Archive of Our Own ^beta

1

Jin’s fingers are crooked. Yoongi has always liked that about him. When Jin had first showed up at the dorms, Yoongi used to think that Seokjin was perfect, except for his fingers, which had seemed sort of capital-R Romantic to him. The tall, handsome, charming, hard-working Seokjin who had showed up in the dorms one day and began to cook them meals that weren’t ramen in expensive stolen cookware couldn’t fix his crooked fingers or he’d be too perfect for this world. 

That was before he’d lived and worked with Seokjin for a decade. Now, Yoongi knows better.

Today, Seokjin is all too imperfect as he arrives out of nowhere to plop down beside Yoongi on the bench in front of the out-of-tune piano tucked into an out-of-the-way corner backstage at Inkigayo. He leans a bit too close when he whispers damply into Yoongi’s ear, and his breath carries the scent of the bulgogi kimbap they’d both eaten on the van ride over from the company under the aggressive mintiness of toothpaste. The rest of him smells familiarly of hairspray and the stale sweat of their stage costumes, same as Yoongi does. They’ve been here for hours, and there are still hours left, and Yoongi is tired, and wants to live the rest of his life as a rock. And then there’s what he says, which Yoongi just… doesn’t need right now. Or ever.

“You’re so sexy when you play piano, Yoongi,” he whispers. 

“I’m not playing piano,” Yoongi tells him. Actually, his eyes are closed, which doesn’t mean that he isn’t playing piano–he can play piano with his eyes closed–but that he is resting. Quietly. Alone.

“Mmm,” Seokjin hums. Yoongi cracks an eye open when he hears a chord played–and sighs when Seokjin is already looking back at him with an expression that Yoongi knows well: his waiting-for-a-reaction expression. This is what’s happening now, apparently. 

“Nice,” he says, and when Seokjin smiles, pleased, something softens within him, like it always does. Fine. He’s not that tired. He can humor Seokjin. 

“What do you think?” Seokjin says.

“Learn a few more chords and you can write a song,” Yoongi says. 

“Mm, no. That’s your job,” Seokjin says. It’s Seokjin’s job, too, and he knows it, but Yoongi will let it slide. He’s seen Seokjin’s notebook full of crossed-out lyrics. “What I meant was, how do I look?” He tilts his head to one side. 

Yoongi assesses him: he looks handsome. Obviously. It’s Seokjin. His makeup is pretty today, too, darker smudgy eyeliner that Seokjin pulls off well. His lips were glossed earlier, and even now it’s worn off, they still look plump and soft and pink, like he’s been kissed. His hair is stupid, swept up and back to show off Seokjin’s strong eyebrows, but Yoongi won’t draw attention to that, either–like the lyrics, Seokjin is sensitive about his hair. The costume they’re wearing, coordinating leather jackets that are nearly impossible to get the smell out of, looks amazing on Seokjin: the gold beading details glint the exact color of his eyes under the stagelights, and the shape makes his waist look tiny and his broad shoulders look a mile wide. 

Shoulders that are too stiff. Stiff shoulders means stiff wrists, and stiff wrists means poor piano playing. 

“Like shit,” Yoongi says. “Like you spend 50 hours a week playing video games.”

“Wow,” Seokjin says, drawing out the word. He shifts, leaning one elbow against the keyboard with a discordant clank. “You really know what a man likes to hear. A few more compliments like that and, well…” He swallows, then looks up at Yoongi from his awkward position slouched into the piano. “I’d let you tickle my ivories, if you know what I mean.”

Yoongi grimaces. Seokjin is so annoying. “I don’t.”

Seokjin twists back on the bench. His shoulder brushes Yoongi’s as Seokjin rests his fingertips–not his elbow–back on the keyboard. His long, imperfect fingers are gentle on the keys, pressing down very, very carefully, just until the instrument makes a soft sound. “You tell me,” Seokjin says. “You’re the sexy piano expert.” 

“Piano keys used to be made out of ivory,” Yoongi says, putting his hands on the keyboard besides Jin’s. It would tickle, Yoongi guesses, to have someone’s fingers on you like that. He shivers. “They’re not, anymore.”

“What are they–no. Nevermind, actually,” Seokjin says, which is good, because Yoongi doesn’t know the answer, and he’s the piano expert, after all. “That’s not the point. What I’m trying to say is… What I came over here to say was…” Seokjin’s chest expands against his glittery jacket as he takes a deep breath, and then he coughs. Swallows. Coughs again. Yoongi considers asking him if he’s okay, but doesn’t. He’ll be fine. “Yoongi,” Seokjin says at last, all at once, looking over and raising his eyebrows at him. “I’ve been thinking… What if you taught me… to play? Long nights, stroking the ivories and making sweet, sweet… music. Duets for… four hands.”

“Oh yeah?” Yoongi asks, and Seokjin nods slowly, his eyes drilling into Yoongi until Yoongi is forced to look away, back down at their fingers, side by side on the not-ivory keys, Yoongi’s knobby and pale, his nailbeds looking very haggard besides Jin’s neat square ones. He raises one thumb to gnaw at a hangnail counterproductively. Jin’s eyes track the motion, following his fingers from the keyboard to his mouth, and Yoongi decides to quit while he’s ahead, just this once, removing his teeth from the side of his thumbnail but leaving his finger sort of lingering around in a piss-poor attempt to trick Jin into thinking he wasn’t actually going to chew off his thumbnail and touching his lower lip was what he meant to do in the first place. “But you’ve… never indicated any interest in playing the piano before,” Yoongi says. 

“Oh,” Seokjin says, still staring at Yoongi’s fingers in his mouth. He doesn’t say anything, for which Yoongi is grateful. “I’ve been interested. I’ve been very interested. But I’ve been. Uh. Scared to tell you.”

“That you want to… play the piano?”

Seokjin nods again. It doesn’t seem like Seokjin, to be scared. He’d bungee jumped. He’d let Namjoon use his good knife. He’d told Taehyung it was fine, to go ahead and use Jungkook’s special laundry detergent. “Well, not scared, maybe,” Seokjin says. “But… intimidated. You have a lot more experience than I do. And you… You sing songs about how good you are at it. How much you love it. So it’s a lot to live up to, if you know what I mean.” He looks strangely bashful, gazing over at Yoongi with a small, apologetic smile–and yeah, Yoongi guesses he is a pretty intimidating guy. He’s very, very passionate about his piano, and he did write a song about it calling it his first love. A really fucking good song, actually, because he’s a piano expert. 

But that doesn’t mean Seokjin should be nervous.  

Yoongi puts a friendly hand on Seokjin’s thigh, just above the knee, and Seokjin’s eyes widen. “Listen, hyung,” he says soothingly. “You have nothing to be scared of–I already know you’re shit at the piano.”

Seokjin’s eyes widen further.

“But don’t worry,” he hurries to reassure him. “There’s nothing you can’t learn to do with enough practice.” Yoongi is pretty sure this is the case. He himself doesn’t remember learning, and at this point, playing the piano is as natural to him as breathing, or writing–or sex. Not that he’s been doing much of the latter, recently. 

“Oh,” Seokjin says, looking nervous. “Right. Practice.”

“And I can teach you,” Yoongi says. 

At this, the muscle of Jin’s thigh twitches. 

“Really?” he asks. 

“Sure,” Yoongi says, and shrugs. He’s already stuck with Seokjin for hours and hours every week. They might as well spend a few of them sitting shoulder to shoulder on a piano bench. And Seokjin seems to really think that Yoongi would be a worthwhile piano teacher–which he would be, yeah–so maybe he’ll even shut up and listen for an hour instead of saying stupid shit like You’re so sexy when you play the piano, let’s make sweet music together or whatever the fuck while Yoongi’s trying to take a nap. Like Yoongi cares what he looks like playing the piano, or what Seokjin thinks about it. Yoongi’s still resting his fingers on the piano key, and he presses them down in the shape of one chord, then another, then a little run. Just something he’s working on. Maybe a new song. “It’s not a big deal.” 

“Lessons,” Seokjin says. “Yeah. Okay. Sure.”

2

Despite all the time they spend stuck together, it’s a while before they have time to meet outside of a schedule. They’re busy–Seokjin has a couple trips for his various ambassadorships and Yoongi has a collab with an artist in an inconvenient time zone and they both have promotions and photoshoots and dance practice and all the other busywork that comes with being an idol. Yoongi would have almost forgotten about his offer of piano lessons, honestly, except that Seokjin has been acting sort of… weird. Seokjin is usually loud when he’s supposed to be loud and quiet when he’s supposed to be quiet but now he’s too loud or too quiet in a way that’s… well, weird. Namjoon doesn’t seem to notice–which Yoongi confirms when he asks him What’s up with Jin-hyung? and gets a confused look in return and a distracted What do you mean what’s up with Jin-hyung? What do you think about this snare for the bridge? So it’s probably nothing. If the way Seokjin is seeming to gravitate toward Yoongi, to angle his broad shoulders toward Yoongi’s hunched ones were something, Namjoon would notice. He would notice the way Seokjin’s gaze lingers on Yoongi a little longer than usual, until Yoongi almost worries he has something on his face, or the way that Seokjin has been just… just a little weird, just around Yoongi. Of course he would. Namjoon isn’t Seokjin’s closest friend–that’s obviously Yoongi–and he might not be perfectly tuned into Seokjin’s weird little quirks and gloomy periods and self-conscious moments–not like Yoongi is–but he’s the leader. He would notice. 

Still though, it’s making Yoongi feel like he’s noticing, and he has other things to focus on, so. He tells Seokjin to meet him in the studio on a Friday night they happen to both have off, or at least off-ish; there’s an early schedule the next morning. Maybe an evening piano lesson will keep Seokjin from staying up all night gaming, Yoongi thinks, without putting much effort into believing it. 

Yoongi is puttering around in Cubase when Seokjin arrives. Yoongi knows he’s there–Jin literally darkens his doorstep the way his shoulders block the light filtering through the studio door–before Seokjin even knocks, and he calls for him to come in.  

“Hey, hyung,” he says, when Seokjin’s presence has filled the room and he hears the door click closed behind him. Yoongi swivels his chair away from the computer and blinks to refocus his eyes. He’s wearing a real shirt, not a giant hoodie, and his lips look pink and glossy. Dressed up, for Seokjin. Pretty, he thinks. Objectively. “Did you have a schedule?” 

“I’m not late,” Seokjin says, pulling his phone from his pocket for a second. 

Yoongi catches a glimpse of Seokjin’s stupid phone lockscreen as he checks the time: a photo of Seokjin, asleep and drooling, that Jungkook had added as a prank years ago and Seokjin had never cared enough to change. Yoongi doesn’t bother to correct Seokjin’s assumption as the phone is stowed away again. “No,” he says. 

“Of course not. I couldn’t be late for our first piano lesson,” Seokjin says. He looks around Genius Lab, at the huge array of monitors and speakers and awards. “I will admit I was surprised when you said to come to your studio, Yoongi,” Seokjin says, wiggling his eyebrows. Yoongi can tell by the way he’s smiling–a little too wide, a little too perfect–that he’s nervous, which is silly. Yoongi told him he has no expectations, he knows he sucks. That’s the whole reason they’re doing lessons. “You didn’t want to do this in, I don’t know, the bedroom?”

Yoongi’s brows furrow. He knows Seokjin must mean his room at home, which does have a keyboard, but… it’s a weird way to say it. “Yeah, well, we could do it at the dorms,” Yoongi says, and shrugs, keeping his face perfectly neutral. “But there’s no sound proofing there.” 

Yoongi looks up to check Seokjin’s reaction and realizes that, despite Seokjin’s usual penchant for self-depricating humor, maybe joking about his lack of piano experience was not the correct way to soothe Seokjin’s nerves: there’s pink creeping up from the neckline of his shirt, and his smile looks even tenser than before.    

“Sorry,” he apologizes. “I just thought you’d want some privacy, you know, so people wouldn’t hear you.”

“Right,” Seokjin says, sounding strained, and still not at all soothed. “Because you think I might get…” His throat bobs. “I might get that loud?”

Yoongi shrugs again. Why is Seokjin so worried about this? It’s really not a big deal–and if he plays too loudly, well, that’s why they're in a soundproof studio. 

Maybe it’s better just to get started, before Seokjin has any more time to work himself up. “Lesson one,” Yoongi says quickly, “Sit.” 

“Oh, Yoongi,” Seokjin says, looking slightly perkier. “Is that really what you’re into? Sit, stay, good boy? Maybe this won’t work after all–”

“Don’t be ridiculous, just–” 

But Seokjin is fucking smiling now, lowering himself very slowly and carefully to– To the couch, where he sits very gingerly, like the princess he’s always claiming to be. 

“What are you doing?” Yoongi asks.

“Sitting,” he says, his hands in his lap and his gaze expectant. He’s about a dozen feet away from the keyboard, and also, his cheeks are still very pink. Even more pink than before, maybe. He shifts back and forth, like he’s planning to get comfortable. 

“Not there,” Yoongi says. “At the piano bench.”

Seokjin’s perfect eyebrows shoot up. “Oh,” he says, and he stands–slowly again, mincing across the room. He lowers himself onto the hard piano bench with a soft grunt. 

“Are you hurt?” Yoongi asks. “If you’re injured, we can reschedule.”

“No,” Seokjin protests. “No, I feel– I feel great. I can’t– Now is good.”

“Okay,” Yoongi says slowly. “If you say so.” 

Seokjin nods, and Yoongi scoots his wheely chair closer, until he’s beside the piano bench himself.  

“Well,” he says, looking at Seokjin expectantly. “Show me what you already know.”

Seokjin swallows, and turns–inexplicably–away from the keyboard. His gaze drops to somewhere below Yoongi’s eyes, as if he can’t bear to make eye contact–which is more Yoongi’s thing, really. 

Does Seokjin not want to be here? His cheeks are pink. His tongue, as it darts out between them to swipe over his lower lip, is pink too. He wiggles on the piano bench again–which is obviously not as comfortable as the couch, so maybe he does want to leave? It makes Yoongi feel nervous–which is more Seokjin’s thing, really. 

“Yoongi, I–”

“We’ll start from the beginning, then,” Yoongi interrupts. “Put your hands on the keyboard.”

Seokjin blinks a bunch of times in a row. “What?”

“Put your hands on the keyboard,” Yoongi repeats.

Yoongi waits patiently, not wanting to rush him, as Seokjin hesitates. He at last lifts his hands up, and rests his fingers on the keys very tentatively. 

“You know middle C,” Yoongi says, and Seokjin nods. “Put your right thumb on middle C, and your left pinky on the C below it. This is the starting position.” 

“Is it?” Seokjin asks, sounding confused, and–

“Not actually,” Yoongi corrects himself. Seokjin is sitting so weirdly, curled into himself like a shrimp. He looks like… Well, he looks like Yoongi does right now. Yoongi very consciously straightens in his fancy ergonomic desk chair. “Technically, before we start, we should work on your posture. The first rule of successful piano playing is posture,” Yoongi says. The very upright old lady who had taught him piano would be so proud. 

Seokjin is staring at him. He still seems weird, Yoongi thinks, with his pink cheeks and his pink tongue and pink, glossy lips and his uncharacteristic inability to sit still. He said he isn’t hurt, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d lied about that to practice longer. But for a piano lesson? It seems unlikely. Could he be sick? Did he catch the cold that Taehyung had had last week? Or was it Jungkook–

Yoongi watches closely as Jin takes a deep breath. Seokjin closes his eyes, and Yoongi watches as Seokjin’s perfect, sharp jawline ticks. He watches as Seokjin holds the breath, one, two, three, like he does before he goes on stage, and then lets the breath out. Seokjin opens his eyes again. 

When he looks over at Yoongi, Seokjin’s expression is clear and bright, and the lightness in his voice belies all the previous weirdness as he says, “but your posture sucks, Yoongi.“ 

“You have to know the rules to break them,” Yoongi says, slouching back down again slightly. “Well?”

Seokjin remains motionless for a long moment, then plants his feet. Straightens his spine, until he is sitting upright enough that even the piano halmeoni couldn’t fault him. His eyebrows twitch, and he looks over at Yoongi expectantly. “Like this?” he asks.  

“Good,” Yoongi says. “And roll your shoulders back, they should be loose.”

“They should be loose,” Seokjin repeats, unmoving. His eyes are closed again. 

“Yeah,” Yoongi says. “Relaxed. Here.” He stands, making his way to stand behind Seokjin at the piano bench, and putting his hands on Seokjin’s broad, broad shoulders. He’s definitely not loose and relaxed, so Yoongi squeezes a couple times, feeling Seokjin’s muscles under his fingers and thumbs. “Fuck, hyung, what have you been doing? You’re so tight.”

“You don’t say,” Seokjin says, and Yoongi grunts in agreement. There’s never enough time to do the stretching exercises they’re supposed to. Yoongi gives him one last squeeze and lets his hands drop. It’s above his pay grade, really–Yoongi will tell their manager to book Seokjin a sports massage. 

“Let your elbows float, rather than hang, at your sides,” he says, and after a moment, he sees the subtle shift in Seokjin’s alignment, the flicker of thought across his face. The way his brow draws together for a half second before smoothing out again. “Good. And then lift your wrists a little. Don’t let them collapse.”

Seokjin lets out a tiny laugh. “Calling my wrists limp, Yoongi?” 

Yoongi narrows his eyes at him. “Very funny. And yes. Now do it.” 

Seokjin flushes, but complies, raising his wrists so that his fingers fall elegantly to the keys. 

“Like this?” 

“Like–” Yoongi says, and leans forward, into Seokjin’s back, to adjust his hand position, just a little. Seokjin leans forward, and lets out a small sound, like a gasp, as Yoongi’s fingers wrap around his wrists, lowering them a fraction of an inch. 

“Yeah,” Yoongi says. He stays there for a moment, supporting Seokjin’s narrow wrists so Seokjin can memorize the feeling. “Yeah, just like that.” Yoongi releases Jin’s wrists and straightens up. For some reason, Seokjin has flushed more–from where Yoongi stands behind him, the bright red tips of his ears are like two glowing beacons. 

“Ah, but of course, limp wristed is really more of a state of mind,” Seokjin blabbers as Yoongi moves to the side of the bench. Seokjin’s cheeks are pink, too, nearly as pink as his ears. “Wouldn’t you agree? Ha ha!” 

Yoongi rolls his eyes at the bad joke. “Sure, hyung. Move over.” 

“What?” Seokjin asks, whipping his face toward Yoongi, then flinching. Yoongi will tell the manager to book that massage for tomorrow. Seokjin obviously really needs one. 

“Move over,” Yoongi repeats, and sits on the very edge of the piano bench, until Seokjin does move over and give him a few more inches of space. Even with the inches between them though, Yoongi can feel the heat radiating from his upper arm–Seokjin is really warm, practically sweating. He’s sure he isn’t getting sick? 

He must have said that last part out loud, because Seokjin shakes his head. “No, I’m not sick. I’m here for a–piano lesson.”

“If you’re sure,” Yoongi says cautiously, and Seokjin nods, this time.

“I’m so, so sure,” he says, staring fixedly at the keys and sounding surprisingly determined for someone who had been so nervous just a few minutes ago. “I am here for just a normal, regular piano lesson. So–let’s get playing, am I right?” 

3

“You haven’t been practicing, have you?”

“No,” Seokjin says, shaking his head sadly. “Not even once.”

Their first lesson had gone… Well, it had been weird. But it had been fine. They’d gotten through a couple scales and some basic theory, and even played a little song together at the end, as a treat, with Yoongi improvising a melody on top of the three brand-new chords Seokjin had learned. 

Three chords that Seokjin appears to have forgotten.

Yoongi stares at him. Then he sighs. “You really aren’t even going to bother to lie?” he asks. “You really think that little of this?”

“Me?” Jin’s eyes go all round and innocent, like Jungkook’s. “Lie? Never. Also, I love learning piano with you, Yoongi, don’t say that.”

“Fuck off, hyung, you lie all the time. Constantly.”

“Like when?!” Seokjin sputters. “Tell me one time–”

“Right now, obviously, because if you really loved learning piano with you, Yoongi,” he sing-songs in an unflattering impression of Jin’s obnoxious baby voice, “you would quit fucking around, do what I tell you to do, and practice. Or at least have the decency to lie about it.”

Seokjin sniffs. “Ask me again.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, hyung, you already told me you didn’t–”

“Just ask again, do it–”

“No! Now I know you’re going to lie!”

“No, you don’t,” Jin says, very seriously. His seriousness is worth nothing–the liar–but Yoongi is pleased to see that his shoulders aren’t as stiff as they were at the last lesson. The sports massage must have helped. “You don’t know what I’m going to say, I promise.” 

Yoongi frowns, and sighs again. “Are you lying now?”

“No, I promise, you have no idea.”

Yoongi is going to regret this. He does it anyway. 

“Have you been practicing, Seokjin?” he asks.

“No,” Seokjin says, because of course. Then he leans in a little closer. He’s making a weird face–tilting his head down so he’s looking up at Yoongi through his–really long, actually–eyelashes. His lips are parted, and it looks like he’s wearing lip gloss again. Yoongi doesn’t remember a photoshoot on Seokjin’s schedule for today, but the company’s about to announce that BTS Jin is Laneige’s latest ambassador, so maybe he’s just been wearing a lip mask or something. Either way, it makes his lips look really… bouncy. Like if Yoongi reached out and touched his lower lip, right in the middle, where it’s fullest, his finger would just bounce right off. He sort of wants to try it now. He clenches his hands into fists in his lap. “Why?” Seokjin says, and it’s low and resonant, the kind of sound Yoongi is always trying to coax out of him during vocal recordings. It stands to reason that the only time it comes so effortlessly is when Seokjin is being ridiculous. Because it is ridiculous, Seokjin leaning further still, into Yoongi’s personal bubble, raising one eyebrow, and saying, “Are you going to punish me?”

“Yes,” Yoongi says.

Seokjin’s eyes widen. He sits up, but not before Yoongi hears him take a quick breath. He’s looking pinker again, too. Hyung should exercise more.  

“Scales,” Yoongi says, turning to the keyboard and pointing at it with one finger. “Now. Start with C, and keep going until I tell you to stop.”

There’s a beat, the piano audibly silent, as Seokjin lifts his hands to hover over the keys. 

Then he laughs.

“Sexy,” he says easily, and begins to play.   

4

“Yoongi-chi, Yoongi-chi, wherefore art thou, Yoongi-chi?”

Yoongi sighs, rolling his shoulders. He’s been hunched over the mixer for hours, and he’s not–

He sighs again. Actually, he is in the mood for antics. Or at least, he knows he really ought to get in the mood. He’s been working for too long, and if he knows he’s not going to make any more progress tonight. If he doesn’t let Seokjin drag him away from the soundboard, he’ll just get increasingly grumpy. He can already tell that when tomorrow morning comes, he’ll be undoing the past five tweaks he’s made to the bridge. Tonight is a lost cause. So. He spins in the fancy recording studio chair to face the door, where Seokjin’s face appears: cute bread cheeks with a bright smile tucked in between. 

“You know that doesn’t mean ‘where are you,’ right?” Yoongi asks. 

“It doesn’t?” Jin asks, but doesn’t wait for the answer. “Well, you knew what I meant, anyway. Linguistics is descriptive.” He’s shockingly cheerful for someone who Yoongi knows for a fact was up all night, until dawn, playing Super Mario.  

“That’s also not what that means.”

“Oh, Yoongi,” Seokjin sighs. “You’re so smart.” 

Yoongi feels like he’s being made fun of, but he isn’t really sure why, or how. 

“And you’re so good at piano. And that’s why,” Seokjin says, plopping down at the keyboard a few machines over from where Yoongi is already sitting. “It’s time for my lesson.” He lifts his hands to the keys. And… 

He really is improving, Yoongi can tell, before he even plays a single note. His shoulders are relaxed, elbows and wrists loose. His long fingers find the keys without any hesitation, and then…

“Ouch!” Seokjin exclaims. “Oh!” His hands curl into fists. “Oh no, Yoongi-chi. I have the most terrible hand cramps!” He’s pouting dramatically. Yoongi sighs as Seokjin uses one hand to massage the other, then switches. 

“Here,” Yoongi says, and Seokjin places one of his hands in the one Yoongi’s just offered. “This is your own damn fault,” Yoongi mutters, pressing his thumb into the pads at the base of Seokjin’s palm, gently massaging his long, knobbly fingers. The piano bench is small, and Yoongi knows that if he looked up at his hyung, he would be close enough to see his long, pretty eyelashes again. His full lower lip, glossy and pouting. 

The circles under his eyes from staying up all night. 

“You were up gaming too long.”

“I was trying to level up,” Seokjin says.

“Did you?” 

Seokjin huffs. “If you must know, I died and I lost all my gear.” 

“Well, I wanted you to level up in piano,” Yoongi says. He releases Seokjin’s hand and holds out his own for the other one. Seokjin’s hands are soft, the tips of his thumbs gently calloused, like a guitarist’s, except that Yoongi hasn’t heard him playing guitar in a while. He really does play way too much Nintendo. “And that’s not going to happen, either, so I guess we both lose.”

Seokjin huffs again. 

“I have this whole hour blocked out,” Yoongi says, gently rubbing up from the center of Seokjin’s palm to his wrist, where his pulse is jumping wildly, like Seokjin just ran a mile. Yoongi’s pulse is jumping too. Out of, he assumes, frustration. 

“For… massage?” he asks, looking at a Yoongi with a hopeful expression. 

“No,” Yoongi interrupts, dropping Seokjin’s hand. “For piano. So. If you want to listen, that’s fine.”

“Oh,” Seokjin says, as Yoongi turns back to the keyboard, picking out a simple repeating melody without thinking–Just One Day. His left hand adds the chords. It’s sweet on the piano, almost too sweet, and Yoongi isn’t sure exactly why he’s picked it–maybe because of its sweet simplicity. Even Seokjin could play this, with a little more practice. If he ever decides to put down the Nintendo controller and do some damn practicing–

“I like this, Yoongi,” Seokjin says. 

“It’s nothing.” Just a simple melody. He loops through it again, adding a couple little flourishes before deciding it's better in its simplicity.

“No, I meant… It’s nice to spend time with you.”

Yoongi is able to pass off the key he hits accidentally as if it’s a grace note. He feels his cheeks going a little warm at the beginner mistake. It is nice to hang out with Jin. Jin’s been seeking him out, more–they’ve been seeking each other out more, recently, sitting next to each other during meetings and in the van, and it’s nice. He’s nice to spend time with. Annoying, but. Well. 

“You’re a good friend,” Yoongi says gruffly. 

Next to him, Seokjin sighs. Yoongi can feel eyes staring at his face. He refuses to look back, so he doesn’t notice when Seokjin shifts on the bench, when his spine curves toward Yoongi, and his head comes to rest gently on Yoongi’s good shoulder. If he had seen, he would have told him not to–it’s hard to play like this, with the dead weight of Seokjin’s big head on his shoulder, limiting his motion. 

But the sound of Seokjin’s steady breathing fills out the music like a bassline, his pulse against Yoongi’s skin beating out the rhythm of the drums, and Yoongi thinks that this––this moment, this feeling–is maybe what he’s always trying to capture when he writes, so he doesn’t kick Seokjin off, just closes his eyes and plays.

5

“Thank you!” Seokjin says, smiling shyly as Chris Martin gives him the kind of awkward side-hug they always get from western celebrities, with too much physical contact and not enough at the same time. Seokjin’s ears are red; Yoongi knows he’d been mostly joking around when he’d said he wanted the guitar Chris had played, and isn’t quite sure what to do with himself now that he’s gotten it. 

“Let me just check it’s in the right tuning, first,” Chris says, taking his guitar back, out of Seokjin’s hands. It’s very rude, actually.

“First lesson!” Hoseok says in English, and Yoongi snaps his head over to stare at his friend. Hoseok grins back, cocks his head to one side. The traitor.

“There you go, this one,” Chris is saying, gently rearranging Seokjin’s fingers along the fretboard. 

They find the chord easily. Of course they do. 

Chris passes over his own guitar pick to a blushing Seokjin. “First G chord, ready?” 

“Hyung, you already know how to play the guitar, though,” Yoongi says, as Seokjin brings the pick to the strings.

“I forgot,” Seokjin says blithely, and then strums a chord. A G chord, which Yoongi didn’t need Chris Martin to explain, because he plays guitar, and which Seokjin also doesn’t need Chris Martin to explain, because Seokjin also plays guitar. “Ahhhhhh,” Seokjin exclaims excitedly, as if amazed with his newfound talent, as Chris laughs benevolently. “Yay!”

Yoongi crosses his arms. 

“Isn’t that like being happy about hitting the piano with your head?” Hoseok says to him, in Korean, and Yoongi smirks at him. That’s right. 

“Great job, Jin,” Namjoon says. He sounds tired. It’s time to go. 

As the cameras snap away at Jin and Chris, posing and smiling, hugging again, holding up the guitar, Yoongi’s patience feels one thin thread away from snapping, too.

“We should have left for home an hour ago,” Yoongi grumbles, half to Namjoon and half to himself. “We have so much shit to do tomorrow.” 

Jungkook has his arms looped over Jimin’s shoulders, his nose tucked against his neck, but at this, he looks up, glancing between Yoongi and Seokjin with big, worried eyes.  

“Jin hyung’s a big fan of Coldplay,” he says. “You know how much he loves Chris Martin hyungnim. You’re just jealous.”

Yoongi clenches his jaw. He is not jealous of Chris Martin. Just because Seokjin loves Chris Martin–loves Coldplay–just because he–the whole band–are legitimate rock stars and it’s an honor to collaborate with them–doesn’t mean that Yoongi can’t be tired and grumpy and have shit to do. Yoongi is a rock star, too. He, too, can play the guitar and the piano, and write Billboard hits, and perform in sold-out stadiums, and to do that, he needs to get back to work– 

“It’s a really cool guitar,” Jungkook concludes, and–

“I’m not jealous of… Jin’s guitar,” Yoongi growls. “I’m just tired.” He forces himself to unclench his jaw and schools his expression into one of cool boredom, rather than the pout he suspects he has been wearing. Waits patiently by their managers as everyone gets bundled out of the VIP area and into through the labyrinthine hallways of the venue, out into the night and a waiting van. 

“You know, Seokjin,” Yoongi says quietly, on the way home. Seokjin is sitting next to him–his usual spot–fucking around on his phone. “If you want to get better at guitar, you don’t need Chris Martin to show you chords. I could teach you.”

Seokjin’s expression, when he looks over at Yoongi, is… well, baffled is the best descriptor, but that doesn’t make sense. Seokjin can be dense, but he shouldn’t be that confused. He knows Yoongi plays guitar, has heard him carefully picking out hundreds of songs over their years as roommates. 

“Really, Yoongi?” Seokjin asks, as if the very thought strains credulity. As if it is completely ridiculous that Yoongi would want to spend time with him. As if it makes sooooooo much more sense for Seokjin to learn guitar from fucking Chris Martin–no, not fucking Chris Martin, not like that–

Yoongi frowns. 

“Yes, really,” Yoongi says, feeling his lips curve into a pout despite his best efforts at looking casual. “You shouldn’t bother Chris Martin about guitar lessons. He’s busy.”

Seokjin’s eyes boggle. 

Yoongi draws his knees together, angling them away from Seokjin and toward the window. “It’s not a big deal,” he says, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Forget it.”

There’s a long moment where he feels Seokjin’s eyes staring into the back of his skull, sending little prickles of awareness tickling down his spine and over his shoulderblades, and Yoongi thinks he’s going to say something to him. 

Then a soft sound, like a sigh, and the shuffle of designer clothes against leather as Seokjin shifts in his seat, too. 

Yoongi isn’t sure why, in that moment, he feels lonely. 

+ 1

It’s not even a week later when Seokjin shows up in his studio again. Yoongi hears footsteps in the hallway, and thinks–Seokjin-hyung. He barely has time to reflect upon the fact that he recognizes his hyung’s footsteps before he’s realizing that his stomach is… well, there’s a tickly feeling in it that can only be gurgling, right? Did he eat something weird? Is he hungry? His heartbeat feels rapid, too. Is it, perhaps, his turn to have caught the cold that Taehyung–or was it Jimin–had gotten last month?

And actually– What time is it? He’d meant to leave the studio after finishing the last song, but then he’d been on a roll and hadn’t wanted to stop, just grabbed a coffee–that explains the heartbeat–and continued working–that explains the hunger. How long ago had that been? 

Maybe Seokjin’s been sent to drag him back to the dorms. But now that he thinks about it, Yoongi is pretty hungry, and the song he’s working on is practically done, and Yoongi doesn’t want to go back to the dorms. He wants to get some dinner, and in that case, he should ask Seokjin if he wants to join. It’s the polite thing to do. 

There’s a fast knock-knock-knock on the door frame. Before Yoongi even has time to say anything, he hears an even faster beep-beep-beep-beep of the pinpad and the door is swinging open.

“Come right in, Seokjin,” he offers, as Seokjin stomps into the room. 

He does not have food.

He also does not look like he wants to go grab some dinner. 

And not just because he’s holding, in one hand, a shiny brass trumpet. 

The door swings closed.

Yoongi means to ask Why are you here so late, collecting me when you should be tucked in at home, and why do you have a trumpet, and now that you’re here, do you want to get some dinner? 

What he says is “What are you doing here?” 

“I really want you to show me… how to blow,” Seokjin says, raising his eyebrows. “If you know what I mean.”

“You aren’t interested in piano anymore?” There’s a sinking feeling in Yoongi’s chest–a vacuum opening up inside his ribcage. He hadn’t realized, apparently, how important it was that Seokjin learn the piano. That he teach him. Their lessons together, sitting side by side on the piano bench–

But for some reason, this only seems to make Seokjin annoyed. “No, Yoongi, I’m not,” he huffs. “I wasn’t getting very far with my lessons, now was I?”

“I don’t know,” Yoongi says, affronted himself now. He may have been a little distracted, but he wasn’t a bad teacher, was he? Not like Chris Martin, he thinks, irritation scratching at the top of his spine like the tag of a cheap tee shirt. “You were getting there.”

“Was I?” Seokjin says, staring at Yoongi wide-eyed. “Was I?” 

“I mean… Yes?”

Seokjin's hand–the one not holding a trumpet–flies up to his face, his fingers slipping under the wire frames of his glasses to rub his eyes. 

“Where did you get that?” Yoongi finally manages to ask.

Seokjin sighs, his eyebrows drawing together. “Does it matter?”

Yoongi shrugs. “I guess not. It’s just weird that you would show up in my studio with a trumpet. Especially when you’ve never expressed any interest in trumpet before. That’s more Taehyung’s thing.”

“It’s Taehyung’s trumpet, so yeah,” Seokjin says. 

“Then you should ask him to teach you,” Yoongi responds. “He’s… still learning, but–”

“Taehyung is shit at trumpet, and you know it–”

“--but he knows more trumpet than I do. At the very least, he knows a trum…” Yoongi stumbles over his words as Seokjin approaches him, a determined frown on his face and trumpet held threateningly in his grip. His fingers are clenched tight around the loopy part. Yoongi is positive that’s not the part you’re supposed to hold. “...trumpet… teacher,” he says. Seokjin is very, very close. He reaches past Yoongi’s hip, planting the trumpet bell-side down on Yoongi’s desk. It reminds Yoongi, oddly, of after Seokjin takes a shot of soju and slams the glass back down on the table for another. 

“Yoongi,” Seokjin says. 

“Seokjin,” Yoongi says. “Hyung,” he adds belatedly. 

This close up, Yoongi can see the faint shadow of Seokjin’s facial hair, the texture of his skin. But also, the determination in his eyes. The swell of his lower lip, jutting into a pout. It’s very… it’s a lot, honestly. Especially when he leans closer, so close Yoongi can feel his breath against his earlobe when he speaks. Yoongi doesn’t–he doesn’t really know what’s going on right now.

“Do you think I really want a professional trumpet teacher right now?”

“...No?” Yoongi confirms. Jin is so broad, Yoongi can’t see past him, his wide shoulders blocking out Yoongi’s vision. 

“That’s right. You’re so smart, Yoongi-chi,” Jin says, condescendingly, and Yoongi stiffens. 

“What’s that supposed to–”

“Yoongi,” Jin interrupts. “Did you know that I’m really, really rich?”

Yoongi does know. He’s driven Jin’s Porche, the two of them blasting 2 Baddies while Jin cackled maniacally and rapped along. But he doesn’t see what that has to do with… 

Seokjin has taken another step closer, crowding him against the table. He smells really nice, like expensive face serum and faint cologne and the satisfied sweat that comes with nailing a complicated dance move, and Yoongi’s heart is racing again. Racing like Seokjin’s other car, an obnoxious, bright blue Lambo, because he’s really, really rich. Rich and famous. And tall, Yoongi thinks, staring fixedly at his perfect lips, which are still softly pouting and right at Yoongi’s eye height. And handsome. Worldwide, sure, but even more so like this, up close. Really close. And… and dedicated, willing to work twice as hard as anyone else if that’s what it takes to keep up with the other members. And kind, and sort of funny, and annoying sometimes, but always thoughtful. And sweet, and loyal, and shy, despite his whole… obnoxious thing. Kim Seokjin is beautiful, and wonderful, and Yoongi’s best friend. 

His soulmate. 

The person he’d want to live with forever. 

Fuck, Yoongi thinks. I’m in love with Kim Seokjin. Fuck. Fuck!

That explains the funny feeling in his stomach, and the way his heart races whenever he’s around. The empty sensation in his chest when Seokjin told him he didn’t want any more piano lessons. It explains the way he’d–oh fuck, the countless times he’d stumbled into their shared bedroom over the years, drunk and sentimental, and tried to crawl into bed with his hyung, mumbling drunken I love yous. Fuck, he had meant it. He had been in love with Seokjin-hyung for… for years. It even explains why–Yoongi squeezes his eyes shut–why he’s been totally staring at Seokjin’s beautiful, plump, soft-looking, kissable lips, for what was probably kind of a long time. 

Yoongi freezes, his eyes closed, the table doing most of the work of holding him up as he feels the earth shift around him and a hundred tiny moments click into place. 

Yoongi is in love with Seokjin. It’s undeniable–it explains everything. 

Everything.

Except why Kim Seokjin is here, in the middle of the night, with Taehyung’s trumpet, telling Yoongi that he’s really, really rich.

“Yes,” Yoongi says. His voice sounds to him like it’s coming from somewhere deep in the ocean, instead of his own mouth. He’s having an out of body experience, maybe, except that he doesn’t believe in that kind of thing, and also, he has never felt more in his body in his life, like he can feel every blood cell in his body and they’re all screaming Kim Seokjin! 

“You did know. That’s right,” Jin says. “Then, don’t you think I could afford to just hire a piano teacher? The best piano teacher in the world, probably? Yo Yo Ma, even, if I wanted to?”

“Yo Yo Ma plays the cello,” Yoongi corrects, through the stranglehold his sudden realization currently has on his vocal chords. Seokjin really doesn’t know shit about the piano, does he? Why was he so insistent on learning to play? 

“Oh my god, Yoongi, I do not care!” Jin shouts, and Yoongi opens his eyes at last. Seokjin’s neck is pink, and his hair is disheveled, like he’s been running his hands through it while Yoongi had his eyes closed. He looks really, truly, devastatingly handsome, and Yoongi… Is going to die. Is dying already, maybe. “Did you ever think, in that brilliant, stupid, pedantic little brain of yours, that maybe I don’t care about the piano? Or the trumpet? That maybe–maybe–I just wanted to spend some time with you?”

And… No. That thought had not crossed Yoongi’s mind. That he’d wanted to spend time with Seokjin, sure, but–but oh god, Yoongi was in love with Seokjin. Of course he’d want to spend time with him. He was in love. Why did Seokjin want to spend time with Yoongi? The answer suddenly seems of critical importance. So:

“Why?” Yoongi croaks. 

“I–” Seokjin says, and then Seokjin’s shoulders shoot up around his ears, his hands fly up to Yoongi’s cheeks, and Yoongi doesn’t even have time to close his eyes before Seokjin kisses him. His lips are soft. So, so soft, Yoongi’s frayed mind registers, half a second before he realizes what’s going on, and closes his eyes, and then there’s only another half-second before the kiss is over, and the softness of his lips and the warmth of his hands and the closeness of his body are all gone as Seokjin takes a step backwards, and Yoongi knows, without any doubt, that there’s only one thing that he can possibly do in this moment, and that he’ll do it without even a single more half-second passing, if it means the fearful, nervous expression crinkling Seokjin’s face is smoothed over.

“I love you,” he blurts out, just as Seokjin is saying, “I like you.”

“‘I love you,’” repeats Seokjin, his face still cautious and crinkled, “...’like a brother, so let’s pretend this never happened and not ruin our precious, brotherly friendship’?”

“I’m in love with you,” Yoongi says, and Seokjin says, “Oh.” The crinkles fall from between his brow and the inner corners of his pretty, sparkling eyes as they go wide with surprise. 

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, well, that’s...”

“What?” Yoongi says. 

Seokjin blinks, and then blinks a couple more times. 

His blink is so cute, Yoongi thinks to himself, and oh, fuck! How had he not known? 

“Well, I’ve only just said I like you, and you’re confessing your love? That’s–that’s a lot, Yoongi-chi, don’t you think?” His ears are bright–nearly fluorescent–red, and his stance is studiously casual as he leans back at an awkward angle against the edge of the desk. His eyes are sparkling. He’s beautiful. Yoongi is so, so stupid. “I didn’t want to come on too strong, is all,” Seokjin is saying, shrugging, “but I guess I shouldn’t have worried. I didn’t expect to be dealing with confessions of love until, like, the second date maybe, but I guess I am a pretty good kisser–”

“Let’s go to dinner,” Yoongi says. If Seokjin wants dates he’ll give him dates. He’ll date the hell out of him. “Fancy. Italian.”

“You’re trying to impress me with your riches. It won’t work. Besides, you’ve already confessed, it’s too late, and don’t even think about trying to count my piano lessons as dates, you didn’t even know–”

“Fine,” Yoongi says. “Let’s not. Let’s go home and eat in our pajamas. I don’t care. I just want–” He swallows. “I just want to spend time with you, too.” 

“Aww, Yoongichi,” Seokjin coos. “You do love–” 

Seokjin pauses, blinking, his Adam’s apple bobbing under pink skin. “You do love me,” he says, and honestly, he looks a little bit surprised, as if what Yoongi’s said has just now sunk in. “Yoongi,” he says, blinking some more. “We can go on a date to an Italian restaurant some other time. I’m free next Thursday. Are you?”

Yoongi has no idea what his plans are–were–next Thursday, but he knows they’re all cancelled now. 

Seokjin doesn’t wait for Yoongi’s response, anyway. “Tonight, I. Well.” Seokjin looks around, his eyes scanning Yoongi’s studio. When he looks at Yoongi again, his gaze is intense. Serious. “This is fine, yeah. Yoongi. Do you want to eat ramen. With me. Tonight.”

Yoongi feels his brows draw together. “You’re sure you don’t want Italian?” he asks.

“God, yes,” Seokjin says. “I’m so sure. Yoongi,” he says again, and he’s looking at Yoongi oddly, through his eyelashes. It’s the same, strange expression he’d made way back at one of their early lessons.  “Do you. Want to. Eat ramen. With me.” 

“...Yes?” Yoongi says, because it seems like the correct answer. 

“Oh my g– Do you want to fuck me, Yoongi?” Seokjin asks, exasperated, as Yoongi’s hearing gets all swimmy and distant again. “Because I’m thinking that could be a good idea. Right now. What do you think? Do you agree, or do you want to talk about dinner for a little while long–mmphf!”

Yoongi kisses the words from his mouth, surprised when Seokjin melts into him as soon as their lips touch. Easily, and completely. Yoongi brings his hands up to rest hesitantly on the curve of Seokjin’s hips, and Seokjin makes a small sound. Yoongi wants to hear it again. Wants to draw it from Seokjin’s mouth, over and over. His fingers find the hem of Seokjin’s tee shirt and slip underneath, until his thumbs brush against the soft, warm skin of Seokjin’s stomach. 

“Take this off,” Yoongi tells him, half wondering if Seokjin will demur, half surprised when he does not, when Seokjin takes a step backward, whipping his shirt over his head, and– “You’re so hot,” Yoongi says, stupidly, as if he hasn’t seen Seokjin without his shirt off before. 

Seokjin–of all reactions–giggles. “Wow, Yoongi,” he says. Yoongi’s distracted, his attention fixed on Seokjin’s gorgeous pale gold skin, his broad shoulders, his delicate collarbones, his broad chest and small brown nipples, the unthinkably narrow waist and the way his pants hang over the soft curve of his hips, but when he finally manages to drag his eyes back to Seokjin’s face he sees Seokjin is smiling softly. “Thanks for noticing.”

“Yeah, I…” Yoongi starts, only to trail off as Seokjin hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and starts tugging them down down down down, until all Yoongi can see is the top of Seokjin’s head and the muscles working across his broad back. He’s so hot. And he’s going to stand up, and Yoongi’s going to see him in his underwear, and pass out, and hit his head on his desk, and when he wakes up, this will all be an embarrassing concussion dream.

If it is, Yoongi thinks, he doesn’t want to wake up–so when Seokjin straightens, Yoongi doesn’t even peek at the pretty thighs he knows are down there somewhere. It takes tremendous self-restraint. He also doesn’t look at–at the part of Seokjin that’s currently covered by his boxer briefs, but that is self-preservation. First, he has to–

“Fuck, Seokjin,” he says, and spins them around so that he can collapse onto the studio couch and pull Seokjin down into his lap. Now that he’s sitting, he looks–he touches, because Seokjin’s knees are on either side of Yoongi’s hips, and Yoongi can’t help but to grasp Seokjin’s knees, to slide broad hands up his thighs and rest with his thumbs right under the bottom edge of Seokjin’s boxer briefs. The smooth skin of Seokjin’s inner thighs is giving and soft and Seokjin’s cock, behind his underwear, is big and very not-soft and Yoongi’s glad he had the foresight to sit down before looking because all the blood in Yoongi’s body, too, has gathered in that one very specific location. If he passes out sitting, at least he won’t get a concussion. He reaches up for Seokjin, wrapping one hand around the back of his neck and pulling him back down into a kiss. Seokjin’s lips are so soft. They’ll look so, so good wrapped around Yoongi’s cock; he’ll probably come in 15 seconds like a dumb teenager. But tonight– “You want me to fuck you?” he asks, his lips against Seokjin’s. He sounds incredulous even to his own ears.  

“Or I can fuck you, I guess, if that’s what you want,” Seokjin offers. “I can–” he draws back a little. “I can figure it out, I just want to–”

“Spend time with me?” Yoongi interrupts, smirking.

“Make you feel good,” Seokjin corrects, wiping the smirk from Yoongi’s face.

“Fuck,” he says, and he can feel Seokjin’s smile as full lips land on his.

“Oh, you’re finally getting it,” Seokjin says against his mouth. “Yeah,” he says, and slides one hand from where it was resting on Yoongi’s shoulder, down to grip the noticeable bulge in his jeans. Despite the layers of stiff fabric, Yoongi feels the touch like a taser, like lightning directly to his dick, until he’s rock hard and uncomfortable under the denim. “I’d say you’re catching up.”

It’s incredible how turned on Yoongi is, how hard he is despite Seokjin’s stupid little jokes–or maybe because of them, because Seokjin’s stupid little jokes mean this is Seokjin who is mostly naked in his lap, kissing him until he can barely breathe, grinding his hips against his cock with a complete lack of shame that surprises Yoongi. 

“I’ve waited for this for so long,” Seokjin says, like he can read Yoongi’s mind. “If you–ah!” He gasps as Yoongi pulls him closer, wishing there were fewer layers between Seokjin’s hot, hard cock and his own. “Yoongi, if you want to fuck me, you need to– It’s not going to take much; if you keep doing this I’ll–”

Yoongi’s cock throbs. He’s tempted–so tempted–to keep going, to hold Seokjin down on his lap and test him. See if he really will come all over himself just from a little kissing and the dull, clothed friction of their hips together. 

But he knows he is just as liable to make a mess of himself like that, so Seokjin is right. Yoongi needs to stop if he wants to feel Jin come not squirming on his lap, but clenching tight around his cock. 

Yoongi’s never wanted anything more. 

He wraps his arms even tighter around Seokjin’s small waist, lifting him off his lap and reversing their positions so that Seokjin is sitting on the couch with Yoongi standing between his knees. Also between Seokjin’s knees is a jersey-clad bulge the size of which makes Yoongi’s mouth fill with saliva and his cock smear pre-come against his underwear.

“You have lube hidden away in here somewhere, right?” Seokjin asks and Yoongi ducks his head, embarrassed as he retrieves the bottle from his desk drawer. “Obviously you do,” Seokjin laughs. It makes his abs contract. He isn’t ripped like Jungkook or beefy like Namjoon, but his skin is golden and smooth over lean muscle and broad shoulders and the way he sits, legs sprawled open–

“I want to see you, too,” Yoongi hears him say, and–yeah, Yoongi can do that. He takes off his own shirt, drops his pants, and then, what the hell, he peels off his boxer briefs too, kicking everything somewhere behind him. 

“Yoongi,” Seokjin breathes, just the word, just his name, but Seokjin’s hand is on his cock, squeezing tight over the fabric, and his eyes are hot as they roam greedily over Yoongi’s body, from his skinny legs to his bad shoulder and between, where his cock–rock hard and sticking straight out–juts from a patch of trimmed, dark hair, and Yoongi, yeah, he might die tonight, right here, in his studio. At least if Seokjin’s here, there will be someone to report it to management–although who knows what the fuck kind of excuse he’d have to make.  

When he drops to his knees it’s only a little bit because they can’t bear the weight of Jin’s heavy gaze, and mostly because he really, really needs to get Seokjin naked–his finger tips slide up Seokjin’s thighs again, this time skimming over his hips to the waistband of his underwear, slipping underneath. Seokjin lifts his hips, and then the last shred of any modesty they may have retained is stripped away as Seokjin’s cock bobs free, as hard and desperate as Yoongi’s. 

But bigger.

“Fuck,” he swears, as Seokjin’s hand wraps around the base and his brows draw tight together. Yoongi knew Seokjin’s was big, but it’s different up close. Half–more than half–of his cock is still visible above where his fist is wrapped around his shaft, the tips of Seokjin’s long, pretty fingers barely meeting his thumb. He’s rich, and beautiful, and sort of funny, and Yoongi’s best friend, and also, his hard cock is practically the size of Yoongi’s whole arm. Yoongi thinks maybe he said that last part out loud, because Seokjin makes a soft sound, and his cock twitches, a glossy pearl of precome beading at the tip.

“Don’t exaggerate, Yoongi,” he says. “Just say it’s the biggest cock you’ve ever seen in your whole life.” He’s joking, but his voice is breathy, so Yoongi does it.

“Your cock is the biggest I’ve ever seen in my whole life,” he says, and reaches out to cover Seokjin’s hand with his own. “Fuck, Seokjin, I’m going to make you come so hard. I’m going to watch you come all over yourself and then I’m going to lick it off–”

“Oh my god,” Seokjin says, his head falling back against the wall with a loud thump and his hips working up into his and Yoongi’s fist. “You’re going to make me come like this if you don’t stop talking.”

“You like that,” Yoongi says, not really asking a question, which is fine, because Seokjin doesn’t really answer it. He’s busy squeezing the base of his cock again. 

“I won’t need that much prep.” 

Yoongi raises an eyebrow, and Seokjin blushes. 

“I may have gotten a little… hopeful in the shower earlier.”

“Shit, Seokjin,” Yoongi swears.

“I would hope not,” Seokjin says, a teasing smile suddenly appearing below his flushed cheeks, and Yoongi crinkles his nose in mock disgust. “This isn’t my first time around the block, you know, I hope you aren’t disappointed I’m not a blushing virgin.”

“There is no way in hell I could ever find you a disappointment,” Yoongi says, scanning Seokjin from his toes, up to his pale thighs, his huge cock, broad chest, shoulders, lips, eyes– He watches his face closely, sees the teasing smile fall away and Seokjin’s lips part as he continues. “But I’ll make you forget everyone who came before me. I’ll fuck you so well you don’t even remember your own name.” 

“Yes, Yoongi, I can’t– I don’t want to wait any longer. I–” Jin says, squirming, pink from his head to his hole, “Fuck, I should have worn a plug.”

Yoongi pictures a cute little silicone plug, or maybe a pretty jewel, winking up at him from Seokjin’s asshole, and feels dangerously like he’s going to pass out again. “No,” he says. “This is good.” 

“I did, to the first lesson,” Seokjin blurts out.

“What?” Yoongi asks, his head filled with static. 

“I wore a–” Seokjin says, his knees jerking together around Yoongi’s body. Yoongi’s grip tightens around his knees, holding them wide. “I thought you knew, that day at the music show, what I had meant–I didn’t think you meant real piano lessons–and as soon as I realized–fuck, Yoongi–I was so embarassed–”

Yoongi remembers that day, remembers thinking Seokjin was acting… weird. The way he’d been so tense when Yoongi had touched him, the way he had sat so awkwardly on the hard piano bench. He’d had a plug in his ass the whole time. Holding him open for Yoongi to fill him up. Pressing against his prostate, maybe, as Yoongi made him sit up straight for a fucking hour. No wonder Seokjin had been so damn jumpy. Yoongi can only imagine how he must have felt, getting increasingly uncomfortable, more and more embarrassed over the course of the lesson, trying desperately to hide the reason from Yoongi.

Yoongi, whose head is filled with static again. He could have had this at the first lesson, if only he’d known; Seokjin had wanted him, even that first time. Had wanted him, but–Seokjin wouldn’t have wanted to make Yoongi uncomfortable, he realizes. He’d rather suffer in silence than force something on Yoongi that he didn’t want. 

Seokjin couldn’t be more wrong. Yoongi does want. Now that he knows, he wants so, so fucking bad to see Seokjin squirm. To watch him sweat through scales as–fuck–as Yoongi controls a vibrator tucked against his prostate. To sit him on Yoongi’s cock, keep him on edge for hours as Yoongi picks out melodies for the new album. To– 

“It’s good to know you wouldn’t have appreciated it anyway,” Seokjin pants, and Yoongi tears his eyes away from Seokjin’s ass to meet his gaze. 

“I would have,” Yoongi says. Then corrects himself: “I will. Not tonight, but next time, once I’ve fucked you full of my come, I’ll plug you up, don’t worry, baby.” He hears the ragged gasp of Seokjin’s breath, sees the sharp expansion of his chest, and yes, Seokjin really likes that. The pet name, or the promise, Yoongi isn’t sure, but he is sure he wants to get that reaction out of Seokjin again. Desire emboldens him. “You want to wear a plug all the time, baby, keep yourself nice and open for me to use any time I want?” 

“Fuck, Yoongi,” Seokjin says, and he’s smiling, but his breathing is shaky, his cock drooling against his stomach. “Really going from zero to one hundred here tonight, huh?”

Yoongi leans in, pressing a kiss to the inside of Seokjin’s pale thigh.

“This isn’t 100,” Yoongi corrects. “I don’t even have my tongue on you yet.”

Seokjin’s mouth is open to respond, but all Yoongi hears is a loud gasp as he finally does get his tongue on Seokjin’s gorgeous cock, hot and hard and salty-sweet. The gasp becomes a ragged breath as Yoongi twirls his tongue around the head, tasting a fresh spurt of precome, which he laps up eagerly. 

“Oh,” Seokjin says, and the corners of Yoongi’s mouth curve up, at least as much as they can while he’s holding his lips tight around Seokjin’s shaft, swallowing him all the way to the base in one go. No dumb jokes or clever remarks now, Yoongi thinks, satisfied. As Yoongi’s throat works around Jin’s wide cockhead, all he hears out of him are the soft, panting breaths of a man who’s holding himself back from the edge. Yoongi desperately wants to hear the way Seokjin sounds when he comes, to feel his thick cock throb in his tight throat and taste his hot release on his tongue, but after a few more gratifying trips from thick base to swollen head and back again, he forces himself to slide off Seokjin’s cock, now glossy and dark with blood. 

“You weren’t lying about being good at that,” Seokjin murmurs, sounding slightly dazed as Yoongi pushes Seokjin’s knees even wider until he’s spread on the couch. Yoongi allows himself a smug smile as he kisses down the shaft, then lower, over Seokjin’s taut balls. Lower still, until Seokjin gasps again. “Oh, oh, Yoongi!”

Yoongi’s tongue presses firm against Jin’s hole, feeling the muscle clench and flutter against it as he tastes him in wide, flat strokes. Even more delicious is the constant stream of breathy sounds coming from the couch above him–and although Seokjin squirms against his grip, he makes no move to shy away, like Yoongi would have, perhaps, expected. When his hips start moving, subtly shifting forward and back against the blunt press of Yoongi’s tongue, Yoongi nearly comes in his underwear: Seokjin loves this. Yoongi growls, his fingers closing tighter over those thighs, holding him in place as he draws his tongue in spirals across his rim. When he reaches the center and flicks the tip of it across Jin’s entrance, he realizes Jin had gotten hopeful in the shower, earlier: it only takes the slightest press of his tongue against it before it’s sliding through the first ring of muscle, changing Seokjin’s breath to a moan. Yoongi points his tongue and fucks it in deeper, his nose pressed to Seokjin’s soft balls, his whole world narrowed to just the scent and taste and heat and squeeze of Seokjin. Until the only thing he can hear is the pounding in his ears and Seokjin’s desperate noises as his walls clench over Yoongi’s skillful tongue as it slides it and out, until Seokjin’s hole drips with his saliva and tastes only of himself. Then he gropes for the lube beside him and slicks up his fingers. 

Seokjin gasps again as Yoongi’s tongue is replaced with one finger, then another almost immediately after. “Yoongi, Yoongi,” he says. “Please.”

“Please, what?” Yoongi asks.

“Please, fuck me, I’m ready, I want you, I can’t wait,” he gets in response, and–

He’d never really thought about his hyung in bed. Had, perhaps, never dared to imagine his handsome, irritating roommate in the throes of anything more passionate than the furtive, desperate, under-the-covers jacking off that was a mutually unacknowledged fact of life for idols. If he had, though, it wouldn’t have been like this: the normally shy Seokjin spread wide, his pink hole sucking Yoongi’s fingers in greedily as he begs shamelessly for cock, the pink on his cheeks not that of bashfulness but of pure arousal. A matching flare of heat tears through Yoongi as he thinks of who might have seen this side of his hyung before–had it been a dancer? An idol friend?  

Or maybe–maybe it was just Yoongi who he showed this side of himself to, Yoongi thinks as he scissors his fingers against Seokjin’s warm, giving walls one last time before drawing them out. Seokjin’s hole gapes, hyung’s pink rim looking as desperate for cock as his voice sounds, and Yoongi runs a generous palmful of lube over his cock, wanting it wet and messy and easy. Easy, like Seokjin himself as Yoongi lays him back, his head against the arm of the couch, and crawls between his legs. As easy as a decade spent in cramped quarters and meager rations and early morning photo shoots following late night practices. As easy as cold bathroom floors and foreign hotel rooms and two stale beds divided by a bookshelf in an empty apartment in Seoul. Easy, like Seokjin and Yoongi, broad shoulder to broken one on a piano bench backstage. 

He runs the tip of his cock over Seokjin’s entrance, letting it catch once, twice, before taking pity on the man writhing beneath him and pushing inside. One long, slow press, his eyes fixed on Seokjin’s face, searching for any sign of pain and finding only bliss as his cock sinks into warm, wet heat. 

“Yes,” Seokjin gasps, and Yoongi is suddenly so, so close already, Seokjin’s slack expression belying the squeeze of his body around Yoongi’s desperate cock. 

Yoongi shifts, drawing back hesitantly, and then he feels Seokjin’s legs wrap around his hips, pulling him in again, and deeper. This time, when Yoongi pulls out, the roll of his hips is less cautious. “Is this what you wanted, baby?” Yoongi groans into Seokjin’s ear, bracing one hand over his hyung’s wide shoulder and the other gripping him firmly by the narrow waist. He doesn’t wait for Seokjin to respond, just rocks his hips, grinding deep into Seokjin. “My cock, splitting you open like this? You’re so fucking tight.”

“It’s been– a while,” Seokjin gasps.

“So long you couldn’t wait another second,” Yoongi says. “Fucking yourself open in the shower before showing up here, begging for it.”  

“Oh my god,” Seokjin says, and Yoongi can feel his hole clench around his cock, the throb of his cock against Yoongi’s stomach–then, Seokjin’s abs contracting as he lets out a huff of laughter. “Yeah, well, subtlety hadn’t really worked out for me, so…” Yoongi chuckles, too, and dips his head into the junction of Seokjin’s neck and shoulderblade. “You better make it worth the effort I put in–ah!”

Yoongi bites down on Seokjin’s shoulder, just lightly, not enough to leave a mark. His tongue laves over the mark in a wet, open mouthed kiss. 

 “What did I tell you, baby?” Yoongi prompts, drawing his cock out, slowly, slowly. The slide is slick and wet but it still feels like Seokjin’s hole is clinging to him, trying to hold his cock deep inside. 

“I–” Seokjin starts. Whatever nonsensical thing he was thinking of saying is cut off, replaced by a breathy curse when Yoongi snaps his hips forward, burying his cock in Seokjin all at once.

“I’ll make you come so hard you forget your own name,” Yoongi tells him again, fucking into him until their hips press together. Then again. Again. “I’ll fill you up and keep a plug in you so I can do it again, whenever I want. ” 

It’s like rapping, he thinks, as the words flow from his tongue and drip, wet and messy, over Seokjin, whose head is thrown back, his back arched. Yoongi thrusts into him again and again, deeper and deeper. Until he’s forgotten every other lover, he thinks with a fierce possessiveness that surprises even him. Until everyone knows that Kim Seokjin is his, and no one else’s.

“Keep you under my desk so you can suck my cock while I write a song for you, and then fuck you in the studio while you record it.” Sweat beads along Yoongi’s hairline, his skin burning hot everywhere he and Seokjin are touching. “You think you can hit the high notes with my cock in your ass, baby? Can you do it one take, or will I have to edge you to get the sounds I need?” Seokjin groans, one arm flopping over his face. Yoongi grabs it, pinning it down so he can’t cover his strained expression. “What do you think? Can you do a good job for me?”

“For you,” Seokjin agrees, and Yoongi’s balls are tight as they slap heavily against Jin’s ass. He’s so close. 

Seokjin is too–sprawled out underneath Yoongi, his chest rising in shaky heaves, the tip of his cock smearing glossy precome against his clenching stomach, the divot between his straight eyebrows–and Yoongi knows what he’s about to say when Seokjin opens his mouth, pants Yoongi into the humid air between them. 

“Say please,” Yoongi interrupts.

“Please, Yoongi– Ah!”

Seokjin’s cock is hot and throbbing against Yoongi’s palm as he wraps his fist around the thick shaft. pumping it in time with the movement of his hips. 

“Come for me, Seokjin,” Yoongi says, “Show me how good I make you feel.”

“Oh, fuck,” he hears, through the growing rush of his own impending orgasm, and then Seokjin is arching under him, his cock kicking in Yoongi’s hand with every rope of come that lands on Seokjin’s broad chest and pretty throat, and his hole is wrenchingly tight, squeezing around Yoongi’s cock so hard that he thinks for one fleeting panicked second that he’ll come dry. Then comes the wave of static and noise as his hips jerk against Seokjin’s thighs and Yoongi’s body is flooded with crash cymbals and gongs and whole fucking fanfares of sensation, so loud that he has to squeeze his eyes shut as he gives himself over to the sound and the feeling. Seokjin’s still fluttering and spasming around him as he comes down, and he’s so hot and wet and slick filled with Yoongi’s come that despite the quick approach of overstimulation, Yoongi can’t help but indulge in a long, slow, thrust, trying to pull the last dregs of their orgasms out for both of them. 

“Oh my god,” Seokjin groans, and Yoongi wrenches his eyes open. Seokjin’s gaze is lowered, and Yoongi follows it to see that he’s staring down at where his own thick cock, still mostly hard, now lazes against his come-covered stomach, and lower, where Yoongi’s cock draws almost all the way out of Seokjin before pushing back in again with a wet sound. Seokjin shivers. “Yeah,” he breathes, so Yoongi does it again. And again, and again, until his abs are clenching tight and Seokjin is whimpering and neither of them can take any more. 

And then he lets his head drop,  their lips slotting together easily as Seokjin lifts his chin to meet him halfway, and they kiss until Yoongi’s soft cock slips easily from Seokjin’s body and the come on Seokjin’s chest has gone tacky and so disgusting that Yoongi makes a face when he wipes it up with sad dry tissues and Seokjin pretends to be offended and pouts until Yoongi kisses him again, promising to wash it off in the shower later. If Yoongi gets a little carried away promising other things to be done in the shower and they both start getting hard again, no one has to know, and apparently, he’s beyond being embarrassed around Seokjin. 

“Let’s go home,” Yoongi says. “Now.”

“Please,” Seokjin says, and Yoongi gulps, and Seokjin giggles. “I had to practically debase myself to get your attention and now some simple manners nearly have you coming in your pants.”

“I’m not wearing any pants,” Yoongi argues as he pushes up and off the couch, then holds out his hand to help Seokjin up. Seokjin is glowing, radiant and reeking of sex; tiny as it is, the studio stinks of sweat and come. Yoongi really needs to get them both in a shower, for more reason than one. 

“Hey, Yoongi,” Seokjin says. “Yoongi-chi.”

When Yoongi looks up at him from where he’s collecting their clothing, Seokjin’s ears have gone pink again, matching the flush across his cheeks and down his chest to where his cock hangs heavy and half-hard. The contrast between his expression and his nakedness is cute. Really cute–so cute that actually, Yoongi should probably look away, before his own cock starts getting the wrong idea and they don’t even make it to the shower. 

“I like our piano lessons.”  

Yoongi huffs out a chuckle, one corner of his mouth tugging up. “Yeah, it certainly seemed like you did.”

“No,” Seokjin says, and smiles as Yoongi tosses him his discarded pants and underwear. He drags on his pants, shoving his ruined underwear in the pocket. “I mean, really. You’re a good teacher.”

“I made you play scales for an hour with a plug up your ass,” Yoongi deadpans as his cheeks heat. 

“Well,” Seokjin says, dragging his sweatshirt down over his torso. When his head pops out at the top, his hair is all messed up. A regular Beethoven, Yoongi thinks with another smile.  “You didn’t know that at the time. Anyway, I was wondering if you might–I mean, if–”

“Yeah, hyung,” Yoongi says, and watches Seokjin’s blush deepen. He’s so beautiful, and he is, somehow, Yoongi’s. As much as Yoongi is his. Or almost as much, maybe–he doesn’t think that anyone could possibly be as gone over him as he is for Seokjin.“I want to spend time with you, too. Dinner, Thursday?” 

Seokjin’s ears are pink, pink, pink, but he nods. “It better be fancy, Yoongi-chi, you promised,” he says, with a playful smile that Yoongi studiously ignores. 

“And then, yeah, we can keep doing piano lessons, sure, if you really want them,” Yoongi continues, shrugging. He has some time. He can make time, for Seokjin, for whatever this becomes: for piano lessons, for dinner, for sitting side by side. All the time in the world. “You were making… some progress.” 

“Great,” Seokjin says, and takes a step closer, then another until his arms come to wrap around Yoongi’s neck, and he leans in for a tender kiss that–despite everything they’ve just done–still manages to leave Yoongi breathless by the time their lips part, soft and sweet. 

The playful smile remains, and Yoongi’s heart flip flops horribly in his too-full chest.  

“I’ll bring the plug.”