LATTE TALK • yoonseok • #WattPride

☕ dix-sept ☕

So maybe Namjoon does intensively think through it, as he rides up the elevator cart at somewhere around one in the morning. Maybe he does prepare his eyes and nose and his goddamn heart to be hyperaware about not rioting when he meets Yoongi. But it still takes his breath away when the door opens to the gummy smile he had fallen for a decade ago, the smile that still haunts him when the other thoughts are quiet. The eyes behind the midnight blue bangs, however, are not as warm as the smile depicts.

"Namjoon." The greeting is short, clipped. "Come on in." The door opens wide with Yoongi moving out of the way for him to enter, and Namjoon's olfactory nerves pick up the slightly stinging smell of lingering linseed oil in the air. As if on cue, his eyes land on the flurry of colors that adorn the canvas propped against the circular coffee table, amongst an array of color tubules and frayed brushes. 

But what causes his eyebrows to pull up in a frown is that these beautiful brush strokes depict an imaginary picture of none other than Jung Hoseok. A soft halo of snow swirl around the painting-Hoseok's head and his heart-shaped lips are pulled into one of his heart warming smiles. But where would Yoongi find Hoseok smiling like this?

"I wouldn't have ever admitted this to you, but Hoseok really is something." Yoongi walks up behind the transfixed younger and watches as Namjoon's face contort into an emotion he is not quite familiar with.

"I thought stalking was the limit you could reach, but here I am, wronged." He wheels around to face the boy. "Yoongi, what do you want?"

The air in the room shifts from welcoming to hostile as Yoongi picks up the canvas and carries it with him to his study, Namjoon slipping in at his heels.

"I am not sure I understand, Joon."

"Oh, for god's sake, Yoongi, STOP WITH THE GAMES ALREADY!" His voice reverberates off the studio's walls, and the air turns colder.

"Oh, now I am the one playing, is it?"

"Yoongi, I asked you a simple question."

"And I do not happen to understand it."

Namjoon is not sure what makes him do it, yet his hand reaches out and grabs onto Yoongi's loose tee and brings him dangerously close to himself.

"I want an answer now, hyung." His voice, for the first time since their meeting, is laced with no emotion.

And he regrets it instantly when Yoongi flinches and his chocolate eyes widen at the action. Namjoon gruffly lets go and his fingers pull themselves at his hair, Yoongi's sweet, sweet breathe lingering in his senses. What's wrong with him?

"Hyung, please. Just tell me what's wrong." Namjoon looks up at the older with pleading eyes, only to find him kneading his face with the heels of palms.

"Hyung...?"

But the older only has shuddering gasps for answer. That is when Namjoon finally notices the criss cross of red, angry lines running horizontal across Yoongi's forearms and the way his body limply falls on the beanbag on the floor, as if the pale body needed outer support to hold him up. He rushes out to the boy, and the next moment, Namjoon finds his arms wrapped carefully around the emaciated figure and rocking his shuddering cries.

"Joon-ah, I..."

"Hyung, please tell me what's wrong. Please. Did you not take your meds today?" And how does Namjoon know that? He did happen to once date a sugar-loving boy who had been diagnosed of psychosis and sent away to a hospital because he was ditched by his orphan boyfri—

"Joon, I missed you. W-Why'd you leave m-me?"