Chapter Text
The official post-soundcheck diet rule had been established at 4:00 PM sharp by a very serious, very hydrated Jin, who stood in the middle of the green room with his hands planted on his hips like an unyielding military commandant.
No heavy carbs past midnight, he had declared, pointing a warning chopstick at the younger members.
If I catch anyone ordering street food or sneaking out to the convenience store, we cancel all collective room service privileges for the rest of the leg.
Jimin had agreed with a solemn, respectful nod, his eyes wide and innocent.
Jungkook had agreed too, though his left pinky finger had been hooked tightly behind his back, crossing itself with the fierce, unrepentant determination of a golden maknae who refused to let 50,000 calories of stadium exertion go unrewarded.
By 12:15 AM, the silence of the 14th floor of the hotel was broken only by the aggressive, hollow, and profoundly tragic growling of Jungkook’s stomach.
It sounded less like digestion and more like a small, disgruntled bear trapped in an industrial ventilation shaft.
Refusing to suffer in solitary confinement, Jungkook peeled himself off the mattress.
He slipped into an oversized charcoal-gray hoodie and soft sweatpants, pulling the drawstrings tight.
He didn't text the group chat—that would be amateur hour.
Instead, he opened his door a single, agonizing centimeter, peering out into the dimly lit, carpeted hallway. Coast clear.
Just the low, distant hum of the ice machine three doors down.
His destination wasn't the main lobby, where security guards monitored the elevators with hawk-like precision.
Instead, he navigated the labyrinthine service corridors behind the housekeeping stations, descending the staff stairwell to the building's loading dock.
There, arranged via a hurried, deeply conspiratorial phone call ten minutes prior, a local night-shift delivery driver was waiting near the recycling bins with a brown paper bag that smelled overwhelmingly of sweet-and-spicy gochujang, garlic, and scorched sesame oil.
"Be quiet, the security cameras in the B2 vestibule rotate every forty-five seconds,"
Jungkook whispered under his breath, handing over the exact cash and receiving the sacred cargo.
The bag was scalding hot, heavy with tteokbokki, chewy fish cakes, and crispy fried seaweed rolls.
Balancing the parcel like an elite bomb-disposal technician, Jungkook sprinted back up the concrete service stairs, his slides slapping softly against the steps.
He re-entered the 14th-floor residential wing and crept down the plush runner, pausing directly outside room 1408.
He didn't use the electronic keycard.
That made a sharp, high-pitched beep that echoed through the dead-silent corridor.
Instead, he lifted his knuckles and tapped out the secret rhythm against the heavy wood: two short raps, a pause, one long scrape of a fingernail.
The private Morse code they had established back in their cramped, sweaty Cheonggu-dong trainee days when hiding midnight ramen from strict managers.
For three seconds, nothing happened. Then, the heavy deadbolt turned with a muffled, oily click.
The door swung open a fraction of an inch.
A sliver of warm, golden bedroom light spilled onto the carpet.
Jimin’s sleepy, messy-haired face peeked through the gap, one eye half-open, his cheek still marked with a faint, pink indentation from a hotel pillow.
His nose twitched. Slowly, his sleepy gaze dropped downward, locking onto the expanding, translucent grease stain blooming aggressively through the bottom of the brown paper bag.
Jimin blinked.
Once.
Twice.
"You are a menace to society," Jimin whispered, his voice a gravelly, sleep-thick rasp that made Jungkook’s chest do a stupid, happy flip.
Yet, Jimin didn't push the door shut.
his small hand shot out from the dark, grabbing the sleeve of Jungkook's hoodie and yanking him inward with surprising, stealthy velocity, kicking the door shut behind them with his heel.
"Jin-hyung is asleep, the security rotation on this floor is a joke, and I specifically asked for extra melted mozzarella on top,"
Jungkook whispered back triumphantly, dropping his shoulders and kicking off his slides right inside the entryway.
Jimin flipped the bathroom light switch off, plunging the suite back into the cozy, amber glow of the single desk lamp by the window.
Without wasting a second, he padded over to the mini-bar counter, returning with two pairs of clean wooden chopsticks, a stack of complimentary paper coasters, and a bottle of ice-cold water.
They didn't bother sitting at the small round table.
The boys dropped cross-legged right onto the plush cream-colored rug in the center of the room, knee-to-knee, settling into the familiar, gravitational pull that always drew them together.
Jungkook peeled back the plastic lid of the main container.
A billow of steam rushed out, carrying the intoxicating aroma of chili-infused broth and tender rice cakes.
Jimin let out a soft, appreciative hum of pure survival, immediately grabbing a pair of chopsticks and separating them with a sharp snap.
"If we get caught, I am blaming you completely," Jimin murmured, though his eyes were shining with wicked delight.
He speared a long, cylindrical garae-tteok rice cake, blowing on it with hurried, puffed lips before sliding it into his mouth.
The spicy sauce immediately left a bright, glossy sheen across his lower lip.
Jungkook watched him chew, a fond, goofy smile spreading across his own face.
"You'd never survive a prison break, hyung. You folded the second you smelled the garlic."
"I am fueling an athlete," Jimin retorted around his second bite, his cheeks puffing out adorably.
He reached over, using his chopsticks to grab a golden, crispy seaweed roll and dipping it deep into the fiery red pool at the bottom of the container.
Instead of eating it himself, he extended it directly toward Jungkook’s mouth.
"Here. Open. Before you start gnawing on my armrest."
Jungkook leaned forward without hesitation, taking the bite straight from Jimin's chopsticks.
The crunch of the seaweed gave way to savory glass noodles and hot, spicy gravy.
As he chewed, a tiny droplet of chili oil escaped the corner of his mouth, tracking down toward his jawline.
Without breaking eye contact, Jimin dropped his chopsticks, reached for a cocktail napkin, and leaned in close.
His thumb and the corner of the napkin brushed gently against Jungkook’s skin, wiping away the stray speck.
Jimin’s fingers lingered on the warm curve of Jungkook’s jaw for a beat longer than necessary, his gaze dropping to Jungkook's lips with a slow, heavy spark of awareness.
The air in the quiet hotel room suddenly grew very small. The distant city traffic outside the window and the hum of the air conditioner faded into a low, insignificant drone.
Before Jungkook could lean up to close the remaining inch of space, a sudden, heavy metallic scrape echoed from the hallway outside.
Shuff-shuff. Click.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps paused directly on the other side of room 1408’s door.
Followed immediately by a familiar, weary, low-register grumble: "Who left an empty laundry cart in the middle of the service bay... honestly..."
It was Jin.
Both of them froze like statues
Jungkook’s chopsticks hovered mid-air, a
rice cake dangling dangerously over the rug.
Jimin’s hand snapped back from Jungkook’s face, his eyes widening into huge, saucer-like circles of pure, unadulterated panic.
They didn't breathe.
For five agonizing, silent seconds, they sat locked in place, listening to the soft friction of slippers moving past the threshold.
Then, the footsteps faded toward the elevators.
The moment the distant ding of the lift chimed down the hall, Jimin collapsed forward, burying his face directly into Jungkook’s shoulder while shaking with a silent, breathless, shoulder-shaking fit of hysterical giggles.
Jungkook threw his head back against the sofa base, letting out a wheezing, muffled laugh that shook his entire frame, his arm instinctively wrapping around Jimin’s back to pull him flush against his side.
They pressed their shoulders together so hard the paper bag nearly tipped sideways onto the carpet.
"We almost died," Jimin gasped into Jungkook’s hoodie, his voice muffled and vibrating against Jungkook’s collarbone. "That was a tactical disaster."
"We survived," Jungkook corrected breathlessly, his heart hammering a frantic, happy rhythm against his ribs.
He used his free hand to steady the container, sliding it safely back to the center of the rug. "And we still have three fried dumplings left."
By the time the hallway went completely dead quiet again, the food containers were scraped clean, the wrappers were hidden deep inside the bathroom trash bin under a layer of used paper towels, and the room smelled faintly of sweet sesame and late-night victory.
The adrenaline subsided into a heavy, warm exhaustion.
Jimin didn't move back to his side of the room. Instead, he lazily slid his legs sideways, resting his calves across the floor and laying his head comfortably right across Jungkook’s outstretched knee.
He closed his eyes, letting out a long, shuddering sigh as Jungkook’s large, warm hand automatically came up to rest on the crown of his head, fingers gently combing through his messy, soft hair.
"Kook-ah?" Jimin murmured sleepily, his voice dropping into a tender, relaxed hum.
"Hmm?"
"Tomorrow, during the soundcheck... don't stand on the other side of the circle during the huddle." Jimin opened one eye, looking up through his lashes with a quiet, fierce sincerity. "Just stay right next to me. Where you're supposed to be."
Jungkook’s chest tightened with an overwhelming, quiet wave of devotion.
He leaned down, pressing his lips softly against Jimin’s forehead, right where his bangs parted.
"Always, hyung," Jungkook whispered into the dark room. "Try and get rid of me."