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Chapter Text

As they take the curving roads that hug the Jeju Island coastline, Taehyung lolls his head halfway out the car window and lets the wind whip through his curls, trailing outstretched fingers in a wave pattern through the air. Dr. Kim Namjoon points out popular tourist spots and landmarks that they pass, until the university campus’s tall buildings rise out of a fogbank like a ghost ship, sleek dark walls imposing in the morning light. Taehyung squints against the bright reflection of the sun glancing off their windows.

“It’s very modern,” he says, his voice rough and low. It’s one of his first full sentences of the morning, after their rote greetings at the airport. Namjoon hums in acknowledgement.

“Yeah, but don’t let that fool you – the administration is as stuffy and bureaucratic as any other institution I’ve ever worked at.”

The professor laughs a little at his own joke and Taehyung smirks but says nothing, knuckles pressed to his mouth as he leans an elbow against the window. He watches the buildings get smaller in the rear-view, swallowed by mist.

Gravel crunches under the car’s tires as they turn off the main road, spraying a low cloud of fine dust into the shimmering June air. Namjoon shoots a dimpled, chagrined smile over at Taehyung as he takes one hand off the steering wheel to put the windows up.

“Sorry. I know you were enjoying that ocean breeze, but this part of the drive gets a little dusty.”

The road is lined with rows of tall cypress trees that provide a built-in privacy screen for the rest of the estate. Taehyung itches to paint them already, their twisted shapes almost alien, stretching up against a cloudless azure sky. The rumble of the wheels on the gravel rattles his bones, drowning out the low R&B playing through the car’s speakers, a gritty, discordant sound.

As they turn the final dusty corner onto a curving concrete drive, the house snaps into focus like someone whipping the cover from a canvas. Namjoon parks right in front of the house and seems to slam his door a little harder than he means to – he freezes for a moment, eyes wide and contrite, before rounding the front of the vehicle to open Taehyung’s passenger door.

“Force of habit, I guess,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck sheepishly. “I always do this for my… um, for Dr. Park.”

Ah, how romantic. Taehyung stretches luxuriously as he swings his long legs out of the vehicle after a long day of cramped travel. Anyone with eyes can see that the professor’s housemate, Dr. Park Jimin, is more than just a friend or academic fellow – in photos easily found from a search of the two, Namjoon looks at Dr. Park like he is the most precious thing he has ever beheld, and judging by Jimin’s light hand at his elbow, the way his eye-smile dissolves like spun sugar, he feels the same way about Dr. Kim.

And speak of the devil himself – Jimin must have seen them approaching from inside the house. He stands with his hip cocked against one of the open, intricately carved double doors, hugging his arms around himself and smiling indulgently.

“Our guest deserves princely treatment too, Namjoon-ssi.”

Jimin’s voice is as melodious and captivating as the poetry readings that Taehyung looked up when he received the letter announcing his summer fellowship with the university, with five weeks of residency in the home of renowned Korean art scholar Kim Namjoon included. Other applicants may have wondered (might have asked) if they were sure it isn’t too much trouble for the pair to put him up in their home for so long. Taehyung is not the type to worry about causing the right kinds of trouble.

Namjoon barks a laugh, startled and boyish. He pops the trunk and pulls out Taehyung’s valise one-handed, apparently satisfied to carry it inside despite its convenient rollers. His bicep muscles flex inside tight shirt sleeves.

“I guess you’re right, Jimin-ssi,” he teases, goosing Jimin with his free hand as he passes over the threshold.

Jimin purses his lips in exaggerated offense as he bats Namjoon’s hand away, but this is belied by the airy giggle that follows. If there had even been a whisper of a question that these two were a couple, this interaction erases any doubt. Taehyung can’t help but wonder if this is them trying to be coy about it. If so, it must be an open secret to the entire university, if not the academic world at large.

“You must be hungry,” Jimin says over his shoulder as Namjoon sets Taehyung’s bag down in the rustically tiled foyer. “Neither of us are particularly talented cooks, I’m afraid, but I do put together a mean charcuterie board.”

“The best,” Namjoon agrees, with another one of his signature dimpled smiles. “Let’s get this up to your room, give you a few minutes to rest and refresh yourself. I bet Jimin-ah will whip us up something delicious to drink, too. What do you like?”

A dangerous question, that. Taehyung frowns a little, taps his lips in thought.

“I like sweet things,” he says.

One hand curved around the arching doorway that leads into the main part of the house, Jimin hums.

“Alcohol?”

“Just a little. It makes me sleepy.”

“Okay.”

With a nod, Jimin disappears through the arch and leaves Taehyung and Namjoon to climb the dark-wood spiral staircase from the foyer. The suitcase is a tight fit, bumping lightly against the banisters as they take each turn. (But this may just be the way the professor seems a bit like an overgrown puppy, grown too big and ungainly for his paws.)

The room is tucked under the house’s slanting eaves, small but clean and cozy. Taehyung can stand up all the way near the dresser and full-length mirror, but he has to hunch a little by the double bed, where a light cotton quilt is turned down below fluffy white pillows. He supposes he will usually be horizontal at this end of the room, anyway.

“Please feel free to use anything here that you need – the dresser drawers are empty, and so are the ones in the side table. There’s another set of clean linens in the hall closet. Uhh, I think that’s about it? Oh, let me show you the shower, I know I always need to take one after I travel–”

The professor keeps up the mostly one-sided chatter as he leads Taehyung down the upstairs hallway to an equally small bathroom, where a tugged string turns on the light with a crackling flicker.

“It’s an old house,” he explains, a tight fit as they both step inside. “We updated what we could, of course, but you know. There’s only so much you can do on two professors’ salaries.”

To be honest, Taehyung isn’t quite sure what Namjoon is apologizing for. Their place is amazing, practically a mansion in his eyes, with the kind of architectural detail that simply doesn’t get built anymore. His eyes widen at the brass-fixtured clawfoot tub, another long pull-chain swaying above it to drain the water. A more modern, detachable showerhead has been installed on one end.

“It’s a little finicky. Turn it this way for hot water, that way for cold… I know, it’s backwards from what it should be. Trust me, Jimin will never let me forget it.”

Namjoon coughs out a self-deprecating laugh, and Taehyung chuckles along good-naturedly. There’s a shuffle of limbs and bodies as Namjoon exits the bathroom, leaving Taehyung to fiddle with the ancient, creaking knobs – as he brushes past, the burst of cologne that hits Taehyung’s nose is complex and sweet, like biting into a fig in the salt-air of endless summer.

Namjoon steps up behind Jimin in the kitchen to wraps his arms around him and drop a kiss against the warm skin of his nape, where the apex of a crescent moon peeks out.

“Hey, baby,” he says, chin hooked snugly over Jimin’s shoulder. He has to stoop down a little for it, his knees bent to slot between his partner’s thighs.

“It’s a good thing I knew that was you.” Jimin lifts the chef’s knife in his hand, tilted to display its edge where he had been slicing up some crisp radishes from the garden. “Is our guest settling in well?”

“Mmhm. He’s showering. Or at least, he was about to, when I left him.”

“Oh, good.” Jimin picks up a slice of peppered salami from the cutting board and passes it into Namjoon’s obediently-open mouth. “Get the elderflower syrup down for me, please? It’s in the top cabinet, I can’t reach it.”

“Sure. My tiny husband,” Namjoon teases in Jimin’s ear, to his halfhearted protests and swats at Namjoon’s hip as he withdraws to retrieve it.

They aren’t married in the eyes of the Korean government, of course, but their commitment to each other is the only one that matters. A few trusted colleagues know, and some likeminded friends like their neighbors, Seokjin and Yoongi, who are basically married themselves. It’s enough, for now.

Namjoon hasn’t gotten quite enough of a read on Kim Taehyung to know for certain where he stands, but in his experience the artistic types aren’t the ones that he needs to be worried about. He doesn’t intend to live like platonic roommates with Jimin while the man is lodging here, anyway. In the unlikely event that it becomes a problem, they can address it then.

“You know, when the university asked if we could host the gallery’s visiting artist for the summer, they didn’t say he would be so…”

“Young?” Namjoon says with a smirk, bottle of syrup in hand. He sets it on the counter next to the trio of cocktail glasses that Jimin has pulled out.

“…Yes. Young.”

Jimin shakes his head, and the shaggy layers that he has dyed blond and let grow out for the summer swish against the back of his neck. He unstops the bottle’s cork with an audible, satisfying pop and drizzles it into the first of the glasses, half-filled with soda water and some type of colorful liqueur.

“Using the butterfly pea flower gin? That’ll be pretty.”

“A pretty drink for a pretty boy,” Jimin says lightly, then tilts his head. “No, a man. Taehyung is what… twenty-seven? The same age as I was, when we met. Hmm.”

 It’s an idle observation, but Namjoon hears the edge of casual interest behind it. Not that his husband would ever act on it, of course – Taehyung is their guest, after all.

“That was a good year,” he says, smile turning wolfish. He catches Jimin’s fingers between his own before he can reach for the syrup again. Leans down, scant inches between their bodies, and loses himself in the plush lips he knows better than any other, after more than a decade of learning them.

A deep throat-clearing echoes across the house, interrupting their amorous embrace before they can get too carried away. As Namjoon pulls away and turns his head, there’s a straight view from the kitchen’s entrance to the great room, where Taehyung jogs down a short set of stairs into the recessed space. He’s in shorts now, displaying miles of tanned skin from the curve of his thighs to his long, elegant feet in the house sandals Jimin set out.

Well, so much for any vague plans to keep the true nature of their relationship even a little bit under wraps… but if Namjoon is being honest with himself, that was a hopeless endeavor from the beginning. He may be entering his forties now, but the fire that Park Jimin stokes within him has yet to go out.

For now, though, they have company to entertain.

“Please, make yourself at home.”

Namjoon indicates the comfortable chairs arranged in a semi-circle and Taehyung settles into one facing the big windows that overlook their property, nodding to himself as if satisfied at what he finds there. Jimin swoops in with a drink and a sparkling smile.

“Let me know if it needs to be adjusted. Hope you like gin.”

“Tastes like Christmas,” Taehyung says.

There’s a funny lilt to his voice, like he’s making a private joke. Jimin giggles obligingly, patting Taehyung on the shoulder like they’re already old friends before he heads back to the kitchen to put the finishing touches on their snack. He always has always found this kind of thing easier than Namjoon, so free with his smiles and touch, yet still making you feel like you have been given something precious.

Namjoon clears his throat as he takes a sip of his own cocktail. He should probably start a conversation, find some common ground. Their shared background in art, maybe. Taehyung’s plans for his exhibition at the university. Or his studio; Namjoon should show him—

“Me too, you know,” Taehyung says.

“Hm?”

“I’m gay, too. Or, well, pan?” He tilts his head quizzically, as if he is truly considering this distinction for the first time. “I like anyone, really. Women, sometimes. Nonbinary and genderless people. Beautiful men. Men with beards and expensive whiskey collections.”

“Oh.”  Namjoon’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, suddenly clumsy. “Uh…”

“I’m just saying,” Taehyung continues, looking down at his drink as he swirls it around. “You don’t have to worry. It doesn’t bother me, if you kiss your…”

“Husband.”

It feels good to say, when Namjoon actually feels safe to say it. Taehyung’s whole face is transformed by a toothy grin, brilliant and sunny.

“Your husband. Wow. That’s so cool.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Jimin says, beaming sweetly. He sets the finished charcuterie board on the low table and Taehyung leans forward, popping a crisp red grape into his mouth.

“Amazing,” he lisps, deep-voiced, around his bite.

It isn’t clear if he still means their relationship status or the spread Jimin has prepared for them, which really is quite impressive to look at. Rolls of delicately sliced prosciutto and other meats are fanned below wedges of cheese, dried fruits and nuts with pinches of sea salt and rosemary, and small pots of jam and honey to drizzle over everything. A sleeve of fancy crackers is set to the side of the board, which Taehyung is not too shy to reach for next.

“Thank you,” he says, polite and formal.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Jimin says – untrue, but equally polite. “Please, help yourself. We’re very casual here, I want you to feel like our home is yours. Call me hyung, okay?”

He flicks his eyes over at Namjoon, who nods in agreement as he leans forward to top his own cracker with pungent bleu cheese and honey. It’s easier if they don’t have to dance around formality, even with the not-insignificant age difference. And anyway, Namjoon likes being a hyung, especially to younger artists.

“Please,” he says.

Ever the gracious host, Jimin asks Taehyung about his family, about how he first became interested in art, about what he is looking forward to seeing and doing on the island this summer. Topics that Namjoon clumsily made an attempt to broach on their drive and received a few sleepy words in response. But the shower must have had restorative powers because Taehyung blossoms now, his enthusiastic energy matching Jimin’s like they are two halves of the same walnut. This might just be Jimin, in general – Namjoon can be a very social person, but he is willing to accept defeat when it comes to his husband’s particular charms.

“Ah, if you like seafood – don’t give me that look, Namjoonie – we will have to go to one of my favorite restaurants in Seogwipo, on the south shore.”

“You don’t like seafood?”

Taehyung’s long-lashed eyes are wide with surprise, the small bunch of grapes in his left hand momentarily forgotten.

“Sure, I do… what, I do!” Namjoon objects, at the wry shake of Jimin’s head. “I just don’t eat crabs. Or octopus. Or other, uh, cute things.”

“Well, you definitely eat some cute things,” Jimin says, hand on his chin, and Namjoon just scoffs, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks.

Taehyung’s warm brown eyes glance between them, glinting with something unnamable. If he catches the double-entendre, he opts to say nothing, eating his grapes one by one and then reaching for another cheese-laden cracker.

“We can definitely go,” Namjoon says, returning to safer ground. “The restaurant has plenty of other things for me to eat besides seafood. And we should also go to that barbecue place, the one that has the black pork…”

Jimin groans at that, his eyes nearly rolling back into his head, and Taehyung laughs softly at his dramatics.

“God, yes, it just melts in your mouth. You’ll see, Taehyung-ah.”

It’s always nice, having guests – it gives them an excuse to indulge a little more than they usually do, to remember all the things that they love about living and working on this island, viewed afresh through a mainlander’s eyes. Taehyung in particular seems eager to soak it all up, bright and curious like Namjoon’s favorite type of student.

“Would you like to see your studio?” Namjoon asks, as Jimin clears away the crumb-strewn remains of their light lunch.

Taehyung perks up even more at that, setting his empty cocktail glass aside to curl elegant fingers atop his bare kneecaps.

“My studio?” he echoes, head tilted to the side.

“It’s nothing too fancy,” Namjoon clarifies, holding his hands up. “Just an old storage shed we cleared some space in while you’re here. And we set up some good fans in there, for the heat.”

Taehyung nods along, seeming no less excited at the prospect. He claps once, and it startles Namjoon a little.

“Let’s go,” he says. “I bet it’s perfect.”

And there is something about Taehyung that makes Namjoon really hope that it is.

Namjoon, if anything, has undersold the studio.

He calls it a shed, but it’s more like a small outbuilding, detached from the house but sharing its antique sensibilities – the moss-covered stone exterior, the rustic tile roof, the dramatic dark-stained doorframe and window casings. It’s like a magical cottage tucked away within a secret garden, complete with a little rounded gate they have to pass through to reach it. Taehyung is in love. He might just never leave.

They stand at the threshold while Namjoon digs around for the key, which Taehyung is only mildly disappointed to find is fairly normal-looking and not a big brass one that would better suit the storybook vibes. He supposes that some nods to modernity must, unfortunately, be made.

This also includes the whirring box fans that Namjoon turns on after they enter, blasting cooler air and stirring up dust motes that sparkle and swirl in the sun that comes in through high, narrow windows. The building does seem to be built more for storage than anything else, evidenced in the stacked boxes and cloth-draped furniture pushed against its furthest wall.

In the space that Namjoon and Jimin have cleared out, a pair of easels and several of Taehyung’s canvases he shipped over have been set up, along with a set of his favorite paints and brushes, arranged all in a row by size and type on a long wooden side table. They’re not precisely in the spot he would have put them, but it’s close enough that it makes him smile, arms crossed and nodding with exaggerated satisfaction.

“We can pick up any other tools and materials you need in town, when we check you in with the program faculty,” Namjoon says. “Tomorrow morning, if that works for you.”

“Mmhm.”

Taehyung steps over to the table, where he picks up a brush and rolls it between his fingers, thumbing at the bristles before he puts it down to inspect another. He can feel Namjoon’s eyes on him the whole time, but it’s not an unpleasant feeling. Unlike some artists, he isn’t really that much of a solitary person; he welcomes being witnessed and observed. It’s part of the creative process, after all – an endless conversation between minds and bodies.

“I love it,” Taehyung says, gesturing at the studio as a whole with the brush in his hand.

At this declaration, Namjoon practically sags with relief, though he covers this up with a jerky nod and a fake cough that quickly turns into a real sneeze, and then another. And another. He covers his mouth and nose, which wrinkles with distaste and mild embarrassment. It’s kind of adorable, actually.

“Oh, oh. The dust. It’s okay for me, but you can go back…?”

“No, I’m okay,” Namjoon insists.

His nose twitches a few more times like it’s threatening to go off, but he manages to tame it, sniffing mightily.

“Better?”

“Hm.”

Namjoon lifts his eyebrows triumphantly and spreads his hands at his sides, as if to say ‘See?’

Then he sneezes again and Taehyung laughs, bright and loud.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” he says, shooing Namjoon toward the studio door, one hand pressed to the middle of his back.

The fabric of his short-sleeved plaid button-down is soft and warm and a little damp with sweat from walking across the property in the sticky summer heat. As they reemerge, blinking against the afternoon sun that filters through the trees that shade the building’s small courtyard, Taehyung resists an impulse to brush away the fringe of salt-and-pepper hair that has fallen into Namjoon’s eyes. His skin is golden in this light, studded with the faintest constellation of moles and freckles. Taehyung is particularly entranced by the one right below his lower lip, which appears when Namjoon’s mouth curves into a soft smile.

“You go on ahead,” he says, distractedly, the sketch already unfolding in his mind. “Come find me when, ah… are we having dinner, later?”

“Oh. Yeah. I think Jimin was going to order something for us.”

Namjoon lifts a hand to scratch at the back of his neck and Taehyung’s mind races, tracing out lines of motion and musculature. He wonders if Namjoon would sit for him. He wonders if they both would.

“Okay,” he says. “Call for me, then.”

Several hours pass by the time Taehyung sets his pencils down, brushing errant eraser debris from the paper with the side of his hand. As if on cue, his stomach gurgles a long complaint. Namjoon hasn’t appeared yet, and it’s not quite dinner time, but Taehyung wonders if he couldn’t rustle up a small snack to tide himself over until then. He had bought some honey butter chips at the airport, and he wonders if there might still be some of those pickled vegetables that Jimin had set out at lunch.

With an anticipatory gulp of hunger, Taehyung exits the studio to meander his way back across the property, whistling with his hands in his pockets. He passes by the east end of the house, surrounded by camellia bushes that must be stunning in the winter, bursting with vivid pink petals that would litter the stone path like confetti. Lifting his eyes, Taehyung notices movement in an upstairs window – two forms visible through gauzy curtains just translucent enough to make out their shapes and shadows. The curtains ripple in the slight breeze coming in from the ocean, a welcome respite from the heat, though they seem to be making their own in its stead. A flash of skin, a line of inky moons from nape to dimples of Apollo. A large hand with slender fingers splayed against them. Lips pressed beneath an ear, against a shoulder, in worshipful supplication. The curtains resettle as the wind dies down, shrouding the pair once more.

Nothing truly risqué is visible, but Taehyung still averts his eyes before he hurries past to the front entrance. Perhaps, as remote and private as the property is, the two men are not used to the possibility of having an audience. Considering their choice of displaying their passion in an open window like a picture frame, though, Taehyung isn’t so sure. But there is one thing he can be certain about – he has never felt more inspired.

Chapter Text

It isn’t that Namjoon is especially a morning person. In fact, he has a tendency to push his work late into the night, hunched over his papers like a gremlin until he feels Jimin’s hand on his shoulder, gently coaxing to join him in their bed. But there is something about a brisk run before the world wakes up, the sky’s blue-grey shadows gradually giving way to the gold-edged pink and orange striations that artists and photographers have tried and mostly failed to fully capture. Being awake to witness the shifting light of daybreak with his own eyes always feels like a holy privilege.

On this morning’s run, a loop of their neighborhood takes him past Seokjin and Yoongi’s place, where the latter salutes with his coffee from their front porch. Namjoon slows to a stop, one hand on a low wooden gatepost as he pants and huffs through an invitation to dinner at the barbecue restaurant this upcoming weekend, before he forgets. Smiling into the rim of his coffee mug, Yoongi graciously accepts the invitation for both himself and his partner. Always curious (and unnervingly up to date) about the latest neighborhood gossip, they look forward to meeting the handsome new artist-in-residence.

This early in the morning, the only ambient sounds on the estate are the amorous warbles of birdsong in the trees and the espresso machine’s burble and hiss as a freshly showered Namjoon makes his way down to the kitchen. He inhales deeply at the threshold, the nutty scent of Guatemalan dark roast reminding him of the anniversary trip that he and Jimin had taken together a few years before.

“Mmm. Remember that villa we rented in Antigua?”

“How could I forget? You almost didn’t let me out of the bed. Our bus tour nearly left without us!”

Namjoon chuckles. “And I don’t regret it. We should plan another trip, soon.”

Jimin hums his agreement as Namjoon reaches around him to get the containers of kimchi and sprouts out of the fridge, giving the plush round of his ass an audible smack as he closes the door. Jimin gasps with faux offense, then lifts on his toes to tug Namjoon in for a kiss, the banchan items still held between them.

“I hear footsteps upstairs,” he says, after they separate. “Sounds like Taehyung is awake. Do you think he will want coffee? I was going to whip up a quick rolled omelet before you both leave for campus.”

“That sounds good… oh! Tae said that he didn’t really like coffee very much, when I picked him up at the airport.” Namjoon sets the banchan on the table and starts to spoon them into small ceramic dishes, chuckling to himself. “Well, I asked if he wanted one and he shook his head and just said ‘too bitter.’ I don’t think he’s much of a morning person.”

“Oh, he’s Tae now, hm?” Jimin teases. He pats Namjoon’s shoulder as he protests haltingly. “I can relate, you know. Not everyone wants to race the sunrise like you do, yeobo.”

“I don’t race the – oh, hello.”

In the archway leading into the kitchen, Taehyung stretches his arms above his head, displaying a generous swath of his tan, flat stomach before his shirt falls back down to cover it. Namjoon covers a hard swallow by bending to straighten cutlery at their place settings.

“Morning.”

It turns out that Namjoon hasn’t misremembered it from yesterday – the seabed-dredged depths of that early morning voice, a baritone rumble of softspoken syllables. When he dares to look over again, Taehyung is blinking slowly, one hand rubbing back and forth across his own forehead.

“Good morning. Did you sleep okay?

“Mm. Yeah. The birds woke me up.” Taehyung punctuates this with a noisy yawn. “It’s so quiet here.”

“Doesn’t it make you feel like a Disney princess?”

Namjoon shoots Jimin a skeptical glance, not sure that most men would find this comparison appropriate, but he apparently underestimates the spooky improvisational connection that his husband already seems to have with Taehyung.

“Yeah! Like they’re going to pick up all my clothes and lay them out on the bed for me, before I have to go and scrub all of these stone tiles with my mice friends.”

Jimin giggles. “But you’ll miss the ball!”

“Ah, my Prince Charming will just have to come and find me then,” Taehyung counters, with that winning rectangular smile that shows all of his teeth.

Jimin just shakes his head with a soft laugh. He slides the first of the omelets onto a plate with a warning of the pan’s heat that Taehyung nods at solemnly, hands below the table curled safely over his knees. Today he is wearing straight-legged dress pants in an olive hue that matches the leafy pattern of his shirt, buttoned nearly all the way to his throat but left untucked. Still summery, but less casual in anticipation of their meeting with the faculty. But it will be warm today, too. Sticky like the orange marmalade that Taehyung spoons onto his slice of toast before he spreads it, thick with the sweet-tart rind of Jeju citrus.

(As for Namjoon, he has tenure now, so he is much less worried about appearances these days. The other academics can deal with some scandalous bare calf, on the rare occasions that he makes the trek onto campus during the summer.)

Summer or not, though, they are still on a schedule. Professor Hwang is expecting them in the art department’s administrative office at nine, and he is the type to get cranky if someone keeps him waiting. Halfway through his omelet, Namjoon tilts his wrist and looks down at his watch-face with an under-breath curse. He can feel Taehyung’s curious gaze on him, still moving fork to mouth but eyes tracking his harried movements around the room.

“He always does this,” Jimin says conspiratorially. “All morning to prepare, but absolute panic and chaos before he’s out the door.”

Namjoon ignores this playful jab – and Taehyung’s rich answering chuckle – as he gathers the papers he needs into a folder on the counter, managing to resist doing something childish like stick his tongue out at his husband. He cranes his neck to look at the mirror on the opposite side of the kitchen, patting at the fly-away strands of his hair with a frown.

“You look handsome, yeobo,” Jimin calls sweetly, and Namjoon pretends he doesn’t hear the deep hum of apparent agreement from their guest. He tugs at the lapels of his button-down shirt, his only concession to Dr. Hwang’s stodgy traditionalism. Its sleeves are still rolled to his elbows, though – he has no desire to stew in his own sweat.

At the door, Jimin stuffs a triangle of buttered toast in Namjoon’s mouth and he grins around it with a muffled thanks, attempting to eat it one-handed as they put their bags in the car. He thinks he is mostly successful but brushes the crumbs off of his shirt anyway, real or imagined. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Taehyung biting his lip in the passenger seat; he must think Namjoon is a bit of a disaster. Ah well, it’s probably for the best that he gets any misplaced idolizing out of the way early, not that Namjoon has detected much awe.

On their drive into the city, Taehyung doesn’t seem quite as reticent to talk as the previous morning, at least, perked up a little by their sweet and savory breakfast. Even so, their conversation is sporadic, mainly absorbed in their own thoughts as the road unfolds beneath them along the island coastline. Namjoon drums his fingers where they loosely grip the steering wheel, finding himself humming a song that he and Jimin had been listening to on the record player upstairs the previous evening.

“I’ll take you to my favorite supply shop after our meeting,” he says, getting a wordless sound of agreement. “How is the space working out for you so far? Not too hot?”

“It’s perfect,” Taehyung says, earnest enough that it sounds like he means it.

“Good!” Namjoon clears his throat. “Good, I’m glad to hear it. How did it go last night?”

“Mm, just started some sketches so far, but… they’re promising.”

Namjoon doesn’t take part in the creation of much art, himself – it’s part of why he teaches about the history of Korean art, rather than being a working artist. Because of this, he can host artists without a conflict of professional interest, as a member of the department but not intertwined with the instructional or promotional aspects of their residence program. A scholarly expert in the arts, but not a mentor for the creative process.

“I look forward to seeing the finished project,” he says, and means it sincerely. From what he has seen of Taehyung’s portfolio, the man is extremely talented. “Ah. Sorry that dinner ended up being kind of late last night, by the way.”

It must be Namjoon’s imagination, but he would swear that he spies a smirk at the corner of Taehyung’s mouth, smoothed out nearly as soon as it appears.

“That’s alright,” he says, one shoulder rising in an easy shrug. “It’s easy to lose track of time.”

And Namjoon supposes that this is very true. Still, he fights back the flush that creeps up his neck, remembering just how distracted that he and Jimin had been with each other as the sun began to sink below the horizon. They need to be better about remembering that this summer, they don’t only have themselves to entertain.

It is already getting warm by the time they reach campus, the air heavy with humidity and the call of cicadas. The meeting with Dr. Hwang goes smoothly, Taehyung folding himself nearly in half as he supports his own elbow to shake the elder professor’s hand, the perfect picture of manners and etiquette. Dr. Hwang seems entirely charmed – and who could blame him? As they stand up to leave his office, he catches Namjoon’s eye and nods minutely, the closest that the elder professor will come to comradery. These days, Namjoon knows better than to take it personally. Maybe he will finally stop being seen as a young upstart after he has been at the university for another twenty years… but probably not. Dr. Hwang may very well die before that happens – it’s just the cycle of these things.

The door opens just as Namjoon is about to reach for it, his fingertips brushing over the knob. In the gap, a familiar face appears: messy strands of dark hair pushed back into a red bandana; wide, curious eyes; a distinctive, bluntly rounded nose.

“Ah, sorry, sorry. I’ll come back later, professor-nim, I didn’t know you had – oh! Hi, Namjoon-ssi.”

“Perfect timing, Jungkook,” Dr. Hwang says from his desk, scarcely looking up from the papers that he had begun to review after wrapping up the meeting. “This is the newest artist-in-residence, Kim Taehyung. I thought you might show him around the artist workspaces, help him get settled in and familiar with our program here.”

Jungkook’s tentative expression melts into a cheerful one that Namjoon is more familiar with – he tries not to play favorites, but the young artist had been a memorable highlight of his introductory art history classes a few years past. Regardless of major or focus, all undergraduate students in the department pass through Namjoon intro courses eventually as part of their pre-requisites – and Jungkook, a preternaturally talented mixed-media artist, had been especially eager and bright.

“He’s here? You’re here!” Jungkook bounces lightly on his toes, seemingly a bit torn between professionalism in front of the somewhat-stern Dr. Hwang and his usual hyperactivity. The latter tends to win out, but – much like with Taehyung – most people are too endeared to ever mind. “Jeon Jungkook, I’m a grad student here. You’ve been staying with Dr. Kim and Dr. Park, right? Ugh, I’m jealous, they’re both so cool. C’mon, everyone is really excited to meet you, let’s go!”

Namjoon laughs softly as he watches Jungkook practically haul Taehyung out the door and down the hall, their enthusiastic voices carrying all the way – he really can see them becoming great friends. Behind him, Dr. Hwang makes a sound that could almost be described as a chuckle, though he knows that the other professor would absolutely deny it.

“What do you think?” 

The boisterous, friendly grad student who gives Taehyung a whirlwind tour of the university’s Art Department is a little out of breath after his enthusiastic explanation of all the different workspaces and supplies that are available to students and program residents alike. Ranging in size from intimate classrooms to cavernous workspaces, they hold everything from pottery wheels and kilns to rows of brand-new computers and 3D printers. In all honesty, after this tour Taehyung is more grateful than ever for the use of the professors’ cottage studio during his residency. The facility is state-of-the-art, with all of the modern technology that a budding young artist could need, but it isn’t very romantic. And romance, he thinks, is essential.

“Impressive,” he says – because it is, regardless.

Jungkook snuffles a giggle at that, like Taehyung just told a really funny joke.

“C’mon,” he says, looping his arm companionably with Taehyung’s, who is more than happy to be swept along. “I’ll show you what I’ve been working on.”

As they pass by the different workspaces, though many are draped with cloth or unoccupied, Taehyung is introduced to the artists at work in the studio that morning. The large room smells like paint and turpentine and papier-mâché, a chemical concoction that is homey and familiar rather than noxious to Taehyung’s senses.

“It’s not done or even, like, good yet,” Jungkook warns, as they weave through a grouping of half-finished, avant-garde sculptures. And if Taehyung knows artists, that caveat means that whatever Jungkook is about to show him will probably blow his mind.

He’s right, of course.

On a canvas that takes up most of the wall in this corner, layers of metallic spray-paint, paper craft and textured brushstrokes create an abstract alien landscape – looking at it, an ache immediately blooms behind Taehyung’s breastbone, overwhelmed with a nostalgic feeling like he has somehow been here before in another life.

“Holy shit,” Taehyung says, and Jungkook lights up with shyly-pleased joy that scrunches his nose and cheeks.

“You really like it? I still need to add more layers. Like, a lot more. But it’s getting somewhere, right?”

“Yes,” Taehyung says firmly. “I love it. Jungkook-ah, it’s amazing.”

“Ahh, I don’t know what to say,” Jungkook says, his shoulders lifting with the praise. There is something in his expression that says he knows exactly how good he is, but it’s pure and open enough to not come off as arrogance. “But I want to see your art now, too! You’ll be doing an exhibition at the end of your residency, right? Oh, I should show you the gallery where we display those pieces.”

Taehyung’s phone is halfway out to show Jungkook some photos of his completed works at home before his excitable tour guide’s train of thought jumped tracks again. He slides it back into his pocket, chuckling to himself as his head tilts with amusement.

“Lead the way.”

Jungkook takes them back through the maze of artist spaces and down a long hall, chattering all the way about the currently-featured artist who had gone through the residence program just before Taehyung.

“Hobi didn’t stay with Professor Kim, though. He rented an apartment on the beach, it’s so awesome. We’re throwing a going-away party for him this weekend, actually. You should come!”

Taehyung immediately waves the offer away, demurring, but Jungkook has this stubborn glimmer in his eye that says he won’t be denied.

“I’m serious! He won’t mind – Hobi-hyung’s super friendly, and probably curious about you, too.”

By the time they reach the heavy double-doors that open into the gallery space, Jungkook has texted Taehyung the info and extracted a promise from him to at least swing by the party. But Taehyung’s incredulous laughter dies as he takes in the riot of color in his field of vision. Paintings of every size, some stretching almost to the top of the long gallery’s ceiling, dripping with splashes of neon color, graffiti-style lettering, stars and hearts and flowers. One particularly arresting piece juxtaposes a grinning, sinister-looking jester with electric blue paint splatters and golden highlights. In the center of the room, against a free-standing half wall, a flock of colorful birds fly out of an open box, so numerous that their wings captured in dynamic motion fill almost every inch of the white canvas.

Taehyung steps closer, leaning in to read the card in the bottom corner of the work.

“Pandora’s Flock,” he reads, and it feels like a murmuration of starlings have taken flight within his own chest.

“That one is my favorite,” Jungkook says eagerly, taking it in next to Taehyung. “Well, I think it’s probably everyone’s – that’s why it’s the featured piece, I guess.”

He giggles, and Taehyung is transfixed. He already feels an intense kinship to this artist that he has never met, and suddenly the beach party is that much more compelling, if it means an opportunity to draw the man into conversation. About myth, about art, about shapes and color and the stories about humanity that you can tell through them.

“I thought you might like that one.”

With a small, pleased smile, Taehyung doesn’t turn. He just crosses his arms and lets the new speaker with the voice that could melt butter come to him – to step into line in front of these brilliant birds, his spotless Oxfords gleaming against the tile floor.

“Quite the act to follow,” says Taehyung, extracting one hand to tap against his lips. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks that Namjoon is tracking the motion. He lets the pad of his finger rest there and leans forward as if to get a better look, deep in contemplation.

“I’m sure you’re up to the task. Wouldn’t have been our top applicant if you weren’t.”

“Oh, I’m ready. Inspired, actually.”

Something crackles in the air, like the riotous art around them is serving as a conduit. On Taehyung’s opposite side, Jungkook laughs again, this time more nervously.

“Well, I guess that’s the end of my tour! See you at Hobi’s, Taehyung? Professor, you and Jimin-ssi got your invite too, right?”

“Yes, we got our cards last week! Did Hoseok really make them all himself? They were… wow.”

“Pretty macabre and awesome, right? I helped with the lettering, but the skull design was all Hobi!”

Jungkook scrunches his nose in another adorable grin, hands slung in the pockets of his coveralls. He sketches a loose two-fingered salute as he leaves them alone in the gallery, otherwise empty on a summer weekday morning.

“I like him,” Taehyung says cheerfully, crossing his arms.

“Me too,” says Namjoon.

The professor smiles fondly in the direction of the door that Jungkook disappeared through, proud and almost paternal. Ah, Taehyung thinks – so it’s like that between them, then.

Surrounded by the neon-rainbow explosion of color and energy that is Jung Hoseok’s work, Taehyung looks right at home. Still, Namjoon can’t help but wonder how different his own art showcase may be.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he begins haltingly, gaining Taehyung’s full attention. “The program always asks their applicants to pitch an overall theme of their project for the residency period. Hoseok’s, as you might have guessed, was a fusion of modern street art and the myth of Pandora’s Box...”

Taehyung nods, as if he has been expecting this question.

“And you want to know what mine was, right?”

“If you don’t mind.”

Although Namjoon is not directly affiliated with the program – or maybe because of that – Taehyung doesn’t seem to mind sharing the tentative details of his artistic vision.

“Come with me,” he says, beckoning to Namjoon over his shoulder as he heads for the far entrance that he and Jungkook had entered through.

It only takes two instances of poking his head into the wrong room, fortunately neither with a class in session, for Taehyung to find the digital art lab with all the computers that Jungkook had shown him on their tour earlier. He finds log-in information next to the keyboard and types his temporary university credentials into the appropriate fields.

“How much do you know about the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur?” Taehyung asks, pulling up a browser window to fill one of the screens.

Namjoon makes a half-choked sound that has Taehyung looking over his shoulder in mild concern.

“Sorry, um.” He clears his throat. “I know a lot, actually. I wrote my doctoral thesis on the usage and significance of labyrinth iconography in art across world cultures.”

“No way,” Taehyung says, spinning in his chair to look at him. “Really?”

It’s a coincidence, for sure, but maybe not such a large one, if Namjoon thinks about it. They would have been combing through the always-strong field of residency applications for one that was an especially good fit with their program, and it’s no secret that the art faculty at the university – Namjoon included, from an art history perspective – have strong connections to and biases toward mythical and literary art connections.

“Yeah. It’s been a long time, though. Could use a refresher.”

Not so very long, a pernicious voice inside Namjoon’s head pipes up to protest. Only a decade or so ago, a blink of an eye in the grand scheme of life. He remembers his late twenties like it was yesterday. It feels odd when he remembers that it really wasn’t, though the tight muscles of his neck and shoulders in the morning are quick to remind him.

The first image that appears on the monitor is a familiar one to him. In a dark, bronze sculpture, a nude, athletic male figure grapples with an equally muscular, bull-headed beast-man, the point of a long dagger held to its throat. The minotaur’s thigh wraps high around one of the man’s legs, its foot hooked around the back of his knee. Its arms brace against Theseus’s shoulders, half denial and half a mockery of embrace.

“It’s quite homoerotic, isn’t it,” Namjoon finds himself saying, his too-quick tongue running away with him as always.

“Very,” Taehyung readily agrees. “And here, there’s also this one…”

A different image is pulled up on a secondary monitor, this time of a Neoclassical marble statue depicting the aftermath of the pair’s earlier struggle. The minotaur now lies slain, back arching unnaturally with Theseus astride its unclothed groin, wearing only a small drape of stone cloth to protect both of their modesties.

Yes, Namjoon is beginning to remember what so compelled him about this mythos in his youth – besides his own existential musings about mazes and mortality. Though he had focused more on the latter aspect of labyrinthine iconography, he does wonder if his own homoromantic proclivities may have been more apparent within his thesis than he had believed at the time. Or perhaps it was only there to see for those already in the know.

“So you’re doing a sculpture series?”

Namjoon leans in for a closer look at the text on one of the monitors and is nearly hit by bouncing curls as Taehyung shakes his head.

“Not enough time for that,” he says. “Painting and sketches are my preferred mediums, anyway.”

Namjoon hums, feeling a little silly for the question, considering all of the easels and brushes they have already set up in the studio. Still, he hadn’t wanted to assume – some artists, like Jungkook, dabble in a wide range of art styles and media, after all.

“I see. Do you usually draw from reference, or memory?”

Honestly, Namjoon can’t imagine trying to capture this kind of anatomical detail without at least some type of reference image.

“Hmm, a little of both, I guess. I prefer drawing from life when I can, but that’s not always possible. And the body positions in the series I’m envisioning are… pretty bendy.”

Looking at these existing pieces and Taehyung’s wry smile, Namjoon can imagine.

“Jungkook says there are models here at the university that I could hire,” Taehyung continues, tapping a finger against his lips. “But I’ll have to see if my stipend would cover it. And then figure out when I can get back down here… I guess the scheduling is more limited for the summer sessions.”

It feels almost more like he is talking to himself than Namjoon at this point, hashing out the logistics as he goes.

“Oh, my hus–” Namjoon darts a quick look at the classroom door, left slightly ajar. “Dr. Park used to do that sometimes. For extra cash, to help him get through grad school.”

Namjoon flushes a little as he says this, but they’re in the art department – there is nothing particularly salacious about being a life model, something that Jimin himself would sternly remind Namjoon with a mischievous twinkle in his eye when they were getting to know each other. In that case, though, he was trying to get Namjoon to imagine him naked, and it had absolutely worked – much to Namjoon’s late-night, horny shame, and Jimin’s delight, once confessed.

This is probably not the best time to be thinking about all of that, though, as pleasant as the memories may be. Namjoon clears his throat.

“He’d probably sit for you, if you asked,” he forges on, unable to stop the boulder of his thoughts once they start rolling. “For free, I mean. Or I can ask him, if you would feel more comfortable with that – but honestly, flattery will get you everywhere with Jimin.”

Taehyung crosses his arms and leans back in the office chair. There is something almost smug in his expression, playing at the corner of his lips.

“Is that so,” he says. The tip of his tongue wets his bottom lip, and he looks up at Namjoon from under those absurdly long lashes. “And what about you?”

Namjoon swallows, torn between an impulse to look back at Taehyung just as boldly, and one to firmly put more distance between them.

“Me?” he asks, low and soft. “Well, I guess it works on me just as well as any–“

“No,” Taehyung cuts in, laced with laughter that holds no malice. “Would you sit for me, too?”

“Would I–” Namjoon balks, caught off-guard.

“I need two models,” Taehyung explains. “You’d be perfect. I thought that Jimin might be my muse, but really it’s both of you. You’re exactly right for this project.”

Namjoon wants to protest – he’s too large and clumsy, not graceful like Jimin, with his background in modern dance and martial arts, skills that he has continued to hone in his free time to this day. But Taehyung is looking at him like he is the solution to all of his problems, and how could Namjoon possibly say no? This is a way that he could help, a little voice tells him (his ego, maybe).

“Um, sure,” he says, breaking eye contact to look at the minotaur sculptures again. “Wait, but I wouldn’t need to be, uh…”

“No, no,” Taehyung says with a dismissive hand-flap. “You can wear whatever you’re comfortable with. The poses are the most important part.”

“That’s good,” Namjoon says, relieved. “Because I definitely don’t have the abs of a Greek god. Jimin is the one that has more of that Hellenic ideal going on, he’s kind of wiry and compact, you know…”

He’s not sure why he is still rambling about this, couldn’t stop if he tried, but Taehyung just smiles and nods, seeming to agree. They have skipped right over the whole ‘Jimin is my muse’ thing – he and Taehyung met for the first time yesterday – but Namjoon supposes the stranger thing is that this doesn’t really surprise him at all.

Park Jimin has that effect on people.

Poetry happens to Jimin in the calm and the chaos. Sometimes the words arrive in moments like this one, when his hands are plunged to the wrists in a tub of cool, crisp Napa cabbage, coating each leaf in vibrant chili paste. The vessel is as timeworn as the tradition it honors, scuffed with use and permanently tinted with a faded red that no amount of scrubbing or soaking can remove, Jimin’s movements practiced to the point of being almost meditative. Stir. Fold. Flick the wrist like so. A culinary dance, its steps passed down through generations.

Jimin doesn’t miss the big city, not really. Sometimes he does miss the convenience, the sheer wealth of things to see and do on any given night. An urban landscape has its own beauty, a study in contrasts, a beating heart of vitality and eternal youth. Jimin has always found inspiration in learning a new city’s pulse, with all of its unique flavors and people and secret corners. Lately, he can feel that need to wander starting to return, like an itch beneath his skin – Namjoon may be right that it is time for them to book another trip soon. He often seems to sense it in Jimin before he even knows himself.

He needs more material for his next poetry collection, after all – to sweat under the lights of a tiny dance club and lose himself to the electric rhythm, surrounded by people whose language he scarcely speaks. And who needs words in a place like that, anyway? With Namjoon’s big hands on his hips, swaying him to the beat, his lips at Jimin’s neck, all eyes on them both. Wanting, and being wanted. Perhaps there is a poem here, too. Jimin makes a mental note.

Stir. Fold. Flick.

It’s the hottest part of the afternoon when the muffled click-thud of the front door carries into the kitchen along with the buzzing of cicadas, the song of summer itself. A bead of sweat rolls down Jimin’s temple to his cheek, dabbed away with the underside of his wrist, just above the edge of his red-stained glove. Hearing footsteps, he expects Namjoon to find him here, and is just as delighted to see Taehyung, instead.

“You’re on the floor,” he says, hands slung in pockets. Taehyung really is so much leg, limbs tanned nut-brown and lanky, but he holds himself with an enviable ease that Jimin isn’t sure he or Namjoon have ever quite managed.

“Yes,” he says simply. “Here, I could use your help.”

Jimin has no qualms about pressing their guest into service, especially when Taehyung has such an earnest, eager way about him – a good boy, the kind that any mother would love. Jimin’s own mother, he is quite sure, would adore him. He starts to show Taehyung the steps and finds that he is a quick study, already seeming to know how this process goes.

“My halmeoni taught me,” he says with a shrug, but his smile tells a story of both deep affection and sorrow.

“I never really knew mine,” Jimin admits. “She passed when I was young. But I asked my eomma to show me how, before we moved to the island, since I knew it would be that much harder to get fresh kimchi from the source.”

He laughs at the memory.

“She didn’t want to teach me at first, you know. You’ll visit your poor, lonely mother less often, she said.”

“Oh. Is your father…?”

“Oh no, he is alive and well. My younger brother, too. She’s just dramatic – that’s where I get it from.”

Jimin winks and Taehyung beams back at him, delighted.

They settle into an easy rhythm from there, dividing and folding the bundles of cabbage and carefully packing them into containers. Jimin asks about their trip to the university, humming and interjecting at the appropriate places – it comes as no surprise to him that Taehyung is completely enamored with Jung Hoseok’s showcase, and with Jungkook’s always-infectious enthusiasm. Jimin had also meant to tell Taehyung about the party, but is glad that he received an invitation directly from the source.

“I’m going to miss Hobi,” he says, unable to repress a wistful sigh. “Such a light. I hope he comes back to visit the island soon!”

He has a feeling that something – or someone – will make sure of that, though.

After they got home, Taehyung says that Namjoon immediately disappeared into his office to catch up on some work he had been unable to complete on campus. This was fine though, as he had needed to set up the supplies they picked up at the store in town.

“Oh, Namjoon loves that place. Did you get everything that you needed?”

Taehyung nods, a little absently, a half-folded strip of cabbage held between his glove-clad hands.

“All except one thing. But it wasn’t for sale.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Taehyung says. “I need a model to be my Theseus – someone who is small and flexible, who is comfortable being looked at as a sketch reference and knows how to hold a pose for long periods. Hyung, do you know anyone like that?”

Jimin almost laughs at the wide-eyed guilelessness of Taehyung’s expression, somehow so calculated in its insistence of his own innocence. This little shit. Jimin feels warmed to his toes.

“I might,” he says coyly.

“Someone with good muscles, but not too much,” Taehyung continues, as if Jimin needs more buttering up. “I think Namjoon called it ‘the Hellenic ideal’…”

“Aish, alright, I was already going to say yes,” Jimin says, smiling as his cheeks heat pleasantly.

It certainly sounds like Namjoon, talking Jimin up at any opportunity. It’s also very flattering. He starts to fan himself but forgets the red chili mixture clinging to his gloves, some of it spattering across his cheek as Taehyung laughs brightly. Before Jimin can rise to find a clean hand-towel, Taehyung leans in to swipe it off of his cheek with his thumb, his eyes glinting caramel-brown in the light that streams through the window. As they sit cross-legged together like this on the sun-warmed tile floor, sharing traditions, there is a part of Jimin that yearns toward Taehyung – that wants to do something reckless like lean in and kiss him, propriety and age difference be damned. He mentally shakes himself, but feels the weight of Taehyung’s knowing smile.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he says, and Jimin finds that he is, too.

When Namjoon finally turns off the lamp in his office and heads upstairs, he is pleasantly surprised to find that his husband is still awake, propped up in bed reading. His glasses are thick-framed and adorable – Namjoon leans in to kiss his nose, unable to help himself. Jimin always brings it out in him, too damn cute to resist.

“Not tired yet, yeobo?”

“Mm.” Jimin takes his glasses off to rub at one of his eyes. “Getting there, but this book is really good.”

“I’ll have to read it next, then.”

After Namjoon goes through his usual night-time routine, he slides in next to Jimin between the sheets, keeping the bedside lamp on for now.

“Did you have a good day with Tae?” Jimin teases through half-closed eyes, curled up on his side.

“I did,” Namjoon says. “Did you? I could hear you guys a little, from my office. Seemed like you were having fun.”

“Yes, he helped me make a new batch of kimchi. I also learned that someone volunteered my modeling skills–”

“I didn’t!” Namjoon protests, but Jimin just laughs, lifting one of his hands to kiss it.

“I’m kidding, I know you only suggested it. He was very sweet about asking.”

He pauses there, playing with Namjoon’s fingers.

“About Taehyung…” he begins. “I have a suspicion about something, but I’m not sure if I’m just imagining things.”

“Hmm. You usually have good instincts,” Namjoon says. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about something like that, too. How about we both say it on three?”

“Okay. One…”

“Two…”

“I think Taehyung is trying to seduce me,” they say in unison, on three.

“Wait,” Jimin says, covering his mouth. “You too? But he…”

When they exchange their stories of flirtatious overtures and suggestive glances, it stitches together a picture that is difficult to deny. Jimin is clearly flattered, but Namjoon feels more conflicted about it.

“He hasn’t made any actual moves,” Jimin points out. “And he knows that we’re together. I think Tae is feeling things out – possibly even picking up on our own vibes, you know? I’m sure he would drop it if we were unreceptive.”

“But we’re his hosts. The university…?”

“…would have every right to be concerned if we were the ones coming on to him.” Jimin shrugs. “It isn’t like he is one of our students, anyway.”

“I suppose not. But it’s definitely a grey area.”

“Mmm. And I like your grey areas.”

Jimin draws his fingers through a streak of silver at Namjoon’s temple and drops a kiss there. The path of his hand toys with the short hair at the back of his neck, lingering at his throat before Jimin’s clever fingers tease at the first button of his sleep shirt.

“You don’t usually wear this kind of thing to bed in the summer,” he says, almost a purr next to Namjoon’s ear.

“Just thinking of our guest. If I need to get up for a glass of water in the night…”

“Somehow, I don’t think he would mind the view, my love.”

“But isn’t that too shameless – ah!”

Doing his best to look stern in the face of mischievous bedroom eyes, Namjoon hisses when Jimin pinches one of his nipples with devious precision, shirt now successfully unbuttoned and hanging open. It’s a quick path from there to hushed laughter, to necks arching under applied heat and suction, to wrists pinned to the mattress. This is a dance they know well, covered only by the lightest sheet and the moonlight.

“It really comes down to one question for us,” Jimin says, lying in Namjoon’s arms after, his naked body soft and warm where it presses against him.

“Mm? And what’s that.”

“If Taehyung wants to seduce us, should we let him?”

Chapter Text

If days could be colors, Taehyung’s summertime in Jeju would be orange like sweet sherbet; like hazy sunsets over the ocean; like the fresh-squeezed tangerine juice that Jimin passes to him in a tall glass, sweating with condensation. It has become typical for the trio to enjoy a simple dinner al fresco after they have completed their respective academic and creative endeavors. On this particular afternoon, Taehyung sprawls beneath a shade tree’s leafy branches, glancing up from his charcoal sketch-book from time to time as he gently blows away his latest drawing’s dust. The professors still sit at the table outside, picking at dinner’s last morsels and enjoying each other’s company as immensely as they always seem to, feet hooked around ankles, heads bowed together in intimate conversation.

When he looks up this last time, Taehyung catches Namjoon’s eye and he smiles back, dimpled and indulgent, before leaning to whisper something in his husband’s ear. Jimin presses short, splayed fingers to his own lips and laughingly hushes him, louder than he probably needs to. There is no one else here but Taehyung and the birds.

“Taehyung-ah,” Jimin calls, a dove’s soft warble. “Are you ready for dessert? You can help me assemble it – it’s easy.”

And so is Taehyung, who sets down his charcoal and stretches his limbs to lope after him, a flash of stomach before his shirt falls that he notices Namjoon’s eyes track and stick to like honey on a spoon. It’s not even close to the first time, and Taehyung counts in his head how many seconds that his gaze lingers, getting longer by the day. Tick, tack, tock.

Through the kitchen door, he finds Jimin pulling heaped baskets of strawberries out from the refrigerator, along with a covered bowl of whipped-up cream.

“We just need to top and chop these,” Jimin says. He laughs at himself, high and breathy like he can’t believe the words that came out of his own mouth. “Well.”

“I think I can handle that,” Taehyung replies smoothly. He doesn’t push the innuendo but still catches Jimin’s blush, the way he pats at overheated cheeks as he returns to the fridge after handing off the basket of fruit.

At the counter, Taehyung gets into a rhythm of cutting the berries – a clean slice just below their leafy tops before setting them point-up on the cutting board, cut in half and then half again. The sticky red juices spread in a watery circle on the wood, staining Taehyung’s fingers when he moves the sliced berries to an empty ceramic bowl. He can see Jimin flitting about the kitchen in his peripheral vision, unwrapping the whipped cream bowl’s cling film and opening drawers.

The silence between them is comfortable, broken only by the music filtering from the phone that Jimin has set on its side at the other end of the counter. Much of it is from before their times, Korean pop ballads and smooth R&B with release dates they were barely alive for – in Taehyung’s case, sometimes not at all. Even so, they both know the songs word-for-word, softly crooning along even with the ones in languages that they are not as fluent in. As he centers a slice of spongy yellow cake in three shallow bowls, Jimin’s hips swish from side to side like he can’t help the movement, and Taehyung imagines asking him to dance, turning him on a hand in a lazy pirouette before pulling him close as they sway to a jazzy beat.

“Ready for the berries now, I think,” Jimin says, and the reverie fades like shredding clouds.

They swap places, bright red fruit topped with cream in assembly. These are carried outside to the table where Namjoon leans back in his chair, ankle crossing a knee and one hand toying with the peppered strands of his hair. He looks up on their approach and sets his book facedown on the table – contrary to Taehyung’s earliest assumptions, the professor’s owned volumes are stacked in teetering piles throughout their home, dogeared and scrawled in, well-loved around the edges.

Namjoon visibly brightens as he spots their dessert, his sweet tooth far from a well-kept secret. But perhaps this indulgence also includes the ones carrying the bowls to the table, his gaze flitting from one and then to the other with undisguised delight.

“I didn’t know you sang,” he says, sounding impressed in a way that makes Taehyung want to preen.

“A little,” he says. One shoulder lifts along with the corner of his mouth as he sets a bowl in front of Namjoon, who nods his thanks.

“Well, you sounded good together.”

“Thank you.”

Softly, pleased, a fork spearing a berry in his own dessert.

“I thought so, too,” says Jimin, with a creasing eye-smile.

This is the moment to ask, Taehyung thinks, everything sugar-sweet and golden.

“Hyung,” he says, and two pairs of eyes look up. There is a fleck of cream at the corner of Namjoon’s lips, parted just enough that they still cling a little. “I’ve finished my sketches for the first painting. Let me know, please, when you’re available to pose – ah, if you still want to.”

The professors exchange a glance, seeking each other unconsciously in that way Taehyung can’t help but envy.

“We should be available tomorrow,” Namjoon answers for them both, to Jimin’s bobbing nod. “Later in the morning should work. I have a remote meeting and a little research to do that should wrap up by then. Bab– Jimin-ah?”

“Hmm, yes. That should be fine. Oh, yeobo, you have some–”

Taehyung ducks his head to hide the widening edges of his smile but still doesn’t miss the way that Jimin reaches out to thumb away the cream from his husband’s mouth, tsking with exaggerated scold. So quick to slip into comfortable intimacy, as soon as they have felt they safely could. It’s why Taehyung thinks – knows – that this will work.

“Perfect,” he says, mind already whirring with possibilities. “I’ll make sure that everything is ready for you.”

It’s a common misconception that people who work at the university have nothing to do in the summer. In some ways, the more predictable pace of the academic year – teaching courses, holding office hours, grading the students’ exams and essays – keeps the days moving forward at a steady clip, from the lingering heat of late August through winter’s chill and the green of spring’s renewal. Namjoon’s official schedule may be lighter in these intervening months, but there is still plenty of work to be done, and usually of the more strategy-intensive variety that makes the working days linger and lengthen like shadows.

Namjoon is deep in the planning of next year’s syllabi, gathering his resources and deciding on which themes and artists to focus this year’s upper-level classes. He likes to keep it fresh as much as he can, his relative seniority among the department staff giving him leeway in the subject matter that he didn’t have when first starting out over a decade ago. There will be some overlap and reuse of curriculum, of course – he has to give himself some breathing room, and the department the necessary continuity in its course offerings – but it is still rewarding to be creative, to make it his own.

Some days are harder than others, though. When Namjoon is feeling indecisive about which direction to go in, whether to rehash or innovate, and where he should focus his research for the upcoming school year. And on those days, he paces.

This can’t be done effectively in his office, though he has certainly tried. The ideas can’t spark and breathe there, needing fresher air to cultivate, a change of scenery. A walk outside can be nice for this, and Namjoon certainly has had his fair share of epiphanies on his morning runs and strolls around their property. But when the sun has already risen high, a hazy burning sphere that he has to squint and shade his eyes against, it bakes and wilts an already overheated mind.

That is why, on this particular morning, Namjoon stalks the length of the entryway, its rounded flagstones cool on his bare feet. Back and forth, one wrist pressed to the small of his back, frowning at the disappointingly meager notes that he has thus-far developed for this course. It’s this distracted focus that has Namjoon rounding the corner too fast, only to collide with an equally started Taehyung.

“Oh, shit.”

The sheaf of papers that had been in Namjoon’s hand flutters to the floor, knocked out of his grip by an unintentional shoulder check that sends them both reeling backward. As they both recover their balance, stammering apologies, the errant thought flashes through Namjoon’s mind that Taehyung is more solid than he looks. Taehyung’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and he looks down at Namjoon’s hand where it encircles his arm just below the shirtsleeve, an automatic move to steady them both. Namjoon relaxes his fingers and lets them fall, but the warmth of skin against his palm remains.

“My fault,” he says, clearing his throat with a good-natured chuckle. “I should have been watching where I was going.”

“S’okay,” Taehyung says with a shrug, as smoothly easygoing as ever. “Oh! Your papers.”

He drops to his knees on the tile with an alarming quickness, an unintended suggestion to this action that sends the blood rushing south before Namjoon can get ahold of himself. He crouches to help collect the loose notebook paper that their collision had sent flying in every direction.

“Thanks,” he says, adding what Taehyung has managed to gather to his own stack. Thankfully, much like Namjoon’s own thoughts, the pages were not in any kind of real order.

As he stands, Namjoon holds a hand out, palm up, without really thinking twice about it. It’s not like a healthy man in his twenties is likely to need help off of his knees, but it just seems like the polite thing to do. Even so, Taehyung does take it, gallantly folding long fingers around Namjoon’s to steady himself in his push off of the tiles. His skin is cool and uncalloused, grip somehow delicate yet strong.

“It’s almost lunch time,” says Taehyung, once he stands in front of him, and Namjoon can only blink at the swerve in topics.

“Ah, are you hungry? I think we were going to…” He trails off, eyes rolled up to think, and then curses with a twisting grimace. “The studio. Shit. Taehyung, I am so sorry. I lost track of time and–”

“No, no. It’s okay.” Taehyung waves the apology away, smiling indulgently. “Jimin-hyung and I got started without you. He said you might end up running a little late, but eventually sent me to fetch you.”

Namjoon isn’t sure what it says about him that his mind hears Taehyung’s words and immediately takes it to erotic places. While he is certain that is not what Taehyung means – this would be a wild escalation, and far beyond what he and his husband have thus far discussed – something of this guilty, fleeting perversion must show on Namjoon’s face. Taehyung peers up at him from under those eyelashes, a look somehow both coquettish and devastatingly boyish, biting at his lower lip against his own amusement. Ah, so he does know just how that sounded: getting started.

“Right. Just let me put these, uh… I’ll be right there.”

Hustling to his office with his papers, it has to be Namjoon’s imagination that Taehyung says something like ‘make sure that you do’ in a deep, lilting voice as he walks away. Namjoon can’t be that easy to read, so transparent that he is the type to indulge a playful sassing by his twenty-seven-year-old houseguest. (He would, he thinks, allow much more than that.)

To Namjoon’s great surprise, Taehyung is still waiting for him when he emerges from the house a few minutes later. It is possible that Jimin gave him strict (playful) orders not to return to the studio without Namjoon – that does sound like something his husband would do. Looking up, he notes with a grimace how high the sun has risen, almost directly overhead. He really did lose track of time.

“Sorry,” Namjoon says again, but Taehyung’s only reply is an easy shrug.

“Ah,” he says after a moment, hands folded at the small of his back as they stroll across the sunny courtyard. “I couldn’t help but notice, in your notes…”

“You could read those?” Namjoon marvels, through faint embarrassment. Hell, after he picks them up from a break, he often can hardly decipher his own hasty chicken-scratch.

“Sort of,” Taehyung admits sheepishly, rubbing at his nose. “Enough of it. Oh. Was it private?”

“Oh, no. Not at all. Just some half-formed thoughts. What did you notice?”

“Well… I saw the word Seoul. You traced over and underlined it, but then you crossed it out? It seemed like maybe there was a thought there.”

“I never know how to talk about that city,” Namjoon murmurs. “It’s not very romantic, is it? Everything is always moving so fast there.”

“No, I don’t agree,” Taehyung says, so firmly that Namjoon looks over in surprise. “It’s just a different kind of romance. I like it here on the island a lot, but I already yearn for the city sometimes. Like a lover. Do you know what I mean?”

And the hell of it is, Namjoon really does. Is there something there worth exploring for the next year’s courses? In the rapid post-war urban development and its effect on the Romantic nature of artistic expression? The type of art that naturally springs up from that, and the movements to counter it? The shift in mediums and technology? Namjoon gets out his phone and makes a few quick bullet-point notes to develop later, his mind racing ahead, excited now.

“Taehyung, you’re a genius. I could kiss you.”

The younger man’s laugh seems to hold more surprised delight than any type of offense, which Namjoon is grateful for but doesn’t quite know what to do with.

“Sorry, oh my god, that’s so inappropriate. I just meant…”

Taehyung waves away his stammered apology.

“No, no. Not at all. You know, I’ve always thought it was a shame that we couldn’t be more like the French in that way.”

“You wish that we… kissed like the French?”

Namjoon is almost certain that his own lurid thoughts are going in the wrong direction, especially based on the knowing glint in Taehyung’s eye.

“Yeah, like… may I?”

Whatever Taehyung is asking, Namjoon thinks that he should really say no. Instead, he drops his chin to nod once, slowly, still as an oak tree as Taehyung steps forward into his space.

It’s over in a flash, but feels like slow motion: Taehyung’s handsome face getting closer and closer, sliding past his own for a whisper of cheek-to-cheek contact and a kiss to the air beside it, first on one side and then the other. Taehyung retreats with a smile, hands in pockets. They are just outside the cottage gate now, but Namjoon can’t quite remember the steps it took to get them there.

“Oh,” he says.

“It’s nice, right? Friendly.”

Right. Friendly. That is the word that Namjoon would use. (He can still feel the phantom prickle of Taehyung’s faint stubble at the blade of his jaw.)

As they approach the studio Namjoon is still in a bit of a daze, which may explain why he lifts his hand to knock on the door despite knowing damn well that it is already unlocked, and that their presence is expected.

“Come in,” Jimin calls from within, a little muffled and very amused.

In their absence, it seems that he has been running through some ballet warm-up exercises. Standing in the middle of the swept-clean cement floor, heels together and toes out, Jimin dips into a deep grand plié until his feet start to lift from the ground, one arm outstretched to the side to flutter like a graceful bird’s wing. He rises to his starting position and steps smoothly into the next, feet finding their places as easy as breathing.

Taehyung can’t seem to tear his eyes away, tongue darting out to wet his lips, and Namjoon honestly does not blame him. Though he was not sure what level of (un)dress he would find his husband in – Namjoon has only ruled out ‘fully naked’ for at least this first session,  but even that had not been a certainty, particularly with the spooky instant connection these two seem to have going on – he is unsurprised to find Jimin in something casual and easy to move in, not dissimilar to his typical dance practice attire. The loose T-shirt dips below the divot of his collarbones and threatens to slip off of one shoulder as he moves, those tiny black shorts that always drive Namjoon a little crazy riding up and clinging to Jimin’s muscular thighs. He has a hard time looking away, himself – and Jimin’s expression says that he is all too aware of that fact.

When Namjoon finds his voice and starts to apologize for joining them so late, though, Jimin just shakes his head.

“It’s okay,” he says. “The timing worked out pretty well, actually. Tae had me pose for a solo painting he has planned, based on the beginning of Theseus’ journey.”

Always the bolder flirt between the two of them, Jimin winks in Taehyung’s direction and Namjoon can’t help but wonder if the tension had felt as thick in the room then as it does now. If they had traded thinly-veiled innuendos, or kept things light and professional in the nascent fragility of the morning.

As Taehyung strides in a diagonal path across the room to where his easels and supplies are set up, Namjoon takes note of how much more lived-in the space looks already – a little messy in a good way, the kind that shows that good, creative work has been happening here. All of the charcoal and eraser dust, pencil shavings and cups of paint-colored water, scattered around the studio haphazardly. It brings Namjoon a sense of pride to see it, because even if the art itself has nothing to do with him, he has facilitated the conditions for its creation. This, he thinks, is why he does this. Why he opens his home, so that some part of this process can touch him. (Of course, he is about to be more involved in it than he had ever anticipated…)

Taehyung takes his time selecting his pencils, brushes and other supplies, seeming to forget his models for the moment as he sets these up to his liking. When Namjoon clears his throat – that damn dust, again – his eyes snap up.

“I have an idea of what I’d like to do for this first couple painting,” he says slowly, and Namjoon quirks a brow. Are Taehyung’s version of Theseus and the Minotaur a couple? “But it might be too much for our first session. We could start with something more basic, do some establishing sketches…”

Namjoon catches Jimin’s eye. He knows his husband well enough to know that he is game for just about anything. They have already discussed their personal limitations (very few) and their limitations as a couple (fewer still). It seems unlikely that Taehyung will ask for anything that they are unwilling or unable to give.

“What’s your idea?” he asks.

Instead of answering Namjoon’s question with words, Taehyung only grins, bouncing up out of his seat to retrieve a bag from beneath a nearby table. He roots around in it, pulling out the item that he was looking for with a booming, triumphant “aha!” As he brings it over, looped and coiled around his hands, it seems that Taehyung has managed to surprise Namjoon after all.

“Isn’t that…”

“Ariadne’s thread,” Taehyung intones, and okay, no, that is not what Namjoon had been thinking at all.

“It’s a shibari rope,” Jimin adds, never one to beat around the bush.

“Yes! You know it?”

Technically, they both do. Several years ago now, Namjoon and Jimin had taken a couples rope bondage class together, and it had been… revealing, to say the least. It isn’t something that they do especially often these days, but it is certainly within their repertoire.

“We do,” Namjoon says simply, which seems to be enough to satisfy Taehyung.

Is he really about to tie them up? That would be quite a rapid escalation, after all – then again, they are both still clothed, and there is a tenuous yet plausible connection between the red rope and the mythos of Taehyung’s project. He indicates that Jimin should hold out his hand, then deftly ties one end of the thin, silky rope around his wrist with a gentle yet secure double loop.

“Knots are labyrinthine in their own right, don’t you think?” Taehyung asks as he works. “To untangle them, you have to follow their journey to the point of origin, in and out and doubling back. Pulling on each thread until they straighten out again, unraveling the maze inside of them.”

It isn’t necessarily a new concept for Namjoon, of course – intricate knots appear in the patterns of different cultures’ art even more often than mazes do – but he is nonetheless impressed by the connection. A living labyrinth, binding Theseus to his beastly lover. This seems to be the vision, at least, and Namjoon finds that he is emphatically on board.

“Here,” Taehyung says, surprising Namjoon once again by transferring the rest of the looped red rope into his hands. “Rig this up how you like; wherever makes sense to you. You’re a monster, so it doesn’t need to be perfect. Better if it’s not, actually.”

“I’m a monster?” Namjoon repeats, bemused. He isn’t sure that he trusts the way that Jimin’s eyes are glowing.

They really have only ever done this the other way around, is the thing. Jimin’s small hands and meticulous nature makes him the better rigger, while Namjoon has always been a bit clumsy, not knowing his own strength. Besides, he has found that he enjoys the floaty submission of it all, and Jimin always says that he thinks the rope looks pretty against Namjoon’s skin.

But Taehyung had said “not perfect.” The stakes could not be lower, and Jimin is so patient and lovely, his smile splitting the difference between hunger and encouragement. Namjoon takes the rope that runs from Jimin’s wrist and wraps it in a loose spiral up his arm, binding the voluminous short sleeves. Behind him, he can hear Taehyung returning to his seat to sharpen a pencil, that familiar sharp wood-scrape academics and creatives alike know so well. There is already a hint of the voyeuristic here that Namjoon does his best not to think too hard about – his own perverted mind at work, surely, because he knows that there is nothing inherently lewd about posing for this type of art. His already-interested dick can just calm itself down.

It doesn’t help, of course, having this proximity to his husband, who watches Namjoon work steadily in obedient stillness. When he coils the rope around the cap of Jimin’s shoulder, his shirt tugs down below it like it has been threatening to all morning, a tempting slope of golden skin that Namjoon loves to kiss.

Not now, he thinks.

He runs the rope along the back of Jimin’s neck, crossing to mirror his tie around the opposite shoulder. So far it is nothing that approaches the art that he has seen his husband and others accomplish, but Namjoon knows some things, making a loose approximation of artful knots across Jimin’s chest and looping the rope around his upper thighs. It isn’t an especially lengthy rope, so he ends it there, a long piece dangling. Rough, but pretty. It couldn’t ever be anything less than that, with this canvas.

Namjoon could hear the rapid scritches of pencil on paper throughout, signs of Taehyung’s equally-rough sketching. The sound stops when Namjoon’s hands do.

“All done?”

Taehyung’s voice is just behind him, much closer than expected. Namjoon steps out of the way to let him inspect his work. (This, too, is quite erotic, his brain so helpfully supplies.)

“Okay, good,” Taehyung decides, circling Jimin to peer at him from all sides as he visibly preens, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Actually, hm. Here, may I…?”

His hand hovers near the loose end of the rope, where it rests against the outer curve of Jimin’s upper leg.

“Go ahead,” Jimin says, and Namjoon nods vaguely, watching with placid curiosity as Taehyung undoes his last couple of loops to make his own tidier knots, his touch never lingering even as he works busily in a half-crouch between Jimin’s legs. The suggestion of it all makes Namjoon feel a little dizzy. When Taehyung withdraws, the end of the rope now nestles securely tucked into a knot at the groove of Jimin’s hipbone.

“Very pretty,” Namjoon murmurs approvingly.

“Yes,” Taehyung agrees, rather than taking any credit. Somehow, this feels appropriate. He looks back with a smile at Namjoon, who returns it easily, then walks to his chair to take up his sketchbook again.

“Um,” Namjoon says, scratching at the back of his neck. “What should I be doing? Would you like me to be posing a certain way?”

“No, not really,” Taehyung replies, eyes flicking up to the tableau before him and then back down, pencil twirling over his knuckles. “You can just stand there and look at Jimin for now.”

And that, Namjoon thinks, will be no hardship at all.

After they leave Taehyung to clean up his sketches, Jimin goes upstairs to change into regular clothes, Namjoon hot on his heels all the way up the spiraling staircase. He is on him almost before they can even get inside their bedroom, pulling him down onto the bed as Jimin giggles with surprised delight.

“What has you so riled up, yeobo?”

“You know what,” Namjoon murmurs against his lips, hands squeezing at Jimin’s waist under the loose tent of his shirt.

And alright, maybe Jimin does. Maybe, if he is being honest with himself, half the reason that he agreed to this whole thing is because he knows how much it gets Namjoon going when other men’s eyes are on him, knowing that he is the one who Jimin will ultimately go home with, the one whose ring is on his finger. (The other half, of course, is because Jimin so enjoys being looked at, too.)

“So pretty, tied up like that,” Namjoon says, breath hot on Jimin’s neck, kissing and biting at it like he is determined to leave a mark.

Jimin gently redirects him lower, mindful of their dinner plans with Seokjin and Yoongi later tonight – not that their amorous tendencies would come as any kind of surprise to the other couple, but Jimin would still prefer to stick to other topics of conversation, particularly in front of their houseguest.

“Thank you,” he says sweetly.

In all honesty, being tied up does not do quite as much for Jimin, but it felt new and exciting in front of Taehyung. And it certainly seems to have had a positive effect on his husband…

“Couldn’t see what he was doing,” Namjoon continues, stopping along his determined southward journey to lave and scrape his teeth across one of Jimin’s nipples. “Was he touching you, when he was making those knots at your thighs?”

“A bit,” Jimin says, breathy, moaning softly with one hand in Namjoon’s hair. “Just glancing touches with the side of his hand, not anywhere truly scandalous, but… close, oh…”

In truth, the ticklish heat of Taehyung’s big hands, brushing against the skin of Jimin’s inner thighs where his shorts had ridden up, had him holding his breath as the young artist made the rope’s final tie-off. Now, Namjoon’s lovely fingers follow the same path, pushing the thin cotton up to bunch around Jimin’s groin, pulling the fabric taut around the package of his balls and swiftly stiffening cock.

"When he was tying that last knot, Tae laid his pinky finger just here,” Jimin says, reaching down to trace the crease of his thigh where it meets his pelvis. “Had he twitched his fingertip even a centimeter…mmm.”

Namjoon groans, mouthing damply over the fabric where Jimin is stiffening up, thick and warm. His hand curves below to cup his balls, measuring their soft heft, then sliding back to brush and tease just behind them.

“Was imagining what else he might like to do, on his knees in front of you like that,” he murmurs, lips pressed along Jimin’s length.

Namjoon tugs at Jimin’s waistband until he huffs with amusement, lifting his hips so that the shorts can be wriggled down past his knees. And although he is expecting it, Jimin still gasps when Namjoon takes his rosy tip into his mouth, tongue swirling as he works more of his cock past his lips on each bob, his hand twisting and gliding along the shaft.

“You’d like to imagine that, hm?” Jimin coos, breathy with pleasure. “He’d be very good for me, I think.”

With his mouth so full, Namjoon can only groan his agreement. It is becoming increasingly clear to Jimin that this is more than a hypothetical fantasy for them, despite his husband’s initial conflicted reluctance – because quite often, the fantasy is where it ends. They are very choosy with actual invitations into their bed, because they can afford to be, wanting for nothing with each other. Anything else is the proverbial cherry on top – and Taehyung seems like an especially delicious one, daring them to take a bite.

The atmosphere of the barbeque restaurant is always a feast for the senses: the sounds of sizzling meat and low conversation; the scent of smoke and savory char; the warmth of the tabletop grills in such a small space, cozy even in the summer heat. The restaurant has an ocean view that few appreciate while they huddle around their tables, shoveling in as much of the delicious food as their bellies will allow and then some, toasting with beer and soju as tongues loosen and pants unbutton discreetly. It is convenient to be steps away from the beach, however, to be able to walk off the meat and grease after, cooled by the ocean breeze.

As the three men duck inside the jangling door, the oppressive sun finally sinking below the horizon behind them, the owner of the restaurant approaches, a generous woman that no one would mistake as demure. Namjoon likes her that way, though – she reminds him of his own elder auntie, who would always scold him about school and being too skinny and then slip him some money and a candy when she thought that his mother wasn’t looking.

“Namjoon-ssi,” she says, crisp and a little stern. “Park Jimin-ssi. You haven’t come to visit this old woman in so long!”

Namjoon isn’t sure why Jimin gets the full government name treatment, and Jimin must not either, because he straightens up and bites at his lip, looking appropriately chastened but amused.

“My apologies, ajumeoni,” he says, bowing quickly. “We have been quite busy, I’m afraid, but we will make sure to do better.”

She clicks her tongue, skeptical, but her eyes brighten as they pass over Taehyung, lingering in the entrance just behind them, hands in his pockets as he darts curious eyes all over the walls decorated with papers and photographs of customers and family alike, many of them faded with age and curling at the edges.

“And who is this handsome young friend? A cousin from the city?”

“No,” Namjoon says, quick and emphatic enough that he hears Jimin snort softly beside him. “Taehyung is a visiting artist with the university. He’s staying with us for part of the summer.”

The woman hums, absorbing this, and seems delighted when Taehyung steps up and offers his hand, clasping it warmly between her own.

“Ah, welcome, welcome. I’ll bring you some black pork, it’s our specialty here. Have you had it?”

“No, ma’am,” Taehyung says, ocean-deep and resonant.

“My goodness. Hasn’t had Jeju black pork! Well, we will be fixing that tonight. Right this way – your friends are already here, at the big table in the back. Reserved it well ahead of time, you know? That Yoongi-ssi…”

The woman shakes her head as if she is incredulous that someone would make reservations at this hole-in-the-wall barbeque restaurant, but it is laced with a heavy touch of fondness. Namjoon doesn’t blame her; it’s impossible not to be charmed by Yoongi’s sneaky-soft, endearing nature, once you are allowed in past his serious, sometimes prickly exterior. They are led to the back area of the restaurant, where it is blessedly quieter and a little cooler, their neighbors standing to sketch a quick bow to the owner before she leaves them to their greetings.

“You made a reservation?” Jimin immediately teases Yoongi, even as he pulls him in for an affectionate hug.

“There are five of us this time,” Yoongi says in a pout. “It’s an odd number for a normal table.”

“One isn’t that many more, we could have fit…”

Namjoon shakes his head fondly – those two are always the same.

“Kim Seokjin,” Yoongi’s too-handsome partner is saying to Taehyung, who looks appropriately awed. “A pleasure.”

“How is everyone I meet on this island gorgeous?” he murmurs under his breath, making Namjoon flush and Seokjin laugh with rich delight.

“You know, I do seem to often find myself surrounded by beautiful people. No one who approaches my own, of course,” Seokjin says with a wink. “Though you come close, my friend, so you should watch your back!”

To Namjoon’s relief, Taehyung takes this joking threat in stride despite the way that Seokjin says it with deadly seriousness, barking a laugh as they clasp hands. Yoongi introduces himself next, rolling his eyes at his partner with a twitch to his mouth.

“You can call us both hyung,” he says, gravel-voiced. “That’s what you’re calling Namjoon and Jimin, yeah?”

It seems that the couple have already put in their first order of meat – a tray arrives with an assortment of banchan shortly after they wrap up their introductions and get settled around the table. Taehyung distributes metal chopsticks and sauce trays before pouring water for everyone, taking up his role as the group’s youngest cheerfully. Namjoon flashes a dimpled smile when it’s his turn that gets returned shyly, Taehyung cursing as some water spills from the overfull pitcher onto the table.

“It’s alright,” Namjoon assures him, as Taehyung grabs a wad of napkins from the roll at the end of the table to soak it up. “I would have done the same. Worse, if I’m being honest.”

“It’s true,” Jimin chimes in, playful, nudging Taehyung’s shoulder with his own as he sits back down. “He spilled an entire beer once, trying to serve the head of his department at the university. It’s a good thing he’s so cute.”

“It was like half a glass at most, c’mon.”

But Namjoon accepts the kiss to his cheek from Jimin gracefully, smiling even as he shakes his head.

Across the table, the other couple observes this exchange silently, but Namjoon doesn’t quite trust the way that Yoongi is looking at him over a sip from his water glass, his eyebrows climbing. He doesn’t say anything, of course, instead taking up his own usual role of transferring meat to the grill with metal tongs and watching with patient intensity until it’s time to flip it over. The usual light conversation ensues in the meantime, catching up on the latest university gossip along with rumors from the entertainment industry that Seokjin still has some ties to.

The story of how Yoongi and Seokjin met on a movie set is happily recounted for Taehyung’s benefit – Yoongi as a production assistant, Seokjin as a young actor who had enjoyed pestering Yoongi between takes with terrible dad jokes that he absolutely did not find charming. With a few of his films enjoying moderate success but a growing dislike of the industry, Seokjin retired to Jeju to teach acting workshops in the city, dragging an equally burnt-out and jaded Yoongi along with him.

“So romantic,” Taehyung marvels, stars in his eyes as he leans forward on an elbow.

“I guess it’s pretty alright,” Yoongi agrees, nose scrunching but eyes betraying his delight as Seokjin swoops in for a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Between the five of them, the first tray of meat disappears in short order. When the server reappears, Seokjin’s eyes light up as he adds prawns and calamari to their next round, making Taehyung’s lips pull down into a frown.

“Namjoon-hyung doesn’t eat seafood,” he protests like he is personally offended on his behalf, and Namjoon is touched that he remembers.

“Thanks, Tae,” he says, with a friendly squeeze to his arm. “I can eat the galbi and pork belly, though. We’ll cook it on the other side of the grill.”

Taehyung seems satisfied by this – they smile at each other until Seokjin clears his throat, and Namjoon realizes that his hand still gently encircles Taehyung’s bicep. It’s firmer than he expected; Taehyung might be flexing, actually. He lets his hand drop, trying not to laugh.

While they wait for their meat to arrive, Taehyung excuses himself to the restroom.

“So,” says Seokjin, shaking out a napkin. “You’re sleeping with him. Congrats.”

“What? No, we’re not,” Namjoon hisses, eyes darting in the direction that Jimin pointed Taehyung in not half a minute before. His husband rolls his eyes fondly, as if to say ‘do you see what I have to deal with?’

“I hear a ‘yet’ there,” says Yoongi, and Namjoon knows just how damning the beat of silence that follows this accusation is, judging by Seokjin’s knowing smile.

“Namjoon-ah, that kid has a fully developed prefrontal cortex and he looks at you both like he wants to eat you. I think you’re fine.”

“It doesn’t help if you call him a kid, you know…”

“Adult man, then. Who is not your student or your employee.” Seokjin sighs, turning to Jimin. “I knew we shouldn’t have let him watch Call Me by Your Name.”

Namjoon scoffs, but can admit that Seokjin has a point. It’s not too far from his own justifications, lately.

“We’re his hosts,” he finally says, a weak protest, and Jimin pats his thigh in consolation.

“And it seems like you guys have made him feel very welcome,” Yoongi offers cheekily. Namjoon groans, head in hands, defeated.

“Tch, now look what you’ve done, hyung. You’ve sent him into a full horny-guilt spiral.”

“What? How is that my fault?”

“Stop bickering, both of you. He’s coming back.”

Everyone plasters on their best everything-is-normal smiles, which Taehyung returns with a slightly baffled head tilt, still drying his hands. The arrival of more meat to grill is a welcome distraction, Taehyung declaring the Jeju black pork belly as one of the best things that he has ever tasted. Later in the evening, Namjoon watches him run along the ocean’s shoreline with Jimin, the sand kicked up beneath their feet in the deep blue shadows of twilight, and the word ‘yet’ echoes in his mind.

Chapter Text

One thing that Taehyung is not sure he will ever get used to about his stay with the professors is the quiet. It’s a far cry from the cacophonous cityscape of home, with all of its blaring alarms and shouting passers-by, the constant, dizzy whir of passing cars. A strange lullaby that he hardly notices anymore, with an equally strange dead space in its absence. At least in the mornings here on the island, he has the birds.

It's after midnight now, dark with velvet shadow. Taehyung yawns and stretches luxuriously with his arms above his head while he is still lying down, mindful of the low ceilings in this curiously angled room. He had fallen asleep in the car on the way home from the barbecue restaurant, lulled by the sounds of the sea and the gently curving coastal roads. The unfortunate side effect of napping is that now Taehyung is wide awake, so he contemplates whether it might be better to just get up and do something until he starts to get drowsy again. He could turn on the lamp and get a jumpstart on tomorrow’s sketches, or read an art-book borrowed from Dr. Kim’s extensive collection. Or he could just allow himself to be mindlessly mesmerized by his phone’s rectangular glow.

After a little while of this, curled on his side, Taehyung hears footsteps on the floorboards in the hall, creaking with painstaking slowness like the other person is trying their best to be stealthy. The corner of his mouth quirks as he listens to them fade into the distance, making their way down the stairs. Well, Taehyung is feeling a little thirsty. Maybe a glass of milk or water is just the ticket to soothe him into dreamland. He swings his legs down from the bed and brings the empty glass on the nightstand downstairs, clutching it between his hands.

As Taehyung turns the corner into the kitchen, the first thing that his eyes are drawn to is Namjoon’s backside sticking out of the refrigerator, the glossy fabric of navy-blue basketball shorts stretching across his ass. Other than the open fridge and any moonlight that can filter in through the window’s gauzy curtains, a soft light above the stove provides the room’s only illumination.

Taehyung bites his lip, but enough air must still escape through his nose to alert the professor of his presence. He straightens up and whirls around, and Taehyung can’t help but laugh brightly at his guilty, wide-eyed expression – frozen in place holding a spoon, Namjoon looks just like a kid caught with his hand in a cookie jar, the spoon’s inverted bowl tugging down on his full lower lip. On a fridge shelf behind him, Taehyung can see the ceramic bowl of whipped cream, its cling film half-unwrapped.

(Namjoon is also, Taehyung notes with no small amount of interest, quite shirtless. He drags his eyes back up to the man’s face, but takes quick stock along the way of his solid-looking torso; the generous slope of his pecs; his puffy brown nipples. Gratifyingly, he can feel Namjoon’s eyes on him in kind.)

“Ah, you caught me.” Namjoon chuckles as he finishes his spoonful of cream. “Jimin always teases me about my sweet tooth, you know. Says I would happily eat a spoonful of straight sugar on its own. I can’t even argue with him, because I absolutely would do that. Have done that.”

Taehyung nods with a vague hum of understanding and sets his empty glass down on the counter – it was only an excuse at this point anyway, as this late night interlude has just become much more interesting. Namjoon follows his gaze to the open bowl in question.

“Do you want some?” he asks, pointing back at it over his shoulder.

“Sure.” Namjoon begins to turn back to the fridge before he pauses mid-way, looking down at the spoon in his hand, and Taehyung intuits the reason for his hesitation. “Mm, it’s okay. No need to dirty another one.”

He is grateful that Namjoon doesn’t hesitate or ask if he is sure about it – just scoops a generous spoonful of cream out of the bowl, holding the spoon out without another word. For a moment, Taehyung considers finding out what would happen if he just leans in and takes a bite, but he thinks that may still be too strong of a play. Instead, he wraps his fingers lightly around Namjoon’s at the top of the spoon’s handle, giving him a chance to pull his own hand away for Taehyung’s to replace it. That would be the normal thing to do, after all.

Namjoon’s fingers remain curled around the handle even as Taehyung’s hand engulfs his own, warm and solid. When he tugs at them together to take his bite, Namjoon goes easily. He watches as Taehyung wraps his lips around the spoon, their eye contact incendiary. It’s over in a matter of moments, but feels as if it drags on for ages. Taehyung releases Namjoon’s hand and steps back, tongue flicking out to lick cream off of his upper lip.

“Worth an after-midnight snack, for sure,” he says, winking as he watches Namjoon’s throat bob on a hard swallow.

“Right. Oh, sorry about that, by the way. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

He crosses to the sink to rinse off the spoon, and Taehyung takes the opportunity to appreciate the view of his back and shoulder muscles, all of that tanned skin.

“Not at all,” he says. “I couldn’t sleep, either. Napped too much earlier.”

“Yeah, you were really knocked out.” Namjoon looks back at Taehyung over his shoulder with a grin as he dries his hands. “If I wasn’t driving, I think I would have done the same.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

This cheeky response gets a towel snapped at him that Taehyung dodges, giggling.

“It was good, though,” he says. “The restaurant. Your neighbor hyungs seem really nice. I’m definitely going to have to check out Seokjin’s films when I get home.”

“Oh, we actually own some of them, if you want to watch while you’re here. We could make a movie night of it?”

“Sounds fun,” Taehyung agrees.

Sounds cozy, he doesn’t add. Taehyung wonders if he can get away with holding Jimin’s hand atop a blanket, or pillowing his head on Namjoon’s sturdy thigh when he starts to get sleepy. He will just have to feel things out, see how it goes.

“You all seem really close,” he says instead. “It’s lucky.”

Namjoon nods, but there is something in his expression that feels guarded, a far-off stare like he is deciding what to say about something.

“We are,” he says slowly. “Uh. We used to date, actually…”

“Oh?” Taehyung tilts his head, then decides that this makes sense. It explains the unusual energy that he was getting from the couples, and some of the teasing comments made throughout the night that hinted at a deeper, more complicated history. “Ahh, okay. Like, all four of you together?”

Namjoon shakes his head. He seems to have relaxed some, seeing Taehyung react so casually to this revelation. (As if, by this point, the open nature of his marriage could somehow be a secret.)

“No, each of us was only dating one person in the other couple. I think that a, uh… quadrouple? Would get a little too complicated, honestly.”

“Mm, makes sense. I did get that vibe between you and Yoongi-hyung, now that I think about it.”

Namjoon looks startled, his mouth dropping open a little.

“What? I wasn’t dating Yoongi. I was with Seokjin-hyung. Jimin dated Yoongi.”

Fascinating. Taehyung is beginning to see why that whole arrangement might have fallen apart. He crosses his arms, hip cocked against the kitchen table.

“But they were bickering the whole night at the restaurant,” he says.

“I know, exactly. Now imagine that, except they were also…” Namjoon makes a gesture that he aborts halfway through, embarrassed. “Sorry, I’m being crude.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m no innocent lamb, hyung. I can handle it.”

“I suppose not,” Namjoon murmurs, scrubbing a hand over his chin. “Still, if I’m ever making you uncomfortable…”

“I’ll let you know,” Taehyung says with a grin, trying to set him at ease. “So, that ended…”

“Several years ago, yeah. We stayed friends, fortunately.”

Taehyung wonders if that means they are strictly platonic now. It’s impossible not to imagine such beautiful people intertwined in passion. Like art in motion.

“It’s…” There’s that hesitation again, a thoughtful clench to Namjoon’s jaw. “It’s not something that Jimin and I do often. It has to be the right person, you know? Someone special.”

“Special,” Taehyung echoes. “I see.”

As an experiment, he unfolds his arms, bracing them against the back of the pushed-in chair behind him in a way that he knows highlights the veins and flexed curves of muscles there. Shirtless as he is, it has the added benefit of also showing off his pecs. Namjoon tracks this movement, drinking it in with barely-disguised hunger, but doesn’t touch. Taehyung had known that he wouldn’t, though. Not yet.

Because they both know what the other is doing, but there are steps to this dance. Preludes and overtures. A curtsy, a bow, before they are spinning away. Taehyung pours himself a glass of water, and Namjoon’s eyes never leave him for a moment.

“My studio, same time tomorrow?”

“Oh, uh. I’ll have to check with Jimin, but I think so...”

“Okay.” Taehyung takes a sip of water and salutes him with the glass held aloft. “Goodnight, Namjoon-hyung.”

“Goodnight, Tae.”

Jimin’s eyelids are still a little stuck together with sleep when he wakes enough to process that Namjoon has come back to bed. By the time that he realizes what he is looking at, however, he is suddenly very alert.

Sheets peeled back on his side of the bed, Namjoon has his shorts pushed down enough to free his cock, already thickened up and straining. Jimin props himself up on his elbow and licks his lips, settling in for the show. He watches with half-lidded eyes as Namjoon pumps his cock with a lubed-up hand – long, pulling strokes that end with a twist at its leaking crown.

“Fuck,” he grunts, long and low, and Jimin realizes that he is close already. “The way he was looking at me. I could have… I wanted to…”

Ah. A late-night encounter with their handsome houseguest, then. Jimin feels the fires of arousal beginning in his own belly, a hooking tug that has him kicking his own underwear down to the foot of the bed.

“What did you want to do, yeobo?” Jimin palms his own cock, leaning over for the lube they keep in easy reach. He won’t be able to catch up with Namjoon, but that’s alright.

“Wanted to get on my knees. Get my mouth on that big… unh…”

Namjoon’s hand is speeding up with tighter jerks, less controlled; it won’t be long now.

“Could see the shape of it, in his shorts. Wanna gag on it, Jimin-ah. Do you think he’d… ha.”

“Mm, yeah. I think he would let you. Think he’d like it, baby.”

Jimin smiles, even though Namjoon can barely see it in the dim light, his eyes nearly closed, head tipping back against the pillow. His thigh is twitching, lifting off the bed a little as he gets close. A few more pulls and he is coming with a whimpered groan in streaks and spatters across his belly. While he is shivering through the aftershocks, Jimin straddles Namjoon’s thighs. He leans in for a lazy kiss that tastes like the sweet cream he had already known that his husband would be sneaking.

“I want him,” Namjoon says, soft and slurred against his lips. “I think he’s worth it. For both of us.”

As if Jimin had ever needed to be convinced. There is nothing more delicious than this feeling of inevitability: of wanting and being wanted, of knowing that something will happen, but not precisely when or how. He strokes his cock with increasing urgency, hot with the knowledge that he will likely get to see in living color this lovely picture that Namjoon has painted in both of their minds – his husband on his knees looking up at an enraptured Taehyung, bare and beautiful, his pretty mouth being used so well.

Jimin’s breath catches, his slick grip tight as Namjoon’s hands roam over his skin, sliding along his hip and back, gripping the meat of his ass. His gaze is worshipful, as it always is. As it should be. And if Jimin is possibly a little too loud as he cries out his own climax, adding to the cooling mess on Namjoon’s stomach? Well, perhaps he hopes that Taehyung is also still awake, making lurid tapestries of his own imagination.

The escalation is easy, once it has begun. After all, if Taehyung has already seen Namjoon shirtless, then why should he be shy or precious about posing for him without one? Jimin, of course, needs no prompting in stripping to his shorts – would likely go even further, if the scene called for it. For him, this is nothing new.

For this latest session Taehyung has brought out long strips of white fabric, just opaque enough for decency. It’s unclear if this is something brought in his luggage in hopeful anticipation of a willing model or if it has been borrowed from Jimin’s deep and mysterious stores of dance performance costume, and Namjoon is a little afraid to ask. Either way, it is a calculation.

This time Taehyung takes over the strategic draping from the start, his handsome face still and serious. A wide swath in a diagonal across Jimin’s chest, one shoulder left enticingly bare. Neat tucks around his waist, highlighting the way that it cinches in, the fabric ends trailing over his bare thighs. A gold-leaf bangle, this piece most certainly from Jimin’s collection, encircles his upper arm. Namjoon thinks that on him this would probably seem like a clumsily executed bedsheet costume, but Jimin just looks like an elfin god.

“Are you sure you can’t see my shorts through this?” Jimin asks, tipping chin up as Taehyung double-checks the precise folds in his makeshift tunic.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Taehyung says mildly. “They’re fine.”

As if to provide proof of this, he tugs at the fabric that skims Jimin’s upper thighs for good measure. Even with the way that the backs of his fingers must be brushing up against Jimin’s skin, Taehyung has thus far remained almost infuriatingly professional in this session. Namjoon is a bit ashamed of himself, honestly; he isn’t exactly sure what he had expected to happen.

“Ah,” says Jimin, at this assessment. “Okay.” He almost sounds a little disappointed, too.

Once Taehyung is satisfied he starts to return to his sketching chair, but he only makes it about halfway across the room – Namjoon finds himself clearing his throat, before he really knows what he plans to say.

“Should I… don’t I need to be dressed differently too?”

Namjoon sweeps a hand to indicate the dusty-blue cargo shorts he is currently wearing, cool for the summer heat but certainly not period-appropriate. Taehyung waves that concern away dismissively.

“Don’t worry, I can sketch around it.”

And Namjoon is certain that he could – but he also knows that imagination can only take you so far when it comes to things like anatomy and musculature. He tells himself that this is the only reason he speaks up again.

“Do you have any more of that fabric?”

Two heads whip around to look at him, almost disconcerting in the way that their dark, glittering expressions mirror each other. Jimin has been teasing Namjoon that he would make a perfect life model since before they had even officially started dating, and while his own confidence in his body has waxed and waned, he knows that Jimin has harbored a secret wish for his husband to join him in this liberating celebration of the human form. It has just been the demons in his own mind that Namjoon has thus-far been unable to escape. 

Taehyung’s expression, though - it makes Namjoon remember Seokjin’s assertion that the younger man would like to devour him whole. It was not, perhaps, in those exact words, but feels nonetheless accurate.

“I do,” Taehyung says slowly, that fire alight in his eyes that Namjoon has been looking for. He flicks them down to Namjoon’s shorts, an obvious question there that he seems reluctant to voice.

“Well,” Namjoon says with a smile. “We can’t let my husband have all of the fun.”

Feigning confident nonchalance, he unbuttons and zips down his shorts while Taehyung retrieves the extra cloth. As Jimin’s mouth hangs open, watching him undress with unambiguously shocked delight, Namjoon jerks his chin up with a cheeky ‘what are you looking at’ smile that makes Jimin shake his head.

“We can wrap this loosely, like the loin cloth in those Neoclassical sculptures,” Taehyung says when he returns, a wide length of white fabric draped and folded over his forearms. Namjoon tries to hide his own smug pleasure at the way Taehyung’s eyes catch and hold for a brief moment over the prominent bulge of Namjoon’s soft dick, snugly cradled by his boxer-briefs. It isn’t open lust – Taehyung remains professional as he brings the cloth over to briskly wrap and tuck it around Namjoon’s waist, never making contact anywhere that wouldn’t be touched in a typical massage. But he still has taken notice, and Namjoon enjoys his crumbs from the way that the soft pink tip of Taehyung’s tongue keeps flitting out over his lips, the careful downcast of his long lashes.

Taehyung rises to assess his own handiwork, circling Namjoon to look at his costume from every angle as he does his best to stay perfectly still and look straight ahead, arms held at his sides. He jolts when Taehyung steps forward to move one out of the way, a loose grasp around Namjoon’s wrist that tingles when he releases it. Taehyung tilts his head like a puppy, then reaches out again to tug the bottom edge of the cloth down a few more millimeters, covering the sliver of Namjoon’s underwear still showing as he shivers at the ticklish, fleeting touch of Taehyung’s knuckles against his inner thighs. This done, he steps back again with a sharp nod.

“Good,” he says, deep and serious, and then to Jimin: “Make sure that he relaxes into the poses, hyung. I think he’s nervous.”

Namjoon’s lips part as if to protest, but no words come out. He can feel the undeniable stiffness in his limbs in the face of this unfamiliar situation, the room’s brittle tension that he itches to snap between his fingers like a dry twig. He hears Jimin’s murmured assurances, that lilting purr in his voice that no one is ever able to resist for long – his husband knows his power, and the weight of responsibility that it holds. If he is playing his best aces now, showing his hand, it is only a matter of time before this delicately constructed house crumbles.

“Ah,” says Taehyung, tapping the eraser-end of a pencil against his lips. “An idea. We can make a scene from Theseus and the Minotaur’s early courtship.”

Again, Namjoon does not remember this part from his academic research into the tale, but who is he to stifle the young artist’s creativity? There is always something compelling, after all, about doomed rivals, the translation of beastly animus into forbidden desire. The ideas really aren’t so far apart.

“Hyung,” Taehyung says, and two people turn, but he indicates with a gesture that he means Namjoon in this case. “If we could have you on one knee in front of Jimin, tilting your head to look up at him…”

It should alarm Namjoon, maybe, at how quickly he drops – the bare concrete is definitely not forgiving on his knee, but he can handle it. The angled stretch of the opposite bent knee pushes the loin cloth further up that thigh, and he fusses with it until he decides to just scrunch the leg of his boxer-briefs up toward the crease of his pelvis, hiding it from sight.

Standing above him, Jimin is a breathtaking sight, the ends of his golden hair curling where they kiss his bare shoulder, the tunic highlighting an angelic frame of lithe, compact muscle, all worthy of Namjoon’s worship. Worthy of Taehyung’s, whose dark eyes drink him in as he directs their actions.

“Now reach out your hand, Jimin-hyung, keeping it light and airy like ballet – just above the top of his head, where his horns would be. Theseus wants to touch, but isn’t sure if he should.”

“You would have horns,” Jimin teases, making Namjoon snort. He’s not ashamed of his high libido, and if it would scare Taehyung away, he should know about it now.

The man has returned to his chair and sketchbook, glancing between the paper and models as his pencil scratches out the first broad strokes of their poses.

“Good, good,” he mumbles, and anything else that Taehyung says for the next few minutes is too quiet to make out, incomprehensible. Namjoon’s knee is beginning to ache.

“We’ll have you on both knees now,” says Taehyung, and that at least redistributes the pressure. But Jimin, ever the observant one, purses his lips as he watches Namjoon hide a wince.

“Do you need a pillow, yeobo,” he asks, and Namjoon starts to shake his head, but Jimin marches over to the sheet-covered couch that has been pushed back into a corner and brings back one of its small decorative cushions. At least it had been shielded from the dust.

“You can draw this out of the sketch, yes?” Jimin says, but he’s not really asking. Below the thick layers of cloth, Namjoon’s dick twitches – it always turns him on when his husband gets a little bossy.

“Of course,” says Taehyung. “Sorry.”

His mouth pulls down into an apologetic moue, but Namjoon just shakes his head. It isn’t Taehyung’s fault that he didn’t think about a middle-aged runner’s aching knees. He arranges himself atop the pillow, shifting to get comfortable. Much better.

“If you could bow your head now, tilting it toward Jimin – yes, just like that. Hyung, keep reaching out but hold your hand like…”

Taehyung curls the fingers of his free hand, tucking them in with his thumb as if they are wrapped around an invisible object. Roughly horn-sized, Namjoon imagines. It definitely looks like something else, though. With his head bowed down like this, he can’t see what Jimin is doing, but he can imagine it by the way that the muscles in his stomach jump with stifled laughter.

“Are the Minotaur’s horns sensitive?” Jimin asks, and Taehyung pauses in his sketching to consider this with a hum.

“I think so,” he finally says. “Yes. Keep caressing them, just like that. All the way to the tip – it’s a little sharp, but it doesn’t hurt him.”

The pair seem to be enjoying this imaginative roleplay, erotic with the barest edge of plausible deniability. Jimin, after all, isn’t actually touching anything.

“He’s getting overwhelmed now. He has to brace himself, wrapping a hand around Theseus’ upper thigh…”

Namjoon reaches out to place a hand just above Jimin’s knee, but looks over in question at Taehyung when he makes a soft, frustrated sound.

“Not quite… here. Can I show you?”

He gets up, sketchbook still in hand, crossing to his models. Namjoon lets Taehyung move his hand as he likes, sliding it to settle at the soft, curving back of Jimin’s muscular thigh, just below the tunic’s hem. Namjoon grips it there, holding on tight as if in ecstasy. This, at least, is familiar.

It’s with a pang of almost-disappointment that Taehyung’s touch retreats, swiftly returning to his sketchbook once more. He has Namjoon tip his head up to look at Jimin next, and he wonders how many of these poses will make it into the final art piece, and how much of this is discovery of what will work best. It is amazing how quickly his self-consciousness fades. Perhaps Jimin was on to something when he thought that Namjoon would be well suited for this – to be so pliant and obedient, posed like a doll to suit Taehyung’s fancies. He shivers, and it has nothing to do with the air from the box-fan blowing across his bare skin. He wonders if this is how the muses of old had felt, under their artist’s exacting, worshipful eye.

Standing at the door of Jung Hoseok’s rented beach house, Taehyung isn’t sure what to expect. Between Jungkook’s breathless idolization, Namjoon’s effusive praise, and Jimin’s wistful affection, by the time that the evening of his going-away party finally arrives, the artist has taken on an almost mythical status in Taehyung’s mind. When the door is finally flung open, he only gets a glimpse of a face – pretty and a little imperious, like a forest nymph – before the man is wrapping his willowy limbs around Jimin, squealing a series of excited noises that Taehyung thinks includes a cutesified, somewhat garbled version of the poetry professor’s name. Hoseok is practically humping him in his fervor, one leg hitched up near Jimin’s waist, and Taehyung can’t say that he blames him.

He stands back on the front step, observing this exchange with a smirk that only grows when Hoseok greets Namjoon, just as warm and friendly but ten times more awkward, like they aren’t sure if they are allowed to like each other. The awkwardness seems to primarily be coming from Namjoon, which for some reason strikes Taehyung as hilarious. He opens his mouth to laugh, and then his mouth goes dry as a bone in the desert when Hoseok turns the full intensity of his gaze on him.

“So,” he says. “I hear you’re my replacement.”

Taehyung’s heart might actually stop. Mouth still hanging open, stupefied, he doesn’t even have time to formulate the beginnings of – what? An apology for darkening his doorstep? For existing? – when a high laugh bubbles out from Hoseok’s throat. His lips curve up around a smile as brilliant as the sun itself, its cupid’s bow forming the divot of a sweetly rounded heart.

“Kidding, kidding,” he insists, tapping at Taehyung’s shoulder with deceptively dainty-looking fingers. He can feel the strength and precision there and shivers, despite the summer heat. “Please, come in.”

Although the beach house is only Hoseok’s temporary home for a handful of weeks, Taehyung would describe the decorating style inside as playful and eclectic, a riot of bright colors from the rugs and throw pillows to the stretched canvases leaning everywhere, many of them pieces that Taehyung recognizes from the university art department’s gallery. They must have started taking it down at some point this week, in anticipation of Hoseok’s departure. Taehyung tries to imagine how it must look, a bare and echoing space without Jung Hoseok’s birds and jesters, his artfully erratic splashes of neon paint. Waiting, now, for Taehyung to fill it.

“Do you drink?” Hoseok asks as they pass a table laden with refreshments. Taehyung doesn’t recognize any of the people gathered around it – unsurprising, considering how few artists had actually been on campus during his visit at the beginning of the week. “We have punch, and we have punch.”

One slim finger points between two bowls filled with ice and different color liquids, and if he wants to keep his wits about him tonight, Taehyung suspects that he will want to steer clear of the bright blue one. He ladles himself a cup of the orange tropical-fruit punch instead, getting a wedge of pineapple with it that he sticks onto the rim.

“I need to go check on Kookie and the burgers,” Hoseok says, a fluttery hand touching each of them in turn as he passes by. “Please make yourself at home, but try not to spill anything on the furniture, unless you’d like to pay for my deposit!”

He winks, but there is something deadly serious in his expression that has Taehyung clutching his punch glass a little closer to his chest, even well after Hoseok has gone.

“Huh. He seems…”

“Delightful?” Jimin offers.

“Terrifying?” Namjoon hides a nervous chuckle in a sip of his own drink – the blue one, brave man.

“Yes.”

He is both of those things at the same time. All of that, with the promise of so much more. Taehyung might be a little obsessed with Jung Hoseok already; it’s a pity that he is leaving so soon.

The snack spread is impressive, pulling from a wide range of world cuisine, as colorful and varied as Hoseok’s decorating style. At the very least, they have ensured that no party guest will leave hungry. Taehyung loads up a small plate with chips and cheese-corn and glazed chicken wings, making a note to come back for the corn husk-wrapped tamales and kimchijeon. There can’t be more than twenty people here, but even a relatively modest gathering makes the small beach house feel crowded, impossible to squeeze through the narrow central corridor to the back patio without bumping shoulders and making his apologies. Taehyung meets a few more of the other artists along the way, who must see him with the professors and make the very reasonable assumption of his identity.

Outside, it’s golden hour, and Taehyung’s breath catches in his throat at the way that the sun kisses Hoseok’s chestnut hair and Jungkook’s grinning, upturned face as they move around each other at the grill in perfect harmony, both of them limned in halos of hazy light. Taehyung hangs back, one hand on the sliding door, until Namjoon bumps into him with an inquisitive noise.

“Sorry,” he says, moving aside as he drags his gaze reluctantly away from the pair. “I didn’t want to interrupt – are they…?”

Jimin shakes his head quickly, one finger held up to his lips.

“We can’t interfere,” he says, conspiratory. “I think it’s what the youths are calling a canon event. They’ve been circling each other since Hoseok arrived on the island; the number of times that poor Jungkookie has come to my office crying over that man…”

“Crying?” Taehyung asks in alarm, whipping his head around.

“Oh, nothing like that. Jungkook is just a sensitive soul. And Hobi–” Jimin rolls his eyes, hands spread in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture. “Well. I’m sure they will figure it out.”

This doesn’t seem entirely reassuring, considering that this is Jung Hoseok’s going-away party. Poor Jungkookie, indeed. The trio sits at a picnic table on the deck that was recently vacated by another group of party guests, conversation subsiding as they enjoy their food and soak up the last rays of late afternoon sun.

“Cheese?” a cheerful voice asks, popping up so suddenly beside Taehyung that he clutches at his chest in surprise.

“…Yes?”

He can’t imagine any scenario where his answer would be ‘no’ to that question.

A toasted bun with a burger patty is slid from Hoseok’s spatula onto Taehyung’s plate, a square of bright orange cheese melted over the top of it. Taehyung grins at him in thanks, and decides that he is not afraid of him. He remembers the flock of colorful birds in Pandora’s box, the chaotic but optimistic beauty in Hoseok’s interpretation of humanity’s folly. He is not so mysterious, after all.

When Namjoon and Jimin go inside to refresh their beverages, Taehyung takes the opportunity to approach the other artist. Hoseok looks out over the ocean where waves crash over the rocky shore, holding on to the weather-worn grey wood of the patio railing.

“I can see how you made so much amazing art here. The view is inspiring.”

“Thank you,” he says, looking back with a sunny smile that Taehyung almost believes. “You’re going to love it here, you know?”

“Mm. I already do.”

“I bet.”

Taehyung picks up on something playful and knowing in Hoseok’s expression, and he can’t be too surprised. Anyone watching him and the professors closely might notice the ease that they already have with each other, the rising tension that yearns for resolution. Taehyung has been trying to take things slow and steady, but after this morning’s session, he feels more certain than ever that their breaking point is rapidly approaching. There is something to be said about drawing out the anticipation, of course, but Taehyung supposes that it would also be nice to have more time to enjoy each other. He does not want to suffer Jungkook’s fate.

“I really like him,” Taehyung says, nodding to the party’s other host, still busy at the grill.

“Who – Jungkookie?” Hoseok looks startled, but he narrows his eyes, assessing.

“Yeah. I think we’ll get along really well. We’re close to same age, you know?”

Hoseok hums, his fingers tapping against his thigh.

“He’s easy to love,” he says, light, non-committal.

A gentle nudge can feel like a shove, if you plan it right.

Taehyung makes his excuses with a polite bow, heading back inside the beach house to find Namjoon and Jimin. They aren’t at the refreshment table, and Taehyung is about to see if they somehow slipped back out onto the patio when he wasn’t looking when he hears the melodic trill of Jimin’s laughter. He follows the sound into a small attached living room packed with comfortable chairs and cushions, all of them occupied with chattering party guests. Jimin quickly spots him and makes a grabby gesture with the hand not holding his cup of blue punch.

“Please, sit with us.”

Taehyung ambles over with a bemused smile.

“Are you sure? Is there even room for me?”

“There’s always room,” Jimin coos, pulling Taehyung down to wedge his hips between them. Namjoon tries to shift over a little, but there really isn’t anywhere for them to go on a loveseat that is really only designed for two.

“Do you think that Hobi is a jealous person, hyung?” Taehyung props himself up on an elbow against the back cushions, accepting a sip from Jimin’s drink when offered.

“I’m not sure,” he says slowly, then gasps, small hand clapped over his mouth. “What did you do?”

“Not much, really. We’ll see.”

The blue punch, as Taehyung suspected, is strong. It explains the loosened inhibitions, another touch-barrier between them broken.

“Wow, Taehyung-ah. I think your arms might be bigger than mine.”

This from Namjoon, looking down at where the lines of their upper arms press together. With his opposite hand, he reaches out to measure the circumference, first on Taehyung’s bicep and then his own. He might squeeze a little more than is strictly necessary for an empirical comparison, but Taehyung certainly isn’t complaining.

“You’re both very strong,” Jimin murmurs, eyes hooded, appreciative. He takes his drink back and sips from the same place that Taehyung did, licking an errant drop from the corner of his mouth. They finish the punch like that, passing it back and forth, as Taehyung’s heart beats to the rhythm of soon, soon, soon.

The party livens up again after the sun sets, Hoseok and Jungkook gathering everyone outside again for some games as music filters from a speaker on the patio railing. Taehyung nearly cries from laughing so hard, Namjoon’s clumsiness translating into hilarious chaos. At one point he smashes an egg with his hand, unprompted, that he was supposed to keep intact – he looks up at Jimin with a sheepish smile, like a guilty puppy.

“Yeobo, what – why would you…? Let’s go clean up.”

With tutting laughter Jimin takes Namjoon by the wrist, leading him inside the beach house to wash his yolk-covered hands. The crowd has started to thin, about half of the guests having already made their yawning departures. Taehyung follows a pair of artists that he met earlier inside, making conversation over a small plate of tamales and jeon. Steam rises from the masa and shredded pork, still kept hot enough inside the corn husks to almost burn his tongue. He will have to ask Hoseok where he learned to make them – he seems like a man with many stories.

Namjoon and Jimin aren’t in the kitchen anymore by the time that Taehyung decides to look for them, to see if they are ready to head home as the party winds down. He slips out onto the patio, the sliding door open a crack to let in the sea breeze. About to call out, Taehyung’s voice freezes in his throat.

On the beach, Hoseok and Jungkook stand close together, barefoot, the seafoam tide rushing in around their ankles. They seem to be talking, hushed and serious, the words too quiet to make out from this distance. Taehyung starts to turn away, an intruder on this private moment, but not before he sees Hoseok tipping Jungkook’s chin up with those strong, delicate fingers. What he says to him before they kiss is lost in the crashing waves.