There's No Better Love (That Has Ever Loved Me) | Namgi

1

The warm scratch of vinyl against its needle, candles that flicker in dimly lit rooms, parchment against ink— all that Namjoon could ever possibly wish for resides within his home, a carefully crafted sanctuary littered with prose and poetry penned by his broad palm. First editions sit neatly on the bookshelf, their covers unnamed or detailing little more than titles in golden letters, and as Namjoon sips his chamomile tea, all that echoes against the ivory-painted walls is the soft tap of keys beneath his fingers.

Yet what he longs for is perhaps what he could never have, someone to hold him through lonesome nights and for laughter to string golden threads between bodies, cheeks aching from smiles and eyes ever-fond. What he wishes for rests between the pages that he so carefully crafts, etched within ink-stained passages and each verse leaves his heart to ache that little more. He yearns for romance, candles adorning candelabras as their flicker leaves an amber glow strewn across all that it can, painting its mark as a gentle whisper, soft hums and touches veiled in its fragile secrecy. Nights with wine in hand, vinyl playing to the background of shallow breaths, wandering palms that never eventuate to more than teasing kisses.

And yet perhaps above all, he wishes to spend it with the man who captivated him from the moment his eyes first found their rest against his frame.

Falling for the receptionist at his publishing house wasn't quite in his cards, but he can't say that he minds as each smile leaves him all but breathless, cheeks to tint into crimson rounds baring deep dimples, and he wonders if his charm will finally pay off, whether chivalry will prevail and capture the heart of who has begun to steal his own.

—

The morning air is cool, the crispness of autumn having bared its teeth just days prior, and it prompts Namjoon to don a charcoal turtleneck to combat the wind's chill. His nose still reddens and cheeks follow suit, but the prospect of spending a little time before his meeting with Yoongi is perhaps all that he needs. He has a coffee in hand, settling the debate in his mind that buying one for the man is a little too far, yet he knows the blush-tinted smile would stick in his mind with each breath, one that on its rare appearance, leaves Namjoon's words to stammer and the once collected man to fall apart within the receptionist's small grasp.

"Morning," Namjoon says, dimples indenting his cheeks, and perhaps if his gaze didn't rest on the paper cup between his palms, he'd see Yoongi's own unable to tear away from them.

"Morning, Namjoon-ssi. Seokjin-ssi will be out in a moment, he's just finalising a script but should be with you shortly. Please, take a seat."

Yoongi's cheeks darken, petal-rose blush blooming with each soft glance from the writer, and he lets himself wonder just whether he too houses the same embers that course his veins. Whether his breath hiccups in his throat, words all but cotton on his tongue, or perhaps his charm has found its residence within him, luring him in for the inevitable hurt to ache as the knife twists that little further, heart faltering to little more than crimson shards. What pieces it together is the gentle care of Seokjin, still raw from what love he held in his past to have been torn by deceit, yet Seokjin's assurance lets him think that perhaps he is worthy of love and that the suave writer may just be all that he has ever longed for.

Yoongi's eyes roll each time Seokjin's words fall as a tease, you like him leaving his cheeks to redden and pout to protrude petal-soft lips, but Yoongi never quite sees the way Namjoon's voice softens around him, how his palm lingers that little longer as their hands brush, or how his eyes rest fondly against his face.

"Thank you, Yoongi-ssi." Namjoon sits on the small sofa, his voice little more than a whisper. "You've had a busy morning so far?" He's never been one for niceties but something tugs within, wishing to fill the silence with Yoongi's deep timbre, honeyed and heady, little lips around sweet vowels and eyes to house strings of constellations at each passing breath of intrigue.