#takedown

Namjoon sits down to write, but the ideas don’t come easily today. The remnants of his dream linger, the sorrow clinging filmily to him. The wound of Hobi's loss is familiar, but he always had Taehyung, her child, as a balm. Living proof of their love.

And now he may have lost him too.

A familiar pit opens in his stomach, yawning and endless and dreadful like the contemplation of death or the ever-expanding universe. It’s too vast for his human body, his tidy life. It makes his chest tighten and his eyes hurt, his whole body squeezing in on itself like he needs to hide from a predator. 

“Hyung?”

Jungkook stands, sleep-rumpled, just inside the perimeter of the office. He’s avoided this room since, months ago, he stood within it in the middle of a rainstorm and kissed Namjoon so gently. As if he’s not sure he’s allowed back.

“What is it, baby? I thought you were asleep.”

“I tried,” Jungkook mumbles. “I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep yet. I don’t know why. Will hyung come sit and keep me company until I fall asleep? Please?”

He pouts, eyes going extra big in a way Namjoon is sure is intentional.

Namjoon doesn’t even try to deny him.

“Okay, but I’m bringing my laptop so I can work.”

Jungkook grins crookedly, and Namjoon follows him back across the house.  

It’s beginning to heat up as the sun rises; the floorboards are newly warm beneath his feet. The house is waking to a new day, and Namjoon is busy putting his boyfriend to bed. Jungkook walks confidently back to Namjoon’s bedroom, not even glancing across the hall, as if it’s natural he’d be sleeping in Namjoon’s bed. And Namjoon supposes he’s right. He claimed his space long ago now.

Jungkook burrows under the covers of Namjoon’s bed while Namjoon himself sits in a chair by the window, laptop perched on his legs.

“Comfy?”

Jungkook, who has finally ceased his wriggling with a happy little sigh, nods. His eyes are already drooping.

“Sometimes I just can’t get my brain to be quiet, even though I’m sleepy. You can keep working on your chapter, I just wanna — say the thoughts out loud, to someone else. And maybe then I can sleep.”

Namjoon wonders if Jungkook has his own thoughts too vast for his body, black tendrils at the corners of his mind. He wonders if he’s okay. It’s not just Namjoon in those photos circulating online. They’re in them together.

“Okay.”

So Namjoon types, mostly focusing on the words in front of him, but Jungkook’s raspy, sleepy voice as he mumbles about this or that filters through occasionally — snatches of talk about his friend’s military service, the differences between dog breeds, bowling videos he’s been watching on YouTube. A few times he giggles, low and flirtatious, and Namjoon’s stomach squirms, threatening to distract him from his work.

But the chatter slows steadily, gaps between thoughts growing longer and longer, and eventually Namjoon thinks Jungkook must have drifted off. And maybe he did.

But some time later, when Jungkook asks, “Have you talked to Taehyung-hyung?” Namjoon hears him perfectly.

He looks up sharply, but Jungkook’s just watching, eyes half-lidded. Waiting for an answer.

“No. Have you?”

Jungkook shakes his head.

“Are you mad?” 

It’s so similar to what he’d said last night. Doesn’t it make you mad? Hurt me, I deserve it.

“Do you want me to be? Because yesterday it seemed like you wanted me to be, and now this too. Who do you want me to be mad at? You? Taehyung? Myself?”

“Anyone? I’m mad,” Jungkook admits. “I’m mad at that person who took those pictures and posted them. I’m mad at whoever sent them to Taehyung like it was gossip or something. I’m mad at Taehyung for getting so upset when I wasn’t trying to hurt him. I’m mad at you for not even trying to explain it to him. I’m mad at you for not choosing me. But you, like — it’s like it’s nothing to you.”

“It’s not nothing to me. It’s my fucking life. It’s my career. It’s my family.”

“I know, I didn’t mean —” Jungkook huffs, wriggling closer to the edge of the bed. A hand dips out from his blanket cocoon, reaching out with fingers wiggling in offering. Reluctantly, Namjoon takes it. Stupidly, it does make him feel a little better. Less raw.

“I just meant you’re not showing me anything,” Jungkook continues. “I want to help. I want to know if you’re hurting. That’s what — that’s what boyfriends are supposed to do, right? Be someone to talk to.”

“I guess.”

It’s been a long time since Namjoon dated anyone like this. In a boyfriend/girlfriend kind of way. He might be out of practice, he realizes. The relationships he’s had since Hobi have been exclusively long distance or low-intensity. He always had more pressing priorities — Taehyung, his career, even the intensity of his friendship with Yoongi — and he preferred partners who were the same. Maybe it’s one reason things have always felt so strange with Jungkook. He’s simply not used to anyone being so top of mind, so impossible to ignore.

“You’re doing it again,” Jungkook points out. “Thinking and not telling me.”

“Sorry. Just — give me a second.”

He feels this impulse to rationalize it, explain it away. He can even feel the words forming on the tip of his tongue, the way he’d explain how anger is difficult for him. How he’s used to redirecting and defusing it. But it all feels like the way he might explain something to Taehyung — to a child. 

Parenthood makes you prone to secrets. Suddenly whole categories are off limits, spoken of only in code or behind closed doors, kept away from a child who’s not ready for them. Some of the complexity of the world becomes unspeakable, almost.

When Hobi died, Namjoon lost his partner in those secrets. He had no one to speak them to. He’d begun to lock certain things away from anyone, to keep them secret even from himself. It’s a tough habit to break.

“I do feel angry. I’m furious and I’m sad and I love you and I hate myself. I tell myself it’s for loving you, but I think maybe that’s an excuse. Maybe it’s just rage. And I don’t have a lot of places to put it.”

Jungkook hums, eyes blinking sleepily. “I hope you find somewhere to put it. And... it’s okay to put some of it into me. I want it.”

He smiles, eyes closing.

“I’ll try my best. Now sleep, honey.”

Already Jungkook’s breathing is heavy, his hand drooping from Namjoon’s hold.

Namjoon looks at the core of messy emotions that always swirls at his center like an unruly star. Jungkook has a point — he did use to put it somewhere. He used to be able to let its light out through his writing, turning that terrifying ball of fire into a distant sun, helping new things to grow on the page. He thinks about his own anger, his confusion, his grief. And he thinks about his characters and the problems Yoongi said he should give them.