the moment seokjin’s voice shatters through to yoongi’s lovely dreams of billion dollar mansions overlooking entire cities, brightly colored maseratis and bentleys strewn across expansive lawns, and nice shiny bling presented to him on red velvet cushions, yoongi can already tell that something is terribly wrong and has that sense of foreboding weighing heavily in the pit of his stomach.

“oh my god, what the hell!”

“ugh, what is he shouting about now?” namjoon groans, flipping over and burying his head under the pillow.

a muffled, unidentifiable sort of gibberish comes from somewhere in taehyung’s general area, and hoseok agrees with whatever taehyung had said (how hoseok even understood a single word is a matter beyond yoongi’s ability to comprehend).

“don’t know, don’t care,” yoongi replies, copying namjoon’s action and stuffing his own pillow over his face.

it’s way too early in the morning for anyone’s shit, so yoongi is just going to roll over and go back to sleep.

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jackson’s entire body is still buzzing from the adrenaline high of having just concluded their debut stage, finally, after countless sleepless nights of working their voices dry to figure out that perfect way to deliver a specific line, pushing already beat and fatigued bodies over and beyond their limits to master the ability to defy gravity and fly around the set as if weight doesn’t mean a thing, months after endless months of urging dead limbs to move on sheer determination alone.

years of chasing after a shared purpose, a single goal. and they’re finally living their dream.

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“my back hurts,” chanyeol whines, jabbing jongin in the side as they lounge on their plush living room couch, the super bowl semi-finals flashing on their flat screen lcd tv mounted on the wall, surrounded by the most advanced, high-tech surround sound system money can possibly buy.

not that it’s something they can afford, but jongin really, really wanted it (needed it). and what jongin wants, jongin gets.

ugh.

“seriously,” chanyeol continues, head rolling onto his shoulder with a grimace and shoving jongin’s shoulder for no other reason than that his lower back is fucking killing him right now. “i’m in pain. do something.”

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“can you please just try it on?” jongin shakes the thin, shimmery red fabric enticingly, chanyeol glaring daggers at the sequined dress as if it had personally offended his family name and each and every mother, daughter, son, and father who had ever in the past, present, and future carried the last name of park.

“if you’re so curious, you try it on,” chanyeol grimaces, snatching the article of clothing and shoving it under the couch cushion, promptly flopping down to keep jongin away from the offensive dress. out of sight, out of mind.

“but you’re hyuna,” jongin tries not to laugh, keeping as straight a face possible as he steps in front of chanyeol, leaning over to bring their noses mere centimeters apart, placing both hands on either side of chanyeol’s head. “hyunseung would look really awkward wearing a red dress, no?”

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