Chapter Text
The castle was fraying at the edges.
There was only one day left until the arrival of the guests, and Hogwarts was barely holding together. Banners refused to stay up. The charmwork on the enchanted snowflakes kept clumping into miniature blizzards. Someone set off three firecracker prototypes near the Hospital Wing, and a hallway on the fourth floor now smelled permanently like burnt toffee and regret.
And Seokjin? Seokjin was everywhere.
He passed through the Great Hall with parchment rolls under one arm, a quill tucked behind his ear, and his mouth pressed in a tight, determined line. A cluster of second-years bumped into him—"Sorry, Prefect Kim!"—but he only waved them off, barely looking.
No Namjoon in the courtyard. None by the Quad Courtyard. Not in the library, not even on the Astronomy tower where he sometimes escaped when things got too loud.
Seokjin hadn’t seen him in two days. And the worst part? He was still pretending he was fine. Still making jokes. Still using that charming tilt of his head when Flitwick asked if the schedule for the delegation seating was ready. Still nodding when Penelope snapped something about symmetry and silencing charms.
But his chest ached like a pulled muscle. And his fingers wouldn’t stop twitching.
He dropped an entire stack of assignments outside the Defense corridor and didn’t even bother to pick them up right away. Just stood there, watching ink pool over the stone like it might spell out something useful.
Where are you?
Someone called his name. He pretended not to hear it. By midafternoon, the frenzy had multiplied. He was summoned three times by different professors, and every time he hoped—stupidly—that one of them would say Namjoon had been seen. That he was just late. Just distracted. Just… something.
Instead:
“Kim, we’re short two chairs for Beauxbatons, and the headmistress has very strong feelings about symmetry,” Penelope snapped, thrusting a chart into his hands.
“Maybe she can Transfigure her expectations,” Seokjin muttered, taking the parchment anyway.
Gemma rolled her eyes as she passed. “Are you planning to charm those lanterns, or just flirt them into shape?”
He tried to smirk. Tried to say something clever. But his tongue felt like lead. He cast the lantern charm too late. It fizzled midair and exploded in a burst of silver glitter that caught in his hair and stuck to the ink on his sleeves.
“I need five minutes,” he muttered, brushing himself off.
“Five minutes ago,” Penelope called over her shoulder.
He found himself in the Entrance Hall, breathing against the cold stone wall.
“Seokjin!”
Not now, he thought.
He turned—and there was Cedric Diggory. Hair windswept, cheeks pink from the cold, smile too gentle for the day Seokjin was having.
“You look like you’ve been fighting holiday decorations and losing,” Cedric said.
Seokjin managed a tight smile. “I’m starting to believe garlands are sentient. And out for blood.”
Cedric chuckled, reaching to brush a bit of glitter from Seokjin’s shoulder. “Well, for what it’s worth—you’re still glowing.”
It was kind. Easy. A line Seokjin would usually throw back with something biting and bold. But today, it just made him ache.
“Thanks,” he said. And for once, didn’t say more.
Cedric tilted his head slightly, like he was waiting. But when Seokjin didn’t follow up with a joke or a flirt, he stepped back with a little wave. “Let me know if you need help with the candles tonight.”
Seokjin nodded, already turning away. “Ah. Yeah, sure.”
He didn’t look back.
By the time he made it into the corridor near the Prefect's Lounge, his arms were full of tangled ribbon, charmed lanterns, and an enchanted broom that had started refusing orders. He was so close to snapping.
And then—
“Prefect Kim!” someone called. A fourth-year with their hands full of crumpled banner fabric. “The Ravenclaw side says their snowflakes are melting too early! They think it’s sabotage!”
“Prefect Kim, the candles in the South Wing won’t float properly!” came another voice.
“Someone charmed the Gryffindor lion to roar in French!”
Seokjin turned in a full circle, three voices layering over one another. His vision swam. The lanterns buzzed in his ears. The glitter on his sleeves itched. The parchment roll had unspooled again.
He muttered, “I’m going to scream,” and stormed off around the nearest corner.
The hallway was empty. Quiet. He leaned against the wall, head bowed, hands on either side of his face, fingers splayed into his hair. His breath came in short puffs, chest tight. He was dizzy.
Not from the work. From the silence. From two days of absence. Of not knowing. Of pretending he was okay while everything around him splintered.
“Pull it together,” he whispered to himself. “Come on. You always do. Just—pull it together.”
But this time, he didn’t feel like he could. He sank to a crouch, elbows on knees, and let himself stay there for just a moment too long. His eyes prickled. His throat felt too tight. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the sting away.
“Mr. Kim?”
A voice from around the corner. He stood up too fast, wiped at his face with both hands. His eyes weren’t red. He wouldn’t let them be. He turned slowly and there was Professor McGonagall. Her eyes, sharp as ever, softened a fraction when they landed on him.
“Mr. Kim,” she said gently. “You’ve been working yourself rather thin.”
Seokjin straightened his spine. “Just making sure everything’s perfect, Professor.”
“Perfect?” Her mouth quirked slightly. “Perfection is rarely sustainable, even with magic.”
“I’m not trying to be perfect.” He smiled—too fast. “Just… functional.”
McGonagall studied him. “You remind me of myself at your age. It’s not always a compliment.”
Seokjin’s laugh came out more brittle than he intended. “Duly noted.”
There was a beat. McGonagall reached into her sleeve and handed him a small tin.
“Tea leaves,” she said. “For when you stop pretending you don’t need help.”
Seokjin blinked, caught off guard. “Thank you, Professor.”
She nodded once, then turned away. And not ten seconds later, another voice echoed down the corridor.
“Seokjin!”
Cedric again, arms full of floating candles, half a roll of ribbon trailing behind him. He grinned. “If you’re done conquering the hallway with your emotional breakdown, we could use you in the Great Hall.”
Seokjin groaned. “Merlin’s beard.”
“And you’re late,” Cedric replied. “Let’s go.”
And just like that, Seokjin followed.
---
The rest of the day unraveled in a glitter-drenched blur.
The other prefects were scrambling. Daphne Greengrass was half-shouting at a group of Hufflepuffs to move their dueling mats off the welcome platform. Bill Weasley was charming floating charts in three languages and cursing under his breath in French.
Gemma was coordinating with the dance showcase team and had glitter in her eyebrows. Penelope and Charlie Weasley were locked in a battle over candle arrangements and multilingual safety enchantments.
The Frog Choir rehearsed again, high notes echoing through the Entrance Hall. The courtyard echoed with the sounds of enchanted icicles being tested for temperature safety. Even the ghosts had started appearing more frequently—Sir Nicholas muttering about dress code, the Bloody Baron silently watching everything with narrowed eyes.
The Quidditch pitch still buzzed with the remaining 21 players—minus Cedric—each one giving it their final effort before the delegation arrived. Among them, Cormac McLaggen’s laughter could be heard once, and then not again. Oliver Wood barked instructions into the wind. Jungkook flew fast and too close to the ground.
And Seokjin—he handled everything. He did it all. He answered every question. Directed every volunteer. Smoothed over every mistake. People nodded when he passed, relief in their eyes.
But inside, it felt like one of his ribs was missing.
Because Namjoon was still gone. And he didn’t just miss his presence—he missed his steadiness. His kindness. The warmth of his eyes, the way he said Seokjin’s name like it mattered. And no matter how much glitter clung to his skin, no matter how many spells he cast or crises he diverted—None of it made the ache go away.
Not until he heard that voice again.
Seokjin was mid-rant—juggling a levitating stack of napkins, two ribbons stuck in his hair, and what might’ve been a cursed French horn someone left under the House Cup display—when Cedric jogged over from the far end of the hall, hair a little windswept.
“Hey—uh,” Cedric said, panting slightly. “Seokjin?”
“Unless you’re here to banish glitter from existence, Cedric, please don’t finish that sentence,” Seokjin snapped, twisting around to snatch a misbehaving lantern with his wand.
Cedric held up his hands in surrender, then tilted his chin toward the archway. “I’m just the messenger. But… I think someone’s looking for you.”
Seokjin blinked. “Who?”
Cedric offered a small smile. “Big. Brooding. Writes in the margins of library books and carries that look like he’s thinking about the history of all pain?”
Seokjin nearly dropped the stack of napkins. “Where?”
Cedric pointed toward the side corridor beyond the main staircase. “He just came through. Looked like he wasn’t sure if he should interrupt.”
Seokjin didn’t wait. He turned, grabbed the nearest handful of decorations—several tufts of ribbon, one violently jingling bell, and a floating note card that said “DURMSTRANG WELCOME” in sparkly ink—and stormed toward the archway.
And there he was.
Namjoon. Standing just beyond the flurry of students, half in shadow, tall and quiet and so heartbreakingly familiar that Seokjin nearly choked on air.
Without thinking, he hurled the ribbons at him.
Namjoon barely dodged, eyes wide. “Jin—?”
“Where the hell have you been?!!” Seokjin snapped, voice rising with every syllable as he marched straight up to him, ignoring everyone around them. “Two! Days!! You absolute—wizarding—ghost! You vanish without a single owl, and you just show up?! With your cheekbones and your tragic eyebrows and your stupid long legs—no warning?!”
Namjoon opened his mouth. “I—”
“No!!” Seokjin jabbed a finger into his chest. “Do not start with ‘I can explain.’ You don’t get to explain! You get to listen while I unravel in front of you because I am this close to hexing every bloody candle in this hall!!”
Namjoon blinked. “…Is this a bad time?”
Seokjin let out a sharp, half-hysterical sound that might’ve been a laugh or a sob. And then the floodgates opened.
“You don’t get to disappear and do as you please, Kim Namjoon!” he exploded, flinging the jingling bell to the floor with a dramatic clatter. “You don’t get to walk around the corner like a walking metaphor and act like you haven’t been haunting my every thought for the past two bloody days!”
Namjoon opened his mouth again.
Seokjin raised a finger—wobbly, glitter-covered, furious. “Don’t!! I swear to Merlin, if you say ‘I needed time to think’ or something equally vague and insufferable, I will hex your tongue out of your head and staple it to the delegation banner.”
A group of third-years gasped nearby. A suit of armor behind them let out a slow metallic squeak, like it was trying to step away.
Namjoon said nothing. Seokjin kept going.
“I’ve been charming chairs into symmetrical formation, rearranging floating candles because Penelope has opinions, dodging Cedric’s accidental flirting, and coordinating twelve different versions of a welcome speech, all while pretending I’m not dying inside every time someone asks where the hell you are!!”
Namjoon stepped forward. Calm. Quiet. His presence like something ancient and grounding.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Seokjin said, voice cracking now, too fast to catch up with his breath. “I couldn’t eat. I spilled ink on everything I own, I yelled at a ghost and I genuinely considered setting the Ravenclaw snowflakes on fire out of spite.”
He was panting now. Shaking with the effort of holding everything in for too long. Namjoon reached for him. Seokjin slapped his hand away. Then slapped it again when he tried the other one.
“Don’t—don’t touch me!” he cried, though his fists were weak, and his knuckles thudded uselessly against Namjoon’s chest. “You don’t get to do that like you didn’t mean all of this, like I haven’t been holding myself together with McGonagall’s tea leaves and sarcasm and—”
Namjoon wrapped his arms around him. Seokjin struggled. Fought it. Hit him in the shoulder. The chest. Once on the collarbone, hard enough that Namjoon winced.
And then—Seokjin stopped. His fists curled into Namjoon’s robes, and he slumped forward, forehead thudding against Namjoon’s sternum. And then he cried. Not loudly or dramatically, but real. Quiet. The kind that came from exhaustion, fear, and missing someone so much it made your bones ache.
Namjoon didn’t let go until Seokjin’s breathing steadied—slow and trembling, but no longer broken. Instead, Namjoon held him tighter.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
“You idiot,” Seokjin whispered, voice hoarse. “You don’t get to vanish like that and let me spiral—I hate spiraling—I hate not knowing. I hate feeling like I’m not enough.”
Namjoon’s hand found the back of Seokjin’s head. “Yes, I am sorry, love.”
“I’m a mess,” Seokjin said, voice muffled in Namjoon’s chest. “I’m a glittery, furious, pathetic mess.”
Namjoon let out a soft chuckle, the sound low and warm in the hollow between them. He rested his cheek atop Seokjin’s head, eyes fluttering closed like this—this—was home.
“I know,” he murmured. Then he gently pulled back just enough to look at Seokjin, his hands still cupping the sides of his face. A soft smile curved his lips as he brushed his thumbs along Seokjin’s temples.
“You’re covered in glitter,” he said, almost reverently. His fingers slid into Seokjin’s hair, slow and careful, brushing through the soft strands as he plucked flecks of silver and gold one by one. Some clung stubbornly to the roots, others glimmered like stars caught in midnight.
Seokjin huffed. “It’s battle glitter. I earned it.”
Namjoon chuckled again, quieter this time. “You look like a very angry, very glamorous comet.”
Seokjin smiled despite himself, leaning into Namjoon’s touch. “You should’ve seen the lantern.”
“I did,” Namjoon whispered, brushing one final fleck of glitter from Seokjin’s forehead. “It never stood a chance.”
Their eyes met again, soft and sure. And for once, neither of them looked away.
The ribbons lay abandoned on the floor. A charmed bell rolled gently in a circle. Somewhere down the corridor, someone coughed awkwardly and pretended they hadn’t seen a thing. A cluster of students froze mid-levitation spell. A few younger Hufflepuffs gawked openly near the doorframe, and even Penelope Clearwater stopped mid-scroll check with her quill hovering an inch from the parchment. The Frog Choir rehearsal next door quieted to a confused croak. It was like the entire castle had paused to witness what looked suspiciously like Kim Seokjin confessing his love in front of the House Cup display.
Hopefully, Cedric Diggory got the message too.
Namjoon finally spoke, his voice low, like it was just for Seokjin. "Come with me."
Seokjin sniffed. "What, where? If this is a trick to get me to finish the seating chart—"
Namjoon gave him a small smile and wiped a little tear from Seokjin's cheek with his thumb. “No tricks. I just want to show you something.”
Seokjin stared at him for a long second. He looked tired. Crushed. Glowing. Still glittery. Then he nodded.
Cedric suddenly shouted, “Everyone—back to work! This is Hogwarts, not a soap opera!”
Seokjin looked at Cedric, who gave him a wink. Seokjin huffed and turned toward the rest of the corridor. “Penelope, I swear if I come back and the lanterns are still lopsided—”
Penelope replied dryly, “They'll be symmetrical enough to satisfy even your melodramatic taste, Kim. Now go snog your brooding poet somewhere else.”
---
They walked in silence—Seokjin wiping at his eyes with his sleeve, Namjoon guiding them through side corridors and hidden turns, ones Seokjin barely registered in his exhaustion.
Finally, Namjoon stopped in front of a fireplace in the quietest corner of the Faculty Wing.
"What are we doing?" Seokjin asked warily.
Namjoon just reached forward and tapped the mantle with his wand. The fire flickered, shifted—and a soft clicking sound echoed from the stone. A hidden passage opened behind it, narrow and dust-lined and warm.
Seokjin’s eyes widened. "Whoa. This has been here all along?"
Namjoon offered a crooked smile, gesturing with a small bow. “After you.”
Seokjin blinked, still staring at the passage like it had personally betrayed him by hiding for five years. Then he stepped in.
The tunnel led into a wide, rounded room with cracked stone floors and a domed ceiling half-covered in ivy. Soft spells floated above the space like lazy fireflies, casting gentle glows in shades of amber and violet. The walls were covered in old sketches, faded color palettes, enchanted splatters of dried paint that shimmered when touched. A massive canvas sat cradled in a broken easel in the corner—half-finished with thick brush strokes that moved slightly when no one looked. On one wall, the ghostly outline of a unicorn had been burned into the stone with wandfire, now serving as a perch for an enchanted paper bird that occasionally fluttered its wings.
And in the middle of the room—lit by one hovering lantern—was a sketchpad.
Seokjin stopped in his tracks.
The drawing on the page was unfinished, but unmistakable. His face. His profile. His mouth caught mid-smile. His eyes, soft and far away.
He didn’t look like he was posing.
He looked real. Alive.
Namjoon stepped beside him, hands in his pockets. “I didn’t know how to say what I was feeling. So I drew it instead.”
Seokjin stared.
Namjoon looked at him. “I missed you. Even when I was angry. Even when I was scared I wasn’t what you needed.”
Seokjin was quiet. He looked down at the sketch, then back at Namjoon, voice small. “You’re a pretentious bastard.”
Namjoon’s smile curved. “True.”
Seokjin turned, stepping close. “You didn’t even owl me.”
“I couldn’t,” Namjoon admitted. “Every time I picked up a quill, it felt like I’d write something that made it worse.”
“You already made it worse.”
“I know.”
Silence.
Then Seokjin reached up, hands cupping Namjoon’s face. And he kissed him. Just like that. Quick, sharp, angry—soft.
Namjoon blinked, stunned.
“Why—?” Seokjin whispered, his voice cracked. “Why did you disappear?”
Namjoon’s eyes lowered. “Because I love you so much, it made me sick to see you with someone else.”
“You idiot—you thought I’d choose Cedric?” Seokjin said, disbelief and fury curling in every word. “You thought I’d go for someone who wears perfect smiles and says perfect things in perfect moments? Who’s charming because it’s easy and golden and smooth?”
He stepped back and gestured wildly. “You think I’d give up the person who sees me ugly and chaotic and shrieking at floating decorations? Who makes me feel everything—terrified and alive and safe and furious—all in one breath? That I’d trade you for someone who only knows the polished version of me?”
Namjoon looked at him, guilt and longing all in one glance. “I thought… maybe you should. He’s easy. Good. I thought maybe you’d be happier.”
Seokjin stared at him like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Then he glared.
“Kim Namjoon,” he snapped. “I slept with you once,” he continued. “You met my family over Christmas. I even wore green for you. Green—Namjoon!”
Namjoon’s eyes widened slightly, and then he looked at Seokjin fondly. “It’s sage.”
“Whatever! It is still green!” Seokjin snapped. “And I have been working my ass off, practically tap-dancing through chaos while missing the one person who could’ve helped me breathe—and all this time, you’re hiding away in a magic art crypt brooding like some poetic drama prince because you saw me laugh with someone else?”
There was a beat of silence. Charged. Fragile.
And then—
Namjoon huffed a stunned breath that turned into a laugh—helpless, breathless, like he couldn’t believe any of this was real. His eyes crinkled, shoulders loosening as if Seokjin’s fury had shattered something inside him and let the truth pour out.
And Seokjin, too breathless to be angry anymore, didn’t resist when Namjoon stepped forward and pulled him into his arms again.
His laughter faded into a low, hungry growl as he pressed Seokjin against the cold stone wall of the hidden room. His hands were everywhere—tangling in Seokjin’s hair, gripping his waist, sliding down to cup the curve of his ass. Seokjin gasped, his breath hitching as Namjoon’s lips found his neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.
“You’re such an idiot,” Seokjin whispered, but his voice was shaky, his hands clutching at Namjoon’s shoulders for balance.
Namjoon didn’t respond with words. Instead, he kissed him again, deep and demanding, his tongue sliding against Seokjin’s in a way that made his knees weak. Seokjin moaned into the kiss, his body arching instinctively toward Namjoon’s, craving more.
Namjoon’s hands moved lower, gripping the back of Seokjin’s thighs and lifting him effortlessly. Seokjin wrapped his legs around Namjoon’s waist, his back pressed firmly against the wall. The cool stone contrasted sharply with the heat of Namjoon’s body, sending shivers down Seokjin’s spine.
“I missed you,” Namjoon murmured against his lips, his voice rough with desire. “Every second.”
Seokjin didn’t have time to respond before Namjoon’s mouth was on his again, swallowing any words he might have said. His hands roamed over Seokjin’s body, pulling at his robes until they were discarded in a heap on the floor. Seokjin’s skin burned under Namjoon’s touch, every nerve ending alight with need.
Namjoon’s lips trailed down Seokjin’s chest, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. He paused at one nipple, circling it with his tongue before biting down gently. Seokjin cried out, his fingers tightening in Namjoon’s hair. Seokjin gasped his name, his voice breaking as Namjoon’s hands slid lower, cupping him through his pants.
Namjoon didn’t make him wait. He undid Seokjin’s pants, pushing them down. Seokjin’s breath hitched as Namjoon’s hand wrapped around him, stroking him slowly, deliberately. Seokjin’s head fell back against the wall, his eyes fluttering shut as pleasure coursed through him. Namjoon’s hand moved faster, his thumb swiping over the tip of Seokjin’s. Spreading the precum that had gathered there.
“Namjoon, have some self-control—” Seokjin’s voice broke off in a moan as Namjoon dropped to his knees, taking him into his mouth without warning.
The heat of Namjoon’s mouth was overwhelming, and Seokjin’s hands flew to his hair, gripping tightly as waves of pleasure crashed over him. Namjoon’s tongue swirled around him, his lips tight as he sucked, drawing out every sound Seokjin tried to hold back.
“Namjoon—no,” Seokjin gasped, his hips jerking involuntarily. “I’m going to—”
Namjoon pulled off with a wet pop, looking up at Seokjin with a wicked grin. “Not yet,” he said, his voice rough. “I’m not done with you.”
Before Seokjin could protest, Namjoon stood, pressing him back against the wall and capturing his lips in a searing kiss. Seokjin could taste himself on Namjoon’s tongue, and it only made him want more.
Namjoon’s hands moved to Seokjin’s thighs, lifting one leg and hooking it over his hip. Seokjin felt the hard length of Namjoon’s pressing against him, and he moaned into the kiss, his body trembling with anticipation.
Namjoon reached between them, freeing himself from his pants and lining up with Seokjin’s entrance. He paused for a moment, his eyes locking with Seokjin’s as he pushed in slowly, inch by inch.
Seokjin’s breath caught in his throat, his nails digging into Namjoon’s shoulders as he was filled. It was overwhelming—the stretch, the heat, the way Namjoon’s body pressed against his—and Seokjin couldn’t hold back the moan that escaped his lips.
Namjoon groaned, his forehead resting against Seokjin’s as he bottomed out. Seokjin couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. All he could do was cling to Namjoon as he began to move, setting a slow, deliberate pace that had Seokjin seeing stars. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure through him, building and building until he was trembling with need.
Namjoon’s pace quickened, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper. Seokjin’s leg tightened around his waist, pulling him closer as he moaned Namjoon’s name over and over like a prayer. His orgasm hit him like a tidal wave, crashing over him and leaving him gasping for air. His body clenched around Namjoon, pulling him over the edge with him. Namjoon buried his face in Seokjin’s neck, muffling his groan as he came, filling Seokjin completely.
For a moment, they stayed like that, pressed together and breathing heavily as they came down from their high. Then Namjoon pulled back slightly, brushing a strand of hair from Seokjin’s face and kissing him softly.
“I love you,” Namjoon whispered, his voice tender despite the roughness of their encounter.
Seokjin smiled weakly, his body still trembling. “You idiot. You know I love you, too.”
Namjoon chuckled, pressing another kiss to Seokjin’s lips before carefully lowering him to the ground. He didn’t let go—not right away. Instead, he rested his cheek atop Seokjin’s head, arms wrapped securely around his waist.
Then, gently, he reached up and brushed a few stubborn bits of glitter from Seokjin’s hair, fingertips combing softly through the strands. “You’re still sparkling,” he murmured.
“Good,” Seokjin mumbled. “I hope it haunts you.”
They stayed like that for a moment, leaning against the wall and catching their breath, their bodies still intertwined. The hum of enchantments in the room pulsed faintly around them like a held breath.
“I should probably get back,” Seokjin said eventually, though he made no move to leave. “Gemma’s going to transfigure me into a soup ladle if I miss one more lantern charm check-in. And Penelope’s this close to sending a howler titled ‘The State of the Sconces: A Tragedy in Three Acts.’ ”
Namjoon chuckled softly. “Then let’s stay like this for thirty more seconds. Maybe forty. I’ll write the apology scrolls.”
“Make sure you use proper margin spacing,” Seokjin whispered, eyes fluttering shut as he leaned into Namjoon’s chest. “Clearwater’s militant about that.”
Namjoon nodded, but he didn’t let go. “In a minute,” he murmured, kissing the top of Seokjin’s head again. “Just… I want to stay with you like this for a little longer.”
Seokjin didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
Wrapped in Namjoon’s arms, surrounded by old stone, half-finished sketches, and the glow of a single hovering lantern, the storm in his chest had finally quieted. His breathing was slow now. Anchored.
The ache of pretending—the constant performance, the polished mask, the perfectly-timed wit—it all felt distant here.
For the first time in days, maybe weeks, maybe ever… he doesn’t have to perform. Not as the perfect prefect. Not as a charming distraction. Just… as Seokjin. A boy with glitter in his hair and too much emotion in his chest. And Namjoon loved that boy.
He closed his eyes. Let himself rest in the quiet.
Let himself be.
Namjoon could feel it, too.
He looked down at Seokjin, who was still tucked against him, eyes fluttered closed, no quip ready on his lips, no elegant smirk curled in place. Just soft. Real. Quiet in a way Namjoon knew was rare. A version of him the world didn’t get to see.
And it hit him—not just the love, but the honor of it.
“I like this,” Namjoon whispered, like the realization carried weight. “You’re not performing, just… you.”
Seokjin cracked one eye open. “Do I usually have jazz hands?”
Namjoon smiled. “Emotionally, yes.”
Seokjin huffed, but his cheek pressed closer to Namjoon’s chest, and his hand curled into the front of his robes like it meant something.
“You don’t have to be anything else with me,” Namjoon added, softer now. “Not clever. Not perfect. Just… like this. You. That’s everything.”
Seokjin said nothing.
But in the long, quiet stretch of their embrace, he didn’t move away either.
When they finally emerged from the hidden room—robes half-wrung, cheeks flushed, hands brushing—it was near dusk. The castle had dimmed, candles floating at soft golden height, painting the corridors in a quiet kind of magic. But the frenzy had only just begun.
Tomorrow, everything would change.