Drabbles

Of all the horrible things about "Danger" —

(And there are so many, every day; Yoongi doesn't know yet that in a few years he'll sit around laughing on camera about how this is the lowest point of his life, he's still stuck living it—)

—the worst is having to keep performing it. It's almost morbid, getting on stage day after day to do this song they know no one wants. Like Bangtan is a zombie, shuffling around in its own reanimated corpse. Like they're at their own wake, and they can't even cry because they have to make small talk with the mourners.

Yoongi got up to make ramen because if he stayed still in bed any longer he was going to start screaming. Now he's staring at the empty bowl, looking for the energy to stand up and wash it. He's feeling sorry for himself about how tired he is when Namjoon, who must have been working this whole time, comes home.

He enters quietly, and by the time he notices Yoongi sitting at the table, it's too late to announce himself. He drops his bag in silence, and takes Yoongi's bowl as he walks past him to get a snack.

It makes Yoongi angry for some reason, or for no reason, the way his anger often comes. "You should sleep more," he says. "There's no point in working yourself sick for this."

For this. There are things Yoongi would work himself sick for, but he can't remember why this wilting thing is one of them.

Namjoon closes a cabinet and reveals his face, impassive. The pale hair makes him look washed-out when he doesn't have his makeup on, or maybe that's the hour, or maybe it's this life.

"I'm working on the next concept," he says. "We're going to tell a whole new story. It's…" An incongruous smile flickers across his face. "I think it could be really good."

Yoongi shrugs and doesn't say anything more as Namjoon comes to sit next to him with a bag of tofu crackers. His whole body hurts when he imagines disbanding early, even though he'd probably finish out his contract as a producer and that's supposed to be what he wants. But it's just as awful to imagine carrying on, suspended in failure.

"I feel like a zombie," Yoongi says. 

Namjoon squints.

"I mean." Yoongi pauses, swallows hard, considers whether it would be best to put the weapon away. Fires anyway. "I feel like it's already over."

"You know it isn't. We have another comeback in a couple months."

Yoongi makes a noise to show he heard. He even sounds like a zombie.

"I'll tell you about the new concept tomorrow," Namjoon says. "You'll be more excited after you get some rest."

Will he? Maybe. Yoongi tries to imagine what he might get excited about as they get up and put the rest of the things away to go to bed. If this group he gave up everything for doesn't matter—if he has to let it die and start over—what would he want? What would he take into the next life?

Namjoon touches Yoongi's waist to navigate around him in the tiny kitchen, and it shocks all the way up Yoongi's spine. He's been trying to avoid touching Namjoon too much, because his poor animal body gets confused by it, because…

Well, why? What does it matter? What is he hiding for?

He turns into the touch and grabs Namjoon's arm. Namjoon freezes—the question hits his eyes but doesn't come out of his mouth.

Yoongi kisses him.

He presses his lips against Namjoon's softer ones and holds there like he's hanging off a ledge. He feels Namjoon's inhale across his own cheek and steps back.

Namjoon touches his own mouth. Yoongi's face is hot, but he doesn't turn away. Doesn't back down.

Namjoon pulls his hand away and rubs the pads of his fingers and thumb together slowly, like Yoongi left something on his mouth he can feel there. The kind of fine, slippery residue that won't easily wash away.

"Ah, hyung," Namjoon says. "Please don't give up yet."