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Because it’s only Jungkook who catches the split between night and day that flashes across Jimin’s face right when the blaring lights dim and the seven of them slink off the stage, tired to the bone and weary but in the best way possible, grinning out of adrenaline and the aftermath of too much, too soon.
The moment of singularity freezes to an abrupt quietude as they are herded into the van like sheep to the shearer. Or was it the slaughter? Jimin lingers by the door, face mask pulled up, and he waves softly to the peering fans and photographers who have become an everyday addition to their rush of a world. Faceless, blurred reminders of their voyage; a world-trotting troupe scrutinized in ways not very different from mice in a glass box, led by the scent of bait or success.
Jungkook makes sure to slot himself closest to the door, and he leaves room for the older to slide in as naturally as possible, but they know, all the members know it’s anything but natural. The two are drawn together like moths to a flame, both wandering eyes that settle into the dark irises of the other, simultaneously drowning in the push and pull of their roles, unsettled and fascinated by this game of seeing who can outlast the other, who can resist the longest.
The list of reasons Jungkook could rattle off about why he loves Park Jimin continues to grow at a staggering rate, multiplying with each radiating smile, each spark of passion that diffuses off the older boy with limitless effort. He could trace back in time to the moment when the list began, or rather, the moment when he came to grips with the fact that such a list even existed, but that would be pointless. Because when it comes to Jimin, time is irrelevant, keeping track of linear movement proves inapplicable, and it only matters that Jimin is there, here, with Jungkook, pressing into his shoulder as the jostle of the van reminds the seven of them just how infinitesimal they are in this ever-changing world.
Sleep is for the weak, Jungkook reprimands himself, he can sleep when he’s dead. But for now, there’s a mirror in front of him and the beat slings itself in and out of his eardrums, and time waits for no one, not even his protesting muscles. Somehow even when he is utterly consumed with perfecting the slight upper twitch of his proximal limbs that should hook into a sharper angle with the turn to the left and a pivot back twice on the triple note, Jungkook still thinks of Jimin.
Jimin, with his uncanny ability to light up the room and blaze through the personas of those around him, the damn habit of running his hands through his hair when he’s nervous or trying to deflect attention away, or the way he throws his entire body into the person he’s laughing with, enveloping them with his giggles and fondness.
But it’s also the way Jimin brings it upon himself to consider each and every microscopic critique, to weigh it in his small hands and take it to heart more severely than any other member, carrying its burden until it rips off yet another shard that drives him deeper into self-discovery. Or sometimes, self-loathing.
It’s the way Jungkook knows that Jimin cries himself to sleep at times when the nights get too heavy and the thoughts become too cloudy, the what ifs become too loud in the cacophony that they call idol life, a discord of expectations and desires to become better, to improve, to show themselves in a brighter light.
Sometimes Jungkook catches a low mumble coming from the bathroom, a string of curses directed towards its bearer, and Jungkook needs to convince Jimin to open the door and let him in, let him remind him just how beautiful he is. How Jimin's every breath sings life like cherry trees and wind chimes and thoughts of Busan and a peaceful nostalgia. Jimin just sighs into his shoulder, unable to fully receive Jungkook's words, but also unable to stop them from seeping into his wounds, and then he's okay for now. Okay for the night.
Jimin’s been taking more singing lessons, Jungkook knows. He knows this because Jimin no longer comes back to the dorms at 3 AM with his lithe frame drenched in sweat, but rather, comes back to the dorms at 3 AM with a voice that’s more hoarse than ever, neck straining and the whites of his eyes a bright maroon from self-vexation of not producing the melodious sounds he so desperately yearns to yield. Jungkook tries again, attempts to talk sense into his hyung, but nothing makes sense to Jimin when he is set on a goal, nothing deters a runner from finishing a race.
It’s only Jungkook who knows Jimin so well, deeper than his laugh-induced link with Hoseok, stronger than his 95z connection with Taehyung, wider than his admiration for Namjoon, higher than his respectful affection with Yoongi, and broader than the motherly intuition lavished by Jin.
It’s Jungkook whom Jimin seeks out in the depths of the unrelenting night, and the light pitter patter of his footsteps echo through the practice room as he shuffles to sit against the back mirrors, nodding in greeting. Jungkook feels his heart betray the obvious happiness that soars through at the sight of his haggardly slumped hyung’s reflection, electric shocks and currents cranking the beating muscle into overdrive and suddenly his concentration goes into tunnel-vision.
Jungkook pauses the music and Jimin lifts his head in question, a blank look tucked into his sunken eyes. The day’s effort has taken its toll, the weariness of chasing after the unattainable bearing down into Jimin’s soft skin, and Jungkook aches to just reach out to breathe on him. Jimin is still so beautiful.
He trudges over to slide down next to Jimin along the mirror, the cold glass a welcome chill against his slick back. Jimin automatically reaches out to link their fingers together, a habit from their trainee days, curling his thumb into the soft flesh. Jungkook begins to melt, threatening to liquefy at the disarming way Jimin gazes at their reflections across the room, wondering if mirrors are required to really discern the way they need and want, but lack and cannot have.
“You okay, hyung?”
It’s all pleasantries, just formalities that don’t carry much weight, except for the I love yous whispered into each syllable.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”
I love you, too.
Jimin tightens his grip and Jungkook feels the heartbeats hammering through their thumbs, pulsating in tandem like there’s nothing separating them, not even this skin that holds their insides from flopping out. But really, Jungkook has already given everything of his insides, poured out for Jimin to see, to reject, to accept.
Beyond everything that he knows, Jungkook also knows that Jimin isn’t ready for the next step.
He made that clear, made it crystal as day that what they have between them is just as much as he can take. Jimin is so full of devotion to his craft, to bettering himself for his fans, for the world. Beyond that, there leaves no ounce of liberated love left to give Jungkook.
But I can’t even love myself now, how can I love you the way you deserve?
Sometimes, Jimin doesn’t look like the hyung. He huddles into himself, curling in and it takes all of Jungkook’s effort not to let him implode into his thoughts and uncertainties. Jungkook is there to reel him back from the demons, to press him into the glass and clutch him tightly, to remind Jimin that he’s here, he’s real, and he’s progressing.
“I’m here, hyung. Rely on me.”
“I’m so sorry, Jungkook.”
Jungkook hums and lets his fingers card through Jimin’s scratchy hair, a product of constant bleaching and tampering. And he’s still so beautiful, regardless.
“Nothing to be sorry about, Jiminie hyung.”
Jimin simply sighs, leaning into him just like he did a few hours earlier in the van, the smell of musk and effort and trying over and over saturating their senses. Jungkook has to remind himself that this is more than he deserves, and with Jimin, he’ll take anything.
“Jungkook?”
“Yes hyung?”
“You won’t leave, right?”
Jungkook breathes into Jimin’s hair, his lips curling just the slightest. “No, of course not. I’m not leaving, ever.”
In their reflection, darkened by the midnight shadows that filter through the company’s windows, Jungkook catches a small smile on Jimin’s face, the blanket of weariness slipping into something more like weightless dreams, contentment and peace.
It may not be the passionate love story Jungkook could dream of, not the messy kisses or roaming hands he could fantasize about, not the title of anything official or plastered on the front page of Dispatch, but it’s enough.
It’s Jimin, here with him, pressing into his shoulder as the silence of the practice room reminds the two of them just how infinitesimal they are in this ever-changing world.