Chapter Text
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Yoongi can’t focus. Nail guns, jackhammers, stampeding elephants? Who the hell knows?
The open unit next door to his studio is currently being renovated and is slated for rental to a new company. After several hours of constant ruckus, the building manager finally comes by to apologize for the noise, explaining that his new neighbors are installing flooring in the unit and tearing down walls. But instead, it seems like they’re bringing the whole building down.
The unit itself sat vacant for nearly two years prior to their arrival, and damn, Yoongi misses the peace and quiet already.
He makes a note to stop at the convenience store that evening to buy extra strength Tylenol.
For the next several weeks, instead of utilizing his own studio where he can offer guidance and on the spot feedback, Yoongi’s recording artists are forced to submit their vocal tracks virtually. The artists themselves are kind and understanding of his dilemma, but it doesn’t do anything to quell Yoongi’s mounting rage. The noise is fucking absurd.
Just after Yoongi plucks his tenth stress-induced gray hair, the racket quiets down to silence once again. Complete silence. Nobody is seen inside the unit, and the absence continues for weeks. Yoongi is relieved, yes, but also entirely frustrated.
Why would they go to all the damn trouble to simply abandon the unit again?
Just to spite him?
Whatever. He’s just happy to have his peace of mind back.
Yoongi passes by the renovated studio on his way home each day. From what he can see around the construction equipment, they’ve removed every single wall, mirrors are mounted everywhere, and a large speaker system has been installed on the ceiling.
The whole room is painted—floor to ceiling—in a shocking shade of porcelain white.
Yoongi doesn’t dance, but he knows a dance studio when he sees one.
Great. That means noise, and lots of it.
Yoongi just silently prays, to whoever or whatever in the universe will heed his pleas, that they don’t host tumbling lessons for toddlers.
It’s the summer of 2015 when Namjoon arrives home. It’s barely seven in the morning when the man hurtles through the front door of their apartment, scaring the shit out of Yoongi in the process.
Namjoon works the night shift at a grimy gas station, pumping fuel for customers and tending the register all on his own until the wee hours of the morning. It’s minimum wage, of course, but it’s something. Namjoon says that he likes it because it gets slow sometimes. Slow enough to read his collection of secondhand biographical books, or work on tracks with his battered laptop; Yoongi doesn’t know how the thing even powers on anymore, considering how many times it’s been dropped or smacked into door frames.
“You won’t believe what happened today,” Namjoon bellows as he lets the door slam behind him. Yoongi’s busy eating a bowl of cereal, leaning over the kitchen counter and watching cat videos on his phone. Namjoon tosses his jacket onto the counter beside him, knocking over the open box of cereal and spilling its contents across the surface. “Shit, sorry.”
Yoongi sighs, accustomed to the clumsiness at this point. “It’s fine. Just tell me. You’re freaking me out,” Yoongi looks at Namjoon and lets out a sudden laugh. “Damn, I haven’t seen you this happy since your favorite pornstar came out of their hiatus.”
“Just shut up and listen to me.”
Yoongi drops his spoon in the bowl and stands up straight to face him. “Okay, damn. Tell me then.”
“Some guy came into the gas station right before the end of my shift and he looked all important and dressed up or whatever,” Namjoon is rambling and Yoongi's eyes are glued to his mouth to try and understand him, half awake. He follows along as best he can.
“Then another guy came in behind him and he was holding this notebook-clipboard-thing. The ones that are made of leather and have a zipper."
Namjoon wildly gestures with his hands and Yoongi watches him do it, unenthused.
"Anyway, the guy with the leather binder thing was talking into a bluetooth earpiece. He looked like a total douchebag. You know how I hate those bluetooth things. The only people who wear them anymore are pretentious sacks of—”
“Joon-ah.”
Namjoon snaps his mouth shut. “What?”
“Get the fuck on with it? Moral of the story? Please spare me the details.”
Namjoon takes a deep breath, rolling his eyes. “Fine. Okay, are you ready for this?”
“I’ve been ready, shit. Just tell me what—”
“I got contact information for a music agency. They’re looking for full time producers.”
Namjoon holds up a business card between his middle and index finger. Yoongi's jaw practically drops off its hinges and rolls across the kitchen floor. He snatches the card from him with shaking hands and reads the blue text on the small piece of card stock; one, two, three—too many times.
BigHit Entertainment.
"They're a really small agency," Namjoon explains. "I looked them up on the way home. If it doesn't work out, it still looks great on a resume."
“Oh my god, Joon-ah. How the hell did you manage—”
“I have a way with words.”
Yoongi scoffs. “I’ve yet to see that.” Even when Namjoon shoves him, Yoongi laughs a genuine laugh; high pitched and excited and squeaky.
“Show some gratitude, you ass. This might be what we’ve been waiting for.”
It is exactly what they’ve been waiting for. After interviewing and being selected among the shocking few who applied, they’re both hired. Initially, they’re treated as a unit and consulted together on tracks, but after a year flies by, they choose their own individual moniker for credits.
Suga and RM.
Fast forward to 2019, and after some careful negotiation, they break off from under the label. They’re still the main producers for BigHit, but now that they have a reputation and they’re able to branch into different genres to work with other recording artists. They create their own music production company (lovingly named GlossMonster), and they rise quickly in desirability, becoming increasingly expensive with each new release.
The both of them are on cloud nine, doing exactly what they had always dreamed of doing. And they’d done it together.
One thing that Yoongi still hates however, three years later, are the early mornings.
“Good morning!”
Yoongi looks up from the notebook splayed across his knees at Kim Taehyung as he walks through the door of their studio. As their manager, Taehyung always has a spring in his step, wears a fresh pressed suit, and has a bright toothy smile on his face. Quite the contrast to a barely awake Yoongi donning a slightly wrinkled t-shirt, messy hair, and sleep heavy eyes.
“Morning,” Namjoon calls from his desk.
“Ah, Morning, Tae,” Yoongi grumbles, immediately going back to mindlessly scribbling words in his notebook. He makes a small noise of gratitude as Taehyung hands him an iced americano from the drink holder in his hand. The usual.
“We don’t have a lot to do today, but I still wanna make sure you two are prepared,” says Taehyung. He hands both of them a manila folder with paperwork organized inside. The tongue on the side of the folder reads BigHit.
Yoongi flicks it open and scans what’s written on the first page. There are legal forms to sign in the back of the small packet, and the second Yoongi reads a Latin term, he closes the folder with a groan. “Tae, I’ll go over this in a bit. We still have hours before the meeting, right?” Yoongi glances at his watch. “The meeting’s at noon.”
“That’s true, but I still want you guys to have those before you meet. I’ll be there to discuss the legal stuff, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
Taehyung smiles as he crosses the room to stand beside the sofa, hovering over Yoongi.
“Do you two remember what’s on the roster for today, or do you want me to run through it again?” Taehyung asks. He leans down, pressing into Yoongi’s shoulder to glance at the notebook open on the eldest’s knees. Yoongi shields the page with his hand as if the meaning of life is written on it.
Yoongi opens his mouth to say no, he’s fine , but instead is cut off by Namjoon.
“Yeah, go ahead. I know we have this meeting with BigHit at noon for a new single, but everything else after that is a little fuzzy.”
Taehyung gives Namjoon a recap just like he does every morning, because despite the man's shockingly high IQ, the man has the memory of a goldfish. So, Yoongi closes his notebook and quietly excuses himself to use the bathroom. He doesn’t actually need to go, he just isn’t ready for conversation and small talk. Or Latin legal terms.
It’s eight in the morning, dammit.
Yoongi slips out of the room to avoid the headache and trudges down the hall to the main lobby of the building. He likes the bathroom in the lobby, it’s always empty and quiet.
As he walks, the lights kick on in the hallway and illuminate his path. He sighs as he glances through the glass doors of the recently renovated unit next door. He’s about to grumble about nobody being there yet again until he sees a shadow moving inside. He stops and backtracks, then leans toward the glass to look closer. Initially, he thinks it’s the morning light playing tricks on him.
But no, there’s definitely a shadow. A very delicate and graceful shadow.
Yoongi steps back to hide behind the wall. He leans around to look through the door again.
The lights are off inside, but the soft cast of early daylight spills in from the windows on the far wall. He watches the silhouette move around, fluid like water swirling in a glass.
That’s when he notices the music. The volume is low and muffled by the closed door, but it’s still discernible. The track contains a soft plucking of strings in D minor, along with a sharp clap and driving bass line.
Wait.
Yoongi feels his pulse thump in his ears.
He produced that beat. Months ago.
Black Swan.
Yoongi stands there watching for a while. The figure works on a specific move, stops, then replays the same thirty second interval. This goes on for several minutes. That is, until a cheerful voice sounds just behind Yoongi’s head—
“Can I help you?”
Mortified, Yoongi flinches and spins around with fists ready to swing. The man shuffles back half a step and makes a sound similar to a hawk's cry.
Their gazes meet and both of them soften as the threat plummets. Yoongi notes that he’s taller than himself (of course he is) and quite slender. Platinum blonde hair contrasts with warm sandy skin and the hint of a smile begins to pull at the corners of the man’s lips.
Pretty pink lips. The same color as the roses he gives his mom for her birthday every year.
Yoongi is properly frozen, examining and scanning with his eyes when the man finally speaks again. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”
He giggles. Yoongi has never heard a man giggle like that before. It’s...cute. Very cute.
The man reaches a careful hand out to lay on Yoongi’s shoulder. “I was just going inside to practice with my colleague.” He nods at the glass doors beside them. “We weren’t expecting anyone.”
Colleague? Oh. Of course, the man is a dancer. Why else would he wear t-shirts four sizes too big and repugnant chunky sneakers? Yoongi hates chunky sneakers. The man looks good in them though.
Yoongi swallows around the racing pulse in his throat while his heart still fights to settle. “I was just watching. I’m your neighbor,” he blurts.
The man raises an eyebrow and chuckles. The sound of his laugh is so warm. No, wait, Yoongi feels warm.
Why is he so warm?
“What? My neighbor?” The man asks, confusion palpable. His smile glows, even under the dull fluorescent lights in the hall.
Stop staring.
“Hold on,” Yoongi takes a deep breath and holds out a trembling hand for a handshake. Words are hard at the moment, so Yoongi slips up and speaks in dialect, “I’m really tired, it’s early as hell, and you scared the shit out of me. Let’s start over.”
Yoongi clears his throat and bites his lip as he tries to hide a bashful smile. Tries.
The man looks down thoughtfully, then places his hand in Yoongi’s with a single delicate movement. Yoongi watches as he does, momentarily transfixed by sparkly painted nails. Yoongi clears his throat again, steeling himself to get the words out right. No more satoori, fuck.
“My name is Min Yoongi. I own the music production company down the hall—GlossMonster,” Yoongi points over his shoulder.
The man nods and his eyes lock with Yoongi’s as he gives him his full attention. Interested and engaged.
He has pretty eyes. Deep brown like molasses.
Fuck, he’s so pretty.
Yoongi’s nerves crash back in like a tidal wave full of sharp glass.
“Well, no, I own the company with Namjoon,” Yoongi rambles. He’s speaking in dialect again, shit. “Wait, you don’t know him,” Pause. “He’s my best friend,” Pause. “We run the company together, he's um—” Yoongi trails off and drops his head with a shaky sigh. He stares at the marble flooring beneath their feet. Silently, he wishes that it would give way and he would continue falling straight down to ground level, away from this embarrassing conversation and perhaps into the afterlife.
What in the hell is wrong with him? Yoongi is good with his words and he prides himself in that. He’s a songwriter, for god’s sake, and a successful one.
The man laughs again, and Yoongi glances up to watch.
He has such sharp, perfect teeth. Plus, he laughs with his whole body. The man is ridiculously cute.
And pretty.
So fucking pretty.
It’s been a while since Yoongi met someone who instantly had him feeling like he can’t function. It pisses him off a little, but in a good way that he would never admit to himself.
“I must've really scared you if you're talking in dialect. This is all my fault, don’t worry. I really shouldn’t have snuck up on you like that,” the man starts, then continues. “It's nice to meet you, Yoongi-ssi. My name is Jung Hoseok.”
Yoongi quickly stores that name in his internal rolodex.
Hoseok.
Hoseok, Hoseok, Hoseok.
Jung Hoseok.
Cute, pretty, Jung Hoseok.
“I’m the leader of this dance troupe. We call ourselves Neuron. We haven’t had the time to put up our logo on the door yet or you’d probably know that by now.” He grins and looks down, then laughs again. Yoongi doesn’t know why he’s laughing.
Hoseok goes on, “We’ve been touring with an idol group for about a month now. We just got back today. Normally we're here in the evening, but we’re still a bit jet lagged.”
Oh. So that’s why they’ve been absent for so long. Yoongi feels the weight of his guilt then, heavy like a wet blanket. He also recalls just how many times he'd complained to Namjoon about them causing a ruckus then leaving. He used some choice words.
"Are you from Daegu?" Hoseok asks, a small knowing smile on his face.
Yoongi shuffles uncomfortably. "Oh, uh, yeah I grew up in Daegu. Sorry for slipping up like that, I wasn't trying to sound rude."
Hoseok shakes his head dismissively. "No, that's okay. I'm from Gwangju. I moved here about a year ago."
Yoongi's ears go hot hearing him slip into his own dialect. He loves how it sounds. Yoongi's favorite dialect has always been Jeolla-do, every sentence is like a song. Of course he's from Gwangju. Yoongi's weak in the knees.
Hoseok leans forward and Yoongi's eyes go wide the moment he does. The dancer whispers with a small grin, “You can let go of my hand now, too.”
Yoongi’s breath catches in his throat as he glances down at their connected hands, which he quickly remedies by snatching his back and tucking it into his pants pocket. He wipes his sweaty palm on the inside of it.
“Right, sorry,” Yoongi chuckles awkwardly. “It’s too early. I’m tired. I’m sorry,” he rambles. In satoori.
Goddammit.
Hoseok laughs again and Yoongi notes the way that his top lip lifts not only to reveal some of the whitest teeth he’s ever seen, but it also forms the shape of a heart. Oh god, there’s a mole on the edge of his upper lip too. Intrusive thoughts creep in that Yoongi has to fight desperately to shove away.
“I’ve been really scattered today myself. Don’t worry about it,” Hoseok says. He doesn’t seem to dwell on the awkwardness of their interaction, or the way that Yoongi can’t seem to stop gawking at him. Instead, he pushes the door of his dance studio open.
As soon as he does, Yoongi is only met with more confirmation as the baseline pumps into the hall and surrounds him.
Yes, that is his song. Black Swan. He'd meant to keep the beat for himself and write in some lyricism, or perhaps even sell it to a recording artist, but when the manager for Hoseok's troupe met with Taehyung, they asked for a simple beat with no vocals. He was even paid well for it despite the fact that he had already made the track. Yoongi hadn’t realized back then that the job was for their studio neighbor.
Taehyung conveniently left that piece of information out.
Yoongi is just about to mention the song—to finally steer the conversation in his favor—but Hoseok interrupts him just before he has the chance.
“Jimin-ah! Come meet Yoongi-ssi,” Hoseok calls from the doorway. “He owns the music production company next door.” He turns to look at Yoongi and giggles. “No, sorry. Co-owns,” he adds.
Yoongi’s face burns after that statement, a harsh reminder of his floundering.
A quiet voice replies from inside the studio, barely audible over the music. “Coming, hyung!”
Yoongi steps closer and peeks through the doorway and watches Jimin cross the room in their direction. When he gets closer, he’s no longer just a silhouette. The lights from the hall illuminate him and Yoongi is quite surprised by how sharp and distinct his features are.
Though, he’s mostly relieved to see that Jimin isn’t taller than himself.
Jimin steps into the hall and leans forward into a deep and respectful bow. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Yoongi-ssi.” He has a soft smile on his face and stands in a delicate pose with bare feet. “This song is great by the way. Thank you so much for your hard work.”
Yoongi shakes a hand casually. “No, it wasn’t anything—”
“Oh, that’s right!” Hoseok interjects. He smacks himself on the forehead with a loud slap. Hoseok turns to face Yoongi with a wide smile. “I can’t believe I didn’t think about that until just now. You produced this song, didn’t you?”
Yoongi hesitates, then nods.
“Then you must be Suga?”
“That’s me, yeah,” he replies, lifting a hand to rub nervously at the side of his neck.
Jimin speaks up again. “I was invited to compete in a solo dance competition and this is exactly what I was looking for. So, again, thank you.” Jimin bows once more. “Once I have my choreography down, I would love to perform it for you.”
Yoongi’s so flattered it makes him want to implode. He doesn’t take compliments well, never has. He doesn’t want to seem rude, so he fights back the natural instinct to scrunch his nose in distaste.
“That would be nice, thanks,” Yoongi manages. He scratches the back of his arm and forces a smile.
“Do you have any compression wraps, Hoseok hyung? My knee is still bothering me a bit,” Jimin asks, rubbing at the joint with a sour look on his face.
Yoongi stands awkwardly while the two of them have a discussion about ice and resting and stretching properly, and he wants so desperately to run away at that moment. Needless to say, that’s what he does.
“I should really be going. I have some things that I need to work on, then a meeting to prepare for at noon,” Yoongi butts in.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. Go ahead,” Hoseok utters. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again. It was very nice to meet you, Suga-nim.”
Yoongi is helpless in holding back the grin that spreads on his face the second those honorifics roll off Hoseok’s tongue.
Hoseok leans down into a short and comfortable bow while Jimin practically touches his nose to his knees like the first time.
Yoongi offers them both a small wave as he turns to walk back to his own unit. Behind him, he hears Black Swan’s gentle tune swell in the hallway when the door to the dance studio opens once again. He’s about to start punching himself in the face, replaying that humiliating interaction in his mind like a movie projector stuck on the same strip of grainy film.
Just before he lifts a closed fist to do exactly that, a loud laugh bounces off the walls and practically hugs Yoongi’s ears.
It sounds how he imagines sunshine would.
“Jung Hoseok,” he whispers quietly to himself. Yoongi reaches his studio and pulls the door open with a soft sigh.
From then on, Yoongi can’t stop thinking about a certain heart-shaped smile.