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"ayo suga,
do you remember when we came here three years ago?
when you and i were always at each others' necks,
the walls, bathroom tiles, and veranda were all colored blue."

dee follows:
  • famous rap star yoongi, successful businessman namjoon, au/ road

("C'mon! Have another drink. Come out where I am, on the edge." Knowing that I could not keep up, I said: "the edge is where we all want to be, the trick is not to bleed.")

yoongi is wild, reckless, callous-- but smart, the smartest person namjoon has ever known, and namjoon loves it and hates it all at once, the way his kisses are like ambrosia laced with cyanide, the way he teeters, teetered, again, and namjoon is so afraid of blinking, scared he’ll miss that crucial moment when yoongi falls off the edge, scared he won’t be there in time to reach out and save him.

(“i.. can’t even imagine how you feel.” namjoon says, eyes on the leather toes of his valentinos, too ashamed to look into yoongi’s eyes. then there are two delicate fingertips on his chin tilting his face upwards that smell like too many cigarettes from the ashes stuck between his fingernails.

“that’s okay,” and yoongi grins, the tip of his tongue peeking out from between his lips. namjoon sees him exhale, a cloud of smoke in the air dressed like poison. “you don’t have to.”)

/ so rapmon trains under bighit alongside hobi and suga but then he realises (along with like supreme boi and iron n etc.) that it’s not really for him which is just his luck anyway cos bang pd gets upset with him and kicks him out but OK something to note is that the reason why rapmon’s behaviour has been kinda fuckd up is bc for some reason yoongi really gets to him, like he catches himself starin for too long, and yoongi is this v smart, v pretty, v independent guy who can hold himself rly well and is also hella talented and makes great friends but he’s /quiet/ and so he’s all of these things at once and namjoon (who loves being right, who needs to be right, who always wants to learn things) is v perplexed by this so he finds that yoongi eats up his time like that and so it gets him really frustrated and he leaves, and they don’t speak for the next two years (even when namjoon tries to reach out, the others r just too busy to say anything). anyways he decides to go back to pursue his education and goes to korea university with a degree in modern philosophy and a minor in int’l relations and becomes a businessman-consultant type that is p successful but on a whim he decides to see how his band members are doing and finds out that bts never debuted... so it’s all a question about finding yoongi again, and the first step to that is hoseok (bc joon still has his number), and he finds out that yoongi decided to pursue music, went underground, and BLEW UP under the name “SUGA”.

so here’s namjoon at the tender age of 23, fresh out of college, hopping straight into a pinstripe suit working a regular 8AM-10PM (bc lbr that’s probably work culture in korea) every day, standing in front of a janky looking club in hongdae with kids in supreme and bape standing around him, cigarettes between their fingers and fake grills in their teeth, and namjoon swallows, wondering if this is what he’d be if he had stayed in bighit, but he loosens his collar and unbuttons his suit jacket and waltzes in anyways, tumi briefcase and all. the show has started already so when he gets in it’s all sweaty crowds and shouting and the smell of spilled beer and cigarette smoke and the floor is sticky under his feet and there he is, on stage, hair black as night with three green streaks running through the bangs that fall just above his eyes, and it’s like being a kid again. his voice is so much raspier, yoongi’s confidence flows through his words and pierces through the guy he’s up against like a spear. namjoon hasn’t lost sight of what he’s come for though so he waits til the set is over, til yoongi’s fist is raised high above his head (and pulled away lazily), til the crowd around the famous gloss, or agust d, and now suga, has dispersed at the bar; he sits down, and throws him a compliment. ‘i swear i’ve seen you somewhere before.’ and namjoon knows he looks nothing like the kid he used to be, a high schooler that put on a straight uniform every day but left with half a pot of hair wax on his head and oversized counterfeit street brands on his back....

but yeah tldr yoongi isn’t the same yoongi he was in bighit because he’s fermented in the shithole that is life and the failure to debut, and the fact that he couldnt’ carry bangtan all the way on his own was really burdensome on him, and its just gonna be about how namjoon pulls him off the edge and wraps up his wounds and gives him that closure that in this world there are paths we take that don't have a definite end, but we're stronger already simply by choosing to walk forwards instead of turning back, and that his dreams are his own, he was never obligated to carry the others on his back, but the fact that he wanted to in the first place makes him a precious person.

idk tho idk what yoongi does with his life by the end of it... he rejects a stint on smtm, starts writing for other artists, travels to the homelands of hip hop once or twice, there was a kid he met while he was still at bighit called jeon jungkook who had dreams of starting his own indie label.. maybe he’ll see how that went. and namjoon’s just the backbone with a pretty nice apartment in lesser gangnam with a great view of the han river and a really soft bed, who can’t cook for his life so maybe yoongi will start working on that too...

  • aching bones, tired souls | namgi(sugamon) | drabble

it’s three in the morning; the other five are asleep, silent under the covers, lips parted as they pass breaths. namjoon exhales, the moisture in his breath fogging up his glasses ever so slightly as yoongi adjusts his head, burying himself further into the crook of namjoon’s neck. the heat is turned up much too high for the nine degree weather outside. the floor lamp sitting at one end of the living room flickers, and at that split second, yoongi’s grip on namjoon’s back tightens ever so slightly, the short tips of his fingers digging into his skin, his core, through the dark fleece of his sweater. yoongi’s knees dig into namjoon’s hips as his sobs grow erratic, his toes flexing into the couch underneath them as he suppresses his voice, afraid to wake anyone. but namjoon knows him better, that no matter how hard he tries, the quick gasps of air that yoongi takes between his tears are always louder than he wants them to be.

“why does it seem as if all you do is cry nowadays, hyung?” namjoon quips, a soft smile spreading across his lips as he breathes into yoongi’s dark hair, who is still clinging onto him, hiccups growing slower. a low growl escapes from his throat, and he adjusts his position between namjoon’s legs. namjoon can’t help but let it get to him; his hyung, who he had found curled up on the couch a little past midnight, eyes closed as he subtly bobbed his head to something playing from his headphones, has suddenly become so vulnerable in his arms. namjoon could hear the song from where he stood in the doorway, despite the distance between them. it was a piece yoongi had done with daegu-town while he was still a trainee, when he and namjoon were shooting each other glances from across practice rooms and in the dormitory (namjoon always stared for too long, which probably-- definitely-- got on yoongi’s nerves, but there was something about how yoongi was the perfect combination of beautiful and dangerous, that made it so difficult for namjoon to tear his eyes away). it reminds him of the times they’d sat in front of the television after practise, a whole couch’s length between them, the uncomfortable silence only broken by the sound of whatever music broadcast they were watching. sometimes, namjoon would ask him a question (“h-hey, so, what are the chances that we’ll ever get a set that extravagant, huh?”); most times, yoongi would scoff, and neglect his own response.

he thinks about that gap, how it grew smaller and smaller as their debut inched closer, how the fights became less frequent, how one day, yoongi slung an arm around his shoulder, and neither of them flinched or coughed awkwardly in response. how, one day, the day before “DARK & WILD” was released, yoongi climbed into namjoon’s lap, breath laced with soju and cheeks stained hot pink, smiling and mumbling something about how good he feels, 'hey joon-ah, since when have you been so good at writing? i can't keep up... can't you slow down.. wait for hyung to catch up to you..'. namjoon can’t recall the details. all he remembers are yoongi’s lips suddenly pressed against his, how soft they were between his teeth, the hum’s that resonated from deep within yoongi’s chest, how namjoon pressed his fingertips into the porcelain skin of yoongi’s thighs and stained him red, sliding a hand across his hips and under his shirt.

(yoongi refused to speak to him for three days after that, until he finally came to terms with himself and admitted that he was at fault. as he was about to apologise, namjoon pressed him against the wall separating their rooms, and brought their lips back together. “i’ve,” namjoon breathed, “always wanted to do that.”)

  • .. (unfinished)
  • “new yorker min yoongi” / yoongi-centric, implied sugamon

when yoongi hits 26, he flies to new york and buys a small flat on the top floor of a brownstone in brooklyn. dumbo is in the perfect place, nestled within the outskirts of brooklyn that overlook manhattan, close enough to the noise but far enough so that he has space from the hustle and bustle of the big city. he doesn’t know what to do with it, doesn’t know how to own a house, let alone in a foreign country, so he allows a friend he met a couple years back on tour manage it for the most part.

when he feels suffocated by the tall buildings and white noise of seoul city, he flies halfway across the world to another, takes a cab to his brownstone, and clicks his key into the unloved lock leading into his attic, an empty room save for a desk, a floor mattress, a cabinet, and a lamp. the floors are solid concrete, and the walls are painted simple white. his windows are gigantic, facing out into a parking lot which seems to stretch for metres and metres until it hits the edge of the river, overlooking manhattan.

he says he’d like to retire here someday. (inside, he knows he’ll never be able to stay away from korea for that long, away from his mother, his family, the company, the boys, from--)

sometimes, when yoongi flies to new york, a few of the members come with him. of course, yoongi is prepared for this-- he keeps two futons in the closet, four sets of blankets, disposable gloves, and a shitton of trash bags for the times the maknae’s come along. hoseok loves new york second best, and is out the door as soon as it hits 9 in the morning, and back at 10 or 11 at night. he knows the new york subway like the back of his hand now, heedless of its pungence and disorder, after so many visits with and without yoongi after he was done at the army.

and then there’s namjoon. (unlike the others, namjoon never asks to come along-- yoongi always has to invite him, and every time, the answer is always a polite shake of the head, an apologetic smile, and a whispered "sorry, maybe next time", before namjoon is stolen away again by a phone call or a knock at the door.

--except for once.) there was one time that namjoon came with yoongi to america, on his second trip to new york after buying the flat, a little more than two weeks after namjoon was discharged. after three years apart (yoongi had enlisted a year earlier), yoongi suggested that they do their catching up overseas, since most of the kids were still in the army. it was at the cusp of spring, the weather still chilly enough during the daytime that made heavier coats a requisite for survival. it was almost as if namjoon felt more at home than yoongi should have; english passed through his lips seamlessly (yoongi’s been working on it for the past year or so but it’s not easy, never will be), he knows street signs and how to ask for directions.

they’re in chinatown one day and namjoon suggests that yoongi should buy a plant-- so he isn’t alone in the apartment, something that doesn’t wilt easily, and they decide on a collection of three succulents, each held in a small clay pot.

of course, namjoon drops one by accident as soon as they get back to yoongi’s place. at that moment, all yoongi could do was laugh. so he grabbed the dustpan kept in his closet and started sweeping the pieces into a pile as namjoon got onto his knees and apologised, pushing knobs of dirt and pebbles and small pieces of clay towards yoongi. they bump foreheads and yoongi pretends not to see the tips of namjoon's ears turn a deep shade of red.

(he pretended not to notice, either, when namjoon's palm lingered against his hand for longer than usual as they exchanged grocery bags, or when namjoon slid an arm around his waist when they stepped into the subway during rush hour, settling on his hip and staying even as the crowd subsided.)

namjoon's forehead presses against his, and yoongi's eyes refuse to move from the ground. he knows what's coming; he purses his lips, bracing for impact, listening to namjoon's heartbeat in each of his breaths, until there's a shift against his chin and namjoon's hand is cupping yoongi's jaw, eyes half-lidded as he presses their lips together, and yoongi caves, his face relaxing into namjoon's touch as he sinks deeper, deeper into their kiss.

when namjoon pulls away, he smiles, eyes apologetic, and rubs the back of his hand against the dirt stain left on cheek. "sorry," he whispers, and that's when yoongi cracks. his hands, still on namjoon's chest, push back, and yoongi cages him in, settling on namjoon's abdomen and glaring at him through the strands of dark hair that fall across his face.

"you know, usually when you like someone, and you know they like you too, because they're kissing back, you don't say 'sorry'--" with each word, yoongi has inched himself closer to namjoon's flushed face, until the tips of their noses are pressed together, and namjoon's lips are slightly parted in awe, yoongi's upper lip prodding the curve of his cupid's bow.

"--you say 'thank you'."

the first time this happened was years ago, the night they arrived in seoul after MAMA 2016. slightly drunk after too many shots of soju and a couple of six-packs of beer, the other members were passed out around them when yoongi crawled onto namjoon's lap, took his face between his hands, and pressed their lips together. the road to namjoon's room was more arduous than it should have been, as they did their best to navigate around the members (namjoon slurred an apology in taehyung's direction when he had accidentally tripped over his legs) and through the hall for what seemed like decades in the dark until namjoon had yoongi pressed into his sheets, kissing lines down his jaw and dragging a hand along his sides, tracing the curves of each of his ribs with his fingers before dipping down into his chest. yoongi's hands laced through his ashy hair tugged with each kiss that namjoon had left on his stomach, until namjoon looked up, lips wet and forehead glittering with droplets of sweat, and smiled, almost-sober.

"i'm so happy we found each other."

(the next morning, tae wondered why his door was locked shut, "namjoon hyung never locks anything in the house- and where the fuck is yoongi-hyung?", and knocked thrice before giving up, wobbling over to the couch that seokjin was sprawled across to shove him aside and curl up on whatever space he was able to salvage to soothe the ringing in his head)

many "accidents" later, yoongi finds himself in the same place as four years ago, lying breathless at five in the morning as the sun is about to break the horizon, casting a light orange glow through the sheer curtains of his brooklyn flat and onto himself and namjoon, whose head is resting above yoongi's, sharing the same pillow, a protective arm draped around his waist, still fast asleep. their skin is sticky to the touch, of sweat and /god knows/ what else, and yoongi carefully maneuvers himself off of the futon, pulling on a new pair of briefs from his open closet before he turns to the pile of dirt, still on the floor, and the dustpan that was somehow tossed aside during yesterday's affair. he sighs, crouching down to finish the job, gathering pieces of broken clay and the lonely shrub whose life was lost too soon, before casting it into the bin in his kitchen.


apr 7 2017 ∞
jan 3 2019 +
user picture cal: i am still waiting and living for the nyc-sugamon ok, just to send some heartens your way *^* may 29 2017