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Kim Seokjin has never been one to take life as a sprint. He’s never even been one to take life as a marathon. He takes life like a stroll, full of small stops to just admire things, gentle breezes, sunlight filtering through the trees. He enjoys food, even the most mundane of meals. He smiles as he eats cereal for breakfast, closes his eyes and appreciates the fact that he has food and a table to eat it at.
Kim Namjoon has always been a short-distance runner. His lanky frame ensures this, that he’ll tear across a stretch of space is as little time as possible, and then slow to a sluggish walk right after, muscles burning and lungs heaving for air. He takes life as a shot of espresso, a burst of energy and endorphins. He is made of momentum, feeling the wind in his hair, all-nighters and adrenaline.
When it comes to these kinds of people, these absolute foils, it’s always a hit or miss. Seokjin and Namjoon’s relationship is a complete coin toss. It’s either they click or they don’t.
Thankfully, they do.
It matters more than either of them know.
--
The studio is brightly lit for only one person. It’s late, way too late, and the small room smells of week-old, supermarket coffee and lemon-scented cleaner. Namjoon decides that it’s not a good smell to be around, for both him and his health, but he’s too absorbed in writing that he doesn’t have time to worry about such trivial things.
His fingers are cramping up and his back is aching from hunching over his keyboard for so long, but he’s so close to finishing this verse, and he tells himself that he’s going to finish it because the producers want his finished part in only a week for the new album. Letting them down would to be let himself down, and that’s something that Namjoon simply refuses to do.
“Is it done yet?” Namjoon asks, not because he wants to know but because he wants to use his voice. It’s been hours since he’s talked, hours since he’s eaten, days since he’s slept properly. It feels strange to have his voice, so croaky and almost rusty, be the only sound in the empty studio.
“No.” Namjoon tries his voice again, working out the scratchy parts and clearing his throat until it’s back to the soft, mellower tone that he’s used to. He nods contentedly and swallows, taking a sip of lukewarm black coffee out of a foam cup. “Almost done, though.”
After you finish, you can go sleep for as long as you want to. Tomorrow’s our day off, right?
Namjoon wracks his mind for an answer, closing his eyes for a quick second to try and think back to the last time he remembered going over their schedule. For God’s sake, he’s the leader! He’s supposed to know these things, supposed to be better at this than he is.
He takes a mental note to ask Seokjin about it tomorrow. Seokjin’s responsible. He knows these things. Seokjin will know about… what’s he thinking about again?
Namjoon nods sluggishly to himself, rubbing deliriously at his eyes. There’s a constant throbbing in his stomach, mournful pangs that make him dig his teeth into his bottom lip. He can’t remember the last time he’s eaten a proper meal, but he has deadlines and interviews and dance practice and everything else that comes along with being an idol.
Maybe I should go and get something to eat. I bet there’s some leftovers in the dorm, or at least some instant noodles.
Instead, he pushes this thought out of his head, and he decides to keep writing. His head is swimming, and he’s cold because even though it’s late autumn, the air-conditioning is still on. There are goosebumps popping up on his tanned skin, but he doesn’t want to get up because if he does, he knows he won’t be able to make it back.
This strikes him as hilarious.
That sounds like I’m in… one of those American zombie movies.
Overdramatic… what was I—
Namjoon blinks the haze out of his eyes and downs the rest of his coffee. It’s bitter, rancid, but it’s strong and provides him with the kick in the ass he needs to actually finish this verse. He rests his (cold, trembling) fingertips on the keyboard. The computer is overheating and its fans are whirring frantically from all the time he’s spent staring tiredly at the overly bright screen.
“Hey,” someone says, and Namjoon immediately recognizes the bright voice of Seokjin. But it’s soft now, almost sad, nothing like the warm man he met all those years ago. The tone he’s using is the one of a concerned mother, gentle and cautious. “Joonie?”
“Yeah,” Namjoon mumbles. His head is drooping, two seconds away from falling onto his keyboard. He gathers the last of the energy in him and turns himself in his wheeled chair to face his boyfriend. “Hi.”
Seokjin takes a few careful steps into the studio. “How long have you been working?” he asks, his heavy brows furrowing together in concern.
“Not… that long,” Namjoon mumbles, unable to meet Seokjin’s amber-tinted eyes. He rushes on ahead, ignoring the guilt that washes over him when the lie escapes his lips. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry. I just have to finish this verse for- for the producers.” His voice skips a little bit, almost like a broken record. “Thanks for coming to check on me though.” He pauses, and then it hits him that he’s spoken disrespectfully. “Hyung.”
Seokjin sighs, leaning against the doorframe. “Namjoon.” He looks upset, his full bottom lip stuck in a little pout, and it breaks Namjoon’s heart to see such a broken look on the person whose face always holds a smile. “We’re in a relationship. We’ve been in a relationship for two years. I know when you’re lying.” He breathes out again, looking up at the ceiling. “It’s two a.m. I know you weren’t at dinner, and judging by the number of coffee cups in your trash can, I don’t think you were going to sleep either. I know that you have deadlines to meet, and I know I don’t write music as much as you do, but we’re all worried about you, Joonie.”
“But, the producers said—”
“The producers don’t expect you to put music over your health.” Seokjin holds out a hand. “Christ, put down the laptop and go eat.” He sighs deeply, almost dejectedly. “You’re not immortal, Joonie. I’ll make you something to eat, and then you go sleep.” Namjoon hasn’t seen the stern, stubborn side of Seokjin in quite some time, and it surprises him, surprises him enough to take Seokjin’s hand just out of instinct.
Seokjin tenses under his touch. “Holy shit, Joon, how long have you been working? Your hands are freezing. Please.” Namjoon stumbles off of his wheeled chair, catching himself on the edge of the desk because he doesn’t even have the energy to stand up straight. The caffeine has just become another brick sitting motionless in his gut, weighing him down, and his legs are wobbly. Namjoon winces as he stretches out his arms, finally feeling his muscles uncoil.
Seokjin takes some of Namjoon’s weight on his shoulders, supporting him with both of his hands, his fingers wrapping around Namjoon’s skin to bring some warmth back into it. “I’m making you some tea once we get back to the dorm,” he murmurs softly. His voice thrums soothingly in the otherwise quiet building.
“I… my verse,” Namjoon slurs, his cheek pressed against Seokjin’s broad shoulder. “It’s due… The producers- I’m gonna… need to work on it tomorrow.” He forgets how to speak at least five times while saying that sentence, pulling words out of the air and hoping that they fit. “Hyung.”
Seokjin hushes him, gentle breath whistling through his lips. “Don’t worry about it, okay? They’ll understand.” He presses a sweet, chaste kiss to Namjoon’s temple, just a whisper of pressure on his tanned skin. “You need to eat, alright?”
“I… ate something,” Namjoon says incoherently, tripping over his own feet. He’s so tired it’s like he’s drunk. He’s trying so, so hard to think of the last time he’s had food in his stomach, but he comes up empty-handed, the repeated aches of hunger rolling over him in waves now. “Yesterday, maybe?”
Seokjin pauses. “Namjoon. You can’t pretend like that’s healthy,” he says, pressing his lips together. “Can you still walk?” He doesn’t wait for an answer and scoops the taller man up bridal-style. “Let’s go home.”
The walk back to the dorm is quiet and peaceful, interrupted only by the buzzing of the air conditioner and Seokjin’s (now much heavier) footsteps. He does draw some strange looks while he’s walking down the street, but it’s after midnight, and to be honest, Namjoon’s too tired to care. His head is turned up slightly, his feet swinging slightly with Seokjin’s movements. He isn’t sleeping, but he’s coming close, eyes already beginning to flutter shut.
He barely even remembers what sleep feels like.
Somehow, Seokjin manages to support his boyfriend with one hand and slips the dorm room key out of the pocket of his sweatshirt, unlocking the door in one fluid motion. Namjoon watches this whole spectacle out of half-closed eyes, his breathing becoming deeper and more rhythmic with the lull of rest.
He kicks off his heavy dark boots, leaving them in a heap by the door.
Namjoon’s fingers begin to warm up once they enter the brightly lit room, and he almost sighs in relief when he hears the muted rattling of the radiator. Seokjin places him down gently on the couch, and a minute later, he feels a soft blanket (it smells faintly of nutmeg and apple cider, just like Seokjin does) settle on his shoulders.
A small laugh escapes him.
He finds it funny that of all the things to notice about this situation, it always comes back to Seokjin.
“I’m gonna go make you some tea, alright? And some food,” Seokjin murmurs, stooping down so that he can run his fingers through Namjoon’s plum-colored hair. “Lay down for a bit.”
Okay.
He doesn’t have the energy to say it out loud, so Namjoon just lets his eyes close.
--
“Joonie,” Seokjin whispers, shaking his shoulder gently. “I’m sorry for waking you up, but you need to eat something.”
The corners of Namjoon’s lips quirk up at the nickname, and he does his best to blink the fuzziness out of his eyes. “Thanks, hyung,” he says quietly, sitting up. The cream-colored blanket is draped around his shoulders like a cape, and he’s pretty sure that his hair is sticking up in purple tufts at this point.
“Here,” Seokjin says, placing a steaming mug in front of him. “Drink. It’s hibiscus.” Namjoon takes the cup in his hands, being careful not to spill it in his exhausted stupor. The tea is a deep red, and it’s tart and floral, tasting of spring.
Tea.
He hasn’t done something so simple in such a long time.
Sitting on a couch, swathed in a blanket, drinking tea.
It’s been so long.
Seokjin slides a bowl of soup across the table. “There wasn’t much in the kitchen,” he says softly. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, hyung,” Namjoon says, taking note of how much steadier his voice is. The trembling in his hands has stopped, and he feels lighter, like someone’s lifted ten pounds off of his chest. “I… thank you so much. Really.”
The soup is savory and warm, filled to the brim with green onions, thin noodles, and eggs.
Namjoon finishes it in less than a minute, ignoring the fact that it burns his tongue because eating something other than the occasional energy bar is something that he’s forgotten how to do.
Seokjin smiles softly as Namjoon downs the last of the broth, the corners of his eyes crinkling with it (Seokjin’s smile—actually, just everything having to do with Seokjin’s lips—actually, just everything having to do with Seokjin is perfect). “Was it okay?” he asks, head cocked slightly. He sighs.
“It’s really good. Don’t worry about it,” Namjoon says, putting the bowl down onto the table with a soft thud. The chopsticks rattle with the impact, skirting the rim of the dish before settling down once more.
“Really?” Seokjin grins almost wickedly. It’s almost jarring to see such a look on his delicate, sculpted face, but Namjoon doesn’t complain because Seokjin can wear any look while still looking like a literal piece of art. “Was it… egg-cellent?”
Namjoon laughs (he hasn’t done that in a long time either). “It was,” Namjoon says, looking down at the table. “I… really, hyung, thank you so much. I’m sorry for bothering you with—”
“Don’t you dare apologize,” Seokjin says, the laughter disappearing from his eyes. “We are, must I stress, in a relationship. It’s my job to take care of you, Joonie. Come on, let’s go to sleep.”
Namjoon nods tiredly, pushing himself off of the couch. The blanket is still hanging loosely off of his shoulders, and he pulls it tighter around him, toes curling upwards at the feeling of his bare feet hitting the cold tile.
They stall in the dark hallway. There’s only a few windows, casting long, silvery shadows across the corridor. They can hear the loud pulls of Jimin’s snores through the door, and both of them stifle laughter.
“Thanks for everything,” Namjoon says, dropping his voice to a level barely above a whisper.
“Of course,” Seokjin replies, looking him squarely in the eyes. “Take care of yourself, please?”
Namjoon feels the ghost of a smile come onto his face. “I’ll do my best.”
“Good.”
They kiss with only the moon as their witness.
--
“—still sleeping, hyung?” The voice is warped and skips around a bit, like Namjoon’s listening to it from underwater. There are blankets twisting around his ankles, and pillow creases are adorning his cheeks.
Namjoon rubs at an (admittedly crusty) eye, yawning. His ears pop, little bursts of static that clear up all of the noise plaguing his head. “Good morning,” he mumbles, looking up at whoever spoke. “Taehyung.”
“Hyung! You’re awake,” Taehyung exclaims. “You almost out-slept Yoongi-hyung, actually. Jimin and I bet on which one of you were going to wake up first.” He grins, a smile that lights up the whole room. “He’s gonna have to do my dishes for the next week.”
Namjoon exhales, gentle laughter shaking his shoulders. “Can he do mine too?” he asks without thinking.
Taehyung’s brow creases, his lips pursed in thought. “Hyung, you never really have dirty dishes though.”
Is that how much I’ve been neglecting my health? I’m sure that there’s at least one time that I—
Namjoon stops himself from thinking this because he knows it’s not true.
Think small steps, Namjoon, think drinking more water, think eating proper meals. This isn’t going to turn around in one day.
They’ll forgive you for forgetting yourself.
Namjoon comes to peace with this thought, that he needs to walk before he runs, and he needs to run before he flies.
He gets up out of his bed, chatting amicably with Taehyung. His fingers work at the knots in his hair before a comb can, and he uses vanilla-scented Chap Stick that he finds on the bathroom counter to bring some life back into his cracked lips.
It makes a difference.
Not a big one. But it makes a difference.
Namjoon’s surprised when he finds out that today is actually their day off, so he gets some time to himself, to skim through a book that he’d abandoned months ago, to sip on some warm water (he doesn’t trust himself with coffee just yet).
He’s slept through breakfast, but someone (Namjoon doesn’t know who, but he has his suspicions) set out some food for him— fried eggs, kimchi, a small bowl of white rice. It’s simple but warm, so Namjoon teaches himself to enjoy it, to appreciate the abrasive heat of the kimchi and the creaminess of the eggs.
So that’s why Seokjin-hyung enjoys food so much, he thinks to himself as he finishes the last of the egg. It really is egg-ceptional. He laughs from behind his mug of water.
Seokjin-hyung’s rubbing off on me.
Maybe it’s not a bad thing.
--
It’s not until later when Namjoon and Seokjin get time alone. They’re sitting on the same couch, shoulder-to-shoulder, their fingers intertwined. The large floor-to-ceiling window stretching across one of the walls shows off a breathtaking view of Seoul, and now, the sun is sinking below the skyline, painting red and oranges and yellows across the clouds.
“I’m so happy,” Seokjin says finally, a heavy breath escaping him. “It’s been so long since we’ve had a day off.” His shoulders relax, his posture slouched against the cushion of the sofa. “Sunsets are so pretty; don’t you think?”
“I haven’t actually looked at a sunset in a while.” Namjoon adds sunsets to the ever-growing list of things he’s forgotten existed.
“That’s why you need to slow down sometimes, Joonie,” Seokjin says softly. His alabaster skin is bathed in color, the vibrant hues from the sunset reflecting in the hollows of his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. “You have to find those things that are worth slowing down for.”
Hibiscus tea. Simple breakfasts. City sunsets.
“You.” Namjoon shifts on the couch to look at Seokjin and the sunset beyond.
Seokjin looks at him, confused, but Namjoon cuts him off with a gentle kiss, his fingers just ghosting over Seokjin’s broad shoulders. He feels Seokjin’s hands resting on his waist, an almost protective, affectionate motion that makes Namjoon’s heart swell.
He only pulls away when he feels his chest start to hurt.
“I’ll slow down. For you.”