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blue night

Chapter 3: november

Summary:

rostelecom cup, dawon, certain revelations

Notes:

long chapter this time

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

NOVEMBER

❆ ❅ ❄ ❅ ❆

They start seeing each other more after that.

It’s hard to sync up their days between travel and rink hours and practice schedules, which means Hoseok lets himself into Namjoon’s house sometimes, and curls up under the covers even though he’s not home. He doesn’t even text, really, before he comes over, Namjoon’s whole place smelling of Seokjin’s handiwork, a plate left out for him on the table every time.

Hoseok always gets up first those days, and puts breakfast in the oven before he sneaks out at six in the morning. He starts buying yogurt and leaving it in Namjoon’s fridge, and things like fruits and vegetables and actually edible produce. Gochujang ends up in the empty cupboards, next to sesame oil and soy sauce and the chips they’d fought over in the grocery store until Namjoon had put them back on the shelf looking so devastated that Hoseok sighed and said he should just get them if he was going to risk crying in a supermarket.

Namjoon pays for groceries every time and says that it's because Hoseok’s got bigger, more expensive things to care about, because he’s a millionaire, if he can make it easier then he wants to make it easier because he doesn’t really know how to do anything else; he’s not— he’s not good at anything else the way Hoseok is. He doesn’t cook, he can’t clean, his house has never been so spotless until Hoseok starting spending more time in it: washing the sheets every week because Namjoon doesn’t like to shower before he pounces on him in bed sometimes, letting Hoseok bully him into finally taking out the trash from all the rooms upstairs.

He doesn’t mean to treat him like a charity case, hand to God. They have their first fight after Namjoon visits Dawon and pays for her treatment for the next quarter, Hoseok shoving the stupid letter to his chest and almost punching him in the hospital lobby because it isn’t supposed to be like that, Namjoon blinking down at him with this dumb, wide eyes before telling him that he has too much money and he doesn’t like seeing Hoseok run himself into the ground worrying so much, I’ll just buy less toys, like it’s that simple.

Hoseok doesn’t talk to him for three days, and eighty texts later, he finally shows up at his front door and tells him, “thank you.”

Their time together is short. They’re both professional athletes at the peak of their careers — Namjoon captain of a Stanley hopeful, and Hoseok just. Hoseok, with his championship titles and in the thick of Prix season and an expected Olympic crowning in the coming year. Their days off rarely sync up, and neither of them feel like doing anything except sleeping for twelve hours straight and then staying in bed for the rest of the day, so it’s a strange feeling to be piling up at a local restaurant for a team dinner, their food on the table and a couple kids fighting over the dessert menu thirty minutes too early, to have Seokjin spot Hoseok sitting across from someone two tables and a wall over, looking like they’re having an argument.

Hoseok hasn’t touched his salad, and Namjoon can’t see who he’s with because his back’s turned to the team, but the guy’s shoulders are tense under the cut of his button down. Namjoon, who’s dropped abruptly from the conversation, can only stare, even when the other guys start noticing Cap’s boyfriend in the corner— trying not to gawk as their voices get louder over restaurant chatter.

The guy pushes his chair back abruptly and gets to his feet, tossing a wad of bills on the table as Hoseok stares up at him with shock, then anger. He’s still wearing an overcoat and gloves, jacket flying out behind him as he storms after him, catching his arm only to be shrugged off. Whatever words they exchange are sharp, and cut.

Namjoon can’t hear what they’re saying — the diner’s so loud with kids and family and packed full of people — and they’re speaking in rapid fire Korean, but they still draw the team’s attention when they recognize the orange of Hoseok’s hair, and his legs slim in his jeans, the way the door’s slammed shut in his face and he kicks it open right after.

They stand outside for a minute, and Hoseok’s all up in the guy’s face, and the guy all up in his face. Still, it comes as a surprise when the man takes a step even closer and backhands Hoseok so hard he stumbles, knees buckling under him.

“Holy shit,” Taehyung says, Namjoon shooting to his feet. Hoseok looks like he’s going to get himself arrested if he keeps going like this, pounding a fist to the guy’s chest and backing him up off the sidewalk.

Namjoon nearly tears the door off its hinges as he slots himself between the two, grabbing Hoseok’s wrists and hearing him choke on his next words as he registers what’s happening, and them collapses bonelessly against Namjoon’s chest, tight in his arms.

“년!” Hoseok spits, over his shoulder. His voice is brittle now. “쌍놈!”

Namjoon doesn’t have to turn around to know that the guy’s stalked off, footfalls so loud it sounds like he’s trying to murder concrete.

It’s silent for a moment, Hoseok’s breath still coming fast, head pressed down against Namjoon’s chest. He shakes and shakes, out of anger or fear or what, Namjoon doesn’t know, but he hates the fact that he’s wound up tight in his shoulders.

“What was that?” Namjoon asks, when Hoseok pulls away. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, jerking his head to the side when Namjoon tries to get a good look at him. He catches his chin in one hand and forces Hoseok to meet his eye, darting down to his split lip and reddening cheek. He stops Namjoon by the wrist when his free hand moves to cup his jaw before shaking his head. “Just a disagreement.”

Namjoon snorts. “Some disagreement,” he says, and glances at his team through the restaurant doors, all glass. “They’re all watching, you know.”

“I know,” he sighs, backing up when Namjoon’s hands fall to his sides. “I should get going.”

Namjoon frowns. “But…your food?”

“Don’t feel like eating,” Hoseok says, already at the door. He shakes himself out, visibly, for a moment. “Sorry for crashing your dinner.”

Namjoon watches numbly as Hoseok goes back in and asks for the check, picking up the wad of cash left on the table between thumb and forefinger like rotten fruit, probably telling the waitstaff to keep the change. He doesn’t really register the fact that he’s back in his seat until Jungkook’s shoving at him and saying he should get Hoseok to come over, the same Hoseok who’s abandoned his salad and sliding down the back of his chair with his phone pressed to his ear. He looks miserable, hand on his forehead and then crossed over his chest when he’s talking, ending the call with a sigh before he even musters up the energy to leave.

In the end, it’s not even Namjoon who stops him from leaving. The team, by mutual consensus, yells Hoseok’s name so loud half the restaurant startles and turns to look at them too, Hoseok pressing a hand to his chest with a jump.

Taehyung’s already pulled out an extra chair for him at the end of the table, no shortage of elbows or legroom an issue for an already overcrowded seating arrangement, but it’s not until everyone dissolves back into conversation does Hoseok finally relax, slumping against Namjoon with a sigh.

“Hey,” Hoseok says, scooting closer.

“Hey,” Namjoon replies, smiling as fingers creep up the inside of his wrist. “You want my food?”

Hoseok scrunches up his nose. “Not really,” he says.

“Aw, come on,” he wheedles. “I’ll feed you.”

There’s a moment of silence where he can see Hoseok fighting with himself not to give in, but Namjoon knows he’s weak for the puppy eyes and eventually forces out a “fine” and lets his mouth drop open.

Now, Namjoon knows he should be careful. He knows they’re in public and a restaurant that’s busy and full of people that might be fans, and fans with cell cameras, but he’s tucked up in the far corner with Hoseok and part of him couldn’t care less if someone saw and the news broke out even though he knows it selfish because Hoseok’s so attached to his career right now, but his boyfriend is right there next to him chewing on a mouthful of chicken pasta with his cheeks puffed up and trying hard to keep his expression displeased that he’s just pouting, and he’s so cute that Namjoon can’t help it. He cleans off his plate, and lets Hoseok take sips from his lemonade too, reaching over to wipe the cream sauce off the corner of his lip.

He knows he’s going to get teased about this tomorrow, just knows the minute he shows up for practice tomorrow morning they’re going to be ruthless about it, headlocks and noogies and jokes about tonight already tucked into their back pockets.

“It’s not my cheat day,” Hoseok says, smiling now, all soft around the edges. “Open up,” he says, holding a piece of cake to Namjoon’s lips. He feeds him the whole thing that way, and then sticks the fork in his mouth after it’s gone.

“Are you coming over?” Namjoon asks, when Seokjin calls for the check.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Hoseok scolds. He’s smiling, though. “I can if you want.”

Namjoon nods vigorously. He chews with his mouth shut, trying not to choke when Hoseok looks at him — dimpled and sweet and curling the corners of his eyes.

It doesn’t take long to split the bill, and then have Hoseok waiting for Namjoon by his car while he says goodbye to his team. He’s leaning a hip against the door, a long line of shapely limbs and devastating with his hair all across his forehead, the cut of his overcoat tight to his waist. It’s cold tonight, already mid November, but it hasn’t started snowing yet. Namjoon bites his lip when he slides in shotgun and studies the sharp line of Hoseok’s face and neck when he looks over his shoulder to back out of the parking lot, thinking about how he’d look in the snow.

When they pull into Namjoon’s driveway, the engine idling, Hoseok leans over and kisses him. He’s got his keys on a little ring with a sun charm, metal clanging together when he unlocks the door, and leads Namjoon in by the hand, dropping his skate bag in the foyer.

They take their time undressing each other, then again in the shower, Hoseok looping his arms around Namjoon’s neck like they have all the time in the world. By mutual agreement they get in bed even though it’s only eight, because Hoseok has to wake up early for practice in the morning and Namjoon doesn't have anything to do either.

He turns on his little reading light and picks up the book he’s been meaning to finish for ages, one hand settling in Hoseok’s hair where he’s draped across his lap, mumbling sleepily through a conversation.

“When are you leaving for Moscow?”

“Thursday,” Hoseok yawns, rubbing his face against Namjoon’s thigh.

“Nervous?”

“Hmm?” he says, “Ah, not really.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

“Just wanna make it to finals.”

“You will.”

“Knock on wood, Joonie,” Hoseok says. “You never know.”

“Well I know.”

“Mhm, sure you do. Big brain of yours huh?”

Silence.

“Want me to send you? When’s your flight?”

“One am or something. Don’t bother.”

“I want to.”

“You need to rest, I’ll be fine. Not like I’m traveling alone anyway.”

“Oh. So your coach…?”

“Nah, some rinkmates. We’ve got a whole squad.”

“That’s cool.”

Hoseok laughs. “You can pick me up if you want,” he says. “When I get back. I’ll text you the flight details, but if you’re busy don’t you dare.”

Namjoon hums. “I’ll think about it,” he says. He rubs the shell of his ear affectionately. “Goodnight, Hobi.”

“Night,” Hoseok says, with a pleased shudder.

 

❆ ❅ ❄ ❅ ❆

 

Russia is fun.

Jimin meets him at the airport with a squeal, and they jump around in the parking lot for ten minutes too long before actually getting their shit together. They take the ISU shuttle all the way to the hotel, bumping around in the backseat with Hoseok’s stuff. Jimin says he’s been doing well, and that he and Taehyung both deciding that the long-distance thing wasn’t really going to work anymore so they broke it off a couple weeks ago.

When they get to the hotel lobby, Chanyeol is there — a Canadian pair skater who’s got the most amazing arms — and he greets Jimin with a kiss on the cheek, slipping a hand around his waist, and oh, Hoseok blinks. A lot of things are starting to make sense now.

It’s freezing in Moscow, Hoseok with his three layers of jackets and thermal leggings, and a pair of thick boots. Jimin, the freak, isn’t even phased, and he just shrugs on one of those big ski coats and leaves it at that. At the very least, he puts on gloves to prove that he’s human.

They walk around for a long time, first, Jimin taking a bunch of photos of Hoseok standing in front of all the buildings in the Red Square. He’s backlit and looks like the Michelin tire man in all of them, but he’s flushed and happy and doesn’t really care. 

They fumble around without Google Maps until someone points them to a Korean restaurant half a mile down, and the food’s not groundbreaking, but it tastes a bit like home, the two of them sitting by the glass window and playing footsie while they fight over the last mouthful of rice.

“I think my room has a fridge,” Hoseok says, when they can’t finish their soup.

“We’ll get a box then,” Jimin says, signaling for the check.

The meal is good, and hot, warming him up from the inside out. It makes him feel braver about pushing out the doors into the cold and snow again, hiding in his face mask as he shivers the entire journey back to the hotel.

Hoseok pushes hard during conditioning the next day, determined to get his leg up in his spiral. Things hurt, and he’s reminded of the big R word looming in the back of his head like a demon when he sees some of the younger seniors leaving the ice before him.

They do barre holding onto the sideboards, and he eyes their extensions where he’s skating warm up laps. Some of them are promising, but others only okay — Hoseok’s greatest appeal the fact that he incorporates typically female elements for extra points, so he’s making sure the younger, possibly more attractive version of himself isn’t coming to knock him off the podium yet. He needs another year, maybe, to comes to terms with it at the bottom of a tub of ice cream next to Jimin on his shitty couch.

The two of them get prime seats to watch the ladies programs, and even primer seats to watch the men’s singles from backstage, Hoseok doing crunches with Jimin sitting on his feet and monitoring in anticipation. He eyes himself in one of the floor length mirrors after, adjusting his costume so it sits better at the neck and wrists. The bodice is mesh and tulle, cut up in little rivulets of lavender fabric, sequins bleeding down all sides. It’s pretty, if gaudier than anything he’s worn before, having the whole thing commissioned for the first time by one of Jimin's friends.

There are cameras everywhere, and they follow Group 2 out as Hoseok finally sets foot on the ice for warm up. It’s easy for him to breathe in the smell of the rink and push himself out of his own head like this. Familiar. Just routine. He slips into the upstream, feeling it thrumming under his skin even as he disappears backstage when the lights finally come up again.

He’s not sure who’s performing now, but Hoseok knows he drew the lucky card of skating last, so he’s got at least twenty minutes before he has to go out again. He catches Jimin by the waist as he’s leaving kiss and cry when one of the managers backstage tells him he’s up next, and they have half of a moment there in the archway before Hoseok’s gliding out on the rink and the entire stadium goes quiet.

Hoseok has allowed himself this: a moment with his parents and their touch before his mind goes still and blank and silent instead.

Inhale. Exhale. Center ice.

His music starts.

He knows he's getting a yellow box for a shaky flip the minute he lands, but he’s so far removed that he doesn't spare it a second thought, already cutting into the step sequence that smashes his SP score through the one hundred mark. Granted, Hoseok knows it’s his jumps that get him the most points, but he’s proud of L4’s anyway. Sometimes the ISU doesn’t appreciate creativity as much as they do his tricks.

The kiss and cry goes well. He gets up and waves before waddling backstage into Jimin’s arms, and undoes his laces as soon as he finds somewhere to prop his feet up. He’s got his blade guards on, mismatched in pink and green, and aches all over when he’s changing his shoes to go back to the hotel.

“I really thought I was out on that flip,” Hoseok laughs, groaning as he gets out of the cab.

“You did great,” Jimin says, through a mouthful of granola. Hoseok opens up obediently and lets Jimin to shove a spoonful in his mouth, leaning against the wall as they wait for the elevator doors to open. “Did you see my corkscrew? Mess.”

“They didn’t dock points though.”

“Nah,” Jimin scrunches up his nose. “I’m too cute for that.”

Hoseok snorts, shoving at him, and they both make dinner plans, trying to juggle three different group chats at once. Chanyeol has his own little Canadian pack, and he’s trying to recruit Jimin to come with, except he and Hoseok have been part of their own clique for the past couple years in the Prix circuit, a smattering of international skaters that have been together since senior debut. It’s nice to be able to talk about something other than skating when everyone’s around. To be familiar with faces that’ll at least make it to finals before disappearing into the void.

They end up going with the second group, and Christine — a rookie senior with a whip of dark hair and half Russian — out to eat, toasting the girls for their free skate the next day.

“Don’t remind me,” Seungyeon groans, sliding down in her chair. “I’m going to murder the entire ISU before I even step foot on that damn rink.”

“Cheers to that,” Jimin says, downing his champagne in one go. He doesn’t make it a habit to drink in the middle of a competition, but it’s not a lot of alcohol by his standards, and he leers at Hoseok when he gets ribbed in the side instead of setting his glass down. The rest of the table goes up in cheers as Christine downs a shot, and Hoseok sticks his tongue out at Hyerin from behind the bread basket.

It’s so different, being top five. Competing is stressful and it’s all their careers have or probably ever will amount to, those seven minutes on the ice, but he only ever sees his friends a couple times a year and getting to catch up with them is intoxicating, even if Hoseok’s dinner is nothing but soup and a sad, dressingless salad.

The last day of official practice is hard. Hoseok has a terrifying moment of I can’t do this when he keeps falling out of his Biellmann and has a stitch in his side that won’t go away all practice.  The cameras follow him around the entire time, reporters with their beady, hawk-eyed glares that track him across the rink as he cuts up his FS into chunks, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing the whole thing before the actual event. He’s pissy that way, and wants so very badly to tell them off, but he can practically feel the headlines going up online from here — Jung Hoseok, curses out local reporter, falls from grace…and his triple axel?

“You’re doing well,” his coach says, when he catches Hoseok stretching in the gym. He’s currently got his leg hoisted up past his shoulder, chest low to the floor. “I have faith in this program, Hope.”

Hoseok ducks his head. “Thank you,” he says, because if anything, Sondeuk deserves his best after all the years they’ve spent together.  He says it again later, when he’s about to go on the ice. There are cameras everywhere, but it’s too loud in the arena to hear anything else, so he clasps their hands together and tries to feel the music before it even starts, the ice like hard love beneath his blades. This, he tells himself, is a life he knows.

“Be great,” Sondeuk replies, and lets him go.

“Hoseok, Jung,” the announcer says, English right after the Russian. “Representing South Korea.”

Hoseok skates out with a smile, eyes bright as he sails through his first circle, and again before he settles in to center ice. His arms come up over his head. The cheers are deafening.

The thing is, no matter how many commentators refuse shut up about his technical score, he's never cared as much as they think when he's like this, just the way his hair sways and catches on his ear when he cuts backwards across the ice, trying for faster, bigger, more. He forces his hips level before getting his leg behind his head to spin himself out of the combination.

The next thing he knows, he’s on both knees at the end of five minutes, the ice is cold where damp seeps through the fabric of his gloves; Hoseok’s sleeves — overlong and cuffed at the wrists — are sticking to him with sweat.

He pushes to his feet with a disbelieving laugh. He stomach lurches and sways, and the crowd won't let him go to the kiss and cry the first couple times he tries, so he circles the rink to pick up a Snoopy plushie and clutch it to his chest while he milks his bows. His knee aches, just like everything aches, but when his score comes up six points above two hundred and absolutely decimates his season’s best, all he can do is double over in shock and hide his face with his hands when the cheers triple in volume.

Sondeuk helps him up, and then they’re making their way backstage, a whirlwind of press and media and people coming up to congratulate him at the same time. Hoseok doesn’t know where to look or which camera to pay attention to, so he ends up ignoring them all, going straight to Jimin and crushing him in a hug.

“I’m sweaty,” Hoseok laughs, flicking hair off his forehead.

“I don’t care,” Jimin says, and his voice is shaking. “You’re so winning finals this year.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, starting to tear up.

Seunghee shows up in his hotel room later and cries her eyes out, their little group going to celebrate again, Hoseok sagely taking the bill for himself before he’s told that everyone’s already swiped their cards when he’d gone to the bathroom. It’s not even finals, and he’s living like this, oh God.

Later, he’s still riding a high during his exhibition skate. He picked a song this year so different from the rest, bass a heavy, dull thing in the pit of his stomach when it floods the stadium. There’s electric guitar and swing eights and piano, Hoseok almost tearing his shirt down the front in poor parody of his senior debut in France all those years ago; he gets so into it. He hopes Namjoon’s watching.

It’s sad, leaving the stage after that, trying to think about the trashbag of Snoopys he’s taking home with him instead of the people he has to leave behind. His carryon isn’t much more than extra boots and his costumes, Hoseok staring at them dejectedly when he goes to take a bath, sitting there until he turns into a prune. He can’t stay long after the competition, but it’s enough to get another massage before showering off the oil and pouring himself into a plane appropriate outfit, Jimin clinging to Hoseok when they have to part ways at their gates.

Customs, as usual, is a nightmare. His phone is still on airplane mode when he leaves the luggage carousel with an extra bag, so when he sees Kim Namjoon, fucking Kim Namjoon hockey star extraordinaire, standing there with a new name card and grinning like a fool when he recognizes Hoseok through the flimsy disguise of sunglasses and sweatpants, his heart does a dizzying swoop in his chest and his throat goes thick and funny when he swallows and he feels all twenty-something hours of travel drop from his shoulders and he runs into his arms.

“Oh, my God,” Hoseok says, tucking himself up close.

It’s a little embarrassing, if he's being honest. They'd only been apart for a week and they're acting like they haven’t seen each other for months, but Hoseok's always handled this weird rollercoaster of emotions alone and having someone wait for him — a surprise, but having someone wait for him — when he gets off the plane makes him feel full to bursting.

He wants to kiss Namjoon, like he always wants to kiss Namjoon, but they’re in public and he hasn’t brushed his teeth, only popped some gum during the plane’s half hour of landing. He settles for rolling them out arrival doors with vicious determination, not even bothering to ask where Namjoon’s parked. Hearing him laugh is enough.

Namjoon tugs him gently in the opposite direction when they get outside, and tells him that Seokjin’s waiting by the fourth exit. The bubble in Hoseok’s chest grows bigger when he sees Jungkook through the windows, fuzzy Christmas socks propped up on the dashboard, one hand on his boyfriend’s thigh.

“I made you dinner,” Seokjin says. And true to word, there’s a lunchbox on one of the seats, Hello Kitty design, the chopsticks and containers all piled up together.

“Oh wow,” he says, a little choked up. He wasn’t expecting Namjoon, but he was expecting this even less: a car full of people he can call friends, and balancing a homemade meal on his lap as Seokjin eases out of his parking space and onto the freeway exit. “Thanks, hyung.”

They spend the trip home talking, a low and steady thing. Hoseok still defaults to Korean around Namjoon, and Namjoon to English, but Seokjin doesn’t mind switching between the two — reaching over to swat the back of Jungkook’s head and tell him off for playing video games while the car’s moving. “You’ll lose your eyesight,” he says. Jungkook whines, but puts his phone away, head lolling against the back of the seat.

Seokjin’s Korean is amazing. His cooking is even better. Hoseok unscrews the first container and his beef smells so good that he feels bad about being the only person eating, so he takes turns feeding the others between his own bites, leaning forward as much as his seatbelt will allow. Namjoon ends up finishing off his fried rice and Jungkook drinks all his soup, leaving Seokjin with the vegetables at the bottom of the thermos, cackling as he whips out his phone again to play Candy Crush.

“How was your competition, Hoseok-ah?” Seokjin asks, turning a corner. “Namjoonie said you got first.”

“Ah,” Hoseok ducks his head, embarrassed. “It was fun. I’m leaving for finals in a couple weeks.”

Seokjin hums, the buildings starting to look more familiar now. “Excited?”

No bills to pay. Hoseok squeezes Namjoon’s hand where it’s fallen between them. “Nervous,” he says. He doesn’t want to disappoint his fans, but Namjoon most of all. “It’s kind of a big deal.”

“If we have time, I’ll let the whole team watch during practice,” Seokjin says. “Singles events are four days in a row, right?”

Hoseok’s surprised. “Yeah,” he says. “How did you know that?”

“You can't spend most of your waking hours with hyung and not learn the entire competition timetable before it even starts,” Jungkook says. “He’s been talking about you for years, hyungie.”

“Oh,” he says, at a loss for words.

“He’s technically not supposed to abuse the powers of captaincy, but," Seokjin smiles, glancing in the rearview mirror. "Sometimes he tweaks the schedule so we all have longer lunch or something. It all depends on where the venue is though,” he says. “That one year you guys were Barcelona we had a game and I think he cried when he found out.”

Namjoon’s cheeks are pink. “No, I didn’t,” he hisses, refusing to meet Hoseok’s eye. He ruins the lie by saying: “That was supposed to be our secret,” he despairs.

“Ahh, Namjoonie,” Seokjin sighs. “Lying to your hyung now?”

“Oh look, we’re here!” Namjoon says, practically springing out the side door when Seokjin pulls up the driveway. Even though his car’s bigger than Namjoon’s, he tackles the curb significantly smoother, already unbuckled and out of his seat to heft Hoseok’s luggage out of the trunk.

“Thanks for picking me up,” Hoseok says, when Seokjin’s about to leave. He’s leaned over by the window, and smiles at him, then at Jungkook. “I’ll wash your stuff and have Joonie bring it to practice tomorrow.”

“Don’t sleep too late tonight,” Seokjin says, pinching his cheek. “And if I don’t see you before the month’s over, good luck.”

“Thanks, hyung,” Hoseok grins, and waits until the tail-lights of Seokjin’s car have disappeared down the road.

 

❆ ❅ ❄ ❅ ❆

 

They don’t have a lot of time together before Hoseok has to leave for Grand Prix finals. Only two weeks until he’s competing, and he’s trying desperately to keep his head up — backloading jumps in practice. He comes home sore and barely able to walk, fusing with the shitty mattress of his apartment when Namjoon’s at away games, and then fusing with Namjoon’s significantly less shitty mattress when Namjoon’s at home games.

“I’m back,” Hoseok says, finally managing to unlock the door. He’s so tired he can’t hold his bag up anymore, and it lands in a sad heap on the floor before he kicks it over where it’s supposed to be. Out of the way.

“Hi,” Namjoon says, scooting in from the living room for a kiss. Hoseok’s still gross from ballet, but he doesn’t care, tangling their fingers together on the way to the kitchen.

Between their first dinner and this one, Namjoon's started to feed Hoseok on a semi-regular basis, first as a joke between them, and then becoming more of a necessity the fourth time Hoseok had almost slammed his face into his bowl of rice falling asleep at the table.

Namjoon coaxes his mouth open, and then shut, smoothing Hoseok’s hair off his forehead as he swallows without chewing, slipping off his chair with boneless grace. He insists that he’s not that tired, but Namjoon having to drag him up the stairs and into the bathtub says otherwise.

“Epsom salts,” Hoseok said, seriously, when he’d gotten a blank stare from Namjoon the first time he’d brought a bag of them over. “Are the only reason I have both legs and am still walking.”

Namjoon runs a bath and Hoseok curls up against his chest in the tub, so big there could probably be three more of them and not have any issue lying down together. Hoseok’s mouthing absently at his collarbone before he tilts his head up to kiss along the underside of his jaw, in that familiar way of his. He just likes being close. His nose presses up against Namjoon’s pulsepoint, and then scrapes gently with his teeth, sighing as Namjoon digs fingers into the small of his back.

“Ouch,” Hoseok sniffs.

“‘S a knot,” Namjoon laughs, under his breath. “You’ll be feeling it tomorrow if you don’t roll it out.”

“I’m feeling it now,” he whines, hissing when muscle gives way under Namjoon’s hand. “Ow, ow, ow,” he squirms, when they’re out of the bath and Hoseok’s on his stomach, trying to pull his legs up to his chest. He looks like a dead fish, flopping around on the covers while Namjoon sticks his elbow in his calves, face pressed up against the pillows.

“You’ve got some rocks in there, babe,” Namjoon says conversationally, while trying to end Hoseok’s life. Bitch.

“I hate you,” he mumbles.

“No, you don’t,” Namjoon grins. He pulls away, and manages to worm the blankets out from under Hoseok’s dead weight, wrapping him up like Christmas candy. It’s cold now, winter heavy in their bones, so Namjoon’s cranked up the heating to make it a little more bearable. Hoseok’s impression of a rock is truly breathtaking, even when he cracks open one eye to peer up at Namjoon.

“C’mere,” he says, words slurred heavy together. It used to be hard to pick out exactly what he was saying, but Namjoon’s Korean has gotten significantly better with Hoseok around, poking at him with a spatula and telling him to move out of the way. Once he’d realized Namjoon could understand most of what he said, English went out the window. “Miss you.”

“I didn’t go anywhere,” Namjoon says, softly now.

“Mm,” is all Hoseok says, rolling over to him. “Yeah.”

They’re quiet for a while, all the lights off and both their phones charging on the nightstand, an alarm set on Hoseok’s. Their hands are twisted together over Hoseok’s stomach when he asks, so sleepily it’s almost inaudible: “Did you visit noona without me?”

Namjoon flushes, thankful Hoseok can’t see in the dark. “Yeah,” he says, embarrassed. “You said you try to hang out with her every week and you couldn’t when you were in Russia, um— we, we watched you compete together.”

Hoseok doesn’t say anything for a long while, and Namjoon’s both afraid that he’d taken too many liberties with his sister and maybe Hoseok’s jealous now or upset or maybe he’s accidentally fallen asleep when Hoseok finally says, “Thanks,” like it hurts. “I’m always worried about her, I guess. She doesn’t have a lot of friends in America.”

Namjoon kisses the back of Hoseok’s head. “I don’t think I was cute enough for that.”

“Oh, shut up,” he says, shoving at Namjoon’s arm. “There’s no way she wouldn’t like you. Bet you even took out the trash, huh?”

Namjoon pauses. “I made her tea,” he relents.

“You charming motherfucker,” Hoseok says, very fondly.

“Well, I’m your charming motherfucker, so take that,” Namjoon says, pressing his lips to the top of Hoseok’s head, hair damp from the bath.

“Will you come with me tomorrow?” Hoseok asks. “Dawon said that she’s making noodles.”

It’s quiet for a moment, while Namjoon juggles his schedule for tomorrow. “I don’t think that’s in my diet plan.”

“It’s not in mine either.”

Namjoon grins, even though Hoseok won’t be able to see. “Pinky promise?” he says, looping his pinky around Hoseok’s. “Our coaches won’t know.”

“Pinky promise,” he agrees, curling their fingers together.

 

❆ ❅ ❄ ❅ ❆

 

Dawon looks amazing.

She answers the door without her cane, and Hoseok knows it’s a good day, letting her sweep him up in her arms and usher both of them inside. She’s wearing a headband that Hoseok had given her as a joke, something with Tinker Bell on it, faded green as the stitching writes out Junior World Grand Prix 2008 across the top. Hoseok got it in a goodie bag years ago, and he’d thrown it at her in a fit of frustration when they’d started fighting about hot chocolate, of all things, over the kitchen table, Hoseok storming off into his room and slamming the door shut as loud as he dared.

Namjoon, the fool, almost drops everything he’s holding because apparently his parents said he shouldn't show up to someone’s house empty handed — taking his mother’s word so literally that he’s holding a bottle of mimosa in one and cider in the other and had to rely on Hoseok to press the doorbell.

“I like your dress,” Namjoon says shyly, setting a bag of clothes on the table. He’d sent the team’s PA to the shopping center during practice, out of breath and afraid that he wouldn’t be able to find anything in time, and trusted her with his accounts as she’d torn her way with terrifying efficiency through the entire mall.

There’s Kate Spade and Louis Vuitton and some other name brands and Hoseok had only dreamed of buying for Dawon, and he has to press down hard on the flare of jealousy that comes up his gut. They’ve already had this conversation; he’s not going to beat a dead horse into the ground tonight.

“What’s this?” Dawon asks, covering the pot. She wipes her hands on her apron and comes over, eyebrows raised. She looks at the bags on the floor, and then the bags inside the bags — a Gucci clutch, and a Coach wallet, things like that — and sets sharp eyes in their direction. “Kim Namjoon,” she says, hands on her hips. “You did not.”

Namjoon shrinks back, trying to hide behind Hoseok even though he’s taller and is terrible at making himself small. She doesn’t even have to take off her slipper. “I’m sorry!” he yelps, ducking his head. “I’m sorry!”

“Better be,” Dawon says. “I’m not that kind of girl.”

Namjoon’s hiding his face in Hoseok’s neck, Hoseok patting his back like he’s an eight year old. “I know,” he says, wincing.

Dawon beckons him over. “C’mere,” she sighs, opening up her arms.

She, if possible, is even smaller than Hoseok is. She doesn’t look ill today, but the last time Namjoon driven her to her appointment, bouncing his leg in the waiting room until a nurse had her wheeled out to a private bed, he’d sat by her side for the entirety of visiting hours and held her hand while the color drained from her face.

Namjoon didn’t know what to do, so he rubbed her back the way his mother always rubbed his, his hand looking so big against the thinness of her spine and shoulders. He helped her drink water, and then settled back into his chair, waiting for her to finish whatever story she’d been in the middle of telling.

So when Namjoon goes to hug her, he flounders for a minute. She’s a head shorter than what he’s used to, but he’s had to deal with a lot of younger fans before, so it’s not the height that bothers him as much as the fear of crushing her alive. The sound of Hoseok pulling out a chair and dropping into it is loud, even with the soup bubbling away on the stove.

“Yah, Jung Hoseok,” Dawon says, flicking Hoseok hard on the forehead as she passes by. He almost topples over in his seat, and gives her these sad, puppy dog eyes. “Go help your boyfriend set the table.”

He lets out an aggravated sigh, but says, “Yes, noona,” getting to his feet obediently.

“Get the nice dishes, Hobi.”

Hoseok rolls his eyes, dragging his slippers on the kitchen tile as he opens one of the cabinets. “Yes, noona,” he repeats, and goes up on his toes to try and reach the top shelf. He gives up after a painful minute, and eyes the kitchen counter, wondering if he’d fall over if he tried climbing up on it like he used to when he was a kid. “Why do you put them so high up?” he whines, deciding against it. “You’re even shorter than me.”

“I don’t eat from the nice dishes, stupid,” she says, shoving a wad of chopsticks in his hand and telling him to count them out. “I don’t have space for them with the rest of the Snoopy shit you keep giving me.”

“But he’s so cute!”

“I got it,” Namjoon cuts off, sliding up behind Hoseok. He crowds him in against the counter, one hand on Hoseok’s hip as he pulls three bowls out, and then a couple plates after. He steals a kiss when Dawon’s not looking, Hoseok with his fingers splayed light across his jaw to hold him in place, and then another and another.

“I saw that,” she says, out of nowhere.

Hoseok jolts, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the fridge, trying to pretend he’s not as scared as he really is. “Sorry, noona.”

“Mhm,” Dawon says, sitting herself down. “You better be.”

Hoseok rinses the dishes off in the sink while Namjoon brings the entire pot over to the table, and pats them dry with the hand towel before he goes to serve the noodles. Dawon’s strong, one of the strongest people he knows, but sometimes she gets tired from doing too much, and cooking always takes it out of her. He just wants to have a quiet dinner tonight before crashing in the guest bed, kicking his feet against Namjoon’s under the table.

Dawon’s dining table is round, so they bump elbows all the time going for more, Hoseok watching Namjoon inhale his noodles for ten minutes straight.

“I don’t know how you can eat so much,” he says, Namjoon freezing where he’s in the middle of chewing, mouth full of vegetables and rice. Hoseok loops their ankles together, comforting. “I’m just kidding, Namjoonie,” says gently, reaching out to brush hair back from his face. His voice drops comically. “You have to grow those hockey muscles, baby.”

“Mm,” Dawon hums, putting her chopsticks down. She leans over to Hoseok’s side of the table, as if Namjoon isn't right there. “They couldn’t move my wheelchair through the door at first so he just,” she mimes picking something up, “And put me in it.”

“He's a charmer, noona. I warned you.”

Namjoon ducks his head in embarrassment, and stares hard into his half-eaten bowl of noodles, poking one chopstick around in his soup. Hoseok kisses his cheek, rubbing his thumb across the back of Namjoon’s hand even as the conversation changes, things like game season and doctor’s appointments and competition.

“I’m flying out on Tuesday,” Hoseok says. Dawon can tell he’s nervous. He’s good at hiding his emotions, but not that good when it comes down to twenty years of knowing him. “I’ll work hard.”

“I know you will,” she says, eyes softening. “Namjoon and I watched your Rostelecom events.”

Hoseok beams. “Ya, he told me.”

“If I don’t have a game, we can watch finals together,” Namjoon pipes up, finally. “We can go to my place; some of my teammates want to come over, um, and join. If it’s not too far.”

Dawon’s an hour and a half drive from where Hoseok and Namjoon live, one county over where the nice hospitals are. It’s quieter here too, and the Korean community’s big, but it’ll be good for Dawon to be with them, Hoseok thinks, worrying his lip. Namjoon pulls out his phone to load up Seokjin’s Instagram, promising he’ll be there, and if Seokjin’s there than Jungkook’s there — the two of them attached at the hip and smacking each other around all the time — and he hopes that Taehyung will go, and maybe even the boy he’d bumped into on his search for Namjoon that time he’d wandered around the arena too.

“You have my number,” Dawon says. “I’ll text you my treatment schedule.”

“Sounds good,” Namjoon says, smiling so wide his cheeks dimple.

Hoseok’s so busy staring at him he doesn’t really hear the rest of their conversation, but it’s low, every day sort of talking. Comfortable, even when it gets quiet between the two of them and Dawon helps Namjoon finish off the last of the beef. A little gochujang’s left over in the corner of his mouth, and he’s gesturing wildly with a wad of rice stuffed in one cheek.

Hoseok reaches out and wipes the sauce off Namjoon’s lips with his thumb, closing his mouth for him because he tends to get too excited and forget these things, one hand under his chin. He doesn't really processing what he's doing, all of it automatic and thoughtless, even when the whole table falls silent and they give Hoseok looks: Namjoon’s flushed, Dawon’s knowing.

“Sorry,” Hoseok says, blinking hard, after nobody talks for a long time. “Joonie likes to talk with his mouth full.”

“Namjoon-ah,” Dawon says gently. She eyes his empty bowls, and tilts her head back towards the spare bedroom. “Could you give us a moment?”

She gets a confused look, but he nods anyway.

“What’s wrong?” Hoseok asks, when Namjoon extracts himself from the table with his typical grace. He ambles over to the guest bedroom, and shuts the door behind him. He must be playing video games because the next minute, Hoseok hears the familiar blast of Tiny Towers before Namjoon swears and frantically lowers the volume.

“Hoseokie,” Dawon says, and he sucks in a breath at how serious her voice has gotten. She reaches over and puts two hands over his on the tabletop, and he stares down at them, unable to meet her eye. “I’m going to be gone soon,” she says.

Hoseok’s throat goes dry with pain, and he blinks away the tears, the way his nose bridge tightens up. It’s so sudden, this topic.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. He sounds like a kid on the verge of a tantrum, but he doesn’t care. “Dawon—”

“I don’t know when, and neither do the doctors,” she says. Dawon reaches up and brushes a thumb across his cheek. “I wish I could’ve done my job better as your sister,” she says quietly. “You’ve been so strong, Hoseok-ah. I hate to ask you to be strong again.”

He shakes his head once, a tight, awful thing. “Shut up,” he says, and that's the only thing he manages to get out before his voice cracks and he bites hard on the inside of his cheek to keep himself quiet.

“But I don’t think you’ve ever loved anyone the way you love him; I can tell,” Dawon continues, still treating Hoseok like he’s six and just scraped his knee falling off his scooter again.

Hoseok frowns, looking everywhere but at her.

“When I die, Hoseokie,” she says, like it’s the most casual thing to talk about over dinner scraps. “I don’t want you to be alone like you always are. You’re not allowed to just throw yourself into skating like you always do.”

Hoseok crosses his arms, and doesn’t say anything.

“You promise me,” Dawon says, firm, at his lack of answer. “You have friends now, I know— Jimin doesn’t count. Look at him: Namjoon’s not going to leave you the way Donghyuk left you, so don’t ruin it for yourself, okay? I’m expecting the two of you to get hitched and to finally adopt him as my favorite little brother.”

Fine,” Hoseok says. He’s clutching hard at her hand, hoping that the less he blinks, the less he’ll cry. “Fine— I promise,” he says. “I promise.”

Dawon leans over and kisses the top of his head like she always did when they were kids. “Namjoon-ah?” she calls. “You can come back now.”

He reappears in the doorway after a minute, phone stuffed awkwardly in his pocket and not really knowing what happened for Hoseok to look up with tears in his eyes and his cheeks swollen and crawl over into his lap on one of the dining table chairs and turn into a miserable ball of human being, but neither of the Jungs are willing to give answers, so he shrugs and runs a hand down Hoseok’s back, telling Dawon to leave the dishes; he’ll get to them later.

“I think you broke him,” he says mirthfully, pressing his lips to Hoseok’s temple. He just won’t let go.

“Ah, he’ll be fine,” Dawon says, watching Hoseok finally peel himself away to help Namjoon clear the table.

He scrubs hard at the bowls, brows tight together, and when they go to watch a nature documentary, Hoseok pulls Namjoon aside and kisses him in the archway of his sister’s kitchen, tilting his head to the side so he can slot their mouths together. Namjoon’s fingers are threaded through the belt loops of Hoseok’s skinny jeans to pull him close; Dawon pretends very badly to be busy with the remote control.

“Is everything okay?” Namjoon asks, concerned. Clearly whatever they talked about rattled him hard.

Hoseok presses their foreheads together, and closes his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. He takes a breath. “Yeah.” Then, like he’ll forget if he doesn’t say it now, blurts out: “I love you.”

Namjoon’s breath stutters in his chest, everything twisting under his feet. Hoseok’s never been the most forthcoming with things like this, despite the few times he’d caught him vulnerable by chance, and for him to be the first to say it out loud crushes the voices in the back of Namjoon’s head that have been telling him Hoseok doesn’t feel the same way about him, or as deeply as Namjoon does. Now he…now he—

“You’re supposed to say it back, dumbass,” Hoseok’s voice is thick, and he punches Namjoon’s arm, face pink with embarrassment.

Fuck, oh— “I love you,” Namjoon breathes, the words rolling off his tongue. “Since I was fifteen,” he says, intoxicated. “Oh, my God, I love you.”

Hoseok’s laughing now. “Shut up,” he says.

“I thought you wanted me to—mmpfh!”

Hoseok drags him down for another kiss, this one harder. It’s a little wet, but it still makes him feel warm all over, Dawon cheering alone in the background from where she sits on the couch. He fondles Namjoon’s chest, half joking and half because he wants to, laughing into his mouth before pulling away to crush him in a hug, so happy. He’s so fucking happy.

“Love you,” he says again, catching his eye, just because he can.

“Love you too,” Namjoon says, a touch softer. He leans down and presses their foreheads together, thinking: I’m never going to let you go.

Notes:

년 = bitch
쌍놈= "low bastard" / low-born or ignoble
hoseok's SP costume / 2 / 3
if you don't know how cute jimin & chanyeol are together