Home is a quiet, unassuming word out of context.
And then as a concept, if you wanna get real deep (fake deep, because a) he's bullshitting a little just to get to the point and b) most are a little scared to make it mean something, to be vulnerable one hundred percent) it's gotten pretty cruel to everyone.
Not as a function, that isn't breaking news - everyone's grown up in a home that sucked and gave baggage in at least one dysfunctional way.
But as a concept: elusive, carving into someone instead of growing out of, sand-through-fingers fleeting if actually touched, hollow, undefinable.
"It is defined, though," Hoseok says, stretching. "In the dictionary. I get you're being philosophical but you should try being consistent with reality, too, you know."
Namjoon blinks up at the stars, hands under his head. "It just pretty fuckin' sucks. And there's no point to a dictionary definition, alright. When the movies all wanna tell us the same thing in different ways, and all we do is." Namjoon twists his mouth, takes a breather. "Romanticize and muddy it up and grasp for it and always fail."
Hoseok is silent, shaking his right leg against the cold dirt. For a second Namjoon wonders, stupidly, if putting the campfire out would make him see the stars clearer. If he means what he just said. (If he turns around, would he see home right there, spread eagled and bright eyed?)
"And then you get depression," Hoseok says, understandingly.
Namjoon snorts. "And then you get depression," he repeats, and they don't have much to say after that.
"What're you thinking about," Namjoon turns around, eyes closed so he doesn't have to see if he's wrong.
"Zoloft," Hoseok drawls, laugh contained almost fully in his voice. Namjoon can make out the shudder and the grin in it.
"Man," Namjoon sighs, and turns again, onto his stomach. "Sucks."
"Sucky sucky suck," Hoseok agrees, all eloquence. Namjoon pushes himself up, sits with his legs under him. The fire burns brightly in front.
"When do we grow up?" he asks, lost and not really caring about the answer.
"Aw, look at this kid," Hoseok coos, sitting up too. He leans in conspirationally, flapping his hands for effect. "Ya didn't hear? Growing up? It's happening."
"Very funny," Namjoon mumbles, and Hoseok rests back on his hands.
"Hilarious, actually, and yeah, that's me."
Namjoon mulls something over, not for the first time: kindergarten, alone; third grade, lonely; fifth grade, broken pencils; seventh grade, Hoseok; eigth grade, Hobi; the rest, never alone.
"You are," Namjoon says, seriously. "You're actually a great, funny guy."
Hoseok squints at him while also trying not to look at him. "Hey," he says, obviously shy, a little pleased and confused, "No, what? You."
"You're a great guy," Namjoon says, fumblingly, also not looking at Hoseok, "And I'm... glad you're here. And that we're here. And... and yeah."
Throat's dry, so he swallows. They're not looking at each other, but he can hear Hoseok smiling in the slightly awkward silence that follows.
"Joonie," Hoseok says. "Did you just gay a little on me?" Gwangju shows a little heavier in his words, like it always does when he feels more confident than usual.
Namjoon swallows again. "So what if I did." He turns around and lies back down on the ground, trying to put some defiance in his movements and almost burning his hand when he stretches it out towards the fire unknowingly.
"Joonie," Hoseok says again, and he crawls closer to Namjoon and sits next to him. "That's adorable. I'm glad I have you, too." He takes Namjoon's endangered hand and puts it in his lap, strokes Namjoon's hair.
Namjoon's getting a little tired of swallowing but he does it again, nervous reflex. He looks up at Hoseok, finally.
Hoseok's smiling and warm and gentle, looking like - Goddammit - home.