Chapter Text
Honest to god, Jeongguk doesn’t think about it. He’s just relaxing in Yoongi’s studio. He’s just relaxing into the gentle hum of electricity traveling through his hyung’s equipment, the whirring of the fans that keep Yoongi’s computer cool, the quiet misting of the humidifier. That’s why he doesn’t think about it.
That, and Jeongguk can’t particularly describe the comfort that he gets when watching Yoongi create music.
It’s just – Yoongi’s studio is encapsulated in a certain brand of safety that Jeongguk can’t find anywhere else. It’s routine. It always smells the same, always smells like Yoongi and coffee and sandalwood incense. The entire room is Yoongi’s space, filled with things that only Yoongi allows. He’s in control of the noises, the volume, the people that come in, the brightness of the lights, the way people behave in his space, and Jeongguk likes that. If he thinks about it, then it’s kind of like – Yoongi’s in control of him too.
Jeongguk likes that a lot.
This is his safe place, where he doesn’t have to be anything. No expectations, no pressure, nothing to think about. He can put his head on Yoongi’s shoulder if he wants to. As long as Yoongi’s okay with it, as long as Jeongguk’s okay with it, then it’s okay.
It’s special. No one else can get in unless Yoongi wants for them to get in and most of the time he doesn’t and it makes Jeongguk feel special. Jeongguk has his own chair. He feels special. He can do whatever he wants, as long as he doesn’t make much noise, isn’t distracting, doesn’t touch anything without permission, listens when Yoongi tells him not to do something. Jeongguk feels special.
It’s quiet and the lights are dim and when Jeongguk turns, he can see Yoongi staring vacantly at his computer screen, face lit up by artificial light, lips cracked and skin pale and eyes tired, eyebrows furrowed in concentration and displeasure and probably pain, and –
Jeongguk feels a rush of fondness. Yoongi works so hard all of the time and Jeongguk respects him, how amazing he is, how well he takes care of them. Jeongguk looks up to him, values him so much. He can’t help but think of all the times where Yoongi gave him advice. That makes him think of how much Yoongi’s been through, how far he’s come, all of the things he’s sacrificed – Jeongguk knows that Yoongi struggles with a lot of things. Depression, insomnia, anxiety.
Jeongguk isn’t the most intuitive person in the world. He doesn’t give himself much credit when it comes to understanding people. He thinks that he’s probably more than a little dumb, and his intuition is something that he just doesn’t trust because his hyungs are already so good at that sort of thing. It’s not something that he can just muscle his way through improving, so he might as well not try because it’s intangible and based on something that he can’t quantify and that makes him feel strangely inadequate, but –
But sometimes, when Jeongguk sees his hyung like this, with his eyes glazed over and his knee jiggling and his body trembling slightly at the line of his shoulders all the way to the center of his chest, Jeongguk thinks that Yoongi probably isn’t doing too well. Jeongguk is perceptive, picks up on tiny details. He’s not – he wouldn’t say that he understands people, by any means, but he notices. He does notice. He notices a lot and sometimes his heart aches with the weight of it all.
And Jeongguk loves his hyung, loves him so much, and that’s why he doesn’t think about it at all before he puts his hand on Yoongi’s chest. He just knows that he wants to. Jeongguk puts his hand on top of Yoongi’s hoodie, runs his palm along the fabric in even motions, and sighs.
Yoongi’s hoodie is soft. It feels good on Jeongguk’s palm, pressing into the lines on Jeongguk’s hand, the ones that Yoongi said are supposed to tell his future or whatever. He twists the excess fabric between his fingers, smooths it out, repeats. He counts in his head like he’s practicing choreography – one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight – but no one’s expecting anything of him. He doesn’t have to be better, or anything like that, he just has to make the motion steady and even and regulated because he wants to. Because it feels nice and safe and it’s satisfying to his weird, weird brain.
Yoongi opens his mouth. Jeongguk can hear his lips stick together, can hear his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. Yoongi smacks his lips twice, rubs the side of his head on his own shoulder, swallows. “Guk-ah, what are you doing?”
“Dunno,” Jeongguk says. “Like it, though.” He shifts his chair a little closer and bumps his nose against Yoongi’s shoulder.
Yoongi clears his throat. “Alright. Good for you, then.”
Jeongguk doesn’t answer. He continues on, closes his eyes, presses his forehead into Yoongi’s shoulder. He mashes down his nose on Yoongi’s bicep and breathes through his mouth and Yoongi huffs with amusement.
Jeongguk continues this for six, maybe seven more minutes. Yoongi huffs again, this time from a little bit deeper in his throat. He shifts in his chair, rubs the back of his head, slumps forward again to focus more intently on whatever he’s working on. The movement jostles Jeongguk’s head enough that he falls back, the curve of his forehead rolling along the curve of Yoongi’s shoulder in a way that’s unpleasant enough for Jeongguk to stop what he’s doing.
“Sorry,” Yoongi says. He doesn’t sound particularly apologetic.
Jeongguk scoots forward with Yoongi. He sits upright and stares at what Yoongi’s working on without really processing it. His eyes go unfocused, everything blurring in his peripheral, the glow of the screen widening into fuzzy particles of light. All of it dulls out in the back of his brain. Feels warm, feels sweet like syrup.
Jeongguk rubs his hand on Yoongi’s hoodie again, this time in beats of four, meaning that he has to complete the movement more quickly for it to be satisfactory. Jeongguk’s hand warms up on top of the fabric. His palm goes slightly numb from the sensation, but it’s pleasant. Warm and a little bit tingly. Feels like he doesn’t have skin, like he’s melting into Yoongi’s hoodie, becoming soft just like that. He closes his eyes and relaxes into the noise, relaxes into the light of the monitor coming through his eyelids. Jeongguk relaxes his neck and bobs his head and drops his mouth open and sighs.
Yoongi huffs and sits back again. The wheels on his chair clatter, slamming into the leg of Jeongguk’s chair. Jeongguk’s body jostles slightly to the right and his hand falls, drops into Yoongi’s lap.
His crotch, more specifically.
Jeongguk flexes his fingers. He twists his hand, shifts it against Yoongi’s jeans with his eyes closed. His knuckle bumps against the zipper, cold ridges of metal bunching up along the divots in his skin. Jeongguk lifts his hand and pokes at the zipper, runs his fingernail along Yoongi’s fly. Up and down, up and down – he likes the noise. One and two and three, one and two and three, one and two and three – he likes the way that his fingernail catches on the metal.
Yoongi inhales and shifts forward, crosses his legs. Jeongguk’s hand slips and his knuckles jam into Yoongi’s crotch, probably his dick, and Jeongguk mutters an apology. He gently runs his fingers along either side of Yoongi’s fly, enjoys the feeling of soft denim on his fingertips, the noise that it makes against his skin, the noise that Yoongi makes –
Yoongi sighs. He shifts forward again, just enough that Jeongguk feels his dick. They both pause. Yoongi freezes and his muscles go tense. Jeongguk stops moving, scared that Yoongi will tell him to stop, but – he doesn’t. He slumps down in his seat again, double clicks something with his mouse, un-crosses his legs.
Jeongguk taps his fingers along the top of Yoongi’s dick, presses down on it through the denim, decides that Yoongi is a little more than semi-hard. With his eyes still closed, he closes his hand around Yoongi’s cock. It fits nicely in the palm of his hand, the head bulging out above the webbed part between his thumb and his index finger.
Jeongguk squeezes, fondles his hyung’s dick over the denim, digs his fingers into the softness. He likes the give of – dick, apparently, between his fingers. He likes squeezing it, sort of like a stress ball, from the base to the head. He likes tracing the edges of his hyung’s cock, sizing it up between his fingertips, feeling it grow and twitch. He spreads his fingers then, twists the zipper with his pinky, presses down on Yoongi’s dick with his ring finger and his middle finger, dips his forefinger and his thumb into the crease where Yoongi’s thigh meets his pelvis. He curls his fingers and digs his nails in, humming as he scratches the denim, licking his lips because the sound and feeling is so satisfying and relaxing and Jeongguk hasn’t been this relaxed in so long.
Jeongguk thinks it’s fascinating, how different Yoongi hyung’s dick feels compared to his own, how it’s smaller and thinner just like Yoongi hyung but other than that it actually feels the same, besides how the head of his cock is thicker and rounder, but it’s still a just a dick, and Jeongguk has a dick and they’re kind of similar and that makes Jeongguk feel nice, like he’s a little bit like Yoongi hyung, and it’s warm, they both have dicks, really cool –
Yoongi stretches his legs and digs his heels into the floor like he’s – like he’s stretching or something, because he’s been sitting so long, and the wheels of their chairs clatter together. It’s not very loud and it’s not a big movement but it startles Jeongguk because everything’s so quiet and small in comparison. He tightens his fingers around Yoongi’s dick, squeezes because he got scared and it’s like he’s trying to derive some comfort out of it – out of a dick – and he is .
Yoongi hyung’s dick is comforting just like Yoongi is and Jeongguk wants to squeeze it and hold it so he does. Jeongguk jerks his hand, flicks his wrist, digs the heel of his hand into the space right below the head of Yoongi’s cock.
“Shit,” Yoongi breathes. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Jeongguk gets rough. Gathers Yoongi up beneath his hand, grabs as much of his dick and his jeans and his fly and his zipper and his Yoongi hyung as he can, and grips down and –
Yoongi lifts his hips, clenches his thighs together, pushes his ass into the back of his chair when he sits down again. He clicks down on his mouse once, twice, three times in a row and groans and slams his weight into the back of his chair. His voice is deep and raspy and deep and soft, just like when he’s rapping, just like when he’s talking to Jeongguk late at night, and it’s comforting. Yoongi’s relieved sigh – that’s comforting.
Jeongguk feels special.
Jeongguk opens his eyes and looks at his hyung. The way he sinks into the chair, muscles losing their tension, absolutely blissful – that’s Jeongguk’s biggest comfort.
Yoongi opens his eyes and looks at Jeongguk. His mouth falls open. He frowns. He leans all the way back in his chair, throws his head back, and sighs. “Shit.”
Jeongguk lets go of Yoongi’s dick. He smooths down the denim, adjusts Yoongi’s jeans for him, makes sure that his fly is zipped. It’s almost consolation, almost an apology. After that, he looks straight ahead, folds his hands into his lap. “Did you – cum?”
Yoongi clears his throat and rubs his temples. “Yep.”
“Cool,” Jeongguk says. “Hyung –”
“Guk-ah. Jeongguk. Look, I’m gonna – I’m gonna take a nap.” Yoongi turns his head, looks Jeongguk in the eyes. “I’m gonna take a nap, so –” He presses his lips together. “So…”
“Oh,” Jeongguk says. “Oh.” His body tingles. He grips down on his own thighs, a sandstorm of warmth eroding his first layer of skin, granules dropping into his pores and sinking into his veins, his muscles, his bones – gritty and uncomfortable with sand. He inhales sharply, feels like his consciousness is detaching, feels himself spacing out. The tingling expands inside of his brain until it’s all he can hear, all he can feel, all he can think about –
Yoongi frowns again. “Guk-ah –”
“Oh, um.” Jeongguk squares his shoulders and clenches his jaw. “Okay, I’m – I’ll leave. I’m sorry.” He’s about to cry and he hates it, he hates it.
“You can stay!” Yoongi says. “You can stay. It’s fine. It’s okay. I just thought – it would be pretty boring, right? Right. Shit. You can stay, damn it, don’t – don’t...” He swallows hard.
Jeongguk inhales. “I can stay?”
“You can stay,” Yoongi says.
Jeongguk stays.
–
It takes a full twenty-four hours for Yoongi to process what happened. Once he does, he follows Namjoon into the bathroom like a wraith in the night. While Namjoon’s pulling down his pants to take a shit, completely oblivious to his presence, Yoongi says, “I think Jeongguk jerked me off.”
Namjoon doesn’t even bother covering himself. The top of his dick is hanging out and his entire left ass cheek is bunched up over his sweatpants. He loses his balance and sits down on the toilet without pulling up the toilet seat. “What?”
“Jeongguk,” Yoongi says. “I think he – I think he jerked me off.”
“Jerked you off,” Namjoon repeats.
“Yeah. I think he –”
“Jerked you off,” Namjoon says again.
“Jerked me off,” Yoongi says. “Yeah.”
Namjoon stands up, pulls down his pants, and pulls up the toilet seat. He stays like that for a few seconds, back hunched, ass entirely on display, and then he sits down. “And how… does that… make you feel?”
“I don’t know,” Yoongi says.
“Okay.”
Yoongi thinks about it for less than a second before deciding that he doesn’t want to think about it. “Yeah. I don’t know.”
“Okay,” Namjoon says. “Do you want… to talk about it?”
Yoongi throws his hands down in exasperation. “Jeongguk jerked me off,” he hisses, as though that answers the question.
“Right. But like, you know, I can send you – articles,” Namjoon says.
“Why would I want you to send me articles?”
“On like, how sexual preferences don’t always coincide with romantic attraction. And like, how sex doesn’t always have to mean that there are romantic feelings. But like, if there are, nothing wrong with that, we can totally navigate it. Communication is key. And also, we should consider, you know, the fluidity of attraction and human emotion and how – you know, there’s nothing wrong with, like, being gay, if you are, or if you aren’t, you know?” Namjoon says. “Because society as a whole has a binary way of looking at sexuality, attraction, gender, the boundaries that separate platonic from romantic and vice versa, but labels aren’t necessary, in fact they're sometimes inherently harmful, and plenty of –”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I don’t know!” Namjoon puts his head in his hands and braces his elbows on his knees. “I need to shit.”
“Then shit,” Yoongi says. “I’m leaving.”
“Hyung…” Namjoon whines. “My asshole clenched up! I’m stressed out now! You can't just – !”
Yoongi twists the doorknob and walks out.
“You know,” Namjoon says pointedly, “my mom used to rub my back when I had a hard time shitting –”
Yoongi slams the door closed behind him.