Watching Rapmon-hyung giving the speech from the back. He seemed like a giant, Jungkook had said.
Yoongi doesn’t disagree. Namjoon gets nervous - never as nervous as he was speaking at the UN, but nervous nevertheless. Maybe his hand shakes, maybe his breathing is a little uneven, but his voice is not. He speaks with passion, with conviction, and he touches people. Young and old alike, regardless of their ethnicity, religion or gender identity, as he had himself once said - his words ring true, because he talks about issues everyone faces, everyone shares, and everyone needs to overcome in their lives.
Yoongi watched him giving one such speech just an hour ago; watched Namjoon’s tall frame and poised posture and the blond undercut at the back of his neck. Thought how smart their leader was, always. How eloquent.
How fucking hot.
The moment they had stepped off the stage, away from the wild applause and standing ovation, the kids tackled Namjoon in loud cheers and bright smiles. Hoseok couldn’t stop clapping excitedly, singing praises - literally - and Seokjin had given him a nod, told him it was a good idea to wear his lucky crab-printed underwear for the big event. Yoongi had merely let out a snort.
The revelry and excitement spilled over to Namjoon’s hotel room later. They loosened their ties, discarded their tailored jackets, and continued celebrating with champagne. It was one of those nights when they were a little buzzed, a little high on success; an outstanding speech, and a couple of memorable awards to take home.
It never got old. They have never stopped cherishing it, being grateful for it, and they never will.
Now, with the clock ticking closer to 1 am, Yoongi is tucked away in a corner, on a luxurious chesterfield, a tumbler of whiskey in hand. A red-faced, sleepy Hoseok is sprawled beside him, his usual zest for life diminished by the alcohol.
Yoongi doesn’t mind the quiet of their part of the room. He doesn’t mind watching how Taehyung and Jungkook perform some type of silly dance to a girls’ group song. Doesn’t mind glancing over at where Jimin and Namjoon are deep in a conversation too far away for him to hear.
Yoongi isn’t drunk. Barely tipsy, maybe, the drink in his hand only the second one of the night. They’d had a big room-service dinner earlier, and he feels full and warm, and lets his gaze linger a little longer than necessary.
On the tousle of Namjoon’s hair over his forehead; on his elegant hands, adorned with rings, gesturing as he speaks; on the strain of his thighs in those tight slacks. Little moments, little flickers in which Yoongi indulges, because he can.
Because they can; because there’s this thing between them that neither of them can define, and neither of them think it’s smart to address, but that is still undeniably there.
Slow, molten, a little different than their ironclad friendship. Maybe. Or maybe not different at all. An evolution, perhaps.
When Hoseok lets out a loud burp followed by a groan that suggests nausea, Yoongi turns to him, asks him if he’s okay. He’s aware, out of the corner of his eye, that it’s now Namjoon who glances over at him.
Yoongi wonders what he sees; what he focuses on. Wonders if he likes it.
It quickly becomes obvious that whatever little Hoseok had to drink was too much for his sensitive stomach, and the party slowly breaks up. Seokjin and Jungkook accompany Hoseok, to make sure that he is back in his room safely, while Jimin and Taehyung gush over Namjoon and his speech for a moment longer, before they retire to Taehyung’s room with an announcement that they’re going to do a vlive.
“No drunk streaming!” Namjoon shouts after them just before the door of his room closes, though Yoongi isn’t sure they heard him.
And then there were two.
Namjoon is a bit disheveled, the perfectly put-together image of Bangtan’s leader now somewhat off-center. His hair is messy where he’d run his hand through it; two buttons of his crisp white shirt are undone, revealing tan skin; his jacket and tie are forgotten entirely.
He sits on his king-sized bed, sets his champagne flute on a nightstand, and then finally seems to realize that Yoongi is still in the room. Still on the sofa.
“‘was a good night,” Namjoon says, smiling. Content. Yoongi likes seeing him like that.
He hums in response.
“Surprised you didn’t go to bed the moment we came back to the hotel,” Namjoon continues playfully.
“Hey, even geriatrics get an urge to party every once in a while,” Yoongi says. He sets aside his glass, only half-empty, and makes his way over to where Namjoon is sitting.
He thinks of what he was looking at, during the speech. Thinks of Namjoon’s presence - formidable and inspiring and yet somehow so gentle at the same time. Thinks how he hasn’t properly told him how proud he is of him yet.
And maybe Yoongi is awkward with his words, when it matters to him. When it’s personal, involving his own feelings and his own heart, maybe Yoongi doesn’t know how to verbally express himself the way he would want to.
So he comes to stand in front of Namjoon, his heart in his throat, and thinks how he’d like to express himself through actions. At least tonight.
“Hyung?” Namjoon asks, confused.
“Joon-ah,” Yoongi says, and licks his lips, not daring to question this very impulsive and very irresponsible decision. “Tell me no, if you don’t want it.”
Just as Namjoon frowns, obviously not getting it, Yoongi sinks to his knees in front of him, between Namjoon’s legs; hears how Namjoon very clearly sucks in a breath, eyes going wide.
Yoongi waits for a beat, for a refusal, but doesn’t get one.
Slowly, he reaches for Namjoon’s belt, not breaking eye contact. Namjoon swallows thickly, still surprised, still taken aback, but not protesting; staring back, seemingly not breathing as Yoongi undoes his buckle, the metal clinking.
He goes for the button next, and then the zipper, easily sliding it down, revealing the damned crab-patterned boxers. So stupid. So cute.
“Namjoon,” Yoongi then says, before he does anything else. He wants this, is already hot under the collar, pleasantly anticipating, but he’s not continuing until he’s sure Namjoon understands. “You can tell me no, if you don’t-”
“No,” Namjoon says, and Yoongi freezes.
He is just about ready to melt into the floor, disappear in a puddle of shame, when Namjoon shuts his eyes, quickly correcting himself,
“I mean-” he stutters. “I mean, no, I don’t want to tell you no.”
“...which is…? A yes?”
Namjoon nods, with a little too much enthusiasm. “Yes, it’s- It’s a yes.” He runs his tongue over his lips, and Yoongi’s eyes follow the movement.
Yoongi hooks his fingers into the waistband of Namjoon’s slacks and boxers at the same time - Namjoon helps by lifting his hips - and slides everything down to his ankles.
It’s not the first time he’s seen Namjoon half-naked, or even fully naked. They had all shared a room once upon a time, a bathroom and often a shower together. This view is nothing new; however, the heat that pools in Yoongi’s gut certainly is.
He wastes no time; no foreplay, because he’s not confident enough for that. He simply takes Namjoon’s soft cock and wraps his lips around it without preamble.
And Namjoon gasps into the silence, his thighs tensing up.
The sound, the flex encourage Yoongi, and he focuses on his technique; licks and lightly sucks, feels as Namjoon grows harder, heavier on his tongue. It takes only a few moments before Yoongi can’t take him all the way in anymore, needs to wrap a hand around the base to aid his mouth.
And then he teases.
“Oh, fuck,” Namjoon breathes, completely involuntary it seems, when Yoongi licks at his tip, at the slit. Circles his tongue around the head, again and again, drawing a whimper out of Namjoon.
He drags his tongue all the way down the shaft, loves how Namjoon spreads his legs wider to accommodate him, to make it easier.
Yoongi hasn’t done this a lot in his life, but he’s not a complete beginner, either. He knows how to have fun; knows what he himself likes, and he uses Namjoon’s noises, his words as guidance on what feels good for him.
“Ah- Hah,” Namjoon lets out something that could be a laugh, could be just ecstasy; he throws his head back, hands gripping the sheets on either side of him.
Yoongi doesn’t stop his motions even as he glances up, at the long throat, the white knuckles, slender wrists… He laps and sucks hard around the tip and Namjoon moans - sounds like doesn’t mean to, like he’s trying to hold back, but is failing so miserably.
“Hyung,” he whispers, but doesn’t follow it with anything substantial. “Hyung, ah… Yoongi.”
His name, Yoongi’s name in such a low, breathy tone makes him squirm, wanting friction as well. He eases up and nuzzles down Namjoon’s slick cock, presses his lips to it.
“Relax, Joon-ah…” he murmurs. “Look at me.”
Namjoon takes a moment. His death grip on the sheets loosens, and he lifts his head, then looks down, face flushed, eyes dark. Staring, like he can’t believe this. Like he can’t look away.
“Oh jesus,” he says when Yoongi smiles a little, rubs his cheek against his dick. “You- You’re…”
“Hmmm?” Yoongi plays with him more, now licks a stripe all the way up, feels the shudder that rips through Namjoon. Loves it, loves this, how Namjoon is out of words here, with his dick in Yoongi’s mouth, stuttering and speechless.
Instead of giving an answer to what Yoongi is, tentatively, Namjoon threads his fingers through Yoongi’s hair. Doesn’t push or pull or do anything really, just holds it there, tugging a little when Yoongi takes him in all the way, down, down to the back of his throat, earning himself another moan.
Namjoon mutters obscenities when Yoongi picks up the pace. When he moves his head, using his hand at the same time, hollowing out his cheeks. Namjoon’s hips jerk, but he obviously makes an effort to keep still, to not thrust into Yoongi’s throat.
“Hyung, hyung,” Namjoon chants, “I’m not gonna last, Yoongi, please-”
The please is too much, too meek, too good; Yoongi doesn’t stop - wants to touch himself, at least over his clothes, but also wants to make Namjoon come, wants to hear him -
“Ah, ah- no- hyung- I’m so close-”
Namjoon sounds a little shaky, a little wrecked, hoarse and beautiful-
“Yoongi- get off, I- I-” He tries to get Yoongi to pull back, but Yoongi isn’t having it. “Oh, oh fuck! ”
Namjoon goes rigid, one long line of tension as he spills into Yoongi’s mouth, his ragged moans filling up the room, hand tight, tight in Yoongi’s hair; Yoongi swallows it all, tastes salt, though isn’t particularly disgusted.
When Namjoon goes limp, fucked out and pliant, Yoongi sits back on his heels and scoots away from the bed, wiping his mouth. His own slacks are too constricting in the front - he’s hard, horny, would like to continue this, but.
But Namjoon is catching his breath, tucking himself back into his underwear and pulling up his pants, and Yoongi’s mind supplies,
He hadn’t thought about that part. About what happens next, after Namjoon orgasms and they’re left in this ringing silence. This unease that feels a lot like second-guessing.
It sounded like a good idea a few minutes ago. A great one, even. A treat, for Namjoon; a way for Yoongi to show just how much he means to him.
But now Yoongi is staring at the lavishly decorated carpet, his heart pounding in his ears.
Should he say something? Like what? Is this where they talk about their feelings? Or is it not that deep? Are there any feelings even? He thinks there are, on his part at least. Thinks at least that he’s sure of, but…
Should he just excuse himself and leave?
Yoongi’s fingers itch for his glass of whiskey just so he could have something to occupy them with. Maybe he should leave, yeah. Leave it like this - though he’s not sure he wants to - and not make a big deal out of it. A simple blow job on a good night, after a couple of drinks. Friends give each other blow jobs, right? Friends do that sometimes-
Yoongi’s downward spiral of thoughts is interrupted by a touch. Fingertips, slow and gentle, ghosting over his jaw.
He blinks, suddenly aware that Namjoon is kneeling in front of him now, on the carpet. His belt and zipper are still undone, but he’s mostly decent.
And he’s looking at Yoongi with a half-smile; with a wonder and a softness that Yoongi feels deep, deep in his bones.
Yoongi is stock still, part terrified and part not daring to scare Namjoon away, unmoving as Namjoon’s gaze lingers on his lips; as Namjoon’s thumb comes up to trace the bottom one, smearing the wetness over it.
“Hyung,” Namjoon whispers, and without another word, he leans in and presses his lips to Yoongi’s. Holds them there, for a moment, then slowly moves against them.
Kissing him. Namjoon is kissing him.
Yoongi lets out a hum, something between surprise and yes, please, finally. He takes hold of Namjoon’s shirt and pulls him in more - kisses back without rush; carefully parts his mouth for Namjoon, like whatever this is is too precious, too delicate to ruin it by going too fast.
Namjoon undoubtedly tastes himself on Yoongi’s tongue, but doesn’t seem to care. He explores, smiles into it, alternating between light pecks and more sensual licks, as though he’s testing which one he likes best. Which one Yoongi likes best.
Yoongi likes them all.
“Stay with me?” Namjoon whispers then, in the space between two kisses. Kneeling on the carpet, caressing Yoongi’s face, smiling, smiling with the dimples Yoongi has yet to admit out loud just how much he likes.
Stay with me. For the night? The foreseeable future? Eight more years? Longer than that?
“Yes,” Yoongi replies, because whichever it is, he wants in. “Yes,” he repeats, and kisses Namjoon some more.