Chapter Text
Jimin couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling that he was being watched.
Which was a given, of course, since his job entailed always having at least a dozen pairs of eyes — cute little kiddy eyes — trained on him, but this one felt different. Like, not-so-good different. It was as if there was a heavy gaze observing and pressing down on him, and although he kept an alert eye out as he let his gaze roam the pastel yellow-wallpapered kindergarten classroom, he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what the hell his intuition was trying to tell him.
Oh, but wait. Over there — that blurry flash of black disappearing outside the windowpane, what was that?
Jimin squinted his eyes, the beginnings of a frown tugging at his mouth. He had half a mind to pad over and check it out. Maybe it was just a stray dog? They were on the first floor after all, and the building wasn’t immune to the occasional lost hound—
“Teacher Park!” a high-pitched, bubbly voice snapped him out of his reverie.
Jimin gave his head a small shake before averting his gaze from the window. He was probably imagining things. “Yes, Heejoo-yah?”
“Sungwoon stole my pink crayon!” the 5-year old girl whined, harrumphing as she crossed her arms with a pout. Beside her, a young boy with unruly hair snickered and stuck his tongue out, gripping the said crayon in his stubby fingers.
Biting back the urge to smile fondly, Jimin pasted a frown on his face and tsk-tsked, everything else temporarily forgotten at the moment. His students were far more important. “Sungwoon-ah, what did I tell you about sharing? Come on now, let’s be big boys…”
As he stepped out of the school building, Jimin heaved a giant sigh, smiling to nobody in particular as the sun slowly set below the towering skyscrapers of Seoul. Today was the final day of school before holidays began. That meant he had enough free time to visit his hometown, Busan, from tomorrow onwards, and it was honestly all he could do not to hop onto a train right then and there to see his relatives and most beloved grandmother again.
Humming to himself, he traipsed towards his electric scooter-bike and slung his bag into the small compartment area at the back of the vehicle. Reaching into his pocket, Jimin pulled out his keys with a jangle, inserted it into the ignition, and revved his ride to life.
Jimin drove out of the compound at a leisurely pace, not really at a rush to get home to his empty city apartment. The city was lovely during the golden hours — he drank in the sight of windows glinting and reflecting the yellows and pale oranges of the setting sun as well as the pinking hues of the clouds overhead.
He wondered if he should eat out or cook some ramen for himself tonight. It was the same affair for him everyday, though, so really, there wasn’t much of a choice to begin with—
Once again, Jimin was jolted out of his daydream by the buzzing, chugging noises of another nearby electric scooter-bike tailing him from behind. His eyes flickered towards his side mirror, where he saw an older man wearing black-tinted shades on the scooter’s driver seat. Maybe the driver was in a rush and was trying to tell him to move aside.
So Jimin swerved towards the left, making space on the road for Mr. Sunglasses to zip by, but instead of going ahead, the driver also swerved left, following Jimin’s move.
Huh.
Deciding to test out his suspicion, Jimin took the nearest right turn, and his pulse skyrocketed when he noticed that Mr. Sunglasses turned right as well.
The man was following him.
But why? Is he my stalker? Jimin pondered in mild panic. His mind raced with possible explanations for this uninvited phenomenon. He wasn’t exactly a bad-looking guy, per se, but he was well aware that his face wasn’t really model-worthy, either. He made a clean mode of living, and didn’t owe anything to loan sharks, so there shouldn’t be anyone after him.
His eyes widened. Was Mr. Sunglasses a part of the mafia, then? He sure looked like it. Checking the side mirror again, Jimin saw that the driver was dressed in a sleek black suit and pants with a crisp white shirt tucked inside. It was a pretty unusual combination, to be honest — a mafia-looking brute onboard an almost comical, baby blue motorbike was following him!
Jimin was almost reaching his apartment complex now – the four-storey building was looming into view just right ahead of him. If he parked his scooter-bike and sprinted towards the elevator, he might just be able to outrun this stranger and get to his flat safely. Worst case scenario, he could always scream for help. He had a pretty loud voice.
He looked back into the side mirror again.
Eh?
The stranger had disappeared. He wasn’t being followed anymore.
With a relieved half-laugh and half-sigh, Jimin shook his head and grinned, letting his tense shoulders fall back into relaxed position. He’d worked himself up over nothing. Good riddance!
He parked his scooter and pocketed his keys inside his light grey hoodie, whistling softly to himself as he practically skipped down the sidewalk that led towards the lift lobby. It was a good day; holidays were due to start tomorrow, and he was going to binge-watch his favorite TV drama tonight—
Beside him, the bushes lining the sidewalk rustled. Suspiciously, unnaturally. As if somebody was hiding in them.
Jimin paused, his senses escalating back to high alert. Gingerly, he took a furtive step towards the bushes, vaguely noting that he was unarmed at that moment and that should there be a killer or psychopath lurking in the bushes, he would be completely defenseless.
But then again, Jimin was a pretty reckless dude, so with an impatient grunt, muttered, “Oh, to hell with it.”
Then he parted the bushes and raced forward, ready to pounce. “You stalker! ”
“Wah! Woah! Wait! I’m sorry!” The panicked voice was like a bagpipe suffering from tonsillitis, a little garbled and sounding kind of choked.
Jimin paused. Blinked. Sure enough, the man crouched behind the bushes was unmistakably the same man who had been following him earlier. Up close, his tan, round face was beaded with sweat, and there was a stubble of a goatee covering his chin. He was short, stout and stocky – a little on the pudgy side. When he nervously removed his sunglasses, Jimin saw skittish brown eyes darting from left to right.
“Who are you?” Jimin snarled, feigning confidence he didn’t feel. “I’m reporting you to the police!” He fished his phone out his pocket and started dialing without a second thought.
“N-no, wait!” The man gulped and dove for Jimin’s phone, which the younger raised out of his reach.
“First stalking, and now stealing?” the kindergarten teacher spat. “Why, you are wilding today, ahjussi.” He’d finished dialing the number, his thumb hovering over the “call” icon, when suddenly—
“Park Jisung!” the stranger cried in a desperate, last-ditch attempt.
Jimin’s entire body froze. His head swiveled around faster than lightning, and he fixated the man with an intent glare. He hadn’t heard that name in years. “You know my twin brother?”
The 30-something-looking stranger heaved a deep sigh, rubbing his hand over his face. “It’s a long story. I’m his manager.”
“Here.” Jimin handed the vending machine mocha latte to the stranger, who had awkwardly introduced himself as Manager Ma, the person in charge of handling trainees from Smallshot Entertainment. The same entertainment company that his twin brother had apparently auditioned for and joined without even telling him. And for what, to become another one of those manufactured K-Pop idols that companies churned out like playthings each year?
Park Jisung, that brat.
“Thank you,” Manager Ma stuttered, giving a polite dip of the head. The man couldn’t hurt a fly even if he tried — Jimin couldn’t believe how on earth he had pegged him for an undercover mafia member. Never judge a book by its cover, indeed.
Jimin nodded. “So, what did you come here to talk to me about?”
The man didn’t seem to be listening to him. He took a distracted sip off his canned coffee while he stared at a small ID photo that he was holding up between his fingers. His eyes shifted from the photo to Jimin’s face, back and forth, back and forth, until the teacher began to feel his cheeks flushing under the scrutiny.
Finally, Manager Ma put the photo down. “You really do look like him.”
“Um. We are twin brothers.” Jimin didn’t know what to make of this conversation starter. “Did anything happen to Jisung?” His heart rate spiked at the mere thought of his brother in mortal peril. Sure, it had been a long time since they’d last made contact with each other, but he was he was his twin brother, which surely had to count for something regardless of how much of a pain in the ass he was. “Is he hurt? Hospitalised?”
“No, no,” Manager Ma wrung his hands in front of him in wild denial. “He’s not hurt! Not exactly. But yes… he is in the hospital.”
“What? Why?” Jimin’s spine went ramrod straight.
“Let’s just say that your brother had a minor… surgery accident.”
“What do you mean? What kind of surgery?” Had Jisung broken a bone? Broken his neck? Jimin gasped. Was he at the Intensive Care Unit? How much would it cost to deliver flowers? Oh, boy.
“Ahh, well, how do I put it…”
“Just say it,” Jimin all but barked.
Manager Ma gulped. “Plastic surgery.”
Jimin blinked, trying to put the pieces together. “You mean he—“
“It wasn’t supposed to happen! They were only supposed to give him double eyelids!” Manager Ma spluttered as if he was racing against time, his temples breaking out into cold sweat. “But ah, that stubborn boy, he went ahead and agreed to undergo jawline reduction, and the doctors totally botched the procedure, so now he can’t even open his mouth to eat, much less talk, and his debut has been confirmed—”
“Wait,” Jimin interjected. “My brother is going to debut? As an idol?”
Manager Ma paused mid-ramble. “Yes. Two weeks from now, actually.”
Jimin’s jaw dropped. Well, shiitake mushrooms. “He’s in the hospital, though. Will he recover in time? Is there any way I can help?”
“Yes, don’t worry, he will still make his debut.” There was a mischievous spark in the manager’s eyes that should have warned Jimin about what was coming.
“But you just said it yourself. My brother is still recovering. He can’t possibly debut in time.”
“Well, he can’t.” Manager Ma cleared his throat and met Jimin’s perplexed gaze. “But you can.”
Jimin stared at him, before bursting out into squeaky, breathy giggling, slapping a hand against his thighs as he practically bent over laughing. “Oh, you’re funny, Manager Ma! Really funny.”
“I’m not joking!” the older man protested, looking aghast. “I’d appreciate it if you could help you brother out by stepping in to cover up for him.”
Did he really think Jimin was idol material? How absurd. He wiped away the tears that had formed at the corners of his eyes from laughing too hard. “Right, and pigs can fly. What’s the name of the group he’s debuting with?”
Manager Ma shook his head. “He isn’t debuting with a new group. He’s joining an existing one.”
“Oh yeah?” Jimin grinned, bemused and a little proud at how his twin had come so far. Absentmindedly, he leaned back in his chair and twirled a strand of black hair around his index finger. “Who?”
“BTS.”
Jimin nearly choked on his spit. No way. “BTS? As in, Break The Silence? That idol rock boyband?” He wasn’t a huge fan of the group, being a country bumpkin himself, but the four-member boyband was popular enough that even the average joe at least knew about their name and the popularity they’d been gaining overseas, especially with Western fans.
Manager Ma nodded solemnly. “Yes, that BTS.”
Holy moly. Hot diddly damn. Just what kind of talents had Jisung been hiding from him all along? Surely BTS didn’t want his twin for his vocals, because Jimin was sure as hell that that idiot couldn’t sing for shit.
“Let me get this straight,” Jimin said, crossing his arms. “You want me to join BTS? The idol group BTS?”
“Temporarily, yes.”
“Is this a prank?” he asked half-heartedly. “Candid camera?”
Manager Ma looked weary. “Would I make the effort to track you down if it were?”
Good point. Jimin sighed. “Look, I’m sorry, I really am, but I can’t. My brother and I are two different people, and I’m afraid I’m not cut out for the stage.” He felt guilty for rejecting the man, and he sincerely hoped that Jisung would get better quicker so that he could achieve his (new) dream of debuting onstage.
Manager Ma sighed, too. But he wasn’t one to accept defeat easily. “Look, tomorrow’s the contract signing, and I just really need Jisung to be there, because the company president will murder me in cold blood if I don’t show up with him to get this process over and done with.”
Jimin gave him an uncomfortable semi-smile. “Yeah, well… good luck, manager-nim!” He stood up and made his way to his front door, opening it to signal that it was time for the man to leave.
“Just for tomorrow…” the manager implored helplessly, eyes downcast at the apartment’s carpeted floor. “Just for one day, please help me. Stand-in for Jisung to sign the contract. You want to help him? Then do this for him.”
Jimin chewed on his lower lip, hesitating.
“Carve a path for him to achieve his dream. After you sign the contract, you’re free to go. I won’t bother you again. See, if Jisung doesn’t show up tomorrow, President Jo will terminate the deal. And then that’s it for your brother’s career. ”
Ended before it even had the chance to begin. A knot twisted in the pit of Jimin’s tummy, and he swallowed what felt like bricks of emotion down his throat. The manager was at his wits’ end; that much he could see.
After an eternity of awkward silence, Manager Ma hung his head in resignation. “Nevermind. Forget I asked. It’s all right if—“
“I’ll do it.”
The manager’s head whipped up, eyes brimming with renewed hope.
Jimin offered him a wry smile. “Just this once, okay?”
The following day came too quickly.
In another part of Seoul, as the sun slowly crept above the horizon, a black van en route to Smallshot Entertainment sped down the highway, carrying four young men, a stylist, a driver and another manager who was currently busy playing games on his phone. He was trying to tune out the mindless chatter of the other guys inside the car with him:
“Namjoon-hyung, did you forget your earphones at the filming site again?”
“Hey, did you guys see my face during the commentary segment? I hope they air that.”
“Jungkook, quit fidgeting. I’m trying to take a nap here.”
“Yoongi-hyung, why’d you have to go and cuss at the filming staff like that? People will call you rude again.”
“Yeah, well, have you seen the Naver articles yet?” Hoseok said, eyes glued to the phone. “They’re singling you out again, hyung.”
“To hell with it,” the man in question, Yoongi, let his head fall back on the car’s headrest, his light blond locks of hair splaying out lazily over the leather material. “Manager Ma can take care of the damage control.”
Beside him, Namjoon pursed his lips in worry. “Yoongi-hyung, you have to be really careful. Idols get destroyed by scandals and false headlines so easily nowadays. One wrong move, and…“ he made a head-chopping gesture with his hand.
Yoongi grimaced, keeping his eyes closed. It wasn’t his fault that his patience had worn thin and snapped — the staff had been trying to make lewd, grabby hands at his body every chance she could get! And Min Yoongi, of all people, was not somebody to be taken lightly when it came to physical boundaries.
Even though he knew that BTS’ image was at stake, he didn’t bother to explain his actions back at the reality talk show filming site. If he dropped any names or accusations, that female staff could get into serious trouble and lose her job. Yoongi didn’t want that, nor did he wish to feel guilty about taking away anyone’s livelihood.
It wasn’t worth the trouble, anyway.
“By the way,” Hoseok said, changing the topic. “Did you hear? Our new member-to-be is signing the contract today.”
At this, Yoongi’s scowl deepened. Our?
“Oh?” Namjoon raised his eyebrows. “Right. I forgot it’s today. Rhythm guitar, right?”
“I wonder what he looks like,” Jungkook remarked quietly.
Yoongi opened his eyes and made a disgruntled sound as he shifted his sitting position to face his bandmates. “Honestly, I’m not changing my opinion about adding one more member. It’s a no for me. We don’t need another person to play the guitar. Jungkook and Namjoon are good enough. We need more vocals. No offense.”
“None taken,” said Jungkook, the group’s lead singer. Hoseok, the drummer who usually sang backing vocals, just shrugged nonchalantly, twirling his drumsticks playfully between his fingers.
The group had reached a stage in their band dynamics where they could comfortably hurl constructive criticism and even savage insults as honestly as they wanted at each other, without fearing about hurting another member’s feelings. Something Yoongi was honestly grateful for, because he was nothing if not a straightforward guy, and everyone knew it.
“Aww, c’mon, he could be really good,” Namjoon coaxed. “At least give the guy a chance to prove himself.”
“Hmmppf.” Yoongi settled back into his seat. “We’ll see about that.”
Jimin fanned himself with his hand. Heat licked at his sunburnt face and coiled around his limbs, and it was all he could do not to strip right then and there in front of the Smallshot Entertainment building.
Manager Ma had brought him to the front entrance, only to realize that he’d completely forgotten to bring Jimin a visitor pass to grant him access to the building, as well as a fresh change of clothes to “look more like Jisung”. Whatever that meant.
So here he was, dressed in a plain white tee and standard denim jeans, standing outside the company building alongside a group of tittering, uniformed high school girls. They were carrying neon-colored signs and banners with pictures of a group of young men. Jimin presumed that these artists were BTS.
The thing about Jimin was, although he knew who BTS was due to their sheer popularity, he didn’t exactly know much about their music, and he most certainly had no idea how to differentiate one member from another, let alone know their names.
He edged closer to one girl in particular, the one with braided pigtails and flashy pink hair clips. “Hi. You’re BTS fans right?”
The girl turned to look at him, one eyebrow quirked. “BTS fans? Not just fans. We’re ARMY.”
“ARMY?”
Her lips curved into a smile. “Yep. That’s the fandom name. Don’t ask why.”
“Um. Okay.” Jimin nodded slowly. “So. Why do you like BTS?”
The girl let out a disbelieving snort-giggle. “No way. Seriously? You don’t know the boys?”
The kindergarten teacher scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “Uh… only a little bit?”
“BTS aren’t just pretty faces. They’re an amazingly talented group that self-produces their own music,” she explained, ticking off her fingers as if she was reciting from a mental checklist. “They use their music to address a lot of important topics, like social issues, mental health and the problems of youth in society.” Her eyes turned soft. “I feel comforted by their songs. They’re legends.”
Jimin raised his eyebrows. Music for healing? What an interesting group his brother was getting himself into. “Well, then what are you standing out here for?” He let his eyes trail down the line of devoted ARMYs respected standing only on one side of the company gates. He supposed that must be a designated waiting area.
“Why, we’re all waiting for BTS to come back from their activities in Japan, of course!” the girl trilled, her eyes taking on a new gleam of enthusiasm. “They’ve only been away for a week but it feels like forever. I can’t wait to see them again.”
As if on cue, a honk blared and the gates parted to allow a sleek, black van into the building’s front drop-off point, where Jimin and the other ARMYs were standing patiently (how did he get looped into this)? The girls — and boys, if he looked more closely — erupted into an excited buzz as they gathered around the car doors like a swarm of hornets to honey.
Jimin chose to linger behind the crowd and hang back, thinking that it was far easier to just be a casual spectator than to jostle among throngs of elbows. From here, he had a wider view of what was happening, so when the doors slid open and the members of BTS stepped out like models fresh off a fashion runway, he couldn’t stifle the tiny gasp that escaped him.
They were breathtaking to behold.
You know how in movies, main characters usually do a hero strut where they walk slowly towards the camera? Backlighting, slow motion and wind effects included. This was one such scenario for our dear Park Jimin, who found that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the visuals entering his line of sight.
“Meet your future bandmates.”
Jimin jumped, startled. Manager Ma had sidled up beside him without being noticed. “I mean, your brother’s future members.”
The first person who stepped out of the car had striking hair as red as copper, and he wore an upturned smile that could probably outshine the sun. He greeted his fans left and right with a jolly wave.
“That’s the drummer, Jung Hoseok. Stage name, J-Hope,” Manager Ma shared. “You know, in case you didn’t already know.”
Jimin made no comment to that, not wanting to let the world know how clueless he actually was. “And the rest?”
After Hoseok came a fair-skinned, dark-haired young man-child in an overall jumpsuit that kind of reminded Jimin of the Easter Bunny. When he smiled, his two front teeth showed prominently, and it was nothing short of adorable.
“Jeon Jungkook, lead vocalist. Also the face of the group. He’s a lady killer but between you and me, he’s just a toddler in the dorms who needs to be fed at three-hour intervals.”
The next guy who emerged from the black van was tall, and he exuded a type of charisma that made those closest to him swoon and practically fall on their feet. He held himself regally, sure and composed, but when he grinned at one especially excited fan waving vigorously at him, two dimples deepened in his cheeks, making his face look younger and brighter.
“You’re looking at the group’s leader, bassist and rapper, Kim Namjoon, also known as RM. He’s a bit of a klutz, but he’s dependable. Highkey genius, lowkey freak. Great guy.”
Jimin smiled. Manager Ma spoke of the members of BTS so fondly that he wondered how close they must really be.
Following Namjoon, the last person who left the vehicle was… a little shorter than the rest of them, probably even shorter than Jimin himself (to which he did a mental fist pump). Cracking his eyes open, he let out a sleepy yawn, craning his neck from side to side as if to loosen out muscles from sleep. He was dressed in a simple oversized white shirt and kept his hands firmly inside the pockets of his ripped black jeans. His hair was a shock of sandy blond tendrils, which followed every slight movement of his head.
“And that one,” Manager Ma pointed out, “—is Min Yoongi. Onstage, he’s called Suga. Keyboardist. Resident producer and snarky marshmallow.” He scratched the skin behind his ear. “Ah, why am I even narrating to you this way?”
As the quartet started walking through their mini sea of fans, flashing customary smiles, Jimin wondered if this was the kind of fame his brother would soon be subjected to.
The manager nudged Jimin’s shoulder. “Come on, I got you your visitor pass. We should head into the President’s office before they see you.”
“What’s wrong if they see me?” Jimin asked dumbly.
Manager Ma leveled him with a flat look. “You’re impersonating your brother from now until we leave this building. I’d like to keep you out of the line of fire as much as possible.” He thrust a brown paper bag into Jimin’s hands. “Here, wear this. And make sure to look as rugged and edgy as possible.”
Jimin clasped his hands together, trying his best not to squirm under the company president’s heavy stare, who was sitting across the table from him. He was sure he was failing miserably. In spite of the office’s spacious, modern interior and high-powered air conditioning, Jimin felt uncomfortably warm and his scalp itched from having to wear an orange wig — seriously, Jisung had deadass dyed his hair orange like some carrothead when he’d taken his profile photoshoot for the talent agency — and now Jimin carried the burden of keeping up the “edgy”, rebellious image that Jisung was apparently sculpting for himself.
President Jo was an interesting dude. He was the kind of person who smiled and dished out compliments freely and easily, yet you could never really figure out what was going on behind his easygoing eyes. Jimin was sure the man could smell his lie from miles away.
“So, Park Jisung,” the president began, his voice deep and loud. “Have you looked carefully through the terms of the contract?”
Jimin risked a sideways glance at Manager Ma, who wordlessly nodded in a show of encouragement.
“Y-yes, sir.”
“’Sir’?” The president threw his head back and barked out guffaw. “That’s new. You’ve never called me that before.”
Jimin gulped. Two words in and he was already busted, busted, busted. He was three seconds away from peeing his pants now, he was sure of it. The human bladder could only withstand so much anxiety, after all.
“And I presume you’re agreeable to it?”
“Huh? Oh, um.” Jimin forced himself to remain calm. He nodded primly. “Yes.”
How would Jisung act in this situation? He knew his brother — carefree, bold, loud. The two of them couldn’t be any more different if they tried, despite being identical twins.
But he wasn’t Park Jimin at the moment. He had to be Park Jisung, and if he wanted to convince anyone of that, he needed to not just play the part, but be the part.
So, in his best Jisung charade, he leaned back on his seat like a gang boss, cocked his head sideways and raised his boot-clad feet on top of President Jo’s desk. “Aw, hell yeah. Totes went through the contract. Awesome, brilliant, cool… really cool paperwork, boss.” He shot the company president a finger heart.
President Jo gawped at him for a minute, before bursting out into full-blown laughter, knee-slapping and all. “I swear, you are really the most interesting kid I’ve ever trained. Mad potential, too. Won’t you grab your Fender and let me hear some of your sickest riffs?”
Warning alarms rang inside Jimin’s head like angry police sirens. He had zero knowledge on how to play a guitar. Biting back a sob, he cast another desperate look at Manager Ma, who cleared his throat to catch the President’s attention.
“Sajang-nim … how about we just get Jim— er, Jisung to sign the contract? We don’t want to disturb you from your busy schedule too much.”
President Jo clapped once and rubbed his hands together. “Fantastic idea!” Shifting his gaze to Jimin, he pushed the piece of paper on his desk in the kindergarten teacher’s direction. “So, my boy, just sign here, and you’ll become an official member of BTS.”
Jimin inhaled deeply, trying to steel the frayed edges of his nerves. With his clammy fingers, he picked up the pen on the desk and let his hand hover on top of the contract for a fraction of a second.
Just sign it, and it’ll be over. Then you can go visit Busan.
The inked tip of the pen had barely touched the pristine white paper when a thundering set of footsteps came barreling towards the office, and the door slammed open, causing all three of its occupants, including President Jo, to jump in surprise.
“Yoongi!”
Jimin looked up. His face drained of all color.
There, at the threshold of the doorway, stood Min Yoongi in all his midget-sized, livid glory. His cheeks were red with fury, eyebrows knit together, and his lips were pursed into a tight, thin line. But his eyes were what made Jimin want to cower and hide. A stormy dark grey, like a whirlpooling sea struck by vicious lighting, flashing with unmistakable contempt.
He stomped towards Jimin and stopped short just a few paces away, before raising a finger and pointing at him. Addressing President Jo, he fumed, “You’re really adding a new member without all of our consent?”
“Yoongi-yah—“
“We’ve been in Japan all this time, and you decide to reshuffle the group while we’re away,” Yoongi growled, his voice low and raspy, “—without letting any of us hear how he performs. I can’t accept this. No, I won’t accept this.”
“Yoongi, listen—“ Manager Ma started.
The keyboardist turned to Jimin and sneered, “You. Before you sign that contract, come with me. I need to hear what kind of music you make.”
Without a second thought and without regard for the protests of the people surrounding him, he grabbed Jimin’s forearm and dragged him out of the office, towards a studio on the other side of the same building floor.
“O-ow…” Jimin whimpered, hissing as he tried to wrestle his wrist away, but Yoongi’s grip was firm. He wasn’t about to let him get away.
The keyboardist banged open the recording studio’s door. Inside, the other members of BTS were rehearsing with the instruments strategically placed inside the soundproof studio. At the sight of Yoongi hauling Jimin in, they all paused, mouths dropping.
"Yo." The redhead, Hoseok, broke the silence first. “Hyung, is this…?”
“The new hopeful, yeah. I borrowed him from President Jo and Manager Ma so he could spend some time getting oriented with us first.” Yoongi glanced back to see that the manager and the president had followed them to the studio, so he kicked the recording room’s door shut and locked it from the inside, rendering the two adults unable to enter.
Jimin was trapped.
He was pretty darn sure he’d already wet his pants.
Worse, he was being put in the spotlight. He was standing in the middle of the studio, rooted to the floor and cradling his arms close to his chest to keep them from shaking and betraying how utterly terrified he felt. The expectant gazes of the four BTS members pinned him down, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into a corner and cuddle a teddy bear or something.
Silence.
“So...?” Namjoon said in a cordial tone. “Wanna play us some of your music?”
Jimin’s mouth had gone dry. This was never a part of the deal! As far as he was concerned, he was just supposed to sit still, act like his brother, sign a piece of paper and then leave! His vision swam, and he felt ready to puke his guts out. Any second now and he would pass out for certain.
No. Don’t embarrass Jisung like this.
He had to do something. But what? As the seconds ticked by and he saw the glint of interest in each of the BTS members’ eyes diminishing, his confidence took a plunge. He was failing his twin. He was a sore disappointment. Unless…
"See?” Yoongi piped up brusquely, sending his bandmates a knowing look. “What did I tell you? He’s going to be a hole. Fanservice at best.”
“I’ll sing,” Jimin said quietly.
They turned to him all at the same time.
Yoongi gave him a strange look. “I’m dead sure singing wasn’t included in your portfolio.”
“I, uh…” Jimin ransacked his brain for a suitable reply. “I never really showed it? But I can sing, yeah.” Keep your gaze cool and detached, Park Jimin. Confident.
Another round of stony silence ensued, one where Jimin could pretty much imagine the gears turning in each members’ heads, until:
“Fine.” Yoongi relented, unfolding his arms and leaning against the doorframe. “Give us your best shot. If you manage to impress all of us, we’ll agree to let you join.”
The muscle in Jimin’s jaw twitched. A nervous tick. He wiped his sweaty palms on the sides of his jeans, and took a deep breath to steady his own psyche. He hadn’t done this in quite a while. Truth be told, the last time he’d sung was when he was a member of his high school’s choir. He didn’t have the best voice, but let’s face it — he didn’t really have a choice here either, did he?
So with his heart stuttering in his chest, Jimin opened his mouth…
…and sang.