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Some days, the gloves are a formality. A habit. Namjoon’s Gift lies quiet and dormant beneath his skin, a mere whisper of power.
Other days, the gloves are a protective barrier between Namjoon’s touch and the rest of the world. Namjoon pulls his Gift in, makes sure he keeps it tucked away where it can’t hurt anything—anyone.
Today is rare. Today even the gloves are threatening to unravel despite the spells sewn into the fabric, and Namjoon’s Gift is bleeding out around him.
“I’m sorry,” Namjoon says, a repeated phrase that has yet to lose meaning as he scrabbles for the books that nearly exploded off the shelves when he brushed past them. “I’ll be with you in just a moment. Sorry I—”
“It’s fine, Namjoon-ssi,” Minhee says, and she crouches beside Namjoon on the floor, reaching to help him collect the thick tomes, some lying open from the force of Namjoon’s Gift.
Namjoon’s face burns as he finishes stacking the books, careful not to touch Minhee’s hands as she pushes the rest into piles. “Really, I’m sorry. I’ll put them back later. You wanted reference books on the treatment of Gifts during the Three Kingdoms Period, right?”
Minhee nods, and the casualness with which she treats Namjoon after seeing his Gift nearly blow a section of the campus library apart is a relief.
Namjoon sucks in a slow breath and leads Minhee a few rows further down, this time taking extra care not to brush against any shelves.
The rest of his day goes predictably bad. He tries to put the books away, but even with his gloves, the bindings begin to peel away, spines cracking beneath his touch. He informs his supervisor with his head bowed low that he needs someone else to clean up the mess he made, and unlike Minhee, he can feel the exasperation radiating off of her in waves.
He knows her Gift is that of knowledge. She can touch something and learn it, absorb it. She knows the library inside and out, is much better at assisting the students who come in looking for references.
Namjoon has long accepted that his Gift is more of a curse.
Some people have the Gift of Mending. Namjoon’s is the opposite. He undoes everything he touches. He destroys.
He hates it.
Namjoon walks home when his shift ends, avoiding the potential havoc he might wreak on public transit. It’s over an hour to the apartment complex on foot, and twenty minutes in, the storm clouds gathering overhead begin to pelt down icy rain.
Namjoon pulls his jacket, two months old but fraying at the seams thanks to his Gift, closer around himself. He doesn’t carry umbrellas—he breaks them anyway.
Cold rain water leaks into his loafers, soaking into his socks and making every step squelch. He shivers, briefly glancing over at a bus passing by before reminding himself that he would likely pop open a window or break the door mechanism if he tried to get on board.
So he trudges the rest of the way home, taking the stairs to the third floor, gritting his teeth to pull in the power of his Gift as he enters the door code.
The lock still beeps angrily at him for a few seconds before sputtering and going dead.
Namjoon very much wants to cry.
He rests his forehead on the surface of the door, shivering again as he leaves a puddle on the tile floor of the hallway.
Then he raises a shaky fist and knocks.
“Hyung,” he croaks, and isn’t surprised at the shaky rasp of his voice. “It’s me. I broke the lock again.”
There’s a moment in which Namjoon hears shuffling, slippered footsteps, and then the door creaks open.
Namjoon leans back quickly, avoiding falling into the apartment.
Seokjin stands on the other side, his hand still curled around the doorknob. “That’s fine, I’ll go—Namjoon?”
Namjoon shivers again, wrapping his arms around himself like he might take up less space this way. “Sorry. I—I walked home.”
“Don’t apologize,” Seokjin says quickly, and his brow furrows. He always tells Namjoon not to apologize so much. “Come on. I’ll grab towels.”
Namjoon shakes his head as he steps inside, the door closing behind him. “I’ll just unravel them all.”
“So you unravel them.” Seokjin disappears down the ball, fluffy blue slippers at odds with his work slacks and white button-up he clearly hasn’t had the chance to change out of yet. “You’re soaked, Namjoon-ah. We can buy a new towel.”
The last of his words are muted as he walks inside their bathroom, disappearing from sight.
Namjoon steps out of his loafers, wincing as the backs pull against the skin of his ankles, chafed and angry from the wet material. “It’s fine,” Namjoon calls, but his teeth are chattering and he knows that he doesn’t sound fine .
Seokjin surfaces with two towels thrown over his arm, and his face is set firmly as he walks back toward Namjoon.
“Alright, let’s get you dry and changed. Then we’re ordering stew.”
“Hyung,” Namjoon starts to protest, because he thinks any sweatshirt he tries to pull on will undoubtedly be worse for wear within two seconds of touching his skin.
“Namjoon.”
There are warm hands then, cupping Namjoon’s face.
Namjoon instinctively flinches away. Close contact means trouble, means danger, means he might damage something precious to someone—
“Namjoon-ah.” It’s softer this time, the cadence of Seokjin’s voice gentle.
Namjoon opens his eyes, and the breath he lets out shudders. “Sorry.”
Seokjin raises an eyebrow.
“Right. I don’t need to apologize for everything all the time,” Namjoon murmurs.
“You don’t,” Seokjin agrees. He tilts his face up slightly to press a brief kiss to Namjoon’s lips. “Bad day?”
Namjoon nods, carefully trying to pull his Gift in towards himself as he accepts a towel from Seokjin. “I don’t know why. I knocked a whole shelf of books off earlier just because my shoulder brushed against it.”
Seokjin winces on his behalf. “That just seems excessive.”
“I know,” Namjoon groans, and he begins to towel off his face. He can feel the fabric pilling against his skin and grits his teeth, tamping down on his Gift with even more focus. “Shit. Hyung, I’m ruining this.”
“It’s fine,” Seokjin says, but Namjoon feels him gently take the towel from Namjoon. “Hey. Let me, okay? Just—close your eyes.”
Namjoon’s exhale is ragged and too close to an exhausted sob than he’d like, but then Seokjin is carefully toweling off Namjoon’s hair, wiping away the rain water dripping down his cheeks.
“We can replace the towels, Namjoon-ah. You’re the irreplaceable one here,” Seokjin says lightly, almost teasingly. But there’s a seriousness beneath that Namjoon knows, and it’s the gravity that pulls him back in.
Seokjin doesn’t have a Gift, but Namjoon thinks it’s because someone as bright and beautiful as Seokjin already is . And if he had a Gift, it would probably be a Gift of words, and Seokjin doesn’t need to be able to charm his way into discounts any more than he already does.
Namjoon’s throat is thick, but he manages a quiet chuckle as Seokjin finishes drying his hair.
“You look like a duckling,” Seokjin informs him as he draws back, dark eyes sparkling with amusement. “It’s a good style for you.”
Namjoon manages to roll his eyes. “Don’t make fun of me, hyung. I’m fragile.”
“Mm, only making good fun of you, Namjoon-ah,” Seokjin teases. “Come on, if you get changed, I’ll order dinner.”
Namjoon pops off the dresser knob when he goes to fetch dry clothes, which he’ll have to fix on a day where his Gift isn’t going haywire, but he pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a stretched-out tee without making either fall apart.
Seokjin joins him in their bedroom, stripping off his work attire and changing into a set of pajamas that Namjoon bought him for their anniversary last year.
“Dinner will be here in about thirty minutes,” Seokjin says as he buttons up the sleep shirt. “I think the rain must be delaying everyone.”
Namjoon hums his agreement, a sense of calm finally beginning to settle over him. Their apartment is used to his Gift. Seokjin is used to his Gift. If he breaks something, he can fix it. And if he can’t fix it, Seokjin will still love him, and this will still be home.
He looks at his gloves, the dark brown material deceivingly thin. The spell worked into the fabric is stronger than steel.
Rain patters against the bedroom window, and slowly, Namjoon peels the gloves off of his fingers.
“Okay?” Seokjin asks softly, stepping beside Namjoon.
“Yeah.” Namjoon sets the gloves down on top of the dresser carefully before turning to look at Seokjin. He lifts on hand tentatively. “May I?”
Seokjin smiles with his eyes, with the curve of his cheek, with the pink of his lips. “Of course.”
Namjoon carefully places one hand along Seokjin’s jaw, and Seokjin’s smile goes soft and small. “I broke the dresser knob, too,” Namjoon admits.
Seokjin snorts indelicately. “That’s the sixth time now, isn’t it? We’re practically experts at getting that thing back into place.”
“Yeah,” Namjoon breathes around a laugh. “I don’t think we have any extra batteries for the door lock, though.”
“I bought some after last time,” Seokjin tells him.
Namjoon grins, the rest of the day finally melting away, and he leans in to kiss Seokjin, catching his lips, always marveling in the softness. “Thanks, hyung.”
“You can thank me after making sure they’re the right voltage,” Seokjin winks, then takes Namjoon’s free hand and tugs him toward the living room. “New episode’s airing soon, I don’t want to miss anything.”
Namjoon rolls his eyes, following Seokjin's lead. “That show’s so predictable. If we miss ten minutes, I can tell you what happened, and what’s going to happen—”
“Don’t ruin the fun,” Seokjin says, but he sounds amused as he squeezes Namjoon’s hand.
By the time dinner arrives, Namjoon’s Gift has broken a spring in their sofa, popped a button off Seokjin’s shirt, and unstitched the hem of one of Namjoon’s sleeves.
He can laugh about it, though, because Seokjin laughs. And as they’re eating, wrapped around each other on the couch and debating the (not so) fine points of the drama on air, Namjoon lets himself come undone.