Chapter Text
The part time job was Namjoon's idea, an easy side hustle at the museum for some extra spending money. He arranged it for Jimin, too, through his artist connections. It was the easiest way Jimin has ever gotten a job, so he couldn't complain about it.
Not that there is anything to complain about. All Jimin has to do is sweep the floors, dust off some information panels, and occasionally help in the back, packing things into boxes or wrapping up artefacts. It's a monotone work that doesn't require much brainpower, and it is therapeutic in a way. Keeps him occupied, but not overexerted. Jimin enjoys it a lot.
Especially at night. There's just something magical about being alone with the exquisite relics of the past. The captivating paintings, lifelike statues, the recreations of historic moments on canvas and in stone take Jimin out of the grey everyday reality, to more fantastical realms. Through them, he explores worlds full of wonder, where fairies and lovely little spirits play in lush, green gardens. But even the ones depicting horror or deep sorrow, hold his soul in a grip. There's just so much to feel when he looks at them; the emotions heightened in every stroke of the brush, in every curve of the marble, in every ancient object sitting under the protective glass case.
Sometimes, Jimin does his job slowly, just to stay with the art for a little longer. Just a few more minutes, before he has to get back to his own life.
Because of this, it's often very late by the time Jimin finishes working. But he likes it that way. Late nights are slow and quiet. He's free to wander, to soak in every room as he sweeps them.
And he can sing, too. One part of the gallery has surprisingly good acoustics, and he lets his voice fill the space as he works, humming soft melodies. The paintings prove to be a better audience than expected. They enjoy his performance in peaceful silence. They don't interrupt, don't join in only to overshadow him, don't try to stop him. They just listen.
That's probably what leads him to not only sing to them, but talk as well. It starts with small, unconscious exclamations, like when he accidentally drops the broomstick and apologises for it, or when he comments on missing a spot. Then they turn into greetings and goodbyes. Then small talk; "what weather we're having today, right, Unnamed Duchess?," "what do you think of these lyrics, Painting of Small Dog?" And after a while, Jimin starts telling the portraits about his day.
Because people will talk to anything. They are funny like that. Or lonely, rather.
It's just harmless self-entertainment, though. Something to keep his mind occupied. It's not as pathetic as it sounds, he swears. Though it is nice to get some things off his chest occasionally, even if it's to a silent audience. And sometimes... Sometimes it feels like they understand. The eyes of the people of centuries past glint with curiosity as they listen. Their gaze seems to follow Jimin as he sweeps the floors. Their lips curl barely noticeably when he tells them about something funny that happened to him, and the wrinkles on their forehead deepen slightly when he complains. They're attentive like that.
Especially one of them.
It's a portrait of a young man. Literally, that is his title. His identity is unknown, so is his creator. The painting itself is pretty simple, just the man against a dark background, with such a lack of details that nothing is revealed about him. The experts are not sure when he was created, because the painting style and simple clothes are no point of reference.
There is only one thing that’s certain: this man is the most beautiful person Jimin has ever seen.
There's something bewitching about him. In his white robe, he glows against the dark canvas like the Moon in the night sky. He's ethereal, with a cottony softness to his entire form, as if he was made of sea foam and clouds and light. His features have an angelic sweetness to them, from the lovely almond shape of his eyes, to the slope of his elegant nose and the fullness of his lips. They contrast gorgeously with his stronger features, his jawline and dark eyebrows. His hair falls over his forehead gently, a perfect frame to the masterpiece that is his face.
Jimin can't stop looking at him.
And in a weird way, the man seems to be staring back at him, too. Jimin feels his gaze on himself as he works, and sometimes, it looks like there's a glimmer in the man's eyes, as he listens to Jimin's stories.
It's just the lighting and Jimin's mind playing tricks on him, but still, it's comforting. Jimin feels less alone.
And he needs that. One night especially.
"...so I have dance class every day because of the competition, and it would be nice, but this new group I'm in, they already know each other so well, and it's not like they're mean to me, but it's just so... lonely. And Namjoon has work, and Yoongi and Hobi are abroad the whole summer. And it's not like I'm bored, I have plenty of stuff to do, but all of it is so lifeless and boring. I don't want any of it. I want-"
Jimin pauses in his rant to take a deep breath. The paintings watch him in anticipation.
He wants... What does he want?
He stops sweeping and stares at the broom.
"I want... adventure," he says unsurely. "I want... I want to escape, maybe go to the jungle, or like, Antarctica, or something. Anything. I want to be with my friends," he sighs, "I want to live."
With a sudden burst of energy, he drops the broom and rushes to the large windows of the exhibition room. They already closed the curtains earlier for safety reasons, but Jimin is overcome with the spirit of a Disney princess, and yanks them apart.
The moonlight trickles in through the glass, and Jimin beholds the night sky with wonder, even though most of it is dimmed by the streetlights.
"I wanna go to space. Imagine how cool that would be," he says, only half-serious. "Or just fly. I wanna fly away from here, to more exciting lands. I want to discover the world, see it from a new perspective!"
He sighs. He feels childish and promptly turns away from the window.
His eyes follow the line of the moonlight, which lands right on his favourite portrait. The young man is watching Jimin intently.
Jimin smiles at him, bittersweet.
"What would you want to do?," he asks, but doesn't wait for an answer as he turns back to close the curtains. Because the oil on the canvas stays quiet. Obviously.
"Have a neck massage."
Jimin freezes.
His heart nearly stops, before he breaks out in mortified laughter. He turns around, expecting the janitor to be staring at him with thinly veiled judgement for talking to himself.
"Ah, you scared me so much, I didn't even hear you come in-," he starts, but the words die on his tongue.
There's no one else in the room.
Jimin looks around. Looks up, in case there's a robber hanging from a rope above, Mission Impossible style. There isn't.
"Although I'm not even sure I have a nape," the voice says again. It's a nice tone, with a clear pronunciation.
"Who's there?," Jimin whirls around, squinting at the corners. "Where are you?"
"What do you mean where am I??," the voice sounds offended. "I'm where I have been for the past years!"
Jimin follows the sound until his eyes land on the painting of the young man. He pales.
"Shit," he lets out. It's happening. He's going insane.
"Don't make that face!," the painting says. Like, actually. The man's lips move. He emits sound. "You asked me a question and I answered. Don't ask questions if you don't want a response!"
Jimin's knees feel weak. Did he smoke something in the past few days? Or did he accidentally inhale too much cleaning agent? Or he's dreaming. Yeah, maybe he fell asleep and-
"Wow, so you're quiet now," the man rolls his eyes. "You've been talking for weeks, but now that I say one word, you suddenly act like it's the end of the world."
Jimin rubs his eyes and pinches himself. There's just no way this is real.
When he looks at the painting again, the man has one elegant eyebrow lifted quizzically.
"Why did you do that? Stop hurting yourself."
Jimin shakes his head. He slaps his own face, to snap out of whatever this trip is.
"Yah, what are you doing?!," the man raises his voice in concern. "I literally just told you to stop! Do you not understand what I'm saying?"
"I do, that's the problem," Jimin mutters. He's in a daze. "You... You shouldn't be speaking to me!"
The man huffs dramatically.
"Well, you're the only one here at the moment, so I don't really have a choice."
"No, I mean-," Jimin hesitantly steps closer. Maybe this is a prank, and there's some mechanical or AI bullshit that's moving the painting. But as he inspects it, he can't see anything unusual on the canvas. "You shouldn't be speaking at all!"
The portrait tsks and crosses his arms in front of himself.
"I thought this was a free country."
Jimin stares at him in disbelief.
"You're oil on canvas!," he exclaims, throwing his arms in the air incredulously. "You're in a frame! You're two dimensional!"
"And that's basis for discrimination?"
The man seems genuinely upset now, and Jimin's losing his mind. When he took the job, he never expected to end up in a sociopolitical argument with a painting.
"You have a lot of sass for someone hanging on the wall," he lets out quietly, but the man still catches it.
"So do you, for someone talking to objects you apparently thought were inanimate!," he bites back, and, well. Touché.
Jimin rubs his palm over his forehead as he tries to reassess the situation. He feels the man's unimpressed eyes on him.
Objectively, this is entirely unbelievable. A moving painting? There's no logical explanation to it. There’s no Egyptian scroll in this museum, and Jimin is not Ben Stiller either. Jimin is just a tired guy with way too much on his mind.
Maybe if he wasn’t friends with Namjoon, he wouldn’t be so shocked right now. He would believe that the universe heard him asking for adventure. But Joon, as wonderfully magical as he is, is painfully realistic sometimes, and it’s been rubbing off on Jimin. So it’s very difficult to comprehend something so unreal.
But maybe he did fall asleep and this is all a dream. And, well. Maybe he should get the most out of it before he wakes up. No harm in that, right?
He takes a deep sigh and mentally orients himself as much as possible.
"Okay," he says, holding up his hands placatingly. "Okay.”
The painting scowls.
“Don’t talk to me like that, I’m not a dog.”
“I’m not talking to you, I’m trying to calm myself,” Jimin says, but puts his hands down nonetheless.
“But you’re not a dog either.”
“Very good observation,” Jimin nods. “I’m a human. And you’re…”
He waits for the man to finish his sentence. The man stares at him in silence.
“You’re a… a painting?,” Jimin tries, hesitant. The man purses his lips defiantly.
“I guess. But I’m still a human. I don’t deserve less respect just because I probably don’t have a nape.”
Jimin runs a hand through his hair.
“Listen-”
“I’ve been doing that for the past month!,” the man interrupts, and there’s hurt in his voice. Jimin’s stomach churns because shit. He managed to anger a painting in under a minute. “All I’ve been doing is listening! I’m tired of it!”
He flails his arms around in exasperation, but his movement is limited by the frames around him.
“All my life I’ve been listening, so don’t you dare ask me to listen now that I can finally speak!”
“I’m sorry!,” Jimin exclaims, backing up in case the man decides to climb out of the canvas. He picks up his broom, not really as a weapon, more like emotional support. “I really am sorry! I didn’t mean it like that, I didn’t want to hurt you!”
“Well, you did!,” the man declares. “I just wanted to talk to you, but now I won’t!”
He tries to turn away, but he can’t. So he settles for crossing his arms, and looking away from Jimin with a menacing pout and furrowed brows.
Jimin gapes at him like a fish.
“No, wait, I’m sorry,” he steps closer again, guilt coiling around his insides like a snake. One of his greatest fears, offending someone by accident, is unfolding right before his eyes. “Wait, please talk! I am so sorry for being an asshole, I would love to hear you speak!”
The man stays quiet, only his frown deepens.
Jimin stops, too. He watches the man silently for a few seconds, then hangs his head in shame.
"I reacted like this because this is a very... unusual experience for me. I don't really know how to handle it," he tries to explain. "I'm sorry. But you’re right, I should not have asked you to listen even more. It sucks when people don’t let you speak."
Jimin’s eyes follow the tiny specks of dust floating in the moonlight. He doesn’t look up to see the man’s reaction.
For a few moments, nothing happens. Then, there’s a sigh.
“I’m sorry.”
Jimin glances up curiously.
The man’s posture has changed completely. His wide shoulders curved in, the defiant stance melted into something a lot more reserved. He’s fiddling with his fingers, and the crease on his forehead is more uncertain now than angry. He’s avoiding Jimin’s gaze.
"I think I overreacted,” he says, making Jimin’s eyebrow lift in surprise. The man wrings his hands together. “It's been… a long time since I talked with anyone. I think I forgot how to do it. And the L word is kind of triggering for me… I mean, not ‘lesbians.’ I like lesbians,” he clarifies quickly. “The other L word.”
“Yeah, I understand,” Jimin assures him.
He peers up at Jimin from under his lashes. They stare at each other wordlessly for a moment, then the man says:
“I think we should start over.”
Jimin exhales as relief floods his body, and nods immediately.
“Yes. Hello, I’m Jimin,” he introduces himself, and almost reaches for a handshake as a reflex. He manages to turn the movement into a weird little wave at the last second.
“I know,” the man says. “You refer to yourself in the third person sometimes.”
Jimin pales, then flushes bright red as reality sinks in.
“You- you’ve heard everything I’ve been venting about?,” his voice slips an octave higher. The man nods.
“Yeah.”
“Everything? Really?,” Jimin’s eyes widen as he tries to remember what exactly he’s been blabbering about. The man tilts his head to the side.
“Yes, everything. Like I just said.”
“Oh god,” Jimin covers his face with his hands. At least he didn’t talk about his colonoscopy results. Just about how embarrassingly lonely he is… He’s mortified. “Oh god, I’m a loser.”
“Only a little.”
Jimin groans. He hears the man giggling, but he’s too scared to look up.
“I’m joking, don’t worry,” the man tries to reassure him. “What you talked about are normal things, I think. At least, I relate to them a lot.”
Jimin has to squat down as a second wave of shame tramples him to the ground. He complained about feeling bored and trapped, to a painting. A PAINTING. This guy has literally been stuck in the same frame for who knows how long!
"You make funny faces when you're embarrassed," the man chuckles again. "Really, don't feel bad about it. I enjoyed listening to you. And you sing well.”
“Jesus, you heard my singing,” Jimin squeaks, now nearly lying on the floor.
“I’m not Jesus, but yes, I did,” the man says. “It’s great! You have a beautiful voice.”
“Thanks,” Jimin wheezes between gritted teeth. His skin is burning from shame. He just had to do all this in front of the most gorgeous person ever. What is life.
He wants the museum floor to open up under him right this instant.
That is until he hears laughter erupt from the painting in front of him. It’s squeaky and bright. Kind of similar to the sound the sponge makes when Jimin is cleaning the glass cases.
Between his fingers, he peeks at the painting. The man has his hand covering his mouth as he laughs at Jimin’s misery. His fingers are a little gnarly, ending in well-manicured nails. They weren't very visible in the pose he was in before.
Jimin is mesmerised by how the paint moves so seamlessly. It's somewhat similar to animated images, but at the same time nothing like those at all. The moon's light shifts with every movement, illuminating all the different brush strokes that make up the portrait, caressing the man's form with silver hues. It gives him an even more ethereal glow.
When the man notices Jimin staring, he sends him a smile that knocks the air out of him. It’s another feature that has been hidden all this time. His cheeks bunch up and his eyes crinkle into crescent moons. His pearly teeth peek out between his full lips. He’s stunning.
Jimin is so enthralled the man has to snap his fingers to pull him back to reality (or whatever dreamland he is in at the moment).
“Sorry, what?,” he shakes his head.
“I asked if you want to know my name, Jimin,” the man says, a little shyly. Jimin’s eyes light up.
“Yes, of course, please! What’s your name?,” he scrambles closer. Tell me everything, he almost adds, but maybe that would be a little creepy.
The man clears his throat and straightens up ceremoniously.
“My name is…,” he pauses theatrically. Jimin’s mouth is open in anticipation. “My name is Jin.”
The syllable barely leaves his mouth, he’s already grinning from ear to ear.
“I’ve never said that to anyone before,” he whispers, and he looks so happy that Jimin’s heart almost breaks in half.
He wants to ask why. How come he’s never had to introduce himself. Has he never come alive before? Jimin has so many questions he doesn’t even know where to start.
So he just says:
“That’s a lovely name.”
Because it is. It sounds light and joyful. But there is a simple elegance in it as well, especially considering its meaning.
Jin looks proud as he nods in agreement.
“Thank you! I like it, too, I think it fits me!”
“It does,” Jimin smiles, fondness squeezing his chest. “Nice to meet you, Jin.”