click. | yoonmin, taekook, namjin

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"Need help?" Yoongi tries as he jogs to their kitchen, and if he didn't already know the answer to that godforsaken question, he knows it now.

Five halved eggshells rest on the counter, and Yoongi knows what that means. "I don't need help," Baekhyun assures him with sweet (deceiving) puppy dog eyes, but the impressive milk spill on the floor and the egg whites cascading down and off his fingers tell Yoongi otherwise.

This dude can't even make scrambled eggs without making this kitchen look post-apocalyptic. The concept isn't something Yoongi can get his head around, and he wonders if he finds it impressive in a bad way or just plain obnoxious.

"Yes, you do," he corrects, rushing to action in the form of ripping off paper towels for Baekhyun's hands and the floor. Yoongi would've sworn up and down he didn't have a 'parent mode' if you'd asked him before this self-proclaimed hot mess made a home out of their guest room. People change, fast, if they need to.

There's a stupid grin on Baekhyun's face as Yoongi cleans his stupid hands, and he struggles to come up with the appropriate adjective for the way his lips are curled. Sleazy comes to mind. "Look at you, mama bear," he teases, curling his hands around bigger ones with callouses, "Cleaning up baby's mess."

"Call me that again and I'll cut you," replies Yoongi, stepping to the trash can and throwing away the first soaked paper towels. This'll take a good few of them. Paper towels will have to go on the grocery list, right underneath fruit, toothpaste, and Windex (who knows what the fuck Baekhyun had done with that. Not cleaning, it was safe to assume).

The cheeky smile from before is gone from those lips; Baekhyun pouts like a child. Joke's on him. Yoongi knows he is one. "Why so grumpy this morning, sweetie?"

Yoongi doesn't even bother answering that question, or telling him that he'll also cut him for using the nickname 'sweetie.' He's a little busy cleaning up Lake Milk that Baekhyun has kindly left on the hardwood floor for him to deal with.

Rip, rip, and there goes half the paper towels, piled up next to his bent knees and crumpled in his left hand. Doesn't liquid fuck up wood floors if it stays there long enough? Jesus. They rent this apartment, and he hates Baekhyun. He does.

"Okay," he says when the floor is just about dry, and he's creating a ball of drenched towels in his poor hands. Milk isn't something he ever has on his hands, and he sends a prayer to some sort of deity that things stay that way. "You want eggs, right? Just let me make them for you."

"I do want eggs. But I want you more."

Yoongi frowns. Here is a voice that's soft yet still has rough edges, one that drawled into the shell of his ear a few minutes ago. Here is a voice that isn't Baekhyun's.

When he looks up, Jimin is standing there in all of his morning-person, my-skin-glows-like-the-stars glory. A smile is present on his cute lips, and whether it's from the fact that Yoongi's hair is a bird's nest or the fact that he's on his knees cleaning is unclear.

It doesn't matter. Baekhyun matters, the fact that he's no longer in this room matters, because that means he's in another one. The possible outcomes of that are not worth the joy of not being in his company.

"Where's that ass?" is the frantic sentence that comes out of Yoongi's mouth. His newfound panic is probably the reason for the articulate phrasing.

Jimin, missing the urgency that's reducing Yoongi to chopped up sentences and forehead sweat, swings the designated body part around and smacks it. "Right here," he jokes.