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5.
Jimin had said once, over five crumpled cans of beer, that Jungkook had a nice face. Someone, maybe Taehyung, laughed and said ‘of course,’ and Jimin stumbled over his leaden tongue to try to explain it wasn’t all about looks—literally, no, yes, but, what he meant, but nobody understood. Jungkook’s face had definite appeal, but he also meant Jungkook looked kind. Sometimes Jungkook could tilt his head, in a movement so small only a single strand of hair would fall on his forehead, and look with his wide and soft eyes, and Jimin’s breath would always hitch in his throat.
“Please, leave it,” Jungkook said, mouth drawing to a sharp slant. He batted away Jimin’s affectionate hand that had wandered close to his leg.
“No, but really, what’s your answer?” That was Seokjin, leaning his elbows on his knees.
“I don’t want to say,” Jungkook said, focused on an invisible spot on the floor.
“But we’ve waited so long,” Seokjin said, with all the confidence and bearing of having been chosen number one. “It’s unfair if you don’t say now. Then we’ll think about this forever, won’t we?”
“I won’t.” Yoongi, perhaps. No, when Jimin turned his head towards the voice source, that was definitely Yoongi, lying down on their single couch with the mismatched pillows buttressing him inwards.
“I will.” Definitely Taehyung, his mellow voice a boom across the table. But Jimin could have saved his childhood friend the trouble. He already knew the words that would steam out, barely above a kettle hiss, from Jungkook’s lovely mouth.
“Jimin,” Jungkook said. “His face has the least appeal to me.”
Jimin laughed because he was supposed to laugh, but when he glanced towards Jungkook, all he could see was Jungkook’s earnest gaze towards him. The rest of the room may have belted out in pealing laughter, but Jungkook’s silence was the most deafening. In the reflection of Jungkook’s eyes, his own smile was a lost wreck.
6.
Their dormitories fit one person luxuriously, two people comfortably, three uncomfortably, four with regrets, five with heaving inhales and trembling exhales, six with a tremendous struggle of Tetris room shares and crammed cots and constant waiting lines for the bathroom. The dormitory did not fix seven. But seven people did live there, and Jimin could only be thankful he’d been accepted into the fellowship program at all.
He had, after all, been the last one accepted.
The fellowship program from the university offered rent-free space and a small stipend for food for the duration of the year, renewal pending on rankings and evaluations in performances. They would have to do so as a group, the chosen and the reluctantly chosen, with placements being the only guarantee they would not lose the funding. Jimin had managed to be accepted on dance.
“Rap or singing?” Namjoon had asked. They’d all distinguished themselves in luggage, apparently, because his sole suitcase had been halved by notebooks. The room was so small that even with Namjoon wedged in the corner, sitting on his books, his frame still took up the majority of the space.
“What?”
“Everybody has to choose to rap or sing.” Namjoon nodded towards the cot on the other edge. “If it’s singing, you can always look to our maknae.”
Jimin hadn’t noticed that a person had been sitting on the cot the whole conversation. He looked fresh from high school, his resting face a blank, hands clenched on his knees. Young, and easy to love, and as Jimin would find out, a dancer and a singer and a rapper and everything, especially everything that Jimin could not do. In that moment, the boy ducked his head in a short burst of awkward politeness, and Jimin smiled.
7.
After the terrible game of ‘who’s the most handsome according to Jeon Jungkook, resident expert,’ Jungkook had retired to bed and the older ones delved into drinking. Jimin accepted another can of beer, feet wedged onto the couch. He leaned his head against the wall, letting his fingers dangle over the rim of his can and the lightness wash over his head.
“You’re sulking about what Jungkook said, aren’t you?” Taehyung asked, his smile brimming with obvious glee.
“I’m not sulking,” Jimin sulked. He was drunk, though, and Taehyung’s face was close, so he patted Taehyung’s cheeks with fondness.
“These young kids nowadays, they always say what they want to say,” Seokjin said. “But it can’t be helped if some of those opinions are true.” He preened with his fingers fanning his face, penning down the obvious flush of two cans too many.
“Or maybe none of them are true,” Hoseok said, who had been crammed between Namjoon and the wall. His occasional interruptions were always accompanied by a dedicated wiggle, which Namjoon took with all the grace of a man too inebriated to care.
“Jungkook said what he thought,” Jimin said. “It’s a good thing for him to express himself.”
“You’re always soft on him,” Hoseok said, wiggling. “But he barely talks to you at all, doesn’t he?”
“If he does, it’s mostly, ‘please leave me alone,’” Taehyung said. Jimin patted Taehyung’s face with vigilance, squeezing his cheeks to try and stop the wrong words. But part of that meant he would have to say the right words when the pieces were jumbled in his head.
“Because he doesn’t like some things, and that’s okay, too,” Jimin said.
“See? Soft,” Hoseok said, grinning.
“He’s good,” Jimin said. “He’s a very good.”
“A very good.” Seokjin frowned in contemplation at their water-stained ceiling.
“A very good,” Jimin insisted, and he spoke quicker than he could think, with the words tumbling from his throat. “His singing is so good. His dancing, so good, and if you get to know him, he’s so good and he smiles nice, and when we’re together, I know he always represents the best of us. He’s the best of me.”
“What do you mean by that?” Yoongi sounded almost swallowed up by the earth from where he was lying on the floor, but Jimin could still hear him. Unfortunately, Yoongi being awake apparently startled Namjoon who slammed back against Hoseok who had a dramatic fall, worthy to win any award circuit, into Seokjin. Only Taehyung and Jimin, resting on the couch, remained unharmed in the dominoes game. But the heat and the sound were starting to rise and Jimin removed himself to a quieter hallway.
His intention had been the bathroom, but he saw the door cracked open to the dark sleeping space. He ran his hand along the wall to steady himself. Opening the bedroom released a wave of living smells. Detergent, sparse deodorant, unwashed laundry crumpled upon themselves. In the darkness, Jimin could make out not so much Jungkook but the shapeless blanket that was Jungkook in the last cot. Jimin tripped over a pair of headphones and his own feet, but the blanket didn’t move at the sudden noise.
“Jungkook,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Did you want to use the bathroom?”
No response, not that he was expecting anything. Jungkook was the type of sleeper who didn’t snore, didn’t move. He also didn’t use the bathroom with the rest of them, preferring to wait with wide eyes until everyone else had evacuated. Neither a good or bad thing, really. Jimin was used to sharing his laptop and books, but Jungkook was private. He didn’t hate that. It was difficult for all of them to adjust to each other, sometimes meshing too well or scraping against each other like matchsticks waiting for a flame.
Jimin stumbled to his feet. He tucked the blanket around Jungkook’s still form a little more tautly, pushing and prodding with his faraway hands.
“Good night,” he said. “Love you.”
He stumbled away again, this time to take advantage of enough counter space in the bathroom to finally brush his teeth without elbowing Taehyung in the face. A slight rustle stopped him at the doorway, but when he glanced behind him, there were only dark and still forms.
8.
“He’s good,” Jimin said, which earned him a cold look from Jungkook.
“Re-ject-ed,” Hoseok sang. Which was unfair, because Jimin had meant to compliment Jungkook, even though the cold shoulder he’d taken to the chest felt otherwise. But Jungkook was good at dancing. ‘Good, but a little stiff,’ was Hoseok’s opinion, who changed from laughing cat to serious cat when he leaned against the mirrored wall. Practically speaking, that may have been correct, but Jimin wasn’t the dance coach.
Jimin was the audience, who watched Jungkook run through the routine for the umpteenth time. Breathing, waiting, before the dance began. Five, six, seven, eight, everything poised and ready. And then one, two, three, four. Step, step, hands up, down, four times. Step, step, right, shuffle. And then the motion would come, different steps, one, two, three, four. They were all learning the routine to varying degrees of success. Seokjin and Namjook were practicing the elaborate move of dusting off their shoulders, a move that took less than a beat and didn’t require nearly as many twirls as they were performing.
But Jimin liked to watch Jungkook’s dancing. Each step had power and broadness, and Jungkook was becoming well-versed in the technical side. With Hoseok being the one who was saying, ‘good arms, good landing,’ Jimin could sit back and watch Jungkook dance. He seemed like a different person, the power landing each motion. He had a sharp crispness to his body, the lines changing from the unmoving earth to flowing like water. When the song ended, Jungkook stood in the pose, panting under the lights.
“Okay, good. Get a drink of water,” Hoseok said, clapping his hands. Jimin patted Jungkook’s shoulder as he passed, which earned him yet another cold look.
“I’d like him to like me,” Jimin said, taking the position on the dance floor. Hoseok’s only response was to have ‘more confident movements,’ which was absolutely just the feedback to his dancing.
Vocal lessons came next, where the vocal coach told him he was too throaty and, for the umpteenth time, that he needed more strength. He knew that. He knew his voice shook when he sang too long or tried to hold a note, just as he knew about the strain on his voice when he tried to dance at the same time. If there was at least one good thing from all the breathing exercises, it was learning about the air inside him. He was a dancer, who moved with his hands and feet, and now he could feel the air in the diaphragm and trachea, even if this was only to feel them wobble and pitter out pathetically.
“Excellent,” the vocal coach told Jungkook. “You have a good range and a good atmosphere. You’ll go far.”
1.
It was just unspoken, but it was the reality that Jimin was the weakest in the group. He could tell from the way his voice would crack in the middle of his line. And he didn’t fit in, not like Taehyung could easily break into the conversation and have everybody grabbing their stomachs in laughter while Jimin would sit in the corner, smiling uneasily. Jimin wasn’t the smartest—that was Namjoon, probably, or Yoongi, and they both argued about the lyrics and beats until Jimin was used to falling asleep to their muffled speed rapping. Hoseok, of course, was great at dancing, and he was working on his own songs too. Seokjin worked hard and his visuals were undeniable. Taehyung, well, he was great, and Jimin had always known that from the day Taehyung stepped in front of the bullies for him. And Jungkook, well.
“He’s the best,” Jimin said serenely. Jungkook recoiled and looked at him with a strange expression.
But for Jimin, he had to work hard. To even get near their level, or close enough to their level where they wouldn’t notice the discrepancy, he’d have to try harder.
“You coming?” Taehyung leaned against the studio door frame. “We finally got a coupon to the noodle place down the street.”
“It’s okay, I’ll practice,” Jimin said.
“We don’t have anything in the fridge.” Taehyung pushed his fingers against the frame, frowning. “You should really come to eat. You skip too many meals.”
“No, I’ll get something later. Promise. Go have fun.” When the door finally closed behind him, Jimin could survey the empty dance studio in peace. In the daytime, during their ten hour practice sprints, condensation would creep up the mirrors and the heavy air would be laden with sweat and heavy sighs. In the quiet, Jimin could see the details. That the studio was small, that the gold paint had chipped away from the bars to reveal dark splotches, the shallow lighting only fully illuminated half of the room. He knelt down to press play on the boombox.
His stomach grumbled in rebellion. Like Jungkook’s rebellious phase, really. Jimin bit back his grimaced smile and straightened up to his form in the mirror. He loved dancing. He really did, the way he could immerse himself in the movements, the way his body felt when he struck the beats. But he had always known to perform on a stage would require sacrifice. His family, far away. His friends, left behind in high school. Food, if he wanted to look more like everyone else. Not that this was a difficult feat, not when they couldn’t afford too much.
He wouldn’t be the first dancer to do this, or the last.
When his head swam, he finally picked up the towel and dried his face against the worn-out microfibers. Practically the only good aspect for their small dorm was the location. The studio was a small trek along a sidewalk, where the shadowed trees dragged their branches across the lamplights, back to the dorms. The light from the building signaled somebody was awake, though Jimin checked his watch and frowned.
Thin walls meant every sound echoed. The moment Jimin opened the door with a noisy squeak, the sound of a running shower bombarded him. Jimin toed off his shoes, leaving them beside Jungkook’s favored Timberland boots. He wanted to start brushing his teeth, but the late hour meant Jungkook was the one in the bathroom, and he didn’t like company. Instead, Jimin settled on the chair nearest to the window. He didn’t bother with the lights, but rested his hand against his chin.
The running water shut off to the squeak of the bathroom slippers. Behind him, a sliver of light fell to their laminated hallway floor. Then all was darkness. Jimin turned away from the window and then almost jumped out of it.
Jungkook stood near the kitchenette, looking at Jimin through the damp tendrils of his hair. He wore a familiar white bathrobe that always made his frame seem smaller than his everyday favored rumpled jackets and cargo pants. Jungkook wasn’t keen on swapping clothes, so his larger silhouette had become imprinted in Jimin’s mind, not the vulnerable young man standing before him.
“Hyung,” Jungkook said.
Jimin wasn’t going to fall for this again, not since the last time Jungkook said ‘hyung’ in a room full of all six of them who turned their heads. Then he remembered he was the only one in the room and stood up.
“You’ll wake the others up,” Jimin said, holding a finger to his lips in a fake whisper. Jungkook stared at him, and then nodded in a small jerk.
“Were you practicing?”
“Yeah, at the studio. Why are you still up? You should sleep.”
“I will.” Jungkook didn’t move. The only light came from the windows, where the moonlight spared enough glow to see the droplets rolling down his neck. “There are some noodles in the refrigerator.”
“It’s okay, we can save them for tomorrow.”
“Did you eat?”
“ No, but it’s okay, Kookie. Go to sleep.” Jimin pushed his hair out of his eyes. They still lived on the university campus, where the early evenings would sweep in the murmurs of university students walking back from the night market. After a certain time, when they drew closer to morning than night, it would be still and quiet. The silence blanketed the room.
“You promised,” Jungkook said. Jimin furrowed his brow. Taehyung wasn’t the type to publicly talk about promises like that. He wasn’t secretive, like Jungkook, but he usually focused on the grandiose announcements. And Taehyung had been the last one to leave the studio, while Jungkook had been one of the first, so Jimin wasn’t sure where he heard their conversation.
“It’s okay,” Jimin said again. He broke into a reassuring smile, but Jungkook bent his head forward.
“You don’t look good.”
“I know, I know.” That game had ended a week ago and Jimin had other things on his mind. He strayed over to their calendar, where the performance date was marked in five days. It was only a local tournament, a friendly between breakthrough performers, but Namjoon had been optimistic that they could place first or second, high enough for the next tier. If Jimin didn’t mess up.
“No.” Jungkook stepped forward. “No, that’s not what I mean. You look—tired. And unhappy. That’s all I mean.”
Jimin had noticed the bags under his eyes in the mirror, but he relied on a strong concealer to magic the worst away. He did ache, and he was hungry, but he only patted Jungkook’s arm.
“Good night, Kookie,” he said. “Love you.” He had to inch against the counter to finally escape from Jungkook’s stance. The bathroom light turned on with a weak splutter, but he had to blink a few times to adjust to the cluttered sink. Behind him, Jungkook was more visible, still clad in the fuzzy bathrobe with his head angled forward. Jimin couldn’t see the expression on his face, and couldn’t even guess it when he pulled the bathroom door shut behind him.
2.
A cold front swept across the city. The apartment buildings bolstered away most of the cold, but the river brought a chilly fog. Jimin had been honored, through a rigged punishment game, to be the one to buy their groceries, toiletries, and perhaps a cheap blanket from Homegood. After spending so many days locked in the studio, he was almost startled by the crowds of people who weren’t his roommates. At least they didn’t smell like a group of students with sometimes not enough coin to go around for laundry, but pangs of loneliness accompanied him down the aisles nevertheless.
He kept to himself on the busy streets, passing the PC cafes and the designer clothing shops until he hit the university streets. The atmosphere felt more comfortable, but he was keen on returning to practice. He was still trying to switch his breathing when he spotted Jungkook standing near a park gate. He wasn’t sure what Jungkook would have done if Jimin hadn’t noticed him, since his lanky figure was unusually still. When Jimin raised a hand in greeting, Jungkook took off in a soft jog towards him.
“What are you doing here?” Jimin asked. A cold breeze blasted across the park and Jimin shivered. He was used to the wooziness, the tiredness weighing his eyes, and even the way his thoughts skittered away from him. All that was par for course when he skipped a few meals, along with a dash of guilt and dissatisfaction. The cold was new, though. His bones felt like they had been dipped in ice water and that he would never remember warmth again.
“I was thirsty.” Jungkook shrugged.
“Isn’t there an Emart that’s close to the studio? By the station.”
“I wanted to take a walk, too.” Jungkook slipped his hand underneath the handles of the reusable shopping bag. Jimin let him take the load, too focused and unfocused on the fact that Jungkook truly was a muscle bunny and what a coincidence for Jungkook to have to have been standing near the only street that fed directly back to their dormitory.
“Where’s your drink?” Jimin pulled down his face mask to more fully glance at Jungkook’s bare hand. Jungkook stared straight at the park they would pass through, where small thickets of trees had grown together, thin trunks leaning against each other.
“I drank it,” Jungkook said after a long pause. “Did you want to eat somewhere?”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll wait until dinner.”
Jungkook didn’t say anything else. The silence between them wasn’t quite strange or awkward. Jungkook again was wearing his usual baggy style, which swished against the bag. Jimin could have walked all the way to the studio in silence and consider that a victory if he hadn’t been hit by a wave of nausea. When he grabbed the elbow of a park bench and slid down, Jungkook followed to sit next to him.
“I can get you something from the vending machine,” Jungkook said. “My treat.”
Jimin had to laugh at that. He covered his mouth to try and disguise it, but his laughs still rolled out in almost furry squeaks. They weren’t business partners talking about fancy dinners. They were both students living off whatever their parents sent them, and his junior was saying something like ‘my treat,’ as if they were fancy. Jungkook watched over him with indulgence, apparently not offended by the laughter.
“It’s rare to see you this happy,” Jungkook said simply.
“Is it?” Jimin rubbed his face, where he did feel some bony results from his dieting.
“Yes. I like it when you’re happy.” Jungkook, after a moment, ducked his head down from his own attacking words. Jimin laughed again and leaned against the cold wood of the bench.
“That surprises me.” Jimin couldn’t keep a tremble out of his voice. Jungkook swung his head to look at him for a heavy second. Then, in a swift move, he pulled off his jacket and tugged it around Jimin’s shoulders. Jimin opened his mouth to protest, but Jungkook’s boots edged closer as if to step on his toes, and the jacket really was warm. Jungkook’s heat radiated off the soft lining and the whole thing smelled like Jungkook, though Jimin had never realized he had a scent before.
“I don’t hate you.” The wind caught and tumbled in Jungkook’s hair. “I want you to know that.”
“Well, of course you don’t hate me.”
“You said you’d like it if I liked you, but I do like you.” Jungkook hesitated, and said the next in a soft rush. “And I don’t say that lightly.”
“You just do things differently. That’s okay. You’re you, and I’m me.” Jimin swept his hair back. Jungkook always had a larger build, but he never realized the difference until Jungkook’s jacket sleeve fell over his fingers. “Kookie, don’t worry so much. Right now, even if it’s grating to hear this from your elder, you’re just growing up. All of us, we’re all learning about who we should be and who we should become. But I know you’re a good person.”
He did expect Jungkook to have a retort, so when no acidic feedback was returned to him, Jimin covered his face with the jacket sleeve. A one-sided speech sounded pretentious. Here he was, on a chilly wintry day, lecturing his junior about things he hadn’t been asked.
“There’s no reason for you to be so nice.” Jungkook stared at the alders swaying in the breeze. The heavy clouds muted the lighting into an ethereal glow and Jimin’s heart swelled with something he couldn’t yet understand.
“I’m just saying what I think. You don’t have to listen to me. But if you’re having problems, I’ll be there with you, every step of the way. So grow up happy and strong.” Jimin rubbed his cheek, self-conscious of Jungkook’s silence. “Or something like that. Sorry, I’m saying too much.”
“No, I like it.” Jungkook turned to look at him. “You’re being more honest than usual.”
“I’m always honest!” Jimin protested, but all he earned was a sly grin from Jungkook.
“Maybe.” The grin vanished to a thoughtful lip bite. “Maybe just not as honest to yourself.”
The first droplet in his hair felt like a whisper. When the second droplet joined, Jimin clambered up from the bench and pulled Jungkook by the elbow to follow.
“Let’s go before it’s really raining,” Jimin said. “You should take your jacket back.” But Jungkook only grabbed the hood of his jacket and yanked it over Jimin’s face.
“It’s okay,” Jungkook said. “The velocity of the raindrops hitting you is a lot more than those that hit me, so you take it.”
“Is that a short joke? Hey, is that a short joke? Who taught you that?” Jimin swung his leg to hit only air as Jungkook dodged and laughed, a full-body laugh that showed all his teeth.
3.
Two days before the big performance. Jimin knelt near the familiar wood grain and pressed play. At this time of night, the rest of his teammates had returned to the dorms. If he closed his eyes, Namjoon’s snoring could echo into the empty studio. But the music swelled and his legs moved. Five, six, seven, eight—
He did love dancing. He loved it. Each move had to land with precision and power, each transition had to be dealt with swift fluid movements. Sometimes he’d have to grab his elbow and jam that into the air, thrusting in his space. Sometimes he would simply melt, shoulders leading for the hips. But every step and pivot had to become a memory to him, a memory so ingrained that it evolved into reality. Even before his mind could catch up, his arms would lead the way, and then he could think about the details. The emotions, placed into each step, what he wanted to convey. Group practices were invaluable, especially to mark out placements. But when he danced at night, he could focus on the smallest aspects, the way his neck should slant and what he should mouth and where he should go.
He could become himself.
The music swelled and stopped. He panted, staring at himself in the mirror. Then, even this became more memory than reality. His vision swam and the figure in the mirror dropped like a marionette with the strings cut. Snip snip.
He couldn’t have lost consciousness for more than a moment. His sense of time had never been acute, but even he could tell the minute hand on the clock barely moved. The cold floor plastered to his cheek, but he must have relaxed before the drop because only echoes of pain resonated in his body. No, what was truly strange was Jungkook was kneeling beside him with a wide, frantic expression, hands hovering over his arms and head.
“Are you awake? Does it hurt? Should I call for someone?”
“What are you doing here?” Jimin had intended to be stern, but lying on the floor slurred his words. His tongue, too thick for his mouth, drooped against his cheek. He didn’t miss the gym workdays, so he should have easily been able to pull himself by the arms, but he faltered onto his elbows instead. Jungkook, apparently, took this as a sign that Jimin wanted to use him as a chair, and pulled until Jimin leaned against him.
“Are you okay? Does your head hurt?” Jungkook separated strands of Jimin’s hair, fingers a delicate breeze. “Should I call Namjoon? Or maybe Hoseok?”
“I’m fine, this happens.” Jimin’s head still swam, so he lulled against Jungkook’s arm. He had more reassurances, but Jungkook’s warmth swallowed them whole. They all shared the same soap, as well as shampoo and conditioner combos, but Jungkook’s heat always made the scents his own. Floral, almost, sweet. Jimin dimly hoped he wasn’t sniffing his junior too overtly. When he peered at the mirrors, Jungkook had his arms awkwardly wrapped around Jimin’s middle and he was staring down at Jimin’s hair, as if he could develop X-ray vision and find the elusive bumps.
“Did you come to practice, too?” Jimin asked. Jungkook’s chest resembled a wall, built sturdy and unmovable. When Jungkook talked, even at his lowest whisper, the low hum played against Jimin’s ears like a pleasant background.
“Sometimes I try and wait for you.” Jungkook’s eyes darted to the side. “And I like to watch you dance.”
“You watch me dance all the time.” Dance line definition meant they literally rubbed elbows against each other all day.
“I like it, all the time.” Jungkook hesitated again. “You’re different, sometimes. When we dance together, I can tell when you’re just practicing where you’re supposed to go and when you’re—performing. Really, honestly performing. Your face, it becomes really confident. I like to watch you.”
“You’re a good kid, Jungkook.”
“I mean it. I don’t say these things lightly.” Jungkook’s arms squeezed against his waist. Jimin couldn’t trace the roots of the sudden intensity, so he tapped Jungkook’s sturdy bicep for release.
“It’s okay, I feel better now. Did you want to practice with me?”
This earned him a harder squeeze around his waist. Jungkook’s usually light voice deepened when he said, “Let’s get something to eat,” and Jimin couldn’t quite refuse. Even if Jungkook said something like this was his treat, Jimin didn’t expect a kid in financial straps to even spring for hotteok. They settled for the dormitory kitchenette and instant noodles. Jungkook, as a cook, would tear all the sachets and dump the flavoring with hasty shakes into his meal.
“Eat first,” Jungkook said. “I won’t eat until you eat.”
“Kookie, it’s okay.”
“Would you feel it’s okay if I did the same thing you’re doing?” Jungkook hadn’t touched his food. His bare wrists rested against the burn mark from where Namjoon had set down a boiling pot in the laminate. Jimin fiddled with his chopsticks and munched on his share of the noodles.
“No,” he finally said. “I wouldn’t want you to do this.” The stern line of Jungkook’s shoulders finally relaxed. Jungkook began to eat as well. They had only turned on a single lamp, trying to mask their presence from their sleeping roommates a wall away.
Jimin stirred his broth, where small sheens of oil collected near the circumference of the chipped bowl.
“I’m not used to working with other people,” Jungkook said. “Not yet. But now I have to live with everyone, and figure out what’s teasing and what’s not, or if someone is making fun of me or if that’s how they show they like me. But I’m learning. And I’ve learned being on a team—that means people care about you.” He lapsed back into awkward silence. Jimin pushed around a remaining strand of noodle.
“You’re right,” Jimin said. “I know you’re right. I get in my own head sometimes, and that’s nobody’s fault but my own. Tae helps me out when other people say things, but all those words just go somewhere inside me and I can’t help it. I make it worse.” He knew he was his own worst enemy and that he took things too far. He would have expected for himself to stammer somewhere in his statements, since he’d never admitted anything like this before, but everything came streaming out.
It felt good to finally eat. It felt good to have Jungkook sitting across the counter from him, and that he could tell Jungkook’s usual cold expression was simply his thoughtful expression, like he was calculating out a complex problem.
His stomach was warmer, his head was clearer, and his heart still had the strange tug.
“It’s hard to not be hard on yourself sometimes,” Jungkook said. “I get that way sometimes.”
“You? But you’re so good.” Jimin looked up to see a smile sprout on Jungkook’s face. He hadn’t realized Jungkook could be so quick to smile.
“We’re only starting,” Jungkook said. “I have a lot to learn. And I like your singing, too. And your dancing. You always pay attention to the little things. And maybe you might lose sight of the bigger stuff, sometimes, but you take a lot of care into the smallest details.”
“Is that a short joke? Was it Jin who taught you this?”
Jungkook laughed, loud enough that Jimin had to kick his ankle to stop him from waking up the dorms. Jimin washed their dishes and tried not to call too much attention to the way Jungkook stood over his shoulder, touching his back as if to make sure he was still there.
“Do you want to brush your teeth first?” Jimin asked, scraping a stubborn stain.
“There’s enough space that we can do it together,” Jungkook said.
“Really?” Jimin peeked at him and grinned. “Thank you, Kookie. I love you.”
Jungkook had been smiling a bit, but he faltered. His hand pressed tight against Jimin’s upper back and he leaned forward towards his ear. “Hyung, I think I know what you mean now, but you should be careful. The way you say it, people might not take it as a friendship feeling.”
“How would they take it?” Jimin wiped his hands on the towel. He moved across the room to turn off the lamp, where he fumbled for the switch. When the lights vanished, Jungkook remained by the hallway to the bathroom. He stood in silence even when Jimin turned on the bathroom lights and beckoned him to enter.
“Romantically,” Jungkook finally said. He took his purple toothbrush and gripped the handle. The rolled-up tube of toothpaste always moved around the counter and Jimin separated the thickets of hand lotion and face cream in his search. He’d been the one to buy the big box on sale, so he would recognize the pastel green color anywhere.
“But I do love you like that. Found it!” Jimin held up the toothpaste, though the cap still hid behind one of the half-empty bottles somewhere. Since Jungkook wasn’t moving, Jimin helpfully squeezed out a dollop for him. In fact, Jungkook didn’t say anything for the rest of the night, even when Jimin puffed up his pillow for him. Probably nerves for the big day and the big performance, not that Jimin could blame him. His thoughts still cast ahead for the stage looming before them, even if he didn’t possess Jungkook’s wide-eyed expression.
4.
The thing about performances was that they were over so fast. The weeks leading up to the performance would linger and drag, but then a few days became a few seconds, and then Jimin was hustled into a crammed backstage where the hallways felt like endless bared steel and unpainted walls, like the whole stage had been constructed in less than a day, and the lights facing him were so bright that the audience dissolved into endless shadows and he could barely pick out any faces, and his voice cracked and broke and then it was over.
They didn’t have a waiting room, instead pushed to a cluster of benches outside the makeshift tents. Jimin excused himself under the guise of getting a water bottle, found the nearest janitor’s closet, and closed the door behind him. The space held mops and buckets, bottles of pale green liquid and a dangling hose from the ceiling, pressed into the square footage of a locker. Jimin found a small stepstool, sat down, and pressed his hands against his hot face.
He’d screwed up.
Strong nausea swelled in his throat. Hollow pangs darted in his stomach, and the sweat dripped down his face into the collar of his only nice shirt. He’d messed up. He’d screwed up, he was worthless. He’d disappointed everybody—himself, his team members, the audience who had come to watch a good show and instead got a wannabe strangling his few lines on stage. He’d never get any lines again, or more likely, he’d get kicked out. Of course he would. Responsible for so little, he still had managed to find a way to ruin the entire performance.
They’d all seen the signs. He had sensed, knowing, that Namjoon always held a bit of disappointment for him, now fully realized. His face still burned through his fingers, but this was less from the difficult stage work and more from humiliation. Now he would have to watch the playback with a straight face while on-screen him strangled the lines, that unmistakable hitch that ruined the flow. They regretted having him on the team. He knew this, and now they’d finally say that to his face.
It wasn’t like he thought he was perfect, but he couldn’t bear to look at the other member’s eyes. Taehyung would surely feel embarrassed to be grouped together with him, and he couldn’t imagine Yoongi holding back any scathing comments. He’d be blunt. He’d say the facts, and Jimin wanted to sink into the closet walls because now they all knew he was stupid and incapable of doing anything. They’d say he should practice more and do better, but what if this was already his best? His best was already his worst and he couldn’t do anything more, this was the limit of him as a human worthless being, and he hated himself for wasting a second of anybody’s time. All he had to do was hold the note. All he had to do was actually sing, and he’d never seen a professional do that on stage, have their voice crack. It was just him and his raw inability to perform.
The door cracked open and Jimin flinched, not ready for a janitor to kick him out. But his eyes adjusted the silhouette. Jungkook, sweat still beading his forehead, stared down at him. His lips parted, revealing a hint of teeth, and then he closed the door behind him.
Jimin had the time to inhale a single breath before Jungkook’s hands were touching his face, smoothing his hair, clamped around his ears.
“Don’t cry,” Jungkook said. “Please don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying,” but Jimin’s voice cracked halfway through and thick droplets fell on his lips. He tasted a bitter saltiness. He tried to raise his own hands to feel his damp cheeks, but Jungkook already used his thumb to wipe at Jimin’s eyes. Now that he realized he was crying, he became even more grateful how the darkness hid how he had to snort back any snot.
“Why are you sad?” Jungkook’s hands fanned against his ears, fingers long enough to almost cradle the back of Jimin’s head. “Don’t be sad.”
Because, Jimin wanted to say, he knew everyone thought of him the same way he thought of himself, and the weight was unbearable on his frail back. Instead, he snorted back a loud chunk and patted Jungkook’s face.
“You did really well, Jungkook,” he croaked. Jungkook laughed, a light chirp.
“Is this really the time?” Jungkook asked, but Jimin could identify the tease in his voice now. The gentle push had become less forceful and more lilting. In the darkness, Jimin sensed Jungkook more than before. The only light slid underneath the door, too much of a touch to allow his eyes to adjust. Instead, Jungkook’s light voice surrounded him. His smell, at this distance, overpowered the sterilized scents. His touch felt intimate, the softness of his touch evident by the way his palms barely kissed Jimin’s cheeks but nevertheless did not move.
“Of course,” Jimin said. He hooked a finger around to Jungkook’s wrist, rubbing where the bones protruded. “Your dancing was on point. It had a lot of power. And your voice carried through really well. You had a good set-up for Namjoon’s rap. The transition was really easy.”
Jungkook laughed, a little shyer now. “If I did well, it’s because of everyone else, too.”
“It’s okay to take more credit. I know you worked really hard for this.”
“I did. And I did because I had support from everybody else, too.” Jungkook must have been kneeling because Jimin heard him adjust his knees, leaning forward. “Everybody, you, brought out the best of me. Even if I didn’t like myself, I knew someone else always liked me.”
Jimin wrapped his hand around Jungkook’s wrist. His fingers fell into place, one at a time, until his palm pressed flush against Jungkook’s veins. He bowed his head until he knocked against Jungkook’s forehead, done in blind faith. He had to laugh a little, too, though the mask of tears turned the laugh into a small huff.
“I love you, Kookie,” he murmured. Rustling, and then he felt Jungkook kissing his cheek. His cheeks must have still been wet with tears, but Jungkook kissed him with quick darts, like he was chasing after the tears. When he finished with one cheek, he moved to the next, kissing him even quicker with his hands now tucked deep into the tresses of hair.
“I know. I think,” Jungkook said. “I do, too.”
Jimin had to laugh again, a stronger huff this time, and he wrapped his arms around Jungkook’s broad shoulders. He appreciated the warmth and the sturdiness. His sleeves fell long enough past his hands that he had ample room to wipe his face.
“You should be careful, too.” Jimin stood up, supported by Jungkook’s shoulders. “If someone saw you do that, they’d think you actually like me, romantically.”
Jungkook paused. Jimin had to squint against the sudden light when the door opened, and saw Jungkook’s expression was a mix of bewildered and fond, eyes wide open but gazing at him indulgently.
“Hyung, let’s talk about how you miss the obvious at a later time,” Jungkook said.
Jimin held Jungkook’s hand back to the group. They talked around menial aspects, Jin discussing with surprising gravitas the surcharge on Coca Cola at the festival, explaining volume and mathematically proportional pricing multiplied by supply and demand, all by making outraged tut’s at the bottle in his hand. The rest of the festival rose and fell. Jimin almost had a good time, Hoseok in front of him on the bench who kept twisting around and fanning Jin’s fire by insisting nobody came close to his looks. Yoongi wandered off and only returned when they clapped politely at the first place winners, and nobody mentioned that he looked well-rested, or that he wore a slouchy sweatshirt that had definitely been on a chair in the dorm when they left the building.
After dinner that night, Namjoon turned on their television and plugged in the HDMI cables. Their fastidious leader had wrangled footage of them, even if they were the third place performers. The videographer sounded more like a mother who had left her cell phone running while she chatted with her friends, but her hand had been steady enough to capture the important moments.
Jimin didn’t feel awful when he watched the footage, a delicate surprise he dared not explore. Taehyung and Jungkook sandwiched him against the couch, and he tucked a pillow underneath his chin. He almost missed his infamous voice crack because Taehyung groaned loud enough for the room when video Taehyung moved with grace and confidence to the wrong side of the stage.
“So dumb,” Taehyung growled, and Jimin held his hand until he buried himself more fully into the pillows.
“I think we performed with significant professionalism for our first time.” Namjoon folded his hands together. “We are given this opportunity to improve ourselves after having put our abilities to the test. I look forward to our improvements for the upcoming months, and I’m proud of all of you to have joined on this stage and work together as a team.”
“We can do better.” Yoongi slouched on the chair, The Thinker alive and eating corn chips. “Let’s start with the formation. Hoseok, we should change it so you’re not in the front so much. You’re making the rest of us look worse when you’re so good.”
Jimin kneaded his pillow. He had to be ready and prepared when Yoongi came around to him. Namjoon’s methodology wouldn’t save him from the brunt of the statements. Dance classes had provided him with most of his experience of these merry-go-rounds of honesty, but he accepted Jungkook leaning onto him with sore relief.
“And Jimin.” Yoongi ate another chip. “Good job. Next, Taehyung.”
“Wait,” Jimin blurted out. “Wait, I messed up. Really bad.”
“I thought you did well.” Yoongi glanced at Namjoon, who nodded from his laptop.
“Yeah, you did well. We’ll all be talking to the coaches about the things that need improvement, but I think you did a great job up there.” Namjoon rubbed his cheek. “Both you and Hoseok, your dancing impresses me. It exhilarates, it defines us. Even after watching you guys practice, to be able to watch your performance makes me feel like, whoa.”
“That’s because I am the hope of this team,” Hoseok said serenely. “And the hope of the world.”
“I feel,” Jimin started, and frowned at his hint of a whine. “I feel like everyone did so much better.” Seeing Jungkook perform in front of him already had been a treat. Having watched the grainy cell phone footage, Jungkook’s dancing and singing constituted real showmanship.
“I like your voice,” Yoongi said. “For me, that’s not about better or worse. I just like it. This is what I think, and this is whether it’s about writing lyrics or designing choreography. You can see something and think, oh, this is objectively good. But you can also think, this isn’t for me. Even if we’re competing, you can’t forget, this is art. I’m the only me, you’re the only you, and when we’re the best at being ourselves, then we represent the best of all of us.”
“Where was this kindness when we were talking about me?” Jin demanded, but he couldn’t hold his mock frown for long before he broke into an easy grin. Yoongi apparently had used up the rest of his strength for the day, staring fixated at the wall without any recognition.
“I think it would be good if you opened up more when you’re troubled,” Taehyung said, grinning at Jimin. “We’re a team. Well, it’s not like I’ll get mad if you don’t, but you should think about it.”
“I understand,” Jimin said, at the same second Jungkook murmured, “That’s true,” in his ear.
Tickling warmth floated in Jimin’s stomach. Everything felt lighter, like a weight had been removed from the pit of his stomach and he could have almost stumbled from the newfound freedom. Jungkook had slung his arm around his shoulders, and now pulled him close enough that Jimin practically sat in his lap. He rested on Jungkook’s thighs and leaned against his chest, basking in his heat while he stared at his teammates. The five of them bickered between themselves a bit more, the heat of their words flickering out by the late night. Namjoon replayed the video a few more times, though the productivity drove downwards until Hoseok insisted they screenshot the strangest faces they made.
They reached a point where they would have, on any other night, naturally migrate away. Yoongi usually would have been the first to seclude himself in their sleeping quarters, followed by Jin half-heartedly plucking away at their garbage. Jimin couldn’t identify if the performance had bonded them in different ways because that night, they still stuck together. They semi-separated in quiet clusters, Taehyung and Hoseok bent over the television, Namjoon and Jin discussing something in murmurs over the laptop, Yoongi curled up and asleep.
Jungkook had wrapped his arms around Jimin’s sides, immovable from the couch. Jimin didn’t feel too exhausted from the day, even if the wired energy had grounded itself. He was still awake when he felt Jungkook nodding off behind him, head lulling at a slow pace. Jimin braced himself on the armrest to give Jungkook space to sleep, but Jungkook pulled him down again with indefensible strength and kissed him on the back of the neck, soft and slow.
Jimin hid his smile with his hand, and breathed out until he relaxed, resting easy and light against him.