Min Yoongi

Namjoon stares blankly at the inside of his left wrist before rubbing at the neatly inked black lettering, feeling his world tipping and falling out of balance because who the is Min Yoongi? Namjoon doesn’t know a Min Yoongi, has never even heard the name uttered within his circle of friends (and Namjoon has a lot of friends), but he does know a Kim Seokjin.

Kim Seokjin. Senior and the epitome of high school sweetheart. He sits two seats down from Namjoon in his Accelerated English class and Namjoon may or may not have written a couple (or twenty) songs about him throughout the course of his three years of high school, lead pencil scribbles that cover pages and pages of his lyrics notebook. Namjoon met Seokjin last year, if opening his locker in the other’s face counts as a meeting. He’d stumbled over a “holy I’m so sorry” before proceeding to run to the third floor, slamming open the dance studio’s double doors and whine to Hoseok about how clumsy he is and holy Seok, I swear he came from one of those manhwas Taehyung loves reading so much.

Hoseok laughs when Namjoon tells him he’s found his soulmate, flushing bright red as he gushes like a schoolgirl over Kim Seokjin’s eyes and his lips and his neck (“what the Namjoon? His neck?”) and Namjoon had been so, so sure that there could be only one name that would be etched into his wrist by the time he turns twenty.

“It’s not Seokjin is it?” are the first words out of Hoseok’s mouth when he sees Namjoon’s eyes, all red and puffy that there is absolutely no question what he’s spent the better part of the morning doing, leaving all of Hoseok’s messages unanswered.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Hoseok reaches out, as though to grab Namjoon’s wrist but he jerks it away, eyebrows pinching together and locking his jaw.

Hoseok sighs, “Who is it?”

Namjoon hisses, right hand covering his left wrist (out of sight, out of mind) “Does it ing matter?”

And Hoseok pulls back, both hands up in the universal gesture for surrender because no, no it doesn’t matter. It doesn't matter to Namjoon who the name on his wrist belongs to, because whoever they are, they aren’t Seokjin and that’s all Hoseok needs to know.

“Namjoon-ah.”

And that’s all it takes for the metaphorical dam to break, words spilling out of Namjoon a mile at a minute and Hoseok just lets him, knows that Namjoon needs to get it all out of system otherwise he’ll bottle it up and let it fester. He stays silent. Silent because, if he’s being honest with himself, he saw it coming ages ago, from the first day Namjoon declared Kim Seokjin would be his soulmate, stars in his eyes and high on the giddy teenage notion of love. And Hoseok had laughed, laughed because he didn't have the heart to remind Namjoon that Seokjin is older than them both and Hoseok’s seen the name tattooed on the inside of the senior’s wrist, and the letters didn’t spell out “Kim Namjoon”.

“—and I was just so ing sure Seok-ah. I was so ing sure it couldn't be anyone else...”

Namjoon trails off, the “but it is” left unsaid, and Hoseok takes a deep breath. “What are you gonna do now then?” 

The fingers on Namjoon’s right hand dig into the skin around his left, and if he hadn’t bitten down his nails, he would’ve drawn blood. “I don't know,” he finally says, turning to Hoseok with wide, unblinking eyes, “what can I do?”

Hoseok’s never felt more helpless and maybe he should’ve just told Namjoon the truth, when the younger boy first came to him. Maybe he should tell Namjoon now. Maybe he shouldn’t tell Namjoon at all.

Turns out the decision isn’t Hoseok’s to make because Namjoon finds out about it anyway. In the first week of winter, in between fifth and sixth period, on his way out of the fourth floor music room, stopping when he hears voices floating out of one of the rarely-used drama classrooms.

“You want to see my tattoo?”

It’s a voice he doesn’t recognise and he’s just about to continue walking when—

“Y–yeah. I need to check something.” 

He freezes, heart leaping to his throat because that’s a voice he recognises. A voice he’s heard many, many times in Accelerated English, drifting from two seats in front of Namjoon as he absentmindedly scribbles more lyrics of the margins of his workbook. 

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t because whoever Kim Seokjin is with, they’re in a classroom on the fourth floor and it’s clearly a private affair but if Namjoon just takes one more step forward he’ll be able to see through the crack in the door—

Curiosity wins (as it always does) and Namjoon takes a step forward, chest immediately clenching.

Seokjin is facing a brunette, shorter than him (though not by much), baby fat still clinging to his cheeks and he must be a junior because Namjoon’s never seen him in any of his classes or between classes, but he puts a name to the face in the next second. 

Jeon Jungkook. In neat, black letters on the inside of Seokjin’s left wrist, the sleeve that usually covers the name is rolled up to his elbows. It looks a lot less elevated than Namjoon’s one and he realises with a pang that Seokjin’s probably had it for quite a while. Definitely longer than Namjoon, who’s only had his for half a year.

Namjoon stays long enough to see Jungkook pull up his own sleeve – Kim Seokjin in fresh black letters, the surrounding skin still a reddish-pink and it can’t be any older than a couple of days.

He doesn’t see Seokjin pull Jungkook in for a kiss but he hears the “I finally found you” that escapes the senior’s lips in a giddy breath and he bolts back into the music room, locking himself in the soundproof recording booth until Hoseok finds him, way after the bell has rung for the end of the day and Seokjin and Jungkook have long since left the fourth floor.

Namjoon spends the rest of the year tearing holes in the lines of his notebook when he presses down too hard with his black ballpoint. On some days, it’s not so bad. Some days, he can look at the name on his wrist in the reflection of the bathroom mirror, fogged up after a longer-than-usual shower, and his heart won’t clench and he won’t crumple up the tear-stained pages of his notebook. He’ll catch himself thinking about what Min Yoongi looks like and if he sounds anything like Kim Seokjin and it’ll hurt, but it’ll be okay because the name on his wrist is proof that at the very least, there’s someone out there for him. But in school, where Namjoon sees Jungkook and Seokjin pressed up against each other in empty classrooms and hidden corridors, he keeps his sleeves down, even in the sweltering summer heat, and does his best to forget about Min Yoongi.

It gets better when autumn comes around again, bringing with it a new school year and a packed schedule. Namjoon enters his last year of secondary education and it only hurts in the afternoons, when he sees the recently graduated Kim Seokjin outside the school gates, no doubt waiting for Jeon Jungkook. Most of the time, though, he forgets about Seokjin and Jungkook, he forgets about Min Yoongi. He forgets about soulmates.

Namjoon graduates high school at the top of his class and enters university with a name on his wrist that he’s long stopped thinking about, yet remembers as clearly as his own.

Autumn falls into Winter, bringing with it a chill that seeps through Namjoon’s scarf and jacket and settles against his skin with something that feels a lot like loneliness. He’s nearing the end of semester, and maybe it’s the dull grey skies or the craving for warmth, but Namjoon finds himself brushing the pads of fingers over insides of his wrists, more and more. The letters are no longer elevated, like they used to be, and Namjoon easily superimposes a different name to the one that he knows, whether he wants to or not, is inked into his skin.

“Yoongi?”

The name ends in a question, just loud enough to be heard above the hustle and bustle of the university’s most popular cafe and Namjoon stops with his fingers above his phone screen, head snapping up fast enough to send a sharp jab of pain to his spine. But it doesn’t matter, because it’s the first time he’s heard that name come from the lips of someone other than himself in a long, long time and he has to know. He watches, eyes on the barista, waiting to see who, in the huddle of university students, the order belongs to. 

A boy, significantly shorter than Namjoon and wrapped up tightly in a grey scarf, sleepy eyes half-hidden by soft brown locks, moves out of the crowd, both hands wrapping around the paper cup and he looks so cold and Namjoon moves without thinking, leaping out of his chair and pushing through the crowd because the boy is already leaving and holy  that boy might be the owner of the name that’s been on his wrist for the past two years. 

“Yoongi!” 

Namjoon doesn’t stumble over the name, not when it’s the same name that’s slipped past his lips more times than he’s willing to admit, but the boy either doesn’t hear it, or it’s not his name and Namjoon panics, reaches out as though to grab the boy’s wrist— 

Because it’s Namjoon, and Hoseok had nicknamed him ‘god of destruction’, after Namjoon broke his third chair, way back in middle school, he trips over the perfectly smooth walkway and crashes into the boy, sending both them and the boy’s coffee flying onto the asphalt.

“H–holy I'm so sorry! …” 

Because the boy above him is cute, even as he’s looking at Namjoon like he’d like nothing better than to boil Namjoon in the coffee that’s now splattered to the side, thankfully having missed both of them completely, and Namjoon might be freaking out just a little.

“Oh-my-god-I-ed-up-so-bad-holy-— I'm so sorry. I'll buy you another coffee. Sorry. Fu—”

The boy raises an eyebrow and sighs, long and loud. It’s a bit better than the glare he was giving Namjoon just seconds before, but not by much.

“Okay, kid. Chill.” Namjoon wants to ask the shortie how the hell he’s the kid, but he did just spill the guy’s coffee so he keeps his mouth shut. “It’s alright.”

The boy pushes himself off Namjoon, checking himself over for any injuries, before holding out his hand as though to pull Namjoon up, jacket sliding up his arms and exposing the skin of his wrists.

Kim Namjoon.

His name. In neat black letters. On the left wrist of someone who may or may own the name on the inside of Namjoon’s one. 

“Tha— Y–Your—” Namjoon shakes his head, his right hand coming to grip the edge of his left sleeve with shaky fingers, ever so slowly pulling the fabric up, lips fumbling around the name that leaves him no louder than a whisper. “M– Min Yoongi.”

Yoongi’s eyes follow the movement, changing from exasperated to...to something that resembles panic and Namjoon watches as Yoongi’s right hand flies to cover his left wrist, fingers wrapped in a grip so tight it looks painful.

“K– Kim Namjoon.”

The words come out choked, as though they’re torn out of Yoongi’s throat against his will and Namjoon tenses, swallows the air stuck in his windpipe and nods, “Y– yeah…”

“.”

Kim Seokjin would never swear like that, comes unbidden into Namjoon’s mind and suddenly it’s harder to breathe and Namjoon digs his nails into his palms, desperately trying to hold onto his composure.

“Sorry. I’ll… Uh– I'll buy you another coffee…” 

Yoongi raises an eyebrow at him, no doubt catching onto the shift in the atmosphere, but doesn’t ask any further. “Yeah… Thanks…”

Namjoon shoves both clenched fists into his hoodie and follows him back to the store, and if his world had been off-balance before, it was a ing mess now. But to Yoongi he says, “What… What coffee was it?”

“Double-shot cappuccino, two sugars.” 

He nods, standing behind the three other people still in line and god could they move any slower?

Finally, finally, he gets to the front, repeating the order in a rush before he forgets it and shoving notes and coins into the barista’s hand, before he stops short and turns to Yoongi.

“This can't be right. You're not— You're not him. I'm sorry. I have to go.”

He doesn’t stay long enough to see the way the shutters fall over Yoongi’s eyes, bolting out the door and collapsing into one of the university’s hidden alcoves, shoulders shaking and fingers digging into his sides, painful with the effort of trying to still the sobs wracking through his body and scratching at his lungs.  

If Namjoon’s world was thrown out of balance before, vaulted into outer space and spun off its axis – it’s a ing supernova now. An explosion of celestial proportions because Min Yoongi is nothing, nothing like Kim Seokjin. But somehow Min Yoongi feels like the warmth Namjoon so desperately craves and he is so, so lost.

He doesn’t leave the university until well after sundown, clambering into bed, shoes and all, and passing out the second his head hits the pillow.

A week passes and Namjoon starts writing again, pulling his neglected notebook out of the drawer in his bedside table and covering the pages with his black ballpoint in between lectures and during study breaks that end up lasting far too long. He looks back at the near-illegible scribbles at midnight, by the light of his desk lamp, and he almost tears the pages out. Min Yoongi. They’re all so clearly about the short brunette Namjoon crashed into outside the coffee shop. The same boy he ran from– has been running from for the past two years and it feels like there’s something lodged in between his chest and his throat. He caves the next morning, searching up the directions to the university’s Performing Arts Faculty and walking into the first recording studio he happens across, notebook in hand.

He’s so focused on trying not to think about Min Yoongi that he completely misses the boy himself until he’s right in front of him and Namjoon freezes, something between an apology and an accusation on his lips.

“Did you want to use this?”

Yoongi’s voice is colder than the winter chill outside and Namjoon’s eyes immediately fall to the floor, addressing his next words to the wooden floorboards.

“U–uh… It's okay. I'll come back later… I'll just put my name down for the booking…”

Quietly he makes his way to the other side of the room, scribbling down his name on the clipboard pinned up to the wall, before turning on his heel and high-tailing it out of the studio, flight instinct becoming too strong to ignore.

It isn’t until he’s huddled under the covers, reflexly reaching into his bedside drawer that he realises his notebook is missing. There’s a moment of panic when he realises he must have left it in the studio and holy what if Yoongi read his lyrics? He doesn’t sleep till long past midnight that night, agonising over whether or not the brunette would’ve found his notebook, before resolving to just check the studio first thing tomorrow morning.

He ends up sleeping through all five of his alarms and by the time he arrives at the studio, there’s already someone there and he freezes, instantly recognising the words coming from behind the door. His lyrics, distorted in a low, accented rasp and  if they don’t sound even better than he’d imagined but they’re still his lyrics, so he bursts in, ready to give whoever has taken his notebook a good long lecture about copyright laws and artists’ rights—

“What the , Min Yoongi?”

The brunette in front of the studio mic freezes, turning around ever so slowly and Namjoon digs his nails into his palms for the upteenth time this week, eyes once again on the wooden flooring as he clenches and unclenches his fists and he’s just so ing angry. Angry that Yoongi sounds better rapping the lyrics he wrote from Kim Seokjin than Namjoon ever did, angry that Yoongi read the lyrics he wrote for Kim Seokjin in the first place, and ing terrified for a reason he can’t quite put into words. 

“.” Namjoon’s head snaps up to meet Yoongi’s eyes, wide with realisation. “These are yours?”

He stops, mind short circuiting and anger fizzing out because Yoongi didn’t know. Yoongi clearly didn’t know who the lyrics belonged to and Namjoon should just deny it, make up some excuse, grab the notebook and leave.

“Well... . I mean, yes? Who else would they have ing belonged to?” 

It’s like his feet move of their own accord and he takes a step forward, holding one hand in front of him.

“How the was I supposed to know? Anyone could’ve left it there.” Yoongi is looking at him with furrowed brows, a mix between confusion and what looks like irritation and Namjoon feels his face heat up again.

“Even if you didn't know that it was mine, what right do you have to read, and worse, record someone else’s lyrics?” He takes a step closer, grabbing the notebook from where it hung loosely between Yoongi’s fingers, holding it to his chest and some part of him knows he’s being immature right now, but he’s past the point of caring.

“I didn’t mean to read them. I was flicking through trying to find out who they belonged to and like,  they were actually good.” Yoongi glares at him, and if Namjoon wasn’t fuming already, he's certain he’d be six feet under and frozen in by those eyes. “Well. That’s what I thought before I realised who they belonged to.”

“Are you ing serious? Great. So now some has recorded my lyrics. The same that’s going to be ing engraved in my wrist for the rest of my life.” Namjoon knows it’s a low blow and he almost takes it back at the look of utter hopelessness that flits over Yoongi’s face, but the next words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. “You know what? you, Min Yoongi.”

Then he turns and bolts out of the recording studio for the second time, sprinting the entire way to his apartment and slamming his fist into cold bathroom tiles.

He ed up.

In the privacy of his bathroom, without Min Yoongi standing a couple of steps away, looking at Namjoon with those impossibly cold eyes, it’s a lot easier to think, and yeah, he ed up. He couldn’t before, but now, with the hot water hitting his back and fogging up the bathroom mirrors, Namjoon can admit he catapulted over the metaphorical line and no, Yoongi didn’t deserve that.

It’s a lot easier, Namjoon concludes, standing outside what he prays is Yoongi’s door before class the next day – It’s a lot easier in his head. In his head, he goes back to the studio, apologises for being out of line, and then leaves for class. Except Yoongi isn’t in the studio, and Namjoon ends up texting everyone on his contact list with the excuse that he found “Min Yoongi’s wallet and what looks like important exam notes”, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind reminding him that he’s sure putting in a lot of effort for a guy he’d been swearing his head off at just the day before.

He shivers, raising his hand to knock for what he swears is the tenth time and Shin Donghyuk better not have texted him just any random room number or he swears—

There’s the sound of footsteps just behind the door and Namjoon freezes, eyes falling to the scuffed toes of his converses. The door opens with a clang of metal and a squeak and Namjoon glances up, letting out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding because thank god Donghyuk wasn’t being a jerk, for once, and actually gave him the right room number.

“U–uh…” ing hell Namjoon, get a grip. “I'm-sorry-about-before-I-was-being-a-real-.”

Yoongi squints up at him, head tilted to the side, messy bed hair falling into half-closed eyes. “Huh?”

Namjoon groans quietly, running one hand over his face. “Look. I'm… I'm sorry about before. I was upset and I– I had no right to say any of that to you.”

“Oh.”

He takes a deep breath, trying hard not to shuffle his feet under Yoongi’s blank stare. “I'm being serious… Just– A lot of stuff has been happening and I snapped and you got the bad end of it. I really am sorry—” He breaks off in a laugh, harsh and scratchy and tilts his head back blinking rapidly. “It was completely my fault for taking it all out on you…” He takes another breath, composing himself before looking at Yoongi again and Yoongi looks… he looks unsure.

“Do you uh… d'you wanna come in and sit down? Or something?”

No. ing hell. No! Namjoon’s head screams, limbs locking and shoulders tensing.

“O– Okay…” He takes a step forward, relaxing his shoulders and giving Yoongi the smallest upward twitch of lips. “Sure.”

Yoongi holds the door out wider and it’s like Namjoon’s on autopilot, following the shorter boy inside even as everything in him is telling him to run the hell away.

“Do you uh– You want something to drink, or…?” Yoongi trails off, letting the question hang awkwardly and Namjoon shifts his weight from his left foot to his right.

“Th– That would be nice, actually… Thanks.”

He takes the glass of water Yoongi hands him, standing around for a moment before sitting down on the couch, acutely aware of the distance between his shoulders and Yoongi’s.

“Sorry. I– uh… I read through your lyrics.”

Namjoon sighs, eyes on his glass of water, and nods ever so slightly. “Yeah, I kind of figured you had... It's my own fault for not being more careful with them.”

“They were…” From the corner of his eye he can see Yoongi running a finger around the of his own glass. “They're good. I know I said they weren't… I didn't mean it. Sorry.”

“Thanks…” He brings his glass up, taking a sip before running his tongue nervously over his lower lip, eyes trained on the way the water distorts the shape of his fingers. “Your rapping… It's actually really good. Just– I was surprised. I didn't expect to hear my lyrics spoken by anyone else… It threw me off.”

There’s a pause, longer than usual and Namjoon’s just about to say something else when Yoongi looks up, looks at him.

“They're about someone, right? Your lyrics?”  

Namjoon tenses, reminds himself it’s not an attack, looks down at his lap, and nods. “Yeah. You could say that.”

“And that someone isn't m— Isn't your soulmate. Right?”

They’re both avoiding the elephant in the room and Namjoon chuckles, soft and sad, shaking his head. “No…” He looks up, and Yoongi’s already looking at him, eyes open and unguarded for the split second before he drops his gaze, and Namjoon lets out a breath. “In all honesty, I thought they would be. You read the book, right? Do you remember where the lyrics stopped being written in pencil, and started being written in pen?”

Yoongi’s looking at him again, guarded still, but curious. “Yeah…?”

“That– That was the day I saw your name on my wrist. The name that wasn't his.” Namjoon shifts, settling his glass down leaning forward to rest his forehead against interlaced fingers. “It was something I was planning on doing the whole time. Write everything in pencil until it was set in stone…”

“I see…” There’s a sad smile on Yoongi’s lips and for some reason Namjoon suddenly feels like he could say anything, and somehow, the boy sitting beside him would understand. “You must still like him a lot, huh?”

Namjoon nods, maybe a bit too quickly. “It's not really until I see him that it gets me. I mean, I can go a week without thinking about him sometimes, and then I think, oh, I must be getting over him, but then I'd drive past him on my way to University and I just… I realize that it's really not that easy and—” He breaks off, next words caught behind his tongue because Yoongi looks so sad, even as the cupid’s bow of his lips is curved upwards in a smile. “I– I'm sorry… I didn't mean to go on about it…”  

Then Yoongi blinks, and he looks unsure again. “No, I…” He shifts ever so slightly, turning his torso towards Namjoon. “I don’t—”

An inhale. Exhale. Eyes that flutter closed.

“I don't believe in soulmates, Kim Namjoon.”

“What?” Yoongi opens his eyes and Namjoon has never felt more confused. “I don't… I don't follow.” He sighs, words spilling out of him in a rush. “I mean, it's all very well not to believe in something with no physical proof. But… But everyone gets a name on their wrist. So– So that means that they are definitely real, right?” And he can hear the shake in his own voice, hear the desperation.

Yoongi leans forward, mimicking Namjoon’s position. “I don’t believe in them.” And then quieter, so quiet Namjoon has to strain to catch it, “all they do is hurt people.”

Oh.

Oh. That– that makes sense. It makes sense, but…

“But that doesn't really explain to me why your name is written right here—” Namjoon rubs a finger over the letter on his left wrist. “—Instead of Seok–… Instead of the person my lyrics are about.”

Yoongi tilts his head to the side, away from Namjoon, and when he speaks next, his voice sounds clogged up with tears. “Exactly.” Namjoon still doesn’t get it. “That's why I don't believe in them. I'm your soulmate but you don't… you don't like me. And you like… you like the boy in your lyrics but he's not your soulmate.”

He draws in a shaky breath. “But still. I can't just accept that this damn name on my wrist means nothing. Maybe it doesn't mean soulmate. , I don't know. But—” He runs a hand through his hair, biting his way through the next words. “—I can’t just completely disregard something that I have to look at every damn day of my life.”

“What do you…” Yoongi’s eyes are on Namjoon again, tears clinging to his eyelashes and god it hurts. “What do you want to do, then?”

“I don’t know.” He runs his fingers through his hair, again. “I really don't know. All I know is that you have to mean something to me. . Even if soulmate just means friend or whatever. I don't know. I just—” He draws in a breath, dry and stinging against his throat. “I just know that there's got to be more to it than this.”

Yoongi laughs. And the sound is so disbelieving he wonders what on earth could’ve happened to the boy sitting in front of him, eyes a blank slate and not leaving Namjoon’s own. “You gonna convince me that this—” He waves a hand through the air between them. “— ed up notion of romance is real?”

Yes. Namjoon wants to say, never one to back down from a challenge. Instead he worries his lower lip between his teeth, eyebrows drawn tight together. “I'm going to prove to you that it doesn't mean nothing.” He closes his eyes. The opens them and holds Yoongi’s gaze with an intensity tingling in the tips of his fingers. “So help me, Min Yoongi. I will make it so that when you look at that ing name on your wrist, you’ll see more than some weird dude that just appeared in your life for no reason.” He pauses, swallowing down the air caught in his throat. “I'll make you see a reason.”

The silence stretches between them, not as awkward as before, but not quite comfortable either and when Yoongi speaks next, it’s soft, and resigned.

“Okay Kim Namjoon. And if they exist? If soulmates exist? What then?”

It’s not a challenge but Namjoon smirks anyway. “When you realise that soulmates exist, I'll make sure that you never forget it.”

It’s not his claim to make. Not when he’d spent a good two years wishing for a different name, might still be wishing for different name, but the light pink flush that tints Yoongi cheeks makes it kind of worth it.

“Don’t let me down then.”

Somehow, Yoongi sounds both hopeless and hopeful and “I won’t” slips pasts Namjoon’s lips in a quiet promise before he can stop himself.

The silence that falls this time is comfortable, warm, and Yoongi is smiling, just the slightest curve to his lips, but a smile all the same.

Namjoon grins, “Let’s make a bet. I bet, that in 3 months, I'll be your best friend at least. How ‘bout it?”

Yoongi tilts his head to the side. “A bet, huh? And if you win?” He grins, all gums and crescent eyes. “What do you want?”

“I want you to admit that you were wrong about these—” Namjoon gestures to both of their tattoos. “—And accept that I will be a huge part of your life from then on.” He grins widely, dimples and all, before adding, “And if you win, which you won’t, I'll accept that you think that this is all bull, and I'll step right out of your life. You can pretend you never even met me.” He leans back in the couch, crossing his arms. “How does that sound?”

“Okay.” Yoongi holds out his hand. “Sounds fair.”

Namjoon takes the offered hand and tugs Yoongi towards him in the surge of confidence, lips inches away from his ear. “Try not to fall in love with me yet. That would prove me too right.”

Yoongi pulls back, flushed from neck up in that pretty pink colour and Namjoon laughs and lets go, offering to walk with the shorter boy to class, lest they both end up missing their lectures.

They end up sharing Yoongi’s playlist between them as they walk to the university, exchanging numbers outside Studio B. Namjoon throws a “I’ll text you later!” over his shoulder as he sprints to the Languages and Arts Building, arriving ten minutes late for his lecture.

Winter melts into Spring and Namjoon spends the coldest months of the year learning about Yoongi.

He learns that Yoongi is older than him