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On a Saturday morning, Jeongguk wakes up.
On a Saturday morning, Jeongguk wakes up in a hotel room that isn't his with someone aggressively spooning his back.
It's Saturday in Tokyo and Jeon Jeongguk wakes up in a love motel with no idea how he got there.
What the fuck.
He's facing a large window that's rudely shining right into his eyes. The sheets have been kicked off the king size bed, or at least what he can tell from his periphery. There is a warm someone breathing into his neck and clutching around his stomach. In a a panic, he looks down. His pants are still on, thank god.
The light's beaming into his corneas as he groggily tries to piece together last night. The stranger moves his knees right behind his so he's molded by a warm body from head to toe. He's too terrified to turn around and identify his mistake.
Think, man, think.
He remembers shopping with Jimin yesterday, looking at him through the camera. He remembers Jimin dancing like a nerd into Disney, and thinking his outfit was cool. There was the teacup ride, Jimin laughing with this surprising childish joy. He remembers leaving the park arm in arm and Jimin saying something about the “real Tokyo” and calling Jeongguk extra and then Jeongguk rising (sinking) to the challenge. Izakaya, drinks, club, drinks. He might have break danced? More drinks.
Oh shit. He had definitely maybe thrown up in a taxi. Near a taxi? Jimin had held his camera bag and pat his back. Kept whispering, “It's okay, it's okay.”
Oh shiiiiiiiit.
Jimin.
Had they…? No, no, his pants and undershirt were still on. Can't do it with clothes on right? Right? He feels a manic giggle rise in his throat and he disentangles himself from the clinging cinnamon bun.
“Jeongguk…” Jimin mumbles in his sleep and upsets the sheets further as he chases Jeongguk across the bed.
They end up in the same position but now with Jeongguk precariously close to the edge of the bed and losing his mind.
Okay, breathe. The clock next to the karaoke stand reads 10:30. They're not flying out until Sunday and no one is expecting a call so at least he can breathe half a sigh of relief.
Jimin digs deeper into his human burrow. He can't see his face but he thinks that Jimin probably has a pillow crease on his cheek and that his lips and eyes are puffy with sleep like when he wanders sockless into the dorm on Sunday to stare blearily at Jeongguk doing his routine Pilates.
He's not. He's not completely averse to that image.
Once he remembers asking Namjoon how he can drink his coffee black: “First I tolerated it. Then I preferred it. Now I can't drink it any other way.” Even one thousand kilometers away Namjoon is still managing to force his psychodribble into Jeongguk’s unwilling ear.
He's not dumb. He's not… immune to Jimin. It's early enough and he's still dunk enough that he can be honest with himself. At the end of the day he's a man first and idol second, even if manager insists otherwise.
He's been planning this trip with Jimin for awhile and he knows, knows in his bones that the map would always lead here, at some point.
In between one worry and the next, he finds himself falling asleep.
When he wakes up again, the clock reads 12:30. Jimin is already awake, legs tangled in the sheets and phone positioned over his face. He rolls onto his back, not quite ready to face Jimin, and clasps his hands over his stomach in some semblance of nonchalance.
He is not nonchalant.
“So,” he tries, clearing his throat, “what, uh, happened last night?”
“You don't remember?” Jimin clucks his tongue in admonishment but continues gently. “You were sick and our hotel was so far away. I checked us in here.” For a brief moment he imagines what they looked like coming in. But the Japanese are nothing if not discreet.
“Did we…” He wants to know, just wants to triple check, but he can't say the words. Instead he stares at the waterstained ceiling and asks, “did I throw up on you?”
Jimin laughs in delight. “No, you didn't. You did sleep next to the toilet. You cried a little and kept saying you missed the teacups.”
His face goes hot. “Stop enjoying this.”
To avoid further embarrassment but mostly just Jimin in a tank top, he levers up with a groan to find the bathroom. For a love motel, the bathroom is surprisingly underwhelming. But he's distracted by the face in the mirror which stares back at him flushed and bruised eyed. Brushing his teeth seems like a good distraction from his distraction. But standing is starting to hurt and he flips the plastic switch before lumbering around the corner.
But he stops dead in his tracks, wobbling slightly from the small mercy limbo time between drunk and hungover. By the door he can see that his shoes have been untied haphazardly, like someone had tried to take them off before realizing they were actually zip on. This. This is.
Jimin is sprawled across the bed with one arm thrown over his eyes. Noon sun falls in slats across the bed and he looks. He looks like that painting Namjoon dragged them to then spouted an unnecessarily long dissertation on themes of God and man.
“Jimin. Jimin.”
“What? I'm right here.” He laughs openly and it's a sound that will haunt Jeongguk for the rest of his days.
“Did you… my shoes…” Jeongguk feels his throat closing up. He's embarrassed but that's secondary to this.
“What's wrong?” Sensing distress, Jimin sits up on his elbows and the sheet slips over his bare legs. “It’s okay, your shoes didn't get ruined, I made sure to hold you back when you were sick in the bushes.”
He doesn't know what his face looks like and he's thankful they're on the 9th floor. Far away from anything important, anything unimportant.
Jimin looks surprised, worried, but maybe just a little bit knowing. One shaky step, two, three, then he crawls over Jimin and collapses on his chest to take a shuddery breath. Jimin grunts in surprise at the weight but curls his arms around Jeongguk, fingers carding softly through his hair. Jeongguk is a coward, but he's a coward in someone's arms. That means something, right?
At 16 he left home and any promise of university to live with a bunch of guys he never met. He can do this. He can do this?
He lifts his head to crane up at Jimin’s face. Open and caring and golden. God. Nobody ever told him this was terrifying. Knowing it's right but fearful of all the ways it could go wrong.
He kisses the edge between Jimin’s hard jaw and soft cheek. No! Jeongguk you can do this.
He snakes his way up Jimin’s still body and looks down where his face is open, waiting, but otherwise unreadable. His heart is beating so hard, plugging his ears, weakening his arms. They are at a precipice and there is no going back. Without knowing what lies beneath, he takes the jump and presses his lips slowly to Jimin’s, closing his eyes on the descent and feeling like he really did leap.
Warm. Warm hands on his face, warm body underneath him, warm mouth. And soft. Jimin is the warmest and softest person he knows. Their lips slant gently together, barely moving, and Jimin sighs into his mouth like he's been waiting a long time.
It's not perfect because, and Jeongguk will never ever admit this, his only kiss was a peck on the cheek his classmate left quickly before she ran back to the far end of their middle school playground. And then he immediately shipped off for years of 12 hour daily training. What kind experience was he supposed to have? How was he expected to be good at this? He wanted to be good for Jimin. A bubble starts growing in his chest. Is he having a heart attack?
“Hey. Are you okay? We don't have to do anything.” Jimin pulls back, holds his face between his small, cool hands, eyebrows furrowed in concern.
And god. Jeongguk is a fucking idiot. They were right, they were all right. Even with his slightly uneven teeth and manic giggle and terrible aegyo and perfect legs and oversized sweaters and full body laugh and… and… Jimin is a fucking angel.
Jeongguk smiles, small and crooked, and finally responds:
“Yeah, everything's fine.”
Jimin smiles back soft and warm like the sun is inside him. Like gravity, Jeongguk presses back in to taste it.