Chapter Text
When someone grabs him roughly early Thursday morning Jimin screams quietly for a little bit, flopping about in his bed. He knows it’s Freddy Krueger come to get him. He’s going to die ugly, with his face mask on and wearing the same pyjamas he’s kept since year six.
“Shh” Jungkook slurs in the darkness, giggling.
“It's just me Jiminie”
And so it is, Jungkook waking him up at 3AM with his stupid drunk self and rather impressive erection.
“Why are you hard” Jimin hisses.
“I got blue-balled” Jungkook whines, and there’s a noise that sounds suspiciously like him humping the mattress. Jimin’s mattress. Jimin doesn’t have the patience for this. They have practice in four hours and he’s still half submerged in his dream, which had involved Mimosas and the quiet ocean of Busan.
“Okay” Jimin says.
“I’m gonna give you one chance to shut the fuck up and go to sleep. And don’t even think of rubbing yourself off on me you big stupid idiot”
Merciful silence. And then he feels an insistent press against his ass cheeks, and he begins to protest loudly only for Jungkook to shove his fingers with total lack of coordination into his mouth and grab him closer until he’s effectively spooning him.
Jimin is wide awake now, tasting Jungkook’s fingers and irritated beyond relief.
What a fucking life.
“I got blue-balled” Jungkook says again, sleepily, as if he hasn’t repeated that same thing seven times in the last minute. Jimin is starting to wonder if he’s misunderstood the meaning and thinks it’s something to be proud of.
He pours coco-pops into a bowl, the stuff Jungkook buys in bulk down at the foreign food store. He’s only allowed to eat it twice a week to keep his weight in check but Jimin figures he should make an exception. He’s not wrong. Jungkook grabs the bowl the instance he’s poured the milk and splashes it against his face. About half gets in his mouth. The rest travels down his chin and onto his leather jacket.
Jungkook puts his head on the table and weeps.
“I got rejected. Said I was too much. Too good-looking, too famous. How are those bad things?? I got told you’re too down to earth, Gukkie. So it’s okay for me to be an idol but not okay? But then I act like a normal person and that’s not okay too? Is there a middle point? Who am I, Jimin-ssi?”
As Jungkook sobs and eats coco pops directly off the surface of the table, Jimin considers this information. He had known vaguely that Jungkook was seeing someone but never known who. It had been mentioned in passing and he’d sensed Jungkook’s unwillingness to talk about it. It had made the younger miserable for an unhealthy amount of time.
It bothered him that people caused Jungkook pain but he was the one to mop it all up. Jimin was the one who shoved the tears back inside him and cleaned him up to send him out to the world again.
“Oh Gukkie” Jimin says eventually, placing a hand on Jungkook’s forearm cautiously, because he has a tendency to thrash about when he’s this drunk.
“You’re okay. She ain’t shit. Anyone would be lucky to have you.”
Jungkook looks up at him. It hurts Jimin’s heart a little because he’s dressed to kill and he’s even done his makeup, although it’s a little smudged from all the crying. He had really gone out all dolled up just to be shot down by no-name.
“Even you?” he says.
Jimin blinks. He tries to understand the question.
“Uh” he replies after twenty seconds of obvious stalling.
“Yes. Even me Gukkie. I’m so blessed to have you”
Jungkook gives a hiccup, followed by a sneeze.
Jimin watches, his heart exploding with adoration.
Eventually they end up on the sofa in total silence with the lights off. Jungkook spoons him again but with appropriate distance and no erection this time. It’s witching hour even in Seoul, and there’s a certain tinge of serenity to the air that evades them by day. Jimin remembers Busan, how the Milky way had enthralled him when he was eight years old and still full of juvenile wonder. The stars can’t be seen here in the capital.
“Here” Jimin says, snapping Jungkook out of his brooding trance.
“This might cheer you up. Namjoonie sent me a snippet of the intro for our new album. It’s only like, 30 seconds but it’s dope as”
He opens kakao talk, scrolling through their conversation to find the audio. He clicks play and the phone speakers play the low, crooning ballad with the distinct undertone of a harp.
Just let me love you
Just let me love you
When the universe was first made
Everything had been decided
“Yo” Jungkook says before the audio even finishes.
He doesn’t sound so drunk now, just sad.
Jimin gets it. There’s an aching familiarity to the tune, like something he’d loved and forgotten. The perfect nostalgia of the moment envelopes them.
“That’s beautiful”
“Yeah” Jimin says, pretending not to be affected. There’s something about listening to a love ballad that nobody knows at 3:30AM, feeling the soft heat of one another’s bodies and lying still and drowsy on the sofa.
“They’ll probably tweak it heaps. It might not even make the final cut but like, I think this album is really going to be something”
And Jimin feels that overwhelming urge to do something dumb, like hold Jungkook’s hand or say something awkward because Jungkook is too pure. Jungkook is his best friend, and he needs him to know how much he treasures him. It’s hard as two men to validate one another and express love without mockery.
Jimin does the next closest thing he can think of.
“They’ll give it to you, for sure.”
“No” Jungkook says.
“They’ll give it to you. Your voice is perfect for it. This is your song.”
And in this way, they love each other in the shadows.
“I can literally always see you flexing your thighs when you dance”
“Hyung, stop roasting me”
“It’s the truth”
Jimin finds himself watching fan cams on a rare day off in the blanket fort Jungkook meticulously created in their bedroom. They’ve used all of their own bedsheets and the majority of Hoseok’s and sit swaddled in dressing gowns like a pair of teenage girls. The laptop takes pride of place in the centre of their little shelter.
Jimin watches Jungkook execute the choreography of “Am I wrong” with ease, and feels a little hot under his collar as 2D Jungkook smirks, as if the complex movements were child’s play.
“How do you walk around looking like a whole grown man when you’re like, twelve?”
“I was nineteen here hyung.”
The real-life Jungkook beside him actually looks nineteen. He has cheeto dust in his bangs and a pimple on his nose. He’s more tanned than he appears on camera and has a nervous fidget.
On-screen Jungkook doesn’t even seem like a real person. He’s sexy and his legs are so long. Jimin can’t resist ogling his unreasonably large thighs.
“Oh there I am.” he says as his own, significantly shorter figure dances onto the screen.
“Yeah” Jungkook says a little breathlessly.
“Looking good hyung”
Jimin feels a little attacked by the sudden compliment. This won’t do.
“21st century girl” is next and they watch an enthusiastic Jungkook bedecked in red checkers bounce around the stage. He’s really feeling it. Jimin knows he’d contributed some ideas to the choreography and had practiced extra to really get this one right. On-screen Jungkook looks smug, like he absolutely owns everyone’s ass. He simply exudes performer charisma with every step.
“Okay” he says when he fears Jungkook may be going purple from the effort of holding in whatever he’s trying to say.
“Spit it out”
(On-screen Jimin and Jungkook knock their heads together, a cute little gimmick Jungkook had come up with. The crowd goes ballistic.)
“You think I look good?” It’s said so softly it’s almost imagined, like he’s speaking to himself.
Jimin thinks a little. Objectively, he knows Jungkook is gorgeous. He’s toned and has a tight little ass, as well as the most symmetrical face he’s ever seen. He’s even come to admire the obscure details like his short, sharp eyebrows and his thin upper lip. The things Jungkook doesn’t even like about himself.
“Well” he says, struggling to summarize all these reluctant thoughts.
“Obviously.”
Jungkook sighs happily next to him. He looks adorable all cuddled up and warm, like a content chinchilla. On-screen Jungkook dances aggressively. Owns the stage.
“Jimin-hyung”
“Yeah”
“Are you a virgin?”
Jimin considers this. There’s not much Jungkook doesn’t know about him, but they tend to skirt around the topic of sex and relationships because the best way to keep a secret is to never tell it. The smallest slip up could lead to a full-blown scandal, a witch hunt of every woman he’s ever even smiled at across a crowded room.
But Jungkook is his safe. Jungkook keeps Jimin’s things barred inside of him and knows everything, from what hurts the most to how much he misses his mum and his small house in Busan.
“Well” he begins. Tries not to sound too cocky.
“Obviously, there were people before debut. But not too serious. Just like, hand stuff?”
He sucks in a breath.
“And then after debut- there were other, trainees. And some stylist noonas. Don’t tell anyone”
He had lost his virginity to her at eighteen. She’d touched the nape of his neck and he’d felt the fight go out of him. He’d yielded. She drowned him in the scent of butter and the soft velvet of her palms. She’d touched him everywhere, hands like flowers and begged for it. He’d given it to her anywhere; in the dorm at midnight, between rehearsals, in her apartment in Uijongbu. Once he started he wasn’t sure how to stop.
She had broken his heart one summer evening. She’d left without explanation and Jimin could feel himself disappearing at night. He’d wanted to die in the literal sense of the world with no theatrics of poetry to it. His world hollowed out and swallowed him with it.
Through all the bullshit, Jungkook had tugged his hand and asked him what was wrong.
He had been this gangly little fucker, scared without his mother and too young for the bad things in life.
Jimin had pulled through.
One day he simply could not remember her name anymore.
After that, there were hook-ups. There was him winking at a JYP trainee at the melon awards and fucking her desperately fast, trying their best to be silent and racing time. Then there was his personal trainer who he took on the bathroom floor. She’d panted his name, knees pushed up against her breasts as he’d fucked into her ruthlessly, tugging her panties up to her ankles.
That had been when he was desperately young and willing to abuse his star power to burn through all his female acquaintances. But nothing could fill that yawning chasm in his heart.
Jungkook had stood by him.
He’d woken up on his nineteenth birthday feeling oddly saturated. Jungkook had made a cupcake and placed it by his bedside.
He didn’t need it anymore.
“Was this that time three years ago?”
“How do you know?”
Jungkook gave a knowing chuckle.
“Everyone was so angry at you all the time. There were heaps of team meetings behind your back. Tae said you were a man whore like, once. They tried to keep me away from it cos I was still a teenager or something. I had my guesses, though”
Jimin feels an intermingled sense of guilt and relief. Jungkook knows now, but he doesn’t really know the nitty gritty of the bullshit Jimin got up to, how filthy and stupid and immature he’d been.
“You?” he asks, trying desperately to divert the attention to Jungkook instead.
“Never.” Jungkook says meekly.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Just like, hand stuff. After debut. Had a few blow jobs. But I want my first time to be with someone special? It seems cheesy but.”
“It’s not” Jimin says automatically, remembering his first.
“It does matter”
He stares at Jungkook who has shifted his body slightly to face Jimin. The video plays, forgotten, the boom of “Spring Day” filling the tent, the small enclosed space where they are alone.
Jungkook is a virgin. Jimin can’t help but imagine the woman who will sleep with him one day. The fictitious woman with the long hair and perfect smile who is petite and lovely with commendable manners. Jungkook would be committed and he’d love her with his every last breath. Their house would be beautiful with magnolias in the garden and rich upholstery in every room. They’d have sex, knocking the breakfast spread to the auburn carpeted floor. They’d fuck in the bathroom with the too-large tub and bright windows, not bothering with curtains or neighbours or paparazzi, too lost in each other’s souls. There would be lazy, fucked-out sex on summer afternoons on the loveseat facing the ocean and she’d whisper I love you in the waning light.
In the imaginary house in his mind it is always summer and there is always champagne and she is stunning as a sunrise. And Jungkook is happy.
“Hyung” Jungkook says finally, interrupting his reverie.
“Thanks for the other night. It really helped”
Jimin clears his throat but there are no words there. He remembers with a strange flush of embarrassment, Jungkook and his tears. How they’d held each other in their sleep.
The moment is hijacked by Taehyung who yells loudly for their attention behind the linen walls. They jerk apart, only now realising how close they’d been sitting, almost laying on one another while deep in conversation.
“Can I come in??” Taehyung hollers.
“I have shrimp crackers!”
Jimin composes himself quickly to invite Taehyung inside with a winning smile.
Christmas heralds the end of their pseudo-holiday, and the year kicks off with a series of award shows which Jimin begrudgingly attends.
The New Year countdown is one of Jimin’s least favourites events, although he’d never dare to admit it. Instead of spending time alone or with his family as he always used to, he’s stuck on a freezing cold stage with a bunch of idols he’s nodded at politely once or twice in the bathroom.
He’s pretty fucked off by 11PM, stranded beneath the strobe lights with the crowd ogling him like a zoo animal. He’s been posing for almost two hours which has exhausted him mentally. It’s hard to keep the stormy look off his face, but there’s the chance it’ll be mistaken for some kind of handsome smoulder. Maybe.
At two minutes to midnight he looks at Jungkook, who looks bored but is sustaining his smile. It’s moments like this when he admires Jungkook’s endless professionalism. The ability to continue the act, if only for the fans.
Jungkook senses his mood immediately and looks at him carefully, in what could be interpreted as a passing glance. Jungkook is so attuned to Jimin’s feelings, he almost knows how he’s feeling before Jimin does.
“Jiminie?” he mouths, cocking his head in question.
Jimin nods reassuringly. 50 seconds now.
It strikes him that the first person he will see in this new year is Jungkook, and some sappy part of him is happy, because Jungkook is really his person. But because he’s a fucking idiot, his brain starts thinking of the imaginary house again, where Jungkook will spend his New Years Eve in peace one day. There’d be Moet et Chandon and kisses between the bedsheets. The fireworks would be far away and they would be alone, together.
The air explodes into colour and noise as the clock strikes midnight and Jungkook grabs Jimin carelessly, tossing them into some ridiculous group hug which involves the seven of them jumping in an energetic circle. Jimin feels a jolt of joy at Jungkook’s arm around his neck, at always being the first person Jungkook reaches for. In this moment at least, Jungkook is his and no one can take that from him.
When the obnoxious techno music comes on to blow some liveliness back into the crowd Jungkook snaps away, breaking in to the most ridiculously exaggerated dance ever. It’s some sort of pop and lock movement with severely incorrect form. It’s especially funny with Red Velvet as the back drop, politely bobbing to the music and smiling at the cameras.
Everybody is laughing by the time they finally head off the stage and Jungkook orbits Jimin, watching him with a familiar fondness in his eyes.
“Hey thanks” Jimin says finally.
“It’s good hyung” Jungkook says.
“Just need you to be happy”
Jimin’s heart throbs. Literally. Surely friends don't just say that sort of shit? He feels warm despite the sub-zero temperature and light, like he’s floating on clouds. Jungkook looks criminally pretty decked out in his BST outfit, hair already styled and the cold pinching his cheeks. There’s a coral tint to his skin from the exertion of dancing so violently moments ago.
By then Jungkook has stopped moving, as if commanded by an invisible force. He’s standing side on, turning back at Jimin. The other members continue on down the corridor, oblivious to the stragglers. Backstage they become invisible, with the likes of EXO and (G)I-DLE running around, performers in different states of undress and a million makeup artists, producers, directors and stagehands straining to make the moment come together.
Jimin takes the rare moment of indifference to study the delicate features of Jungkook’s face. His natural elegance. He is perfect. There’s no doubt Jungkook is the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.
If Jimin wanted to, he could, perhaps, just move forward and-
Jungkook catches his hands before they reach their destination. He looks awfully confused. He rocks back on his heels. In the semi-darkness Jungkook pulls Jimin flush to his chest as if they’re dancing the tango. His face is directly before Jimin’s own. Their bodies press toegether, heady and warm. Jimin is hyper-conscious of Jungkook’s whole body, can accurately pinpoint where his thighs are, where his arms hold him in, the way his diaphragm expands as he breathes. Jimin watches Jungkook blink in a sort of stupor, mesmerised by the colour of his irises. This close, he’s forced to look up in to Jungkook’s eyes as their fingers lace together, bodies relaxing against one another.
The second lasts years but Jungkook is first to pull away, giving an awkward little laugh and patting Jimin down like a dried dog.
Jimin stares, dazed by Jungkook’s retreating figure.
They perform in seventeen minutes. The scene rushes back to him in a great crashing wave, all the sound, the movement.
He’d almost forgotten where he was.
Jimin sweeps the incident under the rug to join the other gross, problematic feelings that have been rising up inside him lately. The thoughts which threaten to overcome him when he feels Jungkook twitch in his sleep whenever they sleep together in the tiny single bed which is not nearly wide enough to accommodate two bodies.
By the next day he’s almost forgotten the moment and Jungkook has too, laughing over his cereal as Jimin imitates his brother in a heavy Busan accent.
Life is good. Jimin is just fine.
It doesn’t take long for Jimin to figure out that they’re going to be sweating like pigs for the entirety of the Golden Disk Awards. At least he’ll look sexy doing it, dressed in some satin article with gold stitching on the shoulders and chest. Backstage he adjusts and readjusts his hair which is crackly from the bleach and giving off the distinct scent of expensive hairspray.
Jungkook is dressed suspiciously like a butler in his square little coat and pristine dress shirt.
Jimin gives him shit for it, bantering playfully as they work to calm their nerves.
“Can you even breath in that thing, Jungoo? I feel like you’d rip the shoulders if you went in for a high five”
Jungkook grimaces.
“At least my dick got room to breathe though, hyung. Slacks are a happy gift after those fucking leather jeans”
This compels Jimin to stare at Jungkook’s crotch area for a solid five seconds before Jungkook pulls the “My eyes are up here hyung” jibe on him, and he focuses his stare on the younger’s nether regions just a few more seconds to drive his point home.
After they’re finished laughing at Jungkook’s very sweaty, very unfortunate leather pants era they settle into a comfortable silence, staring at one another in the tilting light. There are other acts before them, the sonic boom of the backtrack and gentle thunder of the audience reaching them, sounding from further than they’re used to.
The looking at one another was something they devised as trainees, when they were too jittery to look at Hoseok or even practice in front of their managers. Just staring at one another’s faces, noticing the boring detail of each cheek, the slant of one another’s eyes. It calmed Jimin, reminded him that he would never face the stage alone. Jungkook would be with him, three steps away, two steps away, pushing closer and further in time to the music.
He studies the mole beneath Jungkook’s bottom lip, perfectly centred and utterly adorable. He extends his observation to his top lip which is thin and drawn straight, accentuating the fullness of the bottom one. Jungkook’s eyes drown him quickly, the round warmth instilling Jimin with an unspeakable confidence.
(He doesn’t think about their moment on New years day. He doesn’t. He can’t be missing the warmth of Jungkook’s palms)
“Oi lovebirds” Taehyung hawks from where he’s getting his eyebrows threaded.
“We have less than ten left”
Breaking out of his trance Jimin grins at Jungkook.
“Don’t pull out your earpiece this time. Might not be able to put it back in.”
“Jiminie, that was seven months ago. Let it die.”
True to script, Jungkook practically yanks his ear piece out mid performance, giving Jimin the cheekiest smirk he’s ever seen in his life. The fans scream, Jungkook breaking into a genuine smile when hit with the full volume of the crowd.
He struggles to shove the earpiece back in time for Yoongi’s rap. Jimin experiences a flare of panic, and then adoration as Jungkook winks at him, finally sliding it back into place.
They take home Global K-pop artist, the crowd roaring like an animal.
Jungkook tugs him in tight, an explosion of joy in his wide eyes before he schools his expression into one of neutral handsomeness for the cameras.
His hand is way too fucking sweaty to be holding Jimin’s, but nothing compares to their closeness in the moment of victory, being beside Jungkook as they conquer the world step by step.
Jimin is the last to take a shower, which sucks ass but you can’t be good at everything- and Jimin really isn’t good at rock, paper scissors. He returns to his room half asleep, dragging his feet down the corridor and banging shoulder-first into the bedroom door. Hoseok is knocked out already, snoring lightly and drooling ugly on his pillow. Jimin’s eyes move to his bed, his palace, his favourite place in the damn world only to see a tuft of chestnut hair wriggling out of view.
He sighs, endearment filling him already at the sight of a suspiciously Jungkook-shaped lump beneath his bed covers. He closes the door, blind for a few seconds before his eyes adjust to the velvet darkness.
“Oh dear” he sighs theatrically, before sinking down heavy on Jungkook’s poorly concealed form.
“My bed looks awful lumpy today”
Jungkook squeals, writhing around until Jimin is forced to stumble up into the darkness, breathless with laughter and feeling for his bedside table to steady himself.
He watches Jungkook sit up, his outline floating up into Jimin’s line of vision. His teeth glint white somewhere close but confused. Jimin can sense without seeing, his warmth, his aura, ebbing off him in waves.
He reaches unconsciously for him, finding his sturdy shoulder and reaching down to grab a bicep. Jungkook responds wordlessly, sliding his arm up against Jimin’s to touch the back of his neck.
“Your skin is cold” he whispers, voice hushed like a secret.
With the heat of the shower cooling rapidly he feels a burning need to drape himself across Jungkook, press himself close to feel the way his heart beats. He wants to dig his nose into the crook of Jungkook’s neck, feel arms around his back holding him tight.
So he moves forward and Jungkook accepts him in silence. There’s some awkward jostling involved what with the pitch darkness and all, and Jimin grabs onto Jungkook’s pleasantly broad back to finally settle in his lap.
Straddling Jungkook like a lover, Jimin is struck by the intimacy of the action and feels dread at the idea that he’s done something wrong, made Jungkook uncomfortable. Soaking up his warmth like sun rays Jimin waits for the inevitable moment that Jungkook pushes him off onto the ground, makes some crass joke about being a little bromiscuous, hyung?
The moment doesn’t arrive as expected, the door wide open but empty.
Jimin clutches the ratty fabric of Jungkook’s pyjama shirt which he knows now by touch.
He needs the courage to say something, and also to lift his heavy head away from the delicious scent of Jungkook’s skin, where his nose in nuzzled in his collarbone like an anchor.
“You were great out there tonight, hyung” Jungkook whispers.
Jimin freezes, feeling the hot press of Jungkook’s lips against his neck. Time slows to a halt. There is nothing but the intense warm of his lips, the way his eyelashes brush against Jimin’s cheeks.
Jungkook wraps himself around Jimin closer, his hand on Jimin’s bare thigh. They’re breathing together now, hard and heavy like their lungs are bellows and terrified. Jungkook’s hands caress him softly, like he’s afraid of bruising. The hand travels from his thigh to his waist, and then with no forewarning beneath the sheer fabric of his shirt.
Jimin arcs into the touch. He had forgotten how good it felt to be caressed by another person. He moves into Jungkook, as close as he can possible get. He buries his head in the short hairs just beneath his ear.
“Oh, Jiminie” Jungkook sighs, and he’s still whispering.
And Jimin realizes, this could be the end of everything.
Because friends- just friends don’t hold each other at midnight.
“Let go of me” Jimin says loudly, failing miserably to sound calm.
“It’s like, fucking 1AM”
Jungkook slinks back to his bed like a guilty thing, and Jimin nurses the regret in his heart all night as they pretend to sleep.
They don’t talk the next morning at the breakfast table.
Jimin misses the right moment in the bathroom three days later, and they don’t see each other for a week, busy with comeback preparations.
Two weeks later, Jungkook takes a daytrip to Busan and doesn’t invite Jimin for the first time in four years.
Somehow, incredibly, they don’t communicate beyond the pained gaze, the occasional slip of a sigh for almost one month.
“How’s not talking to your best friend”
Jimin closes his eyes in the hopes that Taehyung will think he’s sleeping, or unconscious, or something else which will prevent this conversation.
All hope is abandoned as Taehyung sits heavily on Jimin’s ribs where he’s laid out on the leather couch, too intoxicated to move. Limbs like tar, he flails for a few seconds before surrendering and letting Taehyung weigh him down like a tombstone.
“What you mean?” he slurs, trying to straighten his vowels.
“We talk all the time”
“No” Taehyung retorts firmly.
“You know who I mean”
Jimin does know who he means. He’d watched Jungkook at the start of the small get- together organised in secret to celebrate the kick-off of the Wings tour. Jungkook had mostly flitted between Yoongi and Hoseok, so dedicatedly avoiding Jimin that he’d fallen over his shoes more than once in his hurry to escape him.
Jimin had given up and drunk himself to oblivion, planting his ass on the sofa and melting into it slowly. Sensing his thunderous mood nobody had bothered him, occasionally shoving glasses of water in his hand but otherwise giving him a wide berth.
Good.
Taehyung was immune to all barriers, however.
With Taehyung sitting on his ribs, Jimin feels his breath slip away. He considers dying from the weight of Taehyung’s ass on his chest, and the thought sends something curdling in his chest.
“I’m just like, I’m not even mad? I’m waiting for him to talk to me, like, I miss him so fucking much? I wanna kiss his dumb pretty face. Or something. Oh god.”
“Oh my god” Taehyung says, slightly horrified.
“Jimin you’re yelling”
Taehyung shoves his fingers in Jimin’s mouth before he can say anything more incriminating, and the combined weight of Taehyung’s rear and his fingers shoved drunkenly in Jimin’s mouth causes him to vomit all over Taehyung’s left hand and his pressed Gucci slacks.
Everybody stops moving, horrified at the turn of events.
Jungkook stares, mouth hanging open a little as Jimin finishes retching.
Perfect end to the night.
Somebody carries him back to the dorms, but the rocking motion sets him off again and Jimin vomits a little on his unfortunate saviour, kitten coughs that come up with nothing. He tastes the bile in his throat and cries a little.
“I vommed” he slurs. His head is too loud, like the clacker of a bell slapping the sides of his skull.
“Yeah” the someone says.
“It’s fine, hyung. Just hang on to me.”
The rocking subsides a little. Jimin feels almost okay. The someone smells familiar, like dried roses in the afternoon.
“Where’s Jungkookie?”
“He’s good, hyung, now try get some rest”
“I vommed”
“Yeah, it’s okay. You drink too much hyung. You have to look after yourself.”
“All the stylist noonas think I’m crazy. They think I have anxiety. Myun-ha said I have OCD. Everyone thinks I’m fucked up”
Pause.
“Nobody thinks that hyung. You’re fantastic.”
“Promise?”
“Pinky promise.”
He’s rolled into bed like a dead tree, and he’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.
And when he awakes, Jungkook is there, sleeping half on the ground with his hand tangled in Jimin’s own.
The next day the air is distinctly lighter. As they rehearse the choreography one final time, pouring over every little detail and checking each step Jimin feels Jungkook’s eyes on him, flitting away as he turns to catch them.
Jungkook hesitates before calling his name softly.
“We can talk after this, hyung?”
Jimin nods, chest squeezing hard.
After the concert Jimin takes some time for himself and wanders out in to the masses of empty chairs where so many fans had been seated just an hour ago, chanting frantically and reaching towards the stage.
It had shaken him to the very core. 20,000 voices clamouring for his attention, the excited energy sparking the air. Nothing beats the home crowd. He had watched the audience breath as he breathed, every word and every syllable in perfect sync.
He finds a seat fifty metres from the stage, close enough that the ground is strewn with confetti and bits of glitter that also rest in his hair and under his collar. The first day of Wings Tour has been a roaring success. Their career, has been a roaring success. And he’s just so fucking happy.
He’s still holding a half slice of cake in his hand which had been salvaged from Hoseok’s birthday cake. He’d tried to smear it across Hoseok’s face as a tired joke and Hoseok had accidentally tipped the entire thing onto Yoongi, and Namjoon’s very expensive VSVM bag. He’d felt an immediate flare of guilt at having ruined everything, afraid of Yoongi, who remained controlled in front of the cameras but glared at Jimin with wide eyes.
Jungkook had stepped in hastily with that hearty laugh of his and recovered the crushed cake. Jimin had watched helplessly as Jungkook restored the scene, mimicking Yoongi playfully and patting Hoseok on the back.
Jimin had thanked him later in private after the photos, placing a hand on Jungkook’s arm to divert his attention from the female stylist speaking to him, hand raking through her perfectly curled hair.
“It’s fine, hyung” Jungkook had said, flashing a small smile.
“You wanna take a walk with me?” Jimin counters, stupidly, because this is the only way he knows. This is his olive branch.
“Yeah. I’ll find you later.”
Jimin had nodded, slipping away then. They’re gathered in one of those large locker rooms designed to hold a baseball team but now there’s costume jewellery scattered over the countertops, makeup palettes and powders clogging the metal lockers. The vibe is relaxed, everyone basking in the success of the show. Sitting next to Namjoon, Jimin had watched Jungkook shift closer to the female stylist, flicking his hair to the side in an action Jimin recognises as flirting.
“He’s a big boy now” Namjoon had said.
“Uh, yeah” Jimin replied, a little flustered by the sudden conversation.
“Do you worry?”
“About what”
“Scandals”
He hadn’t answered. He didn’t like that sort of talk.
More than that, the thought of Jungkook with a woman tormented him. He imagined those hands holding someone’s waist the way they’d held his. How he might look when showered with kisses or asleep between the sheets, naked.
He’d slipped out half an hour later, after Namjoon had fallen asleep on his shoulder and Yoongi had declared, still disgruntled that he wanted to wash the cream off his backside. Jungkook had left too, laughing, arm slung over Taehyung. His chestnut hair flickered around the corner and Jimin felt a pang in his chest at the realisation that Jungkook had forgotten their promise.
He’d decided to go for a walk anyway, even if Jungkook hadn’t joined him.
Sitting in the dome alone he feels like a fish in the sea. There’s too much air. He feels alone but not lonely, knowing that all these seats had been filled by people who loved and cared for him. He reaches for his cell phone, though not knowing whom for. He settles on his mother, who he’d last rung when “Spring Day” had been released.
He presses his mother’s name in his contacts, listens to the gentle trill of the phone calling her in faraway Busan. It goes to voice message and he hangs up without a word. It’s late night, after all. He’ll call again tomorrow.
Feeling the sweat begin to cool on the back of his neck he stands slowly, supporting himself using the metal frame of the chair. He looks around one last time. He prays for it to last forever.
He heads back to the change room which will hopefully be deserted, any stragglers waiting in the foyer or already driving back to the dorm or company building. He likes the peace, the aloneness after so much scrutiny. He’ll take a quick shower and ring his manager, who will probably come and pick him up within the next twenty minutes.
The change room is narrow, lined with lockers. The only light is emitted from the naked lightbulb at the back of the room, a light blue which leaves Jimin mostly in darkness as he moves forward absentmindedly, one knee resting on the bench as he slide-hops towards the showers, a habit he’s kept from childhood. His knee snags on a piece of cloth. A t-shirt. He recognises the wings tour emblem on the right sleeve and pulls the tag up to his face to read the name. Guk it reads.
In his state of distracted contemplation he hadn’t realised the noise of a shower running somewhere in the background. It’s a trickle, but still audible enough that he’s puzzled he missed it.
A surge of childish excitement flares at the idea of running into Jungkook in the deserted locker room. This way they can go home together. They can shower, sit for a little, buy snacks from the vending machine on their long walk out. They can talk.
Excited, Jimin makes the rest of his journey in hurried silence, rounding the corner to where he’s sure he’ll see Jungkook in the shower, resting his forehead against the wall as he does. He may laugh a little, that soft sound that brings Jimin close to tears on the wrong day. Hyung, he’d say, jokingly. Join me?
Jimin rounds the corner.
And his whole life as he knew it. Comes to.
An end.
Later Jimin will regret every step, every move of the hour prior to that incident. If he had gone back to the dorm with Namjoon. If he hadn’t dropped the cake. If Yoongi hadn’t been angry with him. If he hadn’t gone for a walk. If his walk had been shorter. If he had chosen to return immediately to the dorm. If he had seen the shirt and walked away. If he had called Jungkook’s name.
But he didn't.
And Jungkook is beneath the slow drip of the shower, with.
A man.
Jungkook’s eyes are shut, head knocked back in sheer pleasure. He’s entirely naked, his chest heaving rhythmically. His arms tremble, even as his hands clench tightly at the dark black hair of his partner. His face is dressed in an expression of ecstasy that seems ill-fitting, since Jimin has never seen it there in all their years of acquaintance. His eyebrows are drawn tight together and his mouth opens, wet and round to emit a small moan.
Jimin remains entirely still, watching the scene unfold as if he weren’t there at all. He should move. He should turn around and go. He should say something, anything.
(What the fuck is wrong with him.)
And as his eyes trail down Jungkook’s toned, tanned navel, to the beginning of his pubic hair, coarse and deep black, the man makes an obscene sound with his mouth, swallowing to the very base of Jungkook’s cock. Jungkook’s eyes jerk open in shock as he gives a strangled whimper, and his dark eyes clap on Jimin’s own.
Jungkook proceeds to detach the other person from him, quickly, and with no lack of urgency. Jimin watches in silence as his half-hard cock slips out into plain sight until he covers it hastily with a trembling palm. The air turns cold, like the aftermath of a bonfire. Jimin recognises the man as a backup dancer, the one who wasn’t good enough for Chile and is being let go tomorrow. He’s tall and well-built but has an attitude and a lazy turn. Jimin had taken an immediate dislike to him one month ago when he’d joined their troupe.
The two men dress in muted panic, the dancer (Sangkyun? Whatever) stumbles out past Jimin, shoving him hard in the process. He doesn’t even manage a cursory bow, just bangs out of the room like he’s fleeing a wolf.
What’s left is the devastation. Jimin and Jungkook picking through the debris.
When Jungkook finally shrugs on his jeans, shoving his limp cock back into his boxers he looks Jimin in the eye with poorly controlled distress.
“I went looking for you, and I couldn’t find you, I came back to look for you though,” he croaks.
“I have your shirt” Jimin says stupidly, as if the fucking shirt matters one iota right now.
Jungkook snatches it from his hand, pulling it over his head. Jimin watches quietly the patch of skin where the dancer left nail marks, crescent- shaped and smarting red.
“We’ve just been fooling around for a little while now? We’re not dating or anything hyung, you can’t tell anyone. I’m begging you. It would ruin everything, the whole, the, oh, fuck hygun, please,”
“You said you would come walk with me” Jimin says. His voice sounds from far away. It feels odd, like a silent movie that’s been dubbed a decade later so the scenes and lines don't match up. Was Sangkyun the person that made Jungkook cry that night in December? When they had listened to Serendipity in the dead of the night.
The revelation cuts the memory to the ground. It feels ruined, like something that will hurt to remember one day.
Jungkook does his fly up, shakily. The light is brightest here and Jimin can see clearly that all colour has drawn from his face. In the pale blue he looks so handsome. That scar, from when he was little and fought with his brother. The acne marks, the only remnants of years of battle with obscure ointments and skin tinctures. His eyes, his eyes which hold so much light, now dark with worry and drawn like blinds. He wants to make them come alive again.
And he steps forwards abruptly to grab Jungkook by the jaw and pull him down, licking deliberately into his mouth. Their teeth clack together. Jungkook’s shock works to his advantage when Jimins slots their lips together, lapping into the wet warmth. It takes a second more for Jungkook to respond, eyes slipping close and his entire body going lax. And suddenly he grasps Jimin hard, by the waist, bringing their bodies together.
They fall somewhere in the process, disoriented and desperate, Jimin feeling the hardness of Jungkook’s chest and every inch of his lean, perfect body pressed up against his own. The shower (still running) wets their cheeks, their hair, forces them together in search for warmth.
Jimin is the first to break the kiss. He pushes back on the balls of his feet and wishes he hadn’t, because now he’s watching Jungkook slump on the ground looking utterly debauched. Jungkook’s cock is hard again, straining against the too-tight fabric of his jeans. He doesn’t move to cover himself this time. He just looks at Jimin through heavy-lidded eyes, panting a little. His small, sharp tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip, plump and pink and fucking perfect.
The moment lasts an eternity. It consists entirely of Jimin barely able to resist the heady urge to run his fingers into Jungkook’s tight, sloppy mouth, let him suck on his digits while he puts his head down, finishes the job, feels Jungkook cum all hot and sticky down the back of his throat.
“Hyung” Jungkook whispers.
And Jimin runs away.
Jimin avoids Jungkook with such practiced efficiency after that night it’s impossible for anyone not to realise.
The intervention comes only days later as he squats low to the ground backstage Music Bank, watching “Not Today” which he’ll probably have to pretend to watch for the first time again for a Bangtan bomb or something.
He rewinds the video to 1:48 where Jungkook dances on the rooftop alone, doused in pink sunlight.
He winds back, again.
And again.
He sees himself jump into the frame to accompany Jungkook but ignores it, instead fixating on Jungkook’s dancing figure. “Chong, Jojun, Balsa” Jungkook rasps through the earphones, voice perfectly pitched.
A shadow crosses his phone screen.
Jimin flinches, expecting the worst. But it’s just Taehyung.
“Ok, what’s going on”
“Not a clue what you’re talking about”
He winds back to 1:48. The little Jungkook in his screen dances, oddly plastic and fake, like Jimin couldn't just call him on his phone right now or walk down the corridor to see his perfect smile and the crinkles by his eyes when he laughs.
“You know what I’m talking about.”
Jimin looks up. Taehyung looks irritated, but more like he’s bored of the conflict than offended by it.
“I don’t know. I guess I’ll come around”
“Is this about Jungkook being gay?”
The world stops spinning and waits for Jimin to get off.
He takes his earphone out.
“What”
“Are you some raging homophobe or something? What’s the situation here?”
“How do you know?”
“What do you mean? He came out to us like, half a year ago.”
“Whose us?”
“Like, all the members? Why is this only now cropping up?”
Jimin stares at Taehyung, who stares at Jimin. People rush past them, avoiding them like stones in a river. The air is dusty and excited. There’s a certain tension Jimin refuses to let affect him. He hates the underground, the closed spaces, the quiet tolling of the clock as their performance draws near. The crowd rumbles low above them. He fears he'll always get anxious before shows.
The song continues faintly through the earphones. Jungkook is singing again, the Jungkook who Jimin knows, who he didn’t know, who told a secret to everyone but him, who was supposed to be his best friend, who kissed him back hot and hard in the midnight showers.
The universe must really be out to get him, because like magic, Jungkook appears behind Taehyung. Jimin blinks lazily to feign nonchalance. Jungkook is dressed already, in a black bomber with red trimming and a white t-shirt. He’s wearing weird leopard-print jeans beneath but he’s still stunning. Overly conscious of Taehyung’s presence by his left elbow, Jimin breaks the silence.
“You look good.” (Why say that, Park Jimin. Literally anything but that)
“Yeah” Jungkook laughs shyly.
Jimin feels something coil tight in his stomach.
“But Yoongi-hyung got the coolest outfit. I got these weird leopard-print jeans”
Taehyung makes to leave and Jimin stares at him imploringly, communicating as best he can with his eyes only.
Taehyung smirks, waves, and trots off. Jimin is going to end him.
“Hyung” Jungkook says a little sadly.
They move to accommodate the staff who rush past, holding some glittering wheel contraption. Jimin hopes it has nothing to do with their performance. He can’t stand stage props.
“I’m sorry you saw what you did”
“That’s not the problem”
“What is the problem then?”
Jimin takes in Jungkook’s adam’s apple, remembering the way it bobbed when he sighed. He can’t look at Jungkook without remembering the satin softness of his tongue.
“Why didn't you tell me you were gay?” he says, and promptly walks away.
He loses track of time and rushes backstage with three minutes to spare. Seated on a stage lift, Taehyung eyes him angrily. Jungkook crouches dejected.
When they link arms for their final formation, Jimin feels the stiffness in Jungkook’s arm, the disappointment and sadness rolling off him in waves.
Jimin has a dream that night.
Jungkook is on his back, naked, thighs spread apart in the soft darkness. The wooden furniture and cheap rug are reminiscent of Jimin’s bedroom in Busan but there are no posters, no childhood photos and everything is scaled down in size like the innards of a doll house.
Jungkook fingers himself open with long, deft fingers, his chest heaving with exertion. Sweat glistens off his tight abdomen, the muscle shifting beneath his perfect skin. His mouth is open, the colour of cherries in the dying light. He sees rather than hears the way Jungkook pants, clenching around himself. His cheeks flush with embarrassment and arousal as he reaches for his cock, which slaps against his stomach.
Jungkook’s eyes snap open.
“Hyung” he whimpers.
Jimin wakes up hating himself.
They still haven't spoken when they land in Chile.
Santiago is hot, and the streets are red and crowded. The air is bright orange and shifts at the touch. Jimin watches the brick houses fly past from behind the car window. Faded green palm trees line the footpath. A group of children stop to watch their van trundle past, soccer ball forgotten in the gutter. Their hard black eyes stare up at them, feet bare.
They drive past vibrant graffiti, tables scattered on the pavement. The people eat languidly, cigars pinched between their fingers. Chileans are unaffected by the heat, fanning themselves in the shade quietly. Jimin hears guitar music, hurried Spanish and distant laughter.
He takes off his hoodie, his shoes, and contemplates his shirt, almost. His hair sticks to his forehead in protest. He feels sweat trace his spine, achingly slow. He might be sick.
He feels depression crawl up like a dying dog to nestle against his ribs. He doesn’t want to feel this way anymore. He needs Jungkook right now but the words are all fucked up in his throat and he can’t hurt anymore than he has already.
“I’m so hungry” he whispers, mostly to himself but in a whiny enough tone that he hopes his manager hears. There’s the general mutter of assent, the other members also exhausted and starved, jet lagged and too hot to move.
“Can we eat, please” Jungkook says loudly, breaking the silence.
Jimin leans his forehead against the window and tries not to look so desperately happy.
Because even when they haven’t looked eye-to-eye since February, Jungkook still cares for him.
They leave Yoongi in the car passed out and make the short trip between the van and the restaurant in a hurry. The fans have followed them and it’s eerie, how there are sasaengs in every country and they always think what they’re doing is alright. The heat hits like a bonfire and Jimin sweats hard at the mere ten foot walk.
The cameras turn back on.
The good thing about the cameras is that there must be pretence. Because he has to act friendly with Jungkook it’s easy to make those same snarky comments, the same inside jokes that they always used to.
Jungkook is his usual teasing self, jumping up to dance “MAMA” with great, lunging steps. Everyone is laughing. The mood is light. The dark black lens of the camera watches them.
“Dance to Lie!” Jin says excitedly.
Jungkook looks at Jimin, his eyes asking permission. This part will be edited out later. Any fraction of conflict and unrest has to be taken away from the final product but this pause is bad. Jimin doesn’t want the staff to catch onto things and talk.
“That would be great, Jungkookie!” he says, breaking into a grin.
The day never breaks in Santiago, the sun hanging perpetually low and hot on the horizon. Jimin watches, bored, from the hotel foyer. There are at least twenty-four staff to check in before the members even sort out their luggage and rooming situation.
They sit around, not speaking, not even looking at their phones. The exhaustion sets in heavy and Jimin feels an unreasonable urge to cry.
“Okay, we have the rooms” Namjoon says finally.
“Jungkook and Jimin are together in 204”
“No” Jimin says.
Namjoon sucks in a breath.
Jungkook looks up at him, eyes full of anguish from where he’s slumped by the counter with his legs resting on his backpack. It’s only then that Jimin realizes how tired he looks. His hair sticks damp to the sides of his head and he’s in terrible need of a shower. He’s lost some weight and the sharp angle of his collar bones are prominent even from this distance.
But Jimin can't room with Jungkook because his mind is this great gooey mess right now and he doesn’t know what he’s thinking of when he’s not thinking of Jungkook. Every waking moment he’s replaying the kiss, how much he loved it, the imaginary house by the sea, how much he wants to suck on Jungkook’s dick and hear the way he sounds when he orgasms, feel the gentle shudder.
(What?)
He cannot be anywhere near Jungkook right now. Every darkness reminds him of that moment where he single-handedly dismantled their friendship by shoving his lips onto Jungkook’s dumb, pretty ones.
“Stop acting like this” Namjoon says.
“I don’t know what shit you two have, but this stops now. Grow up.”
Jimin grabs Namjoon by the collar.
The hotel staff stop their movement, staring openly. Crazy foreigners.
Yoongi makes a weird decompressed sound in the background. Jimin is suffocating. Time slows to nothing.
Namjoon is saying something but not actually saying anything. Or he is, but Jimin can’t hear. He’s watching the hotel lobby through a telescope, everything far away and unreachable. He doesn’t want Jungkook to hate him.
In the next second multiple hands are grabbing him. Nobody is applying any real pressure; they’re just holding him in place while Namjoon extricates his ugly Balenciaga shirt from Jimin’s grip.
The heat is driving him insane.
He wants things to be alright.
He just wants Jungkook and him to be alright.
Eventually he’s shoved headfirst into Room 204 and the door is slammed shut behind him. Jungkook hovers by the door like a ghost which only makes Jimin angrier but he can’t grab Jungkook by the collar so instead he grabs every other thing he can see. He snatches the bath towels folded like swans, the bedsheets, all seventeen ornamental pillows and he throws them in every direction like a meteor shower.
In the time that he finishes being angry, all Jungkook does is run a bath.
“Hyung” he says, when he comes out of the bathroom with his sleeves rolled up, hands sopping wet.
“I’m running a bath”
Jimin is standing amongst the carnage, afraid of himself. Looking at Jungkook who seems so soft, vulnerable and childish, that feeling gores him again like a hot poker between the ribs. He wants to tear his hair out in fury. Jungkook never used to make him feel like this, like he wanted to crawl across his body and touch every part of him. He hasn’t stopped thinking of the kiss, fantasising all possible scenarios that could follow. He can’t stop thinking about stupid, stupid Jungkook being a virgin, or how he’d let that fucking dancer suck him off in a stadium shower stall. He can’t believe Jungkook told him everything, apart from the bits that mattered more than anything.
“Turn off the light” he says. His voice is hoarse from the screaming he’d barely registered himself doing.
Jungkook reaches out and snaps off the light. His fingers catch on the wallpaper. He crosses his hands in front of him like a scolded child, waiting for Jimin to say the next thing.
Jimin doesn’t say anything.
He just lets the feeling control him.
He grabs Jungkook by the collar (his second time today but with very different intentions) and Jungkook flinches and closes his eyes. It hurts Jimin that for even one second Jungkook would think he would hit him; as if he could throw a slap across Jungkook’s perfect face.
He pushes Jungkook up, squashing him against the doorframe to kiss him, hard and with more control this time. Jungkook squeaks, a whistle of sound that thrills Jimin. There’s a moment of movement where Jungkook tries to work out where exactly to place his hands, before they wrap around Jimin and pull him up. The kiss turns hard and filthy, and Jimin laps up Jungkook’s tongue with an eagerness he’s never felt before. He unlatches with a pop, looking Jungkook in the eye for one, long second. He feels Jungkook erection already pressed up against his stomach.
He topples Jungkook with relative ease and he goes down flailing, putting out a hand to cushion his fall. Eventually Jungkook lies on the porcelain white tiles, body half in and half out the doorway, seeming a little dazed at the turn of events but still hanging onto Jimin’s body like he means it. Jimin swats Jungkook's hands away from where they tremble to undo his belt, working down his body to pull down Jungkook’s tracksuits. His boxers drag down with it, catching on Jungkook’s hardened cock and Jungkook moans, loudly.
Here it is. The moment.
“Say no” he whispers, even if it would kill him. He needs to hear Jungkook want it.
“Say no and I get off and we can pretend this never happened ever just- please say something”
Jungkook is still hiding behind his hands, but his head nods frantically. A hand shoots out to grab Jimin by the front of his shirt, catching him by surprise. Jungkook pulls him in, closer.
It’s all the permission he needs.
Jimin teases a finger against the head of Jungkook's cock, succumbing to that aggressive, hot feeling in his gut. He’s fucked up in his head. He’s never looked at a man like this before, but Jungkook’s half-exposed abs, his thick cock twitching for attention are driving him mad. He wants to stuff Jungkook full of his own dick, slam his hips into him until he’s crying. He wants to feel how soppy and wet he’d become. The way he’d look with his legs open, asshole stretched out for Jimin.
Oh fuck.
He’s touching Jungkook pretty stupidly, just running his hands down his stomach and grabbing at his dick without any sense of foreplay or edging or anything, because now he’s here he feels like he’s dying for it. He yanks at Jungkook’s dick, enough to hurt a little and Jungkook gives a little hiccup and the hand clutching at Jimin returns to hide his face but he slowly spreads his legs wide, knees bouncing in the air to accommodate Jimin.
It’s too bright. He never does light fucks because he feels awkward watching another person orgasm. It always feels invasive, and there’s a certain irritation and discomfort he can't shake.
But he catches Jungkook’s hands and holds his wrists above his head, forcing his legs open with his own and watches, really watches the desperate expression chasing up his features. He strokes Jungkook’s dick the way he would stroke his own, with a tight grip and fast pumps, occasionally playing with the crown of his cock or teasing his thumb in the slit, rubbing slowly. Jungkook’s thighs quiver where they’re wrapped around Jimin and his hips kick up, thrusting himself into Jimin’s hold.
It’s silent in the bathroom, just the running water and the quiet wetness of Jungkooks pre-cum leaking down his cock and between Jimin’s fingers. Jungkook lets out one, desperate moan when Jimin squeezes hard enough it's a little cruel, but he seems so floored by his embarrassment that after that he returns to biting down hard on his bottom lip, meeting Jimin’s eyes with his own desperate and teary ones.
(pity)
(Jimin would love to hear him mewl)
Jimin continues to watch Jungkook’s expression as it twists into one of intense pleasure with an undertone of embarrassment. Jungkook’s wrists strain in his grip, but Jimin is unyielding. There’s something severely exciting about pinning Jungkook down, Jungkook who is larger than him, stronger than him, could absolutely floor him if he wanted to.
Jungkook’s orgasm is drawn out, and in the last moment he screws his eyes shut and turns his head to the side, facing away from Jimin. Jimin watches anyway, the way his eyebrows pull together and his features relax, a sigh escaping his mouth. His face is flushed pink, the blush stopping just shy of his collarbones. His cock throbs in Jimin’s hand, leaking all over his knuckles as he squeezes down, rubbing his finger against his frenulum to really milk the orgasm. When he’s sure he’s done and Jungkook is hurting a little from the overstimulation he pulls back, and Jungkook’s hands immediately fly to his face. His fringe has fallen back, fanning out onto the ground like a halo.
Jimin sits between Jungkook’s legs, feeling a little stupid now he’s calmed down and doesn’t feel like devouring every part of Jungkook anymore.
He can’t figure out how he’s so okay with Jungkook jizzing all over his fingers as he kneels on the bathroom tiles of their shared hotel room.
Only then he realizes his jeans are giving him a hard time. This material was not made to stretch.
The water overflows, running down the sides of the bathtub with its ornate claws supporting the basin, down the magenta paintwork and scurrying across the tiles. Jimin hurries to turn both taps off, wincing as his hard-on rubs hard against the denim of his jeans. He turns back to look at Jungkook.
He needs to say something, now.
Jungkook is still lying on the ground where he left him. His tracksuits are hanging around his knees, which are propped up and facing the ceiling. His boxers hang uselessly around his thighs, which are sun-kissed and beautifully thick. His spent cock rests against his navel, his cum slipping into his belly button and splashed across his abs. Jungkook makes no move to cover himself.
“Jungkook” Jimin says, knowing this is his fault.
Jungkook takes a great, heaving sob and it wracks his body like a well-placed bullet.
Jimin leans down on the ground, above Jungkook’s head.
He takes his hands from his face, and kisses the tears on his cheeks dry. He reaches down to clean Jungkook’s torso with his bare hands and rearranges his boxers. He touches Jungkook’s face with as much softness as he can muster, until the twisted pain drains out of it. And then he strips him bare as quietly as he can, and bathes him in the overflowing bathtub. Still clothed and soaked to the bone he washes Jungkook’s hair, the way he used to before Bangtan's debut, when Jungkook’s anxiety got the better of him and he’d come crying to Jimin.
“I’m sorry” Jungkook says, but offers no explanation as to why. The steam obscures his face, making his expression unreadable.
Jimin lathers the tough skin of Jungkook’s back, tracing the divots of his spine.
Jungkook catches his hand in his own. Jimin’s heart bursts into flames.
“Hyung, can we please do it again?”
Later Jungkook blows him on the bathroom floor, naked, warm and wet on all fours, placing Jimin’s hands in his hair so he can force his head down. Jimin cums down his throat, watching Jungkook’s ass in the air, too overwhelmed to think.
“Why didn't you tell me” he whispers when the lights are out, and there is no danger of being seen.
“Because of this” Jungkook replies, barely audible.
After he learns what it feels like to push his fingers inside Jungkook’s body, feel the wet press of his tongue against his cockhead, it’s impossible for Jimin to stop. He can’t fucking remember how to live without it, and every moment not feeling Jungkook pant desperately against his neck as he fists their cocks together- well, it feels like dying.
So at least twice a day Jimin finds himself rutting clumsily into Jungkook’s mouth, hidden in bathroom stalls with his hand fisted carefully into his hair so as not to disturb his foundation. It escalates, and quickly, when Jimin discovers the joy that is cumming on to Jungkook’s face, eyes screwed close and mouth open and panting. Some evenings they sixty-nine, Jungkook thighs resting heavily on either side of his head as Jimin suffocates noisily on his cock, loving the way Jungkook blushes when he swallows for him, making a great show of licking Jungkook’s cum off his fingertips.
Their mystery hostility becomes the perfect cover story. They remain barely cordial on the surface but spend their free time kissing lazily, naked between the covers. On the day they film Bangtan gayo, Jimin schools his expression carefully as Jungkook, his beautiful, filthy Jungkook who had cried last night when he’d fingered him open as he sucked him into his mouth talks excitedly about some unimportant thing, makes the others laugh with his light hearted jokes.
Jungkook tugs his sleeve, hidden from the camera as they pair up for dances.
Five pairs of eyes watch them.
Jimin shakes him off, the subtlest of movements.
He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
“It hurts my feelings” Jungkook gasps later between thrusts, fucking Jimin’s face before dinner in the corridor of their shared room.
“When you ignore me in front of the others”
Jimin looks up at Jungkook, whose hair is messy. Hickeys litter his flawless skin, bite marks flaring on his tight abs. He’ll never admit how he loves being pinned up against the door, inches away from the outside corridor with Jungkook shoving his cock down his throat carelessly, chasing his own orgasm.
“Sorry baby” Jimin pants, seizing the moment when Jungkook pulls out only briefly to slap his hard, leaking cock against Jimin’s face. Licking up the underside of his cock, Jimin looks up tauntingly, digging his nails into Jungkook’s thighs so hard it’s sure to sting.
“Didn’t realize you could be so sensitive”
Jungkook gives a growl, the type Jimin has come to associate with real desperacy; when Jungkook is just on the brink of losing his mind and Jimin pushes a little too hard. He pinches Jimin’s nose until he’s gasping for breath, and shoves himself in again until Jimin is choking, throat raw and aching.
Jungkook lets him fuck his thighs late night, lights turned off and the headlights of cars in the distance glancing off his sweat-slicked skin. Jimin can’t see him, can’t see his face, but feels him closer than anything in the world. He hears the wet sound of Jungkook’s mouth against his skin in his dreams, it makes him hard between sets, can’t get it off his mind ever, ever during the day.
Chile concert day 1
Jimin waits to be backstage to cry.
He feels his stage face slide off like butter. He cries through the makeup, the eyeshadow, not caring that someone will have to plaster it back on in a few minutes for the next act.
The cameras find him and he curbs his sobbing and cries into his palms. He’s too exhausted to protest when the stylists come to him, pressing ice against his neck. It weighs him down and he hangs his head heavy.
Cries again.
He had felt the way his voice cracked in front of the tens of thousands of people who had come here, just to see them and were now watching Jimin fuck up spectacularly with his stupidly unreliable vocal cords.
Oh no.
He doesn't need Jungkook now but he’s here.
“Please” he hears his voice say, distant and furious.
“Please turn the cameras off. Can’t you see he needs some space?”
And he feels the cameras pace away. He is too ashamed to look up at Jungkook. He knows what he’ll see; Jungkook with a light sheen of sweat over his forehead, looking stunning and absolutely charming while Jimin grovels on the ground, unable to confront himself or anyone, right now.
He hates himself for the stab of jealousy he feels at knowing that Jungkook so effortlessly scales the same notes he struggles with. His voice is always steady despite the rigour of the choreography. Their vocal coach had often marvelled at the stability of his voice, the way he never seemed to breath when he sang.
That’s why Jungkook is main vocals.
And not Jimin.
He wants to feel good for Jungkook. Jungkook deserves all the adoration he receives because he’s talented far beyond his years and Jimin knows that, and he just wants to support him. He doesn’t want to feel these ugly thoughts anymore.
He continues to sit in the darkness, head bowed as “Mama” booms beside them, loud as a jet engine. It makes conversation impossible without practically speaking in one another’s ear. Jungkook flits around in front of him, trying to coerce Jimin into lifting his face, to stop crying.
He eventually settles for dragging Jimin towards him and Jimin doesn’t struggle as he’s perched in Jungkook’s lap. They sit in all the dust and stage equipment, Jimin trying to remember the last time he’d sat in someone’s lap and if it had ever felt this comforting. He leans against Jungkook heavily and cries. Jungkook strokes his fingers through his hair softly, fingers catching on little knots.
“My voice cracked twice”
“It wasn’t noticeable hyung”
“My microphone fell down”
“And you managed it beautifully. The crowd was so loud for you, hyung”
“I just want to be as good as you”
“Hyung, but you’re better”
They end up rocking slightly on the ground as the staff pointedly avoid them, Jimin’s arms slung around Jungkook’s neck as he whispers into his ear. The moment is unspeakably tender. All the sexual tension and angst from their previous encounters are absent, and they are just holding one another. Jimin is content with hearing Jungkook breath. Knowing he’s alive, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath the expensive fabric of his dress shirt. He realises that they haven’t spent time like this since their fall out, since maybe January, the time in the tent, when he’d started to feel self-conscious of how hard his heart beat around Jungkook.
Jungkook places a soft kiss behind his ear.
Jimin tightens his grip around him, pulling him impossibly closer.
He doesn't want to know what this feeling in his chest is. Like something is burning, but pleasantly. Like nothing can hurt him and he needs Jungkook, now and forever and that’s all that matters.
Chile day 2
It’s before Dope that Jimin realizes there is the actual possibility of Jungkook falling down. Jungkook is not breathing well. His eyes haven’t opened in all the time they’ve been backstage, between acts.
What went wrong?
He’d slept early last night, battered by fatigue and silent. Jimin had stroked his hair in bed but left him relatively alone the morning after. He’d eaten breakfast with all of them, albeit silently.
And now Jungkook can barely stand up.
Jimin feels panic. Heady and bad, like he’s drowning in a swift current. They’re going to have to cancel the show. Everyone, who paid so much to wait outside the venue for almost a full day in the heat- they’ll all have to go home. They may never come to Chile again.
They’re going to disappoint all these people.
The makeup noonas and personal trainer are wrangling Jungkook, trying to make him lie in recovery position while they administer icepacks and chest compressions. Jungkook lets them touch him, weak. His head lolls back over his shoulder. Stripped of his t-shirt Jimin can see that he’s sweating, hard, in a way totally unrelated to the strain of performance.
The crowd roars. Waiting.
Jungkook breathes deeply, oxygen pressed against his lips.
He looks 17 again.
“one and a half minutes left”
“Jungkook, slow down” this is Namjoon.
Jimin is afraid he’s going to cry.
During “Fire”, there is a moment when everything seems lost. Jungkook’s hand touches the stage, steadying himself. Time stops as the members watch him, trying to keep the secret from exploding and filling the arena.
Jungkook is going to pass out on stage.
Yoongi, the ever impassive Yoongi makes a big movement with his head, turning to check on Jungkook and Jimin’s heart stops. He knows the procedure. Keep dancing. A disaster isn’t a disaster until you make it one.
It's some sort of miracle. Jungkook pushes through.
After the show they take him to a private room where the lights are white neon and Jimin casts everything aside to follow him. The others watch on curiously as he sits by Jungkook’s head, reaches his hand down briefly to touch his fingertips. Jungkook smiles faintly.
“Jungkook do you want us to leave?” Hoseok asks.
Jimin does not leave. The cameras and the members go, as Jungkook’s trousers come off and he’s laid out, pliant and helpless in his boxers. He’s still breathing through his mouth. Their trainer hovers, pushing Jungkook through a series of stretches, rubbing icepacks down his torso.
“Take off his socks” somebody advises, to which Jungkook gives weak protest.
Jimin manages a shaky laugh. He’s going to be okay.
With the relief comes the tears and he cries all messily into his palms. The staff avoid looking at him and bustle around a little too purposefully.
Jungkook calls him weakly.
Jimin crosses his legs and Jungkook moves to rest his head in his lap. He presses his nose into Jimin’s stomach and holds him close. Jimin watches his breathing slow, and plays with his hair which is damp and tangled. Jungkook smiles a little at the contact.
“Hyung” he says eventually.
“Stop crying on me”
So Jimin wipes his tears from Jungkook’s skin and leans down, not caring that he’s in front of the staff, to kiss him on the cheek. He doesn’t know this feeling. Like all the best bits of being alive. Like he would really do anything for this boy in his arms, now fast asleep and heavy in his lap.
They arrive in Sao Paolo what seems like an hour later, still exhausted from the show and sleeping on every available surface.
It feels like a fever dream, like they’re walking through the scene without being part of it. They check into the hotel, not even looking, bumping into each other in the corridors.
Jimin wakes up seven hours later, after the sun has set and the air is warm and dark.
A heavy weight settles across his middle.
With a huff he rolls Jungkook off of him.
His bedside clock reads 3:24AM. Jungkook is very warm and breathing heavy and it concerns him. He hovers over him for a second before unbuttoning his shirt.
He takes Jungkook’s clothes off, the same ones he’d been wearing on the aeroplane. Jungkook is large and heavy and it’s a little difficult but eventually he slips off his jeans and shirt and wrestles him into his own pyjamas.
(Jungkook’s luggage is nowhere to be seen. He can only assume that Jungkook somehow infiltrated Jimin’s room between the time they arrived and now)
He takes a wet towel and presses it against the nape of Jungkook’s neck, rolls him over and wipes his back down too. Jungkook’s waist feels tiny under his hands, his back broad but thin. He makes a little noise as Jimin moves him about. His brow furrows slightly.
Jimin doesn't know what the fuck he’s doing.
He's undressing his dongsaeng in the middle of the night, wiping him down tenderly. It’s all very uncharacteristic of him.
“Jimin” Jungkook says, his voice so tiny it’s almost lost to the darkness.
“Come back to bed”
He feels a tug at the back of his shirt.
He’d gotten Jungkook changed before himself.
And- oh.
He’s in love with Jungkook.
And the trouble is, he’s not in love with the Jungkook.
He’s drawn to the Jungkook without any makeup, the cut on his cheek. His morning voice and how he looks with a light stubble on an overnight flight.
He loves Jungkook because he is so good and soft.
He loves Jungkook for his voice and the way he makes his heart beat a little faster.
He loves Jungkook just because he is.
He gives in to the incessant tug on his shirt and rolls backwards into Jungkook’s arms. Jungkook clumsily tucks them both back into bed, movement slow from fatigue. Jimin lets him hold him there, kiss the back of his neck and promptly fall straight asleep.
The problem with not having concerts is that it’s literally impossible to avoid Jungkook.
Jungkook, who blows his phone up with texts. Jungkook, who knocks on his hotel door twice a day just to check he’s eating, or if he’s okay.
Jungkook, who is becoming significantly more timid the more Jimin maintains his silence. But he doesn’t know how to not be afraid of Jungkook now, knowing he’d lay down everything for him.
There’s an element of anger to his turmoil. Not six months ago Jungkook had woken him up with his hard dick pressed against him and Jimin had felt a polite but platonic anger. What happened to him? When did Jungkook become the best and only thing in his life?
Why hadn’t he even noticed it happen?
So naturally he resorts to his only and worst coping mechanisms, which is to get absolutely shit-faced.
This time it’s in quite a formal setting. It’s the diner of the hotel on the second day of their pseudo-holiday and one day after their final Brazil concert, which had moved Jimin to tears. America is five days away and looming large.
The diner is quiet, and this is because it's 11PM. Jimin is loud, because he is with Taehyung, and it's hard for him to shut up for even one second about Jungkook’s beauty especially in the company of his best friend.
Park Jimin is, involuntarily, declaring his undying love for Jungkook, which is none of Taehyung’s business.
“How can he just exist like, look like that? God really took his time on him, huh”
“Jimin, oh Christ you are so drunk”
“Am I? I don’t think so sir. I don’t have to be drunk to tell you how much I adore him. What is wrong with me? I can’t stop thinking about him. I don’t know what I’m thinking about when I’m not thinking about him. And jesus he is so distracting. All I care about is where he is and what he’s doing. I’m going mad!”
“Jimin, you need to shut up now”
“Shut up and do what? Daydream about his perfect fucking face? Christ Taehyung I just wanna eat his ass like, every day. His ass, have you seen it? It’s perfect”
“Jimin-“
“No don’t interrupt me. I need to marry him. Pronto. And move into a big villa in Busan and have perfect little children and a rose garden and-“
“Hyung”
Taehyung points mutely behind him and Jimin whips around at sonic speed. Jungkook stands there, stoic but shy in a dark purple shirt which makes him look absolutely delicious. Sangria should be illegal on Jungkook. Jimin hates how he presses all his buttons. How even now, his heart is hammering with joy, just from seeing the object of his affection.
Jimin and his dumb, unsubtle self unapologetically rakes his eyes up and down Jungkook’s body. The silence turns unnatural, awkward. Taehyung coughs and shifts in his seat.
“Good evening sir” Jimin manages, hating how stupidly drunk he sounds.
“Funny seeing you here”
“Well” Jungkook says, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“Not really, since you invited me down here”
He holds up his phone, where Jimin’s text message pops up on the screen. He had indeed invited Jungkook downstairs in some sort of alcoholic stupor, complete with expletives and a few suggestive emojis. God. He hates himself so much.
The elevators close with a muted ding and Jimin realizes that Taehyung has abandoned him. The bartender looks away hastily, pretending to busy himself behind the bottles of liquor. There’s something surreal about the emptied dining hall with its ceiling too high. Jimin can see how it could play host to weddings and award ceremonies but now holds just the two of them, Jungkook looking at him in that warm and tender way that makes his heart flutter.
The dimmed lights cast an ochre shadow over the oval tables with their ironed napkins. When Jungkook speaks, Jimin realises a slight echoing sound, like he’s standing atop a cliff.
“Mind if I sit down, hyung?”
At this, Jimin makes a very poor attempt at pulling out a chair. Jungkook watches in amusement.
Jungkook eventually slides down next to him, very gracefully folding his legs. Jimin realises he should say something clever here, to impress Jungkook, but he's utterly tongue-tied. Jungkook’s every movement is just so graceful and perfect it feels like a punch to the gut. His fingers fold over the dinner plates, the crisp napkins tied with their little golden bows. He smiles, and Jimin’s heart melts.
“Hyung, you need some water.”
“Maybe. Can you pour me some?”
“Yes, of course”
And Jungkook pours him some water in to a wine glass, because there are no water glasses. His side profile is young and focused, and he's hit suddenly with that wave of nostalgia which makes him feel cold but at ease, like ice cubes on a midsummer day.
It strikes him that they’ve been together for five years and lived through things that are beyond reach now. That Jungkook remembers the Jimin that he’s forgotten, the Jimin who was young and foolish and horrible but he's still sitting here, smiling at him like he loves him.
“Hyung” Jungkook says.
“Are you drunk?”
No. Jungkook’s arrival has sobered him up. He feels tingly, but he knows that mostly he just needs Jungkook to hold him. Jungkook, who’s elbow is propped up on the table, looking so perfect and so him. Jimin has never felt anything hurt like this before.
“Hyung.” Jungkook murmurs, leaning forwards abruptly.
“Please don’t cry.”
Jimin can’t help it. Because he wants Jungkook so much.
He kisses Jungkook, who tenses in surprise but lets him. He licks along his upper lip, tilting his head to push his tongue softly into Jungkook’s mouth. Jungkook responds eagerly, the slow slide of his mouth wet against Jimin’s own. Jimin pulls back for a breath, eventually, and places his hand against the back of Jungkook’s neck to pull their foreheads together. They stay like that, Jungkook’s knee between Jimin’s legs, sitting hunched over, barely touching. Jungkook’s eyes are shut. His thumb draws little circles on Jimin’s knee, which he squeezes, once, reassuringly.
The world backs away. Jimin is left alone with Jungkook, who is still and so close to him.
He’s scared to ever lose Jungkook.
He’s scared Jungkook is going to meet that person, with the perfect teeth and long hair and they’re going to be perfectly in love. Every dream is haunted by that house by the sea and Jungkook’s wedding, which Jimin will inevitably be invited to.
“Jimin” Jungkook says, taking his head and pushing it against his shoulder.
“What can I do to make it better?”
Stay with me.
“Take me back to your room.”
Jungkook takes his hand gently.
A few hours later after Jimin has sobered up, Jungkook strips him naked and kisses every part of him. Jimin fingers Jungkook open and takes his like that, fucks him up against the wall. He watches Jungkook's cock slap against his tense stomach, wet, hard, aching for release.
And Jungkook holds him down after the lights are out, cums inside him, thrusting his hips with an inexperienced clumsiness which drives Jimin crazy. He eats him out slowly, like they have all the time in the world.
(They don’t)
“Minnie” Jungkook pants in the darkness, hands gripping Jimin’s waist. Jimin feels faint.
Like he already knows what’s coming and he’s afraid.