Namjoon fulfils his promise, even if his bank account screams at him for it. Between them is a feast, a disgusting mix of weird breakfast foods from various western cultures – Namjoon doesn’t like the look of all that oil, but Yoongi seems happy enough.

The fancy breakfast joint Namjoon had originally chosen was closed, something about renovations or the like (Namjoon, and his wallet, had privately breathed a sigh of relief for that). Yoongi had chosen an ugly restaurant styled like a cliché American diner from some made-for-tv movie as their second option – and so, here they sit.

“No,” Namjoon says, jabbing a cut square of pancake in Yoongi’s direction. “Absolutely not.”

“Just hear me out,” Yoongi says around a mouthful of something greasy. “You said you’d listen.”

“I didn’t say I’d do it, though,” Namjoon points out.

“You haven’t even heard it yet!” Yoongi complains, stabbing some kind of fried potato like he’s taking revenge. “Give it a chance.”

“One chance,” Namjoon says, holding up a finger. “No strikes, no re-do. You get one.”

“Fine,” Yoongi agrees, settling his cutlery down on the plate. The sticky leather booth squelches underneath him when he leans forward. “So, we know at least one thing, right?” He holds up a finger as he speaks. “We know that Kim Seokjin loves your voice. I mean, he’s definitely in love with you too, but whatever, we’ll disregard that.”

Namjoon chokes on his pancake. “Neither of those are true! Especially not that he– especially not that last one.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes dramatically, hands dropping to grip the table. “Right, got it, in denial, that’s why we’re only counting the first one.”

“It’s not-”

Yoongi shoots him a pained look. “Let’s just pretend it is, okay? Use your god damn imagination for once.”

“Yoo-”

“That’s it, you’ve lost talking privileges. I’ve got the microphone now.”

“B-”

“Great, I’m glad we’re on the same page!” Yoongi says with excessive enthusiasm. “He’s in love with your voice, among other things, so all you gotta do is write him a song.”

“I’m not serenading him,” Namjoon says immediately. He’s still trying to figure out where that line is, the line of weird and not-weird, comfortable and creepy, friends and....other, but Namjoon knows that personalised love songs are way, way, way over that line.

“You’re a dumb , let me speak,” Yoongi chastises. “I didn’t say it had to be about him. Not even to him. Just for him.”

Namjoon frowns. “I’m not following.”

“Look – okay, look at this,” Yoongi sighs, rummaging in his jacket pocket to pull out his phone. They sit in silence as he scrolls through something before revealing this amazing piece of information that will apparently make everything clear.

“What the hell? Why were you guys talking about me? When was this?” Namjoon’s frown deepens – Yoongi’s point is proven, but what the .

How much else was there? Did they discuss him a lot? From the scroll bar on the side of the app, this conversation was either a long time ago or they’ve talked a lot since. Namjoon didn’t even know they did talk. He goes to scroll through the messages, but his finger barely makes contact with the screen before Yoongi’s yanking his phone back.

“Nope, no touch, only read,” he says cheerily. Now Namjoon’s suspicious, because they’re talking about him and Yoongi doesn’t want to share.

Yoongi tucks the phone away safely. “Anyway, back to me,” he says, diving right back into the food. “Kim Seokjin hates rap but loves-”

“Likes,” Namjoon corrects – it had been right there in the conversation Yoongi had shown him.

“Loves,” Yoongi continues, shooting Namjoon a dirty look, “your voice. Why not record him a song that he’d actually enjoy listening to?”

“I- huh.” Namjoon had been prepared to refuse immediately, but it’s not such a bad idea. It’s not romantic, not a weird proclamation of undying love, just one friend using his skills to make something the other friend would like. Two bros being purely platonic.

“Right? I’m incredible,” Yoongi says, something smudged on his right cheek that looks suspiciously like syrup. “People should pay me for this .”

“Where do I even start with that?” Namjoon asks, more out of curiosity than anything. He’s sure that if he put his mind to it, he’d be able to come up with some kind of bop that Seokjin would like – but he also knows when Yoongi has more cards up his sleeve than he’s playing.

He’s correct. “You don’t do anything,” Yoongi instructs. “I’ve got an idea, so don’t start writing or anything, I’ve gotta convince him first.”

“Him?”

“Him.”

“You’re not going to tell me.”

“Nope.”

~*~

Namjoon’s never been good at following instructions. Life is too short to live by the rules, he reasons as his pen scribbles across the page. He’s been sitting on the sofa for hours now, words flowing freely onto papers that have begun to flutter around the room. Yoongi would smack the back of his head if he were here to see it, but he’s out doing dumb relationship stuff – there’s no one to hold Namjoon back now.

(Good thing, too. There’s still a small lump on the back of his head that stings if he even lays on his pillow wrong. Yoongi’s been abusing that power and enjoying it way too much recently).

If Namjoon were sane, he might stop himself and laugh. All these lyrics, verses and choruses and ideas and themes, it’s all very mushy and romantic and loving – there’s no way he could ever show any of this to Seokjin without then immediately dying of embarrassment.

Namjoon is not sane, however, so this is fine. Pages upon pages of feelings spread out around him, more coming as Namjoon translates every thought and emotion to paper. That you are the one who will give meaning to my memories, he writes – decides that’s a perfectly acceptable thing for one platonic friend to say to his other, also very platonic, friend.

I’m a ing lyrical god, Namjoon thinks hazily. He’s on his third coffee – but Yoongi’s not here, so who’s going to stop him? He’s an adult, he can live his own life thank you very much. Lets his pen do the thinking, because there’s not much else left upstairs in Namjoon’s brain.

You’re my person, you’re my desire, you’re my pride, you’re my love.

~*~