Yoongi stops midway through pulling up his boxers and takes a deep, shaky breath. It feels pretty weird, having his ass sticking out of his clothes when there's a good two, three feet between him and Seokjin, but this is even weirder — Seokjin calling out to him post-coitus, watching him through the narrow slits of his bangs instead of snoozing fitfully in his bed, propping himself up against his arms and sitting up so he can... see Yoongi in earnest or something. Granted, Seokjin almost always tells him to lock the door before heading out to do his walk of shame back in his shared room with Namjoon, but still. He never does it when he's more than half-awake, never gives him more than a passing glance before collapsing back in bed, and never grumbles anything more than 'I'm never gonna feel my ass again' or 'I can't believe I let you fuck me when I should've been doing writing a paper' or 'Someday, I'm gonna be able to convince you that scented lube's actually nice. Get me some for my birthday?'
Yoongi grunts. He still has his back turned to Seokjin, his fingers curled into light fists in the waistband of his underwear as he tentatively, tentatively pulls it up, but he can very well feel Seokjin's heavy gaze on his skin. It kind of makes him want to curl in on in himself or something. Or lock himself up in Seokjin's closet. That wouldn't be too bad. Seokjin had the softest, fluffiest sweaters and, unlike him, Seokjin never forgot to use fabric conditioner on his clothes, so—
So leave your stuff on the floor and just run, grumbles a voice in his head, muffled by the whinging sound somewhere in there, at the very back of his mind, ringing in his ears. Seokjin's right — maybe he should have had his hearing checked weeks ago. He's been hearing voices a lot more recently, and while he's partly convinced Hoseok is right about him being crazy, he's pretty sure it has more to do with him blasting music in his ears 25/8.
School. It's for school. He's been working on academic stuff non-stop while still trying to enjoy music he'd regularly devour. Operative term: trying. It's been getting increasingly difficult these past few days — weeks, months — turning something he's always loved into something more measured and scientific, but Seokjin has been doing well in the—
'Distracting' department. He's been nothing but a distraction, Jesus— Yoongi heaves a sigh. Seokjin has been pretty helpful with providing peculiar music recommendations, songs Yoongi wouldn't (be caught dead listening to) listen to on a normal day and, instead, would love to improve on against Seokjin's better judgment, but that's about it. Everything else he is does grates on Yoongi's nerves, makes Yoongi's nose twitch, and makes Yoongi want to throw his headphones as far away as possible so he can stop thinking about all the tracks he needs to finish and just focus on the score he has to settle with Seokjin. He can't keep losing in this little game of theirs, after all.
"You're leaving?" Seokjin says again, pitching his voice a little louder this time. He sounds rough, all scratched up, and all Yoongi can think of is, I did that. I did that. I did that to him. "In boxers? In winter?"
"Yeah, so?" Yoongi snarls after a beat, then yanks his boxers up all the way. "I'm hot. I'm a fucking furnace. I've got nerves of, uh, whatever." He rubs his legs together and crouches low, reaching for his socks and slipping them on. The surge of warmth feels nice, eases the knots in his stomach a little, but they're tightening again as soon as he hears the sheets rustling. It means Seokjin's getting out bed in probably nothing but just his skin. It means Yoongi will probably have to strip again because his dick's never found a good enough reason to say 'no' to Seokjin despite the freezing cold, or papers piling up on him, or that tiny, tiny plosive in his waveform waiting to be cured. It means they're at round four now and Yoongi's never been good at four-setters where he's up against indecision — should he give in now, or should he tell Seokjin he'll just drop by later to get his things, get stuff done, then get dicked as a reward for all his hard work?
He risks a glance over his shoulder. Seokjin's sitting cross-legged on the bed now, pillow placed strategically on his crotch, blankets wrapped loosely around his arms. The lighting's dim enough to make it impossible to make out the finer details of Seokjin's features — the little red marks Yoongi knows he'd sucked on Seokjin's neck, the little freckles on his skin, the little scar along the angle of Seokjin's jaw from when he'd thrown a fit at being turned down from an acting gig for a fifth time — but there's just enough light trickling down the expanse of Seokjin's torso to draw Yoongi's attention to the gentle rise and fall of his chest, his even breathing.
Yoongi shivers. Seokjin looks like one of those fuckin' models on magazines, the ones that get the center spread all the time or make the covers of at least three prints every other month. Underwear model, corrects a voice in his head, and he doesn't even bother brushing that off. He hasn't spent the past year sleeping with the same guy to not have every curve or dip or slope of Seokjin's body memorized by now, hasn't spent the past few months studying the way Seokjin's muscles tense when he touches him, whether long and lingering or feather-light, and relax when he lets his pulse bleed onto Seokjin's skin in a slow and steady rhythm. Seokjin looks better clothed, bundled up in sweaters that make him look ten times warmer than he actually is, but Yoongi's pretty darn sure Seokjin can model leopard print briefs and still look hot while feeling awkward in them.
His dick twitches. Something drops to the pit of his stomach, and fuck — he's never seen Seokjin shuffle around his dorm or take off anything other than plain briefs, but if he ever has underwear peppered with patterns and cute designs and fucking animal prints—
He gulps down hard and curls his fingera into tight, tight fists. If Seokjin ever finds out about his printed briefs kink, Seokjin will never let on.
"Well, I hope your freezing ass remembers you get cold so easily at pathetic temperatures," Seokjin singsongs after a while, breaking the spell. There's a grin slowly spreading across his lips, reaching his eyes and making them crinkle at the corners. Yoongi wants to rip that look off of his face and kiss it away or something. 'Or something' is probably the better option. "And that the elevator's under maintenance. And some of the windows are broken, so if you actually plan to parade along the corridors in your cute little boxers—"
"I hope your sore ass remembers I just gave you the ride of your life," Yoongi grumbles in retaliation, looking away and dropping his gaze to the floor. He's been rummaging through the same bunch of clothes for the past minute already, but he still can't figure out which is his. Which is kind of weird because, a year ago, he and Seokjin had vastly different styles, but then that's what twelve months of taking turns fucking each other in each other's room does, he supposes — it takes each half of the partners' clothes and lumps them into one pile of big shirts and ripped jeans, then labels them as 'conjugal property' or whatever the label should be for fuck buddies who are also functional friends.
And supermarket buddies. And 3 a.m. convenience store buddies. And Valentine's date— Admit it, Yoongi: you actually blocked off your schedule for him that day on the off-chance he wasn't going out with anyone, teases a voice in his head. He shrugs it off, pushes himself up on his feet, and looks at Seokjin in earnest when he turns on his heel. The bottom half of Seokjin's body is still covered. The gods don't hate him, after all. "Where's my shirt?"
Seokjin lifts his eyebrows. For a second, he purses his lips, twists them to the side the way he does when he's stalling, or thinking, or recalibrating, but, soon, he's thawing out, the corners of his mouth curling up into a peculiar grin. The kind that makes Yoongi want to hurl something at someone, like all of his music theory readings and books and maybe pillows and roses at Seokjin, whatever, but nah. That requires too much work. He's already having a hard time putting his clothes on, as it is, without blindly reaching for one of Seokjin shirts in some desperate attempt to keep himself warm; he doesn't hate himself that much to dig his own grave.
"I dunno. You ripped it then tossed it somewhere. Then you did a striptease— Wait, you actually don't remember?" Seokjin tilts his head a little. If Yoongi squints, he's pretty sure he'll see Seokjin jutting out his lower lip in that 'no fucking way' look of his, but his vision is still mostly hazy and the blankets curled around Seokjin's wrists are fast coming off and Seokjin's shoulders are the entire stretch of The Great Wall that he'd gladly trace with his fingers if Seokjin asked— "You said you weren't drunk!"
"I—" Wasn't. He wasn't drunk. He's never had the chance to get drunk with Seokjin around, because they've agreed to never fuck with any alcohol in their systems again because making out takes forever and delays the actual 'getting dicked'. At best, he'd be tipsy, too fucking red in the face and fingers numb from clapping at his friends getting wasted so easily, but even then Seokjin would almost always sober him up with his mouth and a warm hand palming him through his jeans.
Yoongi blinks. Tenses for a second, when he feels warmth curl in his abdomen, then brushes that off when realization hits him. Right, they didn't drink last night. They just went out for convenience store food and ended up eating in a food stall 'til midnight, because apparently that was what seniors who'd just been freed from the strings of 'academic responsibilities' did to celebrate. Seokjin paid for more than half, and Yoongi said he'd make it up to Seokjin with dessert... except they never made it to the waffle stall and, instead, went to straight to Seokjin's dorm room for dessert. There was no teasing, just trembling hands trying to yank clothes off of each other's bodies and muffled laughter and Seokjin laughing at Yoongi being a bit more enthusiastic than usual, a bit more eager, a bit more everything, and Yoongi's pretty darn sure the closest he'd gotten to doing a striptease was stumbling on his socks as Seokjin laughed his ass off before scooping him in his arms for a kiss.
'Gross' is his first thought; his second, when he looks up to meet Seokjin in the eye and finds Seokjin cackling at him, 'Why the hell do I put up with you, Kim Seokjin? And why do you actually put up with me?'
"Kidding, kidding. Though I don't mind a striptease." Seokjin wiggles his eyebrows. His voice drops dangerously low, the last few syllables sounding more like a rumble, rough like sandpaper, and Yoongi kind of wishes he didn't have the little lilts in Seokjin's voice memorized, didn't know the many different tones it could take it was his own voice. That once they spilled their release into each other everything they knew about whatever they had would be wiped out, and the scale of familiarity would drop back to zero. That way, he wouldn't have to deal with his limbs telling him how he felt even before he could register an emotion, and every fucking thing Seokjin did would stop being a stimulus to weird things, to anything.
His insides turn everytime Seokjin looks at him with the same way he looks at cupcakes. His chest tightens whenever Seokjin reaches for his hand instinctively, like it feels so normal to slip their hands together whenever Seokjin isn't doing anything else. And all the voices in his head scream in at least five different languages whenever Seokjin kisses him, really kisses him, not devours his mouth like it's the only thing he can do to keep himself alive.
Then something drops to the pit of his gut whenever he remembers he might just be making things up in his head, because Seokjin's treats emotions like a game of Monopoly — pass Yoongi's dorm, collect pieces of Yoongi, big or small, and leave scars there in the form of light and tender touches, then go.
"And your ass would look nice in spandex, I'm just saying," Seokjin adds after a while, then sucks in his lower lips. Yoongi takes that as his cue to throw something at Seokjin — the clothes on the floor, the pillow so close to falling off of his bed, part of his anxieties and maybe— He sits on his hands even before the can finish that though and listens on, tries to look disinterested, furrows his eyebrows for good measure. "Seriously, though — 5 a.m.?"
Yoongi shrugs. Shifts his gaze to the clothes in front of him another time, on the off chance he'd just missed his tattered shirt and his track pants amongst the mess, then looks up at the hugeass wall clock to his left when he finds nothing. His press release was that one of his aunts gave it to him as a joke, and he had no use for it so, "Take it. I don't want a massive clock reminding me that I'm wasting my life on music. Go," but the truth was this: he bought it for Seokjin to make the guy shut up about needing a bigger wall clock but not wanting to park his ass in a buss for three long hours for just for that. "I said, take it— What? Yeah, my aunt thinks I like— No, I didn't get that for you. What the fuck?"
"I mean, you turned in all your stuff yesterday. You don't have anything due today — you said so last night." Seokjin leans back against the cushions and hugs the comforters close to his chest. His bangs drape over his eyes like a sloppy mop, but Yoongi can still see Seokjin watching him through the narrow slits. It's reminiscent of the first time they ever slept with each other, when Yoongi had scrambled to his feet and gathered his clothes as soon as he'd realized that first, he just had sex with the first friend he ever made when he shifted to music theory from business; second, it just had to be Seokjin, the object of his lewdest fantasies since day two and, coincidentally, also the subject of every damned song he'd written for composition class; and third, Seokjin was right — this was going to happen another time, and another, and another— "You're in charge of the condom next time. I'm an XL, but you already knew that."
"Or tomorrow," Seokjin adds, voice barely above a whisper, so faint it almost sounds like he's breathing more than letting slip an afterthought. But then fuck Yoongi and his superior hearing memory, whatever the hell it's called, because he knows all too well the difference between Seokjin's even exhalation and the sound of his words uncertain. And his body knows when to tell him to listen more carefully, come closer, if there's anything you want to know, just come closer— "Unless—"
yukichumau, you're up!