there is ink on namjoon's fingerprints, and he never really knows its origin.
sometimes he spends his nights creating new worlds inside his head and capturing them on paper; drunk or sober, it doesn't really matter. the thoughts are always there, at the back of his head, burning his tongue and his fingers, waiting to take the form of words written across hundreds of notebook pages.
sometimes he spends his nights touching yoongi, bending his body into curves and arches his handwritting could never imitate. the sheets are always cold, but yoongi's skin is like coming home, and he lets himself embrace the welcoming warmth. he's beautiful, namjoon thinks, more beautiful than every poem that's been ever written.
sometimes these nights become a blur and he can't really tell the difference.
they meet at a tattoo studio in downtown la.
there are plenty of other artists around, but yoongi eventually decides on someone with a korean-sounding name; no one can understand lines of his language better than his compatriots, and he doesn't really trust americans enough to let them tattoo epik high's lyrics on his body.
the man he made an appoinment with is indeed a korean, and a gorgeous one. he introduces himself as namjoon, and sends him a shy, but warm smile.
“is it your first one?” he asks, preparing his worksite.
“not really. i'm trying to fill up my sleeves” yoongi answers, taking off his favourite hoodie to let the artist see the ink that has been inserted into his skin.
“well, it's gonna be a pleasure anyways.”
yoongi watches him from the couch, examines the way tattoo machine perfectly fits into his hand. he's wearing a tank top, which unveils his toned back and arms, and yoongi has to force himself not to stare.
“wait, aren't those epik high's lyrics?” namjoon asks and begins to hum the said song, which earns a nod from yoongi as a reponse.
“they inspired me to start rapping back when i was just a brat, so yeah, i guesss that's a right thing to do.”
yoongi doesn'y usually walk around the town sharing things about himself, hell, he hardly ever boasts about what he does for a living, but the artist's – namjoon's – presence is so comforting, and yoongi lets himself sink into easiness of it all.
“whoa man, you're a rapper?” the question arises. there's no turning back, yoongi's mind screams, but he's not really sure what exactly should he turn away from.
“yeah, i do. i have been around for 5 years, but yeah. i think the crowd has been getting bigger recently.”
stop, stop, stop.
“that's cool, what's your name? i mean, your stage name.” namjoon asks, finally turning to him with a wet cotton pad and beginning to disinfect the skin on his collarbone. “i guess it isn't yoongi, i'd have remembered you.”
“umm, yeah. it's gloss.”
“sounds dope, i think my friend was rambling about you last week? i guess you can expect two new people in the audience, then.”