Archive of Our Own ^beta

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summer

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Despite how many times his friends have complained about it over the years, Jimin is a shameless morning person. There is a fragility, a vulnerability to most mornings that he holds close to his heart. What most people love about the night, Jimin loves about mornings.

In the morning, the world expects nothing of him – and he, in turn, doesn’t expect anything from the world. In the few minutes it takes him to eat his breakfast or drink his cup of coffee, he can read the paper absently or let his mind wander somewhere else, still lost in the remnants of his last dream.

What Jimin doesn’t like, however, is having to wake up early in order to go to work – that, he would very much like to pass up on, any day or every day actually, thanks a lot.

Jimin works the morning shifts from Monday to Thursday at one of the Namyangju Film Studio coffee shops, just one hour west of Seoul, and really, he doesn’t hate his job that much. Sure, it’s a bit far from what he had imagined at first, back when he was still a foolish teenager and chose to pack his bags at 8 in the morning on a whim and buy a one-way train ticket to the capital, leaving his school and family behind to pursue his dream of becoming an actor.

But it isn’t so far off that he can’t foresee himself peeking out of the tunnel. Eventually. So Jimin powers through: all he has to do is earn enough money to be able to pay rent and stay close to the city center, because that’s where most of the good auditions take place.

Blinding lights shining in his face, the distinctive silence of the audience collectively holding their breath, a curtain opening and closing on someone that wears his body but isn’t him – for as long as he can remember, Jimin has always yearned for a prosperous acting career. He’s not sure when it all started. All he recalls is reading something as a child about how only actors are allowed to live multiple lives, to wake up as a dutiful husband, have lunch as an intergalactic fighter, and go to sleep as a secret agent. Right then and there, he knew he had found his path.

So what if getting there takes mixing a few drinks he doesn’t even like the taste of and asking the lady on table 7 to please, please stop bringing her whining snotty kids inside when there is a children’s play area specifically reserved for that purpose outside of the shop? Jimin is not above a bit of muffin rearranging every now and then if the cake ends up being worth the candle. (He had been really excited to share this pun with his roommate at first, but all he received was a disappointed glare and two days’ worth of silent treatment).

As a result of his hectic schedule, Jimin’s mornings are carefully calculated. His alarm rings at exactly 6.45am. He brushes his teeth at 6.55 (because it usually takes him about ten minutes to gather the strength to get out of bed), has breakfast at 7, dresses up at 7.15 (he still hates that damn uniform), grabs his keys in a haste and jumps into the first bus available to get to work.

And all in all, it isn’t that bad.

“Tall mocha for table 2 with one blueberry muffin and a glass of water. Please do not spill anything on yourself today.”

There are a lot of rumors that surround Jimin’s manager here at the shop. Some say he drinks the blackest coffee around the block and has earned his elders’ respect because of that. Some say he once killed a rodent in the back kitchens with his bare hands because the fucker was trying to eat an entire batch of freshly baked madeleines.

Because of that, Jimin had been quite scared to meet him at first. He learned very quickly, however, that there is no truth whatsoever to any of this hearsay, and now, he could almost laugh at how ridiculous it all actually sounds. If only people knew that Min Yoongi is no more threatening than a sleepy bunny – with bleached hair and tattoos, sure, but a bunny nonetheless. Plus, although he tries to hide it, he definitely has a soft spot for Jimin, who makes sure to exploit that as best as he can.

“Hyung!” Jimin protests. “I never spill anything on myself. Or on anyone else, for that matter. Unless they ask.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that. Mocha for table 2, quick. She’s above fifty and you know what that means,” Yoongi grumbles, wiping the counter with a rag that looks dirtier than the surface it’s supposed to clean.

Jimin nods solemnly and gets to work.

The thing with working inside a studio lot is that most people who come by are either tourists or so-called celebrities. The tourists aren’t so bad – they usually only ask for directions and are mindful enough to buy something on their way out, in search of the perfect shot to capture. But the celebrities. These are something else entirely.

These are what Jimin prays he won’t become a few years down the road when he’s failed all auditions imaginable and has accepted his fate as a barista. These are the ones that usually can’t be bothered to look at him in the eyes when they order, and the older they get, the more spiteful they become. It’s almost like they think he’s the one responsible for their lackluster existence.

Thus, Jimin stops teasing his manager and gets back to business, preparing the order with practiced ease, the song he plans on performing for his next audition stuck in his head. He’s trying for Library Extra #4 this time, and hopefully it all works out, because the tap on his bathroom sink has been broken for at least ten days now and he would very much like to ask someone to repair it soon.  

He’s still humming quietly to himself when a woman comes up to him with a half-eaten waffle on a plate that she puts down harshly onto the counter, making sure to create a disagreeable clanking sound as she does so. Jimin has also learned that that’s how most clients here like to express their discontentment. He puts on his best fake smile and braces himself.

“May I help you, Madam?”

“Is this gluten-free?” the woman asks.

Jimin looks at her, then back at the pastry. Then back at her again.

“Um. No, sorry, Madam.”

She squints at him as if he’s just said something incredibly offensive. “I’d like a refund.”

Sighing internally, Jimin doesn’t allow his smile to falter and responds with a polite, “Of course, Madam. Just let me check with my manager.”

He takes the plate and heads for the back kitchens, where Yoongi is probably hidden in some corner pretending to work although everyone knows he’s usually just on his phone. Three hours until the end of his shift. When he’s sure the lady can’t hear him, Jimin lets himself sigh.

Somedays, Jimin can’t help but wonder if he’s made the right decision moving out of his hometown to try and win the big city, in an industry he doesn’t know much about besides what the internet taught him. Adapting to a new dialect, new manners and habits had definitely been a feat at first. He still recalls people making fun of his blunt Busan accent for months after he first moved in.  

But then, he remembers that facing the unknown without letting your inhibitions hinder you is the only way to turn dreams into reality. After all, that’s what his theatre teacher had always taught him, back at Busan Arts College: that if you manage to take down your own fear, nothing else can touch you. And every time he gets a callback, even for the lesser known shows or movies, he can’t help but feel he’s made the right choice after all.

“Promise me you won’t forget about me when you become famous?”

His best friend and roommate, Taehyung, is lying on the couch in a yellow onesie, eating cereal straight out of the box. His head is on Jimin’s lap and a random cooking show is playing on the TV although they don’t pay much attention to it; to them, Friday night means lazing around in comfortable clothing and talking about their day.

Jimin has been living with Taehyung for almost three years now, and he has to admit that he probably wouldn’t survive a day in Seoul without him by his side. The two met during an audition for an indie remake of Ghostbusters and quickly bonded over the rude director who had picked up his phone right in the middle of their monologue. They’ve pretty much been inseparable ever since.

“It’s just a callback, Taetae,” Jimin reminds him for the umpteenth time, stroking his hair out of habit. “I still have to pass the second audition and they usually don’t go so well.”

He scratches the back of his head gently, an idle and familiar gesture. Taehyung hums thoughtfully and stares up at him from where is head is comfortably resting on Jimin’s thighs, still munching on his worryingly unhealthy cereal. How he manages to maintain the body of a Gucci model is a mystery to Jimin. “Do you think they’ll put your star on the Hollywood boulevard?” A pause, and then Taehyung’s expression twists into one of exaggerated horror. “What if you’re next to some asshole, like the guy who thought killing Bing Bong in Inside Out was a good idea?”

Jimin does his best not to laugh. He knows Taehyung takes his animated movies very seriously. “I don’t even know if that guy is on the boulevard, Tae,” he reminds him.

Taehyung hums once more and turns his head back to watch the show. “You’ll make it big someday, Jiminie.” He shifts so that his back is pressed to Jimin’s stomach, and the box of cereal falls onto the carpet with a dull thunk. “And when that time comes, you better tell everyone during your award speech that I’m the goddamn sunshine of your life.”

This time, Jimin can’t help but giggle. His fingers are still petting Taehyung’s head absently and he’s reminded once again why he likes Friday nights so much. Their little flat is quite modest, but it’s got everything they need and most importantly, it’s a place that’s well loved. Jimin’s belly is still full with the pizza they ordered two hours ago, and Taehyung’s presence has that calming effect on him that no one else can compare to.

“Calm down, you’re a bedside lamp at best.”

“Are you kidding me?” Taehyung gasps, sitting up from his position and turning to face him. Jimin knows what’s coming before Taehyung even raises his hands.

And just as he had predicted, half a second later, he feels Taehyung’s fingers running up and down his ribs in a ticklish motion.  

“No no no- Tae! Stop it- Tae!” Jimin manages to get out between fits of laughing. He should be all too used to this, after all the times his best friend has resorted to tickling him as a punishment, but his body still hasn’t developed the appropriate defenses.

“Not until you admit that I’m the sunshine of your life!” Taehyung says. He throws a leg over Jimin’s squirming form and straddles him, the position allowing him to reach his armpits.

“You’re- ah! For fuck’s- you’re the sunshine of my life! Happy?”

Taehyung pauses in his movements. Right when Jimin dares to open his eyes and catch his breath, he hears his friend’s deep, honey-like voice fill the room.

“That’s why I’ll always be around,” Taehyung sings.

Jimin groans and hits his stomach playfully – and if it’s a little too hard to be completely innocuous, well. Taehyung started it.

To say he’s feeling a bit nervous would be a blatant understatement. As a matter of fact, Jimin is feeling so nervous that he has to physically restrain himself from biting his nails because if he’s learned one thing over the course of the past few years, it’s that audition juries pay attention to detail.

He’s sitting in the waiting room along with about 6 or 7 other men who are also auditioning for the part, and he tries really hard not to think about the fact that they’re all taller or more handsome than him. If Taehyung was here right now, he would probably smack him across the head for being so negative.

Jimin lets out a breath. He wishes Taehyung was here.

“Park Jimin?”

As soon as the woman calls his name, Jimin tells himself to swallow down his gut-wrenching fear and gets up from his seat. His legs are shaking so much he looks like he’s just learned how to walk; thankfully, the woman must be used to nervousness from contestants, as she simply gives him a gentle smile and ushers him into the room.

Three people are seated across from him. The man in the center, who Jimin assumes must be the director, is scribbling something onto a sheet of paper. The two women on his side are looking at him intently. The silence is genuinely deafening.

Jimin clears his throat and waits.

“Name?” the woman on the left asks. She keeps twirling a strand of reddish hair around her finger, and a gesture that should be completely common suddenly seems to unnerve Jimin even more.

Focus. Focus. “Park Jimin.”

“Age?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

He nods and tries for a smile, although he’s not too sure how that ends up coming out. The woman doesn’t comment on it, and he’s grateful for that. Concentrating on his breath coming in and out, on the wall in front of him, on anything that isn’t the jury looking at him half-expectantly, half-bored, Jimin opens his mouth and starts to sing.

Except he doesn’t make it past the first line that the man in the middle is already cutting him off, waving his hand in one of the rudest dismissive motion that Jimin has ever been subjected too, and as a budding actor, he’s definitely seen some things.

“Thank you, that’ll do.”

It takes Jimin a few seconds to find his voice, because of how utterly shell-shocked he is. “I’m- I’m sorry?”

“You can go. Thank you,” the man repeats, exasperation evident in his voice.

“It’s- I mean, I can do something else, if you’d like. Crying? Laughing? Death! I can do death, just-“

“No need for that. Please sir, you may now leave,” the woman interrupts him, and the look she gives him means that it isn’t in his best interest to argue right now. Jimin is this close to throwing his shoe at the man’s face, but he manages to give all three of them an obviously forced, strained smile, clenching his fists. One good thing about living in Seoul is the amount of self-control you acquire over the years.

“Thank you,” he says, and then leaves the room in three long strides. Suddenly, the waiting room feels a lot more suffocating than before, and he can’t bear to look at the dashing faces of all these men that are probably going to laugh about his mess of an audition once he’s out of the building. It’s sort of a commonly accepted truth amongst actors, that an audition that lasts less than one full minute is a failed one.

Jimin lasted exactly eight seconds.

The bus ride home, thankfully, helps him calm down a bit. He isn’t upset, not really at least. Just defeated. He’s long since stopped counting the number of auditions he’s gone to, because the success to failure ratio was constantly bringing him down. This is nothing new, and Jimin should be used to impolite and tactless directors, especially if he intends to build his career in this type of field.

Yet, he must’ve unintentionally packed some of his youthful innocence with him when he left Busan for Seoul, because if today is anything to go by, his heart is still too soft for the film industry.

Jimin realizes a second too late that he’s completely missed his stop, and that the bus is now going down a road he doesn’t recognize at all. Cursing under his breath, he takes his phone out of his pocket to check the time.

It’s a little before nine in the evening, which means Taehyung isn’t back from his friend’s house-warming party and can’t come pick him up. Plus, he’d specifically told Jimin he was planning on getting laid tonight, and even if he knows Taehyung would drop anything to come get him if he called, Jimin doesn’t have the heart to ruin his fun. At least one of them is having a good time.

Resolved to walk all the way back to his original stop, Jimin sighs and grabs his backpack, getting off the bus in a random block he’s never even heard of. Most of the stores are either closed or too raunchy-looking, out-of-order neon signs dangling from the archways like depressing Christmas lights. He’s pretty sure he sees a rat in the corner of his vision munching on some leftovers, and that is enough to set him back into motion.

Despite his surroundings, which are less than ideal for a nighttime stroll, Jimin walks at a leisurely pace. The events from this afternoon are still replaying in his head; the look on the jury’s face when he had stepped into the room, as though his chance was already over before it had even started. The stack of letters he has yet to open on the kitchen counter because he knows they’re probably all bills he doesn’t have enough money to pay. He thinks of his mother, whom he hasn’t called in too long. Of his friends, back in Busan, who had patted him on the back and told him to “go, go already, you brat. And visit us sometime, yeah?”

He almost starts to cry. Although summer is here, the weather is still a bit chilly outside, the temperature always dropping along with daylight, and his thin jacket does nothing to keep him warm. Pulling on his sleeves to cover his fingers, he realizes he’s reached his usual bus stop, and goes to take the left turn, already pining for his blessedly comfortable couch and a nice cup of hot chocolate (the diet can go to hell), when he hears it.

The piano must come from one of the bars that line the street, but at first, he can’t tell which one exactly. There’s a paan restaurant right behind him, with the door closed and the curtains drawn, but he’s been there once to celebrate Taehyung’s advertising breakout and he knows the place is too small to fit a piano. It might come from one of the apartments, but through the windows, he can see that all the lights are out, so he rules out this option as well.

Turning his head to look at the other side of the street, he sees a bar he doesn’t remember ever coming across. Did it open recently, or is he just that heedless of his neighborhood?

The sign above the entrance reads “The Smokehouse” in big, shining red letters. The door is slightly ajar, and an instant later, a woman pushes it open to step outside, the gust of wind she carries with her allowing the mellifluous playing to reach Jimin’s ears more clearly.

There is no mistaking it: the sound comes from this exact place, and as if caught in a trance, Jimin crosses the street quickly in order to reach it, barely remembering to look both ways. His feet seem to be moving of their own accord, and before he knows it, he has one hand on the door handle, the unmistakable smell of smoke and grilled meat hitting his nostrils.

He takes a second to think about it, then another, and finally steps inside before his mind can decide against it. The music is pulling him in, thin ropes wrapped tight around his chest, twirling his heart in a waltz. He vaguely registers a waiter coming up to him to ask something about a reservation, but his eyes are fixed on the sight that unravels before him.

The place is beautiful, there’s no denying it; round tables covered in white cloths are scattered across the carpeted floor, and wreaths adorn the wooden walls, colored a lustrous golden by the glass chandeliers. But despite the beauty of the architecture and decoration, Jimin’s eyes are trained on the grand piano that stands tall in the middle of the room, slightly elevated by a red velvet platform.

The melody sifts through the air like a lullaby, reducing the restaurateurs’ conversations to secondary background noise. Jimin slowly trails his eyes along the instrument, almost too scared to look up, but his curiosity is eating at him, and just when the song is starting to hit its climax, his gaze shifts to him.

The pianist.

Whatever Jimin had expected, this definitely wasn’t it. For one, the man is definitely younger than he would’ve first assumed judging by the accuracy of the playing. He’s clad in a plain, dark blue suit, nothing too extraordinary, but the fabric fits his shoulders snugly, embracing the curves and sharp edges of his frame. His tie is a bit undone, as if he’d run his hands one too many time over his collar to try and get some fresh air. Jimin can’t really see his hands, but the movement of his fingers is obviously deft and powerful enough to bounce a few pieces of dark hair off their nice styling.

And finally, his face. With almond, almost childlike eyes, and a round nose slightly on the bigger side, the man is one of the most beautiful that Jimin has ever seen, and he figures it’s only right that such an entrancing melody would be the product of his doing. The man’s posture is slightly slouched, his entire being thrown into his playing, yet his expression is blank, borderline bored.

Jimin looks around. None of the clients are really paying attention, too preoccupied with their food or the acquaintances sitting across from them. They twirl shimmering glasses of wine or sparkling champagne in their jeweled hands, and the women smile with mouths painted red. The spitting image of manufactured elegance.

Completely unlike what Jimin sees in front of him; the player, to his eyes, is a picture of raw, unadulterated delicacy. Under the ceiling lights, a thin sheen of sweat can be seen across his forehead and cheekbones, and Jimin, once again, finds himself breathless.

He feels entirely lost in time, suspended on a thread by the fleeting notes that escape the piano strings. He notices, then, that the man is starting to grow restless, throwing furtive glances at someone behind the bar. Craning his neck to get a better look, Jimin figures, by his outfit and slightly intimidating demeanor, that he must be the manager of the place.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts when the soft melody abruptly stops and springs into something a lot more upbeat. The transition is almost flawless: the man glides both of his hands across the keys in a rapid staccato, the notes climbing higher and higher, until he slams both palms down onto the instrument and starts losing himself to the music.

If his movements were a bit jittery before, an energy barely contained, it’s nothing compared to what they look like now. His body is twitching as if strung by an exogenous force, his head bopping contentedly to the rhythm of his fingers repeatedly hitting the keys. Eyes closed, neck bared, and foot stomping down onto the pedals in accordance with rules Jimin doesn’t understand in the least, the pianist looks- free. He looks free.

Jimin starts to approach him, just to get a closer look, maybe, or to hear him a bit better – but as soon as he takes a few steps forward, he’s stopped in his tracks by a man bumping his shoulder to walk past him. Jimin recognizes him as the manager from earlier, and he chooses to stand in place, silent, and observe the scene before him.

The manager puts his right foot down onto the platform but doesn’t climb it, and the dull thud is enough to startle the pianist, who immediately stops playing, putting both of his hands on his lap like a child that just got caught stealing from the cookie jar. Jimin is both endeared and anxious, because he has no idea what the guy did wrong. His playing is phenomenal, and any restaurant, however pricey, would be lucky to have him; that, Jimin is more than convinced of.

The two men have a conversation that seems a bit more heated on the manager’s side, and judging from their expressions, it looks like this is kind of a reoccurring issue for them. The pianist is looking down at the floor, a slight blush adorning his cheeks, although Jimin doubts it is due to the stifling warmth of the restaurant. He nods once, twice, sharply, and then the manager leaves.

Getting up from his dark leather stool, the man gathers his sheets, and hastily stuffs the tips left on the surface of the piano inside his pocket. Although no one is really paying attention to him, he seems to be doing his best to avoid eye contact of any kind with anyone. He steps down from the platform and makes his way towards the back exit.

Jimin jogs after him before his mind can really register what he’s doing.

The fresh outside air is a reprieve from the smell of food and tabasco that fills the restaurant. Jimin looks to his left and spots a dark figure hunched forwards on the ground, ruffling through some kind of shoulder bag. Although the light provided by the street lamp a few meters over is scarce, it is enough to recognize the traits that Jimin is ashamed to admit are already carved behind his eyelids.

Besides, who would hang around a dead-end in the middle of Gangnam at this hour, when the city is still buzzing and pulsing with life?

Jimin carefully walks up to the man. Only now does it occur to him that he has no clue on how to strike up a conversation; doesn’t even have the slightest idea what he intends to say to the guy. Hey, you’re probably the most talented pianist I’ve ever come across, and you’re also cute, explain?

During those times, he really wishes social interaction was as natural to him as it is to Taehyung. Or all of his other friends, for that matter.

There isn’t much time to wallow in self-pity, however, because he’s now standing right in front of who is, technically, still a complete stranger. Said complete stranger is actually looking up at him, hands still inside his bag, eyebrows slightly raised in question.

“Um, hey,” he starts, unsure. “I just heard you play, and I wanted to say that-“

“I don’t take requests,” the man cuts him off. He goes back to stuffing some of his last scores into the bag, pulling out a small water bottle that he greedily drinks out of.

It takes Jimin a moment to register what has just been said. “Excuse me?” he asks.

“I don’t take requests, I’m not interested.”

And in all honesty, any other day and Jimin would’ve just let it slide. He’s not interested in conflict, and he’s no stranger to people acting cold or arrogant towards him. He’d much rather leave and let the sour interaction drift to the back of his mind, than prolong it to save his wounded pride.

But today, he’s had enough of aloof bastards that think they can look down on his kindness and take it for granted. He’s reached his limit already, and this is the final straw.

“There’s no need to be rude,” he scorns. “I wasn’t even going to make a request. Do I look like someone who can afford to eat at a place like this? I just wanted to say that you’re the best goddamn pianist I’ve heard in my life, stop being so full of yourself.”

Jimin is aware that he probably looks ridiculous, getting so upset over something like this, spewing nonsense at a stranger’s face. He notices that his fists have clenched despite his will and he shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket to hide how affected he really is by this entire situation.

He knows that he should just leave now, go home like he should’ve done an hour ago, and he fully intends to do that when the voice of the man, still crouched down, stops him.

“You mean that?”

What really makes Jimin turn around, is how unsure and hopeful he sounds. He looks down, and even under the starless night sky, he can see a shimmer in the man’s eyes, something precious and fragile.

There’s no way that the guy isn’t aware of his own talent, though. He had played too well not to be aware of it. No one can let themselves go with so much trust if they don’t feel comfortable in their skill. Right?

“Well, I mean, yeah,” Jimin mumbles. This night has definitely taken an unexpected, strange turn, but he isn’t complaining. At least, his complete failure from earlier today is now the last thing on his mind. “You’re talented. I couldn’t take my eyes off you in there.”

When he sees the man smirk, he quickly adds, “I mean, because of the playing.” He almost succeeds in convincing himself.

“I’m Jungkook,” the guy says, standing up and extending his hand. Jimin shakes it, and tries not to think about how soft the skin feels against his own. He’s really been spending too much time holed up in his apartment.

“Jimin,” he says with a smile.

Jungkook reaches down for his bag, slinging it around his shoulder, and pats the dirt off his pants. The silence between them should feel uncomfortable, seeing as they don’t even know each other, but Jimin is too tired to care. He wants to go home, heat up some leftover pizza and maybe ask Taehyung for cuddles.

“Sorry for snapping at you,” Jungkook says sheepishly, scratching his neck in a nervous tick. He isn’t meeting Jimin’s eyes, for some reason, and the contrast between his attitude on the platform and what Jimin is seeing right now is astonishing. Perhaps a bit charming, even, but Jimin doesn’t let himself linger on it. “I get a lot of rude people, so that’s why I’m a bit on edge.”

“Yeah,” Jimin agrees, letting out a small laugh. “I do too.”

A sudden gust of wind makes unpleasant shivers course through his upper body, and he’s once again reminded of how late it actually is. Inside the restaurant, the sound of plates clinking and people laughing can still be heard, but here, the night is peaceful and quiet. Jimin feels his eyelids drop, exhausted from the day he’s had. There’s no way all of that happened in under twenty-four hours.

“You should probably head home.” He’s jolted out of his thoughts by Jungkook’s voice, a soft sound, as if to avoid putting an abrupt end to the moment they seem to be sharing. Or maybe it’s all in Jimin’s head.

“I should,” Jimin says, reluctant to open his eyes. “Do you live far from here?”

“A bit, but I parked nearby,” Jungkook answers. “Don’t worry about me.” There’s a glint in his eyes and his smile, Jimin finds, always seems to be a tad lopsided. He looks young, younger than him, but somehow, it doesn’t feel right to ask.

Jimin settles for teasing back. He’s tired, but he can feel that a game is being played, and he’s never been the type to sit still on the bench. “I wasn’t.”

They share a smile, and Jimin knows he should be home by now, should at least text Taehyung to tell him his whereabouts even though this very instant, his friend is probably dancing half naked on someone’s living room table.

He’s aware of that and yet, his feet stay rooted on the spot, until Jungkook gestures vaguely to something behind him with a jerk of his thumb. “Well, I, uh. I’m parked over there, so, yeah. I guess I’ll be going, then.” And the night may be dim, the street far from well-lit, but Jimin knows a blush when he sees one. Warmth spreads throughout his chest, and he wonders how many times he’s had his heartstrings pulled today. Probably one too many.

“Okay,” he says, quietly.

Jungkook looks at him for a moment longer, curious brown eyes searching him. For what, Jimin doesn’t know; and before he can read his look, the moment is gone and Jungkook is readjusting his bag on his shoulder, turning then walking towards what must be his car.

All the way back home, Jimin can’t concentrate on anything but the melody stuck in his mind. Highs, lows, flowing and spinning, crashing and whirling. He shakes his head, lips shaped around an incredulous smile.

When Jungkook gets back to his apartment, he expects it, for some reason, to feel a bit lonelier than usual. However, as he turns his keys into the lock and opens the door to step inside, he sees that the lights are already on, and judging by the sound, someone is ruffling papers somewhere inside the living room.

There is only one person who has the keys to Jungkook’s apartment, besides himself of course.

He walks into the main area and just as he had suspected, his older sister, Eunjae, is at the dining table, opening what looks like his dusty, one-week-old mail, sitting on his most precious stool as if it held no particular value of any sort.

Taking a deep breath to cool down, Jungkook throws his bag onto the floor haphazardly, making sure to create enough noise to startle his sister.

“Don’t sit on that. Hoagy Carmichael once sat on that.”

Eunjae looks up at him, her face completely void of emotion. “So what, you expect his talent to seep through the material and absorb into your ass?”

“For God’s sake, Eunjae,” he groans. “Just don’t sit on that, alright? There are plenty of other chairs!”

He lazily strolls to the fridge (which is once again depressingly empty) and takes a half-empty bottle of milk for lack of other choice.

“Yeah, and soon there won’t be, if you don’t start paying your rent at some point.”

They’ve had this conversation hundreds of times, thousands maybe, but she still won’t let up. Jungkook figures he should feel jaded, but honestly, he’s gotten kind of used to it. After all, he doesn’t get much company in this shabby old place, and despite her insufferable personality, he does love his sister.

But still. “Why are you here, Eunjae?”

She finally stops fiddling with the papers and heaves out a sigh. “What are you doing, Jungkook?”

“What do you mean, what am I doing?” he asks.

“I mean what are you doing! This is the third reminder you’ve received, you’re lucky the landlord hasn’t kicked you out yet.”

Jungkook wants to bite back, but he can’t deny she probably is right. Although this apartment is far from ideal, the heating works pretty well and he doesn’t know where he’d be if the owner decided to throw him out. There’s no way he’ll find a place this cheap, this close to the city center.

The silence stretches on for one or two minutes, and Eunjae is looking at him critically. He already knows what she’s thinking, and he braces himself for what’s about to come.

“Did you get fired again?”

Her eyes search his face for a moment, as if begging him to deny it, and when he doesn’t respond, she lets out another sigh, her shoulders slouching. Jungkook almosts prefers it when she’s berating him; at least, he doesn’t feel like such a disappointment.

“Look, little brother, you know I love you,” she says, gathering his unpaid pills into a small pile of shame. “But I can’t keep lending you money. I have a family, Kook.”

“I’ll pay you back,” he assures instantly. “The project’s going really well, I’ll be able to open the bar in no time, and as soon as the business starts growing, I’ll give you your money back, I swear. Could you just-“

“You’ve been saying that for two years already, and I’m as close to seeing your bar open as I am to becoming president, alright?”

“Can you please sit somewhere else, I can’t concentrate right now,” he asks again.

She gets up and takes the milk bottle from his hands, drinking straight out of it. Jungkook takes the stool into his arms protectively and puts it on top of his shelf – where it’s supposed to be.

“I don’t know, don’t you want to settle down at some point, Kook-ah?”

“I didn’t say that,” he mumbles. “I will someday, I just need to get this project going and then I’ll get to think about all of that stuff.”

“All of that stuff,” she repeats incredulously. Her eyes are still fixed on him, and Jungkook feels a bit uncomfortable under her gaze. Putting the bottle down, she grabs her coat from the table and gets ready to leave.

Every time she comes over (and the visits have been growing more frequent as of late), Jungkook is left with an indescribable feeling of complete failure. He knows she means well, but really, she should have more faith in him.

Before leaving, Eunjae pats Jungkook’s shoulder sympathetically, and his limp body moves back and forth with the gesture. “Cheer up, little brother. Get a job. And call mom, okay? You know how she worries, and I can't have the telephone waking the kids up.”

“I will,” he yields, suddenly feeling a lot more tired than he was when he came home.

She gives him a final pat and then walks out of the door.

Jungkook remains standing in the middle of the living room for a few moments longer, his mind lost between one thought or another. He looks around, and he feels like his soul is fleeing his body, staring at him from above and pointing its finger. Calling him an idiot.

He sighs resignedly and goes to sit at his piano. It’s much less glorious than the one at The Smokehouse, even if it hurts him to admit it. It’s a simple thing, pushed against the wall, all creaking wood and chipped edges. When his foot pushes against the pedals, the grating sound they make is almost loud enough to muffle the actual music pouring out of the instrument.

But he likes to think of it as rightly cherished, instead of ancient. His piano has been through some harsh stuff, after all, and it’s been a much better friend than any of the people he’s met.

He sets his vinyl player back, not bothering to change the album, and gets to work.

Because his mind is so unpleasantly clogged, the notes don’t come as easy as they usually do. A few times, his fingers stumble over the keys, like a child’s feet tripping over a crack in the pavement.

Nevertheless, he doesn’t let any of that discourage him; it isn’t his first time playing, and consequently, it certainly isn’t his first time messing up. He starts the record over, puts his hands back on the keys. Hums a few chords and tries to make the correct pitch travel from his mind, through his forearms and to his fingers.

Somehow, the song playing on the turntable keeps escaping him. There is another melody stuck in his head, one that won’t leave no matter how hard he tries. Highs and lows, an ebb and flow of gentle tones. A smile, a glance.

The record hits its end, faint white noise filling the room instead. Jungkook barely notices it; his fingers have found their way back to music, and he plays well into the night, until even the moon has fallen into deep slumber.

Jimin notices two things. First, he has a pounding headache that desperately calls for some good coffee and aspirin. Two, there is an overly warm, heavy weight on top of him that keeps wiggling, wrenching him from a pleasant dream.

He groans and his eyes flutter open, before immediately closing again due to the brightness of the room. Barely awake, he manages to get out an almost unintelligible, “Tae,” before rolling over to try and throw his friend’s body off him. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work, mostly because of his poor muscle coordination.

“You’re awake!” Tae exclaims. His voice is too loud, and his smile too bright. Jimin wants to sleep for a few minutes more. Scratch that – a few lifetimes more would be good.

“Why do you keep coming to my bed,” he complains, and his parched throat itches displeasingly.

“Oh, grumpy grumpy,” Taehyung jokes. He’s still on top on Jimin, and once again, decides to abuse his position by nuzzling his face into the juncture between Jimin’s neck and shoulder. His cold nose feels ticklish, and despite his horrific mood, Jimin can’t help but laugh softly.

“I’m not kidding, Tae,” he says, although his giggles sort of invalidate that statement. “Get off me, ‘m sleepy. Wanna sleep forever.”

“Do you, now? What about me though?”

“What about you?”

“Well, I mean, you can’t choose sleep over me,” Taehyung says matter-of-factly.

Jimin gives him a blank stare. “I just did.”

Taehyung whines and starts wiggling on top of him again, his uncontrollable movements slowly pushing the covers off Jimin’s body and exposing his skin to the coldness of the room. Groaning again, he tries pushing at Taehyung’s shoulder with his hands, but misses and hits the side of his face instead.

“I made pancakes,” Taehyung tells him, pulling out his last weapon.

There is a silent pause, during which they both just stare into each other’s eyes. Taeyung wiggles his eyebrows a few times, as if he already knows exactly how things are about to turn out, and Jimin gives in. He heaves his body into a sitting position, and smiles at Taehyung’s small exclamation of joy.

“You’re a menace, Kim Taehyung,” Jimin tells him.

Taehyung only hums, and makes his way to the kitchen, Jimin in tow.

The smell of freshly made dough and syrup that fills the room is almost divine, and Jimin suddenly feels a lot more awake. He scratches his hair a few times, doesn’t find it in him to care about how he looks right now, and makes grabby hands at Taehyung who is currently filling two plates with delicious-looking, buttery pancakes.

After finally getting his plate, he sits at the kitchen counter and immediately starts shoving worryingly consequent amounts of food into his mouth, Taehyung standing across from him, smiling affectionately.

“You look like you haven’t eaten in months,” he remarks.

“Close to that,” Jimin answers with his mouth full. A trail of syrup dribbles down his chin, and he lets it be, once again unbothered.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, before Taehyung finally speaks up again. “I’m sorry your audition didn’t go well, Jiminie.”

It takes a moment for Jimin to answer, but eventually, he finds he’s not as upset over it as he was yesterday. “’s okay. Not the first time, you know? Probably not the last time, either.”

Taehyung nods sympathetically; despite his many years of training, he’s had to face his fair share of rejection too. It’s one of the many reasons they’ve grown so attached to each other: they’ve always supported each other through thick and thin when it comes to auditions, and when one of them makes it, there is absolutely no jealousy involved. They both want to be successful, but it wouldn’t mean anything without a friend to share the experience.

Taehyung puts his plate down loudly, startling Jimin, who looks up at him with his fork half-raised to his mouth. His shoulders are set in determination. “There’s a party tonight. Itaewon. We’re going.”

“Again?” Jimin asks. “Aren’t you still tired from yesterday?”

“A bit,” Taehyung admits, “but you need to get your mind off that jerk of a director, and you know there’s nothing that good alcohol and loud music can’t cure.” His smile is a bit wicked, and Jimin is suddenly reminded what a party with Taehyung means.

It means all hell breaks loose, basically.

“I don’t know, Tae,” Jimin says, looking down at his food, pushing his pancakes around. “I was thinking of going straight home after work, get some rest, you know?”

“Pleaaaase,” Taehyung begs, whipping out the puppy eyes. “For me?”

Jimin curses his heart for being so weak to cute things. And right now, with his too-short duck pajamas, his chaotic morning bedhead and the few crumbs of pancake at the corner of his mouth, Taehyung is exactly that.

“Alright,” Jimin concedes, already regretting his decision.

“Yes!” Taehyung exclaims, breaking into a small victory dance. Jimin can’t help but laugh at his ridiculous friend’s behavior, and although he’s mostly over yesterday’s mess of an audition, he figures letting loose a little won’t hurt him.

“And hey,” Taehyung adds with a grin, “you might even find the love of your life.”

Jimin snorts and goes back to eating his breakfast. “Who would that even be?”

Taehyung shrugs and brings an entire pancake to his mouth. “Who knows? Someone in the crowd could be waiting for you.”

The sun is filtering through the curtains, bathing the kitchen in a soft, yellowish glow, and Jimin lets his mind wander somewhere else, as he often tends to do in the wee hours of the morning. He thinks back to last night’s events, and abruptly realizes he hadn’t even asked for the pianist’s – Jungkook, if he remembers correctly – number.

It takes all of Jimin’s willpower and then some to fill his shift today, but he has no other choice. His coworker is sick and can’t cover for him, and Yoongi will have his skin if he leaves him alone at the counter to deal with the obnoxious half-celebrities again.

Namyangju is as busy as ever, people coming into the shop left and right to request difficult orders and ask for all sorts of pastries according to their respective, pretentious diet. He’s not kidding: it isn’t past 10am yet, and he’s already had two ladies come up to him to demand a refund because peanuts aren’t metabolism friendly. What does that even mean? Why order a peanut-chocolate muffin then?

Jimin has many questions, but he keeps his mouth shut, smiles politely and fiddles with the cash register like a grade A employee.

When it’s finally time for his break, he takes off his ugly apron and goes to the back kitchens. Taemin, one of his coworkers, is heating up a batch of fudge cookies, and Yoongi is sat at a small table in the corner they use for lunch. Nothing too luxurious, but the microwave works well and compared to working the counter, this is practically heaven.

He sits across from Yoongi; or more accurately, slumps into the chair with a huff. His manager pays him no mind, writing some illegible gibberish down onto the notebook he always seems to be carrying with him, his hand frantic as it glides across the paper.

“What are you writing?” Jimin asks.

“Composition’s got me going mad,” Yoongi answers briefly. He always mumbles his answers, but Jimin’s been getting better and better at deciphering them since their first meeting. He practically doesn’t need to read his lips anymore.

Jimin blinks. “You compose?”

Yoongi looks up at him for half a second, then starts writing again. “Yeah. You didn’t know?”

“No.”

Jimin feels a bit dumb now. They’ve known each other for three years at least, and while they might not be exceptionally close, he likes to think that they’re friends. Good friends, even. Working those kinds of jobs creates strong bonds. And yet, Jimin had no idea Yoongi was a writer. A composer, at that.

“What genre?” he inquires.

“Rap. Sometimes slam.”

Jimin hums appreciatively. Now that Yoongi’s said it, he can totally picture it. He’s always had a way with words, and he’s quick witted, too. Not afraid to speak his mind, heedless of the consequences. This is why he appears much taller than he actually is: his confidence makes his presence a lot more imposing.

“I used to write,” Jimin says, his lips curling into a wistful smile. He’s not sure Yoongi had intended to engage in an actual conversation, but Jimin’s always been too chatty for his own good. Back in elementary school, his teachers would always make him sit alone, because he couldn’t stop disturbing the class with his weird stories that most often didn’t make sense.

“Poems?”

“Plays.”

That seems to catch Yoongi’s attention, because he looks up at him with interest. He slowly twirls his pen around his fingers and takes a sip from his cup of coffee.

“Why’d you stop?” he asks.

“I’m not sure,” Jimin answers truthfully. “Nothing sounded too good. I was young, anyway. The stories probably didn’t make any sense.” He laughs at himself.

Yoongi doesn’t. “That’s stupid. You can’t be both the writer and the critic.”

Jimin shrugs. “Don’t you ever feel like everything you write is just pure crap?”

“All the time.”

Yoongi closes his notebook and finally focuses his entire attention on Jimin, who feels a bit exposed under his gaze. Only a handful of years separate them, yet whenever they talk, Jimin always feels like he’s barely just made it into the world. He doesn’t know much about Yoongi’s past, but his eyes tell him enough to know that it must be loaded. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, Jimin figures. It’s just the way it is.

“If you like something, you shouldn’t give it up. Why do you keep going to auditions, even when it doesn’t work out?”

Jimin doesn’t answer, but they both know Yoongi has gotten his point across.

Just then, Jimin’s phone starts ringing, and Yoongi takes that as his cue to leave. He gathers his cup and notebook, taking the apron from the back of his chair.

“Think about it,” he tells Jimin pointedly, and exits the back kichens to get back to work.

Taehyung had called Jimin just an hour earlier to give him the exact location of the party, and Jimin barely has enough time to go home and change before he’s getting on the bus, legs bouncing in excitement. He might’ve been sceptic at first, but he hasn’t been to a party in ages, too busy balancing his work at the shop and the auditions.

He’s put a lot of effort into his appearance, black hair neatly parted in the middle and dark crayon making his eyes look more prominent. He’s wearing ripped jeans and a simple black shirt under a baby blue bomber jacket, and he knows, objectively, that he looks good. He’s not ashamed to admit it; learning to love himself had been a long process, and now that he’s more or less reached the end of it, he has no intention of going backwards.

As planned, Taehyung is waiting for him outside the building where the party is supposed to take place. Jimin has no idea who the host actually is; all he knows is that he’s one of Taehyung’s old friends from high school, and that a band had been hired specifically for the occasion. Also, free buffet.

After those two words were uttered, all hesitation had basically left Jimin’s mind.

“How do I look?” he asks once he reaches Taehyung, opening his arms and doing a small twirl.

Taehyung smiles proudly. “Ready to kill. Let’s get in, my ass was about to freeze out here waiting for you.”

“Sorry,” Jimin says with a laugh.

Taehyung enters the code his friend probably gave him in advance, and they both step inside the lot. Before they even reach the right floor, Jimin can already hear some kind of generic pop song playing, barely muffled by the walls and closed doors. There is smoke coming out of what he assumes is the correct flat, gradually filling the hallway.

Taehyung knocks twice, and the door is thrown open widely by someone they both don’t know, who disappears back into the crowd just as quickly as he'd popped out of it. Sharing a laugh, they both enter the apartment and close the door behind them.

Jimin takes a moment to assess his surroundings. The room is huge, bathed in a subtle blue light and the smoke coming out of the stage at the back is making his vision a bit hazy. He shoulders his way through the crowd, and at some point, a glass is handed to him. He takes it, mumbles a thanks in what he thinks is the general direction of the hired waiter, and doesn’t drink from it yet.

Disco balls hang from the ceiling, blasting various colors onto the white walls and making the place seem even more delirious; the entire atmosphere, in fact, is quite surreal, and Jimin is starting to feel better already. His worries are washed away, and he laughs at a middle-aged man’s enthusiastic dancing. Taehyung has already been snatched away by some dude Jimin’s never seen, probably another friend he doesn’t know the existence of, but for now, he doesn’t really mind.

It feels nice to be a stranger in a room full of dancing people.

Pushing his way forward, he finally reaches the stage, which barely lives up to the name – a red line has been drawn with tape on the floor, delimitating the area reserved for the band. It’s right next to the bar, and most people seem more interested in getting their drinks refilled than looking at the show. The band was probably hired as a background mood setter.

The music stops, and a few guests clap.

“Thank you guys, thank you so much,” the main singer says into the mic. Only now does Jimin take the time to actually look at the band a bit more closely, and his heart almost stops in his chest.

He’s here. The pianist. Jungkook.

He’s actually here, dressed in a ridiculous red suit with a dotted bowtie. He’s in charge of the synth, meaning he has to remain stood up, and that gives Jimin the opportunity to really assess how blatantly laughable his costume is.

“Do we have any more requests? Anything, really. Don’t be shy!” the singer continues.

Jimin is completely frozen in place. He’s not sure he’s even breathing. This entire situation seems so improbable, and yet there is no mistaking it: there Jungkook is, staring out into the small crowd with a pained look on his face. He looks like he wants to be anywhere but here.

Before Jimin can talk himself out of it, he raises his hand. “I do!”

The band looks over at him in a collective motion, but Jimin keeps his eyes fixed on Jungkook. He’s waiting for that small spark of recognition in Jungkook’s eyes, and when he sees it, he sends him his most dashing smile. Jungkook squints in suspicion. 

“I Ran, by A Flock of Seagulls,” Jimin announces confidently.

Jungkook’s eyes widen, and Jimin has to try really hard not to burst into hysterical laughter. Thankfully, he keeps his composure, and Jungkook sends him a strained smile, jaw clenched.

Jimin suddenly feels like thanking Taehyung a thousand times over for inviting him.

“What a great suggestion!” the singer exclaims. “Always good to go back to the classics. Right? Hit it up, Jungkook!”

Jimin has to bite his lip to contain his smile. Jungkook briefly breaks eye contact to look back at his bandmate, and the simple act of bringing his hands to the keys seems to cause him a considerate amount of pain. Regardless, he starts playing, and the drums resonate throughout the room. Jimin can feel the bass pulsing within his very chest.

Making sure Jungkook can see him, he starts to dance, movements purposefully ridiculous. Mouthing the lyrics along with the singer, he keeps his eyes trained on Jungkook during the entire song, and he can’t remember when was the last time he had this much fun.

“I walked along the avenue,” he mouths, “I never thought I’d meet a girl like you.” He gestures at himself then, before waving his hand around bashfully, as if saying “oh, stop it, you”. He makes the most absurd faces at Jungkook, and eventually, he catches him smiling discreetly, teeth showing almost despite himself.

When the song comes to an end, Jimin has a hard time catching his breath from how hard he’s laughing, running his fingers through his hair to keep it off his now mildly sweaty forehead. He throws Jungkook one last glance before walking over to the bar, finally downing the drink the guy had given him earlier. He orders another and sits comfortably on one of the stools with his back to the bartender, leaning his weight on his elbows to look out into the crowd.

Minutes go by, and eventually, the band takes a small break, the loud noise dying out to let people get to know each other a bit more.

If it wasn’t for the bright red suit, he probably wouldn’t have noticed Jungkook walking up to him.

“Apple martini,” he hears him ask the bartender. Jungkook remains stood up, and Jimin notices that even though he’s technically quite elevated, they’re both still almost the same height. He hadn’t necessarily noticed that Jungkook was taller than him, that first night. Isn’t really sure what to make of it.

Jungkook turns around too, looking at the guests formed in small groups, each of them probably catching up with their old pals.

“I Ran. Should’ve expected it, coming from you.”

Jimin bites back a smile and stares at Jungkook’s profile. The blue lighting of the room accentuates the round edge of his nose and the arched shape of his lips. “You mean it’s not your favorite song?”

Jungkook turns his head to look at him, and his expression is quite hard to tell. Just like that first night. “I’m a musician. How can you ask a serious musician to play something like that?”

“A serious musician, uh,” Jimin hums appreciatively. “I told you not to be too full of yourself,” he says with a teasing smile.

Jungkook scoffs, but there is no venom to it. He grabs his drink from the counter, thanking the barista, and then turns back to him. “What do you do, then?”

Jimin doesn’t really know why, but it takes him a few moments of hesitation before he finally answers. “I’m an actor.”

“An actor.”

“Yeah, an actor,” Jimin confirms, before adding, a bit reluctantly, “Part-time barista, I guess.” He’s only interacted with this guy twice so far, and yet all they’ve done is send harmless jabs to each other. For some reason, it makes Jimin smile. It feels like whatever he throws at Jungkook, the latter will throw right back at him.

“A barista,” Jungkook repeats, staring at him with a blank look on his face.

“Is it a serious musician thing to just sort of repeat everything, or is that just you?”

“No, it’s just,” Jungkook starts, pausing to take a long gulp from his drink. “I can see how you’re looking down on me from all the way up there.”

At that, Jimin punches his shoulder in mock offence, and they both share a laugh. It’s a nice feeling; that of being able to poke fun at somebody, and yet laugh together, not at each other. It’s not something Jimin is entirely used to, but he thinks that with some time, he could definitely get there.

“Funny how we ran into each other again,” Jimin says after a few moments of comfortable silence. His glass is almost empty by now, and upon looking out into the crowd, he notices that the band’s break seems to be over and each member is getting ready to perform again. For now, though, Jungkook doesn’t show any intention of moving. “Think it might be fate or something?”

Jungkook mulls it over for about half a second. “I mean, no, not really.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jimin can still make out Jungkook’s profile, and he wonders if he’s the one drawing that faint smile on his lips. And if so, what it is about their every interaction that seems to be so amusing.

“Aren’t you actors always too sentimental, though? I bet you think I took this job specifically so that I could run into you again.”

“Well, I’d sure be flattered to see you wear this aberration for me, but no, I don’t think so.”

“Good. Cause I didn’t. I’m a free spirit.”

Jimin opens his mouth to retort something when the singer from the hired band suddenly makes his way across the room, heading towards them. He recognizes Jimin as the one who had made the request earlier, and gives him a warm smile before turning to Jungkook.

“We’re back in two minutes, get ready,” he tells him, patting his chest before jogging back to the stage.

They both watch him leave in silence, and Jimin has a hard time containing his laughter. He does his best to keep a straight face, but he thinks Jungkook can tell his shoulders are slightly shaking.

Jungkook clears his throat. “He can’t tell me what to do, technically.”

“He kinda did, though.”

“See, you’d think that, but-“

“Jeon!”

Jungkook curses under his breath and puts his drink back onto the counter. Watching him struggle a bit with his costume, trying to readjust his hideous bowtie, is enough of a distraction to Jimin, who doesn’t bother hiding the fact that he’s staring. And laughing. Which he seems to be doing a lot of, tonight.

Jungkook is on his way to join the band for the second part of the show when he abruptly pauses in his steps. After second thought, he quickly turns around, and hurries back to Jimin’s side.

“Actually,” he says, a bit breathless.

“Yes?” Jimin asks, hiding a smile behind his hand.

There is a glint in Jungkook’s eyes as he looks back at him. “Do you- I mean. Could I maybe get your number? You know, since we agree that fate is a scam and all that.”

Jimin carries the smile Jungkook gives him after he hands him his phone all the way back to his apartment, an inebriated Taehyung hanging off his shoulder, hollering at honking cars that shoot past them.

–

autumn

–

They don’t go back to The Smokehouse. It’s too expensive, the food isn’t that great despite its unreasonably high price, and Jungkook shudders at the mere thought of seeing his old manager’s face again. They don’t go back to the Itaewon apartment, either. Despite Taehyung’s friend apparently throwing parties every second day, there’s too much noise to actually talk, and it just doesn’t fit them.

Instead, Jungkook takes Jimin to the one place that had welcomed him with open arms when his family had chosen to cut him off because of his “irresponsible choices” and “unrealistic career goals”.

The Lighthouse Café.

The façade, to be fair, suggests nothing much: a bland brick wall, a neon sign with the bar’s name on it that’s missing a few letters here and there. The door is quite hard to open from the outside, and the place is almost impossible to find by GPS. Jungkook, however, knows his way by heart.

They choose a table right across from the stage, and because of its small, circular surface, Jungkook can almost see every single detail of Jimin’s face if he really concentrates, which he tries not to do, both for his own sanity and out of concern for his well-learned manners.

The band is incredible tonight; as always, really. Every time they stop between songs, Jungkook gets up from his chair and claps loudly for a full minute. He doesn’t notice Jimin sending him amused, fond little looks, and he sits back down with a blissful sigh.

Boris Vian once wrote that life pretty much comes down to two things: love, all sorts of love, with pretty girls or pretty boys, and jazz music. And everything else ought to go, because everything else is ugly.

Never has Jungkook found a statement to be more truthful.

He takes a sip from his beer, and turns to face Jimin. When he finds him already looking back, a playful look in his eyes, he can’t help but smile.

“What?” he asks. He hopes the dimmed lights are enough to hide the blush he can already feel creeping up his neck. For some reason, being close to Jimin always messes with his basic human abilities.

Jimin looks at him for a bit longer without answering. “You know,” he finally says, “I don’t really like jazz that much.”

Jungkook pauses. “Sorry?”

Jimin lets out a laugh and leans back in his chair. “I said, I don’t really like jazz music.”

“What do you mean, you don’t like jazz music?”

“I mean I hate it.”

He can’t help but stare at Jimin incredulously; this is the most absurd thing he’s ever heard.

“You can’t just hate jazz music,” he scoffs. “If you do, it means you haven’t heard it.”

“Well, I do take the elevator quite often, so I’d say-“

“The- Oh my god, Jimin,” he cuts him off. “Jazz is more than just background music. Jazz is about a multitude of ethnic groups coming together – New Orleans, Europe, people gathering around port cities and building this- this thing, this harmony, completely constructed out of their individual differences. We’ve been struggling for centuries to achieve world peace, but jazz has done that already, a long time ago.”

Pausing briefly to catch his breath, he then continues, “Look around you. Look at the stage.”

Jimin turns his head to do as he’s told. “See the sax? See the bass, the trombone, the piano? They all come from different backgrounds, with different sounds, and right now, they’re all doing their own thing. It’s like they’re alone on stage, but they’re not. They’re not paying attention to anything besides their own instrument, and yet they’re still playing together, creating this perfect balance, against all odds.”

He looks at Jimin who’s still observing at the stage, and tries to convey how he really feels about this through his stare. His heart is beating a frantic rhythm inside his chest, and he doesn’t know why he still feels so intensely about this after all those years.

He just really, really needs him to understand.

When the musicians stop again to take a small break, Jimin finally looks back at him. A small smile is playing on his lips, and Jungkook finds himself wanting to break open the shell covering his mind and unravel the thoughts that bloom inside this beautiful head of his. He always feels like Jimin only says half of what he really thinks. Maybe less.

“So?” he prompts, because the silence is starting to make him feel jittery. “What do you think?”

Jimin is still grinning softly. “I think people look prettiest when they talk about something that makes them feel passionate.”

For an entirely different reason this time, Jungkook feels his heart trip over its own feet, and he quickly drops his gaze back down to his drink, not missing the sweet, airy laugh Jimin lets out at his obvious embarrassment.

This is new territory to Jungkook, and he isn’t sure yet how to react. Ever since they met, time has been a whirlwind of shared fruity drinks, bashful smiles and unrelenting banter. Hurried mornings because of how little sleep he’d gotten the night before talking to Jimin on the phone, half-registered work shifts because he can’t keep his thoughts from running to the warm eyes of a somebody. 

He’s still trying to come up with a way to keep the conversation going, or to compliment Jimin on how good he looks today (just like any other day, but that’s beside the point), or simply to make it seem like he’s not the huge nerd Jimin probably thinks he is by now, when a face he hasn’t seen in years suddenly shows up at their table.

“Namjoon?”

Jimin looks up to the guy who’d walked up to them, all tall, lanky limbs and baggy clothes. Then, curiosity obvious in his features, he looks back down at Jungkook, who still can’t believe what he’s actually seeing.

“Jungkook, oh my god, hey,” the guy says, awkwardly extending his hand towards him, like he has no idea what the proper etiquette is for coming across an old friend you didn’t think you’d ever see again.

Jungkook feels just as weird, but he quickly accepts his handshake, and Namjoon takes this opportunity to pull him up to his feet.

He’s still holding onto his hand when he asks, “I haven’t seen you around in so long, man. What have you been up to?”

Jungkook is still a bit lost. Despite how many years it’s been (was it five? Six?), Namjoon hasn’t changed that much. He’s gotten a bit taller, which Jungkook didn’t think was actually possible, and now has more than a few centimeters over him.

“Nothing much, I guess,” Jungkook answers, eyes comically wide. He can confidently say he hadn’t expected this turn of events. “Playing gigs here and there, you know how it is.”

Namjoon smiles warmly, and finally lets go of his hand. “Yeah, I know. Got yourself a band, then?”

“Uh, no, just me this time,” Jungkook says. He chances a look at Jimin, who’s quietly following their conversation, occasionally taking a sip from his drink. Jungkook wonders whether or not he should make introductions.

Thankfully, Namjoon saves him from having to decide upon this. “That’s cool too, man, you do your thing,” he says, patting him a bit too hard on the shoulder.

Jungkook just nods and smiles, unsure what to make of this entire situation.

“I actually gotta get going right now, but let’s have a drink sometime, yeah? We should catch up and all that. I didn’t even know you lived this close to the city.”

“Yeah, I’d like that,” Jungkook says, smiling politely.

They quickly say their goodbyes, and Namjoon nods at Jimin in salutation before walking off in what Jungkook assumes is the general direction of the exit. He’s still a tad too disoriented to really care.

He sits back down at the table, completely lost in his thoughts.

He’s busy tracing the outline of his beer bottle with a finger when Jimin finally speaks up, voice soft.

“Who was that?” he asks.

“Old friend,” Jungkook answers without looking up.

Jimin hums, but he doesn’t push it, and Jungkook is grateful for that.

They drive back home with the windows completely rolled down, and the night wind feels pleasant as it ruffles their hair. Jimin’s cheeks have turned a bit red because of the ever slightly present cold, and it baffles Jungkook how someone can be so adorable yet so sinfully enticing at the same time.

He’s never been to Jimin’s block yet, so he follows his instructions carefully. Although the night is still young, the clock on his dashboard reading a little past midnight, he can hear Jimin’s voice getting quieter and quieter as it guides him through the busy city streets, until his head finally lolls back towards the headrest of his seat, and he lets out a soft snore.

Jungkook turns down the radio so as to not wake him. When he comes across a red light, he takes the opportunity to get a better look at Jimin.

They’ve been seeing each other quite frequently as of late, but he’s never really had the chance to look at him properly – not like this, anyway. Either they’re hanging out at a party or at a bar, their features concealed by the heavy lighting, either Jungkook feels too shy to look at Jimin directly. Mostly the latter.

Jimin’s black, tousled hair is getting longer than when he’d first met him, coming down to his eyelashes as he sleeps. His cheeks still have that childlike aspect to them, round and a bit chubby, but something about him is indescribably manly – perhaps in his stance, his confidence, or simply the way he talks, like he knows fully well who he is and doesn’t plan on changing that any time soon. It’s one of the most attractive thing Jungkook has ever seen.

He has quite a few piercings; four on his left ear, three on his right. A nice contrast to the overall softness of his face.

His lips, too – pink, full and plump, and Jungkook tries not to think about how they would feel against his neck.

A car honks from somewhere behind him, and Jungkook looks up sharply only to see that the light has turned green. Smiling sheepishly at his rearview mirror, he revs up the engine and does his best to remember the directions Jimin had mumbled to him in a sleepy voice a few minutes earlier.

The drive isn’t all that long – Jungkook takes note of how little time it actually takes to go from Jimin’s apartment to The Lighthouse, how practical it’d be to meet up there more often instead of going further into town. That is, if Jimin wants to keep meeting up, of course.

He files it away with all the important information he’s gathered about Jimin so far. Like the fact that Jimin had found out he wanted to be an actor because of a random interview he’d read in the newspaper about living multiple lives. Jungkook had teased him endlessly for that one, only stopping when Jimin had threatened to throw his drink at him.

Or like the fact that Jimin is the sweetest looking boy you could probably ever come across, but he most likely takes his alcohol stronger than you.

Or like the fact that this spark they’ve been entertaining between them has started to grow into something just a tiny bit bigger.

Jimin mumbles something intelligible in his sleep and shifts a bit so that his head can rest against the window, jostling with every slight bump in the road. It takes all of Jungkook’s willpower to keep his eyes fixed on the road and stop them from drifting to the boy asleep beside him.

Jimin starts to shift unconsciously again, obviously trying to ease into a better position, letting out small whimpers when he can’t seem to get comfortable. Jungkook chances another glance at him, sees the frown slowly forming on his forehead, and without really thinking twice, he starts to hum a lullaby.

He makes sure to keep his voice quiet, almost hushed, so as to not wake him.

“City of stars,” he sings, “are you shining just for me?”

Beside him, Jimin breathes out a sigh, and finally relaxes into his seat.

“City of stars, there’s so much that I can’t see.”

Jungkook takes the left turn, still humming gently under his breath, his lips barely forming the words.

“Who knows?

I felt it from the first embrace I shared with you,”

He finally pulls up to what he’s almost sure is Jimin’s building.

“That now, our dreams

They’ve finally come true.”

When he turns to gingerly shake Jimin awake, he sees a small, delicate smile on his lips – something so light, the pitch-black night almost manages to steal it away. 

Lately, Jimin hasn’t been following his rigorous morning routine as dutifully as he should be, despite it having proved itself quite efficient over the last few years. He’s been going out more than usual, meeting up with Jungkook or taking additional shifts at work to be able, precisely, to afford going out this much.

When he stumbles into the kitchen and the neon blue digits on the microwave tell him it’s already past nine, he groans and thanks the heavens that he’s not in charge of the morning shift today.

He’s trying to get their coffee machine to work, just like every other morning (he adds that to the list of things he really needs to get fixed), when a sharp, deliberate cough almost makes him jump out of his skin.

His hands fumble uncontrollably with the mug he’d been trying to maneuver under the filter and he whips around, only to be met with the sight of none other than Yoongi, clad in a grey t-shirt that’s obviously too big to belong to him and a pair of clashing red boxers.

Jimin honestly wishes this would come as more of a surprise, but to be frank, he’s lost count of how many times he’s stumbled upon Yoongi walking around their apartment with unsettling ease and effortlessness in the last month.

He blinks drowsily up at his manager, who nods at him in curt greeting, before shrugging and turning back to the coffee machine.

A minute later, Taehyung comes out of his room, already too chirpy for what Jimin is ready to deal with right now. And to think that he only had one beer yesterday.

“Minnie, other Minnie,” Taehyung smiles in greeting, pulling every single cupboard door open in search for quick food. To his credit, he definitely looks more presentable than the other two, evenly ironed white shirt safely tucked into a pair of black slacks, his straight, shiny brown hair coming down nicely onto his forehead.

Jimin looks down at himself: swimming shorts he’d used as pajamas because he couldn’t be bothered to do the laundry last week, and a washed-out hoodie from his old high school that looks like it’s been through some tough shit.

He sighs.

“Who’s the other Minnie?” Yoongi asks, his voice still groggy with sleep. When Taehyung brandishes a box of precooked crepes triumphantly, he snatches one instantly and lazily strolls back towards the living room table.

“You,” Taehyung answers with a wink.

“Please,” Yoongi scoffs. “If anything, I’m the original Minnie,” he adds around his mouthful.

Jimin would argue, but he’s honestly feeling too tired for overbearing flirty banter today. He’s not sure when this Taehyung and Yoongi thing started developing into something more serious; only remembers Yoongi’s cheeks flushing a tiniest bit darker whenever he would mention his roommate at work, even weeks after he’d formally introduced them. And perhaps it should feel awkward, but for some reason, it doesn’t.

The only thing that matters is that they’re both happy, and the way Taehyung is leaning over Yoongi’s chair, his arms locked tightly around his neck in a purposefully suffocating lock as he blows raspberries on his cheek is enough for Jimin to know he needn’t worry about this part.

Detaching his eyes from the lovey-dovey mess going on in his living room, at such an ungodly hour of the morning (he chooses not to check the microwave again), Jimin turns back around and opts for fiddling with the coffeemaker a bit more. He’s starting to get just a tad frustrated when a loud honk resonates from outside, vibrating through the thin walls of their moderate apartment.

It’s the second time he’s felt his heart jump unpleasantly in his chest today, and usually, Jimin hates the uneasy sensation that comes with blaring, loud noises, but before he can protest, he’s hit with the realization that he recognizes the exact pitch of this honk. And it makes him feel a bit stupid, yes; but mostly giddy.

He looks out the tiny window right above the sink that they haven’t been able to open since they moved in, and just as he had expected, a car he’s become all too accustomed with is parked right in front of his building, the sunlight shining down upon it just so that he can make out Jungkook’s silhouette in the driver side.

Something warm and sugary wraps around his heart, and suddenly, all thoughts of sleep and lazing around the apartment all day are gone from his head, probably miles away already.

“Is this gonna be a regular thing now?” he hears Taehyung joke behind him. Yoongi lets out a snort and takes another bite out of his most likely expired crepe.

Outside, Jungkook reaches across the passenger side and pushes the door open from the inside. Jimin still can’t see his face, but right there, sitting comfortably on the otherwise empty seat (his seat), is a to-go cup of coffee waiting for him.

Jimin shakes his head incredulously, and a fond smile is pulling at his lips despite himself.

“I think so, yeah,” he says.

Ever since he lost his job, Jungkook has been taking some time to work on his own compositions and develop his personal style. It’s a heavy process, getting to the core of what makes you a unique piano player, finding that one idiosyncrasy that makes you special, and conveying that through a series of overused notes.

But it’s one he enjoys, and so he doesn’t mind staying holed up inside his apartment for days on end, relying on delivery food and energy drinks to keep him going. Plus, this way, he gets to make room for all of Jimin’s breaks from work, and that is one powerful incentive.

He’s been wanting to show him this movie ever since Jimin said he didn’t like jazz music – which Jungkook still perceives as a felony, but he agrees to let it go for now. Damn him for being so weak when it comes Jimin’s infectious laughter and pretty saccharine smiles.

Rebel without a cause doesn’t get much screenings anymore, because of its old release date, but Jungkook knows a few cinemas that like to hang onto the good old classics like a lifeline. He pays for both of their tickets, ignoring Jimin’s protests and relishing the soft blush that colors his cheeks at the gesture.

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen this,” Jungkook says as they settle down onto their seats, right in the middle of the room because he made sure to choose the most vacant time slot, between seven and nine o’clock when families are still having dinner and teenagers are still out doing God knows what.

“I knew you’d go all fake hipster on me,” Jimin sighs, feigning disappointment despite the smile he can’t quite seem to conceal.

“But it’s a classic!” Jungkook retorts, and before he can get any other word out, Jimin is cuddling into his side, placing his head on Jungkook’s shoulder and hooking their arms together. All trains of thought pretty much die out in Jungkook’s head after that.

He can smell the faint, fruity scent of Jimin’s shampoo and a few tufts of hair tickling the side of his neck, which Jungkook would actually find annoying if it were anyone else. But it isn’t anyone else.

This is Jimin sitting impossibly close to him, like the couples he’d always stare at in public with a curious look on his face, because while he’s not against PDA in anyway, he’s never really understood why people can’t seem to keep their hands off each other for more than a second. For some reason, it all appears a lot clearer to him now.

He’s so lost in his thoughts of Jimin, Jimin’s perfume, Jimin’s softness, Jimin’s everything, that he almost misses what he actually says. “I’m not that into James Dean, you know.”

Jungkook laughs, and Jimin’s head shakes a bit with the movement of his shoulder. “Aren’t you, now? You’re probably the first person to ever say something like that.”

Jimin raises his head, just a tiny bit, to look at Jungkook, although he can’t really see past his cheek. “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Into James Dean?”

There is a coy smile adorning Jimin’s lips, his tone teasing as always, and Jungkook burrows a bit deeper into his seat, heat slowly creeping up his neck. “I didn’t say that,” he mumbles, looking at anything but Jimin, who starts giggling excitedly, as if he’s just made the best discovery of humankind.

“You are!” he exclaims, doing nothing to keep his voice hushed even though a few more people have started filling the room by now. He shakes Jungkook’s arm until Jungkook finally turns his head to look at him with a groan. “I am not,” he protests, but he knows it’s in vain.

Jimin has probably already filed this information into his mental folder labelled “Jungkook roast material” to tease him about it later. The folder is most likely full by now, what with all the times Jungkook has embarrassed himself in front of him. Really, it’s a wonder Jimin is still sticking around.

“Kookie has a crush,” Jimin singsongs, looking the merriest he’s ever been, eyes glistening as he settles back into his original position, cuddling into Jungkook’s side and waiting for the commercials to end.

To be completely honest, Jungkook did have a small, tiny, insignificant, unrealistic crush on James Dean when he was younger. White shirt, blue jeans, was it? Something about his stance and persona was, regardless of gender or style, undeniably attractive.

But he’s very much over it now, and besides, his taste has changed a lot since then. He doesn’t care much for standards of beauty; sharp jaws and piercing gaze on men who are too weak to show weakness.

And while yes, he does currently have a crush, it most certainly isn’t on James Dean, or any other famous actor. Just the one who’s been trying to make it to the top by piling audition on audition. Just the one that’s currently nestled comfortably into his side, body warm and real beside him. Just that one.

Jungkook turns his head almost imperceptibly to the left to look at Jimin. He’s thinking about kissing him when the lights suddenly go out, and the room is bathed in darkness. An elderly man hushes a group of youngsters at the front who won’t stop chatting, and the opening credits finally start.

Sighing quietly, heart beating a bit too fast inside his chest, Jungkook turns back to look at the movie as the familiar suburban Los Angeles street appears on the screen, the sound of trumpets and violins filling the theater.

They’re about halfway into the plot when Jungkook realizes he hasn’t been concentrating on the movie at all, and the only reason he actually knows what’s happening is because he’s seen it about a million times before.

Turning his head once again, he sees that Jimin is deeply engrossed in the story, following the actors with awestruck eyes, probably picking up on their mannerism and enunciation to better his own performances.

Swiftly, as discreetly as if he hadn’t done it at all, Jungkook leans down to lightly kiss his cheek. Just as Jimin is turning in surprise to look at him, he shifts his gaze to the screen once more, their eyes missing each other by a fraction of a second.

He thanks the heavens that the room is too dark for Jimin to see how much he’s blushing at such a benign gesture. He’s doing a great job at fixing the screen as if his life depended on it when he feels something soft and plump graze his left cheek, sending a stream of shivers down his spine. Jimin’s kiss is firmer than the one he dared to give him, and it doesn’t fade just yet; instead, Jimin trails his lips down to the side of his jaw, then just below his ear, where is skin is so sensitive it almost feels ticklish.

Jungkook tenses up at first, but as Jimin continues his tender ministrations, he relaxes back onto the seat and lets out a contented sigh. After a minute or so, he finally looks at Jimin and despite the darkness of the room, the colorful splashes of light bursting from the screen are enough to make out his delicate, beyond perfect features, all round edges and supple skin.

Pushing all of his shyness to the side, Jungkook leans down to catch Jimin’s bottom lip between his, kissing him with the sweetest form of strength he can manage; one that speaks volumes about the affection he feels for this boy, but that is still contained enough not to be overbearing.

Jimin kisses him back, his small hands carefully placed on both sides of his face, keeping him close, keeping him there, and Jungkook loses track of time to focus on the feeling of Jimin’s mouth moving so perfectly against his, on the warm breath coming out of his nose in soft puffs.

He’s brought out of his trance when the lights are suddenly turned back on, detaches himself from Jimin’s lips long enough to realize that the movie has ended and they’ve both missed about half of it despite the price of the tickets.

Jungkook couldn’t care less.

The sound of Jimin’s light giggle is tugging at his attention, and the way Jimin’s cheeks are slightly flushed, his eyelids heavy and his hair completely mussed is both arousing and endearing at the same time. Jimin gives him a gentle smile as he leans the side of his head on the back of the seat. “I think I like this movie,” he whispers, biting his lip shyly despite the fact that they’ve just made out for half an hour in public.

Jungkook breathes out a laugh and takes in the way Jimin’s hand is still fisted in his shirt. “Yeah, me too,” he agrees, and he’s surprised that his voice doesn’t crack halfway through.

–

winter

–

Winter brings along flurries of white crystals amidst the ruthless frosty wind, and Jimin’s hair turns blonde, a bold reply to the dullness of the season.

“Doesn’t this violate some kind of working policy?”

They’re lying in Jungkook’s single bed (which, in Jimin’s opinion, is a bit small even for one person – not that he’s complaining), the portable heater placed on the ground and carefully angled so that it breathes sweet, delicious warmth onto the tip of their toes. The first time Jungkook had asked him to stay the night (cheeks flushed from something kinder than the unforgiving cold, eyes hopeful beyond reason), Jimin had been surprised to see that there in fact existed a place as shoddy as his own apartment somewhere else in the city. He had fallen in love with it almost instantly.

Now, he’s here most of the time, and there is a toothbrush next to Jungkook’s ridiculous Sailor Moon face soap in the bathroom cabinet that he knows belongs to him. That’s his shirt on the back of Jungkook’s desk chair, still unwashed from yesterday or maybe three days ago. Those are his legs tangled with that of another, of a special kind of other, if he dares be so presumptuous.

He shifts his head on Jungkook’s chest so that he’s able to look at him properly, and tightens his hold around the man’s waist.

“Yoongi isn’t really in a position to berate me,” he says, his eyelids taking on a deep, heavy weight as Jungkook keeps running his fingers through his newly dyed hair, marveling at the subdued shade. Honestly, it’s been four days, but the guy still hasn’t let up.

“I like it,” Jungkook whispers, brushing a few strands off Jimin’s forehead and planting a kiss there, humming as he does so. “I like it a lot.”

“So you’ve said,” Jimin teases, but the words are like honey to his ears.

During their days off, they like to explore the city together; they’ve both lived here for some years now, but there’s still so much to discover. Jungkook has been to more music bars and quaint taverns than should be allowed, and Jimin knows where to get some of the best food in the country. French, Italian, Japanese. They try something different every night.

And when they both get tired (they usually do after a few hours – call him old-fashioned, but Jimin cherishes his naps), they come back to Jungkook’s apartment, because it’s always blissfully empty, and they take the time to appreciate each other’s presence in a more quiet space.

The kissing is just a bonus.

Jimin shifts again and lines his full, clothed body with Jungkook’s, who still has his fingers tangled in pale blonde strands. Renting a one-bedroom flat for less than five hundred thousand won right in the city center means that the ceiling light usually gives out after half an hour of continuous use. But that’s alright; they’ve chosen to light candles on every available surface, those cheap ones in the grey container that practically have no smell, and Jimin would feel embarrassed at their cheesiness but he honestly doesn’t care at all.

Not when the dimmed, goldish hues reflect on Jungkook’s face so nicely, accentuating his every feature, painting dancing shadows on his nose and forehead. Not when his eyes are alight with a tenderness that Jimin is slowly starting to grow used to.

“Kook?” he asks him in a quiet voice, unwilling to disturb the peacefulness that surrounds them.

Jungkook traces his hands down Jimin’s shoulders and lets them settle at the small of his back, holding him just a bit closer. “Hm?”

“Remember the first time we went to The Lighthouse?”

Under him, Jungkook chuckles softly, the vibrations coursing through Jimin’s chest as well. “Of course I remember”, he says. “I was trying so hard to act all cool, get you to like me.”

They both share a smile at that, and Jungkook continues, “But I still ended up talking your ear off about boring stuff. I was surprised you didn’t run off, honestly.”

Jimin cradles Jungkook’s face in his palms and rubs his cheeks gently, his thumbs tracing the underline of his eyes. As if he could’ve left, he thinks. As if he hadn’t already felt too involved at that point in this weird, sort-of-friendship-but-maybe-more type of thing they’d had going on. “You could never bore me,” he replies, a modest statement.

Jungkook just smiles up at him, rubbing his back affectionately.

But there is something that has been trotting through Jimin’s brain for almost two weeks now, and he figured he should just ask Jungkook. They’ve been honest with each other from the start, after all, and they’ve never bothered with the unnecessary tiptoeing around the other’s feelings that most people do when they meet someone new.

“That guy that we saw, the one you said was your old friend,” he starts.

Jungkook tenses the slightest bit underneath him. “Namjoon?”

“Yeah,” Jimin nods. “What happened with him?”

Jungkook lets out a sigh and plays with Jimin’s sweater to distract himself, his fingers fiddling with the hem of the fabric. He seems to be thinking about how to word his answer, how to reduce years of complicated history in a few sentences. But Jimin has all the time in the world, and he doesn’t mind being patient.

“We were in a band together, when I was still a teenager,” Jungkook says slowly, as if carefully choosing every single word. Jimin lightly traces his chin with the tip of his fingers, a mindless and encouraging gesture. “It was actually the first group I’d ever been in. Quite a good one too,” Jungkook continues with a lopsided smile, earning a breathy laugh from Jimin.

“Our town was really small, so in about three months, everyone knew who we were.” Even as he retells this story from his past, Jungkook has a faraway look in his eyes; one that seems to pull Jimin in, to invite him into his own little world. “We were selling almost fifteen albums a month, which was quite a lot for a suburbian group of rascals like us. Then one morning, I woke up and my bandmates’ faces were all over the local newspaper. I still remember what the headline read. “Young blood, taking the big city by storm.” That’s how I found out I’d been kicked out.”

A frown forms on Jimin’s face, and he can’t help but feel utterly puzzled. This doesn’t make any sense to him. “Kicked out? But why? There’s no way they could’ve found someone as talented-“

“I guess they did,” Jungkook mutters, squeezing Jimin’s waist unconsciously.

The frown still hasn’t left Jimin’s face. “This is bullshit,” he mumbles, trying to figure out how something like that could’ve happened when he’d seen how naturally gifted Jungkook was. He was still young, sure, but he had it. He simply had it, that intrinsic flair that producers would move heaven and earth for.

Jungkook reaches his thumb to smooth out the crinkled lines between Jimin’s brows. “It’s no big deal, really,” he tells him. “Happened a long time ago.” Cradling Jimin’s face in the palm of his hand, he brings his head closer and gently kisses his lips. The sound of their mouths, delicate and warm, is the only thing that can be heard in the apartment, except from the monotonous puffing of the portable heater by their feet.

Jimin sighs contentedly into the kiss, and Jungkook pulls away to add, nothing more than an inch between their lips, “We started speaking again, though. Ever since we saw him at The Lighthouse.” He can’t help but give Jimin another closed-mouth kiss, pressing intently against him.

“Is that so?” Jimin murmurs.

Jungkook hums. “He, um. He actually wants me to join his new band.”

Jimin puts a little more space between them, surprise written all over his features. “Are you serious? Jungkook, that’s so great!”

Despite Jimin’s delighted smile, Jungkook still feels a bit doubtful. “Think so?” he asks, uncertain. Jimin laughs at his small pout, the sound as lovely as always.

“Of course, Kook,” he affirms. “I know there’s probably some unresolved stuff between you two, but this is your chance to finally do what you love, don’t you think? No more cringy Christmas music, no more rude managers and minimum wage jobs. Just you and your music.” He seems genuinely happy for him, and Jungkook feels a bit better. He’s right; maybe this isn’t such a bad idea. After all, at this point, what could he possibly have to lose? He’s still way behind on his rent, and his sister has been calling even more frequently than usual.

“Maybe,” he says, but there is a small smile playing at his lips and Jimin knows he’s won this one. “I’ll give it a try.”

Pleased with himself, Jimin cuddles back into his chest, nuzzling his nose into the crook between Jungkook’s neck and shoulder. His favorite place.

Jungkook complains about Jimin's icy feet that keep brushing against his calves under the covers, and they fall back into their usual bickering.

The blank page is lying still and rigid on his desk, and Jimin swears he can see eyes between the light blue lines. They’re making fun of him.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, he reaches for the cup of coffee he’d neatly prepared in anticipation, and takes a huge gulp, wincing a bit as the scorching liquid travels down his throat.

Almost two months since Yoongi’s urged him to start writing again, and he’s still got nothing. Because no, the series of bad puns he’s written so far definitely doesn’t count as a “thing”.

At this point, he just has to be honest with himself: he hasn’t written a single play in years, and he’s lost the feel of it. Every single sentence appears to be an insurmountable struggle, each word a heavy rock that he has to drag out of his brain and throw onto the sheet. And god, the jokes. Who would even find this funny?

He shouldn’t have started with a one-man show. Everyone knows those are always the hardest to write. Alone with your thoughts and a judgmental audience, your mind splattered across the stage for all its messed-up eccentricities; that’s never a good idea. Having another actor by your side, even one you absolutely loathe, is a thousand times easier.

But he’s always had this dream, even when he was still a young boy, to one day write his very own play, something that would focus on him and only him. He loves writing for other people, of course; there is nothing quite like seeing your stories come alive before your eyes, and there are so many talented theatre maniacs out there.

Still, this is something he wants to do for himself.

He’s alone at the apartment, a rare occurrence. Taehyung took Yoongi out to the movies, Jungkook is busy rehearsing with his new bandmates, meaning he won’t be coming over, and even their annoying neighbor has decided to calm down with the drilling this evening. It’s like all deities have united their forces to make this possible for him, and yet here he is, a pen in his right hand, and a piece of paper as blank as his own brain.

Jimin groans and lets his head hit the table.

He can already tell that this is going to be a long night.

It might come as a surprise, but Taehyung had never really been one for crowded places before he came to Seoul. He grew up a country boy, after all, with wide expanses of land for him to play in and roll around. 

The addictive energy of the city nightlife, however, brought it out of him a few weeks in. Instead of smothered and restricted, he now feels at ease surrounded by flocks of people he doesn’t know, and doesn’t plan on knowing. Besides, there’s not much to do on a Tuesday night anyway, so the bar it is.

But right now, there is a mopey lump of human limbs in front of him, slouched over the counter, a forgotten drink taking on that disgusting lukewarm taste by his side.

And that is not how Taehyung wants to spend a Tuesday night.

“Jimin,” he whines, poking at his best friend’s shoulder until the object of his attention deigns to finally raise his head.

Jimin’s tussled blonde hair is hiding most of his forehead and part of his eyes, and he looks way more miserable than he has any right to be when they’re both out having drinks and half-discreetly judging the way other people dress. At least, that’s what they could be doing, if Jimin wasn’t so bent on making this Tuesday night as gloomy as possible.

“Huh?” is all Taehyung gets in response.

He sighs.

“What’s got you so down lately? Is it because of the auditions? Cause you know it’ll be fine, Jiminie. No one does the high school janitor like you do,” Taehyung tries, stealing another one of those peanuts that the bartenders give out for free.

“It’s not about that,” Jimin mumbles with a pout, idly tracing the condensation on his glass.

Taehyung pauses to think. “Okay, look, I know I stole your underwear but you told me I could wear it-“

“It’s not about that, Tae,” Jimin repeats, a bit more forcefully. He won’t look at him in the eyes, and it only takes one more second for Taehyung to figure it out. Honestly, he should’ve thought about that sooner, but he kind of had a bit more faith in his friend’s integrity. Obviously, that was a blatant mistake on his part.

“Is it Jungkook?” he asks reluctantly, bracing himself for what he knows is coming.

Unsurprisingly, Jimin immediately goes on to rumble, “It’s just that I miss him, you know? Don’t get me wrong, I’m so happy that he finally found a band and now he gets to do what he loves and all that, but they’re always rehearsing or recording and I haven’t seen him in like three days, and I feel weird, and I know I shouldn’t because we haven’t even been- like, a thing for a long time but he kinda gives the best hugs and I just miss-“

“Alright, I get it, you’re in love and it’s gross,” Taehyung cuts in. He had been ecstatic at first, to find out that Jimin had finally found someone that made him feel like walking on the sun, because he deserves love and happiness, the very best of it.

But it’s been a couple of months now, and sometimes he still disturbs Taehyung right in the middle of his afternoon nap to tell him about the funny video that Jungkook had showed him during whichever one of their last dates.

Too many lines have been crossed.

“Love?” Jimin repeats, his voice barely above a whisper, and Taehyung realizes he’s just made another mistake. He sees Jimin looking off into the distance again, but this time there is a soft blush coloring his cheeks.

“Oh, wow,” Taehyung says in the most serious tone he can muster, clearing his throat for good measure. “I mean, I didn’t think that time would come so soon, but, um. You see, Jiminie, when a mommy and a daddy-“

“Shut up,” Jimin laughs, punching his shoulder lightly, and Taehyung can’t help but smile. He’s sort of glad to have his Jimin back.

Sometimes, it honestly feels like the past few months have all vanished away in a frenzy. Day by day, the seasons start to melt together, and what with Jimin’s auditions, Jungkook’s band and his own busy schedule, they barely get the time to simply sit together and talk about nothing in particular. This feels nice, in a way.

“How are things with Yoongi-hyung, anyway?” Jimin asks. He seems to have collected himself a little, and Taehyung is glad.

“I went over to his place the other day. He has four cats. Rescued them from the shelter. Do you believe that?

Jimin laughs, takes a sip from his drink. “You know, somehow, I do.”

They stay a bit longer to catch up on all that they’ve missed during the days they couldn’t really see each other, although they still share a flat. Right as they’re about to hail a taxi and go back home to heat up some leftovers, Jimin’s phone starts vibrating in his pocket.

He’s not exactly proud of the way his heart jumps when he sees who just texted him, but well.

“Talk about the brat and he shall appear,” Taehyung jokes with a kind smile. Although they’ve only met two or three times so far, he and Jungkook share an interesting relationship; one that consists mostly of low-quality burns and inoffensive insults. Jimin thinks that it couldn’t have turned out better.

Sending his friend an apologetic smile, he says, “I think I’ll take the bus, it’s only a few stops to Jungkook’s place. You good?”

“Sure,” Taehyung says, just as a taxi slows down on the side of the road. Opening the door with a hand, he shouts, “And tell him to stop with the honk!”

Jimin laughs at that, feeling lighter than he did moments earlier, stomach full of fluttering butterflies. Waving at the taxi as it drives off into the distance, he turns around and starts walking towards the bus stop, humming under his breath.

Weird, how a single text can completely turn his mood upside down. How just knowing that he’s going to see Jungkook after three days is enough to bring a ridiculously wide smile to his lips.

The trip to Jungkook’s place seems shorter than usual. The quiet rumble of the bus as it tumults down the road is almost enough to lull Jimin to sleep; would be, if he wasn’t too excited for his own good. It hasn’t been that long, but so many things have happened since he last saw Jungkook: he’s been making progress with the play, if he dares say so himself, and he can’t wait to show him what he’s written down. Ideas scattered here and there, but he has much more faith than before, knows it’ll only take a while until he gets the hang of it again and strings the one-liners together to make a worthwhile show.

When he reaches his stop, the driver has barely stepped on the brakes that he’s already jumping out of his seat and getting out of the bus. He does a light jog up to Jungkook’s building, pushing the door open because the code apparently hasn’t worked for years, and takes the stairs because he’s not patient enough to wait for the elevator (which is a safety hazard anyway, if you ask him).

He doesn’t bother to knock on Jungkook’s front door and steps inside, as comfortable as if it were his own home. Sometimes, it feels just as warm.

As soon as he enters, the delicious smell sifting through the air reaches his nostrils, and he sighs in contentment. There is noise coming from the kitchen, a clank and bong of pots that sounds a bit worrying, but brings a smile to his lips nonetheless.

Feeling the tips of his fingers thrumming with excitement, he passes the living room and goes straight to the kitchen, stopping on the doorstep to take in the scene before him.

Jungkook’s back is facing him, and he’s obviously trying to save what looks like a half-burnt cranberry cheesecake. He’s wearing a bright pink apron to cover his jeans and sweater, and even though he can’t see his face, Jimin is suddenly so endeared that his heart squeezes almost painfully.

“Shit,” he hears Jungkook curse as he fiddles with the cake, and it seems he still hasn’t noticed him coming in.

Sneaking up behind him, Jimin wraps his arms around Jungkook’s waist and raises to his tippy-toes to be able to hook his chin on Jungkook’s shoulder.

He expects Jungkook to jump, maybe scream a little, or at least have some sort of surprised reaction, but he doesn’t. He just deflates in Jimin’s arms, body melting into his as a soft breath leaves his mouth, his back completely relaxing against Jimin’s chest.

Jungkook turns his head to the side and Jimin can’t help but kiss his cheek noisily. “I messed up your surprise,” Jungkook mumbles. There is a smear of flour on the tip of his nose and it looks too adorable not to kiss, so Jimin does it as well, earning a small, bashful laugh from Jungkook, which makes him smile in return.

“Looks good to me,” Jimin says, holding Jungkook just a bit closer to him, and it really doesn’t matter at all if he’s lying a little. In all honesty, the cake barely looks edible, but if Jungkook made it for him, then you best believe he will eat the entire goddamn thing.

Letting his eyes trail across the countertop, Jimin realizes that Jungkook has really outdone himself. Aside from the cake, there are almost five plates filled with delicious food littering every available surface; bits of fried meat with boiled vegetables and cumin tomato sauce, rolled up bibimbap sprinkled with sesame seeds, blackbean noodles cleanly separated into two bowls. Wisps of smoke curl around the various dishes, the air smelling of spice and warmth and home.

Jimin doesn’t remember ever feeling this content, and all because of something so simple, so mundane.

Jungkook turns around in his arms and brings his hands to the small of his back. “How come I missed you so much?”

Jimin lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head slightly. His arms are squished between both of their chests, and he wishes beyond hope to become as small as it takes to live in Jungkook’s heart forever. Or perhaps bigger than he actually is, bigger than life itself, to match the broadness of it.

“Must be because I’m so great,” Jimin suggests without the slightest hint of shame, and when he raises his head, the way Jungkook is looking at him makes his heart stop for a second.

“Meh, you’re alright,” Jungkook shrugs, a complete contrast to the overflowing affection dancing in his eyes, and he’s not quick enough to dodge Jimin’s offended blow to the shoulder. Their laugh resonates through the tiny one-bedroom flat, without a single care for the neighbors that can probably hear their entire conversation through the flimsy, thin walls.

When Jimin’s stomach begins to grumble, sending them into another fit of laughter, they both decide to finally settle down at the table, bringing as much plates with them as they can. Jungkook has chosen to recycle the candles he’d bought at the dollar store, and he’s scattered small flower petals on the table he stole from the one of the city’s parterres.

“Wow,” Jimin deadpans when Jungkook tells him that. “I almost feel like a precious baby.”

“Y’ are,” Jungkook mumbles as he shoves noodles into his mouth, splashing sauce onto his shirt like some kind of excited toddler. Jimin kicks him under the table, earning a sound of protest. “Wha’?”

“I’m not,” Jimin complains, pouting slightly. He can feel heat creeping up his neck, and he knows he must be blushing. Damning his own self for being so predictable, he hurries to eat up his noodles as well, just to find some sort of distraction, and also in the hope that Jungkook won’t notice how much the nickname actually affects him.

But of course, he’s not as lucky.

Jungkook pauses his eating to look at him attentively. After a few painful seconds, Jimin looks back, and the silence between them is heavy with something that he can’t quite identify.

It’s Jungkook who breaks the silence first, and Jimin wishes he hadn’t.

“Baby,” Jungkook repeats, no more than a whisper, yet Jimin feels the sound of it resonate through his body, and his heart beats just a tad faster, his breathing a tad more labored. He’s looking back at Jungkook, doesn’t want to break eye contact in fear of showing Jungkook the effect the word has on him, but he doesn’t dare to respond. Doesn’t even dare to tease him, to break into some kind of fake laugh or come up with a joke to ease the tension and veer this entire situation elsewhere.

Suddenly, food doesn’t feel so important.

Jimin hates that Jungkook is so perceptive, that he already knows how to read him so diligently although they haven’t even known each other for a year; but somehow, he also loves it. Relishes the fact that what they share isn’t less then what he’s been feeling, what he’s been imagining when he’s alone in bed and a melody he knows all too well is stuck in his head, spinning round and round.

“How come I didn’t know about this?” he hears Jungkook ask himself in wonder.

Jimin puts both of his hands in his lap, squirming a bit. He’s not exactly uncomfortable; it’s just that once again, in Jungkook’s presence, things have taken a turn he certainly didn’t expect. It seems like most of their interactions are like that, anyway. “About what?”

“What you like to be called. What you would like me to call you.” Jungkook puts his fork down onto the table and leans back into the chair, his eyes still searching Jimin with a tender curiosity. “I don’t know. I feel like there’s so much I still don’t know about you.”

And Jimin figures he’s not wrong. Things between them have gone particularly fast, to say the least; they’d hit it right off, back in the middle of summer when they’d first met, and they couldn’t stop teasing nor thinking about each other. Jimin has started writing again, something he didn’t know himself to be capable of, and Jungkook is in a band.

Their lives have changed so much already, both because and thanks to each other.

“Ask me, then,” Jimin says.

Jungkook lets the silence stretch between them for a few more seconds before getting up, his chair leaving a strident, grating sound behind as it glides across the floor. He walks over to Jimin’s side of the table and extends his hand towards him, silently asking him to get up too.

Jimin takes it without a word, gaze fixed on him, and once they’re both facing each other, Jungkook slowly puts his arms around Jimin’s waist to bring him a little closer, swaying them gently to the sound of traffic across the street and the hum of the refrigerator.

“Come with me to the show, next month,” Jungkook asks – more of a murmur between their faces, each seemingly getting closer and closer, like they can't help it. Like there is an energy shared by both of their bodies, that works relentlessly to bring them together, any time they so much as stand in the same room.

It’d been that way when they first met, months ago, out on a dead-end street with too little lighting, and the city sky truly was starless that night because all the sparks were between the two of them. Jimin knows.

He locks his arms around Jungkook’s neck and sighs contentedly, looking up at his child-like, slightly scarred cheeks, the hair messily falling down onto his forehead, the dark eyes looking back at him with so much trust and the slightest hint of hesitancy.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll come.”

When he sees the smile Jungkook gives him in return, he can’t help but feel happy, too. He missed him during those few days, perhaps a bit too much for the period of time they were actually apart, but screw that – it feels nice to have this again, so Jimin chooses to let himself feel it.

“Show me what you’ve been writing,” Jungkook gently urges him, squeezing his waist briefly. The light in his eyes is so mesmerizing that it takes a moment for Jimin to gather himself and respond. “It’s nothing much, really,” he says, suddenly shy. Shaking his head and glancing to the side, he slowly unwinds his arms from Jungkook’s neck.

Before he gets very far, however, Jungkook immediately catches both of his hands in his and cradles them against his chest, eyes pleading. “Please, Jimin, I don’t mind. I just want to see it.”

So Jimin gives in, and he takes out the notebook he’s been carrying in his backpack lately, bringing it wherever he goes to make sure he doesn’t let the ideas escape him. It’s a beaten-up little thing, the black leather cover littered with slight dents, and he still remembers buying it on a whim at his hometown’s flea market from someone who probably sold it for much more than it actually cost. It’s incredibly dear to him, and contains all that he’s written since he was in his early teens.

He goes over to the bed pushed to the side of the room and sits up against the wall, waiting for Jungkook to join him. Once they’re both settled as comfortably as possible in such a tight space, he opens the notebook to the latest page. Jungkook leans his head on his shoulder and lets his eyes glaze across the yellowy pages, taking in the dark ink covering every possible surface with words, scratches and sometimes, small drawings in the column.

“I’m working on this thing, um,” Jimin says, doesn’t really know where to start. How to explain the mess that is his head most of the time when he tries to put together a piece that makes sense. “A one-man show, I guess? I don’t know, I just thought it would be best to go back to my roots if I wanted to pick up writing again, so I decided to talk about how I got into acting, how I knew this would be the one path for me, all that went on in my head during that time.”

Jungkook is silent beside him, listening intently. A drawing at the bottom of the page catches his eye. The figure of a small boy looking out of a window, staring at the big round earth floating right across from him. He points it to Jimin. “What’s this?” he asks.

Jimin looks down and can’t help but snort. “Nothing, really,” he says. “Sometimes, when I can’t find the right words or the right phrase, I try drawing my ideas instead, to see if that helps.”

Jungkook hums in understanding. He finds that Jimin is in fact quite good at drawing; the proportions aren’t that off, and for something that probably wasn’t meant to be more than a doodle, it actually doesn’t look that bad. “The world from your window?” he prompts, curious as always about Jimin’s thought process.

“Yeah,” Jimin says, and it doesn’t seem like he’s going to elaborate. So Jungkook goes back to the words, tries to read as much of the story and tiny bullet points as he can. From what he can tell, the play is about a boy who dreams of becoming this really famous actor, and his aunt takes him to the theater every Sunday evening to see some of his favorite shows. One day, the boy wakes up and sees the earth outside of his window; the entirety of it, with people walking across its surface, sticking out like branches of a tree, and tiny windows full of light. He sees the ocean lying impossibly still in its bathtub, birds and wild horses and elephants going about their daily business. He sees love, armfuls of it, and two kids sharing a plate of fries.

He smiles, and he closes the curtains.

–

spring

–

The show is held in a rather big venue, at least for a band that released their very first album merely a few weeks ago. As he stands in the middle of the pit, surrounded by adults and teenagers alike, it occurs to Jimin that Namjoon or some of the other members must have already been famous from previous activities in the music industry.

It’s the only explanation he manages to come up with for the way people seem so overly enthusiastic. He’s happy to be here, of course; can’t wait to finally see Jungkook play on stage again, bright lights making his silhouette stand out against the background décor. He’s heard Jungkook play hundreds of times, always asks him for a song before he goes to sleep, all puppy eyes and kisses until Jungkook gives in, but nothing can compare to this kind of production.

Although he feels a little lost, standing in the middle of the crowd with nothing to occupy his hands and no one to really talk to, the thought of seeing Jungkook up on that stage is enough to keep him distracted. He barely notices when someone pushes his shoulder a bit harshly trying to get closer to the front barriers, too preoccupied with taming the beating of his heart as the lights finally go out and screams fill the room to the brim.

A man is standing alone on stage, a guitar hanging loosely around his rather petite form, and Jimin figures he must be the main singer.

He’s proved right when the man sings his first notes acapella, his deep, honey-like voice eliciting cheers from the audience. In all honestly, Jimin is impressed by the guy’s talent; it seems like he has complete control over his own voice, sending it to whichever place he pleases, something Jimin himself can’t pretend to know how to do. But what really surprises him is when the beat drops, and the spotlight widens to give the crowd full view of the members.

Immediately, his eyes go the left corner of the stage, spotting Jungkook almost effortlessly, and he’s about to start cheering as loud as his throat will allow him when his face settles into a frown; Jungkook is as gorgeous as he’s always been, of course, but what confuses him is the instrument installed in front of him.

There is no grand piano in sight, not even a simple one; Jungkook is standing in the middle of three different types of synths, all put together to form a small, restricted circle, and his hands are alternating between one set of keys to the other.

Only then does Jimin realize that the sound coming out of the giant speakers on both sides of the stage has absolutely nothing to do with jazz. He was too preoccupied with trying to take everything in before, but it doesn’t escape him now; veering more into pop-rock territory, this melody is completely unknown to him, isn’t even comparable to the snippets Jungkook had played for him during their many nights spent together.

He’s still trying to figure out what’s happening when a bunch of dancers dressed in flashing red costumes come out onto the stage and settle into formation, breaking into choreography right as the song starts to get even more upbeat.

Jostled by the people around him dancing like madness, Jimin tries to focus on Jungkook, to see his expression, but he’s too far and it’s just his luck that the tallest guy in the room chose to stand right in front of him, completely blocking his view.

The man keeps singing, belting out high notes and the occasional growl, and while Jimin doesn’t exactly dislike the tune, he’s too puzzled by the complete change in genre to focus on the actual performance.

When the show comes to an end, he doesn’t wait to see if the band prepared an encore – he knows they didn’t, Jungkook had sent him the entire setlist by text the night before – and goes straight for the backstage section, the security guard nodding at him and stepping aside when he gives him his name and says he’s a friend of Jungkook’s.

Elbowing his way through the mass of staff workers and squinting his eyes to try and read every indicative sign despite the darkness of the hallway, Jimin finally comes across a piece of paper taped to a slightly ajar door that reads “Band”. Figuring this must be it, he pushes the door open completely and steps into the room.

He’s greeted by the sight of a shirtless Namjoon wiping sweat from his forehead with a towel, and he quickly averts his gaze, moving around the hustle and bustle of make-up artists and costume designers to reach the furthest chair in the back of the room where he can just make out a familiar mop of dark hair.

For some reason, once he’s facing Jungkook’s back, he hesitates a bit. Jungkook is bent forwards on the table in front of him, absorbed by something on his phone, probably the most recent feedback for their performance, and Jimin doesn’t quite know how to approach him.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he puts on a smile and leans his weight on Jungkook’s back, snaking his arms around his neck and squeezing him into a hug.

Jungkook startles and brings both of his hands to Jimin’s forearms, looking up into the mirror to see who’s just surprised him, as if it could be anyone else. “Jimin? Oh my god, you’re here-“

“Of course I am,” Jimin says, and he can’t help but smile a little, bathing in Jungkook’s sweet presence. “Told you I’d come, didn’t I?”

Jungkook gets up from his chair and turns around, allowing Jimin to assess his appearance. It’s obvious he’s just been on stage, but he looks so different than when he used to perform and The Smokehouse. His hair is completely disheveled, strands of it sticking to his forehead and temples, and sweat is making is white shirt stick to his skin in a way that would be dangerously distracting if Jimin wasn’t still a bit confused by everything that just happened.

“Did you like it?”

Jimin gets himself together and looks up at Jungkook, taking in the hopeful lilt of his voice, the eager glint in his eyes. And the truth is, he doesn’t have the heart to tell him.

“I- Yeah, I did. You were amazing, obviously, as always,” he says, and he’s not lying; Jungkook’s playing is as incredible as ever, his dexterity and sense of rhythm both to be reckoned with.

The performance was good. The singing was good, the playing was good, the energy was good.

But it wasn’t jazz, was so far from it that Jimin feels he hasn’t read the pamphlet correctly, or perhaps the band was never supposed to play jazz in the first place. He can’t help but wonder if this is really what Jungkook wants.

He remembers seeing him play for the first time, that night at The Smokehouse, right before his manager had come and stopped him. Witnessing this moment of pure deliriousness, Jungkook completely lost in the sound – at the time, he’d been so sure Jungkook was made for this. Would never be happy unless he had this.

Maybe he had been wrong.

“Jimin?” Jungkook asks after the silence has stretched on for a bit too long to be comfortable, and Jimin is looking anywhere but at him, too lost in his own thoughts and worries over all of this. And he can’t, for the life of him, figure out why he’s obsessing over such a small detail.

He does his best to smile at Jungkook, but something tells him the other doesn’t buy it. “Do you need to get back out there?” he asks to try and ease back into comfortable, harmless small talk.

Jungkook is looking at him strangely. Jimin doesn't quite know what to do with himself. “Um, I don’t think so, we didn’t plan an encore, so...” Jungkook says.

Jimin nods. Around them, managers and staff members are still running around like crazy, gathering pieces of clothing from the ground, along with earpieces and empty bottles of water. The behind the scenes aspect of showcasing is something Jimin is surprised to say he sort of misses. It’s been a long time since he’s last gotten to perform.

In the end, Jungkook asks him if he wants to grab something to eat from the burger place a few blocks away, and he agrees almost subconsciously. The air between them is still a bit strange, but Jimin does his best to ignore all of that, and Jungkook doesn't comment on it.

Jungkook drives them to the fast food restaurant, and Jimin is thankful that the sound of the radio is enough to fill the silence between them. Once they've arrived in front of the quaint, tiny fast food restaurant, Jungkook quickly parks the car and kills the engine, but makes no move to get out of his seat.

Jimin turns to him, and sees how he’s intently fixing the steering wheel in front of him. The unsaid seems to be taking all the available space inside the car, growing heavier with each second. But Jimin feels like he shouldn’t be the one to start – like he should let Jungkook come to him instead.

“You didn’t like it,” Jungkook mumbles a few moments later, barely enunciating the words clearly enough for Jimin to understand. But the radio isn’t on anymore, and no one is out on the streets; no sound but the absence of both of their voices.

Jimin feels his heart break a little. “Kook- no, it’s not like that,” he starts, does his best to reassure him. “I swear, you did so great out there. You know how I feel about your playing.”

“But?” Jungkook prompts, still refusing to look at him in the eyes.

Jimin hesitates. “It’s just- I don’t know. Do you like the music you’re playing? With them?”

“Do you?” Jungkook insists.

“Who cares, Jungkook,” Jimin sighs. “The important thing is that you enjoy it. That’s what matters.”

Jungkook settles back into his seat, leaning the back of his neck onto the headrest. It takes him a great amount of effort, but he finally turns his head to the side to look at Jimin, and Jimin can see that he seems genuinely tired.

He knows the rehearsals have been getting heavy. These last few days, they would barely get enough time to eat together, to have a conversation last longer than five minutes. Jimin leaves for work before Jungkook wakes, Yoongi blowing up his phone with angry texts because he keeps arriving late to take his shift, and he’d go to sleep in an empty bed, Jungkook still perfecting the setlist with the rest of the members in some kind of basement they’d rented for a hundred dollars or so.

There are dark circles under Jungkook’s eyes, and his skin has been breaking out from the stress. Jimin wishes he could kiss him all over, tell him he deserves a good day of rest. He could call in sick at the coffee shop and just cuddle with Jungkook all day, cook him a nice meal in the evening and read him some more of his writing until he finally falls asleep.

But Jungkook is stubborn, perhaps even more than Jimin is, and that is definitely saying something.

“I make enough money to pay rent,” Jungkook says, voice too dull and deep in the confinement of the car. “Don’t have to ask my sister for help anymore. We’ll be going on tour soon, too, and that usually pays well.”

Jimin frowns. “Since when has it been about that?” he asks, and feels his cheeks flare up when Jungkook snorts beside him.

“Since when hasn’t it been, Jimin? I’m nearing twenty-eight. I can’t keep running away from my responsibilities. It doesn’t work that way.”

For some reason, Jimin is having a hard time breathing. He always gets like this when something upsets him, when a situation doesn’t perfectly play out the way he’d want it to. That, plus Jungkook’s depreciating tone, is enough to make him feel like some kind of brainless child – a sensation he despises more than he can say.

So it’s no surprise, really, that things sort of spiral out of control after that.

“I’m not stupid, Kook-ah,” he snaps. He’s not angry at him, of course he isn’t; just frustrated that everything suddenly appears so complicated, when it was all so simple just a few hours ago, just before he’d stepped into the venue. “I’m not saying you need to quit, I just. I don’t know,” he groans, tired of not being able to convey his intentions accurately.

“Then what are you saying?” Jungkook asks, pressing, and Jimin keeps messing with the fingers of his own hand, twisting them around each other, scratching at the skin. He’s never been able to handle confrontation very well.

Everything about this is making him feel so stupid, so awful, and he wants nothing more than to be out of this car, back into their- Jungkook’s apartment, or anywhere else, just as long as they can unwind together, talk about things with a clearer head.

“I don’t think this is what you want, Jungkook, that’s all,” he finally says, looking down at his lap, where he’s still wringing his hands together. “You’re not happier than before. This is like The Smokehouse all over again. Why are you so scared to follow your own dream?”

“Why can’t you follow yours?” Jungkook cuts him off, and Jimin jumps at the sound of his voice, raised too loud and sharp, almost accusing.

He snaps his head up and stares at Jungkook with wide eyes. They’re both too scared to look away, and Jungkook’s chest is still heaving. He looks as shocked as Jimin – like he didn’t mean to speak like that, to say such a thing. But he’s said it all the same, and Jimin is lost for words.

Jungkook must know he has been trying. He has to know. He’s seen Jimin’s writing, seen how he sometimes loses his mind over being unable to overcome the concrete wall that blocks his thoughts, that keeps the words from pouring out as naturally as they should.

And yes, maybe the auditions haven’t been going so well; maybe all the characters he’s been handed so far have all died during the first episode. Maybe he hasn’t actually played a role since last summer, but he’s trying. With all of himself.

And Jungkook had no right.

“I get it, you win,” Jimin chokes. He suddenly feels too trapped in the tight interior of the car, and he can’t bear to stay in here any longer. “I should take care of my own mess before worrying about you.”

“Jimin, wait-“

But he’s already pushing the door open, getting out of his seat and then slamming it closed. Not a second later, Jungkook gets out of the car too, jogs around its side to catch up to Jimin who’s already started walking – where, he doesn’t know. He’s never been to this restaurant before, doesn’t even recognize the block. But they’re in the capital, after all, and he knows that if he just keeps walking forward, he’ll find a subway station or a bus stop at some point. Probably. Hopefully.

Jungkook tries to grab his arm, but he yanks it free, shoves his hands inside the pockets of his jacket and stares at the ground as he picks up the pace.

“Jimin, please, you know I didn’t mean it like that-“ Jungkook pleads, but he can barely hear him over the sound of his own ears ringing, his face burning from humiliation. He feels like a failure; like the cardboard calendar hanging over his desk listing each audition he’s gone to in the past year. Listing every single time he’s been cut out.

He feels like a big red cross over the name of another movie he won’t be playing in, like the scratches in the columns of his notebook that remind him of how much he struggles to write even the smallest paragraph.

“Save it,” he says, trying his hardest to keep the tears in – he won’t cry, he won’t, because he already feels ridiculous enough. He wishes his heart wasn’t so weak, wishes he didn’t feel everything so deeply like he hasn’t grown at all. “You’re right anyway.”

“I’m not, I’m not, please, Jimin,” Jungkook keeps begging, panting as he tries to keep up with Jimin’s fast pace, too scared to try and touch him again.

“You know, Jungkook,” Jimin starts, hates the trembling of his own voice, the sniffles he can’t quite suppress, “maybe we just need to take a break. Get our shit together, you know? And- and maybe then, when we come back, we’d be better.”

Jungkook whimpers at that, mumbling no, no, no under his breath, and he finally dares to put his hand on Jimin’s chest to stop him from walking, sliding right in front of him and holding him at arm’s length. When Jimin looks at him, he wonders if he’s the one that’s the most upset by all of this, after all. Jungkook’s eyes are frantic as they search his face, tears threatening to spill, and Jimin realizes, then, that he’s never seen him cry.

But right now, he doesn’t have the strength to think about anything like that. He tries to push at Jungkook’s chest, tries to take his arms off his shoulders, but Jungkook won’t relent. “Baby-“

“Don’t call me that,” Jimin whispers, and he’d shout it if he still had the energy to fight. He might as well have, with how quickly Jungkook backpedals. “Jimin,” he amends, voice shaking, “please. We’re good together, so good, and I know you feel it the same way I do. You and me- we bring out the best in each other. So please, Jimin, don’t do this. Let’s talk about this, together-“

“Please, let go of me."

“Jimin-"

“Let go of me!” he screams, and the sound seems to break the night open, to resonate through the empty street as it bounces off the high buildings above them. Jimin is panting, eyes wide as he stares as Jungkook, who once again, seems just as shocked at him. Absently, Jimin wonders how they could’ve gotten to this point.

Slowly, inch by inch, Jungkook takes his hands off Jimin’s shoulders, lets them hang loosely at his side. His whole body is unbelievably tense, and he looks like a terrified animal facing an oncoming speeding car.

They look at each other in silence for a few more moments, before Jimin gathers as much of himself as he can.

“I’m going home,” he announces, and he does his best to keep his voice steady, even through his breakdown. That seems to break Jungkook out of his daze, although it’s obvious he doesn’t know how to react, unsure as to where his boundaries lay.

Jimin sidesteps him just as he hears him plead, “I'll go with you.”

Forcing himself not to falter at the way Jungkook’s voice breaks in the middle of his sentence, he keeps going forward, head held high as he lets his thoughts drift to the warmth of his apartment, where his bed is probably still made because he hasn’t been sleeping in it for weeks. “No,” he resignedly says over his shoulder, “I’m going home home.”

He doesn’t look back.

–

five years later

–

Jimin hates mornings.

His alarm clock shrieks loudly beside him, and he groans pitifully into his pillow, too lazy to raise an arm and hit the snooze button.

Some deity up there must’ve heard his prayer, because a few seconds later, the exasperating beeping stops, and the room is once again bathed in blissful silence. He sighs in contentment.

An arm wraps lazily around his waist, warm against his naked skin, and a trail of soft, featherlike kisses is being traced down his spine.

Jimin surely wouldn’t hate mornings this much if he could spend them in bed, just like this, mind still half-asleep as his senses slowly awake one by one under the pleasant touch of someone else’s lips. A special kind of someone.

“Good morning, baby,” the lips mumble against his back, continuing their path across his shoulder blades, the feeling of them almost ticklish.

He hums back in response, too tired to form any coherent word, and the voice chuckles in endearment above him. Jimin is used to those kind of mornings, and the way they so abruptly end.

As soon as this exact thought leaves him, a loud wail pierces through the silence of the room, ruthlessly breaking the bubble of warmth and affection he’d been floating in. Jimin lets out another groan, as if he hadn’t known this would happen. As if it hadn’t been happening for eight painful but wonderful months already.

Turning onto his back to stretch his limbs, Jimin blinks up lazily at the face hovering above his own. Lips that were drawing nonsense across his skin only a minute ago are now shaped around a smile much too mischievous for such an early hour of the morning.

“Know what day it is?” the voice asks, dark eyes shining with laughter.

Jimin squints, rakes his brain for an important date he might’ve forgotten. “No?”

Smile unwavering, “Wednesday.”

Jimin is about to ask what’s so important about that when it hits him. He squeezes his eyes shut. Maybe if he pretends to be asleep, right this instant, he’ll be able to escape what he knows is coming.

But of course, luck can never stay too long on his side.

The body on top of his giggles shamelessly, jolting him with it until he begrudgingly opens his eyes again, pout already forming on his lips.

“It’s your turn to get her,” the voice says, and Jimin wishes he could wipe that smug smile right off that beautiful face. He settles for a glare.

In all honesty, Jimin doesn’t mind the crying. At first, he’d thought he’d go crazy with the shrill sound of it, and he remembers needing an entire week to get over the initial migraine. Now, it’s all just part of his routine, and he doesn’t even blink an eye at the piercing noise that never seems to leave their apartment. The only reprieve he gets is when he’s on set, but even then, he’d say the sound of the directors’ shouting isn’t much better.

It doesn’t mean he’s particularly happy about having to get out of their heavenly cozy bed, barefoot and half-naked, to go and sing their eight-month-old daughter a lullaby, though. No matter how much he loves her.

“Thought you were the musical prodigy of the family?” he teases.

Above him, Jungkook smiles, and it's the same sight he’s been waking up to for the past three years. One he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to – and perhaps that’s for the better. He’d never want to take this for granted.

Jungkook leans down to give him a chaste kiss, laughing brightly when Jimin chases his lips. His teeth are poking out cutely, and Jimin can’t get enough of him. “You’ve seen how she bangs her toys together,” Jungkook replies. “She’s obviously better than me already.”

Jimin can’t help but smile at that, suddenly overcome with affection. He feels it spread through his chest, melting sugar against his bones, and he steals another kiss while he can, before he has to get up and tend to his adult responsibilities.

As he makes to get up, Jungkook rolls over on his side of the bed, arms and legs spread wide. The sheet is barely enough to cover his skin, its honey undertones accentuated by the early sunlight coming in through the window. Jimin has to physically tear himself away from the bed and the sight of his husband, lamenting at the fact that this very act probably won’t be getting any easier in the future.

And perhaps that’s for the better.