Chapter Text
Hoseok
Despite whatever Taehyung might believe, Darth Vader is terrifying.
Hoseok stares at the crow-black cutout of himself in the dull sheen of the elevator doors, pleased with the baleful glow of the red sequin accents on his breast and the ominous swirl of the floor-length satin cape.
The bubble eyes of the mask tints everything carnage red, and the voice modulator smells strongly of raspberry wine. That's because Hoseok bought two (or three?) bottles of Bokbunjae at the 7-11 down the block. He drank one (or two) bottles while getting dressed, and now sips from the third as he waits for the elevator.
Only, he couldn't drink from the bottle with the Vader helmet on, so he's sipping the wine through a long, twisty straw, which, now that he thinks about it, may lessen the overall effect of the costume.
But, given the week he's had, Hoseok feels he needs the wine almost as much as he needs this party. Anything to drown the anguish of...
No. Not tonight. He promised. Tonight, he will dance and drink and flirt and drink to his heart's content. He will not think about his hopelessly talentless students or his starkly sterile apartment or his precious, absent puppy who could be out there, anywhere, alone and hungry and dirty and alone.
Hoseok goes to wipe a tear from his eye and connects instead with his hard plastic carapace. He takes another sip of his wine. He thumbs the button for the elevator and remembers, dimly, that it's broken.
Climbing a bajillion stairs in patent-leather platform shoes proves to be challenging, even for his dancer's lungs. The mask's aspirator doesn't help, and neither does the wine, as he must admit, halfway to the penthouse, that his tolerance is not what it used to be given that he's lived the last four years as a fucking monk.
He bursts into the party on a wave of wine fumes and self-loathing. He's wheezing quite convincingly as he parts through the dusky haze of the penthouse. Most of the guests turn in awe to behold him, but some of them just stand there, petrified behind their glittering masks.
The music pounds so loud Hoseok can feel it through the thick rubber soles of his boots. There are black lights and strobe lights and people splashed with neon body paint. Clouds of colored feathers drift along the floor, spiraling up in the wake of Hoseok's cloak.
He strides to the bar, brandishing his empty wine bottle at the guy behind it.
“Four years? Of nothing?” Hoseok howls. “With these thighs?”
The bartender, a lanky guy in a Batman onesie, leans over to appraise Hoseok's leather-bound legs. “Sir, do you have a permit for those?” he growls. “They look fairly lethal.”
“These are my secret weapon,” Hoseok whisper-shouts. “It is useless to resist them.”
The bartender grins. He replaces Hoseok's wine bottle with a beaker of fizzy green liquid. Hoseok stabs his straw into it and noisily sips as he scans the crowd. He spots Jin in the center of the room, resplendent in a flowing robe of white silk, his exceedingly broad shoulders adorned with opalescent wings. Hoseok notes with a snort that the halo of twinkle lights wreathing Jin's forehead is held aloft by a pair of glowing red horns.
The fizzy drink hits Hoseok's knees as he weaves across the dance floor. He jostles and sweeps until he collides with Jin, who catches him in a clumsy spin and grips his arms at the elbows.
“Hoseok, I almost didn't recognize you,” Jin says.
“How can you not recognize these,” Hoseok hisses, whipping back his cape to showcase his thighs.
Jin smiles and says, “I just figured you for the Jedi master type. You know... Hobi-wan Kenobi?”
Hoseok splutters with indignation as Jin pounds his shoulder, honking his famous windshield wiper laugh. He steps back to complete a dizzy, drunken circle as he continues to survey the guests.
“Hm,” Jin says. “Are you looking for someone?”
“No,” Hoseok spits. Just his enigmatic, cat-loving, clown-clad neighbor who has questionable taste in men but applaudable taste in music and neckwear. “Why? Are you looking for someone?”
“Always,” Jin whispers into Hoseok's ear. It's muffled and ticklish beneath his mask, and as he turns to glare sternly at him, he finds that the host has moved on, gliding through the party like some starlit cloud.
Hoseok feels a moment's frustration as he knows that his mask conceals his pointed glower. He returns to Batman the bartender for another beaker of fizzy-green, figuring that he can make up for what he lacks in real courage with the liquid kind, and then maybe, just maybe, he will finally be able to tell Yoongi how he really feels.
Yoongi
Yoongi isn't one to brag—
Except he is, and he's bragging now. He looks good. His hair has been spray-dyed red and fluffed off his forehead, he's sporting jean overalls and the left strap keeps sliding off his shoulder in a way he hopes is scarily sultry, and his face has been given a pat-down with a white matte. He's also got a knife. To reiterate, he looks good.
Now, for the finishing touches. He narrowly avoids tipping his knife into the sink as he grabs the boxed makeup. He douses the brush in red paint and draws very deliberate lines in designated areas of his face: over the bridge of his nose, on either side of his eyes, above his brow, beside his mouth.
When he's done, he frowns a little at the unused shades in the kit. Maybe, if the paint doesn't dry out, he can find something for the yellow and the blue? It's unlikely he'll actually follow through, but he's trying to be a better person. For Hoseok. And Hoseok seems like the type of guy who would get upset at wasting paint. He would probably think of a cute, creative outlet for all types of—
Ugh. Yoongi really needs a drink. His stomach's been chock-full of butterflies all night, and he doesn't know if he'll be able to convince himself to go upstairs if he doesn't do a little pre-game in his apartment. He's always hated parties, but he especially hates the fact he's actually looking forward to this one. Hoseok makes him contradict everything about himself. Turns him from the prestigious, stoic, composer Min Yoongi to Min Yoongi, the man who can't stop smiling. From Beast to Prince Whatshisname, or worse. He's like some love-blind, Shakespearean cliché. A goddamn fool.
He stops spacing out and returns to his smiling reflection and fuck, he doesn't look good. He looks horrific. He knows that's the point of Halloween, but maybe he should have picked a costume that shows off his... legs? His wit?
He doesn't need a drink, he needs a smoke. He lets himself onto the patio and puffs until his teeth stop chattering with nerves. Then he decides, fuck it, he needs a drink all the same. He washes down the taste of nicotine with the slim remainder of the closest Soju bottle he can find.
“You're Min Yoongi,” he announces to the apartment. “You have played in front of an audience of thousands before. If you can do that, you sure as hell can do this.”
When he leaves, the door locks behind him. He takes the stairs two at a time, and when he reaches Namjoon's floor, he finds the young author in a state of distress. He's slumped against one of the steps like he fell and decided to lay there for the rest of eternity, and by the smell of it, Yoongi isn't the only one who decided to hit the liquor cabinet before getting to the party.
“Holy shit, Joon,” Yoongi says. He leans over him and sucks air over his teeth as he pokes at the younger's chest. “You could kill someone less observant just by laying here.”
Namjoon grunts in response and struggles to sit upright. He makes it as far as propping himself on an elbow. Yoongi takes his wrist and hauls him the rest of the way. They nearly both go toppling backward, but Yoongi braces himself with the railing and absorbs most of the impact. He maneuvers Namjoon's arm so that it's resting over his shoulders and they make it to the fifth floor before they have to stop and catch their breath.
On a shaky exhale, Namjoon says, “Freedom lives hence, there is banishment here.”
Yoongi does a double-take. “You fucking what?”
“Banishment,” Namjoon says. “Bang Sihyuk, and with the rats... and I don't even know where Mark got the cocoa. She's a birthday present now?”
Namjoon looks just as confused as Yoongi feels about the statement. Yoongi assumes the alcohol is having its way with Namjoon and that there's nothing else to decipher from the words.
“Okay then, lightweight,” he says, patting Namjoon on the chest. Especially given the angle of being crammed underneath more than half of Namjoon's drunken weight, Namjoon's chest is the only place he's tall enough to reach. He just hopes it's a comforting enough gesture. He's trying real hard not to say I told you so. “C'mon. Let's get you up to Jin's.”