongi’s eyes grow heavier, the way his mouth goes soft, and doesn’t let himself cup his face, doesn’t let himself tip his head back, definitely doesn’t…
“Hoodie next,” Namjoon says, grabbing it off the pillow.
He gives it a moment to see if Yoongi does the next step at his own volition but no, of course not.
Namjoon puts his hands on the belt of the bathrobe, the hoodie tucked under one arm. He’s almost surprised to see they’re not shaking even a little bit.
“Got to take this off first,” he says, aiming for casual.
Yoongi says nothing, doesn’t even twitch when Namjoon unties the knot and pushes the robe off his shoulders. It’s not exactly the first time Namjoon has seen Yoongi topless, not even the hundredth – even if you ignore the countless hurried backstage outfit changes, living together for years would’ve done it – but looking and touching are very different things. He keeps it light, careful and matter of fact, pulling the bathrobe down Yoongi’s arms, threading them into the sleeves of the hoodie, his palms barely skimming over Yoongi’s ribs – too prominent under pale skin – when he tugs the garment down. The hood has settled on Yoongi’s head in the process and Namjoon pushes it back just enough to see Yoongi’s eyes, more sleepy than anything else now, which is good.
“‘m tired, Joon-ah,” he mumbles.
“I bet.” Namjoon pulls down the duvet, nudging Yoongi toward the bed. “Get in.”
Yoongi climbs in and curls onto his side, facing the wall. He looks small, even though Namjoon knows he isn’t. He looks lonely, which Namjoon hopes he isn’t, hopes Yoongi at the very least knows that he isn’t alone. Maybe he needs to be better at reminding Yoongi of that.
“Goodnight, hyung,” Namjoon murmurs, leaning over to pull the covers back up, tucking them around Yoongi for good measure. He starts to straighten up but doesn’t get very far before Yoongi’s hand shoots out and latches onto Namjoon’s arm. He doesn’t turn to look, face half-hidden by his hood and arm awkwardly stretched out behind him, and he doesn’t say anything either, but it’s not difficult to interpret the gesture.
Namjoon’s heart thuds in his chest, heavy and somehow painful, and he’s not exactly afraid, but he’s not exactly not-afraid either because… Because if he does this, if he stays, they will have to talk about it tomorrow. If he doesn’t, if he pries Yoongi’s grip loose – Yoongi will let him, Yoongi will not ask again, maybe never, and that realisation definitely makes cold fear squirm in his belly – and goes to his own room, if both of them wake up in their own beds tomorrow, there’s a good to excellent chance that they won’t. Sure, they probably should anyway – the need to apologise, to explain is there – but he knows at the same time that that might actually make things worse. That is, if Yoongi even remembers or understands what they slipped into accidentally, without meaning to but not without consequences, just because Yoongi was too tired to keep his normal defences up and Namjoon was too focused on his own needs to take care of everyone, to take care of Yoongi in particular, to do the same.
While he’s hesitating, Yoongi’s grip grows weaker until his fingers slip away and he folds his arm back against his chest, curling tighter, giving up. Namjoon’s whole chest aches at the sight of it, unbearably hollow and he can’t, he can’t leave, not even if it’s the smartest choice by some measure. The only measure Namjoon cares about right now is the distance between them, the way he can feel it widening by the second even though neither of them has physically moved.
Responsibility, he thinks again. And then; privilege.
Four quick steps to shut the door, four even quicker ones back and he can tell from the way Yoongi is pushing up onto his elbow, trying to see over his shoulder, hood pushed down out of the way, that he’s surprised, that he didn’t expect Namjoon to come back.
“Joon-ah?”
“Scoot over,” Namjoon says, rough and low, even though Yoongi is already pressed almost to the wall. Quickly, he shucks out of his jeans, sees the way Yoongi’s movements still at the thump of the belt buckle hitting the floor, the way he breathes, slow and measured while Namjoon climbs in behind him. Under the covers it’s warm and smells like Yoongi’s shower gel and Yoongi’s shampoo and Yoongi’s clean skin, everything Namjoon’s brain recognises as familiar and safe, and he can feel himself relax because this isn’t the first time they’ve shared a bed even if the context of it is.
He doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arm around Yoongi’s middle, doesn’t hesitate to tug him close into the curve of his own body, feeling the way Yoongi’s breath hitches a bit, his muscles tensing and then, all at once, flowing loose and pliant in Namjoon’s hold. “Sleep,” Namjoon whispers into the warm, still shower-damp space between Yoongi’s neck and shoulder and it may come out like an order, but it’s aimed at himself as much as Yoongi.
They sleep.
***