it starts the way most things start. accidentally.

namjoon comes back to the dorm early one night, when the rest of the members are out eating dinner - something he’d opted out of in favour of hanging back to finish up his verse for cypher, when he hears his name being uttered softly from the general direction of the room the seven of them share. coming to the conclusion that yoongi, who’d returned to the dorms straight after practice, had probably heard the key in the lock, he makes his way to their room and opens the door without knocking.

the question about why the rapper had been calling for him dies on his lips as he takes in the figure stretched out on top of the innermost bunk. yoongi has his head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut, one hand disappearing beneath the waistband of loose basketball shorts and broken syllables of namjoon’s name slipping from between slightly-parted lips.

he clearly doesn’t realise that the owner of said name is standing at the doorway, too far gone in his search for release to even register how namjoon’s breathing is becoming louder and heavier the longer he stays in the suddenly-too-small bedroom. he should leave, he really should, before yoongi gets a chance to open his eyes and find himself less alone that he assumed he’d be, but namjoon is rooted to the spot, breathing growing more and more irregular as yoongi’s movements become more and more frantic. yoongi’s own breathing hitches and namjoon tries not to watch when his fingers and toes curl into the sheets, shoulders shuddering as sharp teeth come down onto his bottom lip, biting off a low moan that mostly sounds like , but part of it sounds like joon-ah.

namjoon leaves before yoongi can realise he’s there, forcing himself into the kitchen and downing three glasses of ice-cold water, doing his best to ignore the soft footfalls behind him.

“you’re back early, nam.”

namjoon can’t look yoongi in the eye when all he can think about is how “joon-ah” sounds so much better than “nam”, so he settles for the spot above the older’s shoulder and tries not to notice the pretty red flush across yoongi’s cheeks.

“yeah, thought i’d wash up before the others get back.”

yoongi shrugs and jerks his head towards the shower as though he’s saying “well, what are you waiting for?” and namjoon hurries past the rapper, grateful that yoongi seems to have missed how his jeans are sitting uncomfortably tight around his waist.

namjoon spends the next month surfing all the website recommendations from ikje that he’d ignored until now, and the studio computer becomes littered with viruses - pictures of well-endowed bikini clad girls covering the multiple cubase windows that are permanently open on the device. he analyses and over-analyses, tries to imprint the pictures of the pretty beach girls into his memory (because namjoon likes girls, always has and always will). he pretends not to hear the name that slips out of his own lips, drowned out by the sound of cold water hitting bathroom tiles and desperately ignores the picture his mind paints behind tightly closed eyelids - of milky-white skin and soft, brown hair, falling into half-lidded, sleepy eyes.

he’s toeing the edge of the precipice and really, it’s only a matter of time before he oversteps, slips, and falls.

the delicate balance tips much in the same way the entire situation started - by chance, almost like déjà vu.

same room, same bed, same pale skin and flushed cheeks, same basketball shorts and milky-white thighs. but this time around, namjoon’s head is full of how yoongi looked the last time he came. he wants to hear his name swallowed up by the breathy sounds that fall past sweat-slicked lips, wants to watch yoongi unravel under him, because of him.

he doesn’t stop to consider the consequences, closing and locking the door behind him.

yoongi’s eyes open, wide and glazed-over, surprise not yet registering, “joon-ah?”

his voice is raw, hoarse, heavy with all the words he’d never say, and something in namjoon simultaneously breaks and overflows. swallowing the air caught in his throat, he makes his way to the bed and climbs on top of the older, shorter rapper, lips latching onto the unmarked expanse of ivory, leaving a trail of biting bruises between yoongi’s thighs, along his hip bone - marks where no one else will see.

“nam-”

yoongi’s words are breathy and no louder than a whisper.

“wait, namj- sh--,”

the curse escapes between clenched teeth as namjoon reaches down, a large hand wrapping around a slightly smaller one, pressing bruising kisses behind the shorter’s ear. all protests die, drowned out by husky moans and namjoon resists the urge to swallow every single one of the broken sounds, instead he pushes yoongi over the edge - watches him fall…then follows after him.

they fall into a routine, seeking each other out whenever the frustration from wanting to debut becomes too much. they become each other’s outlet - yoongi, on his knees with namjoon’s fingers tangled in his hair, tugging and pulling at the strands as the younger steadily loses control, leaving the older rapper’s throat sore and voice raspy for days after, and namjoon, pressing open-mouthed kisses and empty promises up and down yoongi’s thighs, over yoongi’s stomach, his chest, collarbone, all the places people can’t see, anywhere but his lips. it’s all physical, after all…an arrangement born out of convenience, not desire…no, definitely not desire.

there’s no desire, no affection…so why is yoongi lingering? why is he trailing kisses along namjoon’s jaw line, closer and closer to his lips, feather-light brushes that sends his heart thumping uncomfortably loud against his ribs. yoongi pulls back, searches namjoon’s eyes for something (permission, maybe) then leans back in and namjoon swears he can hear his heartbeat, swears his heart is going to jump out of his chest and lodge itself in his throat. he turns his head with centimetres to spare and yoongi’s lips land on his jaw.

“we promised no feelings, “gi,”

namjoon’s voice is quiet, measured, shutters falling over his eyes.

there’s a fumbling motion and yoongi pushes himself off the bed, fingers clumsily doing up the buttons of the too-big shirt draped over his petite frame. it’s his shirt, namjoon realises with a start, and he almost makes a grab for the sleeve hanging by yoongi’s side, so long it completely covers his fingers.

yoongi has his back to namjoon and one hand on the handle of the door.

“i-i know,” he chokes on the words, voice thick with something that sounds a lot like tears. “i know and i broke it. i’m s-,” the syllable breaks, reconnects at a whisper, “i’m sorry.”

the next day yoongi leaves, blows up at their ceo and calls it quits. hoseok tells namjoon that yoongi had refused to remain a trainee if it meant needing to learn how to dance and be an idol.

namjoon remains silent, forces himself to believe the explanation yoongi left behind. he convinces himself that the tightness in his chest is only because he’s pushed himself through the choreography one too many times, and definitely not because of the single lyric he finds at the front of his notebook, six words in a messy scrawl that is unmistakably yoongi’s.

this is me keeping our promise