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The life of a famous artist seems easy, and is anything but. What everyone sees from far away is the glamour, the spotlights, the fame, the applause. The pleasure, not the pain.
Distance makes people see the beautiful colors that create the masterpiece, but not the short and hurried strokes of desperation. The unsteady lines. The lack of balance. The Imperfections.
They may know about the years of study and practice that are behind it, but will never understand the frustration of the artist, of always ending up with a less than ideal result.
Jimin saw his own public persona as a forever unfinished painting, and his private one, as the painter itself.
His fans saw him as beautiful, impactful, inspiring. He saw himself as not good enough, not perfect enough. And thus, he had to keep innovating, creating, covering his flaws with infinite layers of paint, until every area of himself was neat and marvelous, at least, from the distance.
He also saw himself as such because of the fact that artists are often their own biggest critics.
And he wished he could detach his soul from his body and see the same wonderful things his fans saw in him. He wished he could mix with the crowd and analyze the idol, Park Jimin, from far away. But as the painter, he was always standing face to face with his work. He couldn’t move anywhere else, or look anywhere else.
Even when the gallery closed, and the visitors went home, he kept his eyes glued to the canvas, overanalyzing every single detail that made it unique.
In the past, he’d been cruel to face and body before him. He had hated its lines and shapes, it’s palette, style, everything. His words were sharp as knives, and if he could, he would have stabbed the cloth before the paint was even dry. Today, he was more patient with himself, and with his work. He understood that every failure had led to improvement, and that things wouldn’t be as good in the present, if he hadn’t gone through the trials and tribulations of his past.
He still couldn’t mingle with the crowd and understand the alleged beauty they admired. But he could at least take a few steps back, sigh, and recognize that his effort wasn’t useless. That Park Jimin, the idol, the art, wasn’t useless. That was a huge progress.
However, sometimes, he simply didn’t have the strength to walk away. Instead, he’d move closer. See the flaws. Frown. Quietly curse at the canvas. And think of giving up on the job.
Think of giving up on himself.
These days, both metaphorical and real life Jimin would turn shy, silent, reserved. They would recoil from any type of affection, stay away from laughter and fun, and like a scared little turtle, hide inside their shells. These days, they would rather be alone, in a dark room, lying on their bed.
This Friday was one of these days.
After finishing a row of solo shows across South Korea and Japan, Jimin had finally returned home. He was exhausted, in a bad mood, and only wanted his privacy back. He absolutely loved Army, and was happy that he was able to see so many of them on his tour, but after so many performances, and very few breaks, his bones were weary, and his body was tired. He wanted to sleep for three days straight.
The fact that he’d also lost some weight on his trip was bugging him as well. He was eating well, but his choreography had been physically demanding, to say the least. He knew that the weight fluctuation was normal, and knew that he was as healthy as ever, but he also knew that his friends and family would be worried. Taehyung and his dad, in fact, had already texted him twice to know if he “was doing alright”. He appreciated the concern, but honestly didn’t want to keep talking about his diet. He was fine. Truthfully, he was.
Well, at least until that Friday, he was.
Usually, he wouldn’t skip his meals, because he knew what doing that would lead him to. Recovery was a slippery path, and he didn’t want to fall again. So he ate three times a day, even on days he didn’t feel like doing so.
But that night, he ignored that rule he had forced himself to obey over the years. He wasn’t hungry. Didn’t find the concept of food appealing at all. And the thought of chewing a simple gum right now was enough to make him nauseous. Again, he just wanted his bed.
No one was there to pick him up at the airport. Not because his friends and relatives had decided not to come, but because he asked them to stay away, since his arrival was late, the night was cold, and they all could see him in the morning anyway. He also didn’t want the media forcing cameras into their sleepy faces. He hated when that happened.
After escaping the hallway of white flashes and screaming photographers, he stepped into this black van as his driver and manager dealt with his luggage. He would have helped them, but he’d injured his shoulder on his last performance, and it still wasn’t fully healed. So he sat down, unlocked his phone, and answered some chats as he waited for his drive home to start.
When he opened the door of his apartment, he closed his eyes for a second, breathed in the cold, stuffy air, and allowed all of his stress to melt away. Locking the door, he left his bags and luggage by the couch and plopped down on it. Still groggy from the jetlag, he felt sleep start to take over him. Relaxed to the point of fusing with the furniture bellow, he didn’t hear the footsteps coming from his bedroom, and almost had a heart attack when a warm hand came to rest upon his shoulder.
With a jump he moved away from the touch, and opened his eyes in fear. Relief came when he noticed the hand belonged to Jungkook, and not some creepy criminal, ready to murder him.
“Sorry for scaring you, I just wanted to wake you up. Falling asleep on the couch won’t be good for your shoulder.”
“What are you doing here, Kook?”
Jimin didn’t ask how the maknae got inside his home; he’d shared his password with him years ago. All of the ex-members of BTS knew as well, because in case of an emergency, there was always someone to call for help.
“Tae asked me to come and check on you. He was busy tonight and couldn’t come, but…”
“I told him I’m fine.”
“He’s your soulmate, you can’t blame him for worrying.” Jungkook smiled, and helped him stand up. “Besides, I wanted to see you too. I’ve missed you.”
“Missed you too.”
They stared at each other fondly, until Jimin couldn’t stand the tension anymore, and moved his arms to hug him. Despite wanting to be alone, there was something deeply comforting in being close to the maknae. Maybe it was the fact that they knew each other for years, and didn’t have to behave like everything was great and sunny all the time. They had both seen each other cry, and grieve for a life they no longer knew. They had both made amazing memories together, traveled the world together, and kept each other afloat on the dark, bottomless ocean of fame.
Jimin felt secure next to him, and was well aware of the fact that everything he’d ever wanted and needed, he could find in between his arms. Jungkook felt the same way as him, always had. But neither had ever expressed that yearning and desire out loud before.
Perhaps, because they understood that the love they shared was deep, pure, and warm. That they could lean on it, whenever and wherever. That words were just too trivial when their feelings were so intense, so complex.
Perhaps, because they were scared of jeopardizing their friendship.
But that Friday night, Jimin decided to risk it all. He was sad, tired, and felt a void inside himself, that only love could fill.
He was tired of filling the cracks on his painting, time and time again. Of hiding what was obvious.
This was the biggest secret hidden in his canvas: he was in love. And for years, he’d tried to convince the public, his family, friends, and even the object of his affections, that he wasn’t. But he was getting old. His hands were calloused. His body ached. And he just couldn’t keep painting.
So, he pulled back from the hug. Observed the man that still had his hands on his arms and shoulders, holding him like he was the most delicate and impressive artwork in the fucking Louvre. And he leaned forward again, this time not wasting his time with words and friendly gestures.
And he kissed him. He kissed Jungkook. And his palette suddenly expanded. Colors became more bright and saturated as he kissed back.
The pain of his self-criticism, hatred, and frustration remained. But the pleasure that arrived to accompany it was oh so needed. It had been so long since he felt something so sweet, so genuine. That kiss was a drug, and now that he had tried it, he didn’t want to stop using it, over and over again.
The maknae, smiling against his lips, seemed to be on the same page as him. His strong arms pulled Jimin up from his legs and carried him to his bed.
They were too tired to do anything else that night other than kissing. But being together, touching each other, was enough.
They’d talk about everything tomorrow.
Tonight, they would enjoy the silence.