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strawberrymoonjoonie · 2 years

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held in your hands (i am gentler still)

chapter 1: sleight of hand, twist of fate

Pairing: Namjoon x Reader

Genre: Soulmate!au , Neighbor!au but Namjoon is still an Idol, Skinship!au i.e. I touch you, I will need you to survive, friends to lovers, fluff and angst bc I need it to survive, slow burn, slight idiots to lovers, kinda coming of age if you squint but more so settling into yourself but it takes the backseat in the long run.

Warnings: swearing, angst, slow burn, medical problems (soulmate), existential crisis, some anxiety, maybe slight depressive thoughts but the plan is for this to mostly be fluff, fears about growing up and life changes.

Author's Note: I am!!! So excited and so nervous for this. This is my first fic, please be kind. Also, please prepare for a slow burn because I apparently just love to suffer. Thank you so much to @matchstick6812 for encouraging me to write this, listening to me ranting about this in my Namjoon Simp Hours, and for reading this first. My heart is yours, you already know. Please let me know what you think about this!!! This chapter will be split POV between mc and Namjoon, but I'm not sure if I'll keep it that way! Thank you if you read this!!

Title Song: With or Without You by U2 (the best song of all time.)

Chapter Word Count: 5042 words

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The sound waves moving across the computer screen are making Namjoon feel sick. Somewhere in the room, a clock is ticking too loudly. The second hand is near deafening given the headache that is very much not helping his nausea. Slightly shaking fingers reach for the energy drink closest to him, and he frowns when he picks up an empty can. He could have sworn he had just opened this a minute ago, surely he wouldn’t still be this miserable if he had drank it all.

His attention is drawn away by the section of music that begins playing through the speakers. It still isn’t right. It feels too empty- it’s missing something, sounds like there’s a gaping hole in between the layers and he should be able to see what’s missing but he can’t. With the press of a button, the bars loop and he’s left to glare at the computer, mumbling how much it cost underneath his breath so he doesn’t throw it. Somewhere in the room, he can hear the faint buzz of his phone, muffled like it’s underneath something, but he can’t stop watching the cursor move through the notes. Is it the key? His hand reaches for the mouse before he takes a deep breath, reminding himself of the key change incident that forced him to near tears when he first started working on this song. The key was fine. The key would have to be fine.

The metronome moves in time with his pulse in his temples and he runs his hands through his hair in frustration. He had a hat on when he first came in, whenever that was, but it’s long gone. The loop starts again and his hands become fists. I have enough money to buy new equipment, so really, there’s no good reason for me not to-

“Joon-ah, why are you not answering my calls? How am I supposed to do a wellness check if you ignore hyung?” A loud voice interrupts his violent plotting, and there’s a few beats of silence before he registers that it’s Seokjin. His shoulders tense when he does, though, and he is careful not to turn around.

“I’m sorry, hyung, I’ve been wrapped up in this song, I didn’t realize-“

“And it’s a good thing I drove here, my god Namjoon how many of those did you drink?” Namjoon tilts his head to the side enough to see Jin pointing accusingly at the pile of energy drinks beside him. He grimaces slightly as a blush heats his cheeks. He has the premonition that his headache is about to get worse, and he hunches his shoulders as if trying to shield from a blow.

“Namjoon, turn around and look at me. Let me see that you’re not dead. Look at hyung.” Namjoon lets out a long sigh before reluctantly pausing the music and spinning his chair around, determinedly looking at the floor while Seokjin gasps. He tries to ignore the flashes of light at the corner of his vision and the black spots that swim in front of his eyes for a second at the movement. Maybe sleeping sometime soon wasn’t too bad of an idea. “You look horrible! How long have you been here? Have you slept at all?” Namjoon takes too long to think of the answers, and the older man’s eyes narrow at him. “What day is it, Joon?”

“The…12th.” All Seokjin can do is gape at him in horror. His premonition grows even stronger.

“That was almost three days- Namjoon have you not left this room in 72 hours?” He doesn’t get a chance to answer before Jin begins moving around the room, rapid fire lecturing the entire time. Don’t know why you and Yoongi do this to yourselves, as he starts folding the thin blankets hanging off the couch. No self preservation instincts, probably haven’t even been eating, as he gathers all of the empty cans and bottles into a garbage bag. Don’t know who you expect to translate everything if you waste away in this studio because it certainly isn’t going to be me, as he saves the song onto his computer before shutting everything down. I hope you’re still able to walk, you’ve gotten too big for hyung to carry, as he puts Namjoon’s lost hat on his head and pulls a sweatshirt over him.

Before Namjoon’s exhausted brain can fully register what’s happening, he’s out of the studio and being gently pushed down a hall by his hyung. He winces at the fluorescent lights and pulls his hat down further, his footsteps slightly unsteady as he’s led to a waiting car. If he were any more lucid, he would feel like a small, disobedient child, but as it is, he simply leans his head against the window and lets out a sigh of relief at the dark interior of the vehicle. He’s faintly aware of something being placed in his hand, there’s the phone, and Seokjin telling him to go home and rest and text him when he’s awake.

“Let me know you’re okay, Joon-ah.” There’s a soft hand holding onto his shoulder for a moment, and then the sound of a door closing and the car starting. He begins to hum the song under his breath, fingers twitching in his lap as if reaching for the notes that he needs to fix, reaching for the hollow space. If it’s not the key-

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All you have to do is walk forward. All you have to do is move, and you can’t even do that. Instead, you stand frozen in front of an open doorway, your heart beating so hard that your body seems to sway with each pulse. The apartment that looms in front of you is too big, too empty. Cardboard boxes fill the hallway behind you, all of your most important possessions packed and taped up, and it feels so final. It’s a grave marker, it’s a harbinger of change, it’s a point of no return and you can’t think. Your mind is filled with half finished sentences turning to static, all of them too loud and moving too fast to take a solid shape, to turn into anything you could actually grab onto. You’ve blocked almost the entire walkway, there’s no where to run, but you still can’t make yourself take the two steps forward. Your fingers start to twitch, trying to turn this panic into a rhythm you can tap out and control. The child is grown and puts away childish things. The frame of a canvas peaks out from behind a box nearest the door. There is a bit of dried red paint stuck on your left ring finger and small flecks of yellow in the creases of the knuckle. How many times can you change yourself before-

The sound of the elevator stopping interrupts your spiral, and you wince when the doors open onto your floor, eyes darting around to look at all of your boxes in embarrassment. A tall man makes his way towards you, frame broad underneath a dark hoodie, a black hat pulled low over his face. His movements are fluid, too fluid, and your brow furrows as he seems to list to one side for a few seconds before correcting himself. You open your mouth to apologize about the mess, but his eyes dart to you at that moment and you find yourself unable to speak under his gaze. Concern tugs at you again. Are those bags underneath his eyes? He looks so tired.

Before you can find your voice again, it happens. Slow motion, like the movies. Slow motion, so you can take in every millisecond in mute horror.

His foot hits a small box on the outskirts of the pile and you see the whites of his eyes as they widen, suddenly looking much more awake. Then he’s stumbling, then he’s airborne, then his much larger body is flying at you.

You don’t have time to think, don’t have time to react. There isn’t time to even reach out your hand before he’s slamming into you, sending you both sprawling backwards. All the air in your lungs wheezes out as you land in the floor, his body on top of yours, his hand somehow having managed to move fast enough to cup the back of your head. His fingers felt warm where they were tangled gently in your hair, and it was all you could focus on as your brain tried to reboot. You might never breathe again, sure, but his hands were warm and you didn’t concuss yourself. You’re immediately a horrible neighbor and might have to move out to spare yourself a modicum of embarrassment, but his hands are warm and he protected your head.

He lets out a small huff of air and a quiet noise that’s somewhere between a laugh of embarrassment and a sound of disbelief. There’s something self deprecating about it, and you take in his face with a slightly dazed expression, blinking slowly as your eyes grow wide. His face was a full moon, luminous and careful and serene. A place to hide secrets, a place to come to rest. If the stars fall away, there is light still. If you can’t find a way, even the tides will move. Here are my bones, they are oh so weary, please be as delicate as you can. The regret fades to the background as a slow blush works its way over your cheeks. Everything that your oxygen deprived brain is registering about him is so warm you could cry, and it’s not fair that this is who you embarrass yourself in front of.

Once you blink away some of your mortification and wonder, you register again how tired he looks. You are close enough now that it’s apparent he hasn’t slept in a long time, dark circles under his eyes and a tightness to his face that speaks of a lingering headache, and the corners of your mouth twitch down in minute disapproval and concern. A few quiet seconds pass while he looks down at you in mute horror, seeming slightly confused and extremely embarrassed. Suddenly, he rolls off of you with a gasp, kneeling next to you instead as an apology writes itself across his face.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?” His hand shifts on the back of your head, fingers gently feeling for any bumps. With his weight off of you, your lungs shakily fill with air. When he’s satisfied with the lack of injury to your head, his hand slowly moves down to your back as he helps you sit up. His hand is so warm that you can feel it through your shirt. You try very hard not to think about that. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going, I’ve been awake for too long-“

“No, it’s all of my stuff in the floor, I haven’t brought it in yet and I should have.” He looks around at all of your boxes with renewed distress.

“Is anything broken? Are your things okay, I can replace it if I damaged anything. I should have paid more attention.” His gaze darts back to you as he registers that you still haven’t answered his first question. “Are you okay?” His hand moves from your back to your elbow, and your brain is struggling to wrap itself around this large, pretty man with warm hands and a deep voice crouched over you. He seems so kind, even if his voice is taking on a slightly panicked pitch. It takes you a minute to respond.

“No, I’m okay. I’m not hurt.”

“Are you sure? I’m so sorry, I really didn’t mean to land on you, oh my god, I probably crushed you-“ His rant cuts off as your hand falls on his chest without thought. You can feel muscles contracting under your fingertips, even through his sweatshirt, and try very hard not to think about that either. You can feel him breathe, steady even if it’s a little fast, like waves coming in to shore.

“It’s not your fault, I should have already had my things moved in. And you didn’t crush me.” You offered him a small smile. “Just knocked the wind out of me a little bit.” Your smile grows as a blush darkens his cheeks. He looks away for a minute before standing up and slowly bringing you with him. His hands linger near your shoulders as he lets you go- warm, warm, warm- watching to see if you’re unsteady. When he’s satisfied that you’re able to stand on your own, he goes and picks up the box that caused all of this, handing it out to you with a small smile – are those dimples?! – and you take it from him with a dumbstruck expression.

“I’m, uh, Namjoon. I’m next door to you.” He nods to a black door a few feet away and holds out his hand.

“Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.” When your hand touches his, a physical jolt runs through you, followed by a rush of warmth and a feeling you can only describe as light. Something electric, and then all of your muscles going limp, knots and tension disappearing until you’re so relaxed you can barely stand. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re worried about collapsing on the floor, but you can’t pay attention to it enough to really be concerned. When you meet his gaze, his pupils are so wide that his eyes seem swallowed completely, almost entirely black, and you wonder if yours are the same. Your heartrate slows down and you swear you can feel your pulses beating in time in your palms. Here is a place for secrets, here is a place to rest, here is something safe. You know what this is, know what he is, and your mouth opens but no words come out.

Time has never been kind to you, but it slows down now, seconds drifting longer and longer as they’re turned to honey, everything golden and sweet as Namjoon blinks down at you. You think he’s going to speak, surely he’s going to say something, but instead, he reluctantly pulls his hand out of yours. An odd expression crosses his face, and you see something flash in his eyes before he seems to hide it and school his expression into something polite and slightly distant. The seconds speed up, the seconds move at double speed, and your heart rate starts to move faster. Something that is shaped like horror but moves like confusion settles in your chest. Isn’t he…wasn’t that-?

“Do you, um. Do you need help? With any of your boxes?” Something that feels distinctly like hurt spears through you, and you feel your heart thud in response. What is he…why isn’t he saying anything? Did you just imagine that? Has the move really put enough stress on you that you’ve mistaken first touch? The air grows awkward the longer you stare at him in silence, so you force your mouth to form words, even if they’re not what you want to say.

“Please don’t feel obligated, I don’t want to inconvenience you, I’m sure you’re tired and want to go home and rest.” Your voice comes out smaller than before as you fold into yourself slightly. He shoots you a small smile and waves off your worries.

“I’m sure I can spare a few moments to help a new neighbor.” His eyes tighten at the end, and something about how he says it feels like a challenge. There’s the slightest of ticks in his jaw. Suddenly, the empty apartment is not as terrifying. All you need is to get in and shut the door and try to figure this out. Possibly cry, but who knows. Your thoughts are loud again, but one word spins around the fastest, all too sharp and well-defined. Every syllable clearly enunciated. Neighbor neighbor neighbor neighbor neighbor neighbor. You search his face but find no answers. You can feel the phantom touch of his hand in yours. You fear you might be losing your mind entirely, the word neighbor still echoing like something that haunts behind wallpapers and beneath floorboards. He’s waiting for you to speak, you know. It’s not rational for you to feel crushed like this, especially over someone you’ve just met. But his face is a full moon and his hands are warm and you can still feel the hum of his pulse lingering on your fingertips. Your heart is no longer matching the rhythm, and even that feels like a loss. Neighborneighborneighborneighborneighbor.

“If you don’t mind, that would be nice. I haven’t been able to get myself to actually do it yet, and I’ve been standing here for a while.” Namjoon’s expression fades into something that is equal parts measuring and curious as he bends to pick up one of your larger boxes, one that would have been impossible for you to manage on your own. Of course, he makes it look easy.

“Dreading unpacking?” You linger by the doorway until he goes in first, feeling slightly like a child waiting for someone else to check the closet for monsters and turn on a nightlight, and only once he’s inside do you finally take the first steps into your home. You gesture for him to just put the box anywhere, and fiddle with your fingers while you try to think of a way to answer him. After a few moments of silence, he rubs the back of his neck, absentminded in a way that only comes with habits. You are jumping to collect the slightest of mannerisms he displays around you, and it makes your cheeks glow red when you realize.

“I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, that was kind of a personal thing to ask.” He seems embarrassed, the most he has yet, and you quickly try to cover your cheeks, realizing that he must think your blush is because of his question. You nearly trip over your words hurrying to make him feel better.

“No, no, you’re okay, I promise. It’s not unpacking I’m worried about. I just-“ You let out a long sigh. “It’s kind of stupid, I guess.”

“If it’s something that bothers you, I don’t think it would be stupid. I won’t judge anything you say, I promise.” Something in your chest loosens a little at his reassurance.

“I guess I haven’t really lived alone, before. I’m really nervous.” You meet his eyes and find nothing but warmth, and the rest of the words fall out. “I recently signed a contract with a local gallery for my art, and I’m really happy about it, I am. But I don’t handle change well, and everything is happening so fast. And this apartment is nice, but it’s so big and so empty, and I feel like I’m losing a part of my life moving here.” You cut yourself off, worried that you’ve rambled too much. It was a simple question, and you’re dumping the mess in your mind at this virtual stranger’s feet. Blushing, you look over at him to apologize, only to find a patient look on his face, his head tilted in concern, and his posture making it clear that he is listening to you intently.

“Why?”

“I just… There’s a quote I’ve been thinking about a lot, lately. ‘Childhood is not from birth to a certain age, and at a certain age, the child is grown and puts away childish things.’ That’s what it feels like. Like, I’ve reached a point and I’m saying, okay, this is the end of my life as it has been and the versions of me I have been and now I have to be someone new. Everything is now the past and I can only move forward. I’m scared that I’m going to unpack everything and not be able to fill the space in this apartment, and I don’t know who I’m supposed to be now. There’s going to be all this empty space and I won’t be able to fit in it. I’ll just be alone, I’ll just be cold, I’ll just be a child trying to be something else.” You tap each of your fingertips against your thumb as you move your gaze to the window. The apartment is so high up that you can see so much of the city beneath you. It makes you feel horribly small. It makes you wish you had a hand to hold. “I don’t know, it’s hard for me to word it, I think. It’s not coming out quite right, but it’s just a feeling that’s been swallowing me whole.” Namjoon hums quietly. When he speaks, his words have a weight to them that is nothing but sure, nothing but comforting, and you can’t help but believe him and allow him to ease some of your fear.

“I think that change is a necessary part of life, but I also know that it can be very scary, and very overwhelming. You’re starting a new part of your life, that’s true, and if you can’t see what is ahead, it can be really daunting. But I think that you know yourself, and you are always going to have the same core, the same values and beliefs and ideas, that are always going to make up who you are. You may have opinions and things that change, but sometimes that’s good. When we think about something we did when we were younger that embarrassed us or a memory from us as a child where we acted poorly, we say, “Oh, thank god I’m not the same.’ Even if it’s scary sometimes, we have to close chapters of our lives, and do things that are new and uncomfortable so that we’re able to grow. There’s not a version of yourself that you are supposed to be, there’s only the version of yourself that you are supposed to be right now in this time of your life. When life changes, you will also change with it.” His dimples appear as he smiles at you. “And if you ever need anything, I’m a door away.”

Things fall into a comfortable silence after that, something companionable, as he carries in your boxes, leaving you to slowly start to open them up and begin to unpack. There’s a strange domesticity in the air, and you start to think that maybe it won’t be as bad living here, especially with Namjoon as a neighbor. It’s not until he brings in your framed painting that he speaks again.

“You painted this?”

“Yeah, it was part of the collection that got me the gallery contract. The rest were sold, but I kept that one.” Namjoon’s hands are careful as he leans the painting against the wall and steps back to really look at it. He holds your art like he’s holding something special, and there is something reverent in his gaze as he appraises it. You bite the inside on your cheek, suddenly nervous of his opinion.

“You know, I collect art.”

“Really?” A small smile pulls at the corner of his lips, something incredibly fond.

“Yeah. My friends mess with me about it sometimes, because they have to be careful in my apartment when they come over- they can’t just act like heathens when I keep expensive pieces around- but I’ve always really loved art. It’s so comforting, even when it’s not. I always feel seen, and feel like it allows me to see into other people’s versions of the world.” The back of his hand brushes yours, and there’s another slight shock of electricity followed by warmth- light, light, light- but it’s not as strong as earlier. You want to ask about the world through his eyes. You want to ask what the color red looks like to him. You want to grab onto his hand. You do none of this, and grin up at him instead.

“I’ll remember that when I have my art show and need people to actually show up.” The biggest, brightest smile he’s given you yet lights up his face, and you’re hit with the full force of his dimples. You swear there are tiny stars dancing at the corners of your vision, and you try to blink them away.

“Please do, I’d love to come and see your work.”

“Are you an artist as well?” Namjoon seems to hesitate for some reason, his smile diming slightly and his eyes watching you carefully as he responds.

“In a way. I work in music. Producing, writing, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, that’s so interesting!” His shoulders relax. You try not to linger on what it may mean.

“Yeah, I’ve been writing music since I was little. It’s just what I love the most. I’m actually coming back from being at the studio, stuck on a song for a while. Which is why I was so tired when I came in earlier.” He looks at you for a moment, seeming to hesitate about something. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“I’ve just noticed you humming a piece of a song for a little while and I just wondered what it was. I’ve been trying to place it, but I don’t think I’ve heard it in any song I know.” You freeze where you’re pulling out a blanket, eyes widening and cheeks burning.

“O-oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t really realize I had been humming. It’s not- It’s just a habit of mine. It’s not a song at all, I just make little loops of random notes together. It something that helps me when I’m nervous, having a melody that I can repeat.” You can hear him hum the run you didn’t even realize you had been singing under your breath for the last however long, and you can’t meet his eyes.

“Well, I like it. It’s a good melody, and I understand the habit. I get really stuck on songs I’m working on and can do the same thing.” His eyes crinkle as he smiles, and your self-consciousness is soothed away. “I’ll make sure to come to you if I ever need new ideas.”

“I’ll be happy to help. Anything for a friend.” It’s an offer, it’s a challenge, it’s a question, and you hold your breath. His expression doesn’t change at all. You’re not disappointed. You’re not.

“Anything for a friend.”

Once the last box is brought in, you thank Namjoon and escort him to the door, leaning against it as soon as it closes behind him. The apartment is silent once he’s gone, quiet in a way that rings hollow, and your fingers drift absentmindedly, running over the hand he touched like you could still feel it. You try to breathe evenly. You try to not think about anything at all. You try not to feel like something has slipped away from you. You try not to feel anything that could ache. You hum a song about moonlight as you move to unpack the rest of your things.

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Namjoon lets out a long breath as soon as he’s in his apartment. He stares down at his hand, his mind racing. It had to have been first touch, there was nothing else that would have felt like that. No static shock, no cold hands, no other explanation. But then why didn’t you say anything? Had he just hallucinated the whole thing? Had it just been because of his sleep deprivation? He slowly moves towards his kitchen, operating solely on muscle memory as he makes a cup of tea. His previous exhaustion is, strangely, nowhere to be found. Maybe it was the manual labor. Maybe moving in all your boxes helped clear his mind, woke him up. You didn’t say anything when he said neighbor. Anything for a friend. Anything for a friend.

He makes his way to the couch, mindful of the full cup of hot tea in his hand as he sits down. He’s done enough damage today without burning himself on top of everything. A loud groan of embarrassment is pulled from him as he recalls the look on your face when he fell. I couldn’t go one day, not a single day without mortifying myself.

He made a silent oath to never go that long without sleeping again, lest he crush another new neighbor.

Your first impression of him, first time meeting him, and he had to go and nearly concuss you. The second Hobi heard, he would be on the floor in tears. He sank down into the cushions on his couch, desperately hoping that they would swallow him whole as he recalled your eyes, wide eyed and slightly dazed. And of course you had to be beautiful. Your face was the sun, brilliant and warm and blinding. Here, there is nothing hidden. Here, there is a place made for only good things. No matter how long the night, in the morning there will be light, there will be another chance, there will be a time for wounds to heal. Here is my heart, it is oh so fragile, please be gentle.

But you called him a friend. You didn’t say anything else.

After the tea is gone, after he sends a text to Seokjin to let him know he made it safe, Namjoon finally starts towards his room. When he passes the art hanging on his walls, he wonders what you would make of each piece, how it would look in your eyes. He wonders what the colors would make you feel, if they would remind you of lines from poems. He doesn’t feel tired until he crawls into his bed, and then his eyes are too heavy for him to keep open.

He wraps his left hand around his right, convinced he can still feel your touch. There is a lingering warmth in his chest, and his muscles are more relaxed than they have been in years.

He tries to convince himself it was the last energy drink. He tries to convince himself he was just suffering from exhaustion.

He falls asleep humming your five-note song.