Chapter Text
Namjoon wasn’t the type to make friends easily. His nose was always buried in a book one of those old paperbacks that smelled like forgotten libraries and a hint of existential dread, mixed with a dash of grandma’s attic and a whisper of someone’s spilled coffee from 1998.
He got to school and, as usual, walked straight to class, minding his own business. No detours. No distractions. Just him and his book. That is, until he took a wrong step near the canteen and bam collided with someone.
A tray clattered to the floor. Rice, kimchi, and a generous helping of red, steaming jjigae went flying, splattering across both their uniforms in a spectacular mess.
Namjoon froze. His heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. He expected the worst yelling, cursing, maybe even a slap. He deserved it, honestly. He hadn’t been watching where he was going. He opened his mouth to stammer out an apology when the other boy beat him to it.
“Yo,” the stranger said softly, lifting his head and tugging at the fabric of his soaked shirt. The crimson broth clung to his chest, dyeing the white cotton a dramatic shade of red.
Namjoon squeaked. “Ah—!”
“I’m so sorry,” he blurted, voice rushed and high-pitched. “I wasn’t paying attention. I was reading—obviously—and I didn’t see you and, oh god, I can pay for dry cleaning! Or buy you a new uniform whichever! I mean, not whichever, but—”
His books dropped to the ground as his hands hovered awkwardly around the boy, unsure whether to help, back away, or dig himself a grave on the spot.
He could’ve sworn he heard the boy mutter something under his breath “cute” but maybe it was just his imagination. Why would someone call you cute after you’ve baptized them in boiling soup?
“It’s okay,” the boy said finally, breaking Namjoon out of his spiral. “I’ll go change. I’m sure one of my friends has a spare shirt.”
“Are you sure?” Namjoon asked, guilt pressing hard on his chest.
“Yeah, just—” The boy pointed at the fallen book with his chin. “Try not to read and walk next time, Professor.”
He offered a small grin before turning away, leaving a flustered, tomato-faced Namjoon standing in the middle of the canteen covered in stew, holding nothing but regret and the faint scent of soy paste.
And as the boy disappeared down the hallway, Namjoon realized he never even asked his name.
And ironically, that’s how they became best friends.
What started with spilled jjigae and a red-stained shirt turned into years of companionship. They went to the same university, survived internships together, and somehow landed jobs at the same company alongside Jimin, one of Taehyung’s longtime friends. A friend who, for reasons still unclear to Namjoon, grew ridiculously protective of him.
Taehyung had introduced them with all the subtlety of a bullhorn: “Jimin, meet Namjoon. Be nice—he’s precious.”
Since then, Jimin had taken it upon himself to become Namjoon’s self-appointed guardian, often muttering things like, “He’s a delicate little bubble, rolling through this thorn-covered world. He must be protected at all costs.”
It was in Namjoon’s very nature to remind them, repeatedly, that he was actually older than at least three people in their group circle. But no one ever listened.
“Age doesn’t matter when you look like you could be blown away by a strong breeze,” Yoongi had once said, deadpan, earning a nod of agreement from everyone at the table.
Now, years later, everyone in their friend group had paired off—some in committed relationships, others in vague “we’re seeing where it goes” entanglements. All except Namjoon and Taehyung.
Not that they hadn’t dated. Well—Taehyung had. The man had his fair share of one-night flings, situationships, and even a brief, bizarre chapter where he and Jimin tried dating.
They lasted three months before breaking it off during lunch with all the seriousness of discussing what takeout to order.
“We decided we’re better off as platonic soulmates,” Jimin had announced, stuffing a fry into his mouth.
Taehyung hummed in agreement. “We fight over shoes too much to stay in love.”
As for Namjoon, he remained proudly single. By choice.
“I’m saving myself,” he once declared at a group dinner.
“For God?” Hoseok asked, amused.
“For my special one,” Namjoon corrected, placing his hand over his chest with dramatic flair.
He wouldn’t even let the members kiss him on the lips—not even as a joke.
“No, no,” he’d say, pulling back. “These are virgin lips. I’m saving them for my soulmate.”
Jungkook had snorted into his drink. “Hyung, you sound like a 19th-century maiden.”
Namjoon had smiled proudly. “As I should.”
Taehyung, watching all this, never said much. Just watched. Observed. And sometimes, when Namjoon wasn’t looking, his gaze lingered a little too long.
It was Yoongi and Hoseok’s celebratory party, well-deserved after finally landing the elusive contract they’d been chasing for months. The guest list included a handful of staff, some high-end clients, and, of course, their close-knit group of chaotic friends.
Naturally, Namjoon and Taehyung arrived together. Technically, they were “roommates,” though Namjoon swore that Taehyung only called it that to avoid paying rent.
“Sleepovers,” Taehyung had said with a wink. “Makes it sound less… domestic.”
The party was buzzing—loud music, too many bodies, just enough alcohol to blur lines, and a heat in the air that only success and tequila could produce.
Yoongi and Hoseok’s speech was classy and grateful. But, as all things do with this group, it quickly spiraled into chaos. Somewhere in the corner, Jungkook and Jin were swallowed up in each other’s mouths, hands wandering freely like they had no shame left to spare. Jimin had vanished suspiciously fast after his second glass of wine. Yoongi and Hoseok were deep in conversation with people who wore suits too tight and smiles too wide—probably the business partners.
And then there was Namjoon.
Sitting at the bar.
Sober.
Which, according to Taehyung, was a crime against the entire energy of the evening.
“Sweetheart,” Taehyung purred beside him, leaning on the counter with all the grace of someone about to start trouble.
Namjoon’s stomach did an embarrassing flip. He hated that. Hated that nickname. Hated how warm it made his chest feel. Hated how long Taehyung had been calling him that. And hated, most of all, that it still made him all flustered and simpy like he was starring in a cheesy drama.
“Ugh,” Namjoon groaned, rubbing the back of his neck before turning to shoot Taehyung his most fearsome glare—a feat made nearly impossible by the sheen of gloss on his lips. Jimin had spent hours earlier that evening applying just the right tint and layers of product.
“You have to look edible,” Jimin had said seriously. “Like a forbidden treat in a luxury boutique.”
Taehyung, predictably, scoffed the moment he caught the pout. “Are you pouting?”
“What was that for?” Namjoon snapped, dodging the question because no, he definitely wasn’t pouting, thank you very much.
Instead of answering, Taehyung simply stared. Just a second too long. His gaze flicked, unmistakably, down to Namjoon’s lips before he smirked.
“Let’s have a drinking competition,” he declared suddenly.
Namjoon turned his back with a sharp huff. “Not interested.”
Taehyung laughed. “C’mon, sweetheart.”
“I told you to stop calling me that,” Namjoon muttered, ears tinged pink.
“You know I can’t,” Taehyung said with a shrug, then leaned in, voice low. “At least humor me. Turn around if you’re going to curse me out—it’s rude to insult someone’s honor without eye contact.”
Namjoon rolled his eyes, which only made Taehyung grin wider. He reached out and gently grabbed Namjoon’s shoulder, turning him.
“Okay, okay—I’m sorry,” Taehyung said, though the grin on his face completely betrayed the apology.
Namjoon mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like jackass, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Hey, I’m trying to be sincere here,” Taehyung said, pressing a hand to his chest like a wounded prince only he couldn’t keep the laugh out of his voice.
And Namjoon hated the way it made his chest bloom with something dangerous. Something suspiciously like fondness.
After what felt like an eternity of playful bickering, side-eyes, and dramatic sighs, they finally settled on a game of Truth or Dare.
“I’ll go first, sweetheart,” Taehyung declared, sliding a tequila shot toward Namjoon with a grin that spelled trouble.
Namjoon took it without protest, the liquor burning down his throat in the best way.
“Truth or dare?” Taehyung asked, already leaning in like a predator sensing fun.
“Truth,” Namjoon said, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
Taehyung’s smirk widened. “What was your first impression of me?”
Namjoon scoffed, amused. “Begging for praise now, aren’t we?”
“Just tell me,” Taehyung pouted, nudging Namjoon’s knee under the table like it was the most casual thing in the world—not like Namjoon’s heart was actively self-destructing.
Namjoon chuckled, resting his chin on his palm. “I thought you were a cool guy with kind friends. You seemed… understanding. Forgiving.”
Taehyung blinked at him, then dragged his chair a little closer, like Namjoon’s answer had touched something soft in him. Like he needed to be closer now.
“You really thought that?” Taehyung asked, eyes warm and voice gentler than usual.
“Yes,” Namjoon replied, then quickly cleared his throat. “Now my turn.”
And that was how the rest of the night went—laughter spilling as easily as drinks, dares getting wilder, truths getting messier. Eventually, Namjoon was all but draped across Taehyung’s side, giggling with his head heavy on his shoulder and his voice slurred beyond recognition.
“That’s enough,” Taehyung said softly, taking the shot glass from Namjoon’s hand and placing it on the table. “You don’t need any more.”
Namjoon frowned, cheeks puffed in protest.
“Why won’t you just tell me your ideal type of man?” Taehyung muttered, slightly offended. “I told you mine, and we’re practically soulmates—gatekeeping your type from me is rude, Kim Namjoon.”
Namjoon only pouted harder, shaking his head like a stubborn toddler.
“No, no… it’s a s-s—sikrrt,” he slurred, eyes squinting as he tried to hold up one wobbly finger.
Then! like something straight out of a fanfiction fever dream! he pressed that finger to Taehyung’s lips and whispered, “Shhhh.”
Taehyung froze.
Stared.
Heart flipped.
And somewhere in the distant noise of the party, Yoongi’s laughter rang out, someone cheered from the other side of the room, and a bass drop hit like thunder.
But all Taehyung could focus on was Namjoon’s finger on his lips and the soft, drunken flush on his cheeks.
“God,” Taehyung whispered, “You’re gonna kill me one day.”
Namjoon blinked up at him, smiled lazily, and murmured, “Hope not. You’re warm.”
Taehyung didn’t mean to.
Really, he didn’t.
But there Namjoon was—gloss-slick lips parted, cheeks flushed from alcohol and heat, looking up at him with that soft, wobbly pout that Taehyung had spent years pretending not to notice. And then that damn finger. Pressed to Taehyung’s lips like a secret. Like a dare.
“Shhh…” Namjoon slurred, giggling, his head wobbling just slightly before resting against Taehyung’s chest. “You talk too much, Hyung.”
Taehyung stiffened. That word. That voice. That version of Namjoon that only showed up when he was tipsy and unguarded.
“Joonie,” Taehyung warned, his voice rougher than intended.
Namjoon just giggled again, his fingers absentmindedly toying with the chain around Taehyung’s neck, completely unaware that he was skating the edge of a cliff.
“You’re warm,” he mumbled. “Like… microwave bread.”
Taehyung blinked. “Microwave… bread?”
“Mhm. Soft. Dangerous. Underestimated.”
“Jesus Christ,” Taehyung muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re drunk.”
Namjoon hummed. “M’not that drunk,” he said, voice soft and hazy. “I still know your eyes are brown.”
“That’s not the flex you think it is.”
“But they get darker when you’re mad,” Namjoon added, still tracing the chain lazily. “Or when you’re about to kiss someone.”
Taehyung froze.
Namjoon blinked up at him, a tiny smirk on his lips like he was testing something. Pushing a boundary. Or maybe completely unaware that he already had.
Taehyung didn’t move at first. He just stared at Namjoon’s face—the flushed cheeks, the soft curve of his lips, the way his lashes fluttered like he was daring the universe to do something about him.
And then—snap.
In one motion, Taehyung grabbed Namjoon’s face—not hard, but sudden—and kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t romantic.
It was messy, alcohol-tinged, all lips and frustration. A clash of teeth and bottled-up tension. Namjoon gasped into it, startled, but didn’t pull away. His fingers curled in Taehyung’s shirt. His other hand fumbled for something—anything—to ground himself, but all he found was more Taehyung.
When Taehyung finally pulled back, they were both panting. Namjoon’s lips were shiny and bruised. Taehyung’s thumb ghosted over the corner of his mouth.
Neither of them said anything.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, buzzing with everything they didn’t say.
Namjoon blinked slowly, eyes wide. “…Tae?”
Taehyung stood abruptly, running a hand through his hair like he just realized what he’d done.
“You need water,” he said, voice low, carefully avoiding Namjoon’s gaze.
“And maybe a bed.”
Namjoon nodded numbly, fingers brushing his lips like he wasn’t sure if it actually happened. Like he didn’t want to believe how much he liked it.
Taehyung helped him up—gentle, almost too gentle—and guided him through the crowd, not saying a word about the kiss.
NEXT MORNING
Namjoon woke up to the soft ache in his hips and the quiet hum of birds outside the window. He blinked groggily, the sun leaking in through unfamiliar curtains.
This wasn’t his room.
And… he was cold.
His heart sank.
He lifted the blanket slowly—hesitantly—and then it plummeted further when he realized:
He was naked.
Completely. Stark. Naked.
His lips were swollen. His thighs ached. His voice was dry.
And memories came flooding back in broken flashes.
Taehyung’s lips. Taehyung’s voice. Taehyung’s hands gripping his waist. Him—whimpering, pleading like some pathetic lovesick puppy—
“Oh my God,” Namjoon whispered, eyes wide.
He clutched the sheets around himself and looked to the other side of the bed.
Empty. But the pillow was indented and still warm.
Jesus Christ.
Taehyung had taken his first kiss and his virginity in one drunk night, and Namjoon had begged for it.
Humiliation climbed up his spine.
“No no no no,” he mumbled, rolling off the bed, scrambling for his pants, grabbing whatever piece of clothing he could find—half of them weren’t even his. Where were his shoes? His dignity?
He made it halfway to the door before—
“Going somewhere?”
Namjoon froze.