Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Seoul, Republic of Korea, November 2020

It’s shocking really.

How quiet Seoul can be this late at night.

Up here in a hollow studio, long shadows stenciled across concrete by the fluorescent glow of a single bulbed lamp.

Jeongguk hisses, dropping his mechanical pencil. The clatter it makes against his desk echoes, shaking the still, empty room around him.

His hand is cramping bad, pale fingers curling in on themselves as spasms shake through their length, trembling and withering.

With a defeated sigh, he shakes his hand in the air as if he can fling the tension out of it. In reality, he’s probably dehydrated, which means that the cramp likely isn’t going away anytime soon. 

Seokjin would be upset with him, for working straight through the day without even stopping to refill the glass water bottle perched on the far corner of his desk. The older man always made sure it was full first thing in the morning, but today, Jeongguk had wanted to work with watercolors to texture the trains of several pieces, and the water was right there, so perfect and tempting.

Now Jeongguk’s defeated eyes fall on the same bottle, water muddied with various hues of turquoise, three red glossed paint brushes still sticking haphazardly out of its mouth. 

He lets out a little snort at the sight. He can’t help it. All he can hear when he looks at it is Seokjin’s offended voice, ratcheting in volume as he complains about Jeongguk’s disregard for his own health (and Seokjin’s sanity).

The desk before him is swathed with designs, each measurement perfectly recorded in tiny print alongside its sketch, materials and techniques jotted down in any open space. 

It was a productive day, at least.  Everyday is, because this is all Jeongguk does, but he ignores that.  

His office stretches before him, dark and empty. Cold and silent. Echoing. If nothingness could echo, this is what it would sound like.

All the walls are windows, and outside, Seoul glimmers and glints with light, casting long shadows across bare concrete floors. There was a time, once, a time that feels like long ago now, when Jeongguk would’ve been giddy at the view.  At the vast sprawl of cold metal and bright fluorescence and the feeling it should’ve given him; the feeling that he must’ve made it.

Not anymore. Now the view just reminds him of how lonely he is. Of what he would do to have him here, watching the skyscraper window twinkles beside him.

Jeongguk would give anything to go back– the money, the penthouse studio, the glittering cityscape. He would offer it all in heartbeat if he meant he could return to that place.  The Busan of his memories.

He’s already painfully aware that’s not possible. Of course he is. So, instead of dreaming, he locks himself in this prison of a room and draws until his hands seize with cramps and his eyelids droop so heavily they eclipse his vision.

He lets out a yawn, squinting at the digital clock glowing on the opposite side of his desk. 

1:13 am.

Fuck. It’s even later than he realized.

The muscles of his hand have finally relaxed now, but he still massages them with gentle, probing fingers as he stands from his desk, blinking blearily at the spread of paper before him.  He should organize it, file it away, but the paints on some of the leaflets still glisten in the soft city glow and so he leaves them arrayed as they are, instead taking the glass bottle of muddied water the the sink embedded to the wall beside before him.

The water swirls around the drain for a moment before it’s swallowed down into the pipes and canals beneath, and Jeongguk finds his mind wandering again, to those labyrinthine patterns. He tucks the image away, and turns back to his desk, scanning its surface for anything he may have forgotten before flicking off his lamp.

It takes almost a full minute for the elevator to descend from his penthouse studio to the ground level, and Jeongguk uses this time to shrug into his oversized black hoodie, pulling a mask over the bottom half of his face and shoving earbuds into his ears.  He reaches into his jacket pocket, searching until his fingers brush the familiar curve of his Walkman, tracing metallic scratches. 

He clicks play and the tape sputters to life, mellifluous and soothing.

He knows this song like the back of this hand. He knows this voice better than his own.  He doesn’t like to think about why that is. 

The gilded elevator doors slide open, and Jeongguk slips out, nodding shortly to the tired doorman stationed outside.

The night air is crisp and chilled with the promise of autumn, stinging Jeongguk’s eyes and creeping through his hoodie to raise goosebumps along his arms as he walks.  It rained earlier, but Jeongguk had been too absorbed in his designs to pay it any mind, and now he splashes through shallow puddles reflecting off the slick black pavement.  

The iridescence of oil on water draws his eye– another snapshot to file back in his brain for the future.  There are a few couples out walking together, even this late at night, and Jeongguk tries not to think about how alone he must look in comparison.

He tries that a lot these days.

He always fails.

A twist of hunger in his gut reminds him of how long it’s been since he ate– a few fig cookies Seokjin had left on his desk with a threat hours earlier, and Jeongguk grimaces. He’ll have to go to a convenience store. He’ll have to look a stranger in the eyes and talk to them.  

He could just go home and fall into bed, but Seokjin wouldn’t like that. And then Jeongguk would just feel even emptier than he already does. Already, his hollow stomach twists and aches.

He already knows there’s one up ahead on his walk home from work. It sits on the corner, neon signs blinking vibrantly where they’re mirrored on the slick pavement. 

Jeongguk sighs, yanking his earbuds out.

A warm gust of air greets him as he shoves the door open, making a beeline for the instant ramen aisle. He can hear a few other late night shoppers shuffling around him, the soft murmuring of voices, the news playing on a TV above the cash register.

 “ ...critically acclaimed for his poignant lyricism and electrifying stage presence…”

Jeongguk tunes out the droning of the talking heads, busy in another craze of adulation over some pop idol, he’s sure, eyes flickering across the colorful packages on the shelf before him.  As always there are too many options. As always, Jeongguk scans each one before selecting the familiar red packaging of the only instant ramen brand he ever eats.  He collects several of them in his arms, and grabs a carton of banana milk, before making his way into the line before the cashier.

“Newly debuted and already amassing a huge following, the singer's first EP, “MUSE” just spent its third consecutive week atop the Billboard 200 albums chart…”

The TV catches his attention again, and Jeongguk takes a glance up at the screen. Two news anchors sit at a dark wooden desk in some studio,a screen behind them displaying an album cover.

Jeongguk stares.

It's a well designed album– aesthetically– a dark brown rabbit, curled in on itself inside a perfect square, the word “MUSE” emblazoned across it in elegant white text, but it takes more than just a good design to catch his attention. 

There’s something about the image. Something that enraptures Jeongguk, sparking a faint note of recognition– of nostalgia inside of him. 

Something about that album cover is painfully familiar. 

The taste of artificial sugary grapes and sweet green tea coats his tongue. The velvety brush of soft fur across his fingertips. A laugh like the clear ringing of bells fills his ears. 

“Excuse me?”

A soft summer breeze tosses his hair, cooling the sweat on his forehead as he leans into a warm body behind him, a muscled arm wrapping around his waist gently —

“Sir?”

An irritated voice jolts him back to reality, and Jeongguk shakes his head, dropping his eyes from the screen to where an annoyed teenage cashier stares back at him, arms crossed over her chest. 

She pops her gum. 

“Are you ready to pay, sir? There’s a line.”

“Ah,” Jeongguk stutters, “yes… I’m sorry.”

He dumps his armful of instant ramen onto the counter, risking one more glance at the TV above the cashier's bleach blonde head, but the discussion has moved on and the album cover is gone.

“Sir?”

Jeongguk gives the cashier a guilty smile, and drops his bills into her outstretched hand. He shuffles to the side to sweep his items into a bag, making room for the next customer, and pops his earbuds back in for the rest of the walk back to his apartment.

That voice– the same one as always– fills his ears, honey sweet, smooth as silk and raspy like smoke at the same time.

Jeongguk walks back into the afterrain night.

-

“Fuck, Jimin,” Namjoon says, miraculously keeping what Jimin is positive is no small amount of irritation out of his voice, “they’re spewing your praise all over KBS, you can afford to wrap up a recording session before midnight every once in a while.”

His producer's voice is slightly tinny, warped by the speakers it has to travel through in order to reach Jimin where he’s tucked away inside his recording booth, attention focused on the hastily scrawled tower of lyrics before him. 

Without tearing his gaze from the page in front of him, Jimin replies. 

“No I can’t.”

There’s a weary sigh and then another voice comes blaring through the speakers.

“Jimin-ah,” Hoseok whines, stretching the last syllable impossibly long, “come on. Let’s eat.”

“I already told you two to go ahead.”

“But if we let you stay here alone, you’ll never leave.”

Jimin tries to bite back the fond smile starting to work its way onto his lips.  Hoseok is right. If he and Namjoon decide to leave Jimin here, he’ll sleep on the producers couch out in the control room, just like he did last night. 

He hums noncommittally, twisting his pen to highlight a specific line he needs to rephrase.  

“Hey, hyung?” he starts, staring down at the lyrics before him with a furrowed brow, “what rhymes with ‘young’?”

“Well–” Namjoon starts, only to be abruptly interrupted by Hoseok.

“Namjoon-ah, don’t answer that. Jimin, how about ‘if you aren’t out here in five minutes. I’m coming in there and dragging you out.’”

Jimin lets out a dramatic groan, finally caving. He doesn’t doubt that Hoseok would do exactly as he threatened, and Jimin doesn’t have much interest in trying to fight off his manager/choreographer once the older man has been incited into a feral rage by Jimin’s refusal to keep a “healthy, sustainable schedule.” (Hoseok’s words, not Jimin’s).

“Fine, hyung, I’ll be out in a minute.”

His knees crack as he shifts onto his feet, loud snapping pops of cartilage and bone, that serve to remind him of the choreo he has yet to perfect for his next round of promotions. Torso twisting back and forth, Jimin stretches leisurely, savoring the crack of each vertebrae in his back, ignoring Namjoons disgusted groan from outside.

“Do you have to do that in there?” his producer complains, sounding vaguely nauseous, “you have no idea how awful that sounds bass boosted with reverb out here.”

“Yah, we can’t help it Joon-ah,” Hoseok defends, “it’s just a dancer thing.”

Jimin thinks it’s funny that Hobi is saying that now, when just this morning he’d been worrying over Jimin’s swollen knees like a mother hen, trying to squeeze another massage and PT session into Jimin’s already overflowing schedule. 

He makes one more mark on the lyrics before him, a question mark next to the word ‘young’ at the end of the third verse, to remind himself that he needs to find a rhyme for it, and tosses his pen down on top of his notebooks in defeat. 

There’s still a finger's worth of sweet green tea in a ceramic mug that teeters precariously on the edge of his desk, and he gulps it down, relocating the mug to a safer position.

“Hurry up,” Hoseok whines.

“I’m coming,” Jimin huffs, making a mental note to limit his hyung’s Taehyung exposure. Hoseok has definitely picked up a habit or two from the model since Jimin introduced the two, and it hasn’t been making Jimin’s life any easier.

(He’s definitely overheard Taehyung offering his manager some advice along the lines of “You can’t reason Jimin into doing what you want, and you can’t nag him into it. You have to annoy him into it,” but that was all Jimin had managed to overhear before Taehyung’s bright eyes had flicked in his direction and Hoseok had cast an undeniably guilty glance his way).

Outside, the night air is chilled and wet in the aftermath of rain.

Jimin tilts his head back, lagging behind his friends and letting his eyes fall closed to savor the fresh caress of night breeze across his face for just a moment before rushing to catch up.

The city lights reflect in puddles glimmering with oily iridescence, and Jimin thinks of someone who would've stopped him where he walked, a light hand on his shoulder, a fascinated murmur of “Hyung! Look at that.”

It never feels good to remember, but Jimin has long given up on trying not to. He’s almost certain that it would be impossible to just forget.

Instead, he keeps walking.

The restaurant his hyungs have picked isn’t far from the company. Jimin’s been here before, but it’s been a while. He thinks the last time might’ve been before he debuted. 

Back then he would’ve just walked right in, but things have changed, and  now they stand outside, bathed in yellow light, as Jimin tugs his hood over his dyed blonde hair and snaps a mask over the bottom half of his face. Hoseok leans in front of him, mussing his hair a little so that his bangs fall over his eyes.

“What do you think?” he asks Namjoon.

“It’ll have to do,” the other man replies, running a critical eye over Jimin’s figure. “Hopefully it’s late enough and the place will have emptied out a bit.”

Jimin eye’s the restaurant dubiously, attention flicking across the several booths still full of tipsy college students, even past one in the morning.

“Hopefully they’re drunk enough, is more like it.”

Namjoon tilts his head. 

“Eh, same thing.”

They make their way into the restaurant.

Jimin has just bitten into his wing (extra spicy– because he has standards) when Hoseok catches his attention with a nudge.

He turns to his friend in confusion, mouth stuffed with hot chicken, but his manager just nods up at the TV across the restaurant.

“The up and coming soloist from Bighit Entertainment is already critically acclaimed for his poignant lyricism and electrifying stage presence, and continues to make a name for himself in the global music industry.”

Namjoon lets out a snicker beside him.

“ Electrifying stage presence, huh, Jiminie?”

Jimin can’t help the way his face heats up. He blames it on the chicken, casting a glare in his producer’s direction, before returning his attention to the screen. He doesn’t spend much time monitoring the response to his work, apart from a vague understanding of charting and the biweekly reports that the company leaves on his studio desk, and he has to admit that he’s at least a little fascinated.

One of the news anchors clicks a remote, and the album art for MUSE appears on the screen behind her.

“Newly debuted and already amassing a huge following, the singer's first EP, “MUSE” just spent its third consecutive week atop the Billboard 200 albums chart. Park Jimin, known mononymously as ‘Jimin,’ appears to have ushered in a new age of globalization within the world market.”

The screen shifts to a clip of him performing, carefully selected, he’s certain, to include the one hip thrust that Hoseok had included in the entire suite of choreography that had accompanied MUSE.

Jimin lets his forehead drop to the table as Hoseok lets out a pleased giggle.

“They know how to pick ‘em, huh?”

Jimin just groans.

“In other news within the world of art and music,” the talking head continues over the muffled clatter of the restaurant, “rumours of a third and final installation collection from multimedia artist JK, who was propelled into the spotlight by their controversial collaboration with rapper Agust D and the notorious ‘urban-night’ graffiti series which brought the mysterious artist worldwide acclaim in 2019, have begun to circulate in recent weeks, possibly started by the artist’s team itself…”

“Huh,” Namjoon says, and Jimin perks up in interest.

“What is it, hyung?”

Namjoons eyes are still fixed on the TV, narrowed in contemplation.

“What have you all heard about JK?” Namjoon asks, head tilted slightly, in a gesture that Jimin has come to realize means he has an idea by now.

“Not much more than you’ve told us, to be honest,” Hoseok takes a sip from his tea, “worked with your rapper friend, probably pretty heavily inspired by Banksy, but a lot more versatile in terms of media” he turns to Jimin, still talking, but Jimin’s attention is stuck on that name. 

Banksy.

He had loved Banksy.

“Hyung! Look!” 

A phone is thrust into Jimin’s hand, a web of cracks bisecting it’s small screen. The image on it is barely visible with the glare of midday sun glancing off each delicate fissure, but Jimin squints to make it out anyway. 

A figure of an athlete, a javelin thrower, Jimin thinks, if he remembers correctly, is stenciled in monochrome hues on a plain cement wall. Only, instead of a fiberglass spear, his hand, drawn back and prepared to let loose, is wrapped around a long range missile, sleek and deadly.

That voice comes again, soft and admiring. “It’s so clever… how do they even think of these things?”

It is clever. 

And bold. 

And Jimin is glad that he’s selected someone who actually has something to say to idolize.

“... right Jimin?”

“Huh?”

Hoseok blinks at him, likely unamused by his lack of attention.

“I was saying that I think Taehyungie might have actually mentioned knowing him. I’m pretty sure he modeled that second installation piece.”

“... Banksy?”

Hoseok laughs, slapping Jimin lightly on the shoulder.

“No,” he says, lips quirked in amusement, “JK.”

“Oh,” Jimin says. “What about him?”

“Well,” his manager says, drawing out the last syllable, “Taehyung might know him.”

“What?”

“I guess it was probably this summer, when you were really deep into the production on MUSE, but Tae worked with him.”

Jimin tilts his head, trying to find any mention of that in the convoluted mess of his memories from the summer. 

 “You probably don’t remember, which isn’t surprising…” Hoseok trails off.

Jimin shifts a little in his seat, uncomfortable, when Hoseok continues.

“Actually, we need to talk about that before you get so buried into this next album that you won’t listen to us.” He casts a meaningful glance at Namjoon, who looks like he’s steeling himself for an argument.  It’s not a comforting sight in the slightest for Jimin, who looks carefully back to his manager out of the corner of his eye.

Hoseok takes a deep breath.

“MUSE is a masterpiece, Jimin. It has obviously exceeded everyone’s expectations, but the methods that you used to create it… they were…”

Jimin swallows. Now he knows where this is going.

It’s an intervention.

“You can’t do that again, Jimin,” Namjoon interrupts, sensing that Hoseok is struggling to find the words he needs. “It’s not safe, it’s not healthy, it’s not sustainable.”

And Jimin wants to argue, he really does. He wants to tell him that he can’t help it. That all the best music inside of him is about him and that he isn’t something that Jimin can contemplate without discomfort. 

Without pain. 

Maybe even suffering.

Actually, suffering is right.

Jimin had suffered to make MUSE. 

He had slipped back into those happy golden memories, into those afternoons that flowed, slow and sticky like honey. Into those walks on the beach with the salt wind tossing his hair around his face. Into those eyes that glinted like gemstones and stars and every bright, sweet thing in the world. 

And then he had wrenched himself back out of them, and come gasping and shaking ashore in the real world. In now. In an empty city and a cold recording booth and a silent apartment devoid of doe eyes and quiet whispers of “hyung,” and that had hurt more than anything. 

It had almost hurt more than the knowledge that he had done it to himself.

Jimin knows that he hadn’t handled it well, but who could’ve? Can they really blame him for that?

He raises his head with intent. To tell them they don’t understand. To tell them that it’s the only way he knows how to work. That heartbreak, that guilt, that nostalgia are the only things he knows how to write anymore. The only things he’s known how to write for the past six years. His mouth falls open, the words dancing on the tip of his tongue and then—

“Excuse me?”

All three of them jump in surprise, heads whipping to the entrance of the booth where a boy, one of the drunk college students that Jimin had noticed earlier, stands hesitantly, hands clasped together in front of him.

When he sees that he has their attention he gives a quick bow, head bobbing back up excitedly.

“I’m sorry to bother you all, but… um…” the boy’s eyes shift towards Jimin, recognition apparent.

“Park Jimin-ssi?” he asks hopefully.

Jimin plasters a smile across his face. 

It’s not that he doesn’t love his fans— he does, very much— it’s just that right now is not the best time. 

That doesn’t matter though. 

That has never mattered to him. 

He gives the boy an encouraging nod. 

“W-well it’s just that— that I’m a really, really big fan,” the boy stutters, “I just really wanted to tell you that your music means so much to me.”

He bows again, and Jimin’s chest fills with fondness at the boy's obvious nervousness. Isn’t this what he always wanted?

To be heard by the world? To comfort and calm and assure others like him? To let others know that there was someone who saw them, who understood them?

That's not all you wanted , a little voice whispers in the back of his head. 

He ignores it. 

“I’m so happy to hear that…” he lets his voice trail off expectantly. 

“Hajoon!” the boy squeaks. 

“Hajoon-ssi. I really appreciate it.”

Jimin flashes another smile, not missing the red that rises in the boy’s cheeks. 

“Thank you for your support. I will do my best to deserve it.”

“O-oh, you already do!” Hajoon bows again, his third bow in as many minutes. “I will let you get back to your meal. Thank you so much.”

Jimin’s eyes linger on the boy's back as he turns and scurries away, unwilling to turn around and attempt to face his friends. The fire that had been rising in him, the urge to explain, to force them to understand, has been snuffed out by the slightest of breezes and now he’s just cold again. Empty.

He’d never once dreamed that the love or support of his fans could fill the hole that he had left behind, but it still stings every time he’s proven correct.

His shoulder slump, and he lets out a soft sigh, turning back to the table.

Thankfully, neither Hoseok nor Namjoon attempt to pick the conversation back up where it had dropped off, likely sensing the fluctuation in Jimin’s mood, and they finish their meals in silence. 

-

“What do you mean ‘are you allowed in?’ of course I’m ‘allowed in!’ Don’t you know who I am?!”

Jeongguk feels a small smile curl his lips as Taehyung’s indignant voice drifts out of the newly opened elevator doors.

“What do you mean you don’t?” Taehyung shrieks, “I was here everyday this summer!”

Jeongguk doesn’t take his eyes away from the sketch before him, the delicate cross hatching he’s carving into the back of a jacket, when he raises his voice slightly.

“It’s okay, he’s allowed in.”

The elevator doors slide shut with a click and Taehyung huffs. Jeongguk doesn’t look, but he can imagine the older man running a flustered hand through his hair, shaking his head in indignation. 

“Why don’t you make passes or something?” Taehyung whines, “it’s so hard to get up here.”

Jeongguk bites his lip, eyes narrowed as he angles his pencil to trace the slimmest curve possible on the page before him.

“It’s supposed to be hard.”

“Yeah well… not for me !”

“Yes for you,” Jeongguk murmurs under his breath, but he’s not half as annoyed as he pretends to be.

“Hey!” 

He adds a hint more weight to the press of graphite across paper, darkening a shadow.

“What happened to respecting your elders?”

“Oh, you’re an elder now?” Jeongguk teases, finally filling in the last fall of shade on his sketch.  He tilts his head back up, blinking owlishly at the man standing before him. “Should I start calling you ahjussi?”

Kim Taehyung is, for lack of a better word, beautiful.  His features are sharp– almost impossibly so– intense eyes and high cheekbones only emphasized by the way his mane of permed black hair is swept off of his face with a wire headband.  

He has to be, though. He’s a model. It’s his job.

“You go right ahead and try that, baby,” Taehyung drawls, and Jeongguk scrunches his nose in disgust at the term of endearment.

He looks back down, shuffling his newly finished sketch off to the side and flipping to a clear sheet in another sketchpad.

“What do you want?”

“I can’t be curious about how my second favorite recluse is doing?”

Jeongguk raises a brow.

“Second favorite?”

Taehyung doesn’t miss a beat. 

“All you artists are so antisocial.”

Huffing, Jeongguk begins to sketch a faint outline of proportions across the blank white in front of him.

“You don’t consider yourself an artist?”

“That’s not the point.” 

“Then what is?”

“The point is…” Taehyung reaches an elegant hand under the younger man's chin, forcing his attention away from the sketchbook, “that I’m hearing about your next installation through a KBS broadcast that mentioned some rumors and not a text from you.”

“Huh,” Jeongguk mutters, brows drawing together as he attempts to remember if his manager had mentioned any media appointments to him, “that must’ve been Seokjin.”

He lifts his face out of the model's grasp and goes back to his drawing.

When Taehyung doesn’t speak for a moment, he adds, “What about my next installation?”

Taehyung circles the desk until he stands alongside Jeongguk, rifling through the stacks of finished designs sprawling haphazardly over its surface.

“I can’t find you a model if I don’t know what the designs look like, can I?”

Jeongguk risks a glance up from his design, catching how Taehyung’s eyes light up in delight at the sight of a particular design. “You don’t have to,” he says, “Seokjin hyung is working on it.”

Tae waves a hand dismissively in the air, attention still locked on the design in his other hand.

“Well, in this case, ‘Seokjin hyung working on it’ meant ‘Seokjin hyung texting Taehyung hyung for help’.”

Oh.

“Oh,” Jeongguk murmurs, building the structure of a pair of slacks onto the page.

“Yes,” Taehyung replies, “Oh.”

He flips the sheet in his hand so that Jeongguk can see which design he’s been inspecting. 

Jeongguk swallows.

The design Taehyung has selected is one of his… less subtle works. It’s fairly simple at first glance, a simple school uniform– a little oversized, with the tie loose and haphazard just like his used to always be.  Only closer inspection would reveal the dark patterned cigarette burns dappling the fabric of the blazer, or the fact that what appears to be a simple white dress shirt is actually beaded with thousands of miniscule white opals. 

Opals for October.

“What's the theme this time around?” Taehyung jokes, “Bad boy? That seems a little simplistic for you Guk.”

Jeongguk bristles a little bit, though he already knows the older man means no harm.

“Music when soft voices die,” he recites, “Vibrates in the memory.”

Tahyung hums. “Keats?”

It’s not a bad guess.

“Shelley.”

“Ah.” Taehyung tilts his head to look at the design again, seeing it with new eyes.

He makes a surprised noise in the back of his throat, leaning forward a little when he catches the detailing of the gemstone undershirt.

“Hm.”

He selects another design, laying the previous gently back in its stack, and Jeongguk has to bite back a groan, because somehow Taehyung is only selecting the most obvious of his sketches.

A black jacket, its entire back a canvas of intricate embroidery.  A figure stands, face tilted just so, just enough that no recognizable features are present, just the slim curve of a cheek, a mess of dark hair falling over a brow. They stare out at a city seen from above, the ocean glimmering in the distance– beaded in sapphires of varying hues.

Sapphires for September.

The image is straight out of Jeongguk’s memory: repeated in a thousand variations across seemingly as many days. The sprawl of Busan from the roof of that school building, the curve of his face— angled and smooth, the brilliant burn of sun dappled ocean. 

“So,” Taehyung says quietly, “nostalgia, memory, recollection…” he shifts his gaze from the design to Jeongguk, who shrinks back into himself at the intensity in his friends eyes, “loss?”

Jeongguk swallows again, looking carefully back to his sketchbook. “If that’s what you got out of it, sure.”

He’s certain his forced nonchalance is not lost on Taehyung, but the older man knows better than to press him on things like this.

Taehyung abandons the jacket, attention drawn to the sketch that Jeongguk had just finished as he arrived. 

It’s another jacket, another embroidered piece. Still black, twining strands of smoke dance like iridescent oil across silk, twisting up and down the sleeves as they rise from the bottom hem of the design, which is noted to be a cigarette glow orange.

“You know,” Taehyung begins, after a moment of silent inspection, “I think you might have made this easier on me than I anticipated.”

“You have someone in mind?” Jeongguk asks, surprised. 

The installation is still in the earlier phases of production, so Jeongguk hadn’t necessarily worried about finding a model yet.

 Actually, that's a lie. Jeongguk had intentionally forced the thought of finding a model from his head. 

It would be harder this time than it ever had before. 

He had worked with Yoongi for his first installation– the elder rapper's lyricism and presence drawing Jeongguk like a moth to a flame. The theme had been rage against the establishment, and the collection had been an unprecedented success– so much so, that Jeongguk had come into a bevy of patrons and enough funds to live comfortably off of making art for the rest of the decade at least.

Then he had worked with Taehyung, whose elegant features and slender grace had blended perfectly with his second installation's objective of inspecting the intersections of gender and sexuality. 

But now, when Jeongguk tries to imagine someone who could become the canvas for his art, he draws a blank.  It might even be impossible, because, deep inside, Jeongguk knows that there’s only one person who could wear these pieces the way they were intended.  

He doesn’t think he’ll ever see that person again.

“I might.” Taehyung picks up another design. Stares at it. Hums in approval.

“That quickly?”

“Mhm.”

Jeongguk isn’t sure he believes him. 

“Who?”

Taehyung runs a long fingered hand across another design, smile curling on his lips a little at the coiling outlines of calico cats Jeongguk had traced into its folds.

“Oh, I can’t tell you yet,” he purrs, “I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise.”

Jeongguk lets out a frustrated sigh as Taehyung continues, finally straightening from where he’s crouched over the desk. “Besides, there’s no guarantee he’ll agree. One of those tortured artist types, you know? Just like you, actually.”

Jeongguk scoffs, leaning back in his seat to glare up at the older man, “I’m not tortured just because I care about my work, hyung.”

“Funny.”

“What?”

“That’s almost exactly what he told me just the other day.”

“Yeah?” Jeongguk says, “well then he’s probably not tortured either.”

Taehyung hums.

“Yes, it’s perfectly healthy that you never leave this studio before midnight.”

Jeongguk looks up, prepared to defend himself, to argue, but mirth dances, light and teasing, in the model’s eyes, so instead he sighs, shoulders dropping in defeat.

His hand creeps back across his desk in search of his pencil and Taehyung's gaze follows it in amusement.

“God, you're like an addict.”

Jeongguk doesn’t bother responding to that as he turns back to his work.  Vaguely, as graphite meets paper, he can hear the elevator doors swish open, Taehyung shouting a goodbye that he has enough experience with Jeongguk to know won’t be answered.

Jeongguk works.

-

Jimin lets out a groan, wrenching his headphones off.

“Hyung, the key’s just too high!”

“No, it’s not.” Namjoons deep voice filters through the speakers. “You’ve recorded in this key before. All of the ad-libs in Like Crazy, remember?”

The thing is, he’s right. 

Jimin drops his chin to his chest, and closes his eyes, savoring the way the muscles along the back of his neck lengthen with a light stretch. 

They’ve been recording for hours now, straight through what was supposed to be a lunch break, and deep into the evening. Jimin’s fingers itch to find a cigarette, to light up, even though he kicked that habit years ago. Mostly because of the memories. 

The thing about cigarette smoke— ghostly and bitter— is that he’s come to find it impossible to extract it from those memories. Hot summer nights and long winter mornings, grape candy and gusting ocean breeze. 

(Odors when sweet violets sicken… Live within the sense they quicken.)

It had been hard to quit. 

When his friends had asked why he’d tried so hard to drop the habit, he’d muttered that it was bad for his voice, and that was that. 

Not that it matters so much right now when he’s been trying and failing to hit the same fucking note for an hour. The key’s not actually too high. Jimin knows this. He’s sung in this key, and even higher, without much trouble in the past.  It’s just for some reason, today, his voice isn’t cooperating with him.

He scrubs a hand over his eyes with bruising force.

“Fuck.”

Maybe–” Namjoon tries tentatively but Jimin interrupts him.

“Again.”

He knows where Namjoon was going with that. He was going to try to convince Jimin to rest, to take the night off, but Jimin can’t rest.  He has all these things inside him, these feelings, each writhing and clawing to get out, and the only way he can set them free is to sing.

He’s always been this way.  Always felt too brightly. 

The track plays again, and Jimin misses the note again.

He hisses in frustration.

“Again.”

This time, his voice cracks as it strains to reach the note, splitting and shattering like glass.

He lets out an inhuman shriek of frustration, clawing at his head to drag his headphones back down.  

“That’s it,” a voice says through the speaker. “You’re done.”

It’s not Namjoon: tone too high and too firm to belong to the producer. If there’s one thing Namjoon hates, it’s fighting with Jimin.  He’d taken one look at Jimin, when he’d first arrived at the company as a trainee five years earlier, all round cheeks and messy dark hair and angry eyes, and melted. 

Hoseok, on the other hand, was a tougher nut to crack. 

Which is why Jimin’s not surprised when his studio door swings open to reveal the man silhouetted in its frame, disapproval apparent in the downturned set of his mouth.

“Let’s go.”

Jimin takes one look at him: the hard glint of his eyes, the steadiness of his stance, and doesn’t argue.

Hoseok leads him out of the studio, out of the production room, into the hallway where they come to an abrupt stop. There's a moment of silence in which Jimin inspects the corridor around them— empty and long and white— and then Hoseok lets out a sigh. 

“Jimin,” he says, voice tired, “go home.”

“Hyung–”

“Go home, relax a bit, get a full night’s sleep for once,” he reaches a hand out, turning to ruffle Jimin’s hair, “we’ll talk in the morning.”

“I—“ Jimin tries to start again. 

Hoseok gives him another look, firm and unyielding. 

Jimin sighs. 

“See you tomorrow, hyung.”

The lock on Jimin's apartment door clicks open with a beep! red glow switching to a green pulse. 

For a moment, he just stands, shoulders curved, and stares at it— the sleek metal handle, the matte black keypad, the flashing lock light— from the empty hallway. 

The air smells rich. 

No… the air smells expensive. Like walking past the open entrance of a perfume shop at the mall and getting a whiff of blended chemicals and golden oils that cost more than the contents of every bag clutched in your hands combined. The scent scratches at Jimin's nose, almost drawing a sneeze out of him, and for the second time in as many hours, Jimin’s fingers twitch to light up a cigarette. 

He wouldn’t even have to smoke it. He could just hold it. Watch it ignite. Watch the pale white paper, curl and crisp and blacken. Watch the slow spread of maraschino cherry red embers up its length, watch that pale foggy smoke twine up into the expensive air. Let that painful sharp aroma overwhelm this apartment's carefully curated aura of money, of luxury, of superiority. 

Objectively, this place wasn’t supposed to care about things like that as long as you had the money to afford an apartment. 

Jimin had the money. 

Jimin had the money, but that couldn’t shake the feeling he got when his neighbors, all the bankers and chaebols and socialites, followed him with their eyes. 

They were born into this— most of them. The ones that weren’t had become so adept at code switching and laughing with just the right blend of volume and condescension that no one would ever know they hadn’t come sliding out of the womb with a silver spoon in their mouth. 

Jimin wasn’t born into this. Jimin didn’t know how to laugh right, how to let a sliver of his black card peek tastefully over the edge of his designer wallet, how to do any of those things that were expensive. And his neighbors knew that too. 

His neighbors knew that despite everything— despite his name plastered over TV broadcasts, despite his songs perched easily atop a hundred different charts, despite the key code that he thumbs into a pin pad to unlock his own door in this expensive apartment everytime he comes back to it— he’s not expensive. 

He’s nothing more than an orphan from Busan. An orphan who got lucky. 

He wonders if their idea of luck is the same as his. He doesn’t think it is. He’s not sure that he’s that lucky at all. 

When he reaches a hand out, almost shivering at the chill of the doorknob and pushes into his apartment, it's empty. 

Dark and silent. Echoing with nothingness. 

Jimin toes out of his shoes and flips on the light, wincing at the sterile fluorescent glow. He wants to flick it back off, but the thought of trying to make his way around the empty kitchen, to start the microwave, to flop down on the stiff couch, all in the dark, makes him feel like an intruder. Like he doesn’t belong. 

Jimin’s not sure if he actually wants to belong, but he leaves the light on anyway. 

The fridge is almost empty, a single six pack of beer lonely and abandoned. Jimin takes one, opening it as he wanders over to the pantry. 

He adds water to a bowl of instant ramen and starts the microwave. Its dull droning feels earth shatteringly loud in the emptiness of his apartment. 

Jimin frowns. 

He wanders back out of the kitchen to the open living area across from it, lined with a wall of windows. The city is bright and flickering and glittering from here. 

The windows are thick glass, muting any possibility of the hustle and bustle reaching his ears and Jimin finds himself longing to hear the honking of taxis and yells of buskers seeping into his apartment. 

He flicks on the TV, lets the numbing familiarity of the news flood the still air of his home. No. His living space. This isn’t a home. 

The microwave beeps and Jimin removes his ramen, wincing as the steam scalds his hands. 

He pops a pair of wooden chopsticks out of their paper packaging. He only keeps disposable utensils in the apartment. He’s here so rarely that it wouldn’t even make sense to have actual utensils. He would have to wash them, and it would just be a waste of water to run the dishwasher for nothing more than a pair of chopsticks and a single bowl. 

His ramen is still too hot to eat without scalding his tongue, but he slurps it down anyway, curled up on the couch. He almost likes the uncomfortable sting of it, the way the burn is enough to distract him from the cold hollowness of the apartment around him. 

Once he’s finished he sets the plastic packaging by his feet. 

A laugh comes from the TV, but it sounds artificial to his ears. He can’t tell if that’s because his brain somehow recognizes that the sound has been transmitted through wires and airwaves and speakers before it reached his ears, or if whatever the joke is was really just not that funny. 

His beer is lukewarm now. Half empty. 

He takes another gulp of it and lets his head fall back onto the couch cushion behind him. He bought the couch brand new to furnish his apartment, and he’s home so rarely that it might as well still be brand new. The cushions make little crackling noises when he shifts on them, too impeccable to ever dream of being comfortable, but he shifts again, laying sideways and throwing his legs up anyway. 

It’s better than the empty bed, he thinks listlessly as his eyes drift shut. 

The television drones on, casting vibrant flickering light across glossy floors and too clean counters and sterile walls. 

-

Jeongguk frowns, turning the warm mug in his hands back and forth as he eyes the intricate marbling of foamed milk floating atop it. 

It’s an interesting pattern, almost like a flower, he thinks. Each slender spine unfurling from its center makes him think of spider lilies. Or maybe ribs. 

Well. That’s a little more morbid than he’d intended it to be. 

He’s torn from his musing by the clatter of ceramic hitting the table before him and looks up as Seokjin plops into the booth across from him. 

The older man’s hair is slicked back and impeccable as always, his shirt crisp white and perfectly ironed, but there's a hint of bruising under his eyes. 

Jeongguk frowns, speaking before his brain catches up with his mouth. 

“You look tired, hyung.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. 

Seokjin huffs in irritation. 

“You’re one to talk, brat.”

The older man takes a sip of his cappuccino. 

“That’s what this is for, anyway,” he says, dabbing a line of foamed milk off of his lip with overwrought elegance. 

Jeongguk sighs. Everything Seokjin does is elegant. 

He raises his own drink to his lips, taking a moment to mourn the loss of the pretty pattern on top. It’s good, warm and chocolatey and a little spicy. 

“What’s this one called?” he asks. Seokjin had ordered for him, just like he does every time they come to this cafe. 

It’s not that Jeongguk can’t talk to new people, or order for himself— it’s just that it makes him really uncomfortable. Makes him want to curl up into a little ball. And Seokjin, despite his feigned exasperation and often genuine annoyance, is far too soft for the younger man to protest when Jeongguk slips through the cafe doors and leaves him to go find them a table without ordering for himself. 

“Chile mocha, I think.” Seokjin tilts his head, as if trying to remember exactly, before giving a short nod. “Yep, chile mocha.”

“It’s good,” Jeongguk mumbles. 

“Of course it is, I picked it out.”

“Of course, hyung.”

Jeongguk drinks again. 

“Taehyung hyung came by yesterday.”

Seokjin pauses, mug halfway to his lips. 

“Did he?”

“Yeah. Said you texted him. Said you wanted his help.”

Seokjin has the awareness to look slightly guilty. 

“Huh.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Text him?”

Jeongguk runs a finger through a bit of spilled coffee on the table, dragging the milky bead into a long line across the waxed wooden surface. 

“Yeah, I texted him.”

“Do you think he can actually help?” Jeongguk wonders. Vulnerability seeps through in his tone. 

Seokjin doesn’t know the details, but he has enough of an idea about the collection Jeongguk is currently working on to know why the younger man is nervous. To know why finding the right model will be so hard. 

“I think he’ll do a better job of it than I ever could’ve.”

Jeongguk blinks up at Seokjin in surprise. It's a little out of character for his manager to willingly admit something like that. To willingly admit that someone else might be better than him at something. 

“He’ll find someone?”

“I’m sure he will.” Seokjin's voice is soft. 

Jeongguk stares at the table before him, eyes tracing the pattern he’d drawn out of the spilled coffee. It's almost like a flower. With slender unfurling spines. Like a spider lily. Or ribs. 

“I kind of hope he doesn’t,” Jeongguk whispers. 

They sit in silence for a moment. 

“I know, Guk,” Seokjin says finally. 

Jeongguk wishes he could just slap his designs onto mannequins. Lifeless and stiff and blank. 

He knows that’s not really an option though. For so many reasons. He’s always prided his art in it’s life. In the fact that its more than just an object on display. It’s interactive. It grows. It shrinks. It’s everchanging, shaped by the humanity around it. 

Art is meant to be felt, to be lived, not just to be looked at. 

When he’d started this collection, he hadn’t even considered what that would mean. He’d drawn the first piece late at night. The day after his second installation with Taehyung had opened. 

He might’ve been a little drunk. A little tipsy on celebratory champagne. 

Jeongguk had never been one to hold his alcohol well. 

He’d flopped down on his desk, hands fumbling in his jacket pocket until he’d procured it. 

A lighter. Golden and elegant. Made up of individual panels carefully melded together. Warm and familiar as an old friend in his hands. 

It opened with a click, pale yellow flame streaming to life, buttery and tinged with a faint blue along the edges. 

Mesmerizing. 

And Jeongguk had ripped open one of the many sketchpads scattered across his desk and drawn. Graphite and ink slipping archly across the paper, eyes flicking back and forth between the lighter and the page. It had taken two hours and when Jeongguk was finished, he stared down at one of the best pieces he had ever designed. 

His chest hurt a little bit. 

The design was so good, so effective, due to its subject. 

The person in Jeongguk was close to revolted. 

No, he said, bad idea. 

The artist in Jeongguk was captivated. 

Yes, he said, yes, this is it. 

It hadn’t been the first time Jeongguk had considered channeling everything that had happened with him into inspiration. It had just been the first time he was brave enough to actually do it. 

It had paid off. 

It continued to pay off, across the days and weeks that followed. The stack of designs on Jeongguk’s desk grew taller and taller.  At night, his drawing hand ached and cramped, but that didn’t matter because Jeongguk was inspired. 

So inspired, that the installation practically built itself without his permission. 

It was almost done before Jeongguk was struck with another revelation. 

Someone would have to wear these clothes. Someone would have to slip their arms into these jackets and belt those slacks about their waist and embody the spirit of the collection, and that somebody wouldn’t be him. 

Jeongguk wonders if that simple fact alone would be enough to ruin the installation. 

It’s too late for him to back out of it. Several of his patrons are already aware of its existence— have been, for months— and without the finances and support they provide, Jeongguk would never be able to afford the art he makes. 

No. He has to finish the collection. And he’ll have to unveil it to the world too. 

Seokjin’s phone buzzes to life, ringing twice before the older man scoops it up with an apologetic glance towards the frazzled elderly woman now glaring from the booth next to them. 

He gives Jeongguk a little smile, waving the phone in the air, and mouths “Taehyung” before disappearing out the door. 

The sudden absence of Seokjin's presence seems to almost suck the air from the room. Jeongguk feels a chill skitter down his spine as he drops his gaze to his hands, pale fingers intertwined, resting on the table. Jin was right to ask Taehyung. Jeongguk knows this.

If there’s anyone who could find the right person for this installation, it's the model, which is honestly why Jeongguk hadn’t made any effort to reach out to him. Delaying the inevitable, he muses, glancing out the window to where Seokjin gesticulates wildly, phone nestled into his shoulder so that both hands are free to flail in the air.

He’s excited. That’s not rare. Nor is it a good sign. 

It means Taehyung’s found someone. It probably means whoever Taehyung has found has agreed to the project. Jeongguk frowns. He looks back to his hands.

He’s focused on attempting to braid his fingers together when Jin comes bursting back into the cafe, a gust of autumnal chill wafting in his wake.  Jeongguk looks up, taking in the reddened cheeks, bright eyes, and he already knows what his manager is going to say before the words leave his mouth.

“We’ve got a model.”

-

The model that Taehyung has found is named Jimin. 

When Jeongguk first heard that name, he’d frozen, shoulders going stiff, eyes widening, and Seokjin stopped his animated rant about scheduling complications and raised his brows as Jeongguk tried to pretend he hadn’t just had a visceral reaction to the name.

That’s all it is, he tells himself, a name.

A few syllables. 

It shouldn't hold this kind of power over him.

It shouldn’t be able to send a shiver racing down his spine, to set his heart stuttering under his ribs.

It had to be some sort of cruel joke.  The universe must be taunting him, mocking him and his pathetic, miserable pining for days long past and someone who’d abandoned him so long ago that the memories have grown fuzzy around the edges. Because there’s no way that it could ever actually be him .

Jeongguk may be sentimental and nostalgic, and he may have created an entire installation of art born from the sparks of that time, but even he is not foolish enough to ever think that this Jimin might be him . 

Might be his Jimin.

He scoffs at that, shaking his head. 

Not his .

Not anymore.

Maybe not ever.

So Jeongguk tries to stick to the facts. The model that Taehyung has found is named Jimin. The model that Taehyung has found is his friend. The model that Taehyung has found is an idol.

That part did give Jeongguk a pause.

He doesn’t want to be judgemental. To be blinded by stereotypes and assumptions, but he’s never considered that an idol might ever model one of his collections. The people who model his work become a part of his art. They have to be bold, they have to be opinionated, they have to be creative, they have to be the very opposite of what most idols are trained to be from years before their debut.

So Jeongguk does what anyone would do.

He asks Yoongi.

When Jeongguk had first met Yoongi, he’d been nothing more than a lonely art student with crippling anxiety, drifting through the streets of Seoul with no one and nothing more than a sketchpad tucked in between his palms. His mother hadn’t supported his decision to accept a scholarship to a small art school in the city over partial aid to Yonsei’s engineering program, but even though he – even though Jimin– was long gone by then, Jeongguk had known what the older boy would’ve picked. He’d known what Jimin would’ve said. He’d known the way those eyes would’ve lit up with pride at Jeongguk’s choice.

The memory of that– of Jimin’s coveted pride– was just enough for Jeongguk. Enough to leave, to move to the city alone despite his mother’s anger, to get two part time jobs and rent a cheap apartment in a sketchy tenement in an even sketchier part of the city. He didn’t know why he allowed Jimin to hold such power over him, even years after he’d abandoned Jeongguk, but it didn’t matter. Jeongguk was here now.

Seoul. 

The city they had dreamed about, as they sat, shoulder to shoulder, legs dangling over the roof’s edge, gazing out at the whitecaps whipped up by ocean breeze off of Busan’s beaches. Glittering, glamorous Seoul.

It wasn’t what Jeongguk had hoped, and yet he couldn’t allow himself to give in. To flee back to where he’d come from.

Even when the days were cold and the darkness came early and gray rain poured from the sky for days on end and Jeongguk survived on nothing more than instant ramyeon and hot watery tea, it was better than Busan. Better than those glittering beaches and sweltering summer days and empty rooftops baking under a white hot sun, places that once were everything, and now were nothing because when Jeongguk sought them out, they were just as empty as the hole in his chest.

It had been one of those days when Jeongguk first met Yoongi.

One of those cold, damp, monstrous days. The type that makes you wish the world would just stop. The kind that makes you wish you were curled up in your den, warm and dry as the skies sobbed around you.

Jeongguk had been neither warm, nor dry. 

He’d been hunched desperately over his sketchbook, scurrying out of the pounding rain that had caught him by surprise while sketching in the park minutes earlier. Cursing his lack of foresight, his forgetfulness, his allover ineptitude, Jeongguk risked a glance up the rapidly emptying sidewalk ahead of him.  Up ahead, almost enveloped in the sheets of rain, he’d made out a flickering neon sign. 

No words, just the shape of a mug, three little zigzags of glowing red smoke rising from it’s mouth. 

A cafe.

Jeongguk grits his teeth, risking a glance down to where he knows rainwater is bleeding into the pages of his sketchbook. He normally wouldn’t do this. He doesn’t like cafes. Doesn’t like all the people, all the mumbling buzzing of voices, all the couples leaning into eachother’s warmth over steaming sweet lattes. It reminds him of that convenience store in Busan. Of how the steam rising from his instant ramen blurred the space between his face and Jimins. Of how utterly alone he is, in this glowing, teeming city. 

But he knows that the pages of his sketchbook are warping and wavering, that any longer out in this downpour will make it entirely unsalvageable, so he ducks into the cafe with a frown.

A bell over the door jingles softly as he enters, but he doesn’t risk looking up, just turning to the first table by the door and settling into a seat, eyes down. A drop of rain beads slides off a curl that’s flopped over his brow, landing on the table with a splat. 

Jeongguk grimaces, using his index finger to swipe it off of the waxy wood. 

It’s warm, and soon the shivers wracking his waterlogged frame retreat, fleeing from the hot bursts of dry air pumping out of little space heaters lined up against the wall. Tense muscles loosen, the faint trembling of his fingers still.

Maybe cafes aren’t that bad after all.

“Hey!”

Jeongguk startles a little, head snapping up.

The barista is glaring at him, arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes flick across his waterlogged form and her nose scrunches slightly in distaste.

“You gonna buy anything?”

Jeongguk’s mouth falls open.

“I–”

He doesn’t have his wallet. 

He never brings it when he’s out sketching, out of concern that he’ll get distracted and be too tempted to buy something he can’t afford, but now he wants to slap himself.

The barista is going to kick him out. He can just tell by the faint disdain that spreads across her face with each second he sits, mouth hanging open, in search of an excuse. She’s going to kick him out, and then his sketchbook will be entirely ruined and not just stained with the rain.

He’s spent months on this sketchbook.

“I–” he begins again but he doesn’t get a chance to finish.

“Yah! Noona!” 

Jeongguk’s name wasn’t called, but they both turn towards the booth beyond Jeongguk, where a small pale skinned man stares back at them. His cat black eyes flick across them, and his lips twitch down.

“Cut the kid some slack huh?”

The barista huffs out a frustrated sigh.

“You know he can’t be in here without buying anything. I didn’t make the rules!”

“Yeah, yeah,” the man says as if he’s heard it a thousand times before. His voice is surprisingly gravelly and Jeongguk stiffens a little when he turns in his direction.

“My break just started,” he says, and Jeongguk recognizes the cafe's logo on the button up he wears under his puffer jacket. 

“Come sit with me.”

Jeongguk doesn’t think twice. 

If it’s this or the barista (who is currently glaring down her nose at him) he’ll take the easy way out. He gathers his sketchpad and slips quickly into the booth across from the stranger with a small nod.

“See, Noona?” the man smirks, “I have a visitor for my break.”

The barista huffs out another annoyed sigh and spins on her heel, and Jeongguk fixes his gaze on the table until the clacking over her footsteps fades away.  Once he’s certain she’s gone, he risks a glance up.

The stranger is watching him, a hint of amusement betraying his otherwise deadpan expression. Jeongguk bows shortly, almost knocking his forehead on the table.

“Thank you,” he says, “I’m sorry to bother you.”

The man shrugs, unbothered. 

“I really do like having company on my break,” he says, “you’re no bother.”

He uncoils a set of wired black headphones from around his neck, tugging an earbud out of his ear, and Jeongguk eyes them in fascination. They look surprisingly expensive compared to the rest of this man– with his messy black hair, cafe polo, cracked indigo nail polish. 

Even over the low hum of the heater, Jeongguk can make out the ba-dum of a beat pulsing from the ear buds, and he leans forward imperceptibly.

The man clicks them off.

“I’m Yoongi.”

Jeongguk blinks, a little surprised. He actually wants company for his break. Normally, Jeongguk would curl back into himself– a nocturnal fern a little too anxious for things like this– but something about the relaxed slant of Yoongi’s shoulders and the careful glint of his eyes puts him at ease.

“Jeongguk,” he says.

Yoongi’s attention drops to the half waterlogged sketchpad on the table.

“You’re an artist?”

“Student,” Jeongguk corrects quickly. “Art student.”

Yoongi raises a brow. 

“You any good?”

It’s not what Jeongguk is expecting. Not the blunt simplicity of the question– not the way it doesn’t feel rude at all despite all of the implications it might carry. He’s reminded– just a little– of Jimin. Jimin’s messy black hair, silver ringed fingers, sharp tongue, blunt words. He knows how Jimin would want him to respond. 

Jeongguk straightens just a little and holds Yoongi's cat black gaze.

“Yes.”

The corners of the other man's mouth quirk up and Jeongguk doesn’t know why– or how– but he almost seems endeared.

“I thought so.”

Oh.

As quickly as that small burst of bravery had come, it flees– dissipating into the espresso scented air like steam. Jeongguk looks back down at the table. The largest of the water stains on his sketchbook have dried a bit, leaving faint ripples in the paper. He frowns a little.

They sit like that for the rest of Yoongi’s break– in silence. It’s not a bad silence though. Amicable, maybe– the word that Jeongguk would use to describe it. Jeongguk feels only a little guilty at his silence– he is supposed to be keeping Yoongi company during his break, but the other man doesn’t seem to mind.

When Yoongi finally lets out a long-suffering sigh, neatly recoiling his earbuds into a little ball of wire, Jeongguk looks up. 

The rain has stopped outside, but the gray sky still casts a gloomy glow that is mirrored in Yoongi’s eyes as he watches Jeongguk. 

“My break’s over.”

“Ah.”

Jeongguk scrambles to his feet, already prepared to leave, but a hand rests lightly on his shoulder and he stills.

Yoongi’s brow is furrowed just a little bit.

“Kid– Jeongguk,” he pauses as if he’s figuring out how to word what he wants to say.

“My break is this time every Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. You should keep me company again.”

Jeongguk already knows that’s not going to happen as he gives the other man a small nod in acquiescence. He hadn’t been very good company at all. Why would Yoongi want him to come back? 

Why would Jeongguk come back?

He doesn’t like cafes.

He doesn’t like strangers.

He doesn’t like breaking routine. 

Jeongguk makes it about a week before he’s back, shoulders hunched a little, eyes anxiously skipping across the cafe in search of that pale heart shaped face. He just hadn’t been able to get Yoongi out of his head. The sketchbook in his hand holds several portraits of the man– and that's when Jeongguk had known that it was serious.

The only person he’d ever chosen to do a portrait of before that had been Jimin.

The same barista from last time glances up from where she’s leaned over the counter, dumping cream into espresso. Jeongguk doesn’t know what to do under her appraisal– he can’t help but stiffen a little– but she just tilts her head towards the corner of the cafe.

He follows her gaze and there Yoongi is, leaned back into his seat with those colliding headphones plugged into each ear. His eyes are shut, and for a moment, Jeongguk considers turning and leaving– but just as he’s about to, the other man's eyes flutter back open and catch land on him.

Yoongi smiles.

In the months that follow, Jeongguk spends much of his free time there, in the cafe with Yoongi. Tucked away into the booth that the older man has claimed as his own, sketching or napping or sipping on the sweet lattes that Yoongi claims were left behind by rushed customers. (Jeongguk questions the likelihood of the only drinks these harried customers order being creamy coffee or hot chocolate, but he never says anything, because Yoongi seems to like watching him drink them so much.)

It takes about two days for Yoongi to insist that Jeongguk call him hyung– though it takes Jeongguk about two months to begin to do so. Jeongguk learns that the older man is a musician– a producer and rapper– and finds great satisfaction in being the first person to listen to his new projects, curled up in his seat with throbbing beats and gravelly poetry flowing in through the headphones that Yoongi gifted him for this purpose.  

His sketchbooks fill with Yoongi (and he ignores the memory of how they used to be filled with someone else.)

Elegant side profile, messy mane of black hair, cat black eyes that evoke nothing but comfort in Jeongguk no matter how sharp they are.

They’re sharp right now, as Jeongguk slips into Yoongi’s studio, with a mumbled, “Seokjin found a model for the collection.”

He knows he should be happy about it and Yoongi does too. They both know that right now he appears to be anything but.

“That’s… good?” the older man ventures as Jeongguk flops down onto his couch, reveling in the familiar scent of the worn black leather. 

“Who is it?”

Yoongi has spun his chair around so he’s facing Jeongguk, haloed by the blinking lights and blue bars of his monitors. Jeongguk eyes the amalgamation of colorful little audio clips of the new beat his hyung must have been working on before Jeongguk interrupted.

“An idol,” he answers.

Yoongi raises a brow.

“Which idol?”

Jeongguk rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling now, and tries to ignore the bitterness that the name leaves on his tongue as he reminds himself that there are thousands of people in Seoul alone with that name.

“Jimin.”

Yoongi hums.

“And you want to know what I think.”

It’s not a question, and right now Jeongguk feels too tired to answer anyways. Drawn thin.

He nods a little and Yoongi’s expression softens even more. He’s always been good at this– good at telling when things have become too much from Jeongguk. Ever since the moment they met, he’s just been able to take a single glance at the younger man and know.

“He’s good,” is all Yoongi says.

And that does make Jeongguk feel better.

Only– now he wants to know more.

Yoongi isn’t the type to casually hand out approval, to compliment just anyone. His praise is reserved for those he truly respects and seeing it directed towards this idol piques Jeongguk’s curiosity more than he was expecting.

“Yeah?”

He shifts to his side, cheek squished into the armrest and gaze now fixed steadily on the older man.

Yoongi’s lips quirk in amusement.

“Yeah… yeah. He makes good music. Actually makes it. It’s pretty fucking sad music but it’s good.”

Sad?

Jeongguk’s brows furrow as Yoongi continues.

“I’m friends with his producer– says he’s pretty intense…” Yoongi’s voice trails off a bit as he thinks. 

“Kinda like you I guess.”

Normally Jeongguk would argue– he’s not intense or obsessed, just dedicated – but right now he’s too tired and Yoongi’s couch is too comfortable. Too familiar. Too warm. He just shoots his hyung a little glare.

“I think he’s a good pick,” Yoongi finishes.

That’s all Jeongguk needs to hear. He trusts the older man wholeheartedly, so he doesn’t fight it this time when his eyes fall shut. He’s been having late nights recently, the combined stress of finding a model and finishing the collection snowballing into low level insomnia. 

“Thanks hyung,” he murmurs. 

A moment later he’s asleep.

He misses the way Yoongi watches him– misses the concern and endearment warring under his lashes.

-

“Hyung!” 

Hoseok’s face is stony, eyes unflinching, jaw tight. Jimin recognizes that look. The one that means his manager is about to manage him – but it’s not enough to silence his protests.

“You can’t seriously–” he turns to Namjoon in hopes of some support, but his manager shrugs his shoulders a little, only appearing slightly guilty.

“Sorry, Min,” Namjoon says, “Hoseok is right.”

“That doesn’t mean this makes sense!”

It’s been a week since Hoseok sent Jimin home, removing him from the studio like a scolded child. The memory still stings a little bit, but with a few days' time, Jimin had calmed down. Hoseok was right. At least, he had been right back then. Jimin would have strained his voice to injury if he’d kept recording. So Hoseok was right to stop him, to make him take a few days rest. 

Just because Hoseok was right then, does not mean that Hoseok is right now. That doesn’t mean that Hoseok is right to force him into a modeling project, to detract from his songwriting time, and that doesn’t mean he needs to take it easy now. 

Jimin says as much.

And Hoseok holds his ground. The older man is scary when he’s angry– but he’s not angry now. He’s just firm. Caring even– gentle concern swirls underneath the uncompromising gleam of his eyes– and Jimin hates it because Jimin is angry.

He wishes his manager would yell back at him.

He’s almost not sure what it is that he’s angry at anymore. All he knows is that he wants to be– no needs to be– writing music– not modeling for some artist. He also knows that his hyungs don’t think that he needs to be modeling either– but they do know that this job will be such an obligation that it will be enough to stop him from throwing himself fully back into the production of the next album until this project is finished.

Which could take months.

Jimin doesn’t think he can wait that long. 

He didn’t sign up to do anything more than make and perform music. He doesn’t have any interest in modeling or any other form of celebrity. Music is what he does. It’s all he wants to do.

And now–

“How long?” he manages, tearing his gaze away from Namjoon.

Traitor.

“Two to three months,” Hoseok answers steadily. “You’ll be present for all fittings, discussions with the artist, promotional media and the collection’s debut.”

Fuck.

“Fuck,” Jimin hisses under his breath. 

Hoseok doesn’t blink, but Namjoon winces a little.

“Why?”

“Jimin,” Hoseok says, still so calm, still so steady, still so infuriatingly fine, “the way you made MUSE was not healthy. It wasn’t sustainable. It wasn’t safe. You can’t do that again.”

He leaves the ‘you know why’ unspoken.

Jimin wants to tell the older man that they can’t stop him, but both of them know that would be a lie. Hoseok can stop him. It’s in both of their contracts. There’s nothing he can do about this without risking his career.

“There are worse things…” Namjoon begins, but his voice fades quickly as Jimin fixes him with another glare.

Hoseok, of course, is not so easily cowed.

“Joon is right. The higher ups wanted a drama, you would be doing something regardless, we’re just lucky that Taehyung mentioned this project to Joon in front of them.”

Jimin pauses at that.

“This was Taehyung’s idea?”

Namjoon shuffles his feet a little. 

“Kind of.”

God, Taehyung too. 

Jimin gives up, turning on his heel with a scowl.

“I’ll be in the studio.”

“Jim–” Hoseok begins, but Namjoon gently cuts him off.

“Let him go.”

When the door slams behind him, Jimin ignores the twinge of guilt that begins to work its way through him. 

It always does after times like this. 

Times when he explodes a little.

It had started happening soon after he moved to Seoul– surges of hotheadedness, ending in slammed doors and gnawing regret. 

Jimin knows he should probably see someone about them– talk to someone– but the thought of some stranger picking apart the tangled mess inside his head under a microscope sends a shiver slithering down his spine. 

The thing is– Hoseok is right.

Hoseok is right again.

Jimin would much rather do whatever it is his manager has set up for him than spend months shooting some rom com. 

He slips into his studio, eyes skipping across the array of lyric drafts layering the desk. He’ll apologize soon.

Tomorrow maybe.

Now he writes.

He does apologize.

A little later than he intended, though. 

He’s sitting next to Hoseok in the back of the car, watching the foggy condensation of his breath conceal Seoul slipping past out the window. 

“I’m sorry, hyung.”

The clicking of Hobi’s fingers across his phone pauses.

“I didn’t mean to yell, you didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry.”

“I know Jimin-ah.”

Hoseok's voice is too gentle.

Jimin still wishes he would yell back. 

The tenderness in his manager's tone does nothing but feed the twinge of guilt in his gut.

The twinge of guilt remains, three days later, as he stands next to Hoseok in an expensive lobby, waiting for someone named Seokjin to come and meet them. Guilt, because Jimin knows that if he’d really wanted, he could’ve gone up the management and wiggled his way out of this project.

If he’d really wanted, he could’ve found something new, been assigned new management or something, but that’s too far. He wouldn’t want to do this without his hyungs, and the fact that he’d even considered it for a heartbeat in the midst of his rage has shame welling in his chest.

According to Hoseok, Seokjin is the designer’s manager.

Jimin kind of wonders why a notoriously reclusive artist who functions in practical anonymity needs a manager, but he doesn’t bother with asking as Hoseok goes over the itinerary. They’re on better terms now than they were a few days earlier when Hoseok broke the news, but Jimin can’t help the little niggle of guilt and shame that clogs his throat at the memory of their argument (no matter how one-sided it had been).

The lobby is connected to an atrium, and Jimin’s eyes stray as they wait, taking in the way midday sun spills across a veritable jungle of tropical plants. There are benches littered throughout, and every second or third one houses a lonely figure, hunched over their phone or laptop. 

Water burbles up from fountains in shattered glass streams, the only sound in the cavernous space, apart from the rhythm of footsteps approaching Jimin and Hoseok.

Jimin straightens his back just a little more– an old habit, from back in his highschool days– determined to appear unintimidated by the opulence around him. No one would expect him to not belong in a place like this– at least, not anymore, but he still hasn't been able to shake the posturing.

The man who approaches them is tall– Jimin catches Hoseok giving him a surprised once over, eyes dragging over at least six feet of perfectly manicured human. He has laughing dark eyes and plump lips already quirked in a half smile.

“Park Jimin and Jung Hoseok, I presume?”

Jimin just nods, Hoseok starting up on enthusiastic introductions. He still feels a little uncomfortable, a little out of place– maybe even more so, now that he’s realized how naturally Seokjin– because that’s who this must be– carries himself.

They shake hands, and within moments, Seokjin is ushering them through the glossy marble lobby, past the jungle mist atrium, to an elevator.

Jimin allows himself to be ushered inside, tucking himself moodily behind Hoseok (who is bright eyed and excited as per usual). The moment the doors slide shut, he starts to get a feeling.

Like a fluttering in his gut, a tingling in the palms of his hands.

It’s not a bad feeling, per se, just odd .

Intense.

Like something important is going to happen. 

Like there’s something he’s missing.

It’s a little nostalgic, and also a little monumental– it gives off the feeling that if he were to think too much about it, it would take his breath away. So, Jimin doesn’t think too much about it. He brushes it off.

Inspects the velvety red carpeting on the floor of the elevator, vivid crimson in contrast to the black gleam of his chelsea boots. Traces his eyes across Seokjin's profile, vaguely impressed because the man is ridiculously handsome.

Jimin thinks he should be an actor or a model, not the quasi-manager of some reclusive artist.  He wonders how that arrangement came to be, how someone as sociable and rambunctious as the other man ended up in a job like this. 

Seokjin must notice the weight of Jimin’s eyes on him, because he turns in his direction, winking as the elevator finally comes to a halt with a soft chime. 

Jimin decides– in that moment– that he likes Seokjin.

He smirks back while the doors slide open, revealing a wide studio flat. It’s almost entirely empty– cold concrete flooring lined by walls of floor to ceiling windows, and the sun casts soft stripes of diffused light across the floor.

At the far end of the room, across from the elevator is a wide metal desk, littered with papers.

There’s a dark haired man bent over it.

Jimin’s breath catches in his throat as it lands on that distant figure– but just for a moment– because that’s ridiculous. 

He shakes his head, following Seokjin and Hoseok out of the elevator, and the man at the desk remains enraptured in his work, as if he doesn't even notice that they are there. 

With each step closer to the stranger, the air in Jimin’s lungs grows denser.

His hair is longer– dark curls half concealing his face and Jimin can only make out the rounded curve of a prominent nose, the maybe-furrow of dark brows.

Something clenches under his ribs. 

A flash of glinting mercury catches his eye, sunlight bouncing off the silver hoops swaying in generously pierced ears.

A familiar tug in his chest.

Jimin stops walking, but Hoseok and Seokjin continue forward. 

He can still see over their shoulders– between their bodies. There’s an unfamiliar emotion clogging his throat, suffusing his skin– something buzzing, growing, spreading through his veins and he thinks it might be greed as his eyes sweep across broad shoulders and a sharp jawline. 

There’s the tattoos too, of course. What looks like the beginnings of a full sleeve, flowers and stars and letters dancing up a muscled forearm, disappearing under the rolled sleeve of a dress shirt. 

Jimin’s eyes catch on a tiger lily– petals splayed gently open, resplendent and elegant.

Oh , he thinks.

Seokjin pauses, clearing his throat lightly, a gentle demand.

“One moment, hyung.”

Soft and sweet. 

Velvet. 

Hyung.

Jimin has heard that voice– heard that word– a thousand times. He hears it in his dreams. He hears it in the studio, bent over his lyrics, and echoing through his empty penthouse late at night as the city twinkles and teems beneath him.

His throat goes dry.

“JK-ah, the model is here,” Seokjin coaxes, but Jimin can barely hear him over the white noise roaring in his ears.  

A light sigh.

Papers rustle.

And now, if there were any reservations Jimin might have held about who exactly the man leaning over the desk is, they are erased, as he finally raises his head, strands of dark hair falling over his half furrowed brow, gaze rising towards Hoseok and Jimin, newcomers in his studio. 

He looks to Hoseok first, a cursory glance– and then wide black eyes meet Jimins and widen even more– a whole galaxy reflected in them– wet and brilliant and swirling.

A lot has changed.

The silver studs nestled against that delicate mouth. The flicker of ink over those elegant fingers. The width of those shoulders.

But those eyes–

They haven’t changed at all.

Chapter Text

Busan, Republic of Korea, August 2012 to December 2014

On Jeongguk’s first day of highschool, he meets Park Jimin. 

He stands at the bus stop with his mother, hands anxiously twisting around the ends of his school uniform sleeves. His throat feels dry. His hands are clammy. 

He doesn’t know why he has to do this but he doesn’t want to argue. He already knows better than to argue.

Technically, at thirteen, Jeongguk should have at least another year before entering highschool. It wasn’t that simple though. It wasn’t that simple, because apparently, Jeongguk was smart. 

Everyone said so. Teachers, other parents, even the old man at the convenience store who Jeongguk visited when he bought gimbap for a snack. His mother knew too.

That he was smart.

She wasn’t just certain that he would become someone . She made sure he knew there was no other option for him but to become someone . 

Someone important. 

Jeongguk always thought that his mother really just meant rich, but he couldn’t blame her for wanting that. 

She was a receptionist at the local hospital, and worked long, grueling hours to support Jeongguk and his brother. To pay for their schooling and food and everything else. Jeongguk’s father wasn’t really in the picture. It couldn’t have been easy. 

Which is why his mother had been ecstatic to learn that Jeongguk’s teachers recommended he advance a grade early.

“To actually challenge him,” they said. 

“It will look good on his college applications.”

“SKY look for things like this.”

“The scholarships available to grade advanced students greatly outweigh those offered to normal students.”

That last one– uttered by his algebra teacher in a post school conference– was the one that sealed the deal and now Jeongguk stands, anxious and sweating in the Busan summer heat— already sweltering, even at seven in the morning— waiting for the bus. 

His mother stands next to him. She says she’s proud. But, gloomily, Jeongguk thinks she wants to make sure he won’t run.

(He would never actually run, but it certainly feels like a good idea right about now).

There are a few other people at the bus stop. Two businessmen in wrinkled suits, black briefcases tucked into their hands. An elderly woman in a floral dress. Several students in the same uniform as Jeongguk. 

The other students keep giving him little sideways glances, quick and flickering with judgements, and Jeongguk can feel his back tense with dread. He looks down. 

His shoes are old and worn, but last night his mother had shined them until they gleamed. Already, fine dust from the street is settling across their laces, plugging in the little cracks and fissures in the old leather. Jeongguk frowns a little. 

He scuffs a foot into the ground. A cloud of dust puffs up into the air. It’s fascinating. Jeongguk scuffs the ground again.

“Stop that,” his mother hisses. 

Jeongguk stops. 

There’s only a minute left before the bus is supposed to arrive when the air fills with clamoring voices. A group of boys in school uniforms come tumbling into the bus stop. They wear the same uniforms as Jeongguk and the other students already waiting, but different at the same time. 

Ill fitting, with clear signs of mending in places– off hue patches and uneven stitches. 

Jeongguk watches them surreptitiously from the corner of his eye, not missing the disgusted glances the other students shoot in their direction. He’s a little grateful that the newcomers have distracted that judgemental attention away from him.

There are four boys, all joking around and shoving each other, raucous shouts and grunts filling the air. 

“Aish! What the fuck, hyung?” one of them whines at a particularly violent push from another and Jeongguk’s mother makes a noise of disapproval under her breath. 

The boy who’d pushed the other laughs, a bright tinkling sound, and throws his arm over his friend's shoulder. 

“Come on Jihyunie, you know hyung didn’t mean it.”

He’s about Jeongguk’s height, and handsome in a way that sets a blush rising involuntarily to Jeongguk’s cheeks–  tousled dark hair and eyes that crinkle into crescents as he laughs. The sound tugs at something in Jeongguk’s chest and he feels a tiny smile curl the edge of his lips. 

As if sensing Jeongguks eyes on them, the laughing boy glances up, pausing for a moment when their eyes meet. 

Jeongguk looks back at his feet immediately. 

The bus arrives with a sputter, and Jeongguk is already moving to board when his mothers hand shoots out and latches around his arm. He looks up, startled, in time to see her follow the group of loud boys with hostile eyes as they pile onto the bus. 

“You stay away from those boys, Jeongguk,” she says after a moment, “they’re trouble.”

“Yes, eomma,” he replies, biting back the “why?” dancing along the edge of his tongue. Ever the dutiful son. He doesn’t want to hear her reasons when he really thinks about it.

He’s the last to board the bus and the only open seat is beside the elderly woman in a flowery dress. He takes it with an apologetic bow to her, but she doesn’t seem to mind, even when he spends a full minute shuffling in his seat to arrange his backpack comfortably between his legs. 

The bus ride isn’t long, but it’s long enough for Jeongguk’s anxiety to raise its head again.  A snake, preparing to strike. 

His hands twist in his lap. He wishes he had his sketchbook and pencils just so he would have something to do. To stop thinking. 

He’s so caught up in his head that he almost misses his stop, only looking up in time to catch the last glimpse of a school uniform as one of his future schoolmates gets off the bus. Jeongguk surges to his feet in a rush, muttering an apology to the woman beside him in case his sudden movement had startled her and hurries off the bus, following a stream of navy and white clad students.

He’s starting to think that this might not be so bad.  

Jeongguk had to report to the front office as a new student, but the woman behind the desk had been nice. She’d seemed annoyed at first, rifling through papers on her desk, but one glance at him, and her eyes had softened dramatically.

“Yes, honey?”

“Oh… um, I need to check in?”

“Of course.” She gives him a bright smile. “Name?”

“Jeon Jeongguk,” he recites.

“Jeon Jeongguk…” she mutters, rifling through another binder, “Jeon Jeongguk… ah! Here you are.”

She holds a few sheets of paper in his direction and he takes them with a small bow.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

The woman waves him off.

“Lets see,” she makes a few clicks on her keyboard. “Ah! You’re an advanced grade student!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Perfect! Now… yep, Class 9A…” she trails off, reaching back into the mess of papers on her desk in search of something, and Jeongguk watches her perfectly manicured nails tap tap tap across paper.

“C’mere honey.”

Jeongguk takes a few steps closer. She uncaps a pen circling a point on the school map before her. “We’re here.” 

Jeongguk nods. 

She circles another point. “Here’s your classroom.”

He nods again and she hands him the map. “Off you go now.”

Jeongguk slips out of the office with one final bow.

Actually, this is bad. This is bad. Jeongguk doesn’t know why he thought he might be okay. 

He’s not. 

The halls are entirely empty now, and Jeongguk knows that he must be late to class, but he just can’t get his eyes to focus on the map the lady in the front office had highlighted for him. It’s crumpled in his clammy hands now, ink bleeding. Whenever he tries to look at it the lines she’d made for him twist and warp and his heart rate picks up until he thinks it might beat out of his chest.  

“9A” he mutters, “9A.”

The hallway he’s currently wandering down is lined with plaques, each reading a random number before a B. The last hallway he’d checked had said “C,” so Jeongguk can only hope he’s getting closer.

At the same time, he doesn’t know if he actually wants to find 9A at this point. To come in late and interrupt. To feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on him, the intruder.

He holds out hope that he’ll be able to slip in a side door and find a seat in the back of the classroom without anyone noticing.

That’s what he’s thinking about when his eyes finally fall on a plaque that reads “9A.”

How he’ll have to be quick and quiet and if he keeps his head down and doesn’t look at anyone then maybe no one can look at him either. (He knows it doesn’t actually work like that, but it’s a nice thought).

Voices seep out from under the door.

Jeongguk swallows. 

He wipes his sweaty hands on his pants.

Then he reaches out a hand and cracks the door open as gently as possible.

The voices leaking from under the door come to an abrupt halt and Jeongguk freezes where he stands as the eyes of everyone in the room come to rest on him.

So much for sneaking in the back.

A tall man standing at the front of the room takes a step forward. “Jeon Jeongguk?”

It takes a moment for Jeongguk to realize he’s being spoken to, the pressure of the entire classroom's combined attention almost deafening. A blush rises to his face as the room erupts in laughter.

He bows, blood rushing in his ears. “Yes, ssaem.” 

The man hushes the room.

“Nice of you to join us.”

The tone is joking, mostly, but Jeongguk can’t tell that over the lingering giggles and the panicked thrumming of his heart. It just sounds acerbic and taunting to him. 

He winces, swallowing. His throat is dry. He bows again.

“Well, Jeon Jeongguk,” his new teacher says, “how about you come introduce yourself to the class?”

Jeongguk takes two hesitant steps forward and pauses, ready to speak–

“How about you come up here?”

His teacher gestures to the very front of the room and another wave of laughter sweeps the class.  Anxiety roils in Jeongguks gut.

He can’t even remember what it is he said when he drops into his desk a minute later, palms slippery and throat so tight it’s almost painful.

There are eyes on him– sharp and judgemental and piercing– and he shrinks into his seat. Every muffled murmur and silent smirk feels like it’s directed at him.

The teacher is speaking, going over the syllabus and class rules, but Jeongguk can’t make out a single word over the ba-dump ba-dump ba-dump of his heart pushing against his ribs.  He stares at his desk, straining to focus, but the edges of his vision are flickering with shadows. 

Everything that’s not his pulse becomes fuzzed out white noise.

The worst part is Jeongguk knows what’s happening.

It’s not the first time this has happened to him: the panic, the blur, the drumbeat inside his chest. He knows that soon, he’ll have trouble breathing. Soon he’ll be crying. He digs his incisors into the flesh of his bottom lip in an attempt to hold himself in check, but even the sharp sting of one of his teeth breaking skin does nothing to snap him back to coherence.

He wrenches his attention from his desk, looking up in time to catch the curious eyes of the girl sitting in front of him. She’s turned around facing him, a blend of confusion and concern on her face, which is when Jeongguk realizes that his breathing has gone ragged.

His gaze fixes on her lips. They move– slow and disjointed– and she’s saying something to him, but he can’t hear anything over the buzz flooding his ears.

Jeongguk wants to say something. Tell her to turn back around, to stop looking at him, but his tongue is stiff and swollen in his mouth. Another sharp breath, and the girl's expression shifts from mild concern, to blatant worry.

She reaches a hand for him, and he lurches backwards in his seat, shooting to his feet. 

The entire room is looking at him now. He can’t see much more than blurs and shadows, but he can feel the crushing weight of eyes pressing into him like hot pokers. They burn and scorch and make him want to tear off his skin and rub the feeling out entirely.

Jeongguk bolts.

He’s out the door and passing through the empty hall before he even knows what he’s doing– before his mind catches up with his body. His breath comes heavy and raspy, and it feels like each one results in less and less air flowing into his lungs.

He thinks there’s a bathroom ahead. He doesn’t know how he figured that one out through the fog of his own panic, but he’s shoving inside and then letting the metal stall door slam shut. 

Jeongguk curls up in a ball on the floor and tries to breathe. Hot tears stream down his cheeks and drip drip drip onto the tiled floor, his arms are trembling where they wrap across his knees.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

He can’t breathe.

He’s drowning. 

Everything is loud and pushing in on him and the air is viscous and thick and his lungs feel like they’re caving in on themselves, crumpling and bruising like cherry blossoms being battered into the sidewalk by a horde of pedestrians and his eyes burn. 

Burn.

Burn.

Burn.

There’s something burning…

Jeongguk’s nose scrunches in surprise as smoke filters across the room to where he sits curled against the wall. 

He takes another shuddering gasp, and somehow the sickly tang of cigarette smoke fills his lungs and he actually manages to inhale a real breath of air for the first time in what feels like forever.

His wheezing must catch the attention of whoever is in the bathroom with him, because next thing he knows there’s a shuffling sound, the squeak of a faucet turning and the rush of water down a drain. A string of muffled curses meet his ears, and Jeongguk is so distracted by the fact that he can actually hear again, he almost misses the way the door of the stall he’s huddled in swings open.

Almost, but not quite.

A gust of air fans over his face at the motion and his head jerks up, lips still parted and struggling for breath, breeze cooling the drying tracks on his tearstained face.

“Shit,” comes a voice. It’s honey sweet and silk smooth and smoke raspy at the same time.  “Are you okay?”

Jeongguk gapes up at the silhouette of a boy standing over him, breath still fighting to come in little hiccupping gasps.  He can’t talk, so he squeezes his eyes shut, feeling another wave of hot tears well over his lashes and shakes his head.

A small part of him wants to laugh. Does he look like he’s okay?! 

“Oh… ok… um…” 

There’s another shift in the air, the brushing of fabric against itself as the boy squats next to him on the floor and then there’s a warm hand on his shoulder.

Jeongguk is surprised to find that he doesn’t hate it.

“Hey,” the boy says, “come on, look at me.”

He pats Jeongguk’s cheek softly, and Jeongguk forces his eyes to flutter open.

The boy is close.

(Too close).

Jeongguks eyes flick across his face, chest still stuttering with sharp (and only half effective) pants.

Brown eyes, slim and elegant, stare back at him.  Jeongguk can almost see himself reflected in them, pale and shaking and small, curled pathetically into the tiled floor of some bathroom in a place he doesn’t belong.

He’s not sure he wants to belong here anyways.

The boy holds something up, and for a moment, Jeongguks vision is too blurred from tears and all of the sudden closeness that he can’t tell what it is. Then he blinks and the film of water and confusion slips away.

The boy’s hand is small, fingers short and stubby.  There’s a scab on the knuckle of his index finger and redness across the rest, a few silvery rings glinting dully even under the dim bathroom lights.  He’s holding a lighter.

It’s pale gold and ornate, panels melted together into a sleek, shining thing.

The boy flicks it open and a flame bursts to life.

“Breathe in,” he orders.

Jeongguk does.

The lighter snaps closed, pale stream of fire cut off.

“Breathe out.”

He feels his chest cave in on itself as he exhales.

The boy’s fingers dance and the lighter sparks back to life.

“Breathe in.”

When the blaze snaps off this time, the boy doesn’t have to tell Jeongguk to exhale. It comes naturally, soothingly.

“Here,” he says instead, holding it out, “you try.”

Jeongguks fingers close around it. The metal is smooth and warm. It feels good in his hand. Like it belongs.

What he’s not expecting is the surge of rightness, the sense of control, that rushes through him when he flicks it open and the little yellow blaze sputters to life. His lungs fill with ease. He’s in control. 

The world has to listen to him now. He’s stolen a little piece of it, a little piece that bends to his will. When he says light, the fire lights (he breathes). When he snaps his fingers, it ceases (he sighs).

He flicks the little flame on an off for what feels like hours, but can’t possibly be more than a few minutes.

Until his breath comes even and his eyes are dry. 

When he finally looks up, the boy is still there, kneeling across from him. Jeongguk is mesmerized by the dancing light mirrored in his eyes, glowing golden.

He thinks the boy feels familiar. He wishes he knew why.

Jeongguk holds out the lighter, offering back wordlessly, but the boy barely glances at it.  

“Keep it.”

He slouches back against the other side of the stall, legs a hair's breadth away from tangling with Jeongguk’s own, while Jeongguk draws the lighter back into his lap.  He turns it over in his hand, eyes fixed on its arch lines, its subtle gleam, and feels his lips purse in delight. 

Pretty.

“Feeling better?”

His head jerks up. The boy is watching him carefully, plush lips quirked up in amusement. He’s pretty, too.

Jeongguk nods.

Swallows around the ache in his throat.

“Thanks.” It’s almost a whisper, but the boy must have heard it anyway, because he nods a little.

Jeongguk doesn’t know what to do. He considers getting up, going back to class, and immediately rejects that line of thought. His legs feel weak and the thought of walking back into the room after leaving the way he did makes him want to throw up.

That’s not happening.

The boy across from him pats his blazer, in search of something. He procures a box of cigarettes, and Jeongguk’s eyes widen as the boy tilts it towards him in a silent offer.

Jeongguk shakes his head. 

That must be why he was in here, he’s why it seemed like something was burning.

The boy jabs a cigarette between his lips and then seems to realize he’s given his lighter away.

“Can I get a light?”

He leans forward across the space between them, and Jeongguk thinks he’s going to grab the lighter back, but instead he just lengthens his neck, cigarette still clamped in his mouth and looks expectantly at the little metal box in Jeongguks hand.

Oh.

Jeongguk fumbles to flick it open, holding the little amber lick out until the end of the boy’s cigarette singes and catches. A gray cloud twines up.

The boy takes a long drag, releasing it with a sigh and settles back against the stall’s wall again.

“Shitty first day?” he asks.

“I guess,” Jeongguk mumbles. 

It’s an understatement.

“You a first year?”

“Kinda.”

“Kinda?”

Jeongguk frowns a little. Curls his fingers around the end of his sleeve. 

“Advanced grade,” he says.

“Oh.”

They sit in silence a little longer, but it’s not awkward— more companionable. It’s nice. For once, Jeongguk doesn’t feel the urge to say something smothering him. 

He finds that he doesn’t mind the stench of cigarette smoke half as much as he was anticipating. The thought of his mother smelling it on his uniform when he gets home almost makes him flinch though.

The cigarette has burnt down by now, nothing more than an ashy stub that’s ruddy tip singes at the boy's small fingers. He presses it out with a faint hiss against the porcelain-tile floor.

Jeongguk watches the smear of dark ash across the white tiles in fascination. It’s an interesting pattern.

“Jimin.”

Jeongguk glances up at the boy in confusion.

“Huh?”

“Jimin,” the boy repeats, “I’m Jimin.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Jimin-ssi.”

The boy– Jimin– looks amused at that, tilting his head to search Jeongguk’s face.

“You can call me hyung,” he decides after a moment, “I’m your hyung.”

Jeongguk just nods.  Jimin’s still watching him expectantly and he can’t tell why and it’s making him a little bit nervous and oh–

“Oh,” he says, “I’m Jeongguk.”

“Jeongguk,” Jimin parrots. Jeongguk’s name sounds soft and pretty on his lips.

He rises to his feet, holding a hand out to help Jeongguk up, and Jeongguk realizes where that little burst of familiarity came from now that the older boy is standing.

The fit of his uniform is a little off– the blazer and shirt slightly oversized– his tie is loose and messy, and his sleeves are rolled up over corded forearms. 

The boy from the bus stop. Jeongguk remembers now. One of the ones his mother had glared at and told him to stay away from. The one with the laugh like bells and the crescent moon eyes.

Jeongguk takes the offered hand and Jimin and pulls the younger boy to his feet with surprising ease. 

“My little brother’s advanced grade, too,” Jimin offers when they’re both standing. 

Jeongguk doesn’t know what to say to that. He’d probably be too nervous or shy to talk to Jimin’s little brother, even if he ever got the chance. He shuffles a little. Nods. 

“What class are you in?”

Jimin seems hopeful. 

“9A.”

The older boy frowns. 

“That’s too bad. He’s 9C.”

Jeongguk tries not to let relief show on his face. He just shrugs instead. 

Jimin leans past him to force the narrow fogged window open. A hot breeze pushes into the bathroom, carrying salt sea and sweltering cement on it. 

“You going back to class?” he asks, quirking a brow at Jeongguk. 

“I-I don’t know.”

Jimin smiles. 

“You wanna see the roof?”

Jeongguk blanches. 

“What?”

“The roof,” the older boy repeats, as if it’s obvious, “if you get out this window there’s a ladder.”

Jimin hoists himself up into the window, and then slips through it disappearing from view for a second before he pops back up on the other side. Jeongguk stares out at him as he holds out a hand. 

The summer wind tosses his hair around his face— it’s a little longer than Jeongguk’s mother would consider appropriate– the faint sheen of sweat that already beads over his forehead dampening the ends of each strand, falling in shaded contrast to the odd glow of his skin. 

He doesn’t even look real. Like he might just be a bright thread— a figment— of Jeongguk’s anxiety-addled imagination. 

Jeongguk reaches out and grabs his hand. 

-

“Hyung!”

Jimin turns, already feeling a grin stretch his lips at the excitement in Jeongguk’s voice. The younger boy throws himself up the last rung of the ladder and tackles Jimin into a hug. 

“Happy Birthday!” Jeongguk chirps, arms wrapped around Jimin like a vice. He’s surprisingly strong despite his willowy build (Jimin anticipates that he really just hasn't hit his growth spurt yet.)

If, two months ago in that bathroom, someone had told Jimin that the shy, doe eyed first year curled up on the floor would be clinging onto him like this on the edge of the roof in the middle of the school day, he would’ve scoffed. He would’ve laughed in their face.

No fucking way.

But nothing had gone as Jimin might’ve expected since that day. The day they’d met.  Since Jeongguk reached through that window and took his hand.  He’d been surprised that Jeongguk had taken him up on his offer, to be completely honest.  The other boy seemed much too timid to accept, but he’d offered on a whim and been quite pleased when Jeongguk had followed him up onto the rooftop, already wide eyes widening even more as he took in the view from Jimin’s perch.

Jimin hadn’t expected to see Jeongguk much after that day, anyway. Now that they were out in the sunlight, he recognized the younger boy. He’d seen him at the bus stop that morning. And he’d seen the way the woman standing beside Jeongguk, the woman who shared Jeongguk’s rounded nose and delicate mouth, had looked at him and his friends. He’d seen the disapproval, seen the disgust. 

He was used to it, knew all too well how to recognize the disdain that so many seemed to hold for his kind. Orphans. Delinquents. Bad luck. 

Jimin knew from experience that it wouldn’t be long before that scorn seeped into Jeongguk’s opinion of Jimin.  It had happened many times before. New friends who suddenly became too busy to hang out after Jimin met their parents, who became distracted and distant after their older siblings saw them eating lunch with him and Jihyun. So Jimin didn’t hold out any hope for the doe eyed first year.

He didn’t let himself hope when he climbed out onto the roof two days later and found Jeongguk curled up against the wall, golden flame of the lighter that Jimin had gifted him reflecting in his eyes as he flicked it on and off with rhythmic clicks.

He didn’t let himself hope when Jeongguk chose a seat a little bit closer to him on the bus the next morning, taking a cautious glance in Jimin’s direction as if checking to make sure it was okay for him to come near.

He didn’t let himself hope when Jeongguk began to give him a small, hesitant smile whenever they passed each other in the hallways, or when Jeongguk began to skip classes, sneaking out to dangle his feet over the edge of the roof next to Jimin while he smoked.

But then somewhere along the way, Jimin forgot to not let himself hope. 

Maybe it was the innocent admiration he sometimes glimpsed on Jeongguk’s face out of the corner of his eye, or the low tone in which the boy called him “hyung,” or the way he knew Jeongguk clutched the lighter in the pocket of his blazer whenever he started to get overwhelmed. Maybe it was none of those things, maybe it was something else entirely. Maybe it was all of them and more combined.

One day Jeongguk was a temporary visitor in Jimin’s life, like a house guest or one of the young couples that often came to browse the orphanage in search of a child to adopt before leaving and never returning, and the next day he was just there as if he’d always been there . A steady presence, quiet and sweet and Jimin realized that he suddenly couldn’t picture a life without the younger boy in it.

And now he wriggles in Jeongguk’s grasp, laughing a little breathlessly (because Jeongguk has literally squeezed the air out of him).

“Alright, alright, lemme go.”

Jeongguk detaches himself with a pout, large eyes glinting, and when Jimin looks into them, he swears his breath stutters to a stop in his chest for an instant. When did they get so bright? He thinks he could find an entire galaxy inside of them, rife with nebulous clouds of vibrant light and white hot meteors shedding streaks of icy iron and small glittering stars in their infancies and massive fluttering red stars on their deathbed and–

“Hyung?”

Jimin blinks.

“Hyung?”

Jeongguk waves a hand in front of his face with a giggle. 

“Hey? Jimin-ah!”

Jimin’s eyes narrow.

“It’s hyung, you brat.”

He surges forward, determined to pay the younger boy back for his disrespect, and Jeongguk goes skipping agilely backwards with a shriek of amusement.

“Huh?” he taunts, “What was that, Minnie?” and Jimin lets out a growl, chasing after him under the stark golden Busan sun, lips quirked softly upwards.

-

Jeongguk winces as the hinges of the front door whine, swinging closed behind him. His breath is trapped in his chest, ears straining for a hint of motion. Nothing.

He lets out a sigh, shoulders dropping.

His mother must be working late tonight.

She’d been doing that a lot recently. Well, really, she’d been doing that a lot for his entire life, but even more so recently. There’s a little part of him that’s always disappointed when he pushes open the whiny front door to find an empty house, lights off, air silent, but another half of him realizes that this makes it much easier for him to see Jimin.

Jeongguk has never known anyone like Jimin. Jimin with his svelte eyes and cocky grin and fluffy mess of dark hair. Jimin who smells like sea salt and cigarettes, whose voice rises and tumbles like waves, like smoke, like honey.

Jeongguk has never known anyone that made him feel the way Jimin makes him feel. Like he’s free to do anything his mind can imagine. Like the thoughts that overwhelm him, filling his skull in hazy clouds of maybe, are worthy of becoming words– words that deserve to be heard. Like when his breath goes short and stilted, and his palms sweat and his eyes blur with tears of panic, he can fight back against that swarming onslaught of fear and win.

It’s only been half a year, but he feels like his life only started on the day that Jimin found him, curled up on the white tiles of that bathroom floor.

It’s for this reason, that tonight, as the front door falls closed on an empty house, the tension leaks from Jeongguk’s body.

He’d been certain he’d be caught this time. 

They’d been at the beach. Jeongguk and Jimin and a few of Jimin’s friends from the orphanage: Sanghoon and Minho and Jun, sat in a circle around a bonfire until late into the night. Much later than Jeongguk would normally allow himself to stay, but Jimin had wrapped an arm over his shoulder and the fire had danced in such mesmerizing swirls and the sweet scent of whatever the others were smoking had filled his nostrils like incense and suddenly nothing had mattered outside of that moment.

Jimin had glared everytime his friends tried to coax Jeongguk into taking a drag, and Jeongguk had sunk closer and closer into his side, warmed by both the fire and his hyung, and when the stars came out, icy pinpricks of silver against black velvet, he’d tipped his head back against Jimin’s shoulder and stared up at them. (And if he’d snuck glances at the boy beside him, at the firelight shifting over the elegant planes of his face, at the dark gleam of his eyes, pupils blown from the sweet smoke leaking past those plush lips, no one had to know.)

So it's relief that Jeongguk feels now. There’s no way he would’ve been able to explain away the time, the windblown mess of his hair, the smoke still clinging to his blazer.

He lets his bookbag fall to the ground with a thump.

Down the hall, a light switches on and Jeongguk’s blood runs cold.

He let his guard down too soon.

His mother stands at the end of the hallway, dark eyes narrowed in disapproval. She scans him from head to toe, taking in his uniform– disheveled, tie loosened, his hair– tangled by the sea breeze, his face– reddened and shocked. He knows she doesn’t like what she sees.

“Where were you?”

It’s been a while since he’s heard this tone of voice directed at him. Sharp and cold and angry. Normally, she’d just be disappointed.

He can’t lie.

“The beach.”

She comes closer, and Jeongguk's muscles grow tighter and tenser with every step she takes down the hallway.

“The beach,” she repeats, coming to a stop before him. Her gaze drops to the bag at his feet, and he follows it. To his horror, it’s still half unzipped, the edge of his open sketchpad peeking out. All she would have to do  is nudge the flap aside to see the sketch within, scrawled across the page where he’d left messily penciled it only hours before– Jimin’s profile, lips quirked up in a smirk, light bouncing off the hoops lining his ear, worn blazer slouching off of his shoulders.

Instead, his mother looks back up.

“The beach with who?”

“No one,” he answers quickly. Too quickly, he knows, and so does his mother.

“The beach with no one,” she says.

There’s a moment of silence.

“That’s odd, because I could swear that Jieun’s eomma was just telling me earlier today about how she’s been seeing you with that boy.”

Jeongguk’s mouth goes dry.

“What boy?” 

His voice is quiet, but his mother hears him anyway. Jeongguk thinks that he’d never noticed how deep the crows feet around her eyes had gotten.

“The one I told you to stay away from,” she says.

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, how to manage the burst of anxiety that explodes in his chest because she knows. He wonders how long she’s known. How long she’s sat on the knowledge, waiting for the right moment to trap him with it. Rationally, Jeongguk knows it can’t have been very long. His mother’s not the type to allow his indiscretions to continue far past her awareness of them.

He knows his mouth is gaping open, that he probably looks ridiculous, like the live fish that lay gasping on ice at the markets, as he tries to force a reply out of his mouth. A lie, a misdirection. Anything that will allow him to eke out a few more precious hours with Jimin. Anything but the truth.

The only problem is that Jeongguk has never been a good liar, and when the words come, they aren’t exactly untrue.

“He’s my friend,” Jeongguk finally answers, surprised by the fire in his voice. His mother blinks and Jeongguk wonders why his answer, why that word– friend , only felt like half of the truth.

“He’s your friend,” his mother repeats.

Jeongguk hates how she does that. How she mimics his words, how hearing them out of her mouth only moments after they fell from his lips makes them feel flimsy and weak.  He clenches his jaw stubbornly.

“Yes.”

There’s something new coursing through his veins, a sort of determination that he doesn’t know if he’s ever experienced before. What he does know is that he can’t let her take this from him. 

Take Jimin from him.

She must see this too, this new thing nestled under his skin, because Jeongguk’s mother does something he’s never known her to do. She stops pushing. Her eyes trail across his face once more, taking in the flexed jaw, the furrowed brow, the heat in his eyes, and she lets out a defeated sigh.

“He’s not good for you,” is all she says, turning away, “that sort never is.” And then Jeongguk is left standing alone before the door, bag gaping open at his feet as his mother makes her way back into the kitchen.

Jeongguk is frozen for a moment. She hadn’t said any more. No threats, no demands for Jeongguk to stop seeing Jimin, nothing.  Even though he knows that something is off, that this doesn’t feel right, he allows a small shred of hope to bloom too.

Hope that his mother will come to see Jimin as he is, hope that she will come to accept him even with his cigarettes and too long hair and sometimes cut up knuckles that he hides under cheap silver rings.

Not today, not tomorrow that little spark of maybe says, not that soon, of course, but maybe… maybe one day… 

-

Jeongguk is leaned over his sketchbook, hand working furiously and bottom lip clasped in his teeth. 

Jimin loves his front teeth, the way they protrude a little extra, reminding him of a bunny rabbit whenever the younger boy laughs. When Jimin told him this, Jeongguk scrunched his nose in embarrassment, and Jimin had broken down in laughter because the nose scrunch made him look even more like a bunny.

But for now, Jimin just watches, leaning easily back on the concrete wall of the roof’s edge, cigarette slowly burning to a nub between his lips.

Everyonce in a while, Jeongguk will glance up at him surreptitiously, and Jimin will pretend that he’s been fascinated by watching the twine of smoke curl up before his face and hasn’t been staring at the younger boy and his focused expression for the past hour.

It’s cute. 

Endearing.

The way Jeongguk’s brows furrow into angry slashes, the way he almost glares at the page as he works. The way he falls so completely into his sketches, entirely lost to the world, buried instead, in the sweep of graphite across paper 

Jimin’s enamored. He can admit it now, finally.

It took quite a while for him to realize it. 

It took close to a whole year actually.

Almost twelve months of smoking on rooftops and walking along the beach and sheltering from summer rain inside the little convenience store round the corner from the school. 

Jeongguk is fifteen now. 

Jimin is seventeen.

He has one more year, and he will be free of the orphanage, of his government conservatorship. He doesn’t know what he’ll do next.  He used to think that he’d spend the years in between his and Jihyun’s graduation fulfilling his military service, but now he’s not so sure.

Now he’s not so sure, because he really doesn’t want to leave Jeongguk.

This time, when Jeongguk glances up, his eyes meet Jimin’s. Big and wide and dark. 

Jeongguk blinks in surprise, and Jimin gives him a lazy smile, rubbing his cigarette out on the concrete beside him.

“You done now, Guk?”

The younger boy looks back down at his sketchpad, mouth twisting into a little frown. 

“I guess.”

“What’s wrong?”

Jeongguk shrugs.

“It just didn’t turn out the way I hoped.”

Jimin leans a little closer.

“Can I see?”

Jeongguk only hesitates for a moment before handing his sketchpad over.  Jimin takes it carefully, reverently. Jeongguk might stuff it haphazardly into his backpack and leave it strewn messily across the ground as he works, but to Jimin, the sketchpad is precious. Almost holy.

He’s seen how much work Jeongguk has put into it, how many hours the younger boy has spent hunched over its pages, which is why he cradles it gently in his hands. Like a baby bird, fragile and precious.

When he gets a good look at the drawing inside, Jimin’s breath catches in his throat. He can’t imagine what Jeongguk thinks it lacks. It’s stunning.

Jeongguk has rendered the view from the rooftop, the sprawl of buildings, the gilded glint of the ocean, in almost photorealistic detail. Jimin feels his lips part in awe as his eyes flicker across the page. 

“Guk,” he breathes, “this is incredible.”

His attention falls on the focus of the piece, a figure, turned away from the artist so that only a sliver of their cheek and the fall of their hair is visible, staring out at the ocean. It’s melancholic, longing. It’s how Jimin feels some days, when he perches on the roof waiting for Jeongguk and watches the world pass by below. 

He freezes at the realization, blinking as he stares down at the page. 

He recognizes the curve of that cheek, the mess of dark hair, the slope of the shoulders turned away to gaze into the distance. He sees it all in the cracked, foggy mirror of the boys dormitory every morning. 

Jeongguk has drawn him.

Jimin looks up, a little shocked. Jeongguk is watching him, lip still clasped under his teeth nervously, doe eyes anxious. 

“Is this…” 

Jimin can see the moment that Jeongguk’s nerves get the best of him. The way he tries to shrug it off, shrug off Jimin’s amazement.

“Yeah,” the younger boy nods, “Yeah, it’s just missing something you know, you’re really hard to draw, hyung, I feel like I can never get you just right and…”

Jeongguk is rambling now, and Jimin bites back an amused smile.

“It’s just I always really want to draw you but I can’t even start because…” Jeongguk trails off with a final, awkward “s-so yeah.”

“Well,” Jimin says, “I like it.”

Jeongguk reddens.

“Thanks, hyung,” he mumbles, reclaiming his sketchpad and shoving it into his pack. 

“Ready?” he asks, standing. Jimin stands as well. 

“Let’s go.”

-

Jimin sings beautifully– though Jeongguk is rarely lucky enough to hear it. Sometimes, if the older boy is particularly distracted, he’ll slip into song involuntarily– a hummed melody flowing off his lips and under his breath and Jeongguk will freeze, careful not to do anything that might bring Jimin’s attention back to what he’s doing, just so he can listen. 

He’s frozen right now, in fact, breathless and still, head cradled in Jimin’s lap, only pretending to read the dialogue of the manga dangling above his head as Jimin hums a soft, distracted melody.  

It’s hard though. 

He drops the book to his chest.

Hard to remain quiet– unobtrusive– as Jimin’s fingers disinterestedly comb through his hair, fingertips gently massaging his scalp. The rhythmic press of the older boy's hands just feels too good– when the pads of his fingers massage over Jeongguk temples he lets out a contented sigh.

Jimin stops humming, and Jeongguk– who is far too caught up in the warm sensation of being petted– can’t restrain himself.

“Hyung!” he whines, drawing the words out, “don’t stop!”

Jimin’s fingers keep caressing.

“What do you mean?” 

There’s a hint of fond amusement in his voice. 

“I didn’t stop.”

Jeongguk pries his eyes open, half glaring up at the older boy.

“Yes you did.”

“Hmmm?”

Now Jimin’s fingers stop.

“Your voice, hyung,” Jeongguk yawns, cutting himself off. He blinks once–sleepily.

“I like it. Sounds good.”

If Jeongguk were more awake– more cognizant– he would marvel at the fact that this might be the first time he’s ever seen Park Jimin blush.

But he’s not. Slowly, his eyelids slip shut– never noticing the faint peach hue rising in the older boys cheeks.

Jimin's fingers begin to comb through his hair again.

And then, distantly, on the wavering edges of Jeongguk’s lethargic consciousness– Jimin begins to sing.

About a month later, Jimin wordlessly hands Jeongguk an almost brand new Walkman, with a single thin metallic scratch across its back.

Jimn grimaces as the imperfection catches the light.

“Sorry about that. Jihyun dropped it.”

Jeongguk nods, far too familiar with the impressive clumsiness of Jimin’s little brother to be surprised at this point. 

He plugs the coiled headphones already inserted into his ears and Jimin watches as his eyes widen, starry-bright.

“Hyung! Is this…”

Music trickles out of the headphones, oh so slightly. Barely enough for Jimin to make out the faint thrum of a beat and imperceptible chords. The first demos he’d ever recorded– and Jeongguk– wide eyed, baby faced Jeongguk– the first person to ever listen. 

-

“Hyung,” Jeongguk says one day, and Jimin looks up from where he’s been admiring the red pepper of the seasoning packet floating on top of his ramen. The steam from Jeongguks own ramen fogs the air between them and Jimin’s eyes trace the younger boy’s profile as he stares out at the spring rain pattering against the convenience shop window. 

“Hmmm?”

Jimin leans over and steals a grape candy from Jeongguk’s pocket, small fingers quick and agile. He pops it into his mouth, tongue curling around artificial violet sugar as Jeongguk speaks again.

“Did you see those scholarship flyers they put up the other day?”

Jimin furrows his brow. He thinks he kind of remembers seeing some new posts on the student boards, but he doesn’t pay much attention to that sort of thing. 

“What about them?”

Jeongguk’s quiet for a moment. 

“There’s one for art.”

“Yeah?” Jimin asks gently, crunching the candy between his teeth, attention still fixed on Jeongguk’s profile. The younger boy pierced his ears a few months earlier and Jimin watches the way his new silver hoop glints in the light. 

“Well…” Jeongguk trails off, still mesmerized by the rain and Jimin feels a smile creeping onto his face. 

“You gonna try for it, Gukkie?”

Jimin’s been waiting for something like this. Waiting for Jeongguk to finally begin to realize his talent, to understand that he’s more than capable of doing what he wants, of taking what he wants. 

Jeongguk loves art. It's apparent in every breath he takes, in the way his attention becomes trapped by the smallest pattern or detail in the world around him, in the way he tugs at Jimin's arm and points out the things that catch his attention, in the hours he spends working in his sketchbook. Jeongguk loves art, but he’s still hesitant to embrace it and Jimin wants to watch the younger throw away all his worries and insecurity and blossom. 

He leans closer, throwing an arm across Jeongguk’s shoulder. 

“Are you?”

“Maybe.”

Jimin doesn’t miss a beat. 

“You should.”

“Hyung, I don’t kn—“

“You should,” Jimin repeats, firmer this time, cutting off Jeongguk’s half hearted protest with a squeeze of his shoulders. 

Jeongguk turns towards him to say something and freezes, realizing at the same time Jimin does how close they are to each other. 

Doe eyes glint in the soft artificial light of the convenience store.  There’s steam fogging the air between them as Jeongguk pauses in shock, delicate lips still parted to speak and Jimin catches the way the younger boy's breath stutters ever so slightly, the way his eyes widen just a little bit, dropping almost imperceptibly to Jimins lips for a split second. 

Outside the rain pounds into the window and crawls down its surface in gray streaks. 

“You gonna try for it, Gukkie?” Jimin asks again, slowly, steadily, staring straight into those gleaming eyes which have found their way back to his own now. 

“I- um… yeah, hyung,” Jeongguk pulls away a little, Jimin's arm sliding off his shoulders, “yeah… I guess I will.”

“Good,” is all Jimin says. 

He goes back to his ramen and tries to pretend that his heart isn’t on the verge of bursting out of his ribs. 

-

Now that Jimin’s pressed him on it, Jeongguk can’t manage to shake the prospect of the art scholarship from his mind. It’s caught on and refuses to let go, following him like a shadow as he goes about his day.

Bus, Jimin, School, Jimin, Home, Repeat– and the entire time, a little niggling ‘what if?’ in the back of his head.

He pores over his sketchbooks, wondering if any of the pieces are good enough to submit. He tears down one of the posters with the information on it and tucks it away in his school bag, and once it’s there, it weighs on him like a rock.

The thing is– he’s scared.

But when he thinks about it, that fear doesn’t really come from a real place. He isn’t scared of something awful happening, or even of not winning the scholarship. No, what Jeongguk is scared of is even trying in the first place.

Because the moment he tries, it will mean the beginning of something. The beginning of something he knows his mother won’t approve of, the beginning of something that his mother has warned him against for his entire life, but she warned him against Jimin too, and lately he’s been feeling a hint of that same fear when he looks into the older boy's eyes.

The fear of starting something that you know you want to start.

Jeongguk buys a new sketchpad.

He has months before the scholarship applications are due, and so day by day, he begins to fill its pages, slowly but surely, with ink and char and graphite.

-

“Yah! Hyung!”

Jeongguk leans out over the edge of the roof, teetering too precariously on the slender wall of concrete that demarcates its boundaries. His hands are smarting– sun scalded.

“You’re late!”

Jimin glares up at the younger boy from under his brows, one hand clammy and clasped against the rickety roof ladder. Jeongguk smirks before disappearing back over the edge and settling into a crouch to wait.

Five seconds later, Jimin crests the edge of the roof.

His hair is windswept and a thin sheen of sweat glazes the sharp planes of his face.

Jeongguk’s mouth goes a little dry. 

He swallows.

“Hey.”

Jimin grins, and it’s only now that Jeongguk notices the older boy has his backpack tucked gently into his chest, not slung over his shoulder as normal.

“Here,” Jimin says, carefully unhooking the bag from his arms and holding it out to Jeongguk. “Careful.”

Jeongguk nods, blinking a trail of sweat out of his eyes. He’s curious, a question on the tip of his tongue as he takes the backpack, but instead of asking it, he watches Jimin unzip the bag– not quite strong enough to stop his eyes from focusing on the flickering of muscles in the older boy's forearms. 

Jimin makes a cooing noise as his hands disappear into the bag, brows furrowed softly in concern.

When they emerge, there's a small dark brown rabbit curled in his palms.

Jeongguk’s mouth falls open and he reaches a hand forward before pausing– realizing that if he touches the rabbit now he might scare it. He doesn’t want that.

Instead, he watches it as it blinks sleepily up at him, seemingly perfectly content in Jimins hands. Jeongguk can’t blame it for that (he would be too.)

Its fur is downy soft, reflecting the midday sun in brilliant shine. Jeongguk’s fingers itch to touch, but still, he restrains himself, instead turning his eyes to the older boy.

“Hyung,” Jeongguk breathes, awe apparent.

Jimin gifts him one of those smiles– the real ones– not the smirk or the ironic half quirk of his lips. Bright, blinding, eyes scrunching into crescent moons, the jut of his slightly crooked front tooth pressing against his top lip.

“It reminded me of you,” he murmurs, and Jeongguk realizes that they’ve both been whispering– apprehensive of any sudden noises that could startle the little creature.

His nose scrunches at Jimin’s words, slightly off put at the comparison.

“How?”

Now Jimin smirks.

“Cute,” he says.

Cute.

Jeongguk rolls his eyes. 

Jimin has been doing this a lot lately. Pushing the edges of their friendship. Gestures and words and touches that could almost be flirtatious– that would be flirtatious if he were anyone else. He’s not though, so Jeongguk is almost positive it doesn’t mean anything.

That knowledge doesn’t do anything to temper the heat that floods his face, however, and he looks away before Jimin can notice the glaze of a blush rising across his cheeks. He’s certain nothing good would come of it.

“Where’d you find him?” he asks, hoping to steer the conversation into safer waters.

There’s no answer and he glances up to find Jimin grinning down at the bunny, completely enraptured. 

“Hyung?”

Jimin hums.

“Where’d you find him?”

“On the street, really.”

Jeongguk frowns a little.

“Must’ve escaped a pet shop or something.”

It saddens him. The thought of this soft little creature abandoned and lonely on the streets, small and desperate. It’s not the sort of creature that’s made to survive– but the sort that’s made to be coddled– and he can’t imagine that it would’ve lasted long were it not for Jimin's intervention.

“What are you going to do with him?”

Jimin’s head tilts a bit, eyes going back to the coal glint of the rabbit’s own.

“Sister Marie would probably like to keep him, if I showed him to her. That would be good, she’d take care of him.”

Jeongguk can’t help but lean forward a little at the mention of the nun. 

Jimin doesn’t talk much about what the orphanage is like, though Jeongguk knows him well enough by now to have a rough understanding of it, he certainly doesn’t know as much as he would like too.

His knowledge of Jimin’s home amounts to three main points:

1. Jimin likes Sister Marie. She’s young– too young to be seen as a mother by the boys– but Jimin talks about her fondly, like an older sister.
2. Jimin is happier at the orphanage than Jihyun is. Jeongguk doesn’t really know this thanks to Jimin, but rather thanks to Jihyun’s own complaints when he sits with Jeongguk at lunch.
3. Soon, Jimin will leave the orphanage. 

That last point worries Jeongguk the most. Jimin rarely talks about the orphanage but he never talks about what comes next, and what if what comes next doesn't include Jeongguk?  He’s not sure he could live with that.

But right now, he doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to let the uncertainty of everything– of the future– seep the warmth out of this moment, out of Jimin’s shoulder pressed into his and the soft little creature blinking curiously up at them.

He allows himself to forget, for now, that Jimin will ever have to be anywhere that isn’t right by his side.

-

“No,” Jimin says, “You’ve got to push it deeper than that.”

Jeongguk frowns, peering up at the older boy from under his lashes. 

“Won’t that hurt?”

Jimin shrugs, taking another drag of his cigarette. He lets the smoke out slowly, and it creeps across his face in a silvery cloud.

“Yeah,” he replies, “but it won’t work if it doesn’t.”

Jeongguk looks back down to where Jimin’s forearm lays across his lap, sleeve rolled back. The sharp antiseptic scent of rubbing alcohol stings his nose, and Jeongguk wonders if that’s really what he’s supposed to use to sterilize for this, but Jimin had claimed it would work, pulling the bottle out of his worn school bag with a satisfied smirk. 

Jeongguk didn’t ask where he had gotten it.

The pattern is sketched roughly, stenciled onto Jimin's skin with a felt tipped pen, intertwining lines of smoke circle the muscle of his forearm, tapering off into ghostly twirls before reaching his bicep.

“Come on, Gukkie,” Jimin murmurs, “it won’t hurt that bad.” 

Jeongguk pricks the end of the needle gently into the tip of his pointer finger as he thinks.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna ask Sanghoon to find someone else to do it for you?”

Jimin releases another puff of smoke, mingling into the sea salt air.

“Nah,” he says casually, certainly, “I want you to do it.”

Jeongguk hopes the older boy can’t see how those words affect him. The satisfaction and pride that curl purring inside of him at hearing that. Jimin doesn’t want one of the tattoo artists that his friends know. He wants Jeongguk. He wants Jeongguk to imprint his own art twisting across his skin.

Jeongguk dips the needle into the ink and leans forward, positioning it over his stencil before glancing back up. Jimin’s watching him, something fond that Jeongguk has been noticing more and more often of late flitting behind those narrow coffee eyes. A thin layer of sweat glows on the planes of his face, and he doesn’t even wince as Jeongguk pushes the needle in, steel and onyx piercing flesh and crimson, to ink out the beginning of the first line. 

He just watches Jeongguk work, and in between lines of slithering ink that climb up Jimin’s arm, Jeongguk raises his gaze and stares right back.

-

Jimin lets Jeongguk take pictures of the tattoos once they’re done, tucking them away into his new sketchbook. 

It’s not so new anymore, filled with horizons and silhouettes and wide oceans stretching to the horizon, and Jimin has noticed the way Jeongguk begins to handle it– almost gently. Without the carelessness that he used too.

He knows that the scholarship poster is still tucked inside Jeongguk’s backpack– sometimes, it comes tumbling out when Jeongguk is digging through it in search of something. 

Jimin even knows the date the application is due now, and as it creeps closer, he doesn’t miss the harried furrow of Jeongguk’s brows, the extra hunch in his shoulders when he leans over his sketchpad.

The younger boy may claim that he’s just trying it out, just applying to see if he can, but Jimin can see right through him.

Jeongguk cares.

And while Jimin doesn’t believe that it’s possible to care too much, he worries a little anyway.

-

It’s raining and the rungs of the ladder are too slick under Jimin’s hands as he climbs, but he’s looked everywhere– every last possible nook and cranny where Jeongguk could be– and nothing – which leaves this.

The roof.

The last possible place the younger boy could be.

Jimin had missed the bus that morning– something that he hasn’t done since before he met Jeongguk. 

He hadn’t wanted to– had tried to beg Sister Marie to let him go ahead– employed full on puppy dog eyes and a pout– but the nun was far too accustomed to Jimin’s ways and there were some people that she wanted him to meet. The thought screws his face into a scowl and he reaches for the next rung. There’s no point in thinking of that now, it’s not like it will be any different from all the other times.

By the time Jimin had arrived at the school– an hour late– Jeongguk had been nowhere to be found. 

The bathroom was empty, the old man at the convenience store hadn’t seen him since he’d come in with Jimin yesterday, Jihyun claims he wasn’t at lunch– he’s just gone.

Jimin doesn’t know what he’ll do if Jeongguk isn’t on the roof.

He blinks quickly, vision blurred gray by the heavy spring rains that have been pounding down across Busan for an entire week. He’s already entirely drenched, blazer and uniform shirt plastered to his chest, hair dripping over his eyes in sodden black strands– as he heaves himself up the last two rungs of the ladder and– finally– onto the roof.

“Jeongguk!”

His voice burns in his throat– sore from yelling– and his head whips desperately back and forth, and the panic bubbling in his throat threatens to surge and choke him because he doesn’t see Jeongguk and if Jeongguk isn’t here then Jimin has no idea where the younger boy could be and he doesn’t want to think about that so he yells again, voice breaking–

“Guk!”

He can barely even hear his own voice over the pounding of the rain– the drumbeat of a thousand drops per second, slamming into dirty gray puddles and wet concrete in a dull roar. Hopeless, Jimin’s gaze sweeps across the rooftop one final time, and catches on something.

He doesn’t even consider that it might be Jeongguk at first– but then he blinks again, bringing up a hand to swipe rain out of his eyes and his vision sharpens.

Jeongguk is tucked against one of the corner walls on the far side of the roof, hunched into a ball. His head is down, dark hair dripping, shoulders curved delicately inwards. He hasn’t acknowledged Jimin’s presence– in fact, there’s no sign he has any idea that he’s not alone, so Jimin approaches carefully, heart in his throat.

The tips of his toes send ripples through already disturbed water, and mirrored waves slosh against Jeongguks feet, and still he doesn’t look up, only now, Jimin is close enough to see that he’s not just hunched over by the spring chill, or the cold rain.

No.

He’s hunched over something , and Jimin squints a little, shifting on his feet.

“Guk?”

Jeongguk finally startles a little bit, beginning to turn his gaze upwards, and Jimin finally gets a look at what Jeongguk’s been holding in his hands.

A pit opens in his gut.

The sketchbook is barely recognizable by its charred cover– the pages inside black and curled and disintegrating– shedding petals of black ash across Jeongguk’s hands like cherry blossoms. Jimin’s lips part in shock but he doesn’t know what to say– what to ask and Jeongguk has been crying.

It’s apparent, despite the downpour that dapples his cheeks like tears– those big black eyes gleam red rimmed and puffy, nose blushed and cheeks tearstained. When his gaze meets Jimin’s, his face crumples again, nose scrunching as a sob wracks his shoulders.

The sound rips through Jimin and it hurts.

He’s never known a sound to hurt like this, and in a heartbeat he’s on his knees next to Jeongguk, heedless of the puddle soaking through his trousers, the grimy concrete staining the fabric.

“Guk!” he reaches for the other boy and then hesitates– uncertain. 

This isn’t just another anxiety attack or something that Jimin is familiar with. Jeongguk is devastated– shaking– but he’s still coherent. His breathing is as even as it can be around sobs, and for the first time in a long time, Jimin has no idea what to do.  

He has no idea how to fix this.

“Guk, come on, what happened?”

Jimin reaches for the remains of the sketchpad, and Jeongguk lets him take it. He winces as flakes of ash break off of it and flutter to dapple the puddle he kneels in with spots of grey, carefully slotting the remains of the sketchpad into an empty pocket in his backpack.

It’s probably pointless, he realizes, as sodden pages rip under his gentle ministrations, but he does it anyway, scooting closer to Jeongguk when finished to take the younger boy's hands. 

“Gukkie, c’mon, look at me.”

Jeongguk takes a shuddering breath, chest expanding, and slowly raises his head from where it had been pressed against his knees. A curl of dark hair hangs over his right eye, and Jimin watches a drop of rain bead on its end and fall again.

“Hyung– “

Jeongguk voice cracks and Jimin squeezes his hands until his choked sobs ease and he can finally explain.

“Eomma found– she– she found the application.” 

That’s all Jimin needs to know to understand exactly what’s happened. He’s not prepared for the visceral rush of anger that surges through him like a massive cat– claws extended and lips peeled back in a snarl.  

Jimin knows what Jeongguk’s mother is like. He still remembers her from the very first time he ever saw Jeongguk– remembers the disdain in her eyes when they trailed over him and Jihyun, the curl of her lip. 

Of course she’d do something like this– destroy Jeongguk’s application portfolio, sabotage his chance at pursuing something as irrelevant and unprofitable as art.

“Oh, Guk…”

“Sh-she said it was pointless and I needed to be focusing on my classes.”

Jeongguks nose scrunches again, eyelashes batting, lips wobbling, as if he’s fighting back another wave of tears, and Jimin– Jimin would do anything to make them stop. To take the hurt away.

So he does.

He does something stupid– but the tremble of Jeongguk’s flower petal lips, the tear tracks across his round cheeks– they’re too gut wrenching for Jimin to sit here and just watch him fall apart.

Jeongguk hiccups, on the verge of more tears, and Jimin reaches out, cradling the younger boy's face with both hands, and then he does something he’s been wanting to do for longer than he knows.

He presses his lips to Jeongguk’s.

It’s soft, and timid– fleeting. 

Jeongguk tastes of petrichor and devastation and Jimin pulls back almost instantly, thumbs caressing the curve of the younger boys cheeks, eyes flickering nervously across his face in search of– hell, Jimin doesn’t know what he’s looking for.

Rejection, most likely.

Maybe disgust.

He finds neither.

Jeongguk’s eyes are wider than he’s ever seen them– an almost impossible feat. He’s like a startled fawn, flower petal mouth falling open in surprise.

Right. 

Because the last thing anyone would expect when having a breakdown is for their best friend to kiss them.

“Fuck,” Jimn says, already wincing, already leaning back, “That was stupid–I’m– I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have–”

Cold fingers wrap around the back of his neck and tug.

A soft noise of surprise wells out of his throat as he falls forward– knees digging into the damp concrete– and then Jeongguk is pressing their lips back together in a desperate rush.

For a moment, Jimin can’t even think.

It’s not like Jimin’s never kissed anyone.

Hell, it’s not even like Jimin’s never kissed a boy. 

He has. He’s kissed plenty of boys.

But this is different. This isn’t anyone. This isn’t just a boy.

This is Jeongguk.

This is Jeongguk kissing him back, a gentle plush press, slicked by rain water and salt, and for all his hoping and wishing and dreaming, Jimin would’ve never dared to actually believe that any shard of his own affection might ever be reciprocated.

He pushes forward a little, when he finally puts two and two together and understands that yes– this is real– Jeongguk is kissing him– and Jeongguk leans back onto his elbows as Jimin hovers over him, teeth indenting the pillow swell of his bottom lip.

When they break apart again, there’s a shy smile tugging at the corners of Jeongguk’s kiss reddened mouth, and a small coil of awe in Jimin’s chest as he gazes down at the younger boys face, watches drops of rain break themselves apart across the curves of his cheeks, tangle in his lashes and trace down his jaw.

Something incomprehensible swells into full bloom under Jimin’s ribs– something that’s seeds were sown in the sweltering heat of summer– in cold tiled bathrooms, and smoke salt bonfire beaches, and the white sun heated rooftop that they both kneel on now. 

Jimin smiles back.

-

Jeongguk hadn’t known it was possible for him to look forward to seeing Jimin each day even more than he already had, but somehow, impossibly, after that day on the roof in the rain, he does.

Not much has changed between them, apart from the obvious.

Jimin still ruffles his hair like he’s a little kid, and he still jokingly drops honorifics in retribution for his hyung’s half condescension or holds things he’s swiped from Jimin over his head and just barely out of the older boys reach. Jeongguk has just grown taller than Jimin now, and he takes great pleasure in employing that newfound power on every possible occasion.

The only real difference now, is that after Jimin tackles him onto the ground for his disrespect, or loses his balance jumping for whatever Jeongguk has stolen and falls into his chest– they end in a tangle of limbs, lips pressed messily against each other, Jimin’s small fingers tangling in his hair, Jeongguk’s arms wrapped insistently over the older boys waist or shoulders. 

(He never wants to let go.)

Jimin tastes like grape candy and green tea– sweet and fresh– and sometimes, like cigarette smoke, but Jeongguk finds that he doesn’t mind at all, as long as he’s tasting that bitterness off of the older boy’s mouth.

Jeongguk knows that his inexperience is obvious, but Jimin doesn’t ever seem to mind– only ever acknowledging it with crinkled crescent moon eyes and low murmurs of ‘cute’ that bring a glaze of blush rising up in Jeongguk’s cheeks. 

It’s like everything that Jimin touches is swathed in a golden light, and now Jimin touches him too, and he glows just as bright. He feels like the salt sea tides of the Busan ocean– tied to the moon by some distant, incomprehensible force. He feels like some character in a book or a film– and it scares him a bit too, what he feels for Jimin.

How brightly that flame blazes in his chest when he looks at the older boy. The way his heart tugs under his ribs when they’re apart. He wonders what would happen if they were separated for too long– if that organ would just claw its way out of him, still pumping, and go find Jimin itself.

Jeongguk never wants to find out. 

He never wants to learn– to know.

But he does.

It’s the coldest day of the year when Jeongguk’s world comes crashing down around him– shattering into little pieces at his feet. 

The sky is December gray and the air bites at his exposed cheeks with a frigid chill as he waits for the bus. Jimin isn’t anywhere to be seen, and while that might have worried Jeongguk in the past, he’s been late to school several times over the past few months, so Jeongguk is accustomed to it now.

Of course, he was alarmed the first time it happened, but by the fifth he’s accepted Jimin’s sometime absence from the bus as the new normal.

It didn’t matter, because the older boy was always waiting for him on the roof during lunch, or outside the gates at the end of the school day the times when he missed the morning bus anyways, and Jeongguk is sure he’ll be in one of those places today, round cheeks stung red by the winter wind, dark hair messy.

The image makes Jeongguk smile a little, and he leans his head against the bus window, letting the frosted glass cool the light blush that’s risen in his cheeks as he imagines Jimin waiting for him. 

Wrapping him in an embrace. 

Kissing him.

When Jeongguk pulls himself out onto the roof during his lunch break, the icy rungs of the ladder burning his palms red, to find it empty, his heart drops a little in his chest. He definitely had expected Jimin to be here– to be waiting– but it’s no matter, because now he’s sure that Jimin will be waiting after school.

They’ll go to the convenience store on the corner, and Jeongguk can already taste the instant ramen they’ll eat, spicy hot broth and chewy noodles– can see the way the steam from their bowls will rise into the air and fog the window in front of them.

But when Jeongguk goes stumbling down the hill in front of school at the end of the day, backpack sagging over his shoulders and cheeks stained red by the cold, Jimin isn’t there either. 

The anticipatory smile he’d unconsciously plastered across his face falls.

He checks the convenience store, with a short nod to the ajusshi– walking up and down each aisle twice. 

Nothing, so Jeongguk runs back up the hill to school, through the empty hallways to the bathroom and leans out the window into the frigid dusk– it gets dark early this time of year– heaving himself up the ladder rung over rung, arms burning.

“Hyung!”

He turns in a circle once he reaches the top, eyes squinting a little against the glare of the setting sun bouncing off the ocean.

“Jimin hyung!”

There’s no response but the icy wind and Jeongguk drops into a crouch for a moment, head cradled between his hands as he tries to slow his breathing– still frantic from the climb to the roof– tries to calm down and think.

His frozen fingers tangle through his hair– as if the burn of his scalp will somehow bring some unanticipated clarity.

Unsurprisingly it doesn’t, but when he looks up, his eyes inevitably trace the horizon, the distant ocean all gleaming white caps and cold, dark currents.

The beach, Jeongguk thinks, maybe there– maybe he’ll be there.

Jimin’s not on the beach.

Jeongguk trudges up and down the shoreline until long after the sun had dipped under the the distant edge of the world, dragging the last slivers of warmth in the air with it, and doesn’t spot a single soul. 

He’s shivering now– his old parka proving no match for the winds whipping off of the ocean– as he perches on one of the stray chunks of driftwood that circles the firepit that Jimin would bring him to with the other boys from the orphanage. At the center of the circled pseudo benches of sun bleached wood is a charred circle, all ashes and disintegrated black chalk– cold and hollow. It’s a little dramatic perhaps, but the burnt out fire pit reminds Jeongguk a little bit of himself.

There’s a deep melancholy coating the moment, seeping into Jeongguk through skin and muscle– deep into his bones– with more voracity, even, than the winter air, and when Jeongguk stands– finally– and begins to make his way home– shoulders slumped and sand shifting underneath his feet– he can’t help but feel like something has changed.

Like something is off.

The feeling remains through the night, as he tosses and turns in bed– only managing to doze off for about an hour before his alarm rings– waking with a sick feeling in his gut. 

The horizon tints pink as the sun fails to break through a cloud coated sky, and JEongguk stands expectantly at the bus stop– breath clouding before his face, eyes stinging in the cold but still wide open– alert– expectant.

Jimin still isn’t there when the bus arrives, so Jeongguk doesn’t get on it.

Instead, he watches the usual passengers file on one by one, feeling slightly numb. There go the businessmen, weary and worn down as ever, lugging their briefcases. There’s the old woman who always wears floral patterns and calls Jeongguk “sweetie.” There’s the other students from his school, expensive parkas bundled over their uniforms, faces reddened with chill.

The bus pulls out of the bus stop with a dull petroleum roar and Jeongguk is alone. 

Without even thinking, he turns and heads in the direction of the orphanage. He’s never been inside but he knows where it is, and maybe he’ll pass Jimin on the way.

-

Sister Marie has just begun her morning prayers when the doorbell rings.

She stands from her kneel, wincing as her knees creak– she’s way too young for them to ache the way they do– and tucks a stray strand of hair back under her habit before heading for the front door. 

Perhaps one of the boys has forgotten his homework.

And it is a boy that stands tentatively on the front porch when she opens the door. It’s just not one of her boys.

“Can I help you?” she asks softly.

He seems like a timid thing– all big dark eyes, a rounded nose tinged pink in the cold, fluffy black curls– and for some reason she feels the need to tread carefully. It’s as if he’s a small fawn, and she might startle him if she moves too loudly.

He hesitates for a moment mouth hanging open before he speaks, quietly, hesitantly–

“Is Park Jimin here?”

Oh.

“He’s not with us anymore,” she answers as gently as possible, a surge of sympathy rushing through her.

She thinks she knows who this boy is— and why he’s here. 

“W-what about Jihyun?” comes the stuttered reply, “Is he here? Can I talk to him?”

Sister Marie only shakes her head sadly, and in the boy's eyes, she watches as a heart breaks in two.

Chapter Text

Seoul, Republic of Korea, November 2020

For a long, long time, Jimin was just a memory. 

A painful one of course. 

Blinding bright, like the imprint of the sun. Bitter sweet as grape candy and salt water. Strong enough to punch the breath out of Jeongguk’s gut some nights, when he sat alone in his apartment with an empty bottle of condensation coated soju rolling between his palms— but still, just a memory. 

Nothing more. 

But now he stands before Jeongguk, in the flesh— all narrow glinting eyes and unruly hair (it’s been dyed a pale honey gold, but Jeongguk is fairly certain that he could recognize him with his eyes closed) and that smoke smear tattoo that Jeongguk himself inked into the older man’s skin that hot summer day so long ago twisting up the muscle of his forearm.

Jeongguk feels his lungs freeze in his chest.

Not a memory anymore. 

To be fair, Jimin seems just as surprised to see him as he is, if not more. Those svelte brown eyes widen as they meet Jeongguk’s, lips parting in shock, and if this were any other situation, Jeongguk would laugh. 

Jimin looks like he’s seen a ghost. 

Seokjin is speaking, saying something more, but Jeongguk can’t make it out over the dull roaring of the world. 

How long has it been? 

Five years? Six?

Just when Jeongguk had been on the verge of moving on, of forgetting (because that’s really what this installation was all about wasn’t it? Purging those memories from himself, casting them into the artwork, and leaving them behind once and for all.) 

He’d only just grown brave enough to even try, and here Jimin is– come bursting back into his life like a meteor– brilliant and seething bright and wholly unexpected.

Seokjin's hand lands on Jeongguk’s shoulder, and he jumps a little, startled. He hadn’t even realized his hyung was approaching.

“You good, kid?” he asks, concern apparent. 

Jeongguk swallows around the dryness in his throat, finally sucking in a shaky breath. 

“Y-yeah,” he stutters, managing to meet Seokjin's eyes. He can tell the other man doesn’t buy it for a second, and he can’t blame him. The waver in his voice is unconvincing, even to his own ears. 

Seokjin takes a short breath, obviously preparing a rebuke of sorts, but in that moment the elevator chimes again and Jeongguk shoots to his feet. 

The doors slide open, revealing an endearingly oblivious Taehyung, and Jeongguk is halfway across the studio before the model even steps out, brushing past Jimin and his companion without a glance in their direction. 

He’s not certain he can bear to look at Jimin again. 

It’s like looking into the sun for too long— he’ll go blind. 

Or mad. 

Or both, most likely. 

Taehyung is saying something as Jeongguk approaches, as Jeongguk passes him, but it doesn’t even register as Jeongguk steps neatly around him into the elevator.

The “up” button alights from the array, glowing cherry red under his thumb, but he doesn’t stop pressing it until the doors slide closed, a surprised Taehyung and frowning Seokjin disappearing from view. 

When the elevator jolts into motion, he lets out another shaky breath. Long and slow– allowing his forehead to fall forward, to press against the cold metal wall. 

“What the fuck,” Jeongguk mumbles. 

-

Jimin stares at the elevator doors Jeongguk had just vanished behind, half breathless. 

He feels a little like he’s been punched in the gut. 

It’s a feeling he became quite familiar with growing up in an orphanage full of young boys. He should be well practiced at enduring it by now, but right now he’s learning that he’s not. 

Hoseok turns back to Seokjin, with a curious expression on his face and Jimin tries to relax, tries to force the furrow of his brows and strained frown back into their places, back into the mask. The last thing he wants is for the manager to think that he’s offended by Jeongguk’s behavior.

“He gets overwhelmed sometimes,” Seokjin says, with a worried glance towards the elevator.

‘I know,’ Jimin wants to say, eyes still fixed on the exit. The words are on the tip of his tongue, reflexive, begging to be released. He doesn’t let them go. 

Seokjin is ushering them towards a couch facing the desk, watching Hoseok's face contort in confusion. 

“If you don’t mind,” he says firmly, “he shouldn’t be very long.”

The words themselves might seem apologetic, but nothing about Seokjin’s demeanor is. That's good, Jimin finds himself thinking. That's good. 

Jimin can appreciate that. It’s the way he used to be around new people when Jeongguk first met them too. Not standoffish, per se, just alert. 

On guard. 

Ready to shut down any disdain or intrusive commentary at a moment's notice, and Jimin finds himself feeling grateful that Jeongguk still has people to do that for him. 

He sinks onto the couch, fingers mindlessly trailing over the butter smooth leather of its cushions. It’s a nice couch. Expensive. 

Jeongguk has done well for himself, but then again, Jimin shouldn’t be surprised by that. 

He wonders if this moment would’ve come sooner or later, had he actually paid attention. If he had watched the news, if he had listened to the gossip– would he have recognized Jeongguk earlier? 

Namjoon had raved about the first installation of this current series, the one with that rapper-producer– if Jimin had just been paying attention he would’ve recognized something. He’s almost certain of it.

When he finally manages to tune back into the conversation, Seokjin is saying something about how they found Jimin– something about asking Taehyung for help finding a model to suit the collection, and Jimin can’t help but frown.

It’s been years, but still, he knows he wouldn’t have been hired had Jeongguk been the one in charge of procuring a model, but still, he finds it unusual that the younger man didn’t participate in the search. 

He can’t help but voice his confusion a little, accidentally interrupting Seokjin in the process.

“And why didn’t Jeongguk select the model for this installation?” Jimin asks, the name slipping past his lips before he’s even considered the consequences of him knowing it. 

He’ll never get an answer to that question now.

Taehyung’s eyes widen in surprise. 

“Wah, Jimin-ah… how’d you know JK stood for Jeongguk?”

Jimin tenses slightly, mouth falling open as he tries to figure out what he should say. Should he admit to it– should he say ‘we used to know each other’ and hope Tae moves on?

No. 

No– no, Tae definitely would not move on. 

“I…” he begins thinking on the fly, “I—“

“Must’ve been a lucky guess.”

Jimin whips around, breath catching in his throat.

Jeongguk stands framed in the elevators’ open doors, hair windswept messy, cheeks glazed pink from the cold, eyes glassy dark and unreadable. Jimin must have been too distracted trying to figure out an excuse to notice the chiming of the doors opening. 

“But—“ Taehyung begins, clearly not buying it, but Jeongguk cuts him off with a sharp glance as he starts forward. 

“Hyung.”

Taehyung's mouth snaps shut, pouting slightly. 

Beside Jimin, Hoseok scrambles to his feet, and the motion is enough to jolt Jimin out of the trance he’d fallen so easily back into– the trance of it really being Jeongguk in front of him, in the flesh. He’s so different now: tall and broad and painted with twining strands of dark, pretty ink and studded with silver piercings that shine like mercury, but somehow– he’s still the same. Still wide eyed, still beautiful, and still nervous– Jimin can easily tell despite the stony facade the younger man has plastered up.

He can see it in the way those doe eyes flick about the room, refusing to really acknowledge Jimin, in the way one of his hands is nestled inside his pocket, and Jimin wonders for a moment if it’s the same thing he used to do when anxious– if he’s fidgeting with the–

No. That’s impossible. There’s no way that Jeongguk would’ve kept it after everything.

Jeongguk comes to a halt before the couch, and Jimin stands as well, shoulder to shoulder with Hoseok now.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Jeongguk says, with a small nod.

“Jimin-ssi,” his voice is soft as velvet and still the address feels like a blow to the gut. Jimin wonders if Jeongguk can tell– can read the way that formality stings in Jimin’s eyes when he finally meets them– even if it’s only for a second. 

Jeongguk turns towards Hobi. 

“Hoseok-ssi, I presume?”

“That’s me!” Hoseok grins, bowing enthusiastically back. The corners of Jeongguk’s mouth twitch upwards almost imperceptibly. 

Of course.

That had been one of the first things Jimin had thought upon meeting Hoseok– that Jeongguk would’ve loved him. 

“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” Jeongguk continues, taking a seat behind his desk.

There’s a beat of silence in which Jimin realizes that Hoseok is expecting him to be the one to respond to that, and then another beat in which he swallows around the painful lump in his throat before he can speak.

“No need,” he replies.

Jeongguk’s gaze rests on him for just a moment longer than feels necessary before he nods once. It’s perfunctory. Almost mechanical. 

His attention shifts to Seokjin, and it’s only now that Jimin notices the file folders that have appeared in the manager’s hands. They’re thick with paper, practically stuffed to the brim, and when the older man places one in his hand, he’s still surprised by the heft of it.

“Ah!” Taehyung chirps, throwing himself into the too small space between Hoseok and Jimin on the couch. “The designs are beautiful, Jiminie! I know you’ll love them, they reminded me so much of you when I first saw them.”

They reminded me so much of you… 

There’s a sinking in his gut. 

He hasn’t even opened the file yet, instead, he raises his eyes to where Jeongguk sits. 

He’s scrutinizing the surface of his desk, face carefully impassive, and really not much has changed, because Jimin knows the younger man well enough to know that he’s not actually looking at anything in particular.

Suddenly, Jimin is almost scared to open the file, to look over the designs that Taehyung claims are so suited to him. He’s not certain he’ll like what he finds. He’s not certain he’ll be able to bear what he finds.

It’s not that he thinks they’ll be bad– the possibility hasn’t even crossed his mind. In fact, he knows, with utter, unflinching certainty that the collection will be stunning– will be brilliant. 

Jeongguk isn’t capable of anything less.

And that’s where the problem lies. In the fact that he already knows the garments enumerated on the papers within his grasp will be good– will be better than good. 

He doesn’t know how that will feel, but he doesn't get much of an opportunity to continue pondering that as Taehyung rips the file from his hands with a huffed “what's taking so long?”

In a moment, Taehyung's selected sketches are arrayed across his lap. 

Jimin bites his lip.

It doesn’t come as a surprise that the designs are remarkable, but still…

His attention trails over them, and as it does, he begins to recognize things. Patterns. Objects. Places.

Jimin’s brow furrows.

The geometric pattern embroidered on the back of a white blazer is identical to the pattern of the tiles on the floor of the bathroom that he met Jeongguk in.

The faux fur lining the hems of an obsidian hued trench coat is a too familiar shade of gleaming dark chocolate– so familiar that he can imagine the taste of the salt sea breeze, the warm shifting of the rabbit in his hands.

One design mimics a school uniform, but oddly oversized sleeves dappled with cigarette burns and shirt beaded with tiny white stones.

“Well?” Taehyung asks, in that overeager puppy way of his, jerking Jimin back to the present, “what do you think?”

A burning gaze comes to rest on Jimin and he knows its source even before he raises his own gaze to meet it. 

Night sky eyes, only now their stars are hidden behind a bank of smoky clouds.

“They’re beautiful,” Jimin says– almost breathless– eyes fixed on Jeongguk.

“I knew you’d love them!” Taehyung crows.

Jeongguk’s expression doesn’t change. His eyes drop back to the table, and an odd chill sweeps over Jimin in their absence. He supposes he should get used to it.

(He doesn’t want to.)

Seokjin is speaking now, something about the promotion, and Jimin does his best to refocus on the topic at hand because he needs to know this. Still, he’s too late in dragging his attention back to the conversation to catch anything but the last item Seokjin mentions.

Perhaps it catches his attention because of the half cautious, half worried glance the older man shoots in Jeongguk’s direction as he explains it, or perhaps it’s just that Jimin recognizes the name but still.

“Jimin-ssi, you are, of course, welcome to do as many media appearances and interviews as you please regarding this project, but officially, we will have one joint interview with both artist and model.”

Jimin realizes why Seokjin was looking at Jeongguk like that now. He can’t imagine an interview will be easy on the younger man.

“I’ve spoken to Lee Jieun-ssi and she’s assured us that no cameras will be present on set, the primary product of this interview will be solely written media–” Seokjin pauses, head tilting as if he’s only just remembered something.

He turns to Jimin.

“Jimin-ssi, am I correct in remembering that you have worked with Jieun-ssi in the past?”

Jimin nods. 

He’d done his first pre-release interview for MUSE with the woman, and he’d liked her. Kind, whip smart and very pretty (which is never something Jimin will complain about.)

Seokjin takes another surreptitious glance in Jeongguk’s direction and Jimin realizes that Seokjin is very aware of the anxiety the younger man must feel at the prospect of the interview. Once again, he’s warmed by the care with which Seokjin looks at Jeongguk.

“And… what was your impression?” Seokjin asks.

Ah.

Seokjin is absolutely willing to cancel the interview if he hears something he doesn’t like. That’s good.

“She’s kind,” Jimin replies truthfully, “very smart. Good at what she does. If she promised no cameras I believe that you can trust that there won’t be any.”

“Good,” Seokjin nods, and then, “thank you.”

Jimin inclines his head in acknowledgment, silent again as Seokjin and Hoseok go over itineraries.

At some point, Taehyung rises from where he’s been pressed into Jimin’s side and slips behind Jeongguk’s desk, placing a long fingered hand on the younger man’s shoulders, and Jimin isn’t expecting the shot of jealousy that accompanies watching Jeongguk relax into his friends’ touch.  He tears his gaze away and tries to focus on the discussion the managers are having, but can’t seem to stop himself from sneaking glances back in that direction, the first coming just in time to see Taehyung whispering in Jeongguk’s ear, while the seconds catches him playing with his hair.

Taehyung is a tactile, affectionate person.

Anyone he cares for will learn to bear the brunt of his very physical form of affection, and Jimin himself knows that better than anyone, having been the primary victim of playful hands and unexpected embraces for years now, and yet watching Jeongguk accept Taehyung's touches so easily stings.

Jimin finds himself eager for the meeting to end, eager to be back in the car with Hoseok. 

He wants to go back to his stupid cold empty apartment and get drunk on the soju he’d forgotten in the fridge last weekend. He wants to collapse on the too stiff, too perfect couch, in front of that too loud, too bright television and sleep for a week. Most of all, he wants to not be here, with Jeongguk, and the cold walls behind his beautiful wide eyes.

When the Hoseok finally clears his throat, standing with an apologetic smile and the concern that they’re going to be late to Jimin’s dance practice, he’s out of his own seat in a moment, following his manager to the elevator without another glance back.

The back of his neck burns under the weight of a far too familiar gaze every step of the way.

-

Once Jimin is finally gone– closed behind those mirror metal doors of the elevator– Jeongguk lets his shoulders fall into a slouch.

Taehyung is still beside him– half perched on the desk– and the model gives him a short look of alarm as he crumbles backwards into the cushioned arm of his desk chair, breath fleeing his lungs in a long sigh.

He doesn’t know how he managed to get through that meeting. He’d spent most of it boring a hole into his desk with his eyes, fighting the gravitational urge to raise them and just stare.

Jimin.

In the flesh. Sitting in Jeongguk’s studio, eyes tired but sharp, hair honey blonde but just as messy as Jeongguk remembers, still impossibly pretty.

And Jeongguk– he feels so, so pathetic.

He thinks that he should be angry– furious. 

Instead, he’s just sad.

Instead, he just fights back the urge to get up and follow Jimin, down the elevator and out of the building, just for the opportunity to bask in the other man’s presence for a little longer. 

So pathetic.

So pathetic, that after all these years and all that hurt, Jeongguk still wants nothing more than to kiss Jimin.

-

It’s quiet in the elevator, beyond the faint whirring of the mechanism as they drop, drop, drop.

Jimin can feel Hoseok’s gaze– sharp and questioning– pressing against his face.

He doesn’t meet it.

In all honesty, he’d made peace with the knowledge that he would never see Jeongguk again.

Well– maybe not peace.

Maybe that’s not the right way to put it.

In all honesty, Jimin had believed that he would never see Jeongguk again.

Yes.

That’s right.

There had been nothing peaceful about it. The realization. That understanding. 

It had hurt– badly. It still does, despite the faint echo of Jeongguk’s voice in his ears, the afterimage of Jeongguk’s eyes meeting his, the dawning understanding of this new reality.

This new reality in which Jeongguk is back– is here, right in front of him.

This new reality in which they’ll be working together for several months at least.

Jimin lets out a shaky breath– long and slow– ignoring Hoseok’s confused glance.

He lets his head fall forward, pressing into the cold metal of the elevator wall as it trembles and glides.

“What the fuck,” Jimin mutters.

-

Jeongguk groans– rolling onto his back and fighting the urge to slam his fist into the mattress out of frustration.

He can’t sleep.

It’s cold outside, and his feet feel icy despite the way he tucks them against each other under the covers– but that’s not what keeps him awake.

No, what keeps him awake– foremost in the frantic racing of his thoughts– is a faint but unmistakable siren’s call emanating from the top drawer of his bedside table.

He must lay there, curled on his side and staring at it for an hour before he finally caves, huffing a soft sigh into the hollow silent air of his apartment. He can’t remember the last time he’d opened this drawer, so it comes as no surprise that it releases a long whine as it rolls open.

Nestled inside is an iPhone. 

Black and glossy and wholly untouched.  When he picks it up, his fingerprints mar its impeccable screen in pale smudges.  It had been the brand new model when Seokjin bought it for him two years ago– a pointless purchase really, his manager should have known he’d never be able to convince Jeongguk to use it.  It’s probably close to obsolete by now. 

That’s okay.

It doesn’t have to be state of the art for Jeongguk to open Spotify.

That is– once he manages to open the phone.

He frowns at it a little, running his fingers along its edges in search of a button, kind of wishing he’d paid more attention when Seokjin was around. Seokjin’s always on his phone.

He tilts the screen upwards a little, towards his face and it lights up, some notification about ‘face identification’ blinking up and vanishing just as fast. The phone unlocks.

Okay , Jeongguk thinks, this isn’t so bad.

He locates the green icon for Spotify, clicking it open and blinks– a little overwhelmed at all the options unfurling across the screen. 

Search bar. 

He needs to find a search bar and… there it is– along the bottom of the screen. A magnifying glass. That seems right.

He clicks the little icon, brow furrowed as he carefully passes his fingers across the keyboard.

J 

I 

M 

I 

N

Jeongguk hits enter.

And then he laughs a little, because of course. 

How ironic.

Once again, it’s like the universe is mocking him. He recognizes the first search result. He recognizes that album cover– its tasteful design, the pale curls of script across its cover, the chocolate gleam of fur– of that brown rabbit curled in on itself.

It’s only been a week since he saw it, projected across the half pixelated screen of that convenience store television.

He clicks on the album cover before it can linger on the screen for too long, before it can jeer at him much more and then his eyes skip greedily over a tracklist.

1) Like Crazy

2) Those Eyes

3) The One That Exists In My Memories

4) In A Lonely Place

5) Don’t (feat. RM)

6) The End Of The World

Jeongguk’s finger hovers over the little triangle button that says “play.”

It dips towards the screen for a moment, pausing so so close, before the furrow in his brow deepens.

He clicks the phone off and tosses it back into its drawer, which squeaks again, when he forces it closed– like an angry mouse or something. 

Jeongguk rolls onto his back.

He doesn’t sleep that night.

-

It’s Jimin's first day on set, and already he would rather be anywhere else.

Hoseok shoots him a worried glance as he passes his manager on the way back to his dressing room, and that’s how he knows that his exhaustion must be apparent.

He didn’t get much sleep last night, and now he stands, stock still in the middle of a too-bright room as one of Jeongguk’s seamstresses attempts to wrangle the second design of the shoot onto him, with huffed breaths of annoyance everytime something goes wrong. (Which is often.)

“Aish…” she mutters, and Jimin can hear the edge of frustration in her voice.

Maybe– maybe he should try. Hoseok would tell him he should, with one of those bright smiles that somehow never fail to make him feel a bit lighter– buoyant even. Hoseok would chirp something about making friends, and for once, Jimin figures, he’ll take his manager’s advice.

“What is it?” he asks, softly, and she looks at him with surprise– like she wasn’t expecting him to speak at all. 

He smiles a little, bites back the ‘I’m not a mannequin, you know,’ dancing on the tip of his tongue.

She’s a young woman– perhaps even younger than him– with messy bleached hair and a thorny tattoo curling around her neck and Jimin likes her already. That’s something he’s noticed about all this– the way every person that Jeongguk works with seems to be so easy to like.

“It’s just the drape,” she answers, frowning, “I can’t get it right. I might have to ask Jeongguk-ssi to come do it.”

And that wipes the smile off of Jimin’s face.

“Oh.”

He hasn’t seen much of the younger man today, apart from a curt greeting at the beginning of the shoot, and the occasional burn of dark eyes over the back of his neck– and he can’t say that he’s eager to be in close quarters with him like this.

By like this– Jimin means half naked.

He wears simple dark trousers already, but the shirt that’s been designed for this look is a simple strip of gauzy fabric, requiring seven small opal tipped pins to be formed– draped– together into something resembling a tunic, and he’s been standing shirtless as the seamstress tuts over him for about fifteen minutes know, goosebumps rising across his flesh.

Another annoyed sigh.

“You know what?” the seamstress murmurs, “I’ll just go get him real quick– you stay right there.”

“Right,” Jimin whispers, but she’s already gone, the door to the dressing room closing with a light click.

Well.

This should be interesting.

He only waits for about three minutes before the door opens again. He’s facing away from it– staying “ right here” as the seamstress has ordered–  but he feels the warmth of Jeongguk’s eyes over his bare back all the same.

Jimin’s mouth goes dry.

Footsteps pad across the room and the air behind him shifts as Jeongguk lifts the fabric for the shirt off of its rack.

“Pin, please.”

A beat of stillness, during which the seamstress must be passing him one of the jewel tipped pins, and then warm fingertips brush over the sensitive skin of Jimin’s shoulder.

He can’t help it. 

A shiver rushes down his spine, and when the warm press of Jeongguk’s hand stills against him, he knows the younger man noticed. There’s a short intake of breath from behind him, quiet but sharp, and then Jeongguk’s hand continues its path over his shoulder, dragging the fabric with it.

Jimin fights back another shiver.

Jeongguk works quickly, asking the seamstress (Jimin learns her name is Nari) for pins with a soft voice, and soon he’s stepping forwards, finally in front of Jimin, to fasten the last two pins into the shirt.

He refuses to meet Jimin’s gaze– something that Jimin is almost grateful for at the moment.

It gives Jimin the opportunity to study Jeongguk instead. His eyes are downturned, that familiar gentle furrow sits between his brows and if it were back then, Jimin would reach out and press it away with his fingertips.

The urge is still there– stewing listlessly in his fingertips.

To reach. To touch. To soothe.

But it’s not back then, so he just stands still and observes, doing his best to ignore the tendril of heat that coils tighter inside him every time Jeongguk’s skin brushes against his.

Jimin isn’t the only one affected by their proximity, though.

It takes him a moment to realize it, but when Jeongguk shifts to insert the final pin, he steps out of Jimin’s shadow, and the new lighting allows a faint glaze of a rosy blush across his cheeks to become apparent.

Cute.

The word is on the tip of his tongue. If it were back then, Jimin would let it fall and watch that pink across Jeongguk’s face darken even more. Instead he just averts his gaze as Jeongguk places the final pin and straightens, running a critical eye over his handiwork.

“Let me know if it causes you any more problems,” he tells Nari, voice soft.

“Of course,” she answers.

And then, just like that, he’s gone.

Jimin’s shoulders slouch a little, and even he can’t decide whether it’s out of relief or disappointment.

-

“Stunning!”

Of course.

“Perfect! Perfect! Hold it right there!”

Jeongguk fights the urge to slouch down in his chair– to melt into a little puddle and just disappear because of course.

“Yes! Beautiful!”

Of course Jimin is stunning and flawless and perfect and of course each impressed shout from the photographer is accompanied by a smug grin directed his way from Seokjin– a little smirk that seems to say ‘ see? I told you so.’

So, of course.

Of course Jimin flows like water across the set, of course Jeongguk’s designs drape too-perfectly across the svelte dancers musculature of his arms, of course all the trousers are tailored perfectly to the supple ripple of his thighs, of course his eyes are bonfire bright and elegantly glittering, of course the glass sharp cut of his jaw is highlighted just so by the harsh photography lights, of course that strand of honeyed hair falls over his brow so impeccably by accident.

“Chin down a little… Excellent!”

Jimin smolders at the camera, chin tilted down, lips quirked into a barely perceptible– yet undeniably suggestive– smirk and Jeongguk shifts in his seat, throat a little dry, trying not to imagine the luxuriated flutter of Jimin’s bared abdomen– all golden skin and black ink– warm and soft under his own palms.

No.

That’s not the way to go about this.

Not after everything.

The wise thing for Jeongguk to do would be to go back to the sketches in his lap. To only look up when someone approaches him with a question, or when Seokjin demands his intention so insistently that the older man's face turns that unique shade of red.

Jeongguk isn’t feeling very wise.

Can you blame him? He’s an artist. Artists are always drawn to beautiful things, and Jimin– Jimin is the most beautiful thing Jeongguk has ever seen. 

He always has been.

“Just like that!”

Jimin twists gracefully, bare torso contorting in an elegant line. His hair shifts, falling softly over his brow as he lets his head fall back– exposing the long line of his throat, plush lips falling open just a bit.

Jeongguk swallows.

His fingers twitch a little– itching to snatch up his pencil and draw– draw Jimin, just like he used to– but before he can finally cave to the impulse, the shoot for the current design wraps up and Jimin disappears into his dressing room. Jeongguk is granted a breath of fresh air, a brief reprieve from the suffocating intensity of the older man’s presence.

The time it takes to switch designs out is both too long and not long enough– and also entirely inconsequential when Jimin emerges from the dressing room. Jeongguk’s breath catches in his chest.

He made these designs– painstakingly sketched each one out over the course of weeks and months. Picked out the materials, the fabrics, the textures and the patterns– established the themes. He did all of it, slaved over it for countless sleepless nights and dreary days, and yet nothing can prepare him for the way his designs look on Jimin.

Or perhaps– more accurately– the way Jimin looks in his designs.

Ethereal. Otherworldly. Like a dream.

Jeongguk wishes this was a dream– wishes Jimin were a dream. 

If he were a dream, Jeongguk might have the courage to confront Jimin. The courage to ask him for the answers to all those questions he’s carried like scars for all these years. 

He’s so enraptured by Jimin’s silky grace– by the golden jut of his collarbones in the low cut blouse of this particular design– by the way even his fingers curl and clench as he shifts between poses– that he almost misses Yoongi’s approach entirely.

It’s only the faint huff of a familiar sigh that alerts him to the older man's presence, and a moment later the air shifts at his side as Yoongi comes to a stop. There’s a beat of silence during which Jeongguk does his best to not appear entirely enamored by Jimin, and then–

“Ah, he’s even better than I expected.”

Jeongguk hums a little acknowledgement.

He is.

“I guess hyung was right, huh?” Yoongi teases, voice gravelly.

Jeongguk snorts a little, tearing his attention away from the shoot to give Yoongi a deadpan stare. He receives the brief flash of a gummy smile in return. A hand ruffles his hair, and despite his feigned irritation, Jeongguk leans into it, eyes fluttering closed.

Someone clears their throat– pointedly– and Jeonngguk straightens again, both he and Yoongi turning to the sound.

Jimin stands behind them, still dressed in the most recent of Jeongguk’s designs. The shoot must’ve just wrapped. His hair is swept back off of his face like a lion's mane, and his narrow eyes linger on Jeongguk’s shoulder, where Yoongi’s hand now rests.

But only for a moment.

“Min Yoongi?” he asks.

Jeongguk leans back in his chair as Yoongi steps forward, frowning a little when the older man’s hand falls from his shoulder.

“I’ve heard a lot about you from Namjoon.”

“Likewise.”

Jeongguk is a little surprised at how strained the atmosphere between the two is, especially considering the fact that he’s almost certain that they’ve never met– but then Jimin’s eyes flick over his shoulder and light up in an almost excited flicker.

“Hyung!”

He waves a hand in the air.

“Over here!”

Jeongguk turns, scanning the room for whoever Jimin is calling and–

Oh.

There’s a man approaching. 

He’s tall– probably close to six feet– with dark hair shorn close to his head, honey golden skin and– and dimples .

Because now he’s finally caught sight of Jimin where he stands with Jeongguk and Yoongi, and a smile stretches across the newcomers face and he has fucking dimples and Jimin is smiling back at him and Jeongguk feels an inappropriate burst of something that seems a bit to similar to jealousy for his comfort.

He wants Jimin to smile at him like that, not some six foot tall Adonis with dimples.

And now Yoongi’s smiling at the newcomer too, and that’s how Jeongguk realizes who the man must be, just as Yoongi greets him.

“Ah it’s good to see you, Joon-ah. It’s been too long.”

“It has,” says Kim Namjoon, because that’s who this is.

His voice is even deeper than Taehyung’s.

“Have you met Jeongguk yet?” Yoongi asks, and Jeongguk fights the urge to just disappear as those sharp eyes turn in his direction. 

When they land on him, however, there’s nothing but warmth, and Jeongguk finds himself involuntarily relaxing.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Namjoon says, “I’m Kim Namjoon.”

A smile. 

Dimples.

“I know,” Jeongguk manages quietly.

There’s a beat of awkward silence.

“It’s nice to meet you, too.”

Namjoon doesn’t seem offended by Jeongguk’s inelegance, and the younger can’t help but feel grateful for that. It can get tiring– watching discomfort and surprise bloom on the faces of those that meet him and consequently learn that he’s far less socially capable than they ever could have anticipated.

Yoongi’s hand finds its way back to Jeongguk’s shoulder, and he straightens a little, bolstered by the older man’s presence– Yoongi’s always had that effect on him. The two producers are already engaged in conversation, so instead of trying to say anything else, Jeongguk just leans forward and listens.

It’s better this way. And he likes to listen– likes to learn– likes to do the things that allow him to be present in a conversation without having to force words and incoherent fragments of thoughts to come stumbling out of his mouth. He’s always been interested in how Yoongi makes his art, and despite never having tried it himself, he’s spent enough time in the older producer’s studio to have a solid grasp of all of the necessary terms– so the conversation that Namjoon and Yoongi have fallen into is captivating enough to draw his attention.

He’s so distracted by their discussion that he misses the way Jimin’s eyes find their way– once more– to where Yoongi’s long fingered hand rests on his shoulder. 

He misses the downward twist of those pretty lips that accompanies the sight. 

-

Cold is a word that Jimin once could’ve never imagined associating with Jeongguk, but these days, it’s the only description that comes to mind.

Cold.

Cold as the December day that Jimin had left– and brought this all upon them

And Jimin goes along with it— the cold act (because it is an act– he knows Jeongguk well enough to know that, at least.) The silent treatment. The averted eyes and general lack of any real acknowledgement. 

He’s a little too scared not to. 

And well… he does deserve it doesn’t he? 

Still, Jimin wonders how long they can keep this up. How long the two of them can dance about each other without a nod of acknowledgment, even when forced into such close quarters by circumstance. 

Because it’s not easy. 

It’s not easy at all. Seeing the way any hint of a smile slides off of Jeongguk’s face when he walks into the room. It’s not easy watching him lean into Yoongi’s pianist hands in the same way that he used to gravitate towards Jimin’s own. It’s not easy the way the younger man seems to hardly be able to bear even looking at him, much less speaking to him. It’s even worse when he does catch Jeongguk glancing his way, even harder to see the deep seated hurt, the pain, clouding those doe eyes and to know that he’s the cause of it. 

An ache begins to build up in his chest. 

It’s only been a week on set, a week of the weight of Jeongguk’s gaze grazing across his skin as he models, a week of silent adjustments to the designs, a week of Nari (who Jimin learns is capable of holding conversations on three topics: her girlfriend, gossip, and how great working for Jeongguk is) and her almost incessant stream of consciousness, a week of harsh lights and sweet smelling cosmetics. A week, but Jimin’s heart throbs inside his ribs, shuddering and shriveling each time Jeongguk spares him an overly formal nod or adds that repulsive “ -ssi” to the end of his address.

He had hoped that the tension in the air would lessen the longer they worked together. That the thrumming of things unsaid and gazes lingering too long would fade into the drudgery of routine.

Instead, with each day that passes, the tension compounds.

It accumulates like drifts of snow in late winter, crescendos until Jimin can barely look at Jeongguk without feeling as if an entire orchestra is rehearsing inside his skull, and then– finally – it erupts.

Jimin is slouched in his chair, half watching his makeup artist begin to style his hair.

He kind of wonders why it is necessary, considering that Jieun has promised that no cameras will be present in her studio during the interview that they are doing today, but he doesn’t bother complaining. 

In fact, the gentle massage of her fingers against his scalp is so soothing, that he’s half dozing when Seokjin enters the dressing room behind him, the older man’s sharply furrowed brows catching his attention.  

His eyes follow Jeongguk’s manager in the mirror as he approaches Hoseok, saying something quietly, with a frown.

Jimin can’t remember the last time he saw Seokjin frown. Apart from that first day, actually, when Jeongguk been so–

Jimin jerks his headphones out of his ears in an instant, a little niggle of worry rising from his subconscious as Seokjin gesticulates– tossing his hand in the direction of Jeongguk’s dressing room. 

He spins in his chair, standing with an apologetic smile at the startled makeup artist, who blushes bright red at his attention, and makes his way to Hoseok's side, acknowledging Seokjin with a short nod.

“What’s going on, hyung?”

Hoseok glances shortly towards Seokjin, who’s in the process of taking a glance back in the direction of Jeongguk’s dressing room.

“It’s, well–” Hoseok appears to be searching for an explanation, but that little alarm blinking in Jimin’s head doesn’t want to wait for him to find it.

“Seokjin-ssi.” The firmness in his voice is a little surprising, even to him.

Seokjin tears his attention away from Jeongguk’s closed dressing room door, reading the question in Jimin’s face.

He sighs once, scrubbing a hand across his face.

“Jeongguk– well– I don’t know if you’ve noticed by now, but he–” Seokjin pauses.

“He doesn’t take well to new environments, sometimes.”

Jimin knows.

“He gets stressed, and sometimes it’s bad enough to shut him down for a bit.”

Jimin looks at the dressing room.

“He’s in there?”

Seokjin nods.

“Alone?”

Jimin knows his concern is apparent– that his alarm at the thought of Jeongguk having an attack, now, alone, is audible– but he can’t bring himself to care whether or not Hoseok and Seokjin find it odd that he would care so much.

“He says it’s harder to manage with someone else in the room,” Seokjin explains, clearly just as unhappy about it as Jimin is, “and that no one knows what to do when he gets like this anyways.”

That’s a lie.

That’s a lie because Jimin knows what to do, but it’s also not a lie, because Jimin left him.

Jimin’s been gone for a long time.

He doesn’t want to think of how many panic attacks Jeongguk has weathered in the years since he abandoned him, so he focuses instead on the now. He focuses on the part that matters, which is that he does know what to do.

Jimin knows what to do.

Jimin has done it what feels like a hundred times now.

“Let me talk to him.”

Seokjin blinks in surprise, but Jimin holds his gaze steadily– with complete certainty– and he concedes with a nod.

“Jimin, is that–” Hoseok starts.

“Trust me, hyung.”

Jimin’s already inching towards the dressing room, a little anxious, but mostly worried. He’s seen how Jeongguk can get during these episodes, and it’s not pretty. It could be even worse if he’s alone, though Jimin suspects that he’d only told Seokjin that having other people around makes it worse because he didn’t want his manager to know how bad it actually was.

Hoseok sighs in defeat, looking towards Seokjin.

“Jimin.”

Jimin pauses, meeting Seokjin's stare.

“If he doesn’t want you in there, you leave.”

Seokjin’s words are half the reason that Jimin takes a moment in front of Jeongguk’s dressing room to ask himself if this is a good idea. 

No, he decides, it’s probably not.

Then he pushes the door open and steps through, making sure to shut and lock it behind him. 

Click.

When Jimin turns back to face the room, he finds Jeongguk immediately.

The younger man is crouched against the opposite wall, eyes wet, shoulders heaving, and everything about this moment is discolored by an odd sense of deja vu, because this is how he’d found Jeongguk, that very first time.  

At the beginning of everything.

So long ago now. On the chilled tile floor of the bathroom in the heat of a Busan summer.

Another choked breath rattles its way from Jeongguk’s lungs, but the thing is, now that Jimin is closer, he can see the golden glint of metal clasped in Jeongguk’s white knuckled hands. He still doesn’t believe it for a moment, but then Jeongguk’s brow furrows sharper, and he attempts to get it to work, fingers clumsy and stumbling.

It’s a lighter– but not just any lighter. 

The lighter. 

Jimin’s lighter.

Jeongguk has had it this entire time. Jimin thinks of all the times in the past weeks where he’s caught Jeongguk with a hand tucked inside the pocket of his jacket, fidgeting with something and a pit opens in his stomach. 

He can’t dwell on it, though, because that’s not what he’s here to do.

Jeongguk hasn’t even noticed him yet, still enveloped in his own panicked world, blinded by the half stutters of his lungs, and that’s how Jimin knows that this is a bad one. Back– back then , Jeongguk was fairly lucid most of the time, but occasionally, he’d have a bad one, get really anxious, and when that happened, he almost never noticed that Jimin was there at first.

Just like he used to, Jimin begins by crouching slowly in front of the younger man, putting them on the same level. Now that he’s closer, he realizes that Jeongguk hasn’t been able to light the lighter because his hands are shaking too badly, fingers wracked with tremors.

He reaches out slowly, gently– giving Jeongguk enough time to register his presence and the motion of his hand– even through the haze of anxiety– and wraps his fingers lightly over Jeongguk’s, never taking his eyes off his face.

Jeongguk blinks slowly down at where Jimin’s hands touch his, before tilting his head back against the wall. His breath still comes too quickly– fluttering on the verge of hyperventilation–  and his eyes are glassy wet when they meet Jimin’s.

“Hyung.”

The word is choked, almost imperceptible, and it cuts through Jimin like a knife. He tries to smile a little, reassuringly, tries not to think about how Jeongguk will regret this as soon as he’s coherent, will go back to addressing him so formally and not meeting his gaze. Tries not to think about how he won’t blame the younger man one bit for it. 

“Hey Gukkie,” he murmurs.

Jeongguk takes another sharp breath– too sharp– it catches in his throat and he panics, eyes shifting.

“Come on, look at me,” Jimin waits for him to manage a breath, waits for those eyes to refocus, before he raises their intertwined hands up, the lighter a golden gleam. Jeongguk has taken good care of it and the metal is glossy enough that Jimin can see his own face reflected in it, the way his brows are furrowed.

He flicks it open and it sparks to life.

“Breathe in.”

Jeongguk does, flames dancing in his eyes.

Jimin guides Jeongguk’s fingers to snap it closed, noting that the shaking has lessened.

“Breathe out.”

The soft puff of his sigh caresses Jimin’s cheeks.

“Breathe in.”

Golden glow.

“Out.”

The snick of metal clicking closed.

“In.”

A short inhalation– less choppy, less frantic than it had been before.

“Out.”

Jeongguk’s hands grow steady enough to flick the lighter himself, but still, Jimin can’t bring himself to let go. Instead, he just crouches before the other man– thighs burning– eyes fixed on their interwoven fingers as the ragged rasp of harried breaths clouding the room begins to level out into a steady lull.

Jeongguk’s hands are large but elegant. 

If you asked Jimin what artist hands look like, he’d say that they looked like this. Small calluses capping the first joint of the middle finger, decorated with spills of black ink tattoos, steady and agile now that Jeongguk’s breathing has returned to normal.

Jeongguk’s breathing has returned to normal.

Jimin doesn’t want to, but he looks up anyway.

If this were a movie, Jimin thinks, this might be the part where one of them leans forward, but this isn’t a movie.

Still, there’s barely inches between them– between Jimin and those big black eyes with long tangled lashes, the softly furrowed brows above them– and Jimin doesn’t know what he was expecting to see in them– perhaps those frigid towering walls, that facade of indifference– but whatever he’s expecting– it’s not for them to flick down to his lips for a split second, before making their way back up to his eyes. 

When Jeongguk’s eyes finally meet Jimin’s, the entire world screeches to a halt for a split second. The voices seeping through the crack under the door fade into a distant hum, the strained flare of sore muscle in Jimin’s thighs dissipates into mild discomfort– unworthy of acknowledgement– but how could anything be worthy of acknowledgement when Jeongguk is right in front of him like this?

Nothing else matters.

Just like nothing else mattered back then– on that rooftop in Busan in the spring downpour.

“Jeongguk,” he whispers, almost reverentially– because he doesn't know how to say anything else– and Jeongguk’s lips part– as if he’s about to respond. Jimin wants him to say something–to say anything– to acknowledge him– because in this moment, with Jeongguk watching him wide eyed and vulnerable– Jimin is almost certain that anything that comes out of the younger man’s mouth might absolve him–

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

Jimin wobbles in his crouch, head whipping towards the door as Seokjin's voice breaks through the spell it seems that Jeongguk has cast over him.

“Is everything all right in there?”

“Everythings fine, hyung!” Jeongguk yells from behind Jimin. His voice sounds steady now and Jimin doesn’t want to turn back around. 

He knows what he will see when he does, and maybe he’s a masochist, because he turns anyway, straightening from his crouch.

Jeongguk is standing now too, fastening the last buttons on up to the collar of his dress shirt. He must’ve undone them in the midst of his anxiety attack, in an attempt to breathe a little better in this claustrophobic, sterile room. He glances in Jimin's direction, once, as if he senses Jimin's attention, and Jimin gets a glimpse of big black eyes, before the younger man looks away just as quickly.

Jimin’s mouth falls open.

He wants to say something– he really does– in fact he’s on the verge of speaking, but he also doesn’t know if he’ll be able to listen to another too formal murmur of ‘ Jimin-ssi’ right now without something inside him cracking in half. He turns and leaves instead, brushing past a worried Seokjin hovering outside the door without a word.

Even minutes later, slouched once more in his chair as the stylist combs sweet scented gel through his hair, the ghost of a whispered word drifts listlessly in his ears– Jeongguk’s voice saying ‘hyung’ over and over and over again.

-

Jieun is a small woman, with an oval face and long black hair. Despite her diminutive stature, she commands the room with ease, accompanied by an aura far larger than her physical bounds.

The first thing she says, as she takes her seat across from the couch that Jeongguk is sharing with Jimin is: “It’s so nice to see you again, Jimin-ssi.”

Jimin nods smoothly in return and, for a moment, Jeongguk blinks in surprise. Then he hazily recalls Seokjin mentioning something about Jimin having already worked with this particular reporter. 

He hopes that means that she’s good.

He hopes that means that she won’t ask for more than he can offer.

In the pocket of his blazer, his fingers dance across the gilded lines of the lighter, but now when he fiddles with it, all he can see is Jimin crouched before him in the dressing room, face inches from his, svelte dark chocolate eyes swirling with worry, plush lips pursed.

Jeongguk drops the lighter like it’s hot– like the lack of physical contact with it will wipe the memory of Jimin's concerned face from his mind.

It doesn’t, of course.

“ –right, Jeongguk-ssi?”

Jeongguk startles, watching as Jieun leans forward a little at her desk expectantly.

It’s obvious that she’s asked him a question but he’d been too caught up– too distracted to hear it. His mouth goes dry.

“I– um… could you repeat the question, please?”

He winces at the waver in his voice, drying his clammy palms over his trousers.

Jieun smiles a little, and there’s no malice to it. It’s almost sympathetic, as if she’s not surprised that he’s nervous, that his hands are trembling a little, that his head feels a little light.

“I was wondering if I was right in assuming that it was your side that reached out to Jimin-ssi regarding this collaboration?”

“Ah, um,” Jeongguk swallows around the lump in his throat, “that’s right. Um, my– my manager talked to Kim Taehyung-ssi in hopes that he could help, and he recommended Jimin-ssi to us.”

Jieun nods along as he speaks, and it’s a kind gesture, but it really does nothing to ease his discomfort.

She turns to Jimin. “And how was the beginning of this collaboration from your side?”

“Well,” Jimin smiles, and Jeongguk thinks that it really is a shame there’s no cameras here, because it’s the sort of smile that would have teenagers swooning and ajummas tittering all across Korea. 

“It came as a bit of a surprise at first. My label decided that seeking some diversity in my endeavors may be beneficial, and then a mutual friend recommended this job. Everyone has been very accommodating, though,” his eyes flick to Jeongguk’s for a split second, “perhaps even more that I deserve at times.”

Jeongguk looks away. 

He doesn’t want to think about what Jimin means by that– what Jimin might have just acknowledged.

“I see,” Jieun gives a little chuckle at Jimin’s self-deprecation, before taking a short glance at her notes.

“Now, Jeongguk-ssi was able to provide me with some of the initial images for the collection,” she displays an array of photographs across her desk, “and I just wanted to say that these pieces are incredible. You too, Jimin-ssi, it’s as if they were made for you.”

Jeongguk spine stiffens.

Too close– too accurate.

He sneaks a glimpse at Jimin from the corner of his eye, and for a moment, the older man almost appears to be almost stricken, before his face relaxes back into that smooth smile. 

“That’s… very kind of you, Jieun-ssi.”

Jeongguk is certain that Jimin must already be at least partially aware of what this installation is about– he must’ve recognized the twining cigarette smoke motif, the gleam of rabbit's fur, even that sliver of his own silhouette embroidered against the sea of Busan– but still, that flicker of surprise across his face– Jeongguk hadn’t imagined that. 

“And Jeongguk-ssi, do you have anything to say about Jimin-ssi’s contributions to the installation?”

Jeongguk swallows around the painful lump clogging his throat. 

He could lie, if he wanted. He could defer and demur, smile and agree, but for some reason he feels compelled to shift his gaze a little to his left, back to Jimin who’s watching him with a carefully neutral expression.

“I don’t think that there is anyone that would be better suited to these designs than Jimin-ssi.”

It’s far closer to the truth than anyone besides the two of them would ever begin to comprehend, and Jeongguk isn’t sure why he said it– why he admitted to it– but he did, and there’s no taking it back now.

Jimin blinks.

“Ah! High praise from the artist! Congratulations, Jimin-ssi!”

Jieun’s voice fades into a buzz behind Jeongguks’ ears as Jimin turns his attention back to the reporter, with that too charming grin once again plastered across his face. He says something else– something Jeongguk can’t hear– but he’s sure it's a perfect reply to whatever point she’s raised.

It’s like Jimin was made for this.

Made to be a star– even back in Busan, glimpses of it peeked through– Jeongguk should’ve noticed them sooner. They were always there– in the unconscious grace of his movement, in the smoked honey of his voice as he hummed under his breath, in the way anyone near would turn towards him as he laughed that bright, ringing laugh.

He belongs here.

In the spotlight.

Maybe– Jeongguk starts to think– maybe it’s a good thing that Jimin left.

He’s right where he belongs now. And maybe– maybe if he had stayed, he wouldn’t be. Maybe Jeongguk would’ve held him back or maybe he would have held himself back for Jeongguk. Maybe they would be living in some little apartment in Busan, working dreary day jobs and coming home to a cold apartment until Jimin began to resent Jeongguk for it all– for being so needy and helpless and by the end of it all they would crumble apart all the same.

Maybe– maybe it would be easier to believe it would’ve gone like that had Jimin remained, but a little voice in the back of the head still insists that it wouldn’t have been.

It’s the recognizable weight of Jimin’s attention coming to rest on him that draws him out of his thoughts this time, and he blinks back at the older man in confusion for a moment, before turning to Jieun.

“I- I’m sorry, I missed that.”

She smiles that sympathetic smile again– the one that Jeongguk can appreciate but does nothing to ease his distress.

That’s what he feels now.

Not nerves, or awkwardness, or discomfort.

Distress.

Distress, quickly snowballing into something more. Something worse.

Calm down, he tells himself. Calm the fuck down. You already had your breakdown for the day, you don’t have another.

He curls his fingers together in his lap, tightly intertwined and mottled bloodless white.

Jieun is speaking again, asking the question again, and Jeongguk does his best to listen, despite the fact that her voice only becomes audible halfway through.

“ – seems unique in comparison to your past works, would you care to elaborate?”

He furrows his brow, turning over the half of the question that he managed to retain in his head. She must be asking what makes this collection– Jimin’s collection– so tonally different from the installations that Yoongi and Taehyung had modeled.

It’s a simple question, and there’s a simple answer that Jeongguk could give, but he’s not sure that would be a good idea. Instead he stumbles through a reply about introspection and personal touch, stuttering until Jieun nods softly with a simple: “I see.”

Jimin owns the interview after that point– something Jeongguk is both grateful for and in awe of. It’s not lost on him how effortlessly the older man will insert himself into the discussion when Jeongguk begins to stutter or flail. It’s also not lost on him how sharp Jieun’s eyes are, how they narrow a bit each time Jimin’s gaze comes to rest on Jeongguk, each time he swoops in to save Jeongguk from his own dysfunctional tongue. 

He tries to ignore it. He does that a lot these days. Try to ignore things.

Even more than he used to before– back when Jimin was just a painful memory.

And now, sitting on this couch, the ghost of Jimin’s warmth lingering in the air only inches to his left, the ghost of Jimin’s voice lingering in his head from only hours earlier– it’s impossible.

Jeongguk barely notices when the interview wraps up, only wrenched back into the present by Jin's hand coming to rest on his shoulder. He blinks up at his manager, barely registering Jimin and Jieun having a far less formal conversation over the older man's shoulder.

“You good, Guk?”

No.

Jeongguk nods a little.

He can tell Seokjin doesn’t really buy it, but he also knows that Seokjin won’t push the topic. Not right now at least.

“Hoseok wants to know if you’re up to a meal in celebration. Yoongi and Jimin's producer are coming too.”

And Jimin of course– but the obvious always goes unsaid.

Jeongguk allows his attention to stray again, eyes sweeping the room until he finds Jimin’s manager. Hoseok is leaned against a wall, headphones in a brow furrowed as the light of his phone screen illuminates his face.

Jeongguk likes Hoseok. 

He likes him a lot. He likes the way he laughs at everything– half giddy with delight, hands clapping like a seal. He likes the way his entire face sharpens when he monitors for Jimin’s shoots– eyes bright and focused. He likes the way the older man hasn’t shown any surprise or dismay at his own reluctance to speak at times– simply settling down into a chair near him and humming away to himself.

“Okay,” Jeongguk says.

“That sounds okay.”

Seokjin smiles down at him, mussing his hair, and Jeongguk moves his head away with a half-hearted glare.

“Alright,” Seokjin says. “Good. Go shower– I know you want to.”

Jeongguk does– he loathes the heavy set of gel in his hair, the layer of cosmetics suffocating his skin– and he’ll feel much better with it gone.

Seokjin knows him too well by now.

He finally stands, knees a little shaky.  He watches Jieun and Jimin part ways with a hug from across the room. They seem more familiar than he had first assumed, but Jimin has also always had a way of making strangers feel comfortable, so he can’t judge for sure. He doesn’t try.

Instead, Jeongguk turns to go find the showers.

-

They’ve only been seated at the restaurant for a quarter of an hour but Taehyung has already fallen prey to the easy flowing soju. Now, he’s draped over Jimin’s shoulder, babbling ceaselessly in his ear.

If it was anyone else, Jimin might be annoyed, but it’s Taehyung, and he’s convinced it’s humanly impossible for one to feel any even annoyance-adjacent emotion when it comes to the model. And he’s a good distraction from Jeongguk, who’s tucked quietly into the corner diagonal from Jimin, slowly nodding along as Yoongi talks about something.

The older rapper gesticulates with slender fingers, and the restaurant lights bounce off the sway of Jeongguk’s earrings as his head dips in agreement. 

“And you– you’re from Busan, right Min?”

Jimin tears his attention away from the younger man, humming an aimless affirmation. Taehyung doesn’t seem to mind that he’s only half invested in the conversation.

“Good!” Taehyung's voice rises a little, carrying, and Jimin can vaguely tell that Yoongi has gone silent in favor of listening in on Taehyung's tipsy rambling.

“This collection is based on Busan, right Guk?”

Jimin stiffens a little, eyes skipping back across the table to where Jeongguk doesn’t even try to conceal that he’s been listening in on their conversation. He just meets Jimin's eyes with an unreadable face.

“Yeah,” he replies, voice a little flat, “it is.”

It’s about a little more than just Busan and they both know it.

“Wah! What a coincidence!” Taehyung chirps.

Jimin side-eyes his friend, a sudden spark of suspicion flaring somewhere under the faint fuzz of peach soju slowly but persistently flooding his skull .

Taehyung may play at being nothing more than a pretty face, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Jimin is almost certain that the model has picked up on the awkwardness between him and Jeongguk by now– hell– Taehyung probably realized something was off on the very first day.

Even half drunk on soju, Taehyung isn’t the sort to speak without purpose.

As if sensing Jimin’s scrutinization, the model tilts his head a little more, resting himself against Jimin’s shoulder so that their gazes connect.

“What?”

He widens his eyes curiously– innocently.

Jimin just shakes his head, turning back to his japchae.

He’ll know what Taehyung is up to– if it’s anything at all outside of harmless teasing– when Taehyung wants him to know, and not a moment earlier.  

But still, Jeongguk’s answer– and the dullness behind the younger man’s eyes as he’d uttered it–  linger in Jimin’s head. He turns his attention back to the conversation at hand and tries not to think about it– tries not to think about him at all.

It’s impossible of course.

Not with the way his eyes keep dragging back across the table, tugged by some inexplicable force until they rest on the rounded curve of Jeongguk’s nose, the shine of his hair– freshly washed and fluffily air dried, the way he chews incessantly on the end of one of his chopsticks, and the way it indents the plush of his bottom lip.

And really, of course Jimin is looking.

Of course he is.

After all those long, hollow years, Jeongguk is finally right here, right in front of him– eyes reflecting the red of the lanterns above the table, face gilded in topaz glow– Jimin could stare for a millennia and it wouldn’t ever be enough.

The realization sparks a sinking feeling in his gut.

It’s one thing to miss someone. To wake up everyday and feel a familiar little gap right next to your heart, to come home to your empty apartment and imagine what it would look like with that person there, to look at strangers pass and wonder.

But it’s another thing to see someone again– to see them and realize that you won’t ever be able to have them. Jimin could stare for a millennia and it wouldn’t ever be enough– but that doesn’t matter, because it’s not like he’ll have that opportunity in the first place.

Soju burns down his throat.

He should stop.

He should stop, but he doesn’t want to.

“Hyung, can you pass the banchan?”

Jimin mindlessly slides the little dish of radish kimchi across the table, still wondering whether or not that third shot of soju is something he can handle, or a step over the line– if tomorrow's hangover is worth tonight’s numbness.

Then he freezes, eyes going wide.

His vision trails down his arm, past his fingers wrapped over the dish of kimchi, up the chopsticks selecting choice slivers of radish, up the tattooed fingers, the muscular arm, to where Jeongguk contentedly picks about in the plate. 

The younger man narrows his eyes in frustration as a piece of kimchi slips out of the grip of his chopsticks, but instead of plucking it back up, he pauses, finally sensing something out of place.

His gaze flicks up and then Jimin watches him come to the exact same realization that Jimin himself had only seconds earlier.

Jeongguk had asked a hyung to pass the kimchi. Jimin had passed the kimchi. And both of them had gone about it in such a way that the fact that they’ve done it before is both blatant and undeniable.

Jimin withdraws his finger tips from the plate of kimchi as if he’s been burnt, reaching instead for the soju. He risks a glance about the table to find the majority of their company watching him and Jeongguk with surprised eyes.

Great.

Jimin tosses back his soju.

When he finally dares to glance back at the rest of them, Jeongguk is back to staring at his food, not making eye contact with anyone.

He quickly follows suit.

“Alright!” Hoseok's voice is suffused with artificial cheer, “sushi bar? Anyone?”

It’s not subtle at all– the way, one by one, their companions stand to leave– as if the awkward tension in the air around them is too much to bear. Even Taehyung– dauntless, oblivious Taehyung– slips to his feet with a mumble about spicy tuna, leaving a waft of amber perfume in his wake as he slides out of his seat.

Jimin almost wants to ask him to stay, but that would make him feel too much like a coward.

The last to retreat is Yoongi– Jimin catches the older rapper watching him sharply for a moment before he leans back in his chair, standing with a sigh to amble in the direction that the others had gone.  

Now they’re alone.

Him and Jeongguk, on opposite sides of a table laden with half full dishes, bathed in rosy lantern light.

Jimin had been hoping to avoid something like this, if he’s being honest. 

He’d been hoping to avoid it– but not because he actually didn’t want to be alone with Jeongguk. More because he’s not sure what he’d say if he were left alone with the younger man.

He should restrain himself. 

Stay silent and docile until the others inevitably return from the sushi bar that he watches them gather around across the restaurant. 

Jimin takes another shot of soju like it will distract him.

It doesn’t.

The glass lands back on the table with a solid click, coated in glints of condensation.

They claim that alcohol is liquid courage, and Jimin thinks he knows why as he finally plucks up the nerve to tilt his head towards the opposite side of the table.

“Busan, huh?”

Jimin can tell that Jeongguk knows exactly what he’s getting at. The younger man’s eyes harden and Jimin thinks that he won’t stay for long, not now that they’re alone– just the two of them.

“Busan is a beautiful place,” he says, brusquely, standing as expected. 

He peers down at Jimin with those big dark eyes, all fragile cold burn– black ice.

“It’s not my fault you're written all over it.”

Jeongguk’s turning to leave as Jimin reaches for his arm, hand thoughtlessly clasping around a wrist. The younger man pauses, startled, looking back over his shoulder, and for just a moment, he seems unguarded, and those eyes are wide and clear as a winter’s night sky.

“Tell me,” Jimin murmurs, “do I make Busan ugly or pretty?”

It’s an awkwardly phrased question, even to his own ears, but he doesn’t need to clarify his meaning.

That glimpse of his Jeongguk is gone, hidden back behind clouded eyes and a clenched jaw.

“Hurt, Jimin.”

Jeongguk shakes free of his grasp.

“You make Busan hurt.”

He leaves.

He leaves, but his words don’t.

They linger in his wake like a cold breeze, even as the others return from the sushi bar, plates stacked with sashimi and little green mounds of wasabi. Jimin mouths them out to himself, lips forming around syllables and they leave a bitter taste under his tongue. 

‘Hurt, Jimin. You make Busan hurt.’

He tries to wash it away with another glass of soju, but it won’t leave.

So he tries again.

Five minutes pass.

And then ten.

Yoongi and Namjoon are engaged in an animated conversation (probably about production, if Namjoon’s dangerously expansive hand gestures are any indication), while Hoseok, Seokjin, and Taehyung are caught up in giggles over some joke Jimin's not quite sure he’s even capable of following.

He looks down at the table, waxy wood dappled with crystalline condensation seeping off of the soju bottles and drags a finger through one of the puddles, water trailing out after his finger.

Fifteen minutes.

Jeongguk still hasn’t come back, so Jimin figures he didn’t just go to the bathroom or something.

Jeongguk still hasn’t come back, and suddenly Jimin feels the urge to go after him. (It’s not sudden really. Just suppressed until he truly couldn’t continue to ignore it.)

A sharp bark of laughter– Hoseok bowed over, hands clapping– from his left.

Namjoon, entirely enveloped in Yoongi’s words to his right.

They won’t miss him.

Jimin stands.

It’s easy to find Jeongguk once Jimin has left the dining area, almost as if he’s drawn to follow wherever Jeongguk goes.

The younger man is outside–silhouetted shoulders broad and leaning against a wall under the fabric canopy at the exit to the building. Sheets of gray rain fall before him, and as Jimin watches, he tilts his head down a little, shoulders hunched, and the bright flicker of a lighter illuminates his face.

Jimin is a little surprised by that, remembering all the times when Jeongguk had turned down the offers of Jimin's friends, with a nervous voice and white knuckled hands. 

Perhaps he can blame that surprise for what happens next– because he’s speaking before he even realizes it might not be a good idea– before he thinks that this– following Jeongguk– is treading on dangerous territory.

“Since when did you smoke?”

Jimin leans himself against the wall a few feet to Jeongguk’s right, grimacing as stray droplets from the deluge spatter against his shoes– as the chilled rain wet air seeps through his too thin blazer.

Jeongguk takes a drag, holding for a beat before letting it slip past petal pursed lips in a thin ribbon. He watches as Jimin lets out a little cough– the bitter cloud around the younger man itching at his own throat.

“Since when did you not?”

Touche.

Jimin looks away, watching the dappled surface of the puddles outside reflecting neon street signs for just a moment. He kind of feels like he’s gathering his courage, preparing for something.

Speaking to Jeongguk always feels this way, these days. No matter how short the conversation, Jimin measures each syllable on a creaky old scale in his head before he allows it past his lips, uncertain of which ones will be weighted enough to finally cause the younger man to snap.

It’s like walking on thin ice.

He’s so tired of it.

He looks back to Jeongguk, eyes tracing over his profile, across the curve of his nose, the fan of his lashes, the sharp gleam of metal in his brow and ears, all gilded in neon glow.

“Listen, Jeongguk, about back in there–”

“You really want to have this discussion right now?”

Jeongguk’s voice is quiet but he doesn’t spare Jimin a glance as he flicks the half ashen cigarette to the pavement, stubbing it out under his heel. It leaves a white smear, cold and chalky.

When he turns– as if he might go back inside– Jimin can’t help it. He takes a step to the side, blocking his way.

Jeongguk blinks down at him, and once again, Jimin realizes how tall he’s grown. 

He looks tired too– defeated. 

Jimin’s finally close enough to make out the faintest traces of dark circles under his eyes– they must have been covered with concealer by one of the makeup artists and the interview earlier– the way his lips are just barely chapped, the older scar indenting his cheek.

“When else do you want to have it?” Jimin asks, trying not to be overwhelmed at their proximity. And the fact that there’s probably a bit more soju than would be ideal surging through his bloodstream right now.

“Preferably never,” the younger man mumbles, but he returns to his former position, back against the wall, attention fixed on the sheeting night rain anyway.

“Well? What is it? What do you want?”

The words are clipped, harsh, but Jimin knows Jeongguk far too well to fall for that. That feigned disinterest, the impatience. 

It’s all a facade.

It’s all a facade, and Jimin almost hates that he knows it. Hates that he can see the way Jeongguk’s fingers twitch anxiously at his sides, the tentative tilt of his head, the breathy edge of something like hope in the sigh that follows his words.

This would be so much easier if Jeongguk actually hated him.

A piece of Jimin wants to address it– wants to reach out, to touch, caress, comfort– but he can’t. He knows he’s not allowed to do that. 

Not any more. 

A lump rises in his throat.

All he can do now is stand– separated by a too wide gulf of empty air– and talk. 

Answer. 

Jimin shouldn’t have tried to have this conversation while drunk. Jeongguk was right about that, at least, because the moment that Jeongguk finally allows for it– the moment the younger man finally agrees to listen– his mind goes perfectly and impeccably blank.

After a beat of silence, Jeongguk glances in his direction for just a second, quirking his pierced brow. Jimin still can’t manage a response, and he turns his attention back to the rain. 

A hint of motion catches Jimin’s attention from the corner of his eye and he follows it to where Jeongguk’s hand is tucked inside the loose pocket of his jeans, fidgeting with something.

Jimin knows what now, after today in Jeongguk’s dressing room. And when he stops to think of it, he lighter was the very beginning of this all. The first moment of their friendship.

Now the words come.

“I want to be your friend again,” he tries. 

It was the wrong thing to say. 

Jimin knows the minute the words pass his lips. Jeongguk's eyes– are already hardened and cold– but now they grow sad, grow angry, flashing as his head whips towards Jimin.

“My friend?” he scoffs. “Is that what we were, hyung? Friends ?”

They weren't.

Jimin knows they weren’t (they were so much more.)

Jimin knows they weren’t, but he also doesn’t know what else to say.

He tries anyway.

“I–”

“No!”

Jimin fights not to flinch at the pure unadulterated hurt in Jeongguk’s voice. The younger man’s eyes widen a little, as if he’s almost as surprised as Jimin by his own outburst.

“No! No, you left me , hyung. Not the other way around, and now you think you can just ask and everything will go back to the way it was–”

Jeongguk’s voice cracks– shards of broken glass across pavement– at the end of that sentence, and he mutters a curse, reaching back into his blazer for another cigarette– and Jimin– well– Jimin knows better than to try to speak now. 

“As if you can just go back that easily, as if this– as if we– as if all these years were just nothing to you.”

Now’s not the time. 

To beg, to plead, to explain.

Not now.

Not while the both of them reek of peach soju and there’s such fathomless pain in those depthless eyes– not when Jeongguk singes the tips of his fingers a sooty black as he lights his cigarette.

He takes a drag, and when he releases it, the smoke forms a hazy halo around his head– like some fallen angel. Jimin can hear the way he sighs around it, even over the clamor of voices and utensils from back inside the restaurant and the unrelenting roar of the rain.

“You,” Jeongguk begins, “you were everything, Jimin. You understand? Everything .”

And Jimin does understand. He really does– he wants to say it too– that these things Jeongguk is saying weren’t just one way,  that he felt them too. He wants to come clean, to explain everything, but the words get locked up in his throat. 

“And then one day, you’re just gone.”

Jeongguk laughs. A cynical little scoff really, and Jimin feels his throat close up even more. His eyes sting.

“Do you know what that’s like, hyung?”

Yes, Jimin would reply, if he could speak, yes I do. I felt it just like you did back then. I’m sorry I hurt you. I hurt, too.

“Of course you don’t– you’re the one that left. You– you knew what you were doing.”

He supposed that Jeongguk is right, in a way, but still– 

“You didn’t even say goodbye.”

And there it is. 

The part that’s been eating away at him for half a decade. The part that he knows is his fault– wholly and unequivocally. 

The part where he fucked up.

Bad.

The blaze of Jeongguks gaze seethes across his face but when Jimin looks up, the younger man’s eyes are glassy.

His voice comes out small, sad– robbed of all the fury and impetus of his earlier words.

“Why didn’t you say goodbye?”

Chapter Text

Busan, Republic of Korea, November to December 2014

“Jimin, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Sister Marie’s tone is firm, and even as he does his best to widen his eyes a bit, to pout just right, Jimin knows that he won’t be able to get out of this– whatever it is.

Jeongguk would probably be able to get out of anything, he thinks, with a frown. Once glimpse of those doe eyes and Sister Marie would just melt. He’s not Jeongguk, however, so he finds himself perched in one of the stiff cushioned chairs in Sister Marie’s office barely half an hour later, waiting.

It’s probably exactly what you would expect out of the office of a nun who runs an orphanage– a dark wood desk blanketed in ledgers, shelves of old books– spines cracked and dry– coating the walls, dust settled over almost everything that isn’t the desk and the chair behind it.  Jimin runs a finger through the fine coating of grayish powder on the arm of the chair in which he sits, inspecting the dusting over his fingertip. 

Footsteps echo in the hallway outside, and Sister Marie shoots him a look– half fond, half reprimanding.

Jimin knows that look. He’s been on the opposite end of it enough times to be intimately familiar with all aspects of its employment– to know intimately what it means.

Be good for once, Park Jimin.

Jimin smirks back.

No guarantees.

The door squeaks open with such insistence that even Jimin winces a little, a burst of unconventional pity coursing through him at the pained grinding of its hinges, and then two people enter the room.

A man and a woman.

They appear middle aged, which comes as a small surprise, because it’s almost always young couples roaming the halls here in search of children.

The man is tall but willowy, with salt and pepper hair, and kind eyes. There’s wrinkles around them, as if he smiles a lot, and for some reason, Jimin likes him immediately, despite his suspicion. 

The woman is short, face soft and open– absent of the perfect mask of white makeup that most of the women who visit don. When her eyes fall on Jimin, she smiles almost immediately, as if she can’t even help herself and Jimin is– once again– surprised.

He’s not the type of boy that motherly women with round faces smile at. The sleeves of his blazer are speckled with burn holes, his hair is a mess, and he’s pretty sure his lip is still split from messing around with Sanghoon last week.

He prods at it with his tongue– just in case it has miraculously healed and allowed this strange woman to look at him with such adoration– and then winces instantly, because nope– the wound is definitely still there.

He looks away, ignoring her doting gaze, almost moodily, to eye Sister Marie. The nun is watching him with a small smile.

“Jimin, I would like you to meet Hwang Sejin and Hwang Yuna.”

Jimin's eyes widen now, head whipping back around.

He recognizes the name. 

Hwang.

He’s heard it numerous times of Jihyun’s lips over the past few weeks, heard the hope and care accompanying it, and been too tired to tell his little brother not to bother. Too jaded and cynical to say that they wouldn’t be any different than the rest. That Jihyun should know by now that no one gets adopted at this age.

Only, it appears he might have been wrong.

He should be happy. 

The couple seems well off– if the glassy shine of Sejins loafers and the soft glint of diamond on Yuna’s finger are any indication– and they’re looking at him softly, kindly. They’re looking at him like they care. 

Hell, Jimin should be thrilled.

Instead, his heart drops into his gut.

“Noona,” he manages, voice croaking out of choking vocal chords, “noona, what is this?”

Sister Marie’s eyes crinkle in delight, as if this is the best thing that's happened in years, and maybe– to her– it is.

“They would like to adopt you and Jihyun!”

-

It’s not really Jimin that the Hwangs want, as he soon learns.

In fact, that had even already begun the adoption process with Jihyun by the time they learned of his existence.  He’s not quite sure how exactly he fell through the cracks, but he also isn’t surprised that he did.

A seventeen year old foster child with a questionable record who only returns to the orphanage to sleep? Not exactly most people's first choice for adoption.

But Jihyun on the other hand– Jihyun is good.

He might mess around with Jimin and Sanghoon sometimes, but he’s not like the other boys. Not like Jimin and the rest of them– no, with his advanced grade and perfect test scores, he’s much more like Jeongguk. 

Perfect for an older couple in search of a teenage son.

When Sister Marie explains the situation to Jimin, he wonders if they were disappointed to learn of him. If he has somehow managed to stomp all over the picture perfect family of their imagination without even knowing it. 

They had seemed kind– they had seemed happy to see him, despite his reproachful eyes and distrustful behavior, but he can’t know for certain. He can’t know anything for certain except for the fact that he won’t let Jihyun go with them alone.

He won’t let Jihyun go with them alone, and he can’t force Jihyun to stay here– in this drafty old house, sharing a room with five other boys, wearing worn and half mended school uniforms and living off of convenience store ramen instead of real food. He can’t rob Jihyun of a chance– of a future– of a family.

It might be too late for Jimin, but Jihyun– he can still have all those things that they’ve never known.

And Jimin– Jimin loves his little brother.

He’s spent his entire life protecting Jihyun, sacrificing things for Jihyun.

He realizes now, with a sort of existential dread that he very rarely experiences, that he’s going to have to do that again.

Sacrifice.

-

“Come on, hyung!”

Jimin doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jihyun so excited– not even that one Chuseok when sister Marie had miraculously had enough money to give each of the boys at the orphanage a gift and a serving of songpyeon . 

His eyes glint in anticipation, that little half smile that hasn’t left his face all week. It cuts through Jimin like a knife, because Jihyun– Jihyun is so happy, and Jimin– Jimin knows he should be too.

Instead, he scrapes his foot along the cold concrete of the station platform, eyes trailing along the length of the train with a faint frown, and wonders what would happen if he turned around and ran, right now.

If he hopped over the turnstile, and dodged the old man in his stiff conductor's uniform he could make it easily. Jimin can already imagine the sound of his feet slapping against pavement, the cold burn of the air in his raw lungs– and then he turns back to Jihyun, who’s wide eyed, hopeful and a new surge of guilt floods through him, mingling with the shame that’s already weighing on him like a stone, even though he has yet to set foot on the train.

The shame that sits sour and cloying in the back of his throat, worse than cigarette smoke. The shame that makes his heart stutter to a stop in his chest, clenching, when he thinks on it too long.

The shame that’s there, because he hasn't said goodbye.

At first, he’d just put it off, not wanting to set a cloud over those last weeks he had with Jeongguk. Not wanting to witness the inevitable devastation in those doe eyes, the waver in that soft voice, the way he knows Jeongguk would dig his teeth into his bottom lip in an attempt to keep his expression under control. The way he knows Jeongguk would fail, the way those tears, those pained, cutting tears would follow.

And then he’d thought of it more.

Thought of how they would try to stay in contact– because of course they would try. 

Perhaps Jeongguk would manage to save enough to buy a phone– Yuna and Sejin had already gifted one to Jimin– of how they would call and text and write letters. And then, inescapably, as months stretched into years, the gaps of time between those calls and texts and letters would grow and grow and grow, until one day– they stopped.

And that– that would sting much brighter– bite much deeper– than this. A long slow separation. A festering wound. An inevitable demise, unfurling, long and slow, across years. Of growing numb and careless, of forgetting to respond.

It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened to Jimin.

But he knows that this falling apart would be far crueler than any he’s already experienced.

That’s when Jimin realized that it might hurt much less– for both of them– to sever this at the root. 

A clean cut. 

At least that’s what he told himself, all those weeks, as he kissed Jeongguk and held him and teased him as if everything was normal– as if everything was fine.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, there’s more. More than just an excruciating slow falling apart. More than just minutes turning to hours and weeks turning to months in between texts and calls. Somewhere in the back of Jimin’s mind, there’s a little voice.

It sounds just like Jeongguk’s mother.

He’d only spoken to the woman once, in the days after she’d turned Jeongguk’s scholarship application into a charred mass, but something about that conversation had clung to him like smoke, like oil– unshakeable and off putting, memories that keep coming back– no matter how insistently he tries to shake them off.

“I know that you really do… care for my son.”

Jimin’s brow furrows. His teeth dig into his bottom lip as if the bright-bite sting of it could chase the ghost of Jeongguk’s mother out of his head.

“That doesn’t matter. I want you to stay away from him. He’s a good kid, a smart kid, he doesn’t need any distractions.”

He doesn’t know why he even bothers trying. Jimin should know by now that he’s never been the best at disregarding others' disdain for him.

“He has a chance to be someone, to get out of here, and you– he would throw it all away for you. Of course I won’t let him do that. I’m his mother.”

There’s no escaping the little edge of truth on the blade of her words.  Jimin knows well enough that Jeongguk might do anything for him. That’s why– he’d decided– it would hurt worse to be slowly torn apart by time and circumstance. That’s why he’d been certain that this was easier– safer– better.

But Jimin was wrong– is wrong,

He might have known that the entire time, but now, standing out in the cold as the train whirs away behind him, watching passengers file into the cars, he knows with utter certainty that he was wrong and that realization hits him like a punch in the gut.

He should turn, he should go, run, find Jeongguk, take the younger boy’s face between his palms and explain and beg for forgiveness. 

“Last call!”

The conductor's shout is half drowned out by the shriek of the train’s horn, announcing departure. Jihyun is on board now, and he turns, looking expectantly back to where Jimin stands listlessly, breath fogging into clouds of crystalline mist in the frigid air.

“Hyung! Let’s go!”

But Jimin can’t bring himself to move, even as the conductor begins his walk down along the cars, folding the steps back into their places on the train.

Jeongguk.

Jeongguk realizing that he’s gone.

Jeongguk searching for him.

How could he do this?

How could he–

“Hyung!”

Jihyuns voice is shrill, desperate, and when Jimin looks back to his brother he finds fear now, replacing all that hope and excitement in his eyes. 

The pit in Jimin’s gut grows.

Look what he’s done.

Jihyun is worried now– scared– scared that Jimin will leave him, just like everyone else has. He’s supposed to protect Jihyun, to keep him safe. He can’t leave his brother alone in a city halfway across the country with strangers– no matter how kind the Hwangs appear to be.

He just can’t.

Jimin has to get on that train.

It’s too late now for anything else– too late as another shrill whistle shatters the air, too late as the conductor lifts Jimin’s suitcase up next to Jihyun, too late as Jimin tilts his head back tasting the salted Busan air for the last time, hot tears blurring that bleak winter sky above, and whispers a pathetic apology, lost in the icy breeze sweeping down the platform, as if that will ever be enough to make up for what he has just done.

“I’m sorry.”

Seoul, Republic of Korea, October to December 2020

“Why didn’t you say goodbye?”

It echoes in the air– somehow drowning out even the dull roar of pouring rain cleansing the glittering streets of Seoul.

Why didn’t you say goodbye?

Jeongguk’s eyes are wide and wet and pleading, reflecting city lights and desperation and something else– something more– something Jimin hasn’t seen in a long time, and something he doesn’t deserve.

Why didn’t you say goodbye?

“Because I never would’ve been able to leave if I had,” Jimin murmurs.

A door opens in the rain.

-

“What’s going on between you and Jimin?”

“What?” Jeongguk asks, looking up from his sketchpad, almost in disbelief.

Taehyung stares back down at him from his perch on the desk. The normal playfulness that Jeongguk associates with him is absent from his gaze and really, Jeongguk ought to have expected this at some point.

It’s been about a week since the interview. Since the visit to the restaurant, since Jimin followed him outside, and since Taehyung found the two of them, shoulders hunched against the chill, eyes locked in a silent battle under the roaring winter downpour.

The model had been looking for Jimin, assuming that he’d wandered off on his own to sober up a little in the frigid night air– instead he’d stumbled into the middle of something he couldn’t quite comprehend. But just because Taehyung wasn’t entirely certain what was happening, doesn’t mean he couldn’t find out.

He’s known Jimin for years, long enough to easily recognize the shine in his eyes as he turned away from Jeongguk to follow him back into the restaurant for what it really was. 

Not just drunken glint.

Not just rainwater.

Unshed tears.

And no one is allowed to make Jimin cry, as far as Taehyung is concerned. Not even Jeongguk, with his big eyes and sweet voice.

“I said,” Taehyung slips off the desk to stand steady on his own two feet, like he’s bracing himself for a fight, “what’s going on between you and Jimin?”

Jeongguk blinks. 

Once. 

Slowly.

“Why would there be anything going on between us?”

A beat of silence.

“Gukkie, I know the both of you far too well for that to work.”

When the younger man remains silent, Taehyung continues.

“I’ve known Jimin for a long time.”

Me too , Jeongguk thinks, longer than you know.

“He’s been acting off lately, and so have you. Both of you have– you barely look at eachother, did you really think that no one would notice?”

To be entirely honest, Jeongguk really did think that no one would notice.

Especially recently– now that working with Jimin has become less stiff– less painful– after that night outside the restaurant. It’s almost as if simply acknowledging their shared history had lifted some of its weight from both of their shoulders– regardless of tears shed.

Now that they’ve finally acknowledged this– this thing between them, Jeongguk can look Jimin in the eyes, and give directions on set, and even make stilted small talk without feeling like he’s going to melt into a puddle on the floor under the heat of the older man’s attention. 

Sometimes, he tries to pretend that they’ve just met, and it never really works, but it’s enough to stave off the bitterness. It’s enough for him to forget– briefly at least– about those long hollow years when he was alone.

There’s moments too– in which this Jimin and his Jimin seem virtually inextricable. Moments that give rise to a brief surge of hope, of what if– even against his better judgment.

Like when Jimin smiles at him from the set after the photographer directs the mood of the shoot to be joyous or bright, and those narrow umber eyes find Jeongguk and scrunch into crescent moons. It’s then that, just for a heartbeat, he can convince himself that nothing has ever been lost or wrong between them.

Or the day when Jeongguk bursts into Yoongi’s studio with a huff of frustration, throwing himself onto the couch without even scanning the room, only to roll over, shaking his hair out of his eyes, and find Jimin watching him with something like fond amusement quirking the edges of his pink glossed lips.

Jeongguk still has no idea when Jimin and Yoongi became friendly– but sometime between their stilted introduction (which Jeongguk does suspect came a bit more out of his own obvious discomfort than any actual tension between the two) and now, they have cultivated a quiet sort of friendship that puts Jeongguk a little on edge. He doesn’t hate it, per se, it’s just… odd.

Strange– watching the emblems of two separate halves of his life have quiet little conversations in between shoots and share opinions about beats and shoot each other knowing little smirks whenever Namjoon stumbles over his words in Seokjin’s presence. 

It seems that everyone’s getting accustomed to the addition of Jimin and his friends to their lives– even Jeongguk. It’s still not easy to work together, but he had thought it had been getting better. 

That he had been getting better.

But now here Taehyung stands, accusations on his lips, eyes far too sharp– too knowing– to hide from, and Jeongguk realizes that all of his play-acting at normalcy hasn’t been nearly enough.

“So,” Taehyung says, watching Jeongguk like a hawk, “what is it? What’s between you two?”

When Jeongguk doesn’t answer, the model tilts his head to the side contemplatively, eyes sparking with realization.

“Please tell me it wasn’t a one night stand.”

Jeongguk can’t help it– he snorts.

“No, hyung, it wasn’t a one night stand.”

Maybe it would be better if it was, but Jeongguk shakes his head, ignoring that.

Taehyung is leaning forward, expectant, and Jeongguk knows that this isn’t something he can avoid. Perhaps, he should feel lucky that it took this long for someone to confront him about it– if Taehyung has recognized it, then there’s no way that Yoongi hasn’t.

“We just used to know each other, a long time ago…” he trails off, frowning a little. He doesn’t want to be looking at Taehyung when he says the next part, so he directs his gaze down at his sketchpad and mumbles, “back in Busan.”

“Back in… Jeongguk!”

Jeongguk grimaces down at his half empty sketchpad before slowly peering back up at the model. Taehyung is too smart. He’s too good at stuff like this. Jeongguk knows he will have figured out what Jeongguk is trying to tell him– in an awkward roundabout way– before he even gets a glimpse of his friend's face.

Taehyung does the math. 

Jeongguk can practically see him putting two and two together, thinking it through, remembering how Jeongguk’s first installation was entirely inspired by Yoongi, how Jeongguk had redesigned half of his second collection to suit Taehyung after hiring him on as a model, realizing that the one common denominator between both projects was that they were based on people – not places, not cities with hot summers and long beaches and wide oceans.

Ah.

There it is.

“You told me this installation was inspired by Busan.”

That’s true.

“I did,” Jeongguk says, slowly.

“It’s not, is it?”

“No,” Jeongguk admits shakily, watching Taehyung's eyes widen even more in realization, “it’s not.”

He rises to his feet, oscillating forwards before thinking better of it and tucking his hands back at his sides.

“You can’t tell anyone, hyung. Please don't tell anyone.”

Taehyung's eyes soften.

“You know I would never do that to you, Guk-ah.”

Jeongguk does. He knows Taehyung– with all of his eccentricities and almost childish curiosity–  would probably be the last person to ever betray his trust, but he can’t withhold a shot of panic at the prospect of the others knowing.

Especially not now.

Now that he and Jimin have just begun to form a truce of sorts. A weak alliance comprised of both acknowledgement and hesitance.

That night out in the rain– outside the restaurant– Jeongguk had seen something he hadn’t been expecting in the other man’s eyes.

That hurt– that loneliness– so impossibly identical to his own.

All these years. Jeongguk doesn’t know why he never considered it. Never considered that their parting may have hurt Jimin just as badly as it hurt him. Never wondered whether Jimin hadn’t wanted to go, whether Jimin still cared as much as he did.

It seems fragile. This delicate sliver of hope that Jeongguk cradles close to his heart. Hope for some chance at reconciliation, hope for something that he hadn't even allowed himself to dream of until they’d spoken outside the restaurant. 

It’s so small– so frail– even the slightest breeze could fragment it into nothing.

Taehyung's voice, low and smooth, breaks through his anxious reverie, and when Jeongguk meets his eyes, the model's gaze is soft with concern.

“You know it wouldn’t change anything, right? No one would think any differently of the two of you.”

Jeongguk’s mouth falls open, but when he goes to answer– he realizes that he has none. Why shouldn’t anyone know? 

Because he’s scared. 

Scared that he’ll lose Jimin again when he’s only just found him. Scared that Jimin won’t want him back– won’t want him in the same way– despite all the sorrow he’d seen behind those svelte eyes.

Taehyung’s still waiting for an answer as all these realizations compound and tangle and so Jeongguk manages to give him one, slipping faintly and disbelievingly over his lips.

“I know,” Jeongguk lies.

-

Jimin blinks sleepily at the alarm clock on his bedside table. 

3:00 AM

3:00 AM in glowing red characters.

His sigh shatters the impossible silence of the night– of the room. 

Why does he even bother with this bed? It’s too big and cold and empty for him to ever fall asleep. Even buried under the covers– under layers of impeccable white sheets and duvets– he’s chilled to the bone.

Pointless.

It’s all pointless.

Trying to sleep. Trying to go about these days as if nothing has changed. Trying to forget about the look in Jeongguk’s eyes.

He doesn’t deserve to forget.

He shoves himself upright, covers tumbling back to the bed, but even in nothing more than a thin sleep shirt, the cold doesn’t feel anymore biting outside of the bed than it had within.

The pads of his feet sting against frigid flooring, but it doesn’t really matter.

He needs to do something.

No.

Not just something.

He needs to write.

Jimin tugs his lyric book out from a stack of notebooks and curls up on the too stiff couch with it.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

He turns on the TV.

Two talking heads– young women with glossy black hair and white painted faces– are discussing some politician. They remind Jimin of the women who used to visit the orphanage. The type that only had an eye for the toddlers. The type that never came back.

As the banal buzz of the television drowns out the hollow silence of his apartment, Jimin puts pen to paper and writes.

-

Jeongguk hadn’t meant to overhear anything– didn’t mean to eavesdrop or spy or anything, but when he’d heard Jimin’s name floating around the corner by Yoongi’s studio he just couldn’t help it.

He froze in his tracks, breath slow, ears straining.

“Fuck, it’s just– you should see Jimin when he gets like that it’s– it’s so bad. He worries me so much.”

“Hmmmm.”

“He must’ve lost fifteen pounds when he was writing MUSE– and he never left the studio– there were times when he would just sleep on the couch for a full week and use the gym showers and–”

“And you say he’s starting again? To act like that again?”

“It seems like it– he was asking me about your studio because it’s so close to the set and I know he’s started writing lyrics again and his sleep schedule– don’t even get me started–”

“He can use my studio.”

“What?”

“He can use my studio. I’m always here and I can keep an eye on him for you.”

“I–”

It’s Namjoon speaking, Jeongguk realizes after a moment. The older man’s low rumble of a voice is too distinctive for it to be anyone else, and he makes out the little purr-like hums of acknowledgement that Yoongi always makes when Jeongguk is ranting to him next.

He hears it now, as the other producer continues to worry, and with each word that passes Namjoon’s lips, Jeongguk’s own brow furrows in concern.

“I’ve never seen anyone write like him– it’s like these songs suck the life out of him.”

“Yes,” Yoongi murmurs, “from what I’ve heard of his work, I can imagine how they might do that.”

Vaguely, Jeongguk recalls Yoongi describing the album to him, back before any of this had begun. It feels like months ago, but knows it’s only been a few weeks in reality. 

How exactly had he phrased it?

Pretty fucking sad.

Jeongguk thinks of that phone in the top drawer of his dresser– practically untouched. The last time he’d used it– glowing bright fluorescence in the depthless night– had been when he’d tried to listen to MUSE.

Tried and failed to even muster the will to hit play.

Namjoon and Yoongi round the corner before Jeongguk can berate himself anymore, and Jeongguk stiffens awkwardly, as two sets of suspicious eyes land on him.

“Guk?” Yoongi asks,  voice absent of the suspicion that Jeongguk expects, “did you need something?”

“Oh– um–” flailing, Jeongguk asks the first question that comes to mind: “Have you seen Jimin-ssi?”

He’s unable to fight back his own wince. 

Unconvincing.

That was unconvincing, and even if he couldn’t tell by the expressions on both producers' faces, it would be obvious to Jeongguk.

It’s Namjoon that comes to his rescue. Jeongguk has gotten to know him fairly well by now– as he often attends Jimin’s shoots or visits Yoongi’s studio while Jeongguk is there. Well enough to hear the confusion in his voice as he answers.

“He told Hobi he’d be in the atrium until the shoot.”

Ah– the shoot.

Jeongguk does something utterly impulsive and entirely stupid. Something he may very well regret.

He turns to Yoongi.

“Hyung, can you tell Jin-hyung to cancel the shoot today?”

He’s already on his way past the two producers as he asks, headed towards the elevator at the end of the hall that opens up into the atrium.

“Yeah,” Yoongi yells after him, “but why?”

“Just tell him there’s been a change of plans!”

-

Jimin has been hunched over his lyric book for almost an hour when a shadow falls over it.

His hand freezes on the page, pausing in the expectation that whoever is blocking his light will go ahead and move, but they don’t. Still, Jimin gives them another second, before craning his neck to glare up at the interloper.

His scowl dissipates the instant he realizes who, exactly, stands over him.

He’d never be able to glare at Jeongguk.

The younger man has a satchel slung over his shoulder, a dark gray hoodie pulled up over his mussed hair. Jimin’s eyes fall a little, distracted by the swirls of vivid ink across his forearm, which is exposed by the rolled sleeves of his hoodie.

There the tiger lily is again, petals unfurling elegantly over the skin above Jeongguk’s wrist, and Jimin’s eyes trail tiredly from it down across the ink gilding Jeongguk’s knuckles, before he realizes that the younger man’s hands are twitching a little bit– a sign that he’s anxious.

Jimin looks back up, a little alarmed, trying no to wince at the throbbing in his skull.

He’s been feeling particularly inspired lately, which means that his sleep schedule is practically nonexistent– and he’s paying for it now. The thought of contorting his body under painfully harsh lights today makes him slightly nauseous, but he didn’t get to where he is now by avoiding doing his job.

Jimin stands.

“Is it time to shoot?”

For some reason his attention focuses on Jeongguk’s fingers, the way they scrunch the hem of his jacket nervously.

“Um— about that,” Jeongguk begins, and Jimin raises a brow at the uncertainty in the younger man's voice.

“It’s canceled.”

“What?”

“It’s canceled,” Jeongguk repeats, “I-I canceled it.”

Jimin hesitates.

“Why?”

Jeongguk looks away, inspecting one of the long fronds of the tropical plant looming over the bench that Jimin had tucked himself away on. His eyes narrow for a second, and Jimin thinks of all the times he used to see Jeongguk do the exact same gesture as he attempted to memorize a pattern or scene that he liked. 

“I’m redesigning some of the later pieces,” Jeongguk tells the plant.

Jimin sucks in a surprised breath.

“But– but– why?”

Jeongguk runs his fingertips across the frond, frowning.

“They weren’t… accurate anymore.”

Jimin tries not to think about what Jeongguk could mean by that. Especially knowing what he knows about the collection– and what it’s really about.

“Oh,” he says, because he can’t think of what to say to that.

“I’m going to do some sketches for it now,” Jeongguk begins, finally turning those doe eyes back on Jimin, “would– could you come with me?”

If it were anything– anyone– else, Jimin would refuse. He would burrow back into his studio, fill out a few more pages of his lyric book, monitor the tracks the Namjoon had sent him. But it’s not anyone else. It’s Jeongguk.

It’s Jeongguk, and Jimin has to bite back a gasp of surprise that the younger man is actually asking him to spend time together.

It’s Jeongguk, and Jimin has never been able to refuse him.

Jeongguk takes Jimin to the Han River.

It’s a surprisingly warm day for early December, and the river is teeming with all manner of people– from joggers in brightly colored spandex, to tired businessmen on their lunch breaks, to kids very obviously skipping class.

Jimin’s eyes linger on the latter a little longer than anyone else, thinking about how that used to be him and Jeongguk. He catches the younger man’s eyes trailing in the same direction and wonders if Jeongguk is thinking the same thing.

They come to a stop at one of the only empty benches, where Jeongguk sits and procures his sketchpad from his satchel. For a long moment, Jimin just stands awkwardly, uncertain what to do and then Jeongguk peers up at him from under his lashes.

“You can sit, you know.” 

His voice is soft.

Jimin sits.

The sun is warm on his face, and after sitting for even a few minutes, Jimin finds himself shucking off his jacket in favor of allowing its rays to kiss over his bare arms. The steady scratch of lead over paper emanating from Jeongguk’s side of the bench is almost therapeutic, and Jimin can’t help the way his head rests back on the end of the bench, eyes slipping shut.

He’s been so tired. 

So stressed. 

Eyes aching from staring at the utterly insufficient chicken scratch in his lyric book, but now, it’s as if all that seeps away replaced by honey tinged sun and a faint humming sound that Jimin half believes he’s making up–

But no.

It’s really there, floating over the rhythmic swishes of Jeongguk’s pencil strokes– a quiet but familiar melody.

Jimin tenses a little when he finally recognizes it.

It takes him longer than it should– especially considering the fact that he composed it– but it’s also been years since he’s last heard it. 

Honestly Jimin would’ve thought that it was gone– lost to time and distance– floating somewhere in the oceans of Busan, buried deep in its sandy beaches– but no. Here it is, falling unconsciously from Jeongguk’s lips like honey.

The first song he ever wrote.

The first demo on that scratched up Walkman he’d gifted Jeongguk way back then.

Jimin drifts to sleep with a melody of his own making filling his ears.

After that day it becomes a habit of theirs somehow. 

These little outings, where Jeongguk draws and Jimin just relaxes (and wonders what he’d done in his past life to deserve this. To deserve what seems so close to a second chance.)

He’s starting to realize it’s been a very long time since he last had an opportunity to just relax like he does when Jeongguk sketches him. Without the concern of an assignment or practice or performance clouding on the edge of his consciousness.

Almost everyday, it’s someplace new– parks and cafes and museums and Jimin tries to ignore how similar each location is to a date because he knows that’s not what this is. 

It couldn’t possibly be.

He doesn’t deserve a second chance– and he shouldn’t hope for one.

Instead of thinking about it, he watches Jeongguk draw, just like he used to– with a gentle furrow in his brow and rabbit teeth digging into his bottom lip and big eyes flicking up to stare right at Jimin. 

They pin him in place, everytime they land on him.

Jeongguk hums too, under his breath, the same few songs over and over again– all of them songs that Jimin wrote for him– so long ago. Each time he recognizes them, an ache flares under Jimin’s ribs, though he’s almost certain that Jeongguk himself isn’t even aware of what he’s doing.

He wonders how it is that Jeongguk still remembers them– after so long that even Jimin had lost the fine edges of each melody– they fall flawless from Jeongguk’s lips.

It takes some time perhaps, so that the earliest several outings go by in a stilted half silence, but eventually they talk too– about little things. Like the paintings that Jeongguk asks Jimin to pose in front of, and the golden retriever puppy that gives its owner the dip to hop excitedly around Jeongguk’s ankles, almost tripping him with its leash that wraps up his calves.

Jimin has to detangle it from around Jeongguk kneeling awkwardly before the younger man, and when he straightens, face red with embarrassment, Jeongugk’s face is red with barely contained mirth.

Jimin shoots him a glare– but there’s no sting behind it– and Jeongguk huffs out a breathless little laugh.

“I’m sorry but it was funny, okay?!”

He hands the puppy’s leash back to a young woman, who gives him a scrutinizing look. She’s probably recognized him, despite the face mask and hood– but she doesn’t say anything, and for that, Jimin is grateful. 

At the cafes they visit, Jeongguk still orders oversweet lattes and sugary hot chocolates– exactly the same as he used to back in Busan, on the rare occasions that they found the time (and funds) to visit a cafe. 

When Jimin sets his own drink down on the table– an iced americano– Jeongguk’s nose scrunches adorably.

“What?” Jimin teases, “not sweet enough for you?”

Jeongguks eyes drop back to his sketchpad, where his hand hasn’t stopped moving despite their discussion.

“Pretentious,” he mumbles.

Jimin pretends to be offended, but he sees the way the younger man's lips quirk into a half smile.

They take the subway together, Jimin hiding behind face masks and under the lengthening splay of his bangs, sitting shoulder to shoulder and watching the morse code blips of lights blur by outside the windows, letting the rocking of the train bruhs their shoulders against each other without ever really acknowledging it.

It feels good to touch Jeongguk again. Even if it is not in the way that Jimin wants to.

What Jimin really wants is to kiss Jeongguk.

He wants it all the time.

While he watches Jeongguk draw, when Jeongguk’s eyes widen as he takes the first sip of a hot drink, when he tilts his head back– mouth falling open in awe to watch a murmuration of starlings blot out the sky.

He wants it everyday– he has wanted it everyday since he first saw the younger man again, leaning over his desk all those weeks ago– but with each day that passes it compounds.

Jimin doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to ignore it for.

-

The temple is Jimin’s idea.

He says that Taehyung had a shoot there once, and wouldn’t stop raving about it for days. Even if Jeongguk hadn’t already believed him at first, he believes him now that they’re here.

They had both agreed to take the earliest available visit time, in hopes of avoiding the crowds– meeting with tired eyes and sleep mussed hair in front of Jimin’s apartment building at five in the morning. Jeongguk had agreed to the meeting place because the guilt of denying Jimin that extra sleep would have eaten away at him, and Jimin had agreed because he wasn’t sure it would be a good idea for him to know Jeongguk’s address.

He might do something foolish– like show up drunk in the middle of the night.

But now it’s early morning– dusky with the sun just beginning to stain the horizon a color that isn’t black– casting a soft haze of warm light so that the swooping pagoda roofs, tiled in turquoise and crimson gleam gently in the misty mountain air.

Jeongguk inhales deeply through his nose, savoring the wet petrichor hint of loam and forest that coats the atmosphere here– like green and growing things. The city smells like sizzling concrete and cold rain, but out here it’s different.

He likes it.

It reminds him of Busan a little. It’s not the same, of course, but something about the freshness in the air, cuts open a seeping melancholy.

Jimin does too, if the excited glint in his eyes is any indication. As they walk, he keeps grabbing Jeongguk’s arm and pointing to different sights– delicate ukiyoe style painted urns and the intricate carvings under the rafters of each pagoda. And Jeongguk looks to where Jimin is pointing– he really does– even if only for a moment before his gaze goes inextricably dragging back to rest on the man himself, hair still mussed from sleep, lips pursed into little bit of a pout as he drags Jeongguk from site to site.

A burst of fondness builds under his ribs– swelling until it practically chokes him, until he can only hum in acknowledgment to Jimin’s exclamations. He doesn’t know what he would say if he actually tried to talk right now.

He doesn’t know if it would be a good idea to find out, so instead, he follows Jimin wordlessly through the elegant rooms of the temple.

Jimin seems content enough with his silence. That is, until they reach the final pagoda of the site– perched high up on the rocky crags of the cliff’s side.

“Why are we doing this, really?” Jimin asks, and Jeongguk’s steps stutter a little as the older man continues, “I know you have all the designs you need, I know there’s nothing wrong with what’s already finished.”

Jeongguk blinks. 

He can’t say he’s surprised that Jimin has caught on to the unnecessary nature of these outings. To be honest, he has a feeling that the older man has been skeptical since the very first one– and the fact that he’d still agreed to it makes Jeongguk’s heart leap under his ribs.

Jeongguk doesn’t want to lie to Jimin– not now, not like this– but he doesn’t want to come on too strong either. To say ‘once this is over, I’m scared you will leave me again. I don’t want this to end.’ To spook him away.

Instead, he tells a half truth, letting his gaze drop to the glossed wood of the temple floor.

“You seemed tired,” he says. “Not the type that comes from missing some sleep. Real tired. Like you’d been tired for a long time.”

What he doesn’t say is that he only knows that because, he too, had been tired.

There’s a soft intake of breath from beside him, and he can feel the warm weight of eyes on the side of his face.

“Do I seem tired now?” Jimin asks.

Slowly, Jeongguk turns his head.

Jimin is watching him steadily, coffee eyes gentle but curious. There’s no more dark circles beneath them, and they glint brighter than Jeongguk had ever thought possible in the pink rays of the rising sun.

It’s hard to breathe, suddenly. 

Hard to force his lungs to flutter, his blood to pump. Hard to do anything but stare as a terrible little feeling contracts around his heart like a vice. The combined fear of losing Jimin and joy of having him wrestle against each other in an inexplicable tangle.

“No,” Jeongguk manages quietly, “not anymore.”

Jimin smiles at that, face radiant–  pretty eyes scrunching into crescent moons– and Jeongguk– Jeongguk just stares back at him.

Tries to take it in– tattoo it onto his brain– the sight of Jimin grinning at him like this– illuminated by dawns’ luster.

On the shuttle bus back to Seoul, Jimin falls asleep beside him.

First, his head tips back onto the seat behind him and Jeongguk really tries to ignore the elegant line of his throat swooping down into his shirt.

It’s fine– really it is– until he begins to snore gently. That’s when the old man in the aisle in front of them turns and gives Jeongguk a scathing look.

In all honesty, Jeongguk is surprised a man of that age has retained the acuity of hearing to make out Jimin’s snores over the gentle rumble of the bus engine. But still, the last thing either of them need is an angry passenger to make a scene.

“Hyung,” Jeongguk hisses, nudging Jimin lightly.

He’s not keen on waking him, especially since he seems so peaceful, but soon Jeongguk learns that waking Jimin has become a much harder task than he remembers.

“Jimin hyung,” he tries again, elbow prodding into ribs.

Nothing.

So he tries again , and this time Jimin lets out a soft groan, shifting in his seat in an unconscious attempt to avoid Jeongguk’s jabbing. The bus rounds a curve in exactly the same instant– it’s momentum sending Jimin’s head tumbling off of his seat. 

It lands on Jeongguk’s shoulder.

“Ah…” Jeongguk hesitates, “hyung?”

No response.

No response, but the light snoring has ceased now, so at least the old man in front of Jeongguk can’t complain.

Jimin snuffles a little, nudging his head further up Jeongguk’s shoulder to make himself comfortable. His brow is barely furrowed, and the heat of his breath combined with the cold press of his earrings against Jeongguk’s neck sends shivers coursing across Jeongguk’s skin.

This is fine.

He’s fine.

When the bus sputters to a halt half an hour later, Jimin blinks awake, eyes hazy and lips pouting slightly. He sits up, stretching, and when he does Jeongguk can make out the crack and pop of bones shifting.

Dancer , Jeongguk remembers. Not that it had been easy to forget with all that lithe muscle tucked into his side.

When Jimin turns to Jeongguk, svelte eyes flickering across his heated face, Jeongguk can’t meet his gaze. He can feel the warmth of a blush in his cheeks, and he knows Jimin sees it too, as the press of the other man's eyes linger on the curves of his cheekbones.

“What’s wrong?”

His words come out rough and sleep slurred.

“Nothing,” Jeongguk answers.

Nothing at all.

-

It’s another one of those days– the ones where Jeongguk insists that Jimin accompany him out into the city so he can work on the final designs of the installation, when a swarm of paparazzi finally recognize Jimin.

It’s something he’s been anxious about throughout all of these outings. 

Being recognized.

It’s even happened a few times– but mainly by schoolgirls who were satisfied with a wink and an autograph, and ran off blushing once Jimin indicated that he was busy, much to Jeongguk’s mortification– not a group of grizzled middle aged men with long range cameras.

He doesn’t mind being recognized by fans, but people like this aren’t fans. People like this– Jimin minds being recognized by them quite a lot.

He’s known it would probably happen sooner or later on one of these outings. Had realized that early on in fact– on the very first day when Jeongguk took him to the Han river to draw and he realized that visiting a more secluded place wasn’t even something that had crossed Jeongguk’s mind.

This evening, he’d come to find Jimin later than he normally would, eyes a little tired, but lips still quirked up in that half smile Jimin’s begun to see more and more of over the past few weeks.

“I know it’s late, but–” he hefted the sketchpad in his hand into the air, letting it do the talking for him.  For an instant, Jimin just stared. The sun was setting through the western window, and its lazy, topaz rays slanted right through the doorway in which Jeongguk stood, setting him aglow.

Golden skin, glinting eyes, gleaming hair. 

Mesmerizing.

“Give me a moment,” Jimin replied, finally forcing his tongue to work and snapping his lyric book shut, before following the younger man out into the chilled Seoul half-night.

And now, Jimin is watching Jeongguk draw, illuminated by the weak glow of a streetlamp winding its way through the branches of the barren cherry tree that they sit under. He’s watching the way Jeongguk’s  teeth dig into his bottom lip, the way his eyes narrow critically at the page, and that’s when he first notices them gathering over the younger man’s shoulder. 

Four of them, in dark tee shirts and baseball caps.

A little alarm goes off in the back of his head, because he’s dealt with situations like this far more often than he would like, and even though they don’t do anything at first, he still keeps an eye on them. He’s right to, because within minutes of noticing them, his suspicions are confirmed. 

Dull light catches on camera lenses.

“Jimi–”

Jeongguk’s voice cuts off as he realizes that Jimin is distracted, and Jimin turns his attention quickly back to him. 

It’s too late, though, because Jeongguk has already followed Jimin’s gaze to the men and their freakishly large cameras.

Whatever he was going to say is forgotten.

“Is that– are they here for you?” he asks instead, brow furrowed.

Jimin’s grimace is all the answer he needs.

The first eruption of a flashbulb illuminates the park around them against the corpuscular glow of a half set sun.

Jeongguk’s eyes flick anxiously back to the paparazzi– the violent flashing of their cameras and Jimin thinks fuck it.

And fuck them to, while he’s at it.

Fuck them for following him around like an animal in a zoo. Fuck them for commodifying his existence. Most of all, fuck them for making Jeongguk nervous.

He turns to the younger man.

“You wanna do something that’ll really fuck with them?”

There’s a yell, and Jeongguk’s attention shifts back to the paparazzi for a split second.

“Yeah,” he agrees, still eying Jimin’s stalkers apprehensively.

“Good,” Jimin replies.

And then he stands from his perch on the bench, turns, and runs .

The moment his feet hit the pavement a surge of giddiness rushes through Jimin’s body, flooding his limbs in buoyant energy. He can hear Jeongguk’s gasp of surprise, and then another pair of feet join his in a syncopated drum beat as they flee across the park.

Fuck.

Jimin has always wanted to do this, but he never could have anticipated how thrilling– how freeing– it actually is.

There’s a startled yell from the paparazzi, enough to alert Jimin to the fact that at least a few of them have actually given pursuit, and Jimin only gets a second to think about how ridiculous that is, because in the next, he and Jeongguk are bursting out of the park. A crowded road stretches in front of them and Jimin pauses searching for a palace to go, maybe a cafe to hide in–

A hand seizes his own, and Jeongguk tugs him to their right, towards what appears to be the outskirts of a night market– complete with lanterns and vendors and swarming crowds.

The paparazzi are still in pursuit, yells echoing from behind, but that doesn’t matter right now. All that matters is the wind as it weaves through Jimin’s hair. The pleasant burn of his straining lungs, the smooth turnover of his stride as he runs, the warmth of Jeongguk’s hand in his.

The warmth of Jeongguk’s hand in his.

Jimin lets his eyes shift towards the younger man for just a moment.

Jeongguk’s nose is scrunched in delight as he runs, and as if sensing Jimin’s eyes on him, he too, takes a short glance in the other’s direction. 

Big black eyes. 

Big black delighted eyes.

Then Jimin almost runs headfirst into a street sign and he’s forced to turn his attention back to where he’s running.

They hit the first line of tents and envelop themselves in the crowd of pedestrians– Jeongguk leading the way as they twist and weave around families watching their children and couples sharing tteokbokki.

Every once in a while a loud exclamation from behind them alerts Jimin to the fact that they’re still being followed, and to be entirely honest, he’s kind of amazed at these particular paparazzi's persistence– even if he hates them just as much for it.

Another shout rings from the crowd behind them, and Jeongguk huffs out an incredulous laugh, pulling Jimin behind a tent and dragging him down into a crouch.

Ten seconds later, two middle aged men lugging massive cameras go stumbling past their hiding spot, and Jimin fights back laughter at how ultimately ridiculous they look– camera bags bouncing up and down, sweat stains bleeding through their dark tee shirts, breath coming heavy.

Jeongguk’s shoulder is shaking with mirth, pressed up against him, and when Jimin turns the younger man's face is bright red– almost comically so. The sight actually forces a cackle past Jimin’s lips and then Jeongguk’s eyes go wide and he lunges forward pressing his hand over Jimin’s mouth, to muffle the sound that would’ve surely given them away.

The world blurs away around them, hustle and bustle of the market bleeding into static fuzz.

When Jeongguk had lunged for him, he’d placed one hand into the ground by Jimin’s knee, so that he leans forward now– forearm pressed into the outside of Jimin’s thigh– perhaps a little closer than intended as his face hovers over Jimin’s, peering down with those alarmed doe eyes.

Jimin can see himself reflected in them, see the glint of his own eyes, darkened, over the mask of Jeongguk’s tattooed hand over the lower half of his face.

So close.

Jeongguk’s hand slips a little bit, goes from blocking his mouth to tracing gently over his jaw, and Jimin can’t do anything else. He leans into the caress, somehow ignoring the tiny little voice that’s screaming ‘what are you doing?!’ from somewhere behind the resplendent haze of the moment. 

The lantern glow of the night market illuminates the little scar on Jeongguk’s cheek so softly– like in those old movies where they used to rub vaseline on the screen so that the female starlets were misty faced– and as the younger man leans even closer– seemingly involuntarily– Jimin sees everything. Each thread of his tangled eyelashes, the wind blushed rosiness over the tip of his nose, the way those delicate lips part–

Closer.

Closer.

Jimin can’t speak. There are no words for this moment, so he tries to convey them with his eyes, locked on Jeongguk’s.  

Tries to plead, to apologize, to–

“Aishhh! Kids these days!”

The moment breaks like shattering glass, and Jimin and Jeongguk are each individual shards, sent careening in opposite directions, tumbling backwards– away from each other, away from the line they had both been prepared to cross– and onto the ground.

An old woman stands over them, having just rounded the corner of the tent. Despite the grumbling that broke them apart, there’s mirth in her eyes as she looks down at the sprawled across the ground, faces reddened with embarrassment.

She places a hand on her hip, and the gesture is mildly threatening enough to have both Jimin and Jeongguk scrambling to their feet. They must be a sight to behold. If he was watching from afar, Jimin is sure he would laugh.

The old woman's gaze runs across them– over wind ruffled hair and awkward expressions.

“You don’t have to hide behind my tent to have a time together you know.”

The what in Jimin’s face flares– a blend of embarrassment and gut dropping realization that what this ajumma has just implied, was, in fact, exactly where he and Jeongguk were headed prior to her interruption.

“Sorry, ajumeoni,” Jeongguk mumbles, cheeks rosy, dipping into a short bow that Jimin quickly mimics. 

The old woman hums a little acknowledgement, and when Jimin straightens back up, her eyes narrow a little.

“How long have you two been together?”

Oh.

Jimin’s mouth falls open, and for a second, he just gapes. How is he supposed to explain that it’s not like that, with Jeongguk effervescent at his side? With this stranger watching them with such fond amusement?

But as it turns out, Jimin doesn’t have to explain it. He doesn’t have to explain anything at all.

“Six years.”

Jimin’s head whips towards Jeongguk, and if the younger man were to meet his gaze, the shock in it would be apparent.

But– in a way it’s the truth– an odd, roundabout and entirely inadmissible way.

It has been six years– six years since that day on the roof, since Jeongguk’s sketchbook stained his hands and Jeongguk’s tears stained his heart– six whole years.

“Aish!” the old woman chastises, “that’s long enough not to be hiding behind tents to kiss, now isn’t it?”

Jeongguk’s flower petal lips quirk delicately.

“I suppose so.”

The ajumma sniffs a little, somehow managing to look down her nose at them despite the fact that now that Jimin’s standing he can tell that she’s got to be close to an entire foot shorter than him.

Her gaze falls on Jimin now, eyes rheumy with age, but still surprisingly alert.

“You take good care of this one now,” she gestures to Jeongguk, who tucks his chin, blushing.

Jimin’s mouth is dry.

He swallows.

“Yes, ajumeoni.”

Somehow she hears his quiet reply, nodding her head graciously with a wide smile that bunches her cheeks softly.

It’s a dismissal.

Jeongguk bows again, hand shooting out to clasp around Jimin’s and then he drags them both out from behind the tent and back into the bustle of the night market with a small laugh.

They blend into the crowd.

“Jeongguk,” Jimin says, but the younger man must miss it. 

He tries again, louder this time.

“Jeongguk!”

Jeongguk turns, looking back over his shoulder.  

“Hmm?”

“Why– why did you tell her that back there? About us–” Jimin pauses, trying to figure out the right way to phrase it. “About us being together?”

The younger man’s head tilts to the side a little.

He smiles softly.

“I don’t think she would’ve accepted any other answer.”

Jimin wants to ask why he cares anyway, why lie, whether it was even a lie, but Jeongguk’s eyes drift over his shoulder and alight on a tteokbokki stall with a long line.

“Are you hungry, hyung?”

Hyung.

Jeongguk just called him hyung.

Jeongguk just called him hyung, and it wasn’t because he was breathless on a dressing room floor.

Jimin narrows his eyes, trying to ascertain whether Jeongguk has even noticed his own slip up, but the other man is too busy dragging him towards the food stall with an excited smile, so Jimin just lets himself be dragged, a small, ridiculous smile of his own making its way across his face.

Hyung.

Jeongguk called him hyung.

It rings in his head– clear as a bell, echoing endlessly, even later, as they walk shoulder to shoulder, scalding their mouths on skewers of steaming peppery tteokbokki, and Jeongguk tugshim in the direction of a bingsu stall the moment they’ve finished, despite the December chill coating the air.

“Come on,” Jeongguk whines, attempting to force a spoon of shaven ice drenched in condensed milk, and Jimin keeps his lips sealed, glaring half heartedly back at the younger man.

“Just a bite, I promise you’ll love it!”

Jimin caves, lips parting, and Jeongguk shoves the spoon into his mouth and sweetness explodes on Jimin’s tongue, all creamy and cold. His eyes widen involuntarily, because Jeongguk wasn’t lying– it is good – and Jeongguk’s lips twist into a self satisfied smirk at his expression.

But only for a second– because the next thing Jimin does is snatch the spoon out of the younger man’s hand, stealing a big scoop of bingsu from the bowl in his lap.

“Hey!” Jeongguk startles, “the deal was a bite!”

He makes a grab for the spoon, but he can’t really move because of the dish in his lap, and Jimin dances easily out of his way, half endeared, half amused at the frustrated furrow of his brows.

Jeongguk has always taken food seriously.

“You’re right,” Jimin teases, “I did love it!”

He steals another scoop from Jeongguk’s lap, cat quick, and slips back out of reach, shoving it into his mouth and exaggerating his enjoyment with shut eyes and dramatic hums of appreciation.

When his eyes flutter back open, he expects to see the same glower as before– the one he has plenty of past experience with– the one that means Jeongguk has been deprived of his food and is not thrilled, but that’s not what he sees.

Jeongguk is smiling– beaming really. Nose scrunched into that cute little rabbit scrunch that’s always endeared Jimin beyond words, doe eyes wrinkled with delight– entirely ebullient.

Jimin feels his jaw slacken.

When was the last time Jeongguk looked at him like this? It’s been years. It’s been six years, as Jeongguk had told the ajumma earlier. Six years and finally, here he stands, once more on the opposite end of that radiance.

Jimin’s not sure he deserves it, but he treasures it all the same.

He should’ve known it couldn’t last.

-

“I’ve been thinking about postponing the next album,” Jimin says. 

He has. 

He’d been eager to start the writing process at first, but recently, he’s been so caught up in helping Jeongguk with his designs that he’s lost the urge to lock himself in the studio. The album may not be scheduled until next March, but he doesn’t know if even that is achievable with how he feels these days.

All buoyant.

He could write about that too, he supposes, but he’s never tried something like that. He’s not sure it will be the same.

They’re in the dance practice room when he says this, midday sun slanting through the windows and across the floor where Jimin stretches, when he speaks. Hoseok’s fingers are flying across his phone screen, replying to emails, but they freeze the moment Jimin speaks and he looks up with wide eyes.

“Really?” the older man asks.

Of course it would be unbelievable.

Jimin rests his cheek against his shoulder, contorting his torso to stretch the tendons in his outer hip.

“Yes, really.”

Hoseok sighs.

“Did someone from management speak with you?”

What?

Jimin frowns.

“Why would someone from management speak to me?”

Hoseok hesitates, brow furrowed.

“The photos?” he begins, trailing off a little as realization dawns on his face.

“What photos?” Jimin sits upright, coming out of his stretch quick enough to wince at the cramping in his hip.

Hoseok's face goes a little pale.

“Shit.”

“What photos, Hobi?”

“I can’t believe management didn’t brief you on this,” Hoseok mumbles, “Fuck!”

Jimin scrambles to his feet, anxious. Hoseok never loses his composure like this– it’s not a good sign.

“What photos?” he asks again, voice just barely wavering, and Hoseok, whips back around from where he’s been glaring at the wall as if contemplating punching it.

“Some fans dug up old school photos of you”

Jimins blood runs cold. 

“What do you mean dug up ?”

Hoseok pauses, frowning. 

“I heard from the company and thought they would have contacted you as well, but I haven't looked at the photos yet. I know that most of them are on twitter.”

“Let me see,” Jimin demands, dread curling in his stomach. 

Hoseok fumbles with his phone for a moment, hissing a curse when it refuses to recognize his face and unlock. The moment he has filled out the search bar, Jimin snatches the phone out of his friend's hands, eyes flickering through the search results until he recognizes a photo. 

It doesn’t take long.

There's a caption and Jimin skims it, heart in his throat and rising higher with each word he reads. 

“My boyfriend’s older brother went to school with Jimin-oppa for a few years in highschool and he has some old pictures from then. He said Jimin-oppa was really good friends with this boy and that they almost never went anywhere without each other, and it reminded me so much of the lyrics to “Those Eyes,” I HAD to share. I mean just LOOK at them.”

“Fuck.” Jimin hisses, even as his eyes greedily drink in the image. It’s a little blurry but clear enough for the memories. 

Just LOOK at them.

On the screen, fourteen year old Jeongguk leans into sixteen year old Jimin's side, beaming back at the camera, doe eyes bright and happy. Jimin’s arm is wrapped around the younger boy’s shoulders, his weight draped over Jeongguk’s side, the smirk on his face decidedly less innocent than Jeongguk’s wide grin, but still young, still naive, still foolish. 

Jimin can tell the moment Hoseok gets a good look at the photo from where he's leaning over Jimin's own shoulder. The older man goes still with a soft gasp. 

“Jimin-ah– is that…?”

Is that Jeongguk? 

He knows that’s what Hoseok wants to ask. He knows that’s what Hoseok is realizing isn’t even worth asking because of course it is. Jeongguk still looks the same as back then. Still the same and yet so so different. 

When Hoseok falls silent, Jimin just swallows harshly, fingers already skipping to the next post down.  

It’s a different photo, this one’s not of them, but he and Jeongguk just somehow fit perfectly into the background. Jimin’s back is turned to the camera, but Jeongguk’s face is in perfect view, the wet glint of his doe eyes gazing up at Jimin with nothing short of adoration captured clearly. 

The caption reads “Damn, when Jimin-ssi said “those eyes,” he meant it!”

The picture has over 50 thousand likes. 

“Fuck,” Jimin says again. 

When he raises a finger to scroll down, he can see that his hands are trembling ever so slightly. 

This next photograph isn’t really of them either–  it's just another moment where the two of them, lost in their own little world, happened to slip into the background of someone else's life. 

Jimin sits, back propped against the gymnasium wall and legs stretched out before him, while Jeongguk lays, head resting on Jimin's laps and attention focused on a manga he holds tilted towards Jimin, as if he’s asking the older boy a question about it. 

Jimin remembers that day. He remembers the warm press of Jeongguk against him. The faint lisp with which the other boy asked him questions. The curiosity swirling in those big brown eyes. He remembers singing until the younger boy had drifted to sleep, and prodding him awake later– an adorably drowsy, sleep-mussed, eyes unfocused, cheek reddened from where it had been pillowed against a thigh.

He shakes his head, dislodging the memory, and runs his thumb over the screen again, scrolling.

An inexplicable dread curls in his gut as more and more photos cross his vision.

This will change things. 

These photos.

Now that they’re out– now that the entire world can see them whenever they please. It will be inevitable. 

Hoseok takes a breath from behind him.

“That– that’s Jeongguk,” he says. Not a question. A statement of fact.

“Yes,” Jimin answers, a little numb, “it is.”

Unnecessary affirmation.

“This– he– your fans are going to recognize him.”

Jimin knows.

“I know,” he says.

“His anonymity–”

“I know!” Jimin says– louder now, voice cracking.

The guilt he instantly feels for raising his voice at Hoseok joins the guilt already sitting heavy in his gut. 

He’s ruined everything, all over again, because somehow, this is his fault.

They are his fans after all, who found these old pictures– relics of a too sweet past– and it will be his fans who recognize Jeongguk on the street. It will be his fans who grow curious, who want to know more about the boy that he watches with such adoration in these blurry old photos, and it will be his fans who do the research, who dig up the photos from more recently.

The photos that he knows exist, even if he hasn't seen them.  Taken by the sasaengs that follow him everywhere, or by those paparazzi in the park that he and Jeongguk had run from.

And then it will be his fans who put his recent collaboration with an artist whose pseudonym is a little too literal together with those photos and send everything that Jeongguk has built in the years since Jimin abandoned him into disarray.

-

“Jeongguk,” Seokjin says, the moment he enters the cafe.

Jeongguk has been going through his normal motions– staring mindlessly out the window and doodling on the table with spilled drops of cold coffee, daydreaming about meeting Jimin to go sketch later– but something causes him to snap to attention as his manager approaches.

The tone of his voice is just off, and Jeongguk can’t tell why, but it’s enough for him to whip his head up, eyes wide, as Seokjin slides into the seat across the table from him.  Seokjin's hair is mussed from the harsh winter winds that shake the barren branches outside, cheeks red– and he didn’t even take the time to go and order their drinks as he normally would.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s happened.

“Hyung?”

Seokjin settles into his chair, wrenching his arms from the sleeves of his parka. He levels his gaze across the table, eyes uncharacteristically serious.

“How do you know Park Jimin?”

Jeongguk’s mouth goes dry.

“I– we–” he stutters for a second before his brain begins to function again. Then he narrows his eyes in suspicion. What is this about– could Seokjin know? But how– how would he know? Taehyung couldn’t have– wouldn’t have– told him and why would he care?

“You know how I know him,” he replies, already knowing that it won’t be enough to shake the older man off of whatever point he seems insistent on making. 

There’s a flash of disappointment under Seokjin’s lashes, and then he’s setting his phone on the table, an image on it.

“Do I?” he asks, as Jeongguk’s gaze falls to the twitter feed on the screen before him.

He freezes.

The bottom half of the frame consists of the top half of Sanghoon’s face– buzzed black hair like peach fuzz, one scarred eyebrow quirked. It’s been a long time since Jeongguk’s seen Sanghoon, and even a photo of him from all the way back then feels a little odd, but that’s not what stalls Jeongguk’s breath in his lungs.

No.

What has Jeongguk leaning forward, eyes wide, is the top half of the photo. His fifteen year old self draped over a seventeen year old Jimin, chin nestled into the older boy's shoulder.  Both of them are grinning up at the camera, smiles bright, eyes scrunched, and Jimin has both small hands wrapped around Jeongguk’s forearm where it’s circled over his chest.

Jeongguk thinks he could stare forever– he’s never seen this picture– but a perfectly manicured finger enters his field of vision and swipes, revealing a new image.

This one is a screenshot of a tweet, and he reads the words slowly, confused for a moment until he remembers the tracklist that he’d agonized over that night in his apartment– and then refused to actually listen to.

“Tell me “Those Eyes” isn’t about this boy, you literally CANNOT”

A photo is linked to the tweet. 

The tweet that has almost one hundred thousand likes, Jeongguk notices, with an odd sinking feeling.

In the image, Jimin’s back is to the camera. 

It’s still obviously him, from the sliver of his half turned profile– a profile that’s probably tattooed onto Jeongguk’s brain, and that Jimin’s fans likely have no difficulty recognizing– but the real focus of the image is Jeongguk, gazing up at Jimin with wide eyes.

Even Jeongguk can admit that his eyes looked too big for his head back then.

Seokjin swipes his finger across the screen again, and a third photo appears.

It’s taken from a different vantage point– from across a bonfire, flames licking yellow and brilliant into the gloaming dusk, bright enough to illuminate him and Jimin, leaned into each other beyond the fire pit, faces cast in a topaz glow. Once again, his head rests on Jimin’s shoulder, but this time he’s looking up at the stars, eyes glinting with wonder and Jimin is looking at him–

Jimin is looking at him, with a secret little smile, as if he’s just as radiant as those distant pinpricks of light.

“Jeongguk,” Seokjin asks again, “how do you know Park Jimin?”

“We– we were friends back in Busan,” he breathes, greedy eyes still fixed on the photo before him, foreboding pooling in his stomach. 

But it’s a lie and Seokjin has always been too good at sniffing those out.

“Just friends.” 

There’s no inflection in Seokjin’s voice, no raise in tone at the end of the phrase, but Jeongguk can read his incredulity all the same.

“No,” he admits, shoulders curling in a little bit, “not just friends.”

Seokjin sighs, leaning back in his seat, and Jeongguk knows that it’s not intentional, that it’s never intentional– not from Seokjin– but the sound of it, the almost frustration of it, makes him shrink in his own seat.

“Hyung,” he begins, just to fill the empty air between them. He doesn’t know what to say next, so he just trails off, finally tearing his gaze away from the photos.

Seokjin is massaging his temples, brows furrowed.

He looks less put together than Jeongguk has ever seen him, shirt unbuttoned and hair windswept.

“You know Jimin is famous,” Seokjin says, “but I’m not sure you realize how famous he is, Jeongguk.”

Jeongguk reaches into his pocket, fingertips finding cool metal. He thinks of the men with the cameras in the park. He thinks of Jimin’s small hand in his as they had run, of dipping and weaving between tents and families, of the shocked shout of the paparazzi behind them.

“People– people are going to recognize you. People are going to try to find out who you are. And– and most likely, they’ll succeed.”

Jeongguk thinks he might have already known that.

Jeongguk thinks that these past few weeks– that seeing Jimin again might have been worth it anyway.

Concern floods Seokjin's eyes.

“You understand what I’m saying, don’t you, Jeongguk?”

He does.

“I do.”

Jeongguk tries to tell himself that it would’ve ended one way or another. 

That it’s practically impossible to remain anonymous in a city like Seoul. 

He can’t lie– because it would be a lie to say that he’s not a little bit scared. Of what? He’s not even sure. Probably of change. Of the loss of the familiar, the easy, the routine.

He thinks of it as he says goodbye to a stressed Seokjin, as he makes his way out into the cold dusky street.

A couple walks past, their giggles releasing little puffs of white fog into the air, and Jeongguk watches them pass, feeling that familiar little ache in his chest.

It’s different now than it used to be though.

It’s different than it would have been only months earlier, before that day that Jimin came stumbling so serendipitously into his studio and uprooting his world once more.

Back then– before that– the ache in his chest would throb– a bitterly melancholic reminder of all that he had lost. But now it only stings a little, a light discomfort, as if flaring just enough to remind him that it happened– that it was once there, even if it no longer gapes open across his ribs.

As he walks, he wonders when that had changed– when the ache had lessened.

When Jeongguk gets back to his apartment from the cafe, the sun has just set. He stands before the western facing windows, hands pressed against them, relishing in the stinging cold of the glass.

It’s grounding, dragging him out of the vertiginous mess of his thoughts and into the present, if only for a heartbeat.

The edge of the horizon is still tainted in an embryonic glow, the last remnants of a red sun dipped over the edge of the world. When he presses his cheek to the chilled glass and looks up, he can already see stars blinking to life overhead.

It reminds him of bonfire burn and smoke twining into the infinite dark, the hoarse purr of Jimin’s voice, a little ragged from whatever he and the other boys had been smoking, the warmth of his shoulder under Jeongguk’s chin, the close roar of the salt sea waves, made invisible by the night.

Nostalgia.

They say that nostalgia is a longing for something that never really existed– at least, not in the way that you’re remembering it– but Jeongguk doesn’t believe that. 

He’s pretty sure that everything he longs for was real.

He closes his eyes, face still pressed into the frosty glass, and for some reason that tweet that Seokjin had showed him pops into his head.

“Tell me “Those Eyes” isn’t about this boy, you literally CANNOT”

From the moment he’d laid eyes on it, there had been a little seed of hope blooming under his sternum. He checks now, to see if it’s still there– pressing his fingertips gently over the drumbeat of his heart. 

It feels like it is. 

What if a song that Jimin wrote just last year really is about him? What does that mean? Could it mean that he actually has a chance? That Jimin might actually want him back? That they could start again?

That’s all Jeongguk really wants. He’s realized by now, that it’s all he’s ever wanted. To have Jimin back. Anything in the world would be enough for him with Jimin by his side.

He thinks about the phone again– locked away in the drawer by his bedside.

He thinks about what's on it.

He thinks for long enough that the red line on the horizon seeps into inky darkness, that the window under his cheek grows warm from his own body heat, that he’s watched his own breath fog and dissipate from the window pane before him a hundred times, and then he peels himself away from the glass.

Jeongguk’s first destination is the fridge, and he cracks open its door, wincing a little at the stripe of fluorescent glow that seeps out. It bathes the room in blue light. He hadn’t turned on the lights when he got home, so the entire apartment is dark and tinged incandescent.

His eyes land on an unopened bottle of soju, gleaming emerald green on an almost empty shelf. 

It’ll have to do.

It’s cold in his hand.

He straightens, back twinging a little. When the fridge door clicks closed the room is dark again, and he stands still for a moment, until his eyes adjust to the dimness of it all.

This might be a bad idea.

He might be wrong about it. Jimin’s fans and their theories might be laughably off base (he’s sure it wouldn’t be the first time.)

But still– he has to know. 

Maybe, he should have listened to the album a long time ago. Maybe it would have saved him a lot of pain. It’s too late to dwell on the past now though.

He pops the lid on the chilled bottle in his hand, raising it to his lips without bothering with a glass and grimaces a little as it goes down. He can barely remember the last time he drank– thinks vaguely that it must have been at the restaurant after the interview, close to two months ago now.

The soju works quickly too, that faint, pleasant haze creeping in on the edges of the world.

Jeongguk pupils have dilated now, and he can see well enough that he doesn’t bother with a light as he picks through his apartment to his bedroom, pausing only to tug open that squeaky top drawer.

He sets the bottle down on top of his bedside table, wiping the beads of condensation wetting his fingers into his bedsheets.

Opening the phone is easy now that he’s done it once, and before he realizes it, he’s navigated into the spotify app, filled Jimin’s name into the search bar and is staring down at that album cover art once again.

Brown rabbit. White letters.

This time, though– this time Jeongguk’s finger doesn’t pause in the air over the screen, it doesn't hover in uncertainty.

This time, Jeongguk presses play.

“I think we could last forever.”

“I’m afraid everything will disappear.”

“Just trust me.”

It’s a pounding on the door to Jimin’s apartment that wrenches him from the edge of sleep. He groans, annoyed, as he rolls to face the still running television, and tries to ignore it.

Someone must have gotten the wrong apartment.

No one ever visits Jimin here anyways.

It had been a long day– after that heart dropping revelation in the studio– and he’d spent it in a constant haze of anxious dread. Sleep was welcome– unconsciousness preferred–  but now it’s ripped away from him by some drunken cavorter or lost houseguest.

His eyes slip shut.

They’ll leave soon, he’s certain.

Doesn’t everyone?

Then it comes again.

Jimin lets out another frustrated grunt, raising a hand to his eyes to scrub the haze of sleep out of them. The television blares annoyingly in the corner of his vision– too polished in its vibrant fervor. At some point while he dozed, the skies must have opened up, because the wide window-walls of his apartment are streaked with raindrops, glowing and vivid as they reflect the city lights below.

For a moment, he just blinks sleepily at their jeweled spill, and then– 

More pounding.

Muffled yelling joins the knocks, seeping under his apartment door.

Jimin can’t make out the voice, can’t tell what’s being said, but he knows he won’t get any sleep like this. He’ll have to go tell them that they’ve got the wrong place.

He lets out a little hiss as his bare feet press into the frigid marble floor, shuffling towards the door, as he runs a single hand through his hair as if his half hearted ministration will beat it back into some form of presentable in time for him to tell off some lost house guest.

Why does he even bother?

The door unlatches with a sharp click, and then– before Jimin can even reach for the handle– it swings open, pushed from the outside.

Jimin blinks.

Rubs a hand over his eyes again as if that will fix everything, but no, that really is Jeongguk, standing in the entrance to Jimin’s apartment, doe eyes puffy and hair dripping with rain water.

His mouth falls open, and he knows that the only emotion on his face right now is confusion because what is happening? It’s three in the morning.

“Hyung.” Jeongguk breathes, and there’s so much emotion, so much hope and tenderness in that velvet voice that Jimin is frozen.

Frozen as Jeongguk steps forward over the threshold of the apartment. 

Frozen as long fingered hands cradle his cheeks. 

Frozen as Jeongguk leans closer, brows furrowed, hot breath tickling jimin’s cheeks.

He presses their mouths together.

Oh.

The younger man tastes like rainwater and devastation and his lips are soft but demanding as they move over Jimin’s and then Jimin is reaching up, wrapping his hand around the nape of Jeongguk’s neck and pulling him closer, leaning into the sweet pressure of his mouth, the soft heat of him , and when they finally break apart, Jimin thinks he knows what fear is because this– this can’t be nothing.

Jeongguk blinks down at him, eyes gleaming. Rain water beads delicately along his eyelashes, flower petal lips bruised red– he’s close enough for his breath to caress Jimin’s skin, while his hands still hold Jimin’s face, cradled gently in his palms– so that Jimin couldn’t move, couldn’t hide, even if he wanted to.

Why?

It’s the only thing Jimin can think– can wonder.

Why?

After all the hurt he’s caused, why would Jeongguk think he’s still worthy of this? The thought that it might be some sort of punishment– that Jeongguk would kiss him once and then never again– leave him reeling and miserable is too overwhelming to voice.

“Why?” Jimin manages, eyes flicking frantically across the younger man’s face.

He’s not sure he really aunts an answer, but he gets it anyway.

“I wanted to.”

Oh.

Jimin doesn’t know what to make of that– all he can think is that he wants this too. Wanted it for a long time.

Jungkook's hands are soft against his face, gentle. His thumbs keep sweeping up and down, up and down Jimin’s cheeks–a s if he’s making sure he’s still there.

“You– you were always the first,” Jeongguk begins, holding his gaze.

“You were the first to do everything. The first to reach out, the first to kiss me, the first to le–”

Jeongguk cuts himself off, eyes sad, but Jimin doesn’t need him to finish to know what he was thinking. What they were both thinking.

The first to leave.

Jeongguk’s jaw flickers with tension.

“I want to be the first this time,” he whispers, “just to be safe.”

This time.

Does he mean it?

Jimin can’t bring himself to ask. He can’t bring himself to do anything but blink back up at Jeongguk– but that’s okay, because the younger man isn’t finished.

“Hyung.”

A beat of silence.

“Yes?” Jimin answers, breathless, confused, and– against all odds– almost hopeful.

“I– I listened to MUSE.”

Oh.

“Oh.”

Jimin wonders if this is how Jeongguk had felt as he sat and looked through the collection designs for the first time– this awkward twinge of nervousness. It feels obvious to him– what the album was about.

But is it really? Is it obvious to Jeongguk? Did he recognize it in the same way that Jimin had– when he’d looked over those sketches and seen little pieces of himself reflected back at him?

Like watching himself through another’s eyes. Like staring into a broken mirror.

“What–” Jeongguk’s voice catches a little bit and he blinks, licking his lips, eyes flicking across Jimin’s face, taking in his reaction piece by piece.

“What happened, hyung? What happened to us?”

Jimin can’t help the way his face crumples, the way his eyes sting. He can’t remember the last time they’ve burnt and welled like this.

“Oh, no, no– hyung– Jimin hyung…”

Jeongguk’s thumbs brush gently over his cheeks again– oh so softly clearing away the tears as they make lonely trails across his skin.

“Please don’t. Please don’t cry.” Jeongguk’s voice is thick, and around the biting blur, Jimin can tell that the younger man's eyes are wet.

“I– I’m sorry hyung– I didn’t mean– please–”

Jimin shudders a little. What is Jeongguk apologizing for? Jeongguk doesn’t have anything to apologize for. All of this has been Jimin’s fault. Jimin’s own foolishness, Jimiin’s actions and Jeongguk– Jeongguk has never been anything but good.

So good.

Too good– sweet and kind and–

Jimin surges forward, throwing his arms around the broad expanse of Jeongguk’s back, burying his face in the junction of the younger man's shoulder. 

If Jeongguk weren’t already drenched from the cold deluge he must’ve run through to get from his car to Jimin’s apartment, Jimin might feel guilty for soaking the younger man’s collar with his tears. Strong arms circle over his back, tugging him even closer, and he feels Jeongguk’s chin settle over his shoulder, pointy and familiar.

“Don’t cry, hyung,” the younger man whispers in his ear, “I really can’t bear it when you cry.”

That, of course, wrenches another ragged sob from Jimin's throat.

“I- I’m sorry,” he cries.

“I’m so sorry, Jeongguk.”

Soft hands cup his face again, caress his cheeks. 

“What for, hyung?”

What does he mean ‘ what for?’

For everything-

All of this has been Jimin’s fault– from the very beginning. He’s done nothing but hurt and ruin and now he’s taken away even Jeongguk’s artistry.

“Everything. Everything from back then and now and your- your anonymity –”

Jimin is so worked up that he trips over the last word, stumbling awkwardly through a half coherent apology that won’t ever be enough for what he’s done–

“Hyung.” Jeongguk tilts Jimin’s face up, forcing their eyes to meet, “hyung. I don’t care about that.”

What?

“You– what?” Jimin sniffles.

“I don’t care about the anonymity or anything like that.”

“But–”

“Before I came here, I asked Seokjin to prepare a press release.”

It takes Jimin a moment to understand what he means by that.

A press release.

Jeongguk is going to tell the world.

“But– you–”

“Jimin, I promise it doesn’t matter. It’s not like someone wouldn’t have found out sooner or later.”

Jimin feels pathetic. He feels small and weak and worse than he ever has– worse even than during those long weeks writing MUSE, when he locked himself in the studio and refused to leave. Jeongguk comforts him so gently, so warmly, but Jimin doesn’t deserve any of it.

He thinks of the flicker of hurt behind those doe eyes.

‘What happened to us, hyung?’

Pull yourself together, he thinks, lightly lifting his face out of Jeongguk’s hands and scrubbing at it– almost violently– with the sleeves of his shirt pulled over his palms. The fabric scratches irritably are his tear-tender skin but he doesn’t care.

“It’s late,” he says, ignoring the awkward thickness of his voice.

Jeongguk nods, doe eyes hesitant again.

“You’re drenched,” Jimin continues.

Jeongguk shifts a little on his feet, eyes dropping to the puddle accumulating under him on Jimin’s expensive apartment floor. He looks like he thinks Jimin is going to kick him out.

“Take a shower,” Jimin tells him. “You can borrow some clothes, and then–” he swallows around the painful lump in his throat, “then, if you still want to know, I think we should talk.”

-

A whisper.

“What are you doing?”

Jeongguk’s eyes bore back into themselves as he leans over the counter in Jimin’s bathroom, knuckles whitened from grasping its edge. In the mirror his face is drawn and white, a sharp contrast to the sodden splay of dark curls plastered to his forehead by the rain.

He watches his lips move, self chastising.

“What are you doing?”

He closes his eyes, hoping to escape the anxiety so apparent across his own face, but all he can see behind shut lids is Jimin– devastated tears trailing down his cheeks.

There’s a gnawing guilt in Jeongguk’s gut. He’s not sure why, exactly, he’s guilty, but that’s not enough to make it go away.

He’s never seen Jimin cry.

Not like that.

He’s seen tears trapped against Jimins lashes. He’s seen Jimin dig his teeth deep into the flesh of his bottom lip in an effort to keep them from falling. But Jeongguk has never actually seen them fall.

He hates it.

He hates himself for being the cause of it.

And he’s scared.

He was a fool to come here like this.

A fool to hope for anything more than what he already holds close. 

Sure, it’s not like Jimin had kicked him out– but he can’t imagine the older man kicking anyone out into the frigid night rain. But his kindness is just that– kindness.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

Jeongguk’s eyes fall open again. The boy in the mirror stares back, shivering and pale.

He wishes he could recover that determination. That conviction that had swelled in his chest as he listened to MUSE, as Jimin's smoke and honey voice had clouded his ears like cotton– blotting out the entire world– narrowing it down to Jeongguk and those songs.

Jeongguk and those memories.

He’d listened to it three times through, barely an hour ago, and that had been all it took. He was certain.

Certain that he’d recognized it– recognized every phrase and beat as if they’d fallen from his own lips and pulsed from his own heart. Those melodies that reached long fingered hands under his ribs and cleared out all the old hurt– the old anger– because perhaps he should have known.

Perhaps he should’ve known that it couldn’t have been so simple as Jimin just leaving. Perhaps he should have known that it couldn’t have been easy for Jimin either.

Perhaps he had known.

Perhaps he had known, and ignored it anyway– convinced that the risk of trying again– the risk of anything again– was too high.

Coward.

He’d been a coward. Had he just been brave, had he just looked Jimin in the eye– all those weeks ago when the elder appeared in his studio like an escaped figment of his imagination– had he just forced that loneliness, that betrayal, that hurt, swirling in his gut into words– then perhaps this nauseating swirl of anxiety and guilt wouldn’t ever have occurred. But instead he’d fled, and hidden, and avoided and now he’s here– bowed over the sink in Jimin’s bathroom, staring into his own half panicked eyes, wondering if he’d just fucked up irrevocably. If kissing Jimin was the last straw– the one that would send him fleeing far away from Jeongguk all over again.

Jeongguk uncurls his stiff fingers from the counter top.

Faintly, he can make out the sounds of Jimin bustling around his apartment leaking under the bathroom door. 

He’ll start to wonder if he doesn’t hear the shower running soon. Start to worry.

Jeongguk doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want Jimin to worry.

He lets out a long sigh, grimacing at the uncomfortable sensation of his rain drenched clothes sticking to his skin.

He’ll take a shower.

Then he’ll go back out there and hear whatever Jimin has to say to him.

Jeongguk tries to tell himself that everything will be okay.

He turns on the water.

-

Jimin is waiting on the too stiff couch when Jeongguk emerges from the bathroom, scrubbing at his hair with a towel. 

The younger man is wearing a tee shirt and sweatpants that Jimin lent him. 

Both are too small. Jimin feels his mouth go a little dry as his eyes trace the strip of muscled abdomen revealed under the hem of his shirt, pink and blushy from the heat of the shower.

Not the time.

Jimin swallows, averting his tear puffy eyes.

He stares instead at the mug of hot tea cradled in his palms. Fragrant steam twines out of his mouth, fresh and green like summer rain. There's another mug sitting on the cold glass table before the couch, waiting, just in case Jeongguk decides he wants it.

Jimin feels a little like that mug right now. Waiting. Uncertain. Hopeful?

For some odd reason, the thought makes his lips quirk up for a moment.

The other side of the couch lets out an almost impossible creak as it dips under the weight of Jeongguk’s body, and the younger man freezes for a second startled by the sound. He looks at Jimin with wide eyes as if making sure that he hasn’t broken anything.

“It’s okay,” Jimin tells him, “it’s just new.”

It’s not new. 

The couch, that is. 

It’s not new at all– but it is new to this– new to being occupied by more than just a lonely half asleep Jimin.

Jeongguk nods a little. Relaxes, tucking his feet up underneath him in the cushions and combing his damp hair behind his ears.

And Jimin– Jimin just looks.

Looks at Jeongguk.

Really looks at him.

Messy dark hair, kind eyes, shoulders that strain against the fabric of the shirt that Jimin has lent him, long fingered hands that twist about each other, dappled with ink.

“You grew up so well.”

Jeongguk blinks.

“I didn’t even grow up that much, hyung.”

“Yes you did,” Jimin says, “So much.”

He wonders whether that was partly his fault, whether his disappearance had forced Jeongguk ile Jeongguk looks like he can’t tell whether or not he should be offended by that, settling for pursing his lips a little.

“I wasn’t that immature,” he grumbles under his breath.

Jimin smiles a little, agreeing.

But when he turns back to Jeongguk, the beginnings of the smile fall from his face.

The younger man’s brow is furrowed, eyes dark with worry. His fingers writhe around each other, reddened by the pressure with which he twists them.

“Hyung,” Jeongguk says slowly, carefully, after a stretch of silence that’s too motionless to be comfortable.

“If you– if you don’t want this– if you– you have to tell me this time, hyung– just tell me and I’ll go, but I ”

Jimin cuts him off. Sharply. A little too sharply if his surprised blinking is any indication, but Jimin won’t have the younger believe that Jimin doesn’t want him here. Doesn’t want him , after everything.

“I want you here, Guk. I want to talk about this, I just– I just don’t know how to start.”

For years, Jimin has thought of what he would say to Jeongguk if he ever saw the younger man again. If he ever got the opportunity to explain– to apologize– but now, sitting across from him on a creaky couch with rain pounding against the windows, the words won’t come.

“You could– you could–” Jeongguk’s voice is hesitant, careful, “you could start by telling me what happened back then.”

He almost looks like he doesn’t want to know, but he’s right.

That’s as good a place to start as any.

Jimin nods.  

And then, he explains.

Chapter Text

Busan, Republic of Korea, April 2021

The roar of the crowd chases Jimin off the stage– still clinging to his sweat soaked skin and reverberating in his ears as he slips down under the skeleton of the platform and into backstage.

It had been a good concert– a great one actually– maybe even one of the best of his entire career (though that may not be saying much as it’s been less than two years since his debut.)

Still, a good concert.

Perhaps it was being back home– really back home– back in Busan– where even the air tastes familiar. Perhaps it was the surprise song that he released with the final performance of the night– a song that sung of two boys and a hot summer’s day and the unfathomable stretch of the glittering ocean before their eyes. Perhaps it was the way that new music had driven the audience into a heightened fervor– a thunderstorm rumble of stomping feet and excited shouts.

Jimin’s not sure.

All he knows as he ducks under a piling and braces his hands against his knees to suck in deep gasps of air is that it’s over. 

Vaguely he can tell that his staff is surrounding him– that one of the tech guys is unhooking his mic pack from his jacket, but they fuzz away in the corners of his vision and he doesn’t bother trying to focus on their harried motions.

This part always hurts a little bit. 

It’s so hard, going from blinding lights to the shade beneath the stage. Going from tumultuous roaring to hollow silence– punctured only by the harsh rasp of his own stuttered breaths and the drumbeat pulse of his own heart.

He thinks of the last concert– a showcase in Seoul for the debut of MUSE– and how utterly painful it had been to go back to his empty apartment with its too stiff couch and frigid floors after. As if a vital organ had been torn from under his ribs leaving nothing but a shallow ache.

It’s melancholy. 

Jimin feels lonely even as members of his staff swarm around him, chattering to each other and pressing an oxygen mask over his face. He’s surrounded by people, by friends even, but he still– he’s alone.

It’s begun to get to him now– really get to him. 

Started to take up residence in his chest– started to sting – when strong arms wrap around his waist. Jimin relaxes a little and then Jeongguk’s chin hooks so familiarly over his shoulder, nestling against the crook of his neck. 

“Hyung.”

Hot breath fans over the delicate skin of Jimin’s neck.

“What is it, Gukkie?”

Jeongguk doesn’t reply– at least not with words– instead muffling a groan in Jimin’s shoulder.

Jimin reaches a hand up to pet the younger man's hair, a gesture he knows Jeongguk prefers over just about anything, and surely enough, Jeongguk melts, practically purring as Jimin’s fingertips comb through his curls.

“You want to go to the beach?” Jeongguk says, after a minute of this, with lips grazing Jimin’s ear.

“Tonight?” Jimin asks, and he feels the way Jeongguk nods into his shoulder.

“I’ve missed it.”

“Okay,” he says, “I have too.”

It takes time for Jimin to prepare to leave the venue– after forcibly detangling Jeongguk from over his shoulder. The entire time, Jeongguk perches on a chair in the corner and waits, following Jimin back and forth across the dressing room with his eyes.

Jimin tries to smother his giggles at the sight, at how similar the younger man looks to a puppy waiting to be fed,eyes big and expectant. Everytime Jimin nears him, he sits up a little straighter, as if he thinks that this time will be the time, and Jimin feels a twinge of guilt as Jeongguk then realizes that Jimin was just putting away his mic in the cabinet next to him, or taking a drink from his water bottle and goes slouching back down into his seat.

It happens so often that by the time Jimin really is done and ready to go, Jeongguk remains slouched and half pouting in his seat as Jimin approaches him, only straightening slightly when Jimin comes to a stop between his knees, smiling down at him.

Jeongguk blinks back with those wide eyes.

“Let’s go,” Jimin tells him, with a smile.

The nights are still cold this time of year, even as the turning of the season has begun to suffuse the daytime with weak strands of golden sunlight, the pale origins of warmth.

Sand crunches under their feet like frost stiffened grass,. The sound is loud and obnoxious– but Jimin supposes that it does make the sand easier to walk across.

And it's dark- so dark that they can barely see where their feet fall, barely make out the blue shivering gleam of the ocean waves in front of them.

Jeongguk’s hand envelopes his own, warm and firm. Jimin doesn’t think he’s worn gloves even one time this past winter. The younger man’s hands do the job far better than any scraps of fabric ever could as he drags Jimin towards a slab of driftwood washed up on the beach.

It’s not until they’re sitting that Jimin recognizes where they are.

The fire pit.

It’s empty now. Cold and dark– but the circle of fused sand and charred driftwood where they had once built fire remains, a black blot against the frost coated beach, devouring moonlight like a black hole.

Jeongguk nudges at it with a toe, staring down at the smear of ash across his boot with an unreadable expression. His fingers tighten around Jimins, and Jimin squeezes silently back.  

They don’t talk– but that's nothing new. Neither of them have ever felt any pressure to fill the silence in each other's presence. 

-

Jeongguk remembers the last time he sat here.

On this driftwood bench, on this beach, under these stars.

The night before he left for Seoul

It had been cold then too.  Unusual for that early in the Autumn. But cold– salt water wind whipping off frothy waves nipping at his face, biting at his fingertips, the narrow blaze of the setting sun blinding him over the horizon. It had been a year since Jimin left, but there hadn’t been a day that passed without a visit to the beach.

It’s strange to be back here like this.

Even stranger to be back here with Jimin. 

And yet, they’d fallen so easily back into their old ways over the past months– that Jeongguk can almost believe that the older man had never been gone. That neither of them had ever left this beach– this city– at all.

He lolls his head to the side, tracing Jimin’s moonlight gilded profile slowly with his eyes. 

Jeongguk wants to memorize this.

This moment. 

The mercurial glint of Jimin’s dangling earrings tossed on an icy breeze, the red press of his slightly chapped lips, the wet gleam reflection of the ocean in those narrow eyes.

He’ll draw it all, probably, when they get back to the hotel, but for now, Jeongguk just stares.

When Jimin’s eyes finally find his, there’s hesitation there. It’s not new to Jeongguk– looking into those eyes and finding uncertainty.

He knows that Jimin still blames himself for a lot of what had happened. That even now, the older man can’t quite shake those long, empty years between the past and the present.  

It’s faded since that night in Jimin’s apartment– weakening day by day– but it’s still there. Jeongguk sees it now– that sliver of indecision.

“Hyung?” he whispers. It’s not even a question really– more of an acknowledgement that he can tell Jimin is bothered by something, and even though Jeongguk is almost certain he knows what it is, he asks anyway.

Jimin’s eyes are sad. 

The moonlight washes his skin out, tints the planes of his face an ethereal blue. He looks like he belongs here. He looks like a creature that only came up out of the silvered waves for a moment, to bask in star glow, before returning to the ocean’s depths. 

Beautiful.

Beautiful, but still a little sad.

“You know I’m sorry, right?” he murmurs, wetting his lips with a flick of his tongue, “I know I’ve told you a thousand times by now, but I am.”

Jeongguk feels the corners of his mouth tugging up, ever so slightly.

Jimin has told him a thousand times.

He’s apologized in innumerable different ways, with words and caresses and kisses, and everything in between, but Jeongguk had already forgiven him long ago.

Jeongguk forgave Jimin the first time he listened to MUSE– locked away in his apartment with a weeping bottle of soju and nothing more than the winter downpour for company.

Jeongguk might even have forgiven him before that– on that night when Jimin had followed him out into the rain after that interview, and they had argued until Taehyung came stumbling in between them.

Maybe that’s part of the reason that, now, as Jeongguk stares back at Jimin, pale and regretful in the moonlight, he says something new.

Not ‘ I know’ or ‘I’m sorry too’ or ‘You know I forgive you.’

Not any of those things that the elder has heard just as many times as he’s apologized.

“I love you,” Jeongguk says.

“What?” Jimin breathes. 

His eyes are wide.

Jeongguk grins, nose scrunching.

“I love you, hyung.”

He’s never said it before, though he’s certain that Jimin must know just as well as he does by now. It’s been seven years after all.

He continues.

“And I feel like I might have loved you since the first moment I saw you.”

Jimin’s lips quirk up.

“On the bathroom floor?” he asks jokingly.

Jeongguk shakes his head, half dazed smile still plastered across his lips.

“No– the bus stop. Since the bus stop.”

Jimin huffs out a soft laugh, reaching a hand up to brush Jeongguk’s curls away from where they’ve fallen over his eyes.

“Right,” he says quietly, gaze roving across Jeongguk’s face, “since the bus stop.”

His hand is warm, and Jeongguk leans into it a bit, lashes fluttering. 

It comes quietly– then. 

Jimin’s response.

Soft and seeping as the sea breeze, half swallowed by the crashing of the waves.

“I love you, too.”

The night wind is biting cold, but Jeongguk still feels as if he’s alight from within. His eyes meet Jimin’s, steady and certain and dappled in shadow and silver shine.

“I know.”