Denial

12 ; denial

Namjoon is trying very hard not to stare, really. But the way the rapper on stage is spitting out his verses – as though it’s the only thing keeping him from potential insanity, has him gripping his glass tightly enough that his knuckles have turned white. The words spilling onto the stage are harsh, blunt, none of the sweet sugarcoated verses Namjoon has become more-than-accustomed to.

“Worried about the competition, man?” Ikje laughs, taking his (now empty) glass from him and refilling it.

Namjoon shakes his head, unwilling to take his eyes away from the stage. He’s not worried. Worried is the wrong word to describe what he’s feeling. Before he can properly place a word to the emotion coursing through him, he’s made his way to the front of the stage, grabbing a mic from beside the stairs, and he’s taken said stairs two at a time until he’s facing the rapper, a challenge in his eyes and anticipation (that was the word) tingling at his fingertips.

The rapper an eyebrow, hidden under mint green hair, and flips up the hood of his oversized jacket, turning to face Namjoon with a single hand raised – the signal to stop the beat, and smirks, accepting the unspoken challenge.

The battle ends with the mint-haired rapper defending his title as crowd-favourite, and Namjoon notes his own deteriorating ability to freestyle with a twinge of regret.

Ikje laughs in his face when he goes back to the bar and Namjoon flips him off with a sour expression.

“Here,” a joint and lighter is slid over the counter, “use the back door, Joon”

It’s got to do with practice and experience, Namjoon concludes, letting smoke curl out of his mouth in gentle wisps - standing in front of a studio mic and only spitting prewritten lines for the past two years would no doubt take a toll on his ability to freestyle in the underground. On the other hand, the rappers who stayed underground…

“Yo, Nam, shouldn’t you be more careful ‘bout your image?”

The mint-haired rapper Namjoon lost the battle to is leaning against the back door, small figure almost completely swallowed up by his far-too-large-on-him jacket.

Namjoon scowls, drops the joint, extinguishes it with the heel of his shoe.

“You’re the only one here, ‘Gi”

Yoongi pushes himself off the door, takes a step forward.

“Yeah.”

He takes another step forward - Namjoon can feel the shorter’s breath ghosting over his jaw line. and, involuntarily, he shivers.

“Yeah, I am,”

Yoongi’s voice drops, takes on a rougher, huskier quality.

Namjoon does his best to suppress the second shiver but Yoongi’s quick eyes catch it anyway and he smirks, waits.

He half-considers leaving, taking a purposeful misstep in the routine they’ve danced so many times it’s all muscle memory at this point (but really, even this hesitance is part of it all)

Yoongi tilts his head to the side, lets his tongue run across his lower lip.

Namjoon takes another step froward (there’s only a few millimetres left now), convinces himself that one more time won’t hurt (they don’t mean anything) and presses his lips against the older’s.

Namjoon tastes like smoke and hard liquor, but Yoongi doesn’t. Yoongi tastes clean, almost sweet, and the irony isn’t lost on either rapper. Their kiss isn’t sweet though, it’s rough, harsh - Namjoon nips at Yoongi’s bottom lip and Yoongi’s teeth graze Namjoon’s chapped ones.

He’s clumsy (always has been), he overestimates, bites down too hard and Yoongi growls, the sound coming from the back of his throat, “You tryna kiss me or eat me, Joon-ah?”

At the nickname, he presses the shorter into the wall, one hand coming up to tangle in mint green hair, “Both, hyung.” His lips travel past Yoongi’s jaw line, teeth grazing at his throat, replaced by his tongue mere moments later, soothing the crimson roses that bloom against milky-white. “Want to do both.”

Yoongi groans at the implication, hips arching off the wall in search for friction, and hooks two fingers into the waistband on Namjoon’s jeans, “Do it.”

Namjoon’s finger’s slip beneath the rapper’s many layers of clothing, cool fingers on hot skin and Yoongi trembles, breathing losing it’s regular rhythm.

“Could’ve done this so much more if you’d just stayed, ‘Gi,”

Yoongi shudders, digs blunt fingernails into Namjoon’s hips, tries like hell to pretend he doesn’t regret it - leaving Big Hit, leaving BTS, leaving Namjoon.

“Shouldn’t be doing this a-at all,” he manages between unsteady breaths. Namjoon’s hands are gliding across his stomach, fingers toying with his waistband, slipping beneath skin-tight denim.

“Last time, hyung, I swear.”

Namjoon presses the promise almost painfully into kiss-bruised lips, convinces himself that this is really the last time, knows already that he’ll be back, seeking Yoongi out on his next schedule-free day, wishing they could have something longer than one night, something more than sweet nothings in the dark and empty beds by first light.

He slips the jacket off Yoongi’s shoulder’s, letting it hang from the older’s elbows, an awkward weight (though neither cares at this point). Yoongi’s wearing a low-cut white t-shirt underneath, collarbones beautifully exposed to him and Namjoon hisses, bites down hard - sharp teeth on sharp bones.

“Last time,” he repeats into the roses that blossom under his touch, cerise on alabaster.

“Y-yeah,” Yoongi stutters, head falling back as sweaty fingers fumble with metal zippers, “l-last time,”

Cold air hits heated skin, sweat trickling over a tensed abdomen, past sharp hipbones and Yoongi lets his hands fall to his sides, fingers scraping against the brick wall, searching for purchase, Namjoon’s name falling past his lips like a prayer (like a sin).

Namjoon responds in kind, curses mingling with broken syllables of Yoongi’s name, muffled against the crook of his neck and both of them fall, fall and pretend.

Yoongi pretends he doesn’t want to burn Namjoon’s skin with matching roses, pretends it’s okay when he can only mark the places others can’t see. Namjoon pretends it’s all physical, pretends it’s just pleasure seeking, pretends he doesn’t love the way his name spills past Yoongi’s lips (it sounds better than any song he’s ever written).

Yoongi will ask Namjoon to come home with him; it’s not a plea (it is).

Namjoon will link their fingers together in silent consent; he can say no, if he wants (he can’t).

More roses will be painted across moonlit skin; in places they can see, and places they can’t.

More promises made; some will be kept, and some won’t.

Namjoon will have left by sunrise and Yoongi’s skin, peppered with bruises, will fade back to milky-white.

They’ll fall out of sync.

Months later, on a different stage, Namjoon will find Yoongi again.

More promises.

“This is the last time”

(it’s not)

They’ll fall into step, again.

(it’s a dance they know by heart)

http://sugastruck.tumblr.com/post/143141864126/sugamon-denial
#12!~ This may very well be my favourite drabble so far in this 30daydrabble challenge ^_^