REQUEST | it won't let me tag properly waaa :(( but it's for jess! @btsgotjams27 

VIBES | angst 

SOUNDTRACK | back to you - alexander stewart

HOLLY'S NOTE | tense jaw namjoon gets me feeling a certain type of way so thank youuuu for requesting this!! no warnings - references to shagging cos ofc and approx (1) questionable reference to Saint Augustine lmao. also joonie is 25 in this!! don't shout at me!! i know he's not 25 irl!!

WORD COUNT | 2.5k

Namjoon watches the metronome on his desk tick... tick... tick..., ignoring the glare of the monitor screens in front of him. There are two. One's open on the definition of a word that's been lodged in his frontal lobe for months, now, and the other is crammed full to the brim with dark grey producing software that he's sick of seeing. The windows open encase remnants of love songs that he can't seem to finish. 

It's not for a lack of trying. Just impossible, he thinks. 

They're an amalgamation of a love he never thought he'd lose, and the hopes of a future basking in it; notes of adoration dedicated to a devotion he didn't realise was quite so delicate, until his clumsy hands got a hold of it. 

Mementoes for memories he can't bring himself to relive, they sit; solemn, unchanged. It's been like this for months. They're artefacts, now. Relics. Souvenirs. Trophies of a conquest he never entirely won; a bygone era in which his hair was lighter and the sun shone more frequently. Eventually, they'll be laid to rest in the paper waste icon down in the far corner of his screen. 

No good. Not fit for use. Discarded before they've reached full maturity. 

"Maturity," he mimics the screen with great contempt. He's 25. Brain's developed. Science says so. 

And yet the loss he's mourning is all thanks to his perceived 'maturity,' or lack thereof. 

It's not like you're dead, or anything dramatic like that. He knows he's being irrational. Knows his immaturity is shining through as he wallows in self-pity, four empty takeout cups of coffee waiting to be thrown away on the edge of his desk. He only leaves the studio to shower. 

Doesn't even really sleep much these days. Has grown a little stubble; wonders if maybe that would make you think he was more mature. More grown-up. He sneers a little as he jots down a lyric idea; something about fine wine, how it ages, and how it was ironic you preferred cheap-as-shit soju instead of the bottles in his cooler.

In fact, when he really thinks about it, Namjoon thinks you were fucking mad to cite 'maturity' as a reason for you to break up. 

He's old before his time; grew up quickly cause he didn't have a choice. Took it as an insult when you said 'we're at different stages in our lives.' Knows damn well he'd have stood on any stage with you. Fuck Wembley, fuck Jamsil, fuck SoFi. Fuck 'em all if they meant he couldn't have you.

But Namjoon would never give it up. You knew this at the time, and truthfully, so did he. 

You would have never asked him to - but you can't dictate your life around him, and his plans, and his obligations. You've desires and goals of your own. Five years his senior, the impending pressures of your friends settling down - celebrating milestone anniversaries, moving back to your hometown to raise their families after their wild twenties spent in the big cities - was getting to you. It felt like you were lagging behind. 

Whether either of you liked it or not, your relationship was a huge factor in that. You couldn't even tell your friends you were dating him. It's not like you ever wanted a huge legacy, but the erasure of your history together hurt. 

A year of your life has been lost to a relationship that you can never speak of. There's an NDA. And even if there wasn't, you've too much respect for him to ever go against his wishes, or put him in a situation that could implode everything he's worked so tirelessly for.

So yeah, maybe you were out of line when you said he was immature, but no adult woman wants to live her life in hiding.

Nor does he - but he thinks the fact he that makes the conscious choice to live his life so privately is mature. Thinks if you were ever to call him, he'd block you. Show you what immature really looks like.

But you never do, so he never will.

Instead, he just scoffs again. "Immature," he mutters, shaking his head as he slouches into his desk chair. It spins ever so gently, Namjoon too irritated to stop it - but then he's facing the sofa and he's right back where he started.

See, Namjoon has been thinking a lot about you lately. It's time to submit his mixtape to the company; time for them to approve it for release. Trouble is, he hasn't been able to work on it since you left. 

You've been in California for eight months. Since last August. Eight fucking months, and he hasn't touched a single thing, because it's all tainted with you. Stained. Ruined. 

It's your favourite classical symphony sampled beneath the opening track; your lyrical suggestion in the bridge of his third track; your name he wordplays into obscurity on his fifth track. No one would ever be able to decipher it. It's just for him.

A little bit of you preserved forevermore; from a time when you were still his.

Kind of like the folder his mouse is hovering over. 

It's password protected. Called 'drafts'. Looks inconspicuous. Just another plain folder icon. Nothing interesting. At least, it looks that way. 

He can't bring himself to get rid of it - and yet the tick... tick... tick... of his metronome becomes the click-click-click of his mouse as he follows the electronic pathway back to you.  

Namjoon enters the password. Knows he shouldn't. Knows he should also change the password, because typing in your birthday is fucking painful at this point.  

There are six files in the folder. Voice notes. Audio files marked with dates and time stamps of last summer. 

Above anything, he knows he shouldn't press play.

But he's 'immature'. Of course he'll do what he shouldn't - or at least that's how the voice in his head taunts him as he presses down on the play icon.

"Is it going?" Your voice echoes into the room. You giggle. Namjoon hears himself confirm that it is. He can picture it now. Remembers the shirt of his you'd been wearing after he'd snuck you into the company building. Knows exactly which part of his studio sofa you'd been on. "Okay, okay. Cool. What do you want me to do?"

"Just speak."

His voice sounds tender. Far softer than it does these days. He thinks he's grown since back then. Thinks he's matured. Thinks maybe if you'd have met him now, instead of then, perhaps it would have lasted.

"About what?" You had said with a laugh, and Namjoon finds himself burying his head in his hands at his desk.

"Anything. Everything. Your mind fascinates me, gorgeous."

"You're the one with genius-level, IQ," you had fondly teased him. "No one more fascinating than you. Did you really have to wear those sweats, though? You know they turn my mind to jelly."

"I can take them off, if it'll help."

"Keep them on," your voice had lowered. In the studio, Namjoon groans into his hands. Knows what's coming next. "Wanna see how much of a mess I make when I ride your-"

His nimble fingers race to the space bar, pausing the audio clip. Has listened to it enough times to know exactly what happens afterwards. 

It's not like he needs the recording to remember. He remembers it all. 

Remembers the semi he'd had at the time, and how the way you'd looked at him had him growing to full stiffness. Remembers the way you'd carried on talking nonsense when you were straddled across his thigh; and the way the conversation had dissolved into you being incredibly vocal about exactly what you wanted him to do with you. To you. For you.

And so it had become a goal: he'd been after the perfect moan to hide deep within the layers of his closing track. Would record you every now and again in the midst of a fuck. Would tell you how good you sound, how much he wants the world to hear you. Would say shit like 'you've got a voice that'll ruin lives, gorgeous,' or something about Augustine, and how he'd have never converted to celibacy if he'd have met you. Would whine along with you, and thank the lucky stars his apartment spanned over two floors - his poor neighbours probably would have complained, otherwise. 

He puffs out his cheeks and sighs. Tilts his head back against the top of his chair, and lets his hand fall to his crotch. He palms it slightly; firm from the thoughts of your clammy body sticking to his, and the musky scent that he wished he could have bottled up for times like these.

"Get a grip," he berates himself, and spins back to the desk. He needs to get his feelings out. Speak them into existence. Admit that he misses you, and that he's been a bit of a mess since you've been gone. His mental block isn't going away anytime soon, so he may as well try a little honesty in its place. 

He opens up the software for the mic that he keeps on his desk for rough recordings, and clicks on the red circle. Kind of feels kind of like a stop sign to him.

"Stop what?" he questions into the void. "Thinking about her? Avoiding her favourite coffee shop, even though it was mine too? Wasting all this fucking space in my brain like it's a storage unit for memories of her? I don't want them. I don't need them. Why can't I let them go? Why is she still in my head? And why am I scared of the day she won't be?"

He rambles and he rambles. Cries not once but four times.  Goes on and on about why you're the fucking worst, and then he spirals into how much he loves the way you laugh, and how he's never felt anything better than your arms wrapped around his waist. Gushes about how committed you are to your work, and how much he's in awe of the way you prioritise yourself. Is proud when he mentions your achievements; is pissed off when he mentions the little quirks of yours he didn't love.

They're lies, of course. He loved everything you did - but it makes him feel better to feign hatred.

Makes him feel like it was his choice. Like he's the one who left. 

He's pulled from his thoughts when his phone begins to ring. It's on loud, so he lets it ring for a bit. Knows it could sound good on the recording. He reaches over for his phone and rubs his spare hand over his face to psyche himself up. 

It's probably just Yoongi, he thinks, like it normally is, wondering if he's at the office building. He doesn't check the caller ID - just answers it and automatically switches to speakerphone. 

"Wassup?" He says into the receiver, far chirpier than he was during his rant. He's still a little dry, but he's performing now. Pretending like everything is fine.

There's a moment of silence. Namjoon's eyes flick to his phone screen. Checks the caller ID. Blood runs cold.

And then, there's a 'hey.' 

Namjoon is the silent one, now. Doesn't know what to fucking say - and thankfully, you hate empty spaces in conversations. 

So you fill it. 

"I quit my job," you tell him. 

Why you think he would care is beyond him.

But the last he knew, you loved your job. Something feels... uneasy within him. He remains silent. Lets you speak.

"There's a red-eye flight that leaves in four hours. LA to Seoul. I know it's..." You cut yourself off, struggling to find the right words to say. "Look, I know it's been eight months, and I know it's been rough. I thought I could do this whole 'life' thing without you, Nam, but... Fuck. I don't think I can. I... I think maybe I was the one who needed to mature. I know I put you through hell, but if I get on that flight, will you be there at the other end?"

It's a simple question, really - yes or no - yet it feels so much heavier than that. Feels like commitment. Feels like something he isn't ready for. Feels like something you rescinded your right to a long fucking time ago.

And so Namjoon laughs. It's cold. Is guaranteed to make you cry. He doesn't care.

"No."

The call ends, his finger forcefully tapping on the red button of his phone. He knows it'll hurt. Thinks 'good'. Reckons you deserve it. 

But then he's scrambling; dialling your number back, holding his phone to ear, stomach in his throat, heart in tatters, swallowing back tears that threaten to fall on his part. 

Being a cunt was much less satisfying than he thought it would be. In fact, if anything, it makes him feel even fucking worse. 

All he wants is to see you. It's the only thing he wants.

You take a while to answer. He was right. It did make you cry. Mainly because you know you do deserve it. 

There's no 'hello' when you answer. You say sorry, instead. "It was out of line for me to ask."

"Yeah," he says. "Kinda was."

"I just... I had to know. Eight months is a long time, isn't it? It's really fucking long."

Namjoon pauses. Bites down on his lip as it shakes. Sighs. "The flight... when does it land?"

"Nine-thirty."

"A.M.?"

"Yes."

"Into Incheon?"

"Uh-huh."

He can hear the tears you're fighting. Wonders if you can hear his. 

"Get the flight," he finally says. "I'll meet you there."

"Wait... are you sur-"

He doesn't let you finish. He's had eight months of fucking torture without you. Eight months to think about all the things he wishes he could have done differently, eight months to play scenarios in his head. Eight months. 

He can't go through it again. Can't be without you. It's too fucking hard. 

"Get your ass on that flight," he says, stern in his tone. 

"It's one-way," you warn him.

And even though you can't see him, you know there's a dimple in his cheek. Know he's smiling. Know it feels like a weight has lifted from his chest, because it feels that way for you, too.

"It better fucking be."