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Yoongi just wanted some goddamned coffee.
He’s been up for over 32 hours, and he can’t remember why the hell he decided that a 5am flight was a good idea. Probably had something to do with his depressing checking account and depleted savings, but he hadn’t even caught a nap before getting to the airport at ass o’clock in the morning.
Everything is going even more terribly than expected—and Yoongi isn't the optimistic type. He almost left his wallet at home, his Uber driver was weird as shit, and he got stopped at security because apparently his earrings warranted a frisk at 4 fucking am. The officer that patted him down looked sketch as hell too. Yoongi didn’t trust anyone that worked at the airport at 4 in the morning. Except for the sleepy barista whose hands he put his life in at the blessed B-terminal coffeeshop.
Which brings him back to his current crisis. Yoongi just wanted some god. damned. coffee. But apparently some bad karma is coming for his ass, because he can’t even get a cup of caffeine without fucking up his already miserable morning.
Yoongi barely has his hands wrapped around a vanilla hazelnut americano—mind already rousing from the sweet smell and the promise of a much-needed stimulant—when he promptly bumps into someone and spills his (precious! life-saving!) coffee everywhere.
“Shit, fuck,” Yoongi hisses as the burning liquid sloshes over his hand. He reaches for the nearest counter and dumps his dangerous freight there, quickly wiping the hot coffee from his hands to the thighs of his jeans. “Dude, fucking watch where you’re going,” Yoongi snaps as whips around, scowl already deep, another expletive already ready in his throat—
And he finds the prettiest fucking face looking back at him, doe-eyes wide and lips open in a perfect O of surprise.
Yoongi short-circuits.
“Sorry!” the pretty man says, wringing his hands, “I didn’t think you’d move so quickly. You seemed pretty sluggish before you got that cup in your hands,” he smiles sheepishly. “What did you order, by the way? My leg is suffering, but it smells great.”
Yoongi’s gaze snaps down and sees a dark, wet patch blooming on the leg of his sweatpants.
“I spilled my coffee on you.”
He spilled his coffee on him. Yoongi, you idiot. Yoongi, you goddamn fool.
“Yeah, I noticed,” the man laughs. He pulls napkins out of the dispenser one pathetically thin paper at a time, trying to get enough to sop up the mess. “Is it vanilla something? Like I said, smells great.”
“Vanilla hazelnut,” Yoongi replies numbly, reaching over to help gather some more napkins. “Shit, man, I’m sorry,” he mumbles. His deft fingers make short work of the dispenser. He has a fistful of brown papers now but doesn’t know what to do with them. Is it socially unacceptable to dry a stranger’s upper thigh if he spilled coffee on it? Is it more or less acceptable when that stranger is gorgeous? Yoongi doesn’t know. Maybe if he had caught even one hour of sleep he would, though.
The man saves him the trouble and takes the wad of napkins from his hand with a smile. “It’s cool,” he says, blotting at his leg. “Not literally, of course. It’s actually super hot, but I don’t think I’m burnt, so you’re off the hook. Y’know, this is why I wear so much black. It’s like Deadpool. Did you see Deadpool? Sorry, of course you saw Deadpool. Everyone saw it, and it was fuckin’ amazing. Anyways, it’s like how he wears the red suit so his enemies can’t tell he’s bleeding. I wear black pants so people can’t tell a cute stranger spilled coffee on me at 4am.”
Yoongi blinks slowly at him. His brain is having trouble processing the two thousand words the man has said in the past seven seconds. Cute?
Yoongi is too busy buffering to respond, and the pretty stranger looks at him quizzically, then a little worriedly. “Hey, dude, are you okay? I don’t mean to be rude, but you’ve got, like, Prada eye bags. Are you going to survive without the third of your coffee you spilled? Should I buy you another one?” He looks completely serious, and Yoongi is conscious enough to find his sincerity adorable.
“I’m fine,” Yoongi assures him, trying to seem more lucid as he wipes down his coffee cup and re-fastens the lid. “You’re the one soaked with hot coffee. Should I, uh, buy you new pants?”
The pretty stranger barks out a laugh. It’s warm and bubbly and way too fucking loud for 4am. Yoongi should probably hate it, but he doesn’t. It’s like an alarm he wouldn’t mind waking up to. If he were more awake, he would have reeled at such a thought, but he’s too busy processing the pretty stranger’s speech.
“Nah, I don’t need new pants. I own a washing machine, so I should probably be okay. I’ll have my lawyer call if there’s any lasting damage,” the man grins. His smile is a beam of perfect white teeth and pink lips stretched into a cute heart-like shape. Yoongi feels kind of blinded, but he tries not to squint out of politeness.
“Well then..” Yoongi trails off. He blinks once, twice. “Well then. We’re good?”
The man chuckles—the same laugh, but more throaty and several decibels lower. Yoongi appreciates how it’s easier on the ears. “Yeah, we’re good. See you later, coffee guy.” The pretty stranger snags his latte from the counter, waves cheerily, and ducks out of the coffeeshop.
Yoongi stares after the man but catches himself. He blinks a few times, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he reorients himself. Airport cafe. 4:37 am, according to his phone. Definitely not smitten with a stranger he’ll never see again. Good. Okay. Yoongi takes a measured sip of his drink. He lets the aftertaste settle sharp on his tongue for a moment, then starts gulping it down. When it’s half gone, he pauses to breathe, screw his eyes shut, and huff out a sigh.
“Fuck,” he mutters to no one in particular. He wraps his hands around his cup (tightly this time) and starts the trek to his terminal.
--
After finishing his coffee (and a second shortly after the first), Yoongi has boarded the plane and is successfully caffeinated out of his catatonic state. It’s a good thing too, because he still has a track to finish before he meets up with Namjoon in NYC. His internship in Atlanta may have been an exhausting and expensive investment, but he’d made a lot of good music while in the hip hop capital. He’s sure his friend (work proximity associate, he calls him to his face, but Namjoon knows the truth) will love his progress. His roommate Seokjin will probably praise him too—and hopefully take him out to eat as celebration.
If all goes according to plan, Yoongi will finish his mixtape within the month. The thought almost energizes him more than coffee.
His fingers are itching for his audio mixer, but he doesn’t bother pulling out his laptop before takeoff. He knows he’ll only be chided by the stewards to “stow all personal belongings under the seat in front of him or in the overhead bin.” So he pulls out his cellphone, plugs in his headphones, and settles into his seat as he plays through his completed demos.
The music is loud, and his focus is intent. In any other conditions, he probably wouldn’t have noticed the arrival of the person seated next to him. But the warm, sweet scent of a long-finished coffee has his head snapping up and mouth falling open.
“Wow! Hello again, coffee guy!” the pretty stranger smiles as he shoves his duffel bag into the overhead bin. He hefts his backpack off his shoulders, scoots past Yoongi to the empty window seat, and plops down next to him. His pants are still stained. His smile is still gorgeous. He smells like vanilla and hazelnut.
“Hi,” Yoongi says dumbly, slipping off his headphones to rest around his neck.
“I know I said ‘see you later’, but I didn’t actually expect to see you again,” his new flight companion says. “Good thing we’re seated next to each other, though. We have a lot to talk about. I decided I’m pressing charges about the whole incident earlier.”
“Oh. You should reconsider. I’m poor as fuck,” Yoongi deadpans. The man looks surprised at the competent, fully conscious response, but recovers quickly.
“Nice try, buddy. I’m a broke-ass college student. Still pressing charges. You not only ruined my pants, but even my coffee,” he says, full bottom lip jutted out in a pout. Yoongi tries not to look at his mouth. “After smelling your vanilla whatever, I knew my plain latte would suck. And now even my clothes smell like it. I can’t escape what almost was,” he sighs.
“At least you smell nice,” Yoongi says. He doesn’t mean for it to come out weird, but it does. He kind of wants to melt into his seat, but his flight buddy just takes it in stride.
“I smell like my mistakes, coffee guy,” he says solemnly. “I’m suing you for this injustice.”
“Well,” Yoongi says, his mouth quirking in a half-smile, “See you in court.”
“Wow, I can’t believe you can actually smile!” the pretty stranger marvels, lawsuit forgotten. “I feel much better now that I know you’re capable of humor. Let’s be friends.” He grins and sticks out his hand. “Jung Hoseok, senior at NYU Tisch School of Arts, dancer, beatboxer, and bonafide Aquarius.”
Yoongi blinks, then reaches out to shake his hand. His fingers are long and warm and Yoongi enjoys the three-second grip more than he should.
“Min Yoongi, genius,” he responds bluntly. “Those three words should be enough.”
Hoseok bursts out laughing, gaining a couple sleepy glares from other passengers. “Come on, dude— Yoongi— at least give me your star sign! Actually, wait,” Hoseok pauses to squint at him. “Let me guess... Scorpio?”
“Pisces,” Yoongi corrects him, and Hoseok gasps.
“That doesn’t make any sense! You’re too—” he starts, then pauses again. Gives Yoongi a once-over. Cocks his head. “Well, actually. Maybe that’s okay. We’ll see.”
“I didn’t ask to be born in March,” Yoongi huffs. Hoseok laughs again and elbows him affectionately, like he’s been friends with Yoongi for years. Like they hadn’t met an hour ago during a disaster of hot coffee and flimsy napkins. And when he smiles at Yoongi, it’s wide and genuine. His pretty half-moon eyes crinkle at the edges. Love and sincerity seem to overflow from him.
That sunny smile scrambles up something in his chest, which is stupid, so fucking stupid. Maybe Yoongi overcaffeinated and now he’s crazy. There’s no other explanation—not one he’d ever willingly accept anyways.
A honey-voiced stewardess comes on the intercom and tells the passengers to prepare for take-off. Yoongi rubs his eyes, groans low in his throat, and tries to prepare himself for much more.
--
Takeoff is uneventful—annoying at most. Hoseok smacks some kind of gum—spearmint, Yoongi thinks, which isn’t a weird thing to notice at all, fuck off. Yoongi wishes he’d accepted Hoseok’s offer of a stick because now his ears hurt like hell and he’s trying to inconspicuously yawn to pop them. He hopes Hoseok won’t notice he fucked up.
Luckily, Hoseok is plugged in and tuned out, absorbed in some rhythm game. Yoongi glances over and watches his fingers fly over the screen, long and slender and impossibly fast. Yoongi prioritizes nice hands, and Hoseok’s are as pretty as his face. Unfortunately, Yoongi is running from any and all gay thoughts to keep in-flight weirdness to a minimum. He flips through a magazine to will his gaze away from Hoseok. He pages through fashion advertisements while yawning and swallowing and scowling at the painful pressure in his ears.
They finally pop when the plane reaches 10,000ft, a stewardess announcing it over the intercom. Yoongi doesn’t need to listen to her soft-spoken spiel to know his new freedoms. He scrambles for his laptop, nearly breaking the zipper of his backpack as he snatches the computer out of the pocket. He flips it open, plugs in his headphones, and stretches his hands, knuckles cracking in a satisfying way.
Then he gets to work.
He’s productive for a good half hour. He fixes the part of the bridge that bothered him, and he tweaks the bass of the hook until it’s perfect. He feels great, caffeine still thrumming in his blood. Yoongi is ready to tackle the final boss—the first verse that just doesn’t feel right—when he startles at the nudge of a sharp elbow.
“Hey,” Hoseok’s voice comes, muffled sound through Yoongi’s headphones. Yoongi slips them off.
“Yeah?”
“What’re you working on?”
Yoongi stares at him. Hoseok has his head tipped back, blinking slowly, like he’s sleepy. His phone rests in his lap, and the screen is dark. His twirling his earbuds around, nearly smacking Yoongi’s screen with every rotation.
He looks bored. This guy pulled Yoongi out of his work because he’s bored. It’s 5:38am, and Hoseok is starting a conversation on the otherwise silent flight—because everyone has the common courtesy to keep quiet. Does this guy really go to school in New York City? The scrappy metropolis of “mind your own damn business” and “don’t even think about making eye contact with me, asshole”?
Yoongi digs deep and tries to find some hatred. Hoseok looks at him with those doe eyes, a little hooded from the angle of his head, and Yoongi comes up painfully blank. He sighs.
“‘M working on my track,” he says shortly, looking back at his screen. Hoseok leans over to look too.
“That’s cool. You make your own music?”
“Yep.” Nice, Yoongi. Single word answer should drive him away.
“What genre?”
Goddamn it. “Hip hop,” Yoongi says, and suddenly Hoseok is grabbing his arm and squeezing.
“I love hip hop!” Hoseok says in a whisper-yell. Yoongi is just glad he didn’t actually shout on the silent plane. “I’m a hip hop dancer actually. Popping is my speciality, but I love everything!” Hoseok’s face is glowing, smile beaming, eyes bright with excitement. “Have you released anything before? I totally wanna listen.”
“Not yet,” Yoongi says, and he can’t help but smile a little. He can perfectly picture Hoseok as his groupie, screaming in the crowd at a concert, leaving all-caps comments on his youtube channel. It makes his heart feel full.
Gay. Pull it together, Yoongi.
“This is actually the last track for my mixtape,” Yoongi clarifies, looking back at his screen and away from Hoseok’s cute face. “It’ll come out in the next month I think.”
“That’s so cool,” Hoseok marvels. “Do you have any finished songs?”
“Yeah,” Yoongi says, reaching for his phone. He opens his demo playlist and hands the device to Hoseok. “You can listen if you want. But you better pay up when I officially release them.”
Hoseok grimaces. “Broke college student, remember? Don’t get your hopes up.” He ignores Yoongi’s glower and plugs in his earbuds, looking content with the new distraction.
Yoongi rolls his eyes, puts on his headphones, and focuses back on the screen. Shit, where was he? The verse has so many layers he gets lost sometimes. He searches for less than a minute—then Hoseok is suddenly slapping him wildly. Yoongi pulls off his headphones again, exasperated.
“What?”
“Your music is amazing,” Hoseok says breathlessly.
“Oh.” Yoongi’s annoyance dissipates. “Oh. Thanks.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Hoseok says gravely, taking both of Yoongi’s hands in his. “Your music. Is. Amazing.” His eyes are wide and honest. He looks starstruck.
Yoongi snorts. He tries not to notice how his heart putters. “Thanks, Hoseok. I’m glad you like it.”
“No no, you still don’t get it,” Hoseok says, gripping Yoongi’s hands tighter. “You need to release this stuff right now. I’ll pay for the airplane wifi—yes, I will shell out real actual currency, so please put this on the internet right fucking now. Do the world a favor,” Hoseok says desperately.
Yoongi can’t help the laughter that bursts out of him. There are a couple of discontented, sleepy groans from around him, but he can’t stop the fit of mirth that shakes through him.
He wipes a little water from his eyes when he finally calms down. “Seriously, Hoseok, thank you. I’ll get my mixtape done really soon,” Yoongi gives him one of his rare gummy smiles. Hoseok smiles back at him, a little bashful, but then his eyes go wider, and his gaze shifts to something over Yoongi’s shoulder.
“Sir.” A soft voice says, and Yoongi turns toward it. A stewardess with too-red lipstick and too-blue eyeshadow is smiling down at him, a little forced. Yoongi knows what’s coming. “Sir, could you be a little quieter? Other passengers are trying to sleep.”
Yoongi is glad he outgrew the last of his shame and dignity in the past couple years. He looks back at her evenly. “Yeah, sorry.”
She nods to him, and that’s when Yoongi notices the cart. He can see a coffeepot on the top rack, and his fingers twitch in some kind of awful Pavlovian response to the promise of more caffeine. The stewardess starts again, “Can I get you anything to drink? Water, juice, soda—maybe coffee?”
Yoongi doesn’t even have to look to know there’s a shit-eating grin on Hoseok’s face. Normally he’d gladly accept the caffeine, but he refuses to give Hoseok the satisfaction. He can’t be ‘coffee guy’ forever.
“Just water,” he says curtly, and he hears Hoseok snort. He turns to glare at him, and finds the cheshire smile he expected. Smug and fucking cute. Goddamn it.
The stewardess places the cup on his tray. “And for you, sir?” she smiles at Hoseok.
“Do you have apple juice?” he asks, and now Yoongi is the one grinning, earning a discreet stomp on his foot.
“We do,” the stewardess says, already pouring. Hoseok smiles gratefully when she hands him the cup. “Would you two like any snacks? Peanuts, pretzels, or cookies?”
“Cookies,” Hoseok says instantly, and she hands him the packet.
“Oh, uh, same for me,” Yoongi says, distracted by the pure smile on Hoseok’s face as he unwraps the biscuits. The stewardess sets an identical packet on his tray, then she’s rolling her cart to the next row of seats.
Yoongi turns to Hoseok, who already has both cookies stuffed in his mouth. He looks like a chipmunk. “So, apple juice? Are you five?”
Hoseok looks at him, cheeks bulging and expression indignant. A hilarious combination. “It’s delicious,” he protests, spewing a few crumbs with his speech. He finishes chewing and swallows. “I’m closer to twenty-five than five.” He pauses, then smiles smugly. “If you saw some of the dances I do, you wouldn’t be comparing me to a kid,” he says, cocky.
Yoongi hates the way his mouth goes dry. Hates the way he can instantly imagine Hoseok, hips gyrating, body fluid and lithe and hopefully partially bare.
Then Hoseok is slurping at his apple juice and Yoongi can’t imagine this guy is even in college.
“Cute,” Yoongi says under his breath, without thinking. Hoseok looks up from his juice.
“What?”
“I said gross,” Yoongi says clearly. His deadpan is perfect. He takes pride in it, to be honest. “Could you make any more noise when you drink? You sound like a horse.”
Hoseok makes a face at him and sips extra loudly for effect. Yoongi rolls his eyes. He pulls on his headphones to hide the red tips of his ears before Hoseok can see.
--
Hoseok starts watching some kind of slapstick comedy on the in-flight entertainment system, so Yoongi is deep in his first verse for over an hour. The bass is loud. Yoongi doesn’t hear the pilot come on the intercom, voice crackling with static as he announces a spot of turbulence.
He definitely feels the first drop though.
“Shit,” Yoongi mutters, stomach plummeting like he’s on a rollercoaster. He slips off his headphones and takes a deep breath. “Jesus, did we hit some turbulence or something?” He turns to Hoseok.
Hoseok, whose lips are pressed into a thin line, knuckles white as he grips the armrests. Hoseok, who looks absolutely fucking terrified.
“Hey, you okay?” Yoongi frowns. Hoseok lets out something akin to a whimper, and Yoongi frowns deeper.
“I’m, uh,” Hoseok’s voice comes out several pitches higher, words thin and tight. “I’m really scared of heights. And falling.” He flashes a painfully forced smile. “Like, rollercoasters scare the shit outta me, but at least the coaster is, like, on the ground.” The plane drops again, and he lets out a yelp. As the plane steadies, Hoseok tries to do the same with his breathing. It’s a mostly unsuccessful effort. “I’m not really a fan of falling while thousands of feet in the air,” Hoseok squeaks.
Yoongi will admit—he’s no saint. When Namjoon screams during horror films, he splits his sides laughing. He might even sneakily set his laptop wallpaper as the monster from the movie, then crack up at Namjoon’s inevitable shrieks later. There’s a certain satisfaction in the fright of his friends.
So it’s weird that Hoseok’s shaking hands and panicked breaths make something in his chest ache.
“Are you gonna be okay?” Yoongi asks. He tries not to look too concerned, but his chest constricts when Hoseok squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. Yoongi worries at his bottom lip, mind turning over each possible course of action. Maybe he could ask a stewardess for some anti-anxiety flight medication. Or for a blanket and another cup of juice. Maybe Yoongi has an old stress ball somewhere in the recesses of his backpack.
Then the plane dips again, Hoseok whimpers, and Yoongi instinctively reaches for his hand.
He slots their fingers together, and they fit perfectly. Hoseok’s hands are warm and a little clammy from fear. But Yoongi doesn’t flinch away like he does to Namjoon’s freezing hands or Seokjin’s somehow-always-lotion-damp fingers. He just squeezes Hoseok’s hand and watches the anxiety dissipate from his tensed body.
He’s only a little surprised that Hoseok doesn’t yank his hand back, spouting some kind of “no homo” bullshit. Hoseok just tests his grip on Yoongi’s hand, tightening and relaxing.
“Is this okay?” Yoongi asks quietly. Hoseok lets out a long, steady breath. Yoongi makes the mistake of glancing over at him. Hoseok is biting his lip, a red flush starting at his neck and ears. He’s staring at his knees. The corner of his mouth is tugged up in a shy smile. Yoongi’s stomach does stupid gay flips, and he jerks his attention back to the screen.
“Yeah,” Hoseok says, wiggling his fingers a little until their grip is perfect. “This is good.”
Yoongi ducks his head and rustles around in his backpack to hide his smile.
They hold hands for a while. With every drop and dip, Hoseok tightens his grasp on Yoongi’s hand, and Yoongi lets him. Sometimes he squeezes back comfortingly, Hoseok relaxing instantly in the moment of warm pressure. Yoongi hasn’t held hands with someone since his last fleeting relationship years ago.
It’s nice.
(Namjoon can absolutely never know about this, though.)
Eventually the pilot’s voice crackles back on the intercom, declaring the end of the rough patch of air. Hoseok gives Yoongi a grateful smile and untwines his hand, wiping his clammy palm on his pants a little self consciously. Fucking cute. Yoongi shrugs like it’s no big deal (and it isn’t a big deal, he tries to convince himself), and focuses back on his verse. He’s made very little progress thanks to a warm hand and some damn adorable flushed cheeks.
“Thanks,” Hoseok says softly.
Yoongi looks over, and Hoseok’s gaze is fixed on the dark sky outside the window, ears glowing with heat.
“No problem.”
It’s actually a huge problem. Yoongi can’t stop staring at the softness of Hoseok’s hair, the red shell of his ear, his hands fisted in the loose thighs of his sweatpants.
Yoongi tilts his head back against the seat and sighs. Gay thoughts fucking got him. Goddamn it.
--
Yoongi pulls off his headphones after finishing the verse. He knows he'll probably reverse his changes tomorrow, but he feels satisfied for now. He stretches, letting out a low moan, and Hoseok looks over at him with a little smile.
“Hey,” Hoseok says, nodding toward the window. “The sun is coming up, if you wanna see.”
Yoongi leans forward to look, and he sees a glow of orange starting on the horizon of endless clouds. He sits back again and let's Hoseok fill the window as he watches the sky. The window gradually brightens around him. Faint orange melts to a bright gold that fades into blue, but Yoongi isn’t really looking at that. He’s watching the color wash over Hoseok’s edges, lighting up his silhouette in the small square. His hair is tousled and the outside strands turn yellow in the light. His flush has faded by now, but the warm light colors his ears the same adorable shade of pink. When Hoseok moves just right, Yoongi catches the cute slope of his nose, the soft curve of his cheek, the flutter of his eyelashes.
And when Yoongi moves, settling his chin in his palm, Hoseok catches him staring.
“Sorry,” Hoseok says, surprised to find Yoongi’s soft gaze at his back. “Were you trying to watch the sunrise? I can move out of the way.”
The words come out before Yoongi really thinks them over.
“That isn’t what I was looking at.”
Hoseok’s mouth parts a little. Not quite surprised, but a little stunned.
“Oh.”
A loud crackle of static saves Yoongi from wishing for death and Hoseok from asking questions. The pilot briefly announces their descent, and a stewardess follows him up with instructions on stowing their belongings and fastening their seatbelts. Yoongi silently slips his laptop back in his bag, then buckles back in. He doesn’t look at Hoseok. More like he can’t look at Hoseok. Not after dropping the gayest seven words he’s said in years—to a near-stranger even.
Yoongi curses under his breath. He wishes Hoseok felt more like the near-stranger he is. Maybe then he wouldn’t have fucking embarrassed himself.
“Hey,” Hoseok starts, and it takes all of Yoongi’s self control not to groan. He’s so fucked. “Yoongi,” Hoseok says, and his name sounds soft and perfect in Hoseok’s mouth. He hates it.
Goddamn it, he loves it.
“Yeah?” Yoongi says idly, thumbing through his phone to avoid looking up.
“When we land—if you have time—maybe I could buy you a coffee?”
Yoongi looks up. Hoseok’s grin is as candid and fucking cute as ever.
“Huh?”
“We should go for coffee. I know you know what it is—you seem like you practically live on it,” Hoseok smiles. “Maybe I can buy you one? You didn’t sleep on the flight at all—which is mostly my fault for bothering you. So? You up for it?”
Yoongi had already set breakfast plans with Namjoon for the moment he arrives back in NYC. Seokjin had nagged him on getting home as soon as possible so he has time to unpack before running errands for the week. And his body is practically crying for some much-needed sleep.
“Sure,” Yoongi shrugs, “I have time to grab a coffee.”
Hoseok beams. “As long as you promise not to spill it on me this time.”
Yoongi snorts. “I promise.”
--
Yoongi: hey so i cant do breakfast today
Namjoon: ??? Really?? Half an hour warning? I woke up two hours early wtf
Yoongi: sorry. got a hot date lol
Namjoon: You’ve been in NYC for like two minutes. Who could you possibly have a date with.
Yoongi: dont worry about it
Namjoon: I’m 10000% sure you’re making this up
Yoongi: my date is real and he’s cute af
Namjoon: Pics??
Yoongi: [Photo message - Hoseok grinning, posing with two peace signs]
Namjoon: Well damn alright
Namjoon: Use protection ;))
Yoongi: oh my god shut the fuck up
Yoongi: ...i will