Namseok or yoonseok~ ♡♡
OKAY SO THIS LITERALLY TOOK 12 YEARS BUT IT IS DONE. I hope you like it @intangiblemusings~ ｡(*^▽^*)ゞ It kinda got a little longer than I expected, haha...ha.
Hoseok likes to think he’s a pretty simple guy. He runs a small bakeshop in the heart of Seoul left to him by his late grandmother and lives in a small, dingy apartment a few floors above it. He goes for a jog every morning, watches crap television late into the night, and in between that, tends to customers with pastries of varying sizes and flavors. Everything he does follows a straightforward routine that makes Hoseok feel comfortable, like he has some semblance of control in his life.
So when a man staggers into his bakery well past closing hours, clutching his bleeding side before collapsing onto the floor, Hoseok does what any other simple guy would do: he screams.
A lot.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God, are you okay? What the fuck am I saying, of course you aren’t okay. Are you dying? Please don’t be dying, I am nowhere near mentally capable of dealing with a dying person.” Hoseok rambles as he scurries over to the man currently face-down on his floor and falls to his knees. He shakes the man’s shoulder, but when he gets no response, pushes him onto his back. And when Hoseok gets a clear view of his face, screams again.
Kim Namjoon.
Kim Namjoon, aka leader of the Bulletproof Gang, aka one of Seoul’s most dangerous masterminds, aka literally the worst person to be in this situation with, was currently bleeding all over his small bakery’s floor.
“Oh God I’m gonna puke,” Hoseok announces to no one in particular. “I’m gonna fucking puke, holy shit.”
“Don’t puke on me.”
Hoseok yelps at the gruff voice, and looks down to see Namjoon squinting up at him with a pained expression. And maybe it’s the stress, but Hoseok is feeling stupidly bold when he snaps back. “Oh go fuck yourself. I’ll puke anywhere I damn well please; you’re the one that’s bleeding out on my goddamn floor. Do you know how much I paid to get this place retiled?”
Namjoon coughs out a laugh that causes him to flinch. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“Shit, Christ, okay. Here, let me call an ambul-” Hoseok goes to get up, but is stopped by a strong grip on his wrist.
“No cops.”
Hoseok looks at him incredulously. “Are you kidding me right now? You are literally dying.”
“No cops.”
They stare at each other, locked in a stalemate for a few seconds before Hoseok throws his hands up in defeat. “Fine, whatever. I’ll just fucking Google ‘how to save someone from a fatal stab wound using an egg beater and 43 croissants’. I mean, this can only go well, right?”
It does not go well.
Armed with the power of the Internet, a medical kit that Hoseok is pretty sure came with the building when his grandmother first bought it sometime in the 50’s, and his signature sunflower-patterned oven mitts used as makeshift plastic gloves, Hoseok begins his career as a half-assed nurse for objectively attractive mob bosses.
The first few minutes consist of Hoseok screaming as he tries to clean the wound, and Namjoon screaming at him to shut up because, “if you keep screaming bloody murder, the cops are just going to show up anyways.” So to occupy his mouth, Hoseok talks. He talks about how his parents still worry about him even after two years of living on his own, he talks about the hot guy that comes in every Wednesday and orders peppermint tea without fail, he talks about the bitter old lady who always has something new to complain about and “honestly, if she hates the place so much she can waddle her rotting ass to the Starbucks two blocks away.” (This ends up being a poor topic of choice, for it sends Namjoon into another giggling fit, which in turn sends blood splattering all over the floor and Hoseok’s clothes. Hoseok wants to cry.)
And to Hoseok’s surprise, Namjoon talks back. Between winces and gasps of pain, he tells Hoseok about his parents who he hasn’t seen in almost a decade, he talks about his first boyfriend from high school, but most of all, he talks about his new family, his gang members that he speaks of with such a fond expression that Hoseok feels the warmth radiating through his own chest.
“Okay…I think we’re good? Or at least, as good as we’re gonna be given the current situation.” Glancing between the diagram on his phone and the wrapped side of his makeshift patient, Hoseok nods to himself with a strange sense of pride. He then groans as he looks at his ruined sunflower-patterned oven mitts now stained a deep red. “Aw man, I really liked these! You owe me a new pair of oven mitts.”
Namjoon stares. “You are…very weird.”
And Hoseok can’t help but laugh at that, throwing his head back and cackling with a somewhat hysterical lilt. “Can’t argue with you on that one!”
Namjoon continues to stare, making Hoseok fidget uncomfortably under his gaze. “What’s your name?”
And granted, maybe telling a notorious mob boss your real name isn’t the smartest idea but hell, this night was already bizarre enough. “Hoseok.”
Namjoon mutters the name under his breath, and Hoseok most certainly does not shiver at the way Namjoon’s husky voice sounds saying his name.
He doesn’t.
But he does continue to talk to Namjoon, for what feels like almost hours. It’s surprisingly nice; so nice that Hoseok somehow manages to fall asleep on the cold tile floor feeling only mildly concerned for his safety. But the next morning he does indeed wake up, not locked up in some weird mob jail, but in his bed tucked snugly. Which was a nice gesture, but he was still wearing the bloody clothes from the night before and effectively ruined his sheets.
After taking a rather thorough shower, Hoseok trudges down to his bake shop and stops abruptly. On the counter is a vase of sunflowers, a pair of yellow oven mitts, and a note.
Hoseok,
The kids said they couldn’t find any oven mitts with sunflowers on them, so hopefully this will do. If you ever need something, give me a ring.
Namjoon
Hoseok stares at the phone number scrawled at the bottom at the paper until his sight goes blurry, glances between the flowers, the oven mitts, and the note a few times, and then screams.
A lot.
