Chapter Text
"Something must've gone wrong in my brain
Got your chemicals all in my veins
Feeling all the highs, feeling all the pain
Let go on the wheel, it’s the bullet lane
Now I'm seeing red, not thinking straight
Blurring all the lines, you intoxicate me
Just like nicotine, heroin, morphine
Suddenly, I'm a fiend and you're all I need
All I need, yeah, you're all I need”
Never be the Same by Camila Cabello
“Some of you guys are omegas, right?” the interviewer asks and Yoongi’s English is good enough to understand as much. “Doesn’t it get awkward dealing with your heats when you all live together?”
Yoongi tries not to bristle, concentrates instead on Namjoon’s hand that comes to rest on the small of his back, both a warning and a reassurance.
“Ah,” Namjoon says, smiling winningly. “We never had any problems with that.”
The interviewer laughs, tosses her copper hair back over her pale shoulder.
“Do you guys ever, you know,” she winks, makes a small suggestive gesture with her manicured hand. “Sort it out among yourselves?”
“We’re- we’re actually just really busy with work,” Namjoon replies and Yoongi can clearly hear the tension in his voice. Maybe the interviewer can, too, because she fortunately moves on to the next question, something about fashion and their Gucci craze that Yoongi half tunes out.
He knows things are different in the US and that people have been more liberated since the 70s. He knows people bluntly talk about sex, in this casual yet titillating sort of way, digging for questions about celebrities’ private lives that is so much less innocent that the constant ‘What qualities do you like in a mate?’ that they get in Japan and Korea.
Taehyung is showing off his dress shoes now, making the interviewer ooh and aah in exaggeration, and Yoongi uses the opportunity to take a step back an half-hide behind Namjoon.
He can tell that Namjoon notices and that he does not exactly approve - after all they are here for promo - but he also does not object. Namjoon is a considerate leader that way, attentive to when one of them needs a short break from the cameras and parade of interviewers.
It’s especially bad now when the rest of them cannot properly articulate themselves, when they sound like five-years olds trying to put sentences together and have people talk to them accordingly.
Namjoon himself seems unbothered by it. He rarely takes the centerstage in such a manner, but he bears the burden well, does not complain about the added pressure.
When they move farther down the red carpet and the next stupid question comes, Yoongi hooks his finger in the belt loop of Namjoon’s slacks in silent camaraderie.
“But who-” the show host asks into the general commotion of Seokjin throwing hands with Jungkook under the guise of ‘putting the maknae in his place’. “Who of you is the least aligned with his status?”
Immediately, every eye in the audience seems to turn toward Yoongi. He’s used to it and cannot really fault them for their assumptions, so he doesn’t let it bother him and just keeps his face neutral.
“Rapmonnie-hyung!” Jimin jumps in at once. “He’s the least alpha-like alpha I’ve ever met!”
There are agreeing nods from everyone, Namjoon ducking his head and smiling shyly.
“But he’s your leader!” the host points out, looking genuinely surprised.
“Only when it comes to work,” Jungkook replies and, as the only other alpha in their group, it might seem like he were undermining Namjoon’s position. But it’s just the truth.
“I don’t like strict hierarchies,” Namjoon explains with that careful tone of his, the one that makes it obvious how he is deliberately choosing his words. “I think, as a group, we work so well because we are all equal. I cannot think of myself as superior in any way.”
The members smile, the audience claps and, for now, that topic is settled.
Jimin is the perfect omega in a lot of ways. The stereotype, if one were to think of it less favorably.
He is cute and pretty and enticing but, on stage, he reeks of seduction. He aims to please and asks for praise, but he also overcompensates, never quite at ease with his status.
“Do you ever think what it’d be like,” Jimin had asked once, in the confidence of a midnight conversation. “Being an alpha, I mean?”
“Nah,” Yoongi had said and shaken his head. Because he didn’t. Or rather, he only thought about it in an abstract way, like wondering what it would have been like to grow up as an only child or if he had ended up going to a different school.
Min Yoongi does not bother with could-have-beens in the reality of things that cannot be changed. And his status is one of them.
He doesn’t like being an omega but he doesn’t mind it either. He just is.
Many people don’t understand that. They think that a rapper like him ought to try for some alpha posturing, ought to sharpen his softer edges.
But unlike Jimin who fits into the ideal of the romcom omega, the one who is sensitive and outspoken and so charming that no one can resist, Yoongi would have been a good omega two hundred years ago.
He is standoffish, prude almost, yet fiercely protective of his friends. He’s content to sit back and let someone else be in charge, as long as he agrees with their work ethic. He always has an eye on the kids, both to keep them in check and to make sure that they are alright.
Maybe that’s his omega instincts. Maybe it’s just the way he loves.
Yoongi knocks on the door of the studio and waits for a reply. When he doesn’t get one, he knocks again, more forcefully. Then he rolls his eyes.
“Joon, I’m gonna open the fucking door, so you better not be jerking off in there,” Yoongi warns loudly, counts to ten in his head and then pushes down the door handle. He listens closely for any incriminating sounds and then shoulders inside.
Namjoon is sitting at his desk, his face too close to the computer screen. There is no porn on, fortunately, just their standard editing program. He’s got his headphones on, which was probably why he hadn’t heard Yoongi, but when the light of the hallway falls into the room he looks up.
“Oh,” he says, a little too loudly. “Hyung.”
Yoongi clicks his tongue and steps closer, pinching his fingers in the back of Namjoon’s collar and pulling him away from the harsh glare of the screen.
“You’ll ruin your eyes, idiot,” he warns but Namjoon only slips off his earphones and rubs his hands over his face.
“Already ruined anyway,” he mutters, quickly saving his progress and then swiveling in his chair to face Yoongi. His eyes fall to the plastic bag in Yoongi’s hand and he takes a whiff. “Did you bring me food?”
“No, I came here to give you a foot rub,” Yoongi gripes, setting the bag down on the coffee table, before throwing himself on the sofa.
“Oh, that’s so kind of you,” Namjoon says in clear exaggeration and makes to take off his shoes, but Yoongi only laughs and throws a napkin at him. It doesn’t go very far, just sadly sails to the floor in the distance between them, and Namjoon bends over instead to pick it up.
“How’s it going then?” Yoongi asks, opening the takeout boxes and spreading them out on the table.
“Could be better,” Namjoon shrugs, getting up to join him on the sofa. “Could be worse. I’m kinda nitpicky with this one.”
“You’re nitpicky with every single one,” Yoongi points out and Namjoon doesn’t disagree.
“Maybe it’s just because my guide is so shitty. I should either re-record it for myself or settle on a finalized track.”
“You should ask Tae,” Yoongi tells him with his mouth full. Namjoon had already showed him a sample last week and Yoongi had immediately thought that a deep voice would be a nice contrast. Taehyung took lovey-dovey pop songs and turned them woeful with a breath.
“Hmm,” Namjoon hums in consideration. “That could work. Good idea, hyung.”
“I only have good ideas,” Yoongi reminds him and Namjoon snorts.
“Patently untrue,” he says and his chopsticks snatch up some lamb right from underneath Yoongi’s nose.
“Fuck,” Yoongi curses, panting for breath as he heavily leans against the inside wall of the elevator. His palms are clammy and his knees jittery. “They are like rabid fucking dogs.”
Normally, he doesn’t allow himself to complain about fans, especially not so openly, but normally they don’t chase him down the street for two blocks.
He had just been out to get some coffee and pastries from that café Hoseok liked so much when a bunch of high school girls had recognized him. They had immediately started snapping pictures, asking for autographs, not taking no for an answer when he politely told them that he was in a hurry.
Somehow, it had turned into a full-blown hunt, during which Yoongi had not only been forced to toss the tray with the coffee cups but also lost his snapback. He had managed to keep a hold of the plastic bag with the pastries, but they are probably a little banged up.
The girls had been scarily persistent and it had only been when he made it through the guarded doors at the studio that they finally relented. Now, Yoongi’s clothes are soaked through with sweat and he can pretty much smell his own panic.
He wipes a wrist under his nose, straightens his back and waits for the elevator doors to open when it reaches their floor.
“Oh, you’re back,” Namjoon says, distractedly glancing at him when Yoongi steps into the studio. “I seriously need that coffee.”
“No coffee,” Yoongi rasps out and quickly clears his throat. He hadn’t expected to sound so hoarse and he blames it on the physical exertion rather than on the sting in his eyes. In any case, it is enough to make Namjoon properly look over, taking in his disheveled appearance.
His face falls.
“What happened?” he asks, immediately pushing out of his chair and stepping closer. He carefully plucks the paper bag from Yoongi’s fingers and sets it aside before pulling Yoongi over to the sofa.
“Sasaengs,” Yoongi only says, simply slumping down on the cushion, his eyes falling shut in relief, at the sudden sense of being safe again. After the rush of adrenaline, his body feels terribly weak. At least one of them had been an alpha, too, kicking his instincts to flee up by about ten more notches.
“Fuck,” Namjoon says, hovering nervously. “Do you- can I-?”
Yoongi cracks an eye open. Namjoon has his hands lifted toward him, but is not actually touching, and it takes Yoongi a moment to understand what he means.
“I’m all sweaty and gross,” he points out and the corners of Namjoon’s mouth quirk upward.
“You also smell like you just escaped from some madman with a chainsaw,” he notes, scooting a little closer. “And you are shivering like crazy.”
Yoongi is. He hadn’t noticed before or maybe it’s only just now setting in, but his hands are trembling in his lap and his shoulders shake around the tension in his spine. He purses his lips.
“This really fucking sucked,” he says and then dips himself into Namjoon’s arms.
Namjoon doesn’t waste any time, just tugs down the collar of Yoongi’s plaid shirt and presses his face against his neck.
Yoongi can feel the sweat from his skin being wiped away by Namjoon’s cheeks and it’s gross but also much appreciated.
Namjoon has always had a soothing, unobtrusive scent for an alpha, not like Jungkook who fucking reeked while he was still going through puberty. So Yoongi just lets himself relax into it, into the smell and the embrace, rubbing his own face along Namjoon’s scent glands.
After a minute, however, the door opens and Hoseok steps in, halting on the threshold, before quickly squeezing in and shutting the door behind himself, for privacy’s sake.
“Whoa,” he says. He probably had gone to the toilet before Yoongi came back and is now caught off guard by the unexpected scene. “Did I miss something?”
Yoongi is about to pull back, to give an explanation and an excuse, because Hoseok was stressed about his mixtape and the coffee and pastries had been meant as a treat for him. But then he can’t because Namjoon is still holding him tight.
“Just give us a minute,” Namjoon tells Hoseok, his voice right in Yoongi’s ear.
And, normally, Yoongi would complain about having too many witnesses to his moment of weakness but, right now, he can only focus on Namjoon’s strength.
Yoongi wakes with a headache.
“Ugh,” he says, contemplating whether he should try to go back to sleep, but then he drags himself out of bed, pulls on whatever t-shirt lies close by, and shuffles out of his room.
In the kitchen, Namjoon is already sitting at the table, nursing a cup of tea. It’s unusually early for him and his eyes are pinched shut, furrowing his brow in an almost cartoonish way.
He mutters something that might, generously, be considered a greeting and Yoongi cocks an eyebrow.
“Long night?” he asks because it is not all that rare for Namjoon to not bother with going to bed when the sun is already touching the horizon anyway.
“Nah,” Namjoon says. “Just woke with this pounding in my head.”
“Ugh, me too,” Yoongi groans, pouring himself a cup of whatever herbal concoction sits in the pot.
For the next half hour, they quietly sit together, waiting for the others to file in, and the headache slowly fades.
“Doesn’t it get annoying to live together?” the host asks. “Surely, you’ll want to get your own places eventually?”
“But we’re a family!” Taehyung insists. “Being on our own would be awful.”
“We’re pretty well balanced, all things considered,” Seokjin agrees. It’s unusual for a group of unmated men their age to live together so peacefully and it hadn’t been easy, in the very beginning. But they are a clockwork now, well-oiled and with each cog having its specific function. There’s nothing to fix, if nothing is broken.
“But,” the host smiles. “You’ll want mates one day, right?”
“One day,” they all chorus dutifully. “But not now.”
Because they are too busy, because they cannot split their attention, because they have no time to get to know anyone so intimately, because their contracts don’t allow it, because they have to be a fantasy, readily available for any fan who wants them.
They’d have mates, someday, surely. But Yoongi is in no particular hurry.
“Can we turn that off?” Yoongi complains. The tv is on and there is the tenth media outlet philosophising about some alpha starlet’s surprising announcement that she recently found a mate.
Some say they consider it a bold move to go against her contract, some believe it is sure to end her career. No one even knows who her mate is or why they made the decision so suddenly. Yoongi just thinks people ought to mind their own business.
Taehyung huffs but does at least switch the channel.
“You’ve been touchy lately, hyung,” he notes, vaguely accusatory but also implying a willingness to listen in case Yoongi has anything he needs to talk about. Yoongi doesn’t.
“Just feeling a bit under the weather,” he mutters and rubs his temple, closing his eyes so he won’t have to see Taehyung look at him in concern.
Yoongi wouldn’t call himself sick, exactly, as his little ailments had not yet interfered with their group schedule. But his joints ache sometimes, in a way that has nothing to do with dance practice, his sleep pattern is even more erratic than usual and, when he’s alone at the studio, he barely gets any work done because of this recurring headache.
He’s been popping vitamins like candy and trying to keep to a more regular sleeping schedule but, so far, none of it had helped.
Whatever. It’ll have to fade eventually.
“Alright, that’s it,” Seokjin decides a few days later, hands on his hips. “You are both going to see a doctor. Today.”
“But, hyung,” Namjoon tries to object at once. He can be strangely childish about things like this, even when it comes to regular checkups. But both he and Yoongi had slept badly once more and it was starting to affect their work. The other day, Yoongi had almost fallen asleep during an interview and fans were asking worried questions, thinking that the company was overworking them.
“Nope,” Seokjin shakes his head. “Both of you have caught the same thing or are suffering from exhaustion or whatever, and dragging it out will not make it better. Just have a doctor look at
you. You don’t want to this to become a problem for the group, do you?”
Ah, the patented blackmail approach. None of them ever wanted to disappoint Bangtan or BigHit or ARMY.
“Fine,” Yoongi bites out, none too happy about this. He understands Seokjin’s concern, though, especially since both he and Namjoon are affected by this, their moods dragged down by the constant dizziness and discomfort. “We’ll go to the damn doctor.”
“Good.” Seokjin nods in satisfaction. “I already made appointments. The car is waiting downstairs.”
Ironically, the headache fades to a dull throb during their ride to the private practice and then disappears completely once they are sitting side by side in the waiting room.
“You go first,” Namjoon tells him, leafing through a paper cover he isn’t really reading anyway. Yoongi cannot tell whether he is being respectful of his elder or just doesn’t want to get poked and prodded yet, so he just snorts and stands up and follows the receptionist to the examination room.
The doctor, fortunately, is a patient one, not simply blaming Yoongi’s busy schedule and writing his symptoms off as fatigue.
“And it might be catching,” Yoongi remembers to point out when he has described everything he could think of. “One of my friends is going through the same. Some sort of virus, maybe?”
“Oh?” Doctor Im says, perking up. “You are in the same group?”
“Yes.” Yoongi nods. “We actually came here together; he’s still waiting outside.”
“Interesting,” Doctor Im muses and then leans close to the phone on his desk, pushing a button.
“Please bring me the patient who arrived with Min Yoongi,” he tells his receptionist and half a minute later Namjoon comes shuffling in, bowing to the doctor and then taking the seat next to Yoongi.
Yoongi relaxes slightly, blowing out a held breath.
“So,” Doctor Im addresses them. “You two exhibit the same symptoms and they started appearing at the same time?”
“Hard to tell,” Yoongi admits. “We didn’t exactly keep track of it in the beginning.”
“Uh-huh,” the doctor says. He’s got their files open on his computer screen, scrolling through them. “You are both unmated?”
“Yes.”
“Hm. Would you say you are particularly close? With each other, I mean?”
At that, Namjoon and Yoongi exchange a look and then shrug.
“We’re best friends,” Namjoon says easily.
“Hm,” the doctor hums again, glancing over and then back at the screen. “You two live together? For how long now?”
“Uuuh, eight years?” Yoongi hazards. “Going on nine.”
“Interesting.” Doctor Im props his elbows up on his desk and steeples his fingers in a caricature of deep thought. “Do you scent each other a lot? Share food? Clothes maybe?”
“I- I guess?” Namjoon says, looking way out of his depth at the random string of questions. “How is that-”
“It says here you are both on suppressants,” the doctor continues blithely and Yoongi really is starting to wonder where this is heading. “Have you ever engaged in sexual activities with each other?”
Immediately, Namjoon splutters but Yoongi just sinks lower in his chair. As an omega, he is probably more used to getting such invasive questions.
“No,” he says, very aware of how choked his voice sounds. “We haven’t.”
Doctor Im leans back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling.
“Interesting,” he says again and Yoongi really doesn’t like getting that word in lieu of an actual diagnosis.
“It’s certainly unusual,” the doctor muses aloud. “Not unheard of, of course, just unlikely. But not impossible.”
“Doctor,” Namjoon says insistently. “What is going on with us and how is it related?”
Fortunately, the man snaps their attention back to them.
“You see,” he says, watching them closely. “This is just a hypothesis so far, but it’s the best idea I have right now.”
He takes a deep breath.
“I think that, due to the close proximity and constant exposure to each other,” he says carefully, as though they were a little slow on the uptake, “You may have developed an accidental bond.”
Yoongi stares.
“What,” he says flatly. “Like a mating bond?”
“Almost,” Doctor Im agrees, fiddling with his glasses. “As I said, it is very unusual, so much so that a lot of people don’t even know about it. But, in some rare occasions, a sort of preliminary mating bond can develop between an alpha and an omega, no bite needed, no overt courting, none of that whole ordeal.”
“But,” Namjoon says, helplessly waving his hands around and nearly smacking Yoongi in the face. “We’re- we’re not planning to mate. We’re just friends.”
“But your biology doesn’t know that,” Doctor Im points out. “Your bodies don’t. They think they have the perfect mate at their fingertips, so they go for it. These headaches and dizzy spells you’ve been getting? I reckon they never showed up when you were close together. Because, when you are not, your instincts are screaming at you to get back to your mate - or rather, to properly make that person your mate.”
Namjoon is gaping, in a very unattractive manner. It’s ridiculous that he was just described as Yoongi’s ‘perfect mate’.
“Can we- reverse it?”
To their relief, Doctor Im nods.
“Oh yes, that should be possible. It’s hard to determine how developed your bond is, at this point, since everything happens so creepingly. It could have started months or even years ago. The best approach would be complete separation or, considering your work, as little interaction as possible. No scenting, no nothing - that would only strengthen the bond.”
“But,” Namjoon says, faintly. “How long are we supposed to keep that up? We see each other daily. We can’t avoid each other forever.”
“Yes, that will be a problem.” Doctor Im purses his lips. “The thing is that, even once reversed, you have still imprinted on each other and will be susceptible to developing another bond. It might even cause trouble once you are planning to mate with someone else.”
Yoongi, however, is much less concerned about any hypothetical future mate than the possibility that his and Namjoon’s friendship might forever be stripped of its fundamentals.
“Careful,” Doctor Im says in that moment, pointing a long finger at where Yoongi’s hand has involuntarily come up to grip Namjoon’s shirt sleeve. “Even small gestures such as these will make it harder in the long run.”
Yoongi lets go as if burned.
“I advise you to start the weaning process as soon as possible,” the doctor continues, turning back to his computer and quickly typing something in. “You’ll essentially experience withdrawal, so I’ll prescribe you some painkillers against any discomfort. There’s not much else I can do, I’m afraid, but feel free to check in with me at any point, especially if the dependence between you seems to become worse.”
The printer beneath the desk whirrs to life and then spits out two pink slips of paper that the doctor signs with a little flourish before handing them over. He wishes them a good day and tells his receptionist to call in the next patient.
“So,” Namjoon says, once they are standing inside the downstairs lobby. “What now?”
Yoongi shrugs. They had taken the elevator but stood as far as possible from each other as the small space would allow. “Back to the dorm?”
“Yeah.” Namjoon bops his head. “You should… go ahead and take the car. I’ll just… wait here.”
“Oh,” Yoongi says. It makes sense. If they were supposed to not be close to each other, half an hour in the back of a car would not be a good idea. Oh God, this would be a nightmare with their work schedule.
“You’ll be okay here?” he asks. “You could just call a cab.”
“Nah.” Namjoon smiles. “I wanted to finish my book anyway.”
He lifts the paperback again and, this time, Yoongi actually reads the title. Catch-22 . How ironic.
“Well, then,” he says and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “See you in a bit.”
“Oh,” Seokjin says when Yoongi gets back to the dorm. He had been hoping to stroll in unnoticed. “You’re back without Joonie?”
Yoongi turns his face away to cough into his shoulder.
“He, uh, he kinda had to stay behind,” he hedges.
Seokjin’s eyes widen. “Oh my God, he’s got polio, doesn’t he?”
“He- what?”
“He caught polio while we were in the States,” Seokjin says. “And now he’s going to become lame or die, and pd-nim is going to have my ass.”
“We are all vaccinated,” Yoongi says, unable to stop himself from grinning. “I doubt they would have let us into the country otherwise.”
“Well, then why do you look like you are already planning his funeral?” Seokjin wants to know and Yoongi’s shoulder sag in surrender.
“Yeah, about that,” he says. “I think you should call everyone into the living-room.”
“That’s crazy,” is Hoseok’s verdict, once Yoongi finishes telling them everything Doctor Im said. “That’s so crazy.”
“Can that happen to anyone?” Jungkook asks, sounding slightly panicked. On the couch, Jimin and Taehyung - who had previously been sitting half on top of each other - quickly scoot apart.
“He didn’t say,” Yoongi replies. “Just… that it’s rare. And reversible.”
“Well, that’s good, at least,” Seokjin sighs. “Wouldn’t do for us to end up with a mating scandal to follow us around.”
Yoongi swallows hard.
“And you really didn’t notice?” Jimin wants to know, looking both intrigued and freaked out. He probably thinks that, as an omega, he might be at risk of having the same thing happen to him.
“I dunno,” Yoongi mutters. “I just… in hindsight… I never felt bad when he was around? That’s why I let it slide so long, because I never had to call in sick.”
“So what, we have to keep you apart now, even if your instincts are screaming at you to scent each other and shit?” Hoseok is frowning heavily. “Are we supposed to hose you down like dogs or something?”
Yoongi rolls his eyes.
“It’s not gonna be that bad,” he says. “I think we can handle a little migraine now and then. The doctor already gave us some nice pills to go with it.”
The others still look unconvinced. Worried. But that is better than them flipping their shit at Yoongi and Namjoon apparently being so underfucked that they accidentally bonded with each other.
In that moment, the front door opens.
“And that’s my cue to leave,” Yoongi says and flees to his room.
The headache starts just before Yoongi goes to bed. He pops a painkiller and pulls his blanket over his head.
Namjoon spends the next day at the studio and Yoongi resists the urge to text him and ask whether he is feeling just as shitty. Doctor Im had only really mentioned physical proximity as an aggravator of the bond, but emotional dependence probably plays into it as well.
Yoongi pushes the heels of his thumbs into his eyes to stave off some of the pressure, ignoring the way Jungkook is anxiously watching from across the room.
He’s not supposed to take more painkillers for another two hours, unless he wants to euthanize his liver.
Hoseok had informed him that he and Namjoon had talked to Bang-pd about everything. Their mentor had taken the news well, fortunately, and didn’t blame them for things out of their control. Morbidly, Yoongi wonders how he would have reacted if two members had consciously decided to mate.
In any case, if the news got out, it would cause a shitstorm for sure. Some people would freak out about the medical anomaly, some over their bias being taken, and some over the idea that the kpop industry promoted such unhealthy living conditions that idols even ended up being bonded against their will.
What an absolute nightmare.
When Yoongi goes to bed that evening, it is still light outside and he has to draw the curtains shut, hoping the darkness will offer some relief. It doesn’t.
He is still awake when Namjoon returns a few hours later and he thinks he can hear him pause outside Yoongi’s bedroom, maybe putting a hand to the door, but never actually knocking. Eventually, he moves on and the lights turn off again.
Yoongi only makes it through the night by sheer force of will.
The next day is even worse, especially with the knowledge that that their normal schedule will soon pick up again. Yoongi stays in bed, feeling miserable, even when Jimin eventually comes to keep him company, gently running his fingers through Yoongi’s hair.
Jimin is that kind of omega, the one that seeks to soothe and sweeten and support. And Yoongi doesn’t just let anyone do this with him, but he is often glad to have another omega in the group, someone who understands some things just a little bit better.
“Kookie has been really weird since you told us everything,” Jimin sighs, his chin propped up on his free hand. “I think he’s afraid he might accidentally bond with me, if he gets too close.”
“The doctor said it’s super rare,” Yoongi says into his pillow. “Just my luck.”
“You are lucky,” Jimin tells him. “Imagine getting stuck with Jinnie-hyung and having to listen to his jokes the whole time.”
Yoongi cannot quite bring himself to smile.
“I’m not stuck with Joon, though,” he points out. “The opposite, actually.”
“Hm,” Jimin hums and is silent for a long moment. Then he muses, “I guess I’m not really surprised that, out of all of us, this happened to the two of you.”
Yoongi doesn’t say anything but, if he were being truthful, he’d think the same.
That night, Namjoon is standing outside Yoongi’s room again.
Yoongi knows he’s there before he hears his footsteps, before he sees him block the light in the gap underneath the door.
They haven’t even talked in almost three days. It is not the longest they have ever been apart, but it certainly feels like it when they are not allowed to see each other, when every fibre of Yoongi’s being is screaming at him to go and let Namjoon in.
In the end, though, it is not his own weakness that betrays him.
Instead, there is a heavy sigh, followed by a light knock.
Yoongi holds his breath. If he says anything, he knows it will turn against him.
“Hyung,” Namjoon’s voice says, a desperate whisper. “Please, can I come in?”
“Yes,” the word trips out of Yoongi’s mouth. “Yes, you- yes, come in.”
The door opens. For a moment, Yoongi sees nothing but the outline of Namjoon’s shoulders, drawn by a golden halo. Then the door shuts again and Namjoon is leaning against it in the darkness.
“Hyung, I’m sorry,” Namjoon says, sounding truly terribly defeated. “I’m just so tired. I can’t sleep, I haven’t properly slept for days, this headache is killing me and the fucking aspirin isn’t doing anything, I just- I just need- half an hour. Fifteen minutes. And then I- I promise I’ll leave again.”
Yoongi flips his blanket back so quickly he almost dislocates his arm.
Namjoon inhales sharply and, belatedly, Yoongi realizes that he must have just billowed a cloud of his fresh scent through the room.
“It’s- it’s okay,” Yoongi tells him roughly. Swallowing is kind of difficult right now. “Just- just ten minutes won’t do any harm.”
“Yeah,” Namjoon agrees, crossing the room with large steps. “Just five minutes.”
They both know it’s a lie and, when Namjoon does climb into the bed, they know it even more.
The relief is not quite instantaneous but the pressure does fade noticeably. Skin-on-skin contact would probably speed things up, but for now the scent is enough, the sight, the knowledge.
“I thought I was gonna die,” Namjoon groans, turning to bury his face in Yoongi’s pillow. “This is- so much better.”
Yes. Yes, it really is.
Yoongi is asleep before he has even decided to close his eyes.
In the morning, Namjoon is gone.
They avoid each other, which isn’t difficult to do in a dorm such as theirs, but it’s a little unnerving to have to take their meals separately, to have the other members loudly warn them when the other is already in kitchen, to stand at opposite ends of the hallway and quickly having to swerve off into whatever room is closest.
Yoongi doesn’t know how long Namjoon had stayed that night. But he knows that he was back that evening and that they fell asleep together.
It’s probably not a good idea to go against doctor’s orders, but it is difficult to rein themselves in when a few hours of just sleeping next to each other promises a day with only very few withdrawal symptoms.
But they don’t tell anyone about their cheating the system, just keep up the facade, and it is the most irresponsible thing they have ever done.
When their regular schedule picks up again, they drive everywhere in separate cars, claiming that their van is in repair. During fan signs, they sit at the far ends of the tables. When they film a new Run episode, they rig the choosing of the teams so the two of them won’t be put together.
Due to the delay between filming and publishing some of their material, it will probably take their fans a while to pick up on their strange behavior, on the fact that Namjoon and Yoongi have barely interacted on screen.
But by then, the reasoning goes, the bond surely will have dissolved and things would slowly go back to normal. Or maybe they could, if Yoongi and Namjoon weren’t secretly spending six out of seven nights in the same bed.
“So,” Hoseok asks, two weeks after they first got diagnosed. “How’s that bond thing doing? Finally conquered your carnal urges?”
Yoongi almost spits out his coffee, just barely manages to swallow it instead.
They had almost gotten found out that morning, when Taehyung was shuffling into the direction of the bathroom, just as Namjoon was about to sneak back to his own bed. Luckily, Taehyung had been so sleepy still that he hadn’t realized that Namjoon was not supposed to be coming out of Yoongi’s room at 5 am.
“‘s good,” Yoongi claims now, careful to keep his eyes on the tabletop. “Or, y’know, bad. For the bond, I mean.”
“Your headaches haven’t been as severe, right,” Hoseok nods along. “That probably means you’re out of the woods. Good to know this’ll resolve itself more quickly than expected.”
“Yeah,” Yoongi agrees faintly. “Totally.”
It gets worse, though.
Instead of alleviating the pain throughout the day, their instinct to be together just gets stronger.
Perhaps it’s the lack of scenting, the fact that, every damn morning, they rush to take a shower to make sure that the others cannot smell their secrets.
Sometimes, they wake up close together, entangled even, with their noses pressed to each others necks, and then they have to awkwardly pull apart, bodies hot and cocks half-hard.
There is no sexual tone to it, not really, just their biology being confused while their minds can still tell things apart.
If Yoongi sometimes stares across the room, eyeing Namjoon almost hungrily at the thought of properly bathing in his scent, then that’s for him to ignore and for their fans to speculate over.
After weeks of this, of being hyperaware of where exactly Namjoon is standing as they give an interview, of focusing on the undulation of his voice more than on the words themselves, of going to bed and dreading the morning because they will have to separate again, just sleeping together is no longer enough.
It happens backstage at an award show. Yoongi had run for the toilet after their performance but he’s barely washed his hands when Namjoon is walking in. They are both glistening with sweat and need to get back too the stylists to get their hair and makeup fixed, because the award ceremony is up next and they ought to look their best.
“Hey,” Yoongi rasps, still out of breath. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, makes it lie flat. When he looks up, Namjoon is standing right in front of him.
“Give me your hand,” Namjoon says, holding out his own as if he were going in for a handshake. But Yoongi knows there’s more to it.
Without hesitation, he closes his fingers around Namjoon’s, their hot palms presses against each other. Namjoon inhales sharply and shuts his eyes.
“That bad?” Yoongi asks. He’s been feeling the tug but it’s been bearable. Namjoon only gives a little shake of his head.
“My concentration keeps slipping,” he says. “I almost fumbled my steps.”
It takes Yoongi a moment to understand that Namjoon was distracted by Yoongi’s presence during their performance. Something about that makes his heart race, but perhaps it’s just the aftereffects of the exertion.
“That- Sorry,” he says because he doesn’t know what else is appropriate, but Namjoon only shakes his head again.
“Not your fault,” he says. There’s a tiny furrow between his brows, as though he were trying to glean as much as possible from that small point of contact between them.
“We could touch,” Yoongi offers without thinking about it. “If we win an award, we can do a group hug. The others can’t scold us then.”
Namjoon cracks a grin, though his eyes still remain closed. “We better win something then.”
“Fingers crossed,” Yoongi says.
They end up winning three awards and he has never been more grateful for their fortune.
And that is how it goes. The others, believing the bond has mostly died down again, grow more lenient in keeping the two apart. Namjoon and Yoongi, in turn, grow more bold.
It’s like a game, in a way, of them playing footsie underneath the table without ever making eye contact, of linking their pinkies behind their backs where no one can see.
It is, for the most part, the same level of skinship they’ve always had. Just that it no longer feels casual and carefree. There’s a sick kind of thrill to it and Yoongi cannot quite tell whether it’s the bond humming its approval or just the risk of being caught. They are like lovers sneaking around and meeting for secret little rendezvous, though he tries not to think of it that way.
They maintain plausible deniability until a little bump in their schedule comes up. Jimin and Yoongi have a thing for a campaign in the name of omega rights, and it will take them out of town for a couple of days.
Originally, Yoongi had been looking forward to it, but that had been before he needed Namjoon to even be able to sleep through the night.
The morning of their departure, Yoongi is still in his room and listlessly packing his bag when Namjoon sneaks in. He’s looking harried and, in his hands, he is carrying a plastic bag with something bundled up inside.
“Here,” he says simply, pushing the unorthodox gift into Yoongi’s hands. “I wore this yesterday. If you sleep in it, it should recreate some of the effects.”
Yoongi glances inside, spotting one of Namjoon’s favorite sweaters.
“What about you?” he asks because it’s not like this is a one-way street.
Namjoon just shrugs.
“I’ll just… stay here,” he says, terribly reminiscent of that time he had remained behind after their appointment. “I guess I’ll still sleep in your bed, if that is alright?”
“Yeah,” Yoongi says, and the inside of his mouth feels like wool. “Yeah, you can do that.”
What Yoongi doesn’t count on is Jimin being bored when the other maknae aren’t there to keep him entertained.
He’s just gotten settled into his hotel room, setting up his equipment to revise some of his older but unused tracks to see whether he can recycle them when he hears someone loudly slump again the door from the outside.
“Hyuuung,” Jimin whines. “Hyung, let me in.”
Yoongi sighs and stares up at the ceiling in exasperation. “I thought you wanted to binge watch that new series.”
“I watched the first episode and it’s so bad,” Jimin complains. “They said they were going to defy stereotypes but it turns out that it just means the girl is the alpha and the guy the omega. It’s still the same stupid clichés.”
Yoongi still doesn’t want to let him in, but then Jimin starts making pitiful little noises, similar to what Yeontan does whenever he wants to be picked up, and finally Yoongi caves.
He stands from his chair, crosses the room and opens the door, at once greeted by Jimin’s shit-eating grin.
“Thank you!” he chirps, throwing his arms around Yoongi’s shoulders - only to quickly pull away again. “Why are you wearing Joonie’s sweater?”
Oh shit. Yoongi had put it on even before bedtime to prevent the migraine from disrupting him during his work, but no one was supposed to know about it. Casually, he kicks the door shut behind them.
“Must have gotten mixed up in the wash,” Yoongi lies, deadpan.
Jimin, unfortunately, sees right through him. “Then why does it smell like him so much?”
“Must have gotten mixed up before the wash.”
At that, Jimin’s smile turns so bitingly sweet it should rather be called acid.
“Are you messing with the bond, hyung?” he wants to know, immediately putting Yoongi on the defensive.
“It just- it helps with the worst of the pain, okay?” he hisses, catching the look of chagrin in Jimin’s eyes.
“I thought it was getting better,” Jimin says, sounding more sympathetic now.
“It is,” Yoongi claims. “This is just… to tide me over.”
“Tide you over till what?”
“Till I can take another painkiller.”
“Aren’t just dragging it out, though?” Jimin wonders. “This is scenting by proxy - your body will think you’re still bonded to him.”
“Oh fine,” Yoongi says, spitefully, grabbing the hem of the sweater and dragging it over his head, mussing up his hair. He tosses the sweater onto the bed, just calculated enough that it lands on top of the pillow. “Happy now?”
Jimin’s lips are pinched.
“Technically, I should make you shower,” he points out, only for his tone to turn a little softer. “But I also know that all of this is probably not easy for you.”
“Understatement of the century,” Yoongi mutters. When he walks back to his desk and sits down at his computer, he ignores the mild pull behind his eyeballs; it’s probably only psychosomatic anyway.
It’s an awful two days, all around. Despite the sweater and the painkillers and Jimin’s best attempts at distraction, Yoongi’s only silver lining is the knowledge that he will get to see Namjoon at the end of it.
He tries to not think of it this way, of Namjoon as a reward for the struggle, of himself as someone whose existence is centered around another person.
It’s just that it’s hard.
Finally, on the car ride back to Seoul, he scrolls through the messages Namjoon sent since all of this has begun, all of them work related and with Yoongi only giving curt replies, either monosyllabic or in form of stickers and emoticons. Some, he hasn’t answered at all.
It sucks. He really fucking misses just hanging out with Namjoon at the studio, walking home late at night to grab some impromptu dinner, sending him demos and stupid internet videos, just standing next to him during photo shoots.
Their friendship had always been such a calm, understated thing, not the baseline of Bangtan, not the overture, just the steady tick of the meter that stood at the beginning of it all. Without it, Yoongi seems to lose his rhythm.
With a shuddering exhale, he rests his temple against the cool glass of the car window and wills time to go a little faster.
“Careful,” Seokjin says the moment Jimin and Yoongi step into the dorm. “Namjoon is skulking around here somewhere.”
Yoong snorts, kicking off his shoes and setting them aside, slightly unbalanced by the heavy bag still over his shoulder. “You make it sound like he’s gonna jump me if I’m not careful.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Seokjin mutters, and Jimin perks up.
“Has Joonie-hyung gotten worse again?”
“I don’t know about worse,” Seokjin says. “But he’s certainly been tetchy. I’m starting to think that this is the kind of distance we should have put between the two of you from the beginning. In here, your scents are mixed and you are still around each other when we work. Cold turkey probably would have been better.”
Yoongi coughs quietly.
“I’ll make sure to keep avoiding him,” he says, clenching a hand around the shoulder strap of his bag. “I’ll… drop off my shit in my room now.”
He leaves without making it seem like he is in a hurry, still hearing how Jimin asks Seokjin about dinner, but his steps quicken slightly the closer he gets to Namjoon’s room. He doesn’t knock on the door, doesn’t even stop in front of it, but he hopes that Namjoon heard them arrive and will come to see him soon.
He sets his bag down in his own room and shrugs off his jacket, tossing it over the back of his desk chair, before making his way to the bathroom down the hallway. He’s barely made it inside, though, then the door slams shut behind him and he is forcefully pushed against it.
It happens so quickly, Yoongi doesn’t even know what’s happening, just that instead of panic he is suddenly filled with a sense of relief.
Oh, he thinks, blinking slowly, when a warm forehead is pressed against his. Oh.
Because Namjoon is standing in front of him, arms braced on either side to still keep a little bit of distance between them. He is breathing through his nose, but harshly, as though he were forcing to control himself.
“Joon,” Yoongi says, slurs almost with how thick his tongue feels in his mouth. “What-”
“Shh,” Namjoon only shushes him. He’s got his eyes closed and his shoulders are trembling. “Shh.”
So Yoongi stays still, letting this tiny bit of warmth seep into him, inhaling Namjoon’s scent. They cannot touch beyond this, not without the others smelling it on them but, after the drought of the past days, this stolen moment feels like a deluge.
Yoongi groans, only vaguely embarrassed at how he is reduced to speechlessness. Namjoon had had an entire room full of his scent, while Yoongi had only had one measly sweater that he couldn’t very well wear all the time without raising eyebrows. He thinks he’s allowed to feel a little desperate.
“I am- so glad you are back,” Namjoon says, none of his usual eloquence, just this halting admission in the space between their faces, and Yoongi can feel the humidity of his breath against his lips.
“Tonight,” he manages to say, fighting to keep his hands to himself. “Come to my room?”
Namjoon grins and there is something not quite sober about it. Yoongi tries to not think about it too much; he fails.
They take their meals separately, of course. Namjoon eats in his room to give Jimin and Yoongi the chance to catch up with everyone else.
Yoongi, however, let’s Jimin do most of the talking, only chiming in with the occasional addition.
“You seem distracted,” Hoseok tells him at some point, his eyes flicking along Yoongi’s face. “Everything alright?”
“Yeah,” Yoongi says and fakes a suppressed yawn. “Just tired. I think I’ll head to bed early tonight.”
“You do that,” Hoseok agrees. “Next week is gonna be busy.”
When Yoongi wakes up in the middle of the night, it’s because he feels overheated. He’s kind of gotten used to that by now, because Kim Namjoon is apparently almost as much of a limpet as Taehyung, so it takes him a moment understand that something is different.
He feels groggy, feverish, as though he’d surely stumble if he tried to get up now. There’s a tight feeling in his abdomen, unlike nausea, though, just a strange kind of roiling pressure.
There’s a need in him, but it is so unspecific, so vague that he doesn’t know what to do with it. The smell of slick, however, is unmistakable.
Suddenly alert, Yoongi’s eyes snap open. Namjoon is half draped over him, half-awake and nosing at the soft spot behind Yoongi’s ear where he must smell of unclaimed omega.
“Joon,” Yoongi whispers helplessly because, even through the haze, he remembers that he is on suppressants and that this is not supposed to happen. “I think I’m in heat.”
“I know,” Namjoon says roughly and then he is kissing along Yoongi’s neck. “I know.”
Yoongi can feel even more slick gush out of him at that sound, that sensation.
Yet this is not how he remembers his heat being. Granted, the last one had been during his trainee days, but he clearly recalls the agitation of it, the restlessness. The ache in him had been sharper, making him want to go and find someone to take the edge off. Preferably, some alpha.
Now, there is an alpha pressed up to him, their legs entwined, and they smell so fucking good together.
“Joon,” Yoongi says again, his hands scrambling along Namjoon’s bare shoulders, though he doesn’t know whether he wants to push him off or pull him closer. Namjoon’s knee hitches up in response, nudging Yoongi’s thighs apart and, involuntarily, Yoongi’s hips kick up a little.
Namjoon trails his mouth from Yoongi’s neck along his jawline to his chin. Then he stops.
“May I kiss you?” he asks because of course he has to be a stupid fucking gentleman in this, too.
Yoongi shuts him up by sealing his mouth over Namjoon’s lips that are warm and soft and yielding.
And Yoongi has been with alphas in the past, but most of them had been impatiently fumbling teenagers, just figuring out their strength and the pace of things. Namjoon, in comparison, isn’t necessarily more experienced but more temperate, almost polite in the way he lets Yoongi lead.
Distantly, Yoongi thinks that Namjoon ought to be more caught up in the literal heat of the moment, that there should be a greater urgency. But, perhaps, Namjoon is surrounded by that same fog Yoongi finds himself in, the one that makes everything move slower, blurred around the edges.
For a small eternity, they just kiss, their bodies molding themselves against each other, barely any space between them. Back when their arrangement had started, they had always worn full-length pajamas, until they discovered how much easier everything was with direct skin contact. Because then Namjoon took off his shirt and Yoongi followed suit and, by now, they are used to only wearing boxers.
Finally, even that last bit of fabric seems like too much.
Yoongi can tell that the seat of his underwear is soaked through, that the scent of his slick hangs in the air, begging for attention and, when one of Namjoon’s hand slowly moves south, he is not surprised.
This time, Namjoon doesn’t ask for permission, doesn’t have to because Yoongi just spreads his legs wider, allowing him better access.
When Namjoon touches him, Yoongi jerks slightly, already hypersensitive. In the dark of the room, he can only concentrate on the feeling of Namjoon lightly running his fingertips over damp fabric, spreading the slick around. Some alphas got rough with this, just rubbing senselessly, but Namjoon gently presses against where the labiae are parting in anticipation. Then he draws his hand up again, dragging his palm over Yoongi’s cock, before tightly gripping it through the shorts.
Yoongi moans.
He needs more and quickly. It’s the heat talking, he knows, and the bond, but he’s never been more desperate to get fucked.
So, without letting himself think about it, he bucks his hips and shimmies out of his underwear, carelessly tossing it aside.
“Yoongi,” Namjoon breathes. He doesn’t say it like a warning, nor like a plea, just as though he had wanted to say Yoongi’s name. His hand is large on Yoongi’s cheek as he tilts him into another kiss.
Yoongi doesn’t care for kissing. Because even Namjoon’s mouth cannot distract him from the throbbing between his legs, this not-quite-ache of his body begging for relief.
“Touch me,” Yoongi says against Namjoon’s lips and, for the first time, lets his own hand sneak between them, below the waistband of Namjoon’s shorts, blindly grabbing his cock, fully hard and damp at the tip. “I need-”
Yes, he needs. But, what’s more, he wants . He wants Namjoon close, between his legs, inside him.
Namjoon curses, something barely intelligible, and then kicks the blankets back, scrambling out of his own boxershorts. Yoongi shivers violently in the sudden cold, makes a relieved little sound when Namjoon’s hot body covers him again.
That’s the only thing that makes sense, so far. When an omega goes into heat, a mild rut is triggered in their bonded alpha. Bonded, not mated. Unconsciously, Yoongi tilts his head back to expose his neck.
Between them, Namjoon is grasping his cock now, aligning it with where Yoongi is already splayed wide, no further preparation needed. He can feel the blunt head of Namjoon’s cock press against him, sliding through the slick. Yoongi stifles a whimper.
“Okay?” Namjoon asks and Yoongi closes his eyes.
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”
Namjoon enters him in one long push, slow and certain, and Yoongi easily opens up around him, not even a twinge in his muscles, just a surge of arousal, a tingle at the base of his spine.
Yoongi forces himself to keep breathing but, above him, Namjoon has stilled, perhaps to give Yoongi another moment to adjust, perhaps to rein himself in.
With dry lips, Yoongi leans up and kisses Namjoon’s sternum, the heartbeat somewhere beneath it.
“Move,” he says and Namjoon does.
He fucks Yoongi with one forearm braced against the mattress, keeping his weight from crushing Yoongi, while his other hand is underneath Yoongi’s ass, moving him into each thrust, the skin between them growing damp with sweat and slick and saliva, aimless kisses peppered wherever they can reach.
Yoongi has never had heat sex before. He never had bonding sex before. He wonders whether missionary feels this good for everyone. Like an exposed nerve, a live wire, every touch is multiplied, every sense heightened. Yoongi can only keen, and clench around Namjoon, and try to keep himself from cumming too quickly.
Namjoon is breathing shallowly above him, letting out occasional grunts. It should be an unattractive angle, but his hair is falling into his face and he is biting his lower lip, a small frown etched onto his forehead, and his neck is so close and so inviting.
Just the bond, Yoongi reminds himself. The bond and the sex and his damned primitive instincts.
“F-fuck,” he stutters out when Namjoon changes the angle and his cock drags along Yoongi’s walls just so, making Yoongi tense and twist his head to the side, just as Namjoon begins to mouth along his jugular.
“Don’t bite me,” Yoongi pleads frantically, with his last scraps of clarity, even as he feels his pleasure building and building. “Just don’t bite me.”
“I won’t,” Namjoon promises, though his lips still rest against Yoongi’s racing pulse. “I won’t.”
Yoongi digs his heels into the mattress, his fingers into Namjoon’s biceps, and comes.