paring: brothersbestfriend!k.hj x f!reader
summary: you've known hongjoong as long as you've been alive, but it shocks you when he reveals heâs written songs about you
Your hairâs whipping in the wind, it smells like cigarette smoke and diesel outside. You have a love-hate relationship with riding in your brother's car. He always has the roof down, and the music blasts so loud that it vibrates the car and everything around it. Sometimes, it's embarrassing, but most times, it feels like being on cloud nine when he's pressed down on the gas, the car flying forward and going ninety in a seventy.
It's a habit, a tradition. You and your brother, Seonghwaâ have always been close, he was your other half, yin to your yang. He's grinning at you from the driver's seat, daring you to tell him to slow down. Did you? Hell no. If anything, you'd be going even faster than he was if you were in that seat. You would laugh alongside him, singing your heart out to the song he had on the radio, letting the cars beside you disappear as you entered your own little world.
He's slowing down, easing his foot off the gas when he spots traffic up ahead, fingers tapping on the leather steering wheel. The radio fizzles, songs coming to a stop, and then there's the sound of an announcer's voice.
âNext up, we've got an upcoming artist who's been making his way all across the charts.â
Neither of you is paying any attention, but when the intro blasts through his speakers you're both perking up. You recognize the beat, the bass, all of it. It's his song, Hongjoongâs music, the one you spent nearly a year watching him make.
Seonghwa slaps the steering wheel, a wide grin on his face when he turns over to you.
âHell yeah! I told you he'd make it big.â his voice is brimming with pride, âI fucking knew it.â He shouts.
He keeps talking, but you barely hear him.
You're too busy listening to the song. He's added lyrics and backing vocals. You never heard them before, never even saw him write out the lyrics. Every word feels like there's a hidden meaning somewhere deep inside. You're overanalyzing the whole thingâbecause, of course, you are. That's what you do.
He's always been passionate about music, you remember when he and your brother would come home from school with an open notebook in handâ full of incoherent writing that they only seemed to understand. They'd be huddled in your brother's room, hunched over an old laptop and making weird beats on some random software he'd downloaded onto it. It was weird, but you were used to it.
Hongjoong was only a year older than you, the same as your brother. He's never not been there, always invited to every and any family gathering, every vacation, and any holiday he could make it to. Always there. Seonghwa had the pleasure of meeting him in preschool, walking up to the poor boy as he sat on the swings. And it was out of pure dumb luck that he decided to stick with your brother. You think that might've been one of his worst mistakes in life.
And now? Hearing the same boyâs voice blasting through the speakers felt surreal. He doesn't sound like the same boy who'd stay up all night, forcing you and your brother to sit with him at his desk and listen to two samples of a song he was writing (two samples of which sounded the same but he kept insisting they weren't). He didn't sound like the same boy who'd purposefully burst into your room, singing a random song at the top of his lungs just to annoy you.
But he sounded like the boy who sat you in his studio room, right in the chair he had designated just for you. Older, mature, familiar.
Seonghwaâs still grinning, singing along to the lyrics even though he doesn't even know the words. He's loud, excited, unbelievably proud. And you are too, but you're quiet, pride caught in your chest.
You're resting your head on the headrest, listening as the last of the chorus fades out into the instrumentals. Your brotherâs still hyped, fingers tapping even harder on the steering wheel and he's half shouting over the music.
âCan you fucking believe that? Next thing you know he's gonna be playing at concerts and I betcha heâll let us backstage.â
You're turning your head to look at him, just enough to see the grin he has in his face, his other hand resting on the outside of the car. He's practically glowing, and you already know he's going over to Hongjoong's house to get wasted. You'd watch him stumbling into your shared apartment, drunkenly laughing about something they did while Hongjoong would walk in after him somehow completely sober.
The two of them are like water and fire, somehow working well together no matter how much people think they don't. Your brother's reckless, loud, and over the top. And then there's Hongjoong, confident, calm, a leader. Of course, they have their moments where suddenly they're sixteen again, excitedly screaming over each other about something stupid.
But they aren't sixteen anymore, they're twenty-seven now, still as close as ever. You see it all, hear it all, every last bit of it. But what Seonghwa doesn't see is how Hongjoong acts around you. Maybe you read too much into it, you do it a lot. But, he's softer with you, not in a brotherly way. He buys you treats you've talked about in the past, claiming the only reason he got it for you was because it was on the way to your apartment.
Even though the bakery he got it from is out of the way from yours and his apartment.
And what your brother especially doesn't know is that Hongjoong invites you over to his apartment late at night under the pretense of having you âwriteâ music with him. Even if that "writing" consists of you sitting in the rolling chair having not a clue in the world as to what was happening. Even if you tell Seonghwa youâre going out with a friend, he wouldnât dare question you.
It's not supposed to be secretive, it's not something he's embarrassed of. Neither of you are. But it's a sacred thing, something only you both can hold onto and enjoy without your brother being overly stupid and loud in his studio. Sometimes, Hongjoong thinks he prefers youâ sorry, he knows he prefers you. And yes, he's your brother's friend, best friend. But god forbid a man likes it when something's simple, quiet.
And you're exactly that, simple and quiet. But not in a boring way. Youâre quiet when you listen to his music, humming along to a beat you like and then giving him that pretty smile of yours before telling him how much you liked it. Because you always didâ like it. You say the simplest things, but those simple things always have his heart growing in his chest, sending warm waves of some emotion he doesnât seem to understand.
Since then, it's stayed that wayâ even when the three of you parted ways after high school. Seonghwa going off to work at a dance studio, Hongjoong moving further into the heart of New York to pursue his passion. And then thereâs you, the girl who had nothing going for herself. The girl who didnât know why she wanted to study even in her senior year of high school. So, you took a chance, signing up for a nursing degree at a university like you had any clue in the world of what that meant.
By some miracle it worked, this being your second year of working as a registered nurse at your local hospital. Sometimes you still think you arenât cut out for it, the sleepless nights, the days you go without eating on accident, rude patients. Itâs crazy how you havenât grown a full head of gray hair by now. But you always show up, always sitting there on the couch when the boys get home with a smile on your face, food waiting for them in the microwave even if itâs seven in the morning and youâve also just gotten home.
They notice, or at least Hongjoong does. Your brother is always one to fuss, complaining that you should be in bed by the time you open the front door to your shared apartment. You shouldnât wait for him to get home because you know Hongjoong would get him there safely. But heâs always silent, chuckling to himself when he notices how youâve mentally clocked out, not even bothering to pay attention to your brother's whines.
So it sometimes surprises him when you walk through the door of his studio, a large iced coffee in your hand and wearing the biggest pajamas he thinks heâs ever seen. Looking like a reincarnation of Adam Sandler walking through those doors. Youâd sit on your chair, or maybe lay on the couch that sits in the back of the room. But heâd mess with a beat before heâd turn to you and ask about your day.
Youâd shrug, sleepily staring off at his computer screen before complaining about the long hours, the little things most people wouldnât care to listen to. But heâd listen. He always would.
Youâre not surprised when Seonghwa decides to go left instead of right, making his way through empty streets to the one place you knew would be coming up in about fifteen minutes. Hongjoong's place. The radios moved on to a different artist, playing through the speakers but his song is still stuck in your head. Youâve only ever heard the music aiming out of his speakers, only coming from him. So now? Hearing them coming from the radio felt like a dream.
But at this moment youâre groaning, you can already imagine the beer bottles, the smell of cheese pizza from the local shop down the road, the too loud laughter coming from them. You donât join them at parties, youâve learned your lesson a long time ago. Youâll probably just watch them from his white couch, his hoodie pulled over you, smelling like him, and youâd gnaw on the strings as youâd watch them film some stupid tik tok video.
And you know what comes after, when youâre brothers knocked out on the couch and youâve left to find solitude in the quiet of his studio, heâd find you. Heâd sit next to you, make up some dumb question just to get you talking and then youâd be on your way homeâ Seonghwa knocked out in the back seat.
The inevitable comes, heâs pulling to the curb in front of the apartment, the roof closing with the click of a button. The engine falls to a silence when he clicks the off button, headlights clicking off. Your brotherâs somehow already unbuckled and basically leaping out of the carâ throwing you the keys into your lap before skipping over to the front door.
The metal keys are cold against your bare thigh, and youâre moving to follow your brother. Although slower. You can already hear the shouting, the deep cheering of Seonghwaâs voice from the open door. And you chuckle to yourself, locking the car behind you and tiredly making your way through the open front doorâ closing it behind you. The house smells nice, like cinnamon coffee and woodsy cologne. Youâre taking off your shoes and leaving them neatly by the door, you donât see your brothers but you know theyâll be somewhere scattered in the living room.
Youâre padding down the hallway, metal car keys swinging in your hand. Floorboards creaking under the pressure.
And there they are, here he is.
Heâs leaning against the kitchen counter with a wide grin on his face, completely focused on the way your brother is pulling out his phone and waving it around. But you know Hongjoong isnât really listening, just nodding along to whatever your brother is spewing out. Because when he glances over to the doorwayâ there you are. In all of your pajama glory, a too big navy tee on and your black sleep shorts.
He gives you a smile, itâs not like the one he gave Seonghwa. Itâs smaller, but it still reaches his eyes and makes the ends of his lips curl up. Youâre giving him a small nod, immediately heading over to his couch and sitting down with your phone in hand. And of course, you donât notice the way his eyes are trailing you. The way heâs looking you up and down, eyeing the way the bottom of your shirt gets caught right above the curve of your ass, the way your toned thighs look under the lamp light. And you especially donât notice the way heâs ogling the way your ass moves in those little shorts, so loose.
Your brothers laughing at his own jokes, hand wrapped tightly around a random beer he found in the fridge. Heâs not even paying attention to his surroundings, voice bouncing off of the walls and somehow louder than the tv playing not even twenty feet away. Hongjoong just stays there, sweaty palms against the marbling of his kitchen counter top, eyes still flickering over to you. He's staring hard every so often, your legs bent under you, head laid back against the couch, thumb lazily scrolling on what he thinks is instagram.
He shouldnât be staring, really shouldnât be. Not with your protective older brother right in front of him. But he canât help it, how could he? Youâre beautiful, stunning. You always have been, at least to him. Even when you were going through that awkward phase in middle school, he still thought you were beautiful. But maybe it was the forced proximity, the coincidence of you just so happening to live in the same house as his best friend, your brother. But damn, itâs been twenty-four years and never once has he ever taken his eyes off you, not even when he got his first girlfriend in high school. And definitely not when you dated that guy in your junior year. Chan?? whatever his name was.
Youâre Seonghwaâs little sister, a forbidden treasure he isnât allowed to touch. Like a museum exhibit. But heâs watching you when your eyes begin to stray away from your phone, to the tv screen, to your brother then back to your phone. The way your lips form into a tight line when Seonghwa does something stupid, the way you shift on the couch for a comfier position. And holy shit, the way your shirt gets caught on your shoulder when you stretch, showcasing the smallest sliver of your skin to him before you drop your arms back into your lap.
âHuh?â He chokes, eyes ripping from you and over Seonghwa whoâs waving a hand in front of his face.
âDid you even hear me? Youâve been staring at the TV for like forever.â Heâs chuckling, a hand running through his messy locks before taking another sip of his beer.
Hongjoongâs scratching the back of his neck, clearing his throat. âYeah, I heard you man. I just got distracted.â
Seonghwa huffs at that, leaning back against the counter across from Hongjoong and heâs already starting up about something else. Something about helping him make a song?
Seonghwaâs good, really good actually. But that spotâs already taken, has your name written all over it. Thereâs literally a chair in his studio right now with little stickers plastered all over it, a little drawing of flowers you did in metallic sharpiesâ and Seonghwa sure as hell didnât put them there.
The night moves on, youâve found your way into his studio at the back of the apartment, the boys sitting on the couch. And it doesnât take long, four beers and Seonghwaâs knocked out against the plush cushions. His phonesâ slipped out of his hand and onto the floor, the screen lighting up with his Lock Screen before shutting off. Hongjoong thinks this is the funniest thing ever, even if heâs seen it everytime Seonghwa comes over.
Itâs quiet now, the TV on mute, the kitchen lights dimmed. Itâs late, maybe past midnight at this point. The fridge is emanating out a small hum, Seonghwaâs snoring against his arm. Youâre not there, he knows where you are.
So heâs pushing off of the couch, your brother's empty beer bottle in hand. Heâs placing it onto the cherry wood coffee table, careful to place it quietly to not wake Seonghwa like itâd make a difference. Heâs knocked out, a train horn wouldnât wake up the poor man. He's carefully making his way down the empty hallway, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. The floorboards are creaking under his weight, and he can see the bright light of your phone seeping out from under the door. He doesnât knock, just turning the cold handle open with his palm and pushing it open.
And there you are, sitting crisscrossed in your chair.
Thereâs wires all over the edges of the wall meeting the floor, his monitors are on, casting a purple light around the room. He knows youâve turned them on, and his heart slightly warms when he notices his latest work displayed on the screen.
âNew song?â You murmur, voice quiet like if youâre any louder youâd scare him away. (Not possible)
He huffs out a laugh through his nose, closing the door behind him quietly with a soft click. âYea, still a work in progress. I canât figure it out yet.â
You hum, watching him sit down into his chair, pulling up the demo heâs written. âLemme hear it.â
You donât even need to wait for him, heâs already clicking play on the song, the instrumentals playing softly throughout the sound proof room. Itâs something low, something heartfelt. It didnât sound like the song he released, not like the song you heard on the radio. Itâs almost like a love song, but of course thereâs no lyrics to it. Just backing vocals, but itâs a pretty sound. Itâs his vocals, of course itâs going to sound pretty.
It ends after a few minutes, and heâs looking at you with a sheepish look in his face, âDonât tell me what you think yet, let me play around it first.â
So, thatâs what you let him do. Youâre sitting next to him in your rolling chair, mindlessly spinning around while heâs playing around with beats and samples. Youâre not exactly bored because every once in a while heâll pull on your chair, rolling it next to him and asking what you think about the new rhythm he came up with.
âWhat do you think of this?â Heâs asking you, eyes staying in your face when you listen to it.
âIt sounds good, I like it.â Youâre truthful.
âReally? I donât know how to feel about it. Thereâs something missing to it and I canât figure it out. Maybe there should be a snare here, or maybe I should stretch this out to really make the vocals stand out when I write the lyricsâŚâ Everything thatâs coming out of his mouth sounds like a foreign language to you, bass this and treble that. Youâre just nodding to whatever he says, heâs the professional anyway.
âI think itâs good.â
Heâs giving you a glare and restarting the music. âYou always think itâs good.â
Youâre groaning into your hands, rubbing your face, âBut thatâs because it is good! I think everything you make is good.â
Heâs giving you a long dramatic sigh when you whine, pausing the music then spinning in the chair to face you, âYea but you never give me any feedback, itâs just âitâs goodâ, âsounds niceâ, I need more because I feel like ripping out my hair whenever I make something.â
âIt makes me think youâre humoring me,â he says after a pause.
âHumoring you? Iâm not humoring you.â
âThen prove it.â He doesnât look away, doesnât even blink, just gives your chair another tug so you roll closer to him.
You open your mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes shifts, less teasing, expectant. Your hand grips the arm of the chair, resisting the urge to shrink away from the situation, but he notices the way your breathing changes.
âYouâre quiet now.â he smiles.
âJust thinking about how Iâm supposed to prove that Iâm not humoring you,â you shoot back, eyebrows knitted. He tilts his head, gaze dipping briefly to your mouth before snapping back to your eyes. Itâs not subtle, he wants you to notice. You notice it as soon as it happens.
You lean in, closing the last inch of space. Your lips press against his, it's sweet and soft. Heâs kissing you back, his mouth hits against yours. You pull away, shrugging like your heart isnât about to fall out of your chest.
âIs that good enough?â You ask.
âNo, I think I need more.â
Youâre groaning, playfully pushing him away from you with a wide smile on your face. Youâre embarrassed, flustered. The way your face is burning makes you want to crawl into a little ball and die. Youâve had a crush on him since middle school, since the days he had that god awful bowl cut. You thought youâd never see the day where heâd express interest in you, youâve dreamt about it, sure. But actually experiencing it? Actually having him basically beg you to kiss him without saying it?
Yea, youâre definitely in a dream because what the hell.
âYou're so weird!â You giggle, a hand coming up to cover your face when you roll away from him.
He's just laughing at you, his face scrunched up into a wide smile. Heâs not laughing at youâ well he is, but thatâs only because he thinks youâre cute. Youâve had your first kiss, you both have, so itâs not like kissing is some uncharted territory youâre just now exploring. You've done this a million times, but doing it with a boy you actually like has you going down a spiral.
âCmon, just one more and Iâll let you listen to the song I wrote about you.â He chuckles.
That has your attention, youâre uncovering your eyes, furrowed brows. So you roll back over to him, âYou wrote a song about me?â
Heâs nodding, clicking out of the demo song before pulling up an entirely different software. âMhm,â he hums, sucking in a breath, âIâve had it done for years, just never shared it with anyone.â
Your jaw hangs open, and you're slapping him in the arm. âYears? Why didnât you tell meâ show me?â
Heâs dramatically whining when you hit him, hands coming up to defend himself against your attacks. âWhat was I supposed to say? âHey, hereâs a love song I wrote about you, my best friend's little sisterââ
âOkay fine, whatever. I wanna hear it.â You tell him, arms crossing in front of your chest.
But he doesnât make any move to press play on the keyboard, he just sits there, looking at you with a sly look on his face. And then youâre mentally facepalming when he taps in the plump skin of his lips.
Youâre narrowing your eyes at him, but reluctantly youâre leaning forward, closer to him. Heâs looking at you, eyes blown out and he has his signature smile plastered onto his lips. So, you kiss him, hand fisting the soft cotton of the collar of his shirt and youâre kissing him slowly. Lips perfectly slotted against yours, applying the perfect amount of pressure.
When you pull away, your hands are shaking. âPlay it.â You choke out.
He chuckles, finally scooting himself closer to the keyboard and pressing down onto the space bar. âFine, only because you asked so politely.â
