Chapter Text
It starts with a typical disaster, like usual.
He’s baking a cake. Okay, revision, he’s decorating a cake, Namjoon is, because the stupid cooking class was supposed to be a group thing and they were all going to fail if he didn’t do anything (but he’s tried, really, he’s tried so hard. He’s spilled eggs the first time around, he’d digested the white chocolate to the texture of sand the second time, he’d set fire to their pot the third--Namjoon had tried so, so hard. But it wasn’t. Working. Why couldn’t their stupid instructor see that?).
It’s easy, his job is. Take the stupid can of sprinkles and dump it onto the cake. Yes, that was literally what his groupmate had asked of him. “Just dump it on, Namjoon-ah,” he had said. They weren’t even expecting anything from him. Right then and there, Namjoon had decided to create the best looking sprinkled cake this class had yet to see. And by that, he meant completely sprinkled. And by that, he meant he was going to dump the sprinkles on the cake.
But then one thing led to another. He had been trying to open the can of sprinkles, but the damn thing was not budging from the seal it had created, and so he had smacked it a few. And then he tried shaking it, and the top completely popped off and sprinkles poured out of the container. But the real problem was when Namjoon flipped it over in such a panic that he knocked his arm into the girl next to him with a giant bowl of whipped cream. Whipped cream went flying, sprinkles went flying--it was a mess.
And the worst part of it all was that his sprinkles, by some power invested in the gods above, flew out the window from the force, can and all. So now he was left with whipped cream in his hair, sprinkles on the floor, and sprinkles falling from a height of three stories down. Namjoon thinks he gets whiplash from the speed it takes him to run over to the side, mouth open into a wide ‘O.’
When he looks through the window, the big fiasco hasn’t even ended yet. There go his sprinkles, showering over a poor innocent bystander with his arms frozen in the air midstretch, scattering into a million billion pieces onto the ground around him. And, as if throwing an ‘in your fucking face’ to Namjoon, the sprinkles can lands directly on top of unfortunate stranger as well, hitting him hard enough to bounce before it falls into a clattering mess on the floor. And now Namjoon has whipped cream in his hair, sprinkles on the floor, and sprinkles scattered outside the building and all over this man who he’s never seen before in his life, as well as dead silence stemming from the fact that people are still too shocked to even be angry.
A thousand different curses for himself come to mind. That, and a hundred thousand apologies for the girl on the floor at his side and the young man with the sprinkles all over him outside. But then young man slowly lowers his arms and turns around and up so that Namjoon can see his face (the stranger’s mouth is also shaped into a wide ‘O’--well, it's more of an ovally '0'), and his face scrunches into what might be the ugliest yet funniest thing Namjoon’s ever seen in his life. He lifts one finger rigidly to point at Namjoon, his hand unravels into a claw, and he hisses.
“You..! Do you hate me?!”
And Namjoon starts laughing.
--
Their friendship starts from that weird point on, after very kind stranger, instead of cursing out Namjoon, Namjoon’s family, and maybe Namjoon’s future generations to come, only beckons him down with a broom because “I sure as hell am not responsible for cleaning this mess!” And hot damn, because Namjoon had been too spooked at the lack of verbal abuse that he even forgot to apologize (but he remembers to apologize to the rest of them, because their faces screamed that he wasn’t getting out alive without at least begging).
And so unfortunate stranger became just Hoseok, a same-aged friend who happens to go to the same university as him, and happens to have a few mutual friends that tied the two of them together faster than Namjoon had expected. Hoseok, who was different from him and Yoongi in every way (except for the fact that, okay, maybe he did rap a little, composed a little too, but it seemed like this guy did everything). Hoseok liked to party hard and laugh harder, screamed in his free time and sobbed during horror movies. Hoseok was a shit when he wanted to be but he was also so nice at the same time (and Namjoon still hadn’t apologized for the sprinkles), and Hoseok fit in with the rest of them even more easily after he had introduced Jimin and Taehyung and Jungkook and, well, Hoseok ended up knowing them as well.
And so they were seven. Namjoon didn’t really mind the odd number, the cramps in his legs when someone had to sit on him as they crammed into the sofa late at night, or when they didn’t have enough seats in the car (he should’ve called shotgun, but screw Yoongi for being older). He didn’t think anything would change. It would be him and six more people in his home rather than the usual two, a bunch of late night gatherings and the usual drink-until-you-get-drunk-but-keep-drinking-until-you-have-to-sleep-it-off kind of drunk. Same as usual. Same as usual.
--
Something is wrong.
Something is wrong with this situation, but Namjoon doesn’t know what. On the surface, it’s as normal as normal can be. Him and Hoseok, going out for a drink at the cafe after classes have ended and it is still too early for them to retire into their own rooms. Namjoon has a cup of americano in front of him (he wants to say it’s because he’s sophisticated, but really it’s because it’s cheap) and Hoseok the same with his own spiced latte of some sort of flavor. Namjoon is talking, the words spilling out of his mouth almost as if he had practiced them the day before, his own thoughts to something random that had delved off a simple topic like dance, and something is nagging inside him that he doesn’t understand.
Hoseok sits quietly across from him, beaming smile like usual, concentrated eyes, mouth only opening to sip at his drink while he listens to Namjoon’s spiel--and oh. That’s the problem.
Namjoon slows to a stop as his brain processes what is wrong. Hoseok is listening. To him. Namjoon is speaking, and it’s probably been ten minutes since he’s started and Hoseok has yet to tell him to “please shut the fuck up,” courtesy of Yoongi, nor has he yet to glance at his phone in disinterest or look to the windows while praying for lord to give him mercy. In fact, the other looks completely enraptured, eyes just as bright as when they had first entered the cafe together and the thought alone shocks Namjoon into a state of utter blankness.
The smile on Hoseok’s face gets weird. “Are you… okay?” he asks slowly, noting the perfect circle of Namjoon’s mouth and the shock in his eyes.
Namjoon snaps his mouth shut. “How long have I been talking,” he asks without the intonation at the end, and Hoseok glances at the time on the wall of the cafe. It is definitely broken.
“I… don’t know, man. I’m one third of a latte in, so maybe… ten minutes? Or twelve?”
Whoa. That’s a new record. Even Jimin only lasted eight before he flew across the room at the sight of Jungkook. “Why didn’t you tell me to stop?”
Hoseok furrows his brows. “Why should I tell you to stop?”
“I mean-- everyone tells me to stop. You don’t have to be nice about it,” Namjoon explains. “It’s this thing I do, where I get too excited and I forget that nobody understands what the hell I’m saying.” The frown on Hoseok’s face doesn’t change, and he continues. “Next time, just tell me or something and I’ll--”
“I won’t do that?” Hoseok interrupts, and he looks so confused that Namjoon matches his expression. “I mean, dude, I don’t understand all of what you’re saying but it makes sense. I’m listening.” The circles reappear on Namjoon’s face. Hoseok belts out a laugh. “Why do you look so surprised?”
“Oh, I just…” Namjoon trails off, hand going to scratch the back of his neck. His cheeks start to heat up, and suddenly he feels kind of shy, positioning his legs so they’re not as spread out and straightening his shoulders so that he doesn’t look as slouched. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone say that to me,” he finishes, a tone of wonder in his voice.
Hoseok snorts as if what he had said to Namjoon was no big deal (it is. A very big deal, that is. One Namjoon would come to figure out not so far from right now). “Yeah, well, I like hearing you talk. It’s interesting. Finish what you were saying, I don’t mind.”
Slowly, Namjoon eases into the conversation again, his words flowing faster and faster. Hoseok nods along, cutting in only to ask things like, “What do you feel about this, then?” or “Then how about the other side?” He keeps talking, on and on and on, and outside the blue sky begins turning deep yellow and finally turns a purple grey and the streetlights flicker on to illuminate the streets as the last of the sun fades away. And then Namjoon stops again, this time not because anyone had interrupted him or cut him off, but because, for once in his life, he was out of words to say.
Hoseok waits patiently, the smile on his face still the same as it had been an hour ago, small dimples poking out the side of his cheeks. “I’m… done,” Namjoon says lamely, half of him stuck in a daze. Hoseok blinks.
“Oh,” he says, and gets up without much trouble. “Cool! Let’s get out of here, then. It’s getting late.”
And when Namjoon rises from his seat, he feels so much lighter than he ever has before, exhales breathy and refreshing. Hoseok is already at the door. He pushes it open, and light hits the back of his head, creating shadows of his silhouette on the floor. He smiles, and Namjoon sees an angel.