Namjoon + Siblings Best Friend Except The Sibling Has Been Rooting For Them To Get Together For Years

Namjoon + “sibling’s best friend” except the sibling has been rooting for them to get together for years

combined with your other namjoon request 💕🫶🏻

Namjoon + “stuck in an elevator” bc god of destruction or simply bad luck idm either

the one with namjoon and the u-haul

ft. jeon!reader, moving day, a mild age gap, jk being a lil shit as usual, and blondejoon 🥵 (cw: claustrophobia / brief depiction of a would-be anxiety attack)

If you ever managed to get your hands on your brother, you might kill him.

Of course, you’d have to find him first — and if your sixteen unanswered calls were any indication, Jeon Jungkook might’ve left this mortal coil already. Unfortunately for you and the rented U-Haul parked outside your apartment building, you needed that evasive little shit and his inhuman stamina.

More importantly, you’d needed him an hour ago when that rental clock started ticking.

The minutes you’d burned up already — firing text after unacknowledged text at your twin — were ones you’d quite literally pay for later in the form of late fees. Jungkook knew this, knew you, knew that your neurotic, Type-A brain had calculated exactly how much time would be needed for the two of you to orchestrate your cross-town move. Just like he knew you were simultaneously too weak to move these boxes yourself; and too poor to shell out for the full-day rental package or professional movers.

And yet, there he wasn’t.

You’d worn crop circles into the carpet already with your relentless pacing. One more step, and the pedometer built into your Apple Watch might give up altogether, explode into a cloud of sparks around your wrist. Worse, it might send out an emergency alert to the nearest mobile crisis unit and get your ass pink-slipped. Maybe, you think, you should try being still for once in your life. 

You hit the brakes so suddenly that the inertia makes you wobble, but you don’t fight it. Instead, you let that anxious momentum drop you unceremoniously onto the nearby sofa.

The one was supposed to be loaded up an hour ago.

Not that you’re counting.

Just as soon as you slump with a huff into the cushions, a rhythmic knock at your door yanks you back to your feet. All you see is red as you stagger over a sea of cardboard boxes, wind your way through garment bags, odds and ends to reach the entrance to your apartment. Your hand snaps like a bear trap around the doorknob when you finally clear the obstacle course; and you nearly rip the door off its hinges when your rage propels it open.

The preparatory breath you’d sucked in — gunpowder in your lungs, ready to pop off at your unbelievably tardy brother — instead leaves you in a startled gasp:

“Oh, God.”

Immediately, your face begins to burn with embarrassment. You don’t know what to do with your hands, either; they’re still balled up into fists and ready to swing. Fuck! Sweaty palms! You wipe them furiously on the back pockets of your denim shorts and try to keep the rest of you from liquifying.

“Actually,” comes a surprisingly soft voice from a body so contrary, “It’s pronounced Namjoon.”

Oh, no, no, no, no.

Not that lopsided, tight-lipped smile.

Anything but that.

You, a fool, blurt out the obvious, “You’re not Jungkook.”

Of course, this offering is worthless. The twerp who entered this world three minutes before you was sixty-three minutes late; and his friend — the one you still can’t believe Jungkook manages to keep — was standing in his place. His older, smarter friend, whose massive hands you picture when you —

Kim Namjoon has a laugh that makes less noise the more he means it. Based on the melodic little hiss that erupts in response to your declaration, he finds your buffoonery hilarious.

You are not long for this world, you fear.

“Got me there,” he concedes. Looking up to find him beaming at you, you’re not surprised that staring at his grin — the one that shows all his teeth and makes his eyes crinkle — feels a lot like staring into the sun.

Don’t you dare faint. You’ve survived three years with that face. You can and will be normal about this.

As if that wasn’t enough, Namjoon has the audacity to lay his palm flush against the door jam above your head and lean down and — shit, his biceps just look like that? All the time?

You’re already a puddle at his feet when Namjoon hums, “Heard you needed an extra set of hands.”

You want to ask if he’s psychic — his hands, in any context, are precisely what you need — but you don’t. You clear your throat and throw on your best approximation of nonchalance. Cross your arms over your chest in a way you hope looks casual, tilt your head to the side. 

You raise a single eyebrow before responding, laying it on thick, “So, he lives, huh? Texts you but not his own flesh and blood? Sends his poor hyung as a proxy?”

“I have free will, you know,” Namjoon chides you without any real heat. “And a free afternoon, too.”

He then shrugs his shoulders before pointing over yours. The target he’s acquired sits at the very edge of your peripheral vision, a beast in velvet upholstery. His grin is downright impish when he continues, “Unless your plan is to yeet that couch straight off the balcony, I suspect your options here are limited.”

If you’d been given the opportunity, you’re confident that you may have come up with some witty remark. Instead of ongoing banter, you get a hand on either side of your waist, picking you up and moving your rag doll body out of the doorway. Namjoon smirks as he sets you down, ignores your slacked jaw, and invites himself into your apartment.

On his way to the couch, he spots something that catches his eye. He pauses, bends down towards a laundry basket full of assorted bullshit, and pulls out what can only be described as a cursed object. It’s your most hideous and most beloved possession, having joined you in every major move since you left your parents’ house: a ceramic shelf-sitter in the form of a rooster, the body of which is entirely made of sculpted fruits. 

Namjoon is absolutely baffled by it, open mouth forming a circle as he stares down at his discovery. You should be baffled, you think, it’s God’s ugliest creation. Then, as if the force of his quiet blinking was too much for it to handle, the bunch of bananas composing its tail feathers pops off and promptly falls to the ground.

Horrified, he watches in slow motion as it hits the hardwood below with a thump. You watch as his shoulders sag; unable to tell whether the fond little tug in your chest is based on your weird, broken art, or how completely crushed he looks.

“Ah, fuck. I’m sorry!” He gasps, ducking down to grab the runaway appendage. Fuck the bird — it’s him. Then, he mutters directly to the object looking laughably small in his palm, “What’d you do me like that for? Rude as hell.”

Instinctively, you cross to where Namjoon stands in the center of your living room. When you reach him, you feel him brace himself for your reaction; but all you do is bend at the waist, grab a small tube of super glue from that same laundry basket, and hold it up. He glances from your fingers to your face.

“A must-have when you break shit as often as I do,” you chirp. Then, you gesture with your free hand to the basket. His gaze follows and locks onto the small, strawberry knee joint that you’d accidentally severed as you packed. To say that his eyes light up is an understatement.

Namjoon taps at the “made in” sticker on the bottom of the rooster and smirks, “This is what you get for buying American, honestly.”

_____

You didn’t have “spending time with Kim Namjoon” on today’s bingo card, but you’re certainly not complaining.

Lucky for you, he was stronger than your idiot brother and infinitely less frustrating to be around. The pair of you moved around your apartment like you were ballroom dancing; neither of you needing the steps called out to know them. It was easy, it was synchronized, and you didn’t have to beg him to stay on task.

Absolute none of that would be the case if your day had gone as planned.

In thirty minutes’ time, all of your possessions had been loaded into the U-Haul except one: the couch. Due to its bulkiness, you knew it’d be difficult to maneuver despite its relatively light weight.

Namjoon, boasting more brain cells than you by a long-shot, had suggested using the elevator. So long as it was angled properly, he reasoned, the two of you could make it fit without issue. Then, you wouldn’t need to wrangle the first neighbor you came across to help you pivot the blasted thing around every stairwell.

It was a short trip, only four floors, so you’d decided not to explain why you’d taken the stairs for every previous run of boxes.

Maybe you should have, because forty-five minutes have passed since you entered that elevator, and you are swiftly running out of ways to pretend that you’re fine.

From where you sit cross-legged on the elevator floor, you can hardly see Namjoon, who is believed to exist somewhere on the other side of your couch. Every now and then, there’d been a flash of blonde hair next to one of the couch’s arms — proof of life — but he’s more often invisible than not.

You’re okay with that fact, you realize. It means he can’t see the way your anxiety is manifesting only half a meter away from him.

“D’you think this call button even works?” He calls out to you, unknowingly contributing to the cold sweat slicking the small of your back, “I’ve pressed it a hundred times and — as you know — we haven’t been rescued.”

You wonder if you sound as strangled as you feel. Throat tight, you mutter, “Nothing in this building works. ‘S part of why I’m moving.”

Apparently, you do sound as strangled as you feel. You hear shifting in Namjoon’s corner of the elevator, and then you see his face materialize near the bottom of the couch. His eyebrows were initially furrowed, but the concern he carried there migrated. It settles and causes his eyes to widen when they find you.

“You alright?” He asks immediately. Sweetly.

In the grand scheme of things, yes, you would concede that you are — generally — more or less alright. You’ve been in worse places with worse company, and relatively speaking, this isn’t your ultimate nightmare. You’re capable of far greater panic than this.

In this moment, however, in this godforsaken metal box with walls that feel like they’re getting closer by the second, and stale air that gets heavier and heavier when you try to breathe it into your lungs, the walls of which are also getting —

Namjoon answers for you, decidedly but without even a hint of judgement, “You’re not alright.”

There’s more shuffling from the corner. Within a few moments, he manages to wriggle himself into a standing position. With two hands now on the couch’s spine, he glances urgently in your direction. His eyes soften, but you’re distracted by the loose lock of blonde hair that falls over his forehead, over them.

“If I find a way to you, does that make it better or worse?”

Of course, big-brain Kim Namjoon has the sense to ask. Of course, he’s emotionally intelligent enough to realize that joining you in your space could either calm your anxiety, or force it into X-Games mode. Of course, you feel like you’re being hydraulically pressed, so you don’t have the available brain cells to run a proper cost-benefit analysis.

So, you peep, “I — uhh, I don’t know?”

He purses his lips like he’s trying not to smile — because, as you’ve learned, he’s a good fucking person — but you feel a little bit less like you’re actively dying when you watch the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. Taking that gut reaction at face value, you swallow and wordlessly wave him over.

Only one way to find out, you suppose.

The way he grunts softly when he single-handedly pushes the couch further upright would make your whole body clench if it wasn’t already. The same is true of your rapid heart rate and the simmering desire to swoon. Wait — it’s called “fainting” if it’s a medical event, right? Whatever it is, the urge only gets stronger when he slots himself into the tiny bit of space at your side.

“Here — Oh, hang on,” He says, prompting you to look his way.

Your eyes catch him just in time to watch him wipe his hand off on his jeans, then hold it out to you. Without a second thought, you accept it. Squeezing slightly to express your gratitude, you smile and let your joint hands rest against your thigh. Like a shot of clonazepam, he has you calm in an instant.

A few moments of silence pass comfortably. Eventually, when your pulse returns to safety, you tilt your head back against the metal wall behind you and gaze upwards. The ceiling is back where it belongs, no longer inching towards you with the intent to flatten you against the floor. You breathe deeply then sigh out the exhale.

“I’m so glad I’m not trapped in here with Jungkook,” you announce, “If he were here, he’d be jumping up and down to try to get this thing to move, and I’d be nerve-barfing everywhere.”

“Good god,” Namjoon snorts. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye; he’s thoroughly amused, not at all grossed out by the picture you’ve painted. You know I’m right, you think.

It’s not clear if he knows you’re watching when his smile turns shy. He says it quietly, like he’s divulging some heavy secret, “Glad I called him off, then.”

You hum in agreement before those words actually register in your distinctly soup-like brain. When they finally do, you tilt your head to the side and narrow your eyes at him in confusion. For the first time in three years, he gets to hear what it sounds like when you buffer in real time:

“Sorry, you — huh?”

The math isn’t adding up. The science isn’t — doing whatever it is that science does. The words? Well, they’re failing you. You’ve got nothing.

Namjoon’s free hand rubs against the back of his neck. He smiles sheepishly, so damn cutely. For a second, he nibbles on his bottom lip before coming clean, “I may have asked Jungkook if I could sub in today.”

No thoughts, head empty, just wide-eyed blinking. It’s all you’re capable of with your stomach doing backflips the way it is.

“He was — umm — more than happy to switch swifts, you know?”

Of course, he was. Jungkook is a brat.

Namjoon chuckles and it’s then that you realize you’d broadcasted your thoughts out loud. He shakes his head as if you hadn’t just spit objective fact out into the elevator. Your eyebrows furrow as you try to follow the plot.

“For being an older brother, Kook’s a surprisingly good wing-man.”

Your jaw drops. Finger raised, you interject immediately, all piss and vinegar. “Joon, he is three minutes older. Don’t you dare give him credit for that. His ego’s already hit the ceiling, and I am not calling him oppa —”

Namjoon purses his lips again. The corner of his mouth ticks upward again. He’s apparently waiting for a response that you haven’t given him, again. Your sentence dies out before you can punctuate it.

Oh. Did you —?

Eyes as big as the moon, you sputter, “Wing man?”

“There you go, champ,” he laughs, affectionately nudging your shoulder with his. “Is that lag one of those twin things people talk about, or —?”

You land a playful smack on his bicep, but let your hand linger. Not unlike the way he’d done twice before, you pinch your lips together and try not to grin like the fool you are. Taking advantage of your pause, Namjoon reaches across his body with his free arm and peels your palm from his bicep. He keeps on holding it and you only melt a little bit.

It takes effort on your part, but you squirm in your spot until you’re able to face him more fully.

“Namjoon, you have to tell me the truth,” you demand. You squint back at him, narrowed eyes emphasizing the dramatic tone you’ve taken. “Did you or did you not break this elevator on purpose?”

He laughs so hard that it’s silent. His heads ducks down, too, until his forehead rests gently against your shoulder. From there, he sighs, “I did not break this elevator on purpose.”

After a pause, he sits back up, handcuffs his gaze to yours, then grins with all his teeth. “I’d be a fool not to capitalize on the opportunity, though.”

You close the distance and kiss him with all you’ve got, cotton-candy sweet and fresh-linen soft. It’s easy — the way it felt when your busy bodies swirled around your living room, never once stumbling — and you swear you hear bells ringing.

Namjoon pulls away breathless. He begins to ask the question, but the gentle lurch of the elevator answers before he can finish.

230402 ; JIMIN x LIKE CRAZY 

MYG - Music To My Heart.

You knocked on his studio door, once, twice and then when he didn’t answer you knocked a much firmer third.

The door Swung open, the older man grunting about not wanting to be disturbed, that is until he see you. His frown evened out as his lips turned into a subtle smile.

“You came? Is everything okay?” He stepped aside, giving you the go ahead to enter the room.

You sat down in his chair, which had been pushed into the far corner almost as if he wanted to distance himself from the computer. “I’m okay, you are not.”

He rolled his eyes closing the door, taking a seat on the couch opposite you. “I am, if Jimin called you then you should have ignored it.”

“He said you swore at him.” You raise your eyebrows, Yoongi was never one to raise his voice, he wouldn’t be afraid to use an insult or two but no one ever took it personally.

“I’m just stuck okay? You know what I get like whenever I have a block.” His gaze falls to his fingers as he picks the skin around the nail, something your recognised a long time ago as being something he did because of his anxiety.

You sighed walking over to him, sitting yourself in his lap. His hands ceased their silent attack on one another in favour of resting on your hips. “We talked about this yoon. You have to rest otherwise you’ll get burnt out.”

“It’s not like that this time, I nearly have it. I can feel it there I just don’t know how to bring those thoughts forward. I even tried meditating.” He defends himself, his voice cutely raising a pitch.

You but your lip in hopes of hiding your smile. “You tried meditating.”

“Jimin caught me and told me he would post it on Weverse if I didn’t go home.” He scowled.

You remember how jimin had been vague earlier on the details that prompted Yoongis outburst. “That explains why he was so shady when he called me.”

“You have got to stop listening to any member in the maknae line, I swear they only exist to make you babysit me.” He laughs resting his head against your shoulder.

You let him sit there for as long as he needs, his breathing grows quiet as does everything else in the room. You relax alongside him, your own head resting against his as you run your hand through his long black hair. After a while you begin to hum, something you often did to occupy the space between you and him.

You almost fall off his lap as he sits up, pushing you off his lap. “What the fuck Yoongi?!” You shout throwing his shooky pillow at him.

“That hum.” He sits in his chair his fingers rushing across the keyboard as if his thought was going to escape him any minuet. “What was that hum?”

You learn forward, a lot confused. “I don’t know it was just something I made up as I went along.”

“Could you do it again but into the mic?”

“Min Yoongi if you want me to feature on your song that will be 5 million.”

“Won?” He asks, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Dollars.” You giggle, tiptoeing over to him.

“Never gonna happen but I’ll let you braid my hair.” He extends a hand to which you shake playfully.

You shake your head in disbelief as you walk over to the microphone, waiting for him to signal the okay before humming the same tune. He had you do it a few more times before asking you to hum another one but this time quieter.

“I think I have an idea for some lyrics.” He explains to you, extending a hand to call you back to him.

You could see the earlier tension in his shoulders were no more. “I hope I helped.”

“You did Sweetheart. How about you go and get us some dinner and meet me at home in say an hour? I’ll get some lyrics recorded and meet you at home.”

You knew this was him gently explaining he needed his space to work and you were more than happy to give him that, he went to hand you his card as you slipped on your shoes but you declined. As much as you would both joke about it you always were equal. Of course there were things he could afford to do that you couldn’t but you always did your best to contribute fairly.

On days like today where your Boyfriend was stressed and overwhelmed you liked to treat him the same way he did you. You requested that the driver he had arranged to take you home stop at Yoojung Sikdang.

Yoongi had talked about wanting food there for months, it was always way too busy and it was an attraction that army would frequently visit, it being the restaurant bangtan had used during their debut days.

You had met the owner a few times, she knew who you were but no one else did which allowed you the ability to pick up yoongis favourite dish from the restaurant.

You got home pretty fast which is why you were surprised to see Yoongis shoes by the door. The sound of the refrigerator opening alerting you to his location.

You managed to slide off your shoes and carry the many boxes safely into the kitchen without dropping anything.

“Hey baby do you wa- you did not.” His eyes widen at disbelief as he focuses on the box’s logo.

“I thought you deserve an old comfort.”

“What did you get?” He practically throws the box open in excitement.

“black pork and stone pot bibimbap and grilled black pork belly.”

He swings around faster than you could comprehend, his lips colliding with yours as his hands grip into your hair. He traces your jaw with kisses, leaving a mark just below your ear.

“If I knew you’d react like that I would have gone months ago.” You laugh, feeding him a piece of pork.

“Aish don’t be a brat.” He accepts the food, mumbling about how good it tastes.

You both laughed before taking another bite of food. You watched the man silently, his face seemingly happy. “How did it sound in the end?”

“Like music to my heart.”

You can’t help but blush as he winks at you, a hand squeezing your thigh before turning back to his meal. His own shyness laid out as he laughed into his bony hands.

Yoongi wasn’t the easiest person, it took you a long time to understand him but you were thankful that you took the time to, you couldn’t imagine your life without the man. His random spurts of energy, his focus and dedication, his passion, the way he loves and the way he wants to be loved are all things you never thought you’d love about a person, funnily enough they are all the things you love about him.

For the drabblepallooza :D

Hoseok:

hannah, this song 😩🥹 i hope i did it justice!

oh, you kissed me just to kiss me / not to make me cry / it was simple, you are sweetness / let’s just sit a while

It was a test - albeit an unfair one - but it was necessary. You were becoming comfortable and if your life had taught you even one (1) thing, it was this: the other shoe will always drop; and when it inevitably does, it’ll hit you square in your unsuspecting face.

Constant vigilance, or whatever. Sleep with one eye open. Hell, maybe two.

You weren’t sure what you’d done in a past life - what cursed mirror you shattered, or which witch you pissed off - but you didn’t get to be happy. Happy was for other people. Fate took your pretty, golden string and dragged it through the mud. You were polluted; you were sure of it.

But then Hoseok sprung up so unexpectedly like a daisy blooming through a crack in a city sidewalk. It was shocking, made you do a double take to prove you weren’t seeing things. Even worse, it made you hope. You were concrete, busted and so stubborn, and he was sweet. As much as you wanted to, you didn’t know how to trust that.

It had to be a ruse. Some long con - right?

Life lesson number two (2) was that no 2:00 AM text goes unpunished. You’d only ever been on the receiving end - in more ways than one - and it always ended up the same way: with you slumped on your couch with your best friend; you shoveling handfuls of dry cereal into your gaping maw; you ugly crying.

You couldn’t get a read on him, despite the month you’d been seeing each other. Was he the kind of person that would even be awake to receive your invitation? If he was, what would he make of it? And if he did show up on your doorstep, what then?

As usual, you got bored halfway into thinking it through. There was only one way to find out.

[02:03 AM]: Come over? 👉🏻👈🏻

Once you’d rigged the bomb that would blow you sky-high, all you could do was wait. You sat on your couch and faced the television you still hadn’t turned on, but your restless eyes kept darting down to the phone in your lap.

No matter how many times you tapped its screen to wake it, you couldn’t make a notification appear. All you accomplished with this course of action was repeated, glaring, minute-by-minute reminders that this whole thing was stupid.

At 2:39 AM, you accepted defeat. Hoseok was a hard-worker and an early-riser; it only made sense that he went to bed when respectable adults did. You should’ve been glad that you hadn’t ruined his good night’s sleep.

You were halfway back to your bedroom when a quiet knock stopped you dead in your tracks. Body still frozen, you tilted your head to stare incredulously at the door.

It worked? Fuck! Now what?

It took several seconds to convince your feet to move. When they finally did, the sound echoing through your apartment wasn’t that of bare soles on hardwood. Instead of muffled footsteps, you heard your brain repeating one word rhythmically, over and over, with each step: idiot, idiot, idiot.

You weren’t sure what you expected when you opened the door. Perhaps it was Hoseok, standing there like a fuck-boy with a condom wrapper clenched between his teeth. Maybe instead of a condom, it’d be a rewards card that he could redeem for a free coffee once your hole was punched. Or maybe he’d be naked, concealing his naughty bits with a sign that said I’m going to ruin your life!

Whatever horrible thing you could’ve imagined, it wasn’t what you got: Hoseok and his cold-bitten cheeks, wearing a big, flannel scarf and the sleepiest fucking smile you’d ever seen. He quirked an eyebrow at your shocked expression, but he didn’t ask after it.

He simply raised a white, styrofoam to-go box, and said, “Sorry it took so long. I stopped at that late-night pizza joint by my place. You wouldn’t believe that line.”

Dumbstruck, you accepted the box from him and stepped aside to allow him in. He kicked off his shoes, then tossed his coat and scarf onto the nearby coat rack. But then he kept moving, talking all the while, without noticing the sparks flying off your broken brain.

“Seriously, it wrapped around the entire block. As bad as it sounds, I’m kind of glad you weren’t with me this time,” he snickered as he dumped himself onto your couch. He threw you a wink you weren’t prepared to catch, “I don’t know if I could’ve stood there for twenty minutes while wearing you like a back-pack.”

Your face scrunched up. For the first time, actual words clambered out of your slack-jawed mouth, “Hey! I’m perfectly capable of waiting in a line!”

His brows furrowed above twinkling eyes. There was no point in arguing; you both knew you were full of shit. Right on cue, a montage started playing in your mind. It chronicled every single time you whined for a piggyback ride -

Spoiler alert: The total was somewhere between 12 and 20.

- because your legs were tired, or your shoes were giving you blisters, or because you were a dumb baby who needed to be held, or because maybe you were starting to lo- Nope, stop right there.

“Okay, fine, I’m not,” you conceded with a sigh as you joined him. Looking down at the pizza box - which was miraculously still warm despite his cold walk here - you bit down on your bottom lip.

He saw your shy silence and raised you a gentle nudge with his shoulder.

“You were sleeping,” you eventually whispered. Declaratory, not inquisitive because you woke him up, you menace.

Hoseok was so visibly confused by your uncharacteristic quietness, “Yes? And now I’m not.”

You were already melting into a puddle under that sunshine in his eyes, but he nevertheless persisted:

“You always get hungry this late. Was I supposed to let you starve?”

Your knees were wobbling even though your ass was firmly planted on that cushion, “That’s why you’re here?”

“I mean, I also missed you,” his bemused laughter carried you off like a breeze, “But keeping you fed is priority number one - for national security purposes, obviously. You get so cranky when you’re hungry.”

You were not going to cry, you adamantly refused, but your eyes got a little blurry when that giggle flew out of you. You kept giggling, too, until his cold hand cupped your cheek.

Then he kissed you and it was cotton candy, so sugary sweet in the way it melted in your mouth. You waited for him to pull you into his lap, to deepen the kiss, for that other shoe to collide with the top of your thick skull.

But he stopped.

He tucked you under his arm.

He smiled as he held a piece of pizza up to your buzzing lips, and he chuckled when you finally took the bite he offered.

yellow looks good on him 💛

ahhhh omg would you write namjoon + holding back by BANKS

holding back | knj

✰ pairing: ex!namjoon x f!reader (divorced au) ✰ warnings: angst; divorce; ripped the lyrics from the song mentioned above; a tangent on family law that is probably incorrect idk; an ill-advised attempt to climb a person and break into a house; crying; namjoon’s specific brand of longing (he’s a simp i’m sorry); implied reunion ✰ word count: 1.2k ✰ note: ty for the request, sweet friend!!! please note that i did take a class on family law. however, i was dicking around the entire time, and also the law is made up, and also none of this should be taken as legal advice because i am not an attorney (yet). thanks (also i promise this is the last namjoon angst for a while lmao i’m so sorry)

—

These days, the fucking window is what haunts Namjoon most.

You’d insisted on giving him the house in the divorce. He remembers the look on his lawyer’s face when he tried to argue that you should keep the house. The lawyer’s infuriating calm as she explained that, because the property had been acquired during the marriage, it was considered communal, and thus subject to division—however the two of you agreed to do it.

And even if the two of you didn’t agree, you’d already agreed to take most of the other things the two of you had acquired during the marriage. Which meant a judge would probably just give him the house, anyway. Or order it sold, and have the two of you split the profits, and did Namjoon really want this house—designed by the two of you and custom-built, on a highly-coveted parcel by the river—given to a stranger?

Namjoon had never given much thought to how asset division worked. Never thought he’d needed to, really. And at the time, he thought it was generous of you. Too generous. 

Now, he’s thinking it might be a sentence. Live in this house. Remember your sins. Take stock of your demons. 

Now, he’s thinking he should have just taken the advice of everyone—and there had been many—who’d warned him to get a prenup.

Anyway, the window.

He sits back in his chair in the second-floor study. It’s the spot where he’s been going to mourn, lately. Where he goes when his fingers almost hit send, when he comes across a song on shuffle that seems to mock his specific brand of longing.

It’s that night he keeps going back to—the night you forgot the keys. Dumb, Namjoon thinks now, because every goddamn house in Korea has a keypad lock system now, but you’d been paranoid. Been scared that anyone could just walk up and see the worn-out sequence of numbers and deduce the passcode without much guesswork. Wanted to keep the house secure the old-fashioned way. 

And he gave in. Of course he did. He’d never been able to say no to you, even when you weren’t asking.

Except you forgot the keys, and obviously he hadn’t remembered the keys, and the sun had already sunk beneath the horizon when you turned to him, standing on the front step, with that look. The look you always got when you were planning something devious, something that would make him sigh in disbelief. The glint in your eyes, the quirk of your lip—he felt the headache coming on before the words even left your mouth.

Boost me, you’d said. Up to the second-floor window. You left it open again, didn’t you?

And he’d had to stand there while you climbed him like a tree, used the top of his scalp for the final boost—Namjoon swears there’s still a footprint there, a permanent indentation just to the left of his part. Stayed as still as he could while you popped the screen in and climbed through. Nearly had a heart attack when it looked like you were about to fall—threw his arms out to catch you, just in case—and then sighed with relief when you finally made it in. 

Really, it's the laughter afterward that he remembers. Melodic, sweet, floating out the destroyed window screen and spilling onto the sidewalk below. Laughter again when you opened the front door for him and caught the look on his face—thoroughly exasperated, but enamored all the same.

I love it when you look at me like that, you’d said, reaching up to kiss him. Like you can’t help but love me.

You were right, he thinks. He can’t help but love you. Can’t hold anything back when it comes to you.

You’d been so young, then. Both of you.

That fucking window. Tonight, he decides the swell of memories is enough for him to hit call.

He freezes when he hears the sound of you picking up. The sharp inhale—fuzzy with distance—has him stiff in his chair, fingers curling around the arm rest. Dumb, he thinks again, because he’s the one who called you.

“Namjoon?” you say, carefully. 

His heart sinks. Turns to stone, weighs him down. Not Joon-ah, or yeobo, or jagiyah, but Namjoon.

Your way of protecting yourself, he realizes. Protecting him, too.

It’s been a month since you moved out, but it feels like it’s been years when he opens his mouth, lips chapped and tongue arid from not having spoken very much at all—to anyone—since then. “I wrote you a song.”

He hears your breath catch. The hesitation. The air buzzing with the not-quite-silence of the phone line. “Oh.”

“Can I….” He stops, swallows. Walks over to his computer, where the file lays open—bare, exposed, raw and bleeding—and hovers over play. “Play it for you?”

“Okay.”

He closes his eyes, holds his phone closer to the speaker, and clicks.

Love is holdin' back I know I've done you wrong Did I say too much? (Love) Leave me, I'm alright I'll see you in the mornin' And lovin' is holdin' back And I have been in mournin'

Anythin' I want you more than all time I want you more than moonlight I want you more than sunshine I want you more than water I want you more than high tides So don't you say that our time is up Our time ain't up, oh-oh-oh-oh

He tries to hear the song the way you might be hearing it. The melody’s unpolished, still, jagged at the edges, but he likes the way he sounds in the end. Deep, aching melancholy, a man tortured.

The piano, though, is what gets him. He remembers fiddling with it, over and over, changing the chords every five minutes because he just couldn’t get it to sound quite right.

“What sound are you even going for?” his producer had asked, tugging a weary hand over his face.

“Her voice.”

He hopes it gets you, too.

The track stops. It’s short, less than two minutes long. He thought the length of it should mean something: the way the melody drops off, unceremoniously, with no warning. 

“Namjoon.”

“I’m sorry,” he gasps. He lets his head fall over the desk—grips the edge like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart entirely, watches as his tears expand on the wooden surface. “I’m sorry for not listening to you when I had the chance. I’m sorry I held back when I should have been open. I’m sorry I went too far. I’m sorry I let you go. I’m just… fuck. I’m fucking sorry.”

“Namjoon….”

“I know you wanted to be free.” Free of me. His lungs shudder, scrambling for air. “I’m sorry. But—fuck. Our time isn’t up. It can’t be up.”

Silence. He looks at the window again. Searches for you in its frame, in the long-replaced screen, in the swaths of ink-black beyond it, glowing hazy with light pollution. Searches for any piece of you, hoping it will make it hurt less.

“Namjoon, can you look out the window?”

He gets up, crosses the room so fast he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, because your voice isn’t just coming from the speaker on his phone—it’s coming from outside, too, floating through that window.

You’re standing there, looking up at him. When you speak again, it’s as sweet as he remembers.

“I’ve been missing you, too.”

—