Chapter Text
The mirrors in Studio A were floor-to-ceiling, crystal clear, and currently reflecting a level of chaos that should have been illegal in a professional workspace. You sat cross-legged on the floor in the "Safe Zone"—the far back corner behind the soundboard—shoulders touching with Jung Hoseok.
Between the two of you sat a cardboard carrier holding two extra-large iced Americanos, black, with enough caffeine to power a small city. Hoseok took a slow, deliberate sip through his straw, his eyes narrowing as he tracked a specific movement across the room.
"Look at him," Hoseok whispered, his voice barely audible over the booming bass of the demo track. Just look at the trajectory.
You followed his gaze to Park Jimin. The song hadn't even reached the first chorus, yet Jimin's oversized silk shirt was already hanging off his left shoulder by a literal thread. It wasn't a slip; it was a calculated anatomical miracle.
"He practiced that in his bathroom for forty-five minutes this morning," you murmured, leaning closer to Hoseok. "I saw him testing the friction coefficient of silk against skin. It's physics, Hobi. Horny physics."
Hoseok let out a sharp, silent puff of air through his nose—the "Hobi Snort"—and shook his head. "It's the commitment to the bit that gets me. He's acting surprised! Look at the face! He's acting like the shirt is betraying him! Oh, heavens, my garment has failed me!"
Jimin "accidentally" caught his own reflection, performed a theatrical shrug to pull the shirt back up—only for it to slide down further—and winked at himself.
"Ten out of ten for the hair flip, zero out of ten for believability,: you noted, scribbling an invisible '0' in the air.
On the other side of the room, Kim Namjoon was currently vibrating with the intensity of a man trying to explain the Roman Empire to a brick wall. He was gesturing wildly as he spoke to a confused-looking choreographer.
Hoseok adjusted his bucket hat, pulling it slightly lower. "Three... two... one..."
As if on cue, Namjoon's sweeping hand gesture connected with a stray water bottle sitting on a speaker. The bottle didn't just fall; it launched. It did a full 360-degree rotation in the air before spraying a fine mist over Yoongi's shoes.
Yoongi didn't move. He didn't even blink. He just stared at his damp sneakers with the expression of a man who had already accepted his fate in this life and the next.
Hoseok leaned his head on your shoulder, vibrating with suppressed laughter. "Did you see the arc? That wasn't just a spill. That was a localized weather event."
"He's a walking hazard," you agreed. "Why do we let him near liquids? Or electronics? Or oxygen?"
"He's lucky he's a lyrical genius," Hoseok sighed, taking another aggressive pull of his coffee. "If he weren't, we'd have to keep him in a padded room for his own safety. Look at him trying to apologize. He's bowing so hard he's going to headbutt the floor."
The music cut out, replaced by the heavy breathing of seven exhausted idols. Into the silence stepped Jeon Jungkook. He wasn't tired. He looked like he had just been plugged into a wall outlet.
While the others scrambled for towels, Jungkook decided it was the perfect time to demonstrate a new "trick" he'd learned. He started doing one-handed handstand pushups in the center of the room.
Hoseok's face went flat. The "Sunshine" persona evaporated, replaced by the weary soul of an older brother who had seen too much.
"Why?" Hoseok asked the ceiling. "Why is he like this? It's a break. The word 'break' implies a cessation of physical labor."
"He's a Golden Retriever on espresso," you said, watching Jungkook transition from pushups into a backflip for absolutely no reason. "He's literally just doing it so we'll look at him. Don't look, Hobi. If we look, we empower him."
"I'm looking," Hoseok hissed. "I can't help it. It's like watching a car crash made of pure muscle and bad decisions. Look at his face. He's waiting for the applause."
Jungkook finished the flip, landed perfectly, and immediately looked toward the "Safe Zone" corner. You and Hoseok simultaneously looked down at your phones, completely ignoring him.
The silence was deafening. You could practically hear Jungkook's confusion.
"He's pouting," Hoseok whispered, eyes glued to his locked phone screen.
"Good," you replied. "Let him sit in his athletic excellence in silence. It builds character."
Across the room, Taehyung wasn't dancing or exercising. He was currently draped over a velvet chair that had been brought in for a photoshoot, looking like a Victorian widow who had just inherited a haunted estate. He was staring at a single strawberry he had picked out of a fruit bowl.
"What is he doing?" you asked. "Is he communicating with it?"
Hoseok squinted. "No. He's judging its symmetry. Taehyung doesn't eat fruit that isn't aesthetically pleasing. He told me last week that a bruised apple 'lacked emotional depth.'"
"The strawberry is under a lot of pressure right now," you remarked.
Taehyung finally took a bite, chewed slowly, and then made a face as if he had just swallowed a battery. He set the strawberry back down on a napkin with the grace of someone laying a wreath at a funeral.
"Tragic," Hoseok narrated. "The strawberry failed the audition. It will be sent back to the farm in disgrace."
Finally, Kim Seokjin approached the mirror. He wasn't looking at the dance formations. He was adjusting his headband, leaning in so close to the glass that he was practically fogging it up.
"Worldwide Handsome is having a moment," you noted.
Hoseok groaned. "It's been forty minutes since he last complimented himself. He's probably going through withdrawal."
Seokjin leaned back, blew a kiss to his own reflection, and then turned to the room at large. "Hey!" he shouted. "Did everyone see? The mirror just thanked me for looking at it!"
The entire room groaned in unison.
Hoseok turned to you, his eyes sparkling with that specific brand of "Bestie Telepathy."
"He's so loud," Hoseok whispered. "Why is his confidence so loud? It's 2:00 PM. I don't have the ear-drums for this."
You reached into your bag and pulled out a small, handheld fan, turning it on and pointing it at Hoseok. "It's okay, Hobi. We see the truth. We are the only sane people in this building."
Hoseok took the fan, closed his eyes, and let the tiny breeze hit his face. "You're right. What would I do without you? I'd be forced to actually speak to them. I might have to acknowledge the shoulder-slips and the handstands."
"The horror," you joked.
"Exactly," Hoseok said, opening one eye to watch Jin start a spontaneous 'dad joke' session with a terrified staff member. "Absolute horror. Pass me the coffee. We've got four more hours of this, and Jimin just put on a different silk shirt. This one is translucent."
"I'll get the binoculars," you replied.