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Their tent is partially full with the lull of stylists and staff from the venue combing the vicinity for wayward sound equipment. It’s humid, almost unbearably so, the stage smoke sticking still to Jimin’s skin. Idly, he runs his fingers through the damp hair at the base of his skull, nails coming away wet and cool.
Across the tent, Jungkook passes his mic pack to a man in a black staff T-shirt. Jimin licks his chapped lips. He meanders over.
Jungkook’s big-boned but still thin, though he pretty much eats on par with Seokjin now. Jimin’s knuckles skid off Jungkook’s protruding collarbones when he smacks him lightly on the chest.
“Tired?” Jimin prompts, without the usual bite of a challenge. He scrunches up his nose and reaches up, mimes at squeezing Jungkook’s neck.
Jungkook quirks his mouth. Try harder, he dares, with downcast eyes.
Up close, Jungkook’s lower lip is glossy with leftover balm, a childish jut. A fizzy wave of protectiveness rushes down Jimin’s spine.
“Hungry? Thirsty?” Jungkook doesn’t answer, but his gaze flicks up for a bare second and Jimin latches onto it, grinning – he tugs on Jungkook’s earlobe, still a hue pink from when he removed the stud. “Jungkook-ah...”
“I’m fine,” Jungkook says. He bats Jimin’s hand away, a faint smile pulling at his mouth, slowly but steadily. Jimin can taste success on the tip of his tongue.
“Say ‘hyung’,” Jimin urges. He touches Jungkook’s nape. “Say ‘I’m fine, hyung’. I want to hear it once today.”
Namjoon and Seokjin pass behind Jimin in a cloud of sweat and make-up, faux-gold necklaces clinking like rusted chimes with every tired step. Jimin is focused on Jungkook’s expression, searching for every tiny flickering message. A cat tracking its prey.
“Stop being such a kid,” chides Seokjin from behind Jimin’s shoulder, clearly entertained. Jimin gets nudged in the back, and he stumbles forward with the momentum, colliding against Jungkook’s lanky frame. Jimin huffs. He reflexively tenses to retaliate, but –
“Yeah,” Jungkook inserts from above his head, sounding sweet and humored and so, so young. His wide hands practically wrap all the way around Jimin’s hard-earned biceps, easy, and he rights Jimin with a gentle push. “Stop being such a kid, hyung.”
Jin chuckles in the background. Jungkook lets go, and leaves behind two dry imprints on Jimin’s warm, taut skin.
The mirror has a smudge of pink near the counter and its surface has a smattering of scratches, as if someone had clawed at their reflection with a steel manicure. Jimin takes in his stiffened hair, his lined eyes, the cheeks that are too big for his small body, the shoulders that are too narrow for his head, and tries to find the perfect angle.
He bites his bottom lip, tilts his head a little to the left and back. This could be sexy, he supposes, with the right lighting. He crosses his arms and flexes a bit, too, just to make sure the definition is still there – and catches Jungkook’s eye in the reflection of the vanity. Jungkook looks away first.
He’s sitting three chairs down, a make-up artist dabbing at his jaw. The eyeliner makes Jungkook look owlish, like he’s playing dress-up, but it looks the same on Jimin. It’s weird to think they’ve been wearing it for almost two years already.
Jimin wanders down the line of leather chairs and drops a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder. His index finger dips up and under the rim of Jungkook’s hood, flicking repeatedly, until Jungkook shrugs in annoyance.
He blinks heavily at Jimin in the mirror. “Wanna sleep,” he murmurs, movement restrained under the pressure of the make-up brush. The make-up artist smacks her lips together and Jungkook parrots the motion.
Lids of compact powders and colored shadow palettes are snapped closed and tucked back into a compartmentalized bag, quick and efficient. Jimin doesn’t remember the name of this stylist – she’s only here sometimes, and the noona who usually does his own make-up likes cargo jackets and has a honey bob cut.
Jungkook tilts his head to see her face. “Done?”
This girl is wearing all monochrome and a genteel, pomegranate smile. Her hair is also distinctive, medium length and a faded red, curled lazily at the ends. It caresses Jungkook’s shoulder when she leans down to inspect her handiwork.
“Let me re-do this quickly,” she says, and her words hang in the air like they’re waiting for something intimate to follow. Her voice is similar to Jungkook’s. Low, mild and smooth.
Jimin runs a finger up the side of Jungkook’s neck. He digs in harder than he intends, and feels the tendons there shift and settle as Jungkook swallows and faces forward.
“Hey, are they still working on it?” Jungkook asks Jimin through the mirror.
Jimin starts. His pulse pounds in his ears. “Hm? What?”
Jungkook laughs lightly, one eye closed under the assault of a powder-loaded brush. “Are the others still working on lyrics? I really want to read them.”
“Oh,” Jimin chews his lip absently, suddenly hot even though most of his limbs are bare. “Yeah, they should be.”
He sits down in the empty seat on Jungkook’s left and reaches for his big, square-palmed hand. Jimin slots his fingers between Jungkook’s curiously.
“Okay, all done,” Red-noona announces. She beams at Jungkook. “Thank you for being patient.”
“Thanks, noona,” Jungkook smiles back. She leaves with her equipment and Jungkook finally looks at Jimin face-to-face.
It lasts about two seconds before his gaze drops away. Jungkook proceeds to grab his phone from the counter and tap languidly at it, his other hand limp where it’s cocooned between both of Jimin’s.
“If you’re tired then sleep,” Jimin advises. Jungkook shrugs and shows him the game app opening on his mobile screen. The production credits dissolve and Jungkook’s high score flashes blue and gold, front and center.
“So what,” Jimin snorts, leaning forward, “will beating it give you energy?”
Jungkook pulls his hand away as a new game counts down. “Yeah. Sleep is for the weak,” he mumbles, loose strands of hair falling over his forehead.
Jimin sits back carefully and crosses his ankles. He stares at his own reflection in the mirror.
Sweat is dripping down into the loose shirt plastered to his chest.
Jimin measures the rhythm of Jungkook’s rib cage expanding and contracting from a distance. Jungkook had gotten tanner again after they went to the beach. The magenta glow of the stage glitters on the dusky slope of his exposed shoulders. His bright leather jacket hangs partially shucked on his arms as Jungkook paces, one step here, two steps there, the serpentine mic wire mapping a territorial border down his back. Effects of the after-show high. Jimin used to get it, but not anymore.
Jimin shakes his own hair out and breathes in. He makes his way past clusters of shadow-obscured bodies and knocks a hand against Jungkook’s chest – which at some indeterminable point had become thick and broad and tall, much like a wall. The hit bounces off like it’s nothing. But it gets Jungkook’s attention, and he slows his pacing ever so slightly. He catches Jimin’s eye and crinkles his nose.
“Dasi run run run,” Jungkook sings, as they’re herded towards the backstage entrance. He offers Jimin an imaginary mic, colliding into him as they walk.
“Nan meomchul suga eobseo,” Jimin answers into it. He’ll play along because it’s Jungkook, and lately it’s been hard to see Jungkook act his own age.
“Tto run run run–”
Jimin trips over his own feet and accidentally bumps into Jungkook’s fist. (He licks his lips, tasting salt.) Jimin can already feel himself smiling, despite his exhaustion. “Nan eojjeol suga eobseo...”
Jimin raises his own fist for Jungkook to continue.
Jungkook blinks. “Isn’t it over? Is there a part after this?”
“You little,” Jimin gasps, pretending to be offended, and elbows Jungkook in the ribs. They turn the corner. “Not gonna sing? My part is the best par–”
“Eochapi igeotbakke nan mothae,” Jungkook belts in a passionate whisper. His hand wraps nearly all the way around Jimin’s, easy. He brings the mic towards his mouth, until every dramatic syllable washes hotly over Jimin’s knuckles.
Jimin laughs, slaps Jungkook’s arm and molds, boneless, into his side. They sing the next line together off-pitch.
(The only thing I can do is love you.)
Jungkook can’t stop giggling afterwards. He’s so stupidly pleased. Jimin hasn’t seen him this uninhibited for what might be weeks now.
“What’s wrong with you,” Jimin smiles, bumping their shoulders.
Jungkook simply grins back. He’s still gripping Jimin’s fingers. His eyes are crinkled, shining.
Jimin feels the world stutter and stop. Suddenly, it hurts. Everything hurts. The ground is falling from under his feet and soon, his only tether will be Jungkook, their entwined hands the center of all sensible gravity, and that can’t happen.
Some things just can’t happen.
Jimin rips his hand away.
Jungkook pulls his hand away as a new game counts down. “Yeah. Sleep is for the weak,” he mumbles.
Jimin sits back carefully and crosses his ankles. He stares at his own reflection in the mirror.
But then he feels a warm hand grab his wrist. The app counts down from 2 to 1 to Go as Jimin lurches foward.
“Watch me win, hyung,” Jungkook says, so that Jimin can’t help but let himself be pulled back in.