Archive of Our Own

“What do you live for? What are you here for? What do you breathe for? What do you stand for? What would you die for? What will you leave when you’re gone? What are you here for? How could you give more? How could you love more? What do you live for?”

                             —Victoria Monét, “Hollywood” 

The sound of muffled screaming bleeds through the tinted cracked window as the taxi pulls into the stadium gates. A security guard leaps from his post, peering into the window with a frustrated scowl as the driver grumbles incoherently. 

Jeongguk’s fingers press nervously at his own window control, unsuccessfully lowering it an inch. 

“I’m uh—I’m with Vanity Fair,” he huffs out, turning to his bag as he begins to scavenge through it frantically. “I’m writing a piece on—” 

More screams spill from the stadium, nearly shaking the ground beneath the car. 

Jeongguk flushes, exhaling sharply. “I’m writing a piece for the magazine on—”

More screams pierce like shuttered lightning. Jeongguk is now shoving his badge through the window and into the guard’s hands. Watching as the older man peers down at it, uninterested eyes blinking across it before shoving it back to him. 

“Follow the purple signs to drop off,” he says with a jut of his chin. “His manager should meet you down there.” 

He’s pressing a button into the post that lifts the security gate with a metal squeal, an irritating screech only drowned out by another looming wave of high-pitched screams that spill into the van’s still cracked window as the driver weaves backstage. They pass large hissing trucks, each emblazoned with the same glittering smile of the devastatingly beautiful popstar he’d been sent to interview. 

“Are you a fan?” The driver chirps as he directs the car underground. Yellow and gold lights flutter past the window as dozens of people shuffle in swaths of lingering groups, all in matching violet hoodies, watch emblazoned in glittering gold script across the back: PJM. 

“Huh?” Jeongguk asks, as the car plunges deeper into the underground of the stadium, deeper into the pulsing bubble of a multi-million dollar stadium tour hours before it begins. 

Jeongguk must admit, it feels a lot more like a military operation than a sold-out show for the world’s biggest popstar. Hordes of grim-faced security guards litter the massive tunnels until they emerge into the opening, flooding the car with bright white light. 

Just ahead, through the car’s dimmed windshield, a massive banner of mega popstar Park Jimin flags above the stadium’s backstage. He’s just as beautiful as all of his other photos; blindingly so. A face of contradictions— chiseled jaw and plush, rubied lips. Angled brown eyes and delicately soft, rosy cheeks. His long platinum hair is strategically manicured, fluffy, gilded layers that mostly cover his eyes. But Jeongguk knows, from his hours of research and also just existing in the culture currently saturated with nonstop media from this pop phenomenon, that those are beautiful too. 

He’d been assigned this story weeks ago, and spent the following days submerging himself headfirst into the music, the glitz, and the glamor of the popstar. He’d spent weeks only consuming his interviews, finding the 30-year-old to be a kaleidoscopic explosion of charisma and unbridled joy. His music bled with the same golden heartbeat as his smile, all bubblegum pop, chewy and easily digestible. It wasn’t Jeongguk's favorite; he’d learned over the course of consuming 9 albums of perfectly engineered heart-thudding pop music, but it was easy on the ears, and Jimin’s smile and smooth dance moves were just as easy on the eyes. 

“I asked if you were a fan,” the driver asks again.

They drive beneath the flagging banner of Jimin’s beautifully platinum smile, and Jeongguk watches as the silver headlights catch on Jimin’s teeth. 

“I’m uh—” Jeongguk finally croaks out, chest rattling as he reaches up to pat at it as the car rumbles over an uneven speed bump. “I’m not sure yet. I’m new to this whole uh… this whole world.” 

That’s exactly what this felt like, Jeongguk realizes, as his eyes gaze back out the window to the world unfolding around him. Cranes beep and hiss as they station around backstage, their lifts loaded with arrangements of stacked golden boxes and massive stagelights studded in shimmering gemstones. There are more people, dozens more, each still clad in the same matching violet hoodies, and they buzz around with a frantic urgency. Hands stuffed with arrangements of flowers, bedazzled leotards, and shoes. Jeongguk was submerging into an operation that existed more as a living, breathing organism, pulsing with life and a thousand wild flying legs. 

He’d never felt more out of place. 

“I could be a fan, though, it may take some time,” he continues. That was the truth. In his few weeks submerged in the intricately manufactured world of Park Jimin, he couldn’t quite say he’d found himself to emerge a fan. The world of bubblegum pop felt too sticky for his taste. Like chewed plastic stuck between his gums. Park Jimin didn’t feel human, or at least not enough to gravitate to. Despite the stickiness of his music, the sheer pink gloss of his lips, his image, his platinum smile, Jeongguk didn’t find a human beneath to attach himself to. 

“I think he’s bad. Can’t stand his voice. Very whiny,” the driver mumbles as he pulls closer to the parking stop. “But my daughters love him.” 

As he slows to a stop, Jeongguk peers down a congested hallway as a frazzled woman with long, bone straight hair rushes towards them. 

“Are you taking them to tonight’s show?” Jeongguk asks softly, collecting his bag and tossing it across his shoulders. 

“For the price he’s asking, that's the last thing I’d ever be able to do,” the driver laughs softly as he pulls the car to a measured stop. He turns around to Jeongguk in the backseat and flashes him a toothless smile. “If you meet him, tell him two girls— Ayeong and Eunji love him with all their hearts. They write poetry in his honor. It’s beautiful, really.” 

Jeongguk laughs, reaching into his bag to pull out a couple of bills, and presses them into the man’s hand. 

“I’ll do my best,” he says, popping the door open and pressing into the humidity outside. 

Once outside of the car, the small woman is still approaching him. Her thumbs moving like lightning across her glowing phone. It takes her a moment to yank her eyes away from the screen, and when she does, she’s murmuring something absent-mindedly before quickly clicking her phone off.

She pauses, obviously collecting herself. 

“Vanity Fair?” She asks. 

Jeongguk’s nose wrinkles, annoyed. “Jeon Jeongguk,” he corrects, reaching a hand out. “But yes, I’m here for Vanity Fair Korea.” 

For a split second, a look of annoyance flits across the woman’s face. But its brevity is stifled as the phone glimmers back to life in her hand. 

“Lee Wooyoung,” She introduces bluntly. “I’m Jimin’s manager.” She pauses, then responds on her phone quickly. Then she’s turning her attention, very briefly, back to Jeongguk.“Follow me, Jeon Jeongguk from Vanity Fair,” she says, eyes glued to her phone as she spins on her heel to begin back down the congested hallway. 

Jeongguk leaps behind her. Tugging at the straps of his cartoonishly full backpack as he squeezes down the halls of the stadium concert in full swing. 

A team of women shuffle with squeaky metal racks stuffed full of lilac colored sheer tops that billow from the speed of their yanking. They rush past a brightly lit room that bleeds out the chemical stench of so much hairspray, Jeongguk is certain they are cooking up mustard gas. 

They slip past more rooms, one full of barely clothed dancers as a tiny woman with a blunt black bob shrieks, “We need all dancers in makeup NOW!” 

The final door they reach is at the end of the hallway. There is a tall tan tan-skinned man just outside of it, jaw clenched. As well as another tiny woman, her hair is long and bone straight, and when the fluorescent light above them catches it, it ripples like black waves against the yellow light. She’s dressed in the same lilac hoodie as the rest of the crew, but her aproned waist is adorned with makeup brushes. When she notices their approach, she melts in relief.

“Thank God, you’re here,” she groans. Then she’s pointing her finger at the sealed door. “Your client is acting like a brat again and refusing to come out—” 

She barely finishes her words before Wooyoung is barreling to the door, banging her fists against the wood. 

“Jimin! Grow the fuck up and open the door!” She bellows, followed by more incessant banging of her fist against the door. “Jimin, you’re acting like a fucking brat!” 

Wooyoung’s face has burned red with frustration, then she turns her head sharply as though remembering Jeongguk is still there. 

She clears her throat, reaching up to smooth her frizzying hair as it cooks under the fluorescent light. “This is off the record, right?” She asks.

Jeongguk gapes at her, taken aback. Suddenly very aware of all the eyes currently burning into him. He fidgets awkwardly, the soles of his sneakers melting into the concrete ground.

“Uh yeah, of course,” his mouth replies before his head has a chance to catch up to what he is saying. 

Wooyoung turns back to the door, continuing her banging. “Jimin, I’m not playing with you—” 

“Leave me alone!” A smaller voice echoes through the opposite end of the door. It’s muffled, mostly, but Jeongguk can hear the sorrows of it, hanging heavy and clinging to the wood of the door separating them. 

Wooyoung halts her knocking, fist still clenched, before turning back to Jeongguk. 

“He tends to be like this before shows,” she explains, but she’s reaching up and pinching at the bridge of her nose as she swallows back her frustration. “Shows are stressful for everyone, but he has a tendency to make everything even more stressful.” 

Jeongguk thinks he can hear the voice on the other side of the door again, then a small click. Wooyoung must hear it too, because her hand is on the doorknob, but before she yanks it open, she’s yelling again. 

“Jimin, Vanity Fair is here, so I need you to act like you have some sense,” she hisses through clenched teeth. 

Jeongguk gulps, then Wooyoung presses the door open with a snap and a squeal of old wood.

Jeongguk has been in several green rooms in his time as a writer for Vanity Fair. There are differences, but they remain the same. A constant stream of continuity streamlined from one green room to the next. There are usually containers, stacked high, full of water bottles. Mugs of tea, racks of freshly steamed clothes. The green room of the Mega pop star Park Jimin wasn’t lacking in any of that. It was, however, stuffed full of various empty bottles of liquor Jeongguk knows cost more than his last full paycheck. 

The room reeks of that same spilled liquor, Jeongguk notes. The stacks of empty bottles clutter the tables as they enter. He takes a few steps past half-empty pill bottles, scattered used paper plates. 

The Park Jimin he expects, the one who’d spent the latter half of his life basking in the spotlight, was larger than life. A gilded angel, all gold and infinite fireworks. He was exalted to the point of godhood, his talent and everlasting charm oozing from every inch of him.

The Park Jimin that he meets is folded in the fetal position, cocooned in a tiny gray plush blanket. He doesn’t move, even when the dressing room door slams open and rattles against the thin walls. 

His manager is stomping into the room first, the echo of her heels clipping against the stone floor. She reaches the edge of the leather couch and lingers for a beat before reaching forward and snatching at the blanket. 

Jimin unravels, falling to the floor with a heavy thud and tight-toothed hiss. 

“Fuck you, Wooyoung,” he groans out, still on the ground, unmoving. 

“Fuck me?” Wooyoung snaps back, tossing the blanket aside and pressing closer to the arm of the couch until she’s peering over it, looming over him like a shadow. “Save that for after the show. You do remember you have a show tonight, right?” 

Jimin responds with a groan, his small hand reaching up as he flips her off. Then he turns uncomfortably on the floor, shoulder pressed against the stone as he attempts to settle against it. Wooyoung, annoyed, launches towards him, yanking him up by the loose collar of his white hoodie. The person she jostles is a ghostly gray color, oily white blond hair sticking to his head in matted clumps. He snorts, wincing beneath the achy fluorescent light of the dressing room, hand clawing up to shield his eyes, the other defensively tugging away from Wooyoung’s grip. 

“Get off me!” He slurs out, and even from this distance, Jeongguk can smell the hints of warm brown liquor that still clings to his tongue. 

“You know I don’t give a shit what you do on your own time, but drinking on a show day—” Wooyoung begins angrily. 

“It was one drink—” Jimin protests. 

“It’s never just one drink with you,” Wooyoung snaps back, shoving him forward. 

Jimin stumbles back, catching himself against the corner of the dirty table. Empty liquor bottles rattle on impact. Glass bottles tinkle against each other as his hand scatters them flimsily. He then reaches up, tugging at his now loosely stretched collar before darting his eyes, finally, up to meet Jeongguk.

When Jeongguk finally locks eyes with mega popstar, Park Jimin, he expects lightning, or at least some semblance of the sparkling magnetism he’d grown accustomed to from the media he’d consumed over the past few weeks. He expected the charming smile, twinkling gaze; ripped directly from the banner that swung above their heads. Instead, those plump pink lips are cracked into a disgruntled frown as he juts his jaw in Jeongguk’s direction. 

“Who the hell is he?” He growls with a low, gravelly voice. 

Jeongguk lurches back at Jimin’s poisonous tone, but he finds himself preening instead, with pity; as he watches the young man attempt to peel himself from the table, only to stumble back into it with a hollow grunt. He drunkenly stumbles, hands awkwardly slapping against the table as his weight sends crumpled napkins and empty water bottles flying to the floor with a hollow thud. 

“It’s the reporter from Vanity Fair who's doing the 3-month-long piece on you,” Wooyoung explains, but her attention is back on her phone. Fingers thumbing at the brightly lit screen. 

“Reporter?” Jimin snorts, frowning up at Jeongguk.

Jeongguk, in turn, gapes at him, suddenly for a loss of words as he burns uncomfortably under the attention. He darts his gaze between Jimin, who is still frowning up at him, and Wooyoung, who is silently typing down at her phone. After a long, abbreviated moment, she’s pulling her eyes back up to Jeongguk and heaving out a polite sigh.

“Yes, the reporter who is doing the piece on you that’s supposed to open your fanbase up and legitimize you to a new circle of listeners,” she says, gaze pointed as though telepathically attempting to outline the piece directly into Jeongguk’s skull. Then she turns to Jimin, and her expression hardens. “You signed off on it last month.” 

Jimin rolls his eyes, running an annoyed hand down his face as he shakes his head. “Well fuck that, I don’t want to do it anymore.” 

Jeongguk freezes at his words, head snapping to Wooyoung, who panics. He watches her face flush red, then swallows thickly. “Well, this isn’t up to you, Jimin.” 

Jimin finally rises. The long, lean dancer's legs are seemingly now made of jello as he surges forward towards her. “You’re not my boss,” he begins. 

Wooyoung rolls her eyes, and despite their height difference, she barely trembles even though Jimin towers over her. She rakes a hand through her hair, sucking her teeth. “I am, actually,” she retorts with a shrug. She juts her chin towards Jeongguk, who still stands uncomfortably at the back of the couch. He feels as though he has stepped foot into a web he doesn’t belong in. He can feel the stickiness of the very complicated situation unfolding in front of him. 

Wooyoung is typing on her phone again, then she’s looking up at Jimin, narrowing her eyes. “I have to go speak to the choreographer really quickly. But when I leave, you’re gonna be getting your makeup and hair done, and I want you out for soundcheck in 40 minutes. Is that understood?” 

Jimin doesn't answer; he’s rolling his eyes and tugging his hoodie deeper over his eyes. Wooyoung flits her eyes to Jeongguk, then she’s off and out of the door.

A long moment passes, and Jeongguk is approaching him slowly, hands wrapped tightly around the strap of his bag. He can still hear the muffled screaming, though it sounds more like a hum from where they are, this deep in the undergrounds beneath the stadium. But it rattles the carpeted flooring nonetheless. Jimin is unresponsive, head slung against the back of the couch, mouth slightly ajar. He’s taking deep, unregulated breaths. 

“My name is Jeongguk, senior entertainment writer at Vanity Fair Korea,” Jeongguk finally chirps, unsure why he feels so nervous right now. He’s done dozens of interviews before, just like this: has followed an up-and-coming actor in the days before the Academy Awards. He’d spent a week in the deserts of Arizona with a seasoned director as they filmed in clouds of dust and red-bricked sand on what would end up being a modern, classic western. He’d even spent the afternoon, though not particularly in the realm of entertainment journalism, following a group of young interns on the morning of the first day at Parliament. But this, he realizes as the most famous face in the world sits across from him in a slouchy white hoodie and pizza-stained pants, is more intimidating than anything he’d ever encountered before. 

He takes another courageous step towards Jimin, clearing his throat before continuing. 

“I’ll be writing a piece on you. Just following you for a month, give people an inside scoop—”

“I don’t really care who you are, or why you’re here.” Jimin interrupts. He’s finally lifting his head, finally gracing him with the gift of his gaze, though it’s shrouded with annoyance. A soft beat and he’s rising, drifting long, lean legs towards one of the many plastic tables and draping himself over it to grab for a nearly empty bottle of very expensive vodka. He swirls it around in the glass, heaving out a huff before tilting it back and swallowing it down in one quick swig. He hisses, then turns to Jeongguk. 

Jeongguk cocks his chin, sucking in a soft laugh as his bruised ego burns at his chest. He can feel Jimin’s eyes on him, but he keeps his own low, plastered to the gray carpeted floor.

“I’ve interviewed a handful of celebrities in my time at the magazine,” he begins with a delicate whisper. He can hear a crane in the distance, muffled mechanical whirs as something on the stage is heaved high up, somewhere in the stadium. “You’re my biggest story yet.”

“No surprise there,” Jimin says with a pompous laugh. He’s reaching for another bottle. That one is empty too, and he groans in annoyance, crossing the room until he finds the last of the cluster of bottles that line one of the plastic tables and reaches for one. It’s half full of brown liquor, and Jimin sloshes it around in the bottle before pulling the bottle to his lips. He hisses through another sip before pressing it back to the table. 

“I’ve never heard of you before,” Jimin says with a shrug. 

“My line of work doesn’t necessarily call for fame and fortune,” Jeongguk retorts with a shake of his head. 

“So what’s the point?” Jimin snorts out, crossing the room until he’s finally standing before Jeongguk.

Up this close, Jeongguk can see the redness of Jimin’s tired eyes. The sheen of sweat that paints his freckled cheek. He reeks of alcohol, reaching up with the sleeves of his hoodie to wipe the remnants of it from his lip. He looks, unsurprisingly, and uniquely human. Frail, fragile flesh and bone. 

“The point,” Jeongguk begins. “Is that I’m a writer. I hope that I’ll write something profound enough that it touches someone the same way all the great writers who inspired me did.”

Jimin’s eyes have glazed over, as though his attention has fixed itself to a hot air balloon and floated off on the sails of hot helium. He blinks very slowly, as though attempting to ground himself. Then he’s taking in an uncomfortable breath, belching slightly.

“Oh,” is all he says with a nonchalant shrug. He rolls his eyes, lips pursed slightly. “Sounds boring.”

Before Jeongguk can respond, the dressing room door is flying open, and with it, a group of women armed with claws of makeup brushes and cans of hairspray clobber in. Jeongguk is manhandled by the smallest one— a tiny violet-haired woman who shoves him back against the wall as she scoops Jimin up and plops him into the seat stationed in front of the massive shimmering mirror ahead.  

Jimin’s eyes dart to Jeongguk, but his head is pried away as the makeup artist begins her assault on his cheeks. Jeongguk watches as they rally around him, bringing clouds of chalky hairspray and powdered blush. He’s shoved back by one, and he stumbles, only slightly, and it catches Jimin’s eye. He turns his head towards him, chuckling slightly. 

“So what are you going to write about me?” Jimin asks, face frozen as one of the makeup artists smears an angled brush along his waterline with bright white liner. 

Jeongguk regains his balance, shaking out an awkward breath before blinking back to Jimin. 

“I’m going to write what I see,” Jeongguk replies. 

“And what do you see?” Jimin asks. There’s a sharpness to his words, but there’s also genuine curiosity. He tries to keep his eyes on Jeongguk, but his head is being tilted in the opposite direction, this time by a hairstylist as she combs a sizzling flat iron through a large chunk of white blond hair. 

Jeongguk heaves out a laugh because he isn’t sure what he’s seeing. He’s only been present for 15 minutes, and so much has happened. Time feels like it’s in hyperdrive, driven on slick roads iced with hairspray and glitter. He wonders how Jimin can keep up with the pace. 

“I see someone with the world at their fingertips,” Jeongguk finally replies, and he means that. Watching as a woman hunches over at Jimin’s left side and begins roughly filing at his nails. He watches the world, in all its manicured glory, revolve around Jimin in a dance of polished attention. He’s poked and prodded from every angle, tugged by hair stylists as it seems a handful are assigned to every yellowed strand. More makeup artists have seemingly materialized from thin air, one for each eye, two for each cheek. Then, more screams rumble the ground beneath them, and Jeongguk suddenly feels very overwhelmed by it all. Suddenly very suffocated by the bubble he’s stumbled into. 

Jimin, however, is unfazed. He’s gazing at his reflection in the mirror as the world implodes around him, with an expressionless, slow blink. In a moment of reprieve from the makeup artist’s hands as she dips her brush back into the eyeshadow palette currently buried in her palm, he turns his head to Jeongguk. The expressionless gaze remains, face frozen. 

“I can imagine it gets lonely, though,” Jeongguk finally murmurs softly. “In the eye of the storm.” 

Jimin’s expression melts into something more melancholic. He blinks slowly, around glazed eyes growing glassy as he blinks at Jeongguk through a hazy cloud of hairspray. He looks taken aback, as though his tongue has been pulled too tight in his jaw. He sniffles slightly, going to open his mouth to speak, but his head is being buoyed back to the mirror, the makeup artist applying a delicate layer of pink gloss to his lips. 

The dressing room door is being pried open, and Wooyoung is popping her head in. She peers around the room, smiles at the near military orderly fashion that’s being operated, then turns her attention to Jimin. 

“As soon as you’re done, we’re gonna get you dressed, then 50 minutes until showtime,” she says. 

Jimin hums in acknowledgment, eyes falling shut as the makeup artist buffs a dark powder into the crease of his eyes. Wooyoung is turning her attention to Jeongguk. “Have you ever been to a Park Jimin stadium show?” She asks. 

Jeongguk shakes his head in response. Truth was, he had never been to any stadium show. His taste in music was a little less bubblegum pop and more leaning towards a show that’d be performed in a riverside bar.  In fact, beyond his research for this piece, he barely steps foot in the stadium for games, let alone a show. 

Wooyoung opens the jar slightly and beckons him towards her. “Well, aren’t you in luck? We’ve got you hooked up with VIP tickets.” 

As Wooyoung weaved them through the throngs of shuffling girls buzzing throughout the stadium, Jeongguk's eyes flitted around. There was an electric buzz beating through the stadium as hundreds, no, thousands, of girls in shimmering purple attire flooded the stadium floor. Jeongguk squeezed between a group of at least seven, each painted in iridescent rainbow makeup as they fluttered together in line for merch. 

There were a few men his age, he recognizes, but each of them were holding purses of what Jeongguk would assume were their girlfriends. Reunited when she emerged from the bathroom, equally as excited as they grabbed for their bright purple bags with glitter violet nails. 

Eventually, they reach the VIP box; Wooyoung glides towards the security guard and flashes her badge amongst the metal clanking of her keys. She’s reaching behind her and grabbing for Jeongguk’s arm, and shoving him in front of her, as the security guard beckons them both forward into the box with a nod of his head. 

Jeongguk presses at Wooyoung’s side, who is now back on her phone, the bright blue light of her screen splashing onto the painted dark maroon walls of the tiny hallway as they press further towards the VIP box. The closer they get, the more electric the air feels. Excitement dazzles through the stadium like bolts of lightning, and despite his original lack of passion, he feels the threat of thrill rivet through him from the mere contagion of it bleeding through the air. The rumbles of screams beneath his toes feel like sparks that glide him further through the hallway and out into the VIP box ahead. 

In all his years writing for the magazine, he’s seen sights he’d never imagined: the sun dancing across the sparkling blue sea in a dance of diamonds as far as his eyes could see. He’d witnessed the magnitude of impossibility, towering red mountains of ash and clay. He’d witnessed New York, exploding with life and glittering electric lights at night. But this, this, was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

In his research, he’d read about the sea of shimmering purple lightsticks that make an appearance at Jimin’s shows. He’d flicked through pictures of the sea of violet light as they danced through the stadium. But seeing it here, he feels his breath hitch at the beauty of it. 

The sea below him dances in swirls of violet and white. A synchrony of shimmering light as the girls who wave them buzz themselves with a light that rivals the sun. 

The show begins, as expected, in a burst of lilac light. Jimin emerges from a cloud of fog and, much to Jeongguk’s surprise, any of the drunkenness from just moments earlier seems to be buffed away, and instead a demigod who appears before them on the massive screen that bears his platinum smile.

Jeongguk’s ears ring from the electricity of the screams that engulf the stadium, but Jimin seems to revel in it. He winks, beginning in a sleek swirl of light and spin before the music blasts and he begins his electric performance. Jimin, he sees, was meant to be on the stage. He’s meant to be adored, he observes. 

“He’s incredible, isn’t he?” Wooyoung says, still typing away at her phone. Then she pulls it away from her face and turns to face him.

Jeongguk finds it hard to pull his eyes away from the performance, finding himself just as spellbound as the girls who flail around him. Eventually, he does find Wooyoung blinking at him with a wide grin stitched across her face.

“He’s amazing,” Jeongguk yells back, but he feels like his voice is being drowned by the bass of the music blaring around them.

“I know,” Wooyoung replies with a shrug. “And he’s raking in millions in the process.”

There’s something bitter in her words that Jeongguk doesn’t like. But the rattle of the music in his bones has him finding it hard to properly respond. There’s another explosion, this time lilac and white confetti being rocketed into the air on the roar of several canons. Jeongguk turns to face Wooyoung, who is leaning into him. 

“The thing about Jimin is… he is a product,” she confesses, violet light painting her face purple. “He is packaged and sold to every single one of these girls who dream they have a chance with him. They buy things with his face, come to his concerts, because they believe in their hearts that one day, if they dream hard enough, they could be with him too.” She casts her eyes out to the stage where Jimin, in all his celestial glory, is barreling through beautifully crafted choreography in a sea of white light. The smile that paints her face is insidious, but she also looks like a craftsman gazing upon her greatest creation. “He’s the perfect product.” 

As Jeongguk follows her eyes, he thinks he sees it too. The Park Jimin he’d been sold. “This story is going to change your career,” his editor had told him when he’d been chosen to be its scribe. “This is an opportunity so many people at this magazine would kill for.”

As he gazes at the god, no,  the man, no, the boy performing in front of him, he thinks he sees it too. Wonders if he was just another gilded star, no, a sun, destined to burn so bright before it inevitably implodes.

Late that evening, Jeongguk is squeezing through the heavy throngs of scantily clad girls until he reaches the front of the line. The man at the door is taller than the doorframe, lines of tattoos stenciled down his arms as he turns to Jeongguk with a heavy scowl.  The door to the club is closed, but Jeongguk can hear the beat of the heavy trap music that spills beneath the heavy steel door. Rattling the concrete below their feet. 

Jeongguk murmurs softly, issuing an awkward wave as he attempts to gather the guard's attention. Eventually, he does, the man casting him an annoyed scowl as he turns his gaze towards him. Jeongguk gapes at him, heart thudding in his chest as he clammers in his bag, still slung across his shoulders, for the laminated pass he’d been given at the stadium.

“I’m part of Park Jimin’s team, here for the afterparty,” he stammers out, shoving the pass in the large man’s rough hands. “Well, not really, but I’ve been issued the same clearance as his team. I work for Vanity Fair—”

The guard is shoving the pass back into Jeongguk's chest, shaking his head. 

“Press isn’t allowed into the club after 11PM,” he grovels out, attention turning to the two women behind him as he beckons them forward. 

Jeongguk is jostled as they shove past him, long green glitter painted nails shoving their IDs into the guard's hands. He glosses his eyes over the IDs, then the two women, he’s pressing the cards back into their hands and opening up the door.

Smoke spills from the open door in billows of swirling silver smoke, as do splashes of shimmering blue lights that paint the concrete in flashes of ocean blue hues. The guard juts his chin out to direct the women towards the door, where they shuffle in. Swallowed into the massive darkness inside.

Jeongguk takes a step closer to the man, demanding his attention. The man turns his gaze to him, scowl deepening. 

“Are you deaf or something?” He says, taking a step towards Jeongguk until he’s peering down the slope of his very thin nose at him. “No press is allowed—”

“I’m not press,” Jeongguk retorts, shaking his head, digging through his bag, which is stuffed full of indiscriminate papers and loose convenience store receipts. “I mean, I am. But I’m not here as press— I mean— I mean I am—”

Before he can finish, someone he recognizes is stumbling out of the club. It’s Wooyoung. She looks disheveled, mostly annoyed as she straightens herself out on the concrete. She glances around, lit phone in hand as she combs her hand down her hair when she sees him.

“Mr. Jeon,” she huffs out, approaching them. She glances between him and the guard before landing back to Jeongguk. “He’s giving you a hard time, isn’t he?”

Jeongguk’s jaw slacks, eyes shifting as he watches the guard cross his arms, frustratedly across his chest. 

“No press allowed after 11–”

“He’s with Park, he’s fine,” Wooyoung says, and she’s reaching towards Jeongguk, wrapping her hand around his wrist and yanking him towards her. 

Jeongguk stumbles, feeling his feet trip across the concrete as he’s dragged, swallowed into the darkness of the club unaided. The last thing he sees, as he casts a final glance behind him to the guard outside, is the look of annoyance, or maybe disturbed? As he’s absorbed into the heated bubble of the club.

The further they venture into the belly of the club, the deeper the beat buries into his bones. He feels the pulse of this hypnotic, slurring beat rattle the blood inside his skin, buzzing through his muscle. Lights and bodies flash like lightning, all slick skin, sticky with sweat as Wooyoung continues to wind them through the club until they reach a glass staircase. Wooyoung releases him, turning on her heel to face him. She winces at the volume of the music, inching closer and closing the space between them.

“I hate that he likes coming here. It's gotten to be a little too much recently,” she yells, though her voice is barely audible over the music. “But I’m not his mom. He can do whatever he wants.”

There’s sadness, somewhere in her words, but the banging beat currently blaring from the speakers has Jeongguk unable to tack it down. He doesn’t think Wooyoung recognizes it either, because she’s back to her phone, the only source of light in the wading violet tinted darkness that swallows them. She’s typing on it frantically, then locks it. Glancing back to Jeongguk.

“You get to party with the coolest person on earth, lucky you,” she smiles. Then she’s reaching her hand out. “I’ll need your phone though.”

Jeongguk gape at her, then he’s shaking his head. “I— I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that—”

“You get to party with the coolest person on earth,” Wooyoung repeats, but with more venom laced between each word. “That’s a privilege that comes with…. uh… stipulations.” She waggles her fingers at him. “Everyone in this club had to surrender their phone upon entry. And that includes you.” She pokes him gently at his chest. “To keep said coolest person safe.” She winks and laughs slickly, which makes Jeongguk’s skin crawl at the sight of it.

Jeongguk’s jaw aches, eyes roaming around the club for the first time. Under the gauze of shimmering purple lights, he watches as a sea of sticky bodies dances around in a tidal wave of hedonistic pulsing swaths. It looks inhuman, the awkward jolts of bodies under pulsing lights to the thudding heartbeat of music that Jeongguk still feels in his bones. They all look swept up in a frantic rush of energy.

He’s turning back to her, fishing his phone from his pocket and placing it directly into her waiting palm. Wooyoung winks, then she slips the phone into the pocket of her denim shirt. She winks at him, waving her hand upwards towards the darkened staircase.

“You’re free to have fun with the coolest person on Earth,” she instructs. Her brows furrow slightly as she wrinkles her nose. “Just uh… whatever he’s doing up there. I know you’re here as an interviewer, but maybe for tonight let’s just keep that role as an observer instead,” she explains, shaking her head, her own phone lighting up in her palm. She darts an eye down to it, face sweaty under the illumination in the middle of the dark hallway. Then she’s pressing a hand to his chest, gently beckoning him up the stairs. “Just try to keep tonight’s fun uh… off the record.”

Jeongguk gaggles at her, but she’s pressing him up the stairs, waving at him gently from below before disappearing into the thickened crowd. Jeongguk’s eyes travel back to the stark, thin, silver metal steps that rattle with the pulse of the beat during his ascension. When he reaches the top, there’s another guard, this one thinner, but no less intimidating. He gives Jeongguk one dark glare, then he steps aside as though he’d been waiting for him, allowing him to emerge into the privately booked room.

It’s much less crowded up here, fewer packed bodies, much less waves of moving bodies swimming in a discordant dance to a pulsing beat. But heat rises, and Jeongguk feels swallowed by it as he emerges into the private room. The light is dim, visibility only provided by a faint wash of cobalt light that lay like mist across the room. There’s only a handful of people, mostly thin, wide-eyed men in tight cotton crop tops who dance hypnotically to the beat. When they notice Jeongguk’s entry, they eye him for a moment, then return to their hypnotic dance. 

As Jeongguk continues through the private room, he notices a long plush navy couch at the opposite end, capped by a long crystal table. There’s a blond man crouched over it, his greasy blond bang obscuring what he’s snorting along the mirrored table top, as does the dark-haired man currently latched to his neck in the pursuit of any skin available. It’s only when the blond man finishes his line does he leans back with a gasp. It’s Jimin, Jeongguk recognizes. Very high, very inebriated, Jimin. Before his head can fling back against the back of the couch, he catches sight of Jeongguk and freezes, then, very slowly, he melts into a heavy-lidded smile. 

“You actually came,” he slurs out, voice all feathery and detached as he cocks his head. The man who is peppering gentle kisses on Jimin’s neck has now moved down to his chest. These kisses are sloppier, messier. Jimin melts into them; he’s drilling against the back of the couch before waving Jeongguk over.

Jeongguk only now realizes his feet have settled like stone against the carpet. He tries to budge himself from where he stands but finds himself rooted to the floor, frozen.

Jimin must notice his apprehension because he’s laughing.

“What are you standing over there for?” He asks, combing his fingers through the brunette man’s hair as the man has now lowered his kisses to his belly button. His gaze remains on Jeongguk.

“It’s been a long night. Have a seat, have a drink. Relax,” he purrs softly.

Jeongguk feels himself being tugged by an unknowable, invisible force until he’s in the armchair across from Jimin. He’s melting into it, eyes still locked on him as he gulps heavily.

The man who is peppering kisses across Jimin’s body is right at his groin, but Jimin, whose hand has remained in the man’s hair, stops him by yanking roughly at the man’s thick black hair. The man stutters, jolted up as Jimin flares at him through heavy eyes and furrowed brow.

“Not here,” he hisses through clenched teeth. Then he shoves the man off with a growl. The man stumbles, head rolling against the crushed velvet of the couch. As he straightens up, attempting to stabilize himself, he casts Jeongguk an embarrassed glance before running his hand along his nose with a snort. Then he’s rising to his feet, he wobbles slightly.

“When you’re done with him or whatever, just grab me,” he mumbles, though most of his words are slurred together, spilling from a drunk tongue. He casts Jeongguk a final, shy smile, then he’s gone. Disappearing into the darkness and back down the steps.

They are mostly alone in the private room now. There are still clusters of people peppered through the room, but Jimin is alone on the couch now. Jeongguk is across from him as he shuffles awkwardly in the velvet armchair. He casts a look behind him to the stairs as though expecting the man to return. When he doesn’t, his gaze shifts to Jimin, who is leaning forward on the table to sip at his abandoned drink.

“Is that your boyfriend?” Jeongguk asks, stiffly.

Jimin chugs the last of his drink down, chewing roughly on the ice when he snorts, rolling his eyes. “Jaekyung? Oh hell no. Never,” he says, crunching the ice between his teeth with a crack. “We hook up. That’s it, really.” He pauses, pondering his words. “Besides, the label says no significant others. Technically, the wording states, “No girlfriends” but that’s not really a concern of mine. Or theirs really.” 

He’s reaching for another bottle, fishing it from the metal container full of ice, as he unscrews it and pours it over his glass. Then he pauses, before darting his eyes up to Jeongguk.

“I’m a really bad fucking host, aren’t I?” He asks with a chuckle. “I’m supposed to ask you if you want a drink, don’t I?”

Jeongguk’s eyes shift between the bottle of extraordinarily expensive vodka that he only ever sees at award shows, then back to Jimin. He stifles out an awkward laugh, tongue going out to wet his lips. “Uh… no, thank you. I don’t drink—”

Jimin is ignoring him, grabbing an empty glass and beginning his pour. It lands in stutter gulps inside the glass.

“Cmon, it’s just one drink. Gotta celebrate tonight’s show—” 

“Nah, I’m good—”

“Just one—”

“I said, I’m good!” He finds his voice cracking as he shouts. It rings over the music, a near shriek drowned out by thudding bass. 

Jimin freezes, hand still clutched around the bottle as he keeps a blank gaze tossed across to Jeongguk. He doesn’t look angry, Jeongguk notes, nor does he look embarrassed by Jeongguk’s outburst. If anything, he looks intrigued; a subtle furrow of his brow as he shrugs weakly. He grabs for his own glass again and sliding it closer towards him. He begins pouring, shaking his head.

“Your loss,” he says weakly as he finishes pouring a hefty shot. He forgoes any chaser, choosing to simply throw it back. He winces, but only slightly. Then he’s looking back up to Jeongguk's dark red lip stained from the shot. “Don’t say I’m not a good host, though in your story.”

Jeongguk is suddenly very uncomfortable where he’s sitting, so he stirs slightly. The velvet crunches beneath his leg as he struggles to paint on a smile.

“I wasn’t going to,” he says, shaking his head. 

“Lemme guess,” Jimin says, sharply, dipping down onto the floor as he squirms forward at the table. Quick, small fingers wrestle with the remaining lines of powder still cut atop the table. “Wooyoung took your phone before you came up here, then told you to keep everything off the record.”

They exchange wordless expressions, Jeongguk trying to find comfort in his bones as they rattle from the music. Then he’s nodding.

Jimin snorts, though it’s mostly mute, buried beneath the music. Then he’s taking a shaky hand, wrapping it around a Won still rolled up but wet from the scattered, sweating drink littered across the crystal table. He presses it to his nose, dipping his head down to one of the lines as he takes a deep, snorted breath along it.

Jeongguk watches with pity as Jimin’s blond bang dusts the table with the movement. Then his head rises. He’s taking another deep breath, but this one is more frantic than the last. He drops the Won on the table, as he drops his head. Letting it sling back against the crushed velvet couch. 

Jeongguk watches him for a long moment, watching the way beneath his closed eyelids his eyes flutter frantically behind the skin. His chest rises and falls quickly, almost as though he can’t take enough breaths for his small body. After a long moment, he’s peeling his head from the couch. Peeling his eyes open and casting bloodshot, blown pupils and wet lashes across the table to Jeongguk.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says suddenly.

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” Jeongguk retorts.

“Yeah, you are,” Jimin shoots back. He straightens his back, shaking his head as he reaches up to comb his hand through his hair. “You’re looking at me like you feel sorry for me or something.”

Jeongguk does feel sorry for him. Despite having the world at his fingertips, despite having just hours earlier thousands of lustful, and very loving eyes all around him, he’s now reduced to being here, sloppy drunk and sitting cross-legged beneath a crystal table in the upstairs of a club as he gets high from line after line of cocaine. He looks very small here, lean legs pretzeled up, face shiny with sweat, blond hair clumped with sweat. He looks pathetic, really. 

Jeongguk’s face draws up to speak, but he finds the words lost on his tongue. Jimin returns the frustrated expression, nose wrinkling, and eyes suddenly very glassy as he reaches back down for the rolled-up Won.

That makes Jeongguk shake his head, hand reaching out. 

“Hey, slow down—” He finds himself saying with a shake of his head.

“Or what?” Jimin snaps back. Most of his eyes are obscured by the flop of greasy hair over them. But Jeongguk can see just how glassy they are, even in the pulsing blue light of the club.  

Jimin sucks at his teeth, jutting his jaw out like the muscles are too strained in his face. He snorts, running his hand beneath his nose worriedly.

“Slow down or what?” He repeats. “I die? My heart bursts in my chest? I choke on my own vomit?” He’s found the Won, shoving it in his right nostril, and he’s snorting, this time more aggressively. He shouts, lightning shooting through his brain, he’s letting his head fall back against the couch, then he’s flinging it back up. He fights, wars with himself for a moment, then he’s settling back. The focus in his eyes has melted, but he’s finding Jeongguk again. His gaze still cast pity, but more concerned.

Jimin runs a hand beneath his nose, drawing with it a delicate line, light pink, faint blood smearing across his thumb. “Slow down or what?” He repeats, but he finds that he’s mostly speaking to himself. “Slow down or I’m gone. Then they’ll have to find another kid to take advantage of. Then they’re gone. Wash, rinse, and repeat. Wash, rinse, and repeat.”

His words are heavier than Jeongguk expected. Bricks of years of frustration, bottled up and flung out on a drunk tongue. In his years of working as a journalist, he’s spoken to open subjects but never this open. It feels more like exploitation than anything, and he suddenly feels very gross, very slimy to be sitting here, witnessing it. 

Jimin seems to be settling back to normal; the collar of his white shirt is drenched in sweat, and he’s clawing at it, unaware of the display of vulnerability he’d just exposed. After a long moment, he’s rising to his feet, still clawing at his shirt.

“Is it fucking hot in here?” He spit. “Are you hot? Is it just me, or is it roasting in here?” 

Jeongguk is gaping at him, confused, then Jimin is rising, wobbling, but rising and pressing past him. Jeongguk feels almost obligated to follow. 

They are emerging onto a balcony; it’s mostly abandoned save for two girls who have their heads tossed over the metal railing as they drink in heavy lungfuls of breath on queasy stomachs. Jeongguk watches as Jimin presses past them until he reaches the corner, tossing the top of his body over the railing as though attempting to scoop cool air to his body. 

Jeongguk is rushing towards him, grabbing for him, but Jimin turns, pushing him away. 

“I’m not going to fucking kill myself, at least not right now,” he hisses through clenched teeth, rolling his eyes as he turns back to the open air ahead. “I’m just trying to breathe. I can’t fucking breathe.” 

He’s breathing heavily, chest rising and falling, rising and falling, and eventually he settles back onto his heels, turning back to Jeongguk for a moment. 

Jeongguk’s eyes narrow, hands still outstretched, because Jimin feels like trying to catch smoke between his fingers. Despite his inebriated state, he hasn’t slowed down once since he’d met him. He felt like he was trying to catch lightning in a bottle. 

Jimin is reading his expression, his own brows twisting up before he turns back to the balcony, casting his eyes over it. Seoul is a web of tangled streets painted orange by the streetlights and racing cars that weave between them. The air is cooler, wrapping between them like ribbons, and Jeongguk can see the way it springs goosebumps against Jimin’s obviously sweaty neck. Jeongguk is pressing to his side, crossing his arms finally as he tosses his upper body over the railing at Jimin’s side. He’s burning up, as he’d said, flesh cooking as it sears against Jeongguk’s own. 

“I think you need some water or something,” Jeongguk says, shaking his head. “You’ve been drinking and using—” 

“I just need—” Jimin says, voice slightly cracking. His eyes are out in the city, weaving between the trees and brightly lit streets. There’s longing in his gaze, envy as well. “I just need to breathe.” 

And so he does, long steady inhales matched with short shaky exhales; both sounds swallowed by the steady hum of the city around them. The two girls whose drunken whispers narrated the balcony earlier have retreated into the club, leaving them alone on the balcony. Jeongguk twists, eyeing the door only to find one of Jimin’s guards standing beside it with folded arms. 

When he turns back, Jimin’s head is folded beneath his arms as he continues to breathe in the city air. One breath in, one breath out, one breath in, one breath out. 

“Are you feeling better?” Jeongguk asks softly.

Jimin takes one long breath out before he turns to face Jeongguk. His face is glass, with rosy cheeks that match equally red eyes. He blinks, slowly, and Jeongguk notices a line of dried blood beneath his right nostril. 

Jimin rolls his eyes and laughs. “I’m still here, aren’t I?” He says coldly, but it’s hidden under undeniable grief. He casts his eyes back out to the city ahead, still laughing. “This story you’re going to write is going to make international news, have your words everywhere—” He thrusts his hands up, ribboning it in front of him cartoonishly. “A Couple of Months in the Life of Train wreck Pop Star Park Jimin.” He boasts with a hollow laugh. “You’re gonna make so much money.” He turns his eyes to Jeongguk and laughs. “You’re welcome in advance.” 

Jeongguk’s stomach aches with worry. He’s right, he landed this story, and it felt like a miracle— a cover story following the world’s biggest popstar. This felt like an opportunity he had worked his entire life towards. Every hour he’s spent in university, every late night he’d endured at his local news station, he’d interned for months after his graduation; fueled by only Americanos and free ramen he’d found abandoned in the company’s pantry. Every early morning, he’d spent on crowded trains to work. Every family dinner he’d spent, begging his mother to understand his passion was journalism, and he’d rather follow his heart than do a career in medicine like she’d begged. That yes, there was more money in medicine, but he’d never forgive himself if he lived a life he wasn’t passionate about. 

All of that led him here: to his cover story, who is currently slung over the balcony railing, coming down from a quick high he’d spent the past few hours snorting down in a stuffy, crowded club. 

“I’m not going to write anything that I’m not proud of,” Jeongguk confesses, and that’s the truth. “Whatever I write, I’ll be sure to put it past your team first—”

“Don’t do that,” Jimin says, shaking his head, reaching up to scratch at his nose again. “Unless you write a glowing piece about me, they’ll object to anything else.” He snorts again, coughing. “They’ve already signed everything with legal. Just write whatever you want. Who cares? Don’t run it past them.” 

His voice trails off slightly, weakly, and Jeongguk turns to face him. Jimin has closed his eyes as another feather of wind whistles past them. He looks uniquely human here, under the lights. His skin looks bruised, glazed with sweat. Hair still greasy, nose wrinkled up in discomfort as he struggles to breathe. 

“You get so high, the only way left to go is down,” he says. His voice is so light, Jeongguk isn’t sure he’s speaking to him, or himself. 

“Did you at least enjoy the show?” Jimin asks, eyes still pressed together. 

Jeongguk nods, tossing himself further over the railing, nodding his head. “Yeah, actually,” he confesses, and that is also a nugget of truth. “It was my first big stadium show. It was actually really cool.” 

Jimin smiles, nodding his head. “That’s good. They all really worked hard on it.” Jeongguk turns to face  Jimin, brows furrowing up in confusion. “They?” He asks gently.

Jimin peels his eyes open, turning to face him, confused at his confusion. “The directors. The dancers. The crew. Worked months to pull that shit off.” 

“Well, what about you?” Jeongguk asks. 

Jimin pouts, lips pursed uncomfortably as he drinks in an uncomfortable breath. “I uh,” he wrestles weirdly with his emotions. “I just do what people tell me to do.”

Jeongguk turns his body so he is completely all he sees, crossing his arms across his chest as he blinks across at the small blond with frustration. “What do people tell you to do?” He scoffs out, unsure of Jimin’s words. “Aren’t you the biggest star in the world?” 

Jimin turns to mirror him, smaller, and surprisingly, Jeongguk realizes, a lot more fragile. The light has his already pale skin washed a milked gray as he swallows thickly. His own arms cross his chest as he blinks up at Jeongguk. His eyes are still blown wide, but they’re also laced with a particular brand of melancholy that Jeongguk isn’t sure he can translate. Jimin looks like he has so much to say, like his tongue has ballooned with retorts, but he stops just short. Lips pursed as he swallows thickly, shaking his head. 

“I am whatever they tell me to be,” he answers weakly. 

Jeongguk does feel sorry for him. Feels his heart ache for the popstar, because that’s no way to live a career that too many would dream of, a life too many would die for. 

He’s opening his mouth to respond, but the balcony door is sliding open. Music spills out towards them, and they both turn towards it. Watching as Jimin guard steps out, face stoic as he faces them to speak. 

“Wooyoung says she’s calling a car for you,” he says, voice booming over the muffled thudding music. 

“And what if I want to stay a little longer?” Jimin replies with a bite. 

His guard doesn’t say anything at first, face, barely moving, then he reaches for the door again. “She says the car will be here in fifteen.” He’s snapping the door closed, and with it, the music returns to a muddled, thudding beat behind the glass. 

Jimin is turning  back to the balcony, leaning over it again as he lets out one final sigh. “See what I mean?” He says. “Whatever people want me to be, that’s what I’ll be. Wherever they want me to go, that’s where I’ll go.” 

“And what would happen if you just…” Jeongguk presses. “Didn’t.” 

Jimin turns to him, mouth falling slack as he wrestles with his words. Face contorting as though he were confronting a truth he hadn’t quite come to terms with yet. Then his phone lights up. “The car is here.” He announces, pressing past Jeongguk and beginning towards the door.

The following morning, Jeongguk hears footsteps approaching his desk, but keeps his eyes down to his keyboard as he types out the last of his sentences. There’s a shuffle of rubber soles against carpet, a rustle of jeans as they inch closer. Eventually, they stop, looming above him.

Jeongguk doesn’t raise his eyes; instead, he keeps his gaze on his computer screen, and it’s only when the person above him clears his throat does he even momentarily tugs his gaze away from the screen.

Kim Namjoon, Arts Columnist, stands before him in a sloppily tucked white dress shirt and loosened black tie. He crosses his arms across his chest, cocking an eyebrow as he shoots Jeongguk a sharp grin.

“So,” he says, low voice full of anticipation.

Jeongguk continues writing, finger-thumbing across the keyboard in a scatter of ticking clicks. He doesn't pull his eyes from the screen for too long, but when he does, he gazes above the sparkling white screen at Namjoon.

“So,” he echoes, still typing.

Namjoon’s face twists up in annoyance, then he reaches for a nearby rolling chair and pulls it towards him with a squeak. He melts into it, skating closer to Jeongguk’s desk as she drapes himself across the scattered piles of papers and graded manila folders. 

“Stop pretending like you don’t know why I’m here,” Namjoon darts back. 

Jeongguk does know exactly why he’s here, and it’s the same reason dozens of his coworkers across the magazine have made stops at his desk since he arrived this morning. Each one with curious glints in their eyes as they attempted, even though quite unsuccessfully, for my information about his evening with the biggest pop star in the world.

Jeongguk coils, turning his chair around until he’s facing Namjoon, abandoning his computer. He folds his own arms across his chest, brows furrowing as he exhales very sharply. 

“It wasn’t as exciting as you'd think,” Jeongguk says with a roll of his eyes. “He’s exactly what you’d expect him to be like—”

“A brat,” Namjoon replies. 

Jeongguk gasps, only for Namjoon to blink back at him with a confused look. 

“What? I heard he’s a brat. Self-centered, selfish, a total trainwreck—”

“My sister went to the club where he held his after-party last night,” Jihyo, a Fashion writer, says as she passes by. She’s holding a stack of papers in her arms. Faced flushed rose as she peered above them. “Says he was stumbling around, a fucking mess—” 

Namjoon’s head snaps towards Jeongguk. “Did you go? To the after party? Like, for your story?”

Jeongguk gapes at him, mouth falling slack as he flits his eyes between them. He doesn’t know why his chest feels so tight, why he feels his cheeks begin to burn under their attention. Why doesn’t he feel like he’s burning under a spotlight he never asked to be cast under?

“I mean,” he stutters out. “I stopped…. I mean, I stopped by—”

“Whoa, Jeonggukie!” Jihyo exclaims, stumbling towards them and awkwardly pressing the stack she’d been holding onto the desk. She’s surging towards him, shaking her head. The heavy blunt of her bob cutting at her chin. “You’ve got to tell us what happened!”

Jeongguk flits his eyes between them, watching as Namjoon scoots his chair closer towards him. Jeongguk’s heart feels like it’s recinto, stuttering in his chest. The thudding is clouding his ears as it echoes like muffled drums. He doesn’t know why he feels so nervous. He’s done this dozens of times before. This was his job. This was his career. It wasn’t supposed to make him so nervous to talk about it with his colleagues.

So he leans back in his chair in an attempt to feel comfortable; the chair squealing under his weight.

“I was invited to his private room upstairs—” Jeongguk begins, swallowing thickly.

“Woooah?” Namjoon says, coughing out a laugh. “What was that like?”

“I can’t even imagine how much that would cost,” Jihyo joins with a chuckle. “Probably more than my entire salary.”

Jeongguk nods, picturing the bottles of too expensive liquor lodged in golden buckets filled with ice that glimmered under the blue lights. He also remembers Jimin, hunched over one of the crystal tables as he snorted line after line of cocaine.

He finds himself wincing, then looking up to Jihyo and nodding. “More than that, really.”

Jihyo gasps, which is quickly masked by a giggle as she leans on Namjoon’s shoulder. “So…” she continues. “There’s no way the biggest pop star in the world didn’t surround himself with the hottest girls in the city—”

“Forget the city, he can pick any girl from any country on earth,” Namjoon tacks on. “Probably flies them in from across the world.”

Jeongguk finds himself wincing again. Remembering the long-haired boy who had himself draped across Jimin’s lap the night before. Remember the way his hand skates down the slope of his neck, wet lips peppering every inch of him. Jeongguk isn’t sure why he feels fire close to the heat of jealousy burning in the pit of his stomach right now. Unsure why his hands have grown clammy, unsure why even the thought of the boy latched to Jimin’s lips was enough, even now, to send his cheeks burning in fury. 

“I mean, he says, unfurling his arms to comb his clammy hands through his hair as he attempts to settle the uncertainty folding across his emotions right now. “He was having fun, let’s just say that—”

“Jeongguk?” 

Jeongguk, Jihyo, and Namjoon’s heads rise to find their editor-in-chief peering down at them from across the office. She stands at the glass door to her own office, long black hair draped over her shoulder as she projects her voice across the lively office that sputters in life around them.

Jeongguk freezes, rising to his feet awkwardly as he peers across the office to her.

“Yes— yes ma’am?” He stutters out.

“Can I talk to you in my office for a moment?” She replies. 

Jeongguk freezes, then he rises. He darts his eyes between Jihyo and Namjoon, who both blink back at him with wide, worried eyes. 

The walk to the office is longer than usual, and he can still feel the burn of his coworker’s gazes as he trudges across the flat, oatmeal colored carpet. When he reaches the office, he taps weakly at the glass. His boss, Jeonghee, glances up from her computer, phone lodged between her ear and her shoulder as she beckons him in. He slips inside, sealing the door shut with his foot, catching sight of Jihyo and Namjoon just feet away at his desk, staring with intense measure. Jeongguk’s cheeks flush, and he turns to face Jeonghee, slinking towards the edge of her desk as he hovers awkwardly. 

Jeonghee continues typing at her keyboard, her long fingernails clipping across the keys as she casts her gaze up towards him. 

“Have a seat, Jeongguk,” she instructs softly. 

Jeongguk melts into one of the chairs, settling into the plush gray pillow pressed at the small of his back as he eyes around the office. He’d only been invited inside a handful of times; most of his glances inside were stolen as he’d shuffled past daily, hands full of printed papers or copies of moodboards he’d been instructed to deliver. But he’d never been this close, knees pressed against the glass of her desk. Surrounded by glass that overlooks Seoul, bustling beneath them. There are a few potted plants, mostly abandoned, judging from their dried, deteriorating leaves that gloomily shrug from scattered pots. There are photos of Jeonghee and two girls, her daughters, he assumes, and he realizes just how human she looks in those photos compared to the stoic woman who lurks in the office on most days. He hates that he never thought of her as someone who may have a family, a life, outside of this job. 

“So, I’m going to assume you went to the show last night?” Jeonghee mutters, piercing the silence between them. 

Jeongguk leaps slightly, nodding awkwardly as he clears his throat to respond. 

“Uh, yeah,” he says, voice cracking.

“How was it?” She continues, fingers still clipping across the keyboard, she hasn’t spared him a single glance, eyes glued to the massive screen that spills white light onto her pale face. 

“It was cool,” Jeongguk says, and that’s the truth, no embellishment. “I’ve never been to a show that big before, so it was very cool to see in person.” 

Jeonghee doesn’t respond; her fingers are moving like lightning across the keyboard, which, Jeongguk notices, has silver light sparkling beneath it. It sends diamonds across her pale pink nails.  After a long, abbreviated moment, Jeonghee lifts her head from the phone and hangs it up, pressing it to her desk as she finishes typing on the keyboard. 

There is a long, drawn moment that weaves between them. Jeongguk sits awkwardly as he watches Jeonghee finish her typing with a scattered symphony of clicks. When she finishes, she huffs out a drawn exhale. Sinking her back into her chair as she locks her computer screen and turns to face Jeongguk completely. Her eyes narrow, then, a slow smile creeps across her face. 

“I’m sorry, distracted,” she says, voice very far away. “Trying to finalize stories for the next issue.” She pauses and exhales sharply, then she shakes her head. “Tell me again, about the show.” 

Jeongguk gapes at her, eyes flitting between her phone, which is glittering to life on her desk, and Jeonghee’s face, which is still fixed towards him. He swallows thickly before answering. 

“It was cool,” he says, and it feels anticlimactic, so to speak. Words feel bitter on his tongue, just short of sweet. “Like I said, I’d never been to a show of that magnitude, so it was very cool to see in person.” 

Jeonghee nods, digesting his words, then she crosses her arms across her chest. “My girls went too, it’s all they’ve been talking about. They love that guy.” She pauses, leaning up slightly to drape herself across the desk to get closer to him. “Speaking of that guy,” she mumbles out. “Do you have a direction for your piece?” 

The direction, Jeongguk thinks, is obvious: Mega Popstar Park Jimin is a Trainwreck. That behind the glitz and the glamor of platinum blond hair and a megawatt smile was a very insecure, very troubled young man who might just be on his last few strings. 

Jeonghee must read it on him, because she’s smirking, nodding her head slightly. “You don’t have to tell me, Jeongguk, I know,” she says with a nod of her head. “Actually, mostly everyone knows. Everyone in the industry knows how he is.” 

Jeongguk’s stomach drops at that, thinking back to the night before, picturing Jimin as he’d sloppily taken a swig from his glass. He also thinks of Jimin on the balcony, hunched over the metal railing, then turning to face him and blinking up at him with the saddest pair of eyes Jeongguk had ever seen. 

The direction of the piece felt obvious; it also, according to the ache in Jeongguk’s chest at the thought of writing it, felt extraordinarily exploitative. 

“He doesn’t seem like a bad guy,” Jeongguk insists. “Just a little…” He pauses, nose wrinkling up as he searches for the right word. His eyes find the window, following those cars that race down the streets in violent accord. Then his gaze finds Jeonghee’s again. “Just a little lost, I guess. I don’t think there’s a single person around him that sees him as a human being.”

“And who chose that?” Jeonghee laughs back. 

Jeongguk lurches back, but Jeonghee is rising. The chair rolls back slightly, and Jeonghee is pressing towards the window, eyes drinking in the sight of Seoul in the early morning, cast under the swath of early morning light as it bleeds onto the concrete streets. 

“You have a job as a journalist to capture the story as you see it, Jeongguk,” she said, arms folded across her chest.  “Not as you want to see it. If you want to do that kind of writing, I have connections at a nearby fiction publishing house if you want.”

Silence blooms between them, only narrated by the muffled honking of frantic horns outside and the faraway screech of tires against concrete. Jeongguk’s eyes rise to meet Jeonghee’s, then she sighs. 

“I’m going to tell you something you probably already know, but there’s a little more to it you probably don’t,” she says, sinking back into her seat. She scoots the computer screen away from her, so her view of Jeongguk is completely unobstructed. Then she's folding her arms across the glass of her desk, fingers splayed out against it. Her expression is muddled between discomfort and fear. 

“People are not buying print media like they used to, you know that,” she says.

Jeongguk nods, because of course he knows. Journalism is dying, at least the journalism he’d been drawn to as a kid. He’d dreamt of writing long-form pieces and seeing his work splattered across the hundreds of newspaper stands he’d grown up visiting as a kid. But that dream seems to be fading; most of the usual newspaper stands he’d frequent on his way to the train, or sitting outside of cafes, seem to be folding faster than they’d appear. 

Jeonghee looks equally uncomfortable, chewing weakly at her cheek as she blinks across the desk to Jeongguk. 

“There are quite a few departments here at Fair that are projected to close by the end of the year,” she whispers, eyes darting around to the sealed door then back to Jeongguk.

“We can’t afford to keep them open, honestly. The Fashion department will probably be swallowed up soon. Perhaps Arts too. People get their news from social media now, not us. Why wait for a printed magazine when you can access something the moment it happens with a click?”

Jeongguk’s stomach drops at that, thinking of both Jihyo and Namjoon, suddenly feeling guilt wash around in the pit of his stomach at the thought of them losing their jobs. 

“That’s where you come in,” Jeonghee says, and there’s a sudden hint of hope in her voice. “The fact that we beat out so many magazines for this piece on Jimin is a miracle. It could save our magazine, save so many jobs, Jeongguk. Do you know how much money Jimin’s show made last night? Billions. Everything he touches turns to gold; his fans eat anything he does up. But imagine the worldwide attention our paper would get if you revealed the real him. Found only in the pages of our magazine.”

Despite the excitement currently lacing through Jeonghee’s words, Jeongguk can’t help but taste something sour in his mouth. He knows she can read it on his expression as his face screws up bitterly in response.

It feels uniquely wrong to exploit someone for personal gain like this. It feels deep-seated, and uniquely underhanded to treat them like they were made to be used and discarded. Jeongguk isn’t sure why his stomach churns at the thought of it, or even why his throat bobs with thick discomfort as he attempts to swallow down the bile in Jeonghee’s words. But Jeonghee is reading it all, leaning back against the plush leather back of her seat and frowning.

“You were not chosen to write this article because of how great a writer you are, Jeongguk. There’s always someone better, remember that,” she says. And despite the sharpness of her words, there’s an indistinguishable frankness to it too. No venom, just truth and all its thorns. “We chose you because we knew you were the only one impartial enough to write it with the truth it deserves.”

This doesn’t feel like revealing the truth, Jeongguk thinks. This feels like exploitation. Wringing a wet towel dry until there’s nothing left.

Jeongguk nods because he knows he’s supposed to. Then he’s rising to his feet, offering her a gentle bow. When he rises, Jeonghee’s eyes are narrowed towards him. “Promise me I can trust you, Jeongguk.”

Around him, the air stills. Jeongguk’s cheeks are burning, and so is his chest. He nods with an assuredness mustered up from somewhere deep inside, bowing one last time before running from the office. 

When Jeongguk arrives at Jimin’s apartment later that morning, he’s being ushered up the elevator by a man in a tight black polo. He stares blankly ahead, eyes strained into the golden mirrored glass ahead of them. Jeongguk does his best to avoid his gaze.

The elevator clammers to a halt, opening with a suctioned hiss and a ding. Jeongguk’s eyes darted to the man to his right, but he doesn’t respond. Eyes, still barreled ahead down the darkened hallway. Suddenly, a man emerges, in the same black polo as the previous man as he beckons Jeongguk towards him with the jut of his jaw.

The room Jeongguk is ushered into is dark, the only light coming from an expensive looking lamp that sprawls golden light into the towering white walls of the apartment. The shades are strung low, heavy sheets of gray cloth that dust at the amber colored floors with only a slice of yellow light spilling between them. There’s a guard there, hands buried in his pocket as he absent mindedly scans the room. 

There’s two women standing across from him, one, Jeongguk recognizes as Wooyoung. This time in a long black hoodie that engulfs the majority of her small frame. Her long black hair is tossed up into a ponytail, haphazardly and quickly, Jeongguk assumes from the messiness of its state. The other woman is standing across from her, hand draped over the side of the couch as she combs gentle fingers through a head of messy blond hair, faceless, as it’s buried into the couch. The woman is tall and lanky, wide beautiful brown eyes downturn and soft puckered lips pouted and glazed with a soft rose gloss. She turns her head sharply when Jeongguk enters the room, eyes apprehensive as she shoots daggers in his direction.

Wooyoung’s attention is cast down to her phone as she types at it manically. Only when she pauses does her eyes dart up to Jeongguk, then back over to the woman. 

“He’s safe,” Wooyoung murmurs, attention still partially tossed to her phone. A few moments of thumbed typing as she locked her phone quickly, blowing out a rough sigh. “Aren’t you, Mr. Jeon?”

Jeongguk’s mouth gapes, eyes darting between the dozens of eyes currently burning into him, dotted across the room. So he nods, tightening the strap of his bag slung across his shoulder.

Wooyoung nods sharply as though satisfied with his answer, then she’s back to her phone. Face engulfed in bright blue light as she paces subtly across the dark room. Her bare feet pattering against the wood with each step. The woman, however, has not dropped her eyes from Jeongguk. If anything, they narrow, gaze cold as she combs her eyes gently up his frame.

Jeongguk takes a nervous step forward, reaching a hand out towards her. “I’m Jeon Jeongguk, senior entertainment writer with Vanity Fair Korea,” he says softly. “I’m writing a cover piece on Jimin for the magazine. I’m gonna follow him for a few months, follow his daily life. A peek behind the curtain so to say.” 

He flashes her a bright, charismatic smile, a blinding one, full of teeth and cheeky wonder. One that usually works on the dozens of photographers and editors he works with daily. This time, however, he feels it melt directly off his face as the woman across from him casts him a disgusted scowl that sends chills spilling like ice down his spine. Jeongguk lurches back, lips knitting shut as the woman’s annoyed frown twists into something that resembles smelling rotten milk. 

Then, below them both, a moan rumbles from beneath the oatmeal colored blankets atop the couch. 

“Ma…” he hears a graveled voice groan out. The blond head shifts, face still buried beneath the blankets. “Ma, please, he’s just here doing his job. At least pretend to play nice.”

The woman, who, now that Jeongguk is noticing does resemble a feminine, more polished version of Jimin, darts her gaze back down to the bundle of blankets and runs her hand delicately across them. 

“Well how was I supposed to know that?” She hisses out. “All this entire team does is book things. Book people, book shoots. Book interviews and I don’t hear a thing until it’s too late—”

From beneath the covers a head emerges. Greasy blond locks that hang in clustered daggers against a face that’s gray in complexion. Black mascara smudges beneath downturned brown eyes, into pools of darkened bags. He turns his head to Jeongguk, and launches into an attempt of a smile, though it comes across much more pained than Jeongguk assumes he’d meant. 

“Jeongguk is good company,” Jimin smiles, voice slightly slurred, more than lightly still inebriated from the night before. “A bit of a loser, but good company nonetheless.”

Jeongguk rolls his eyes, opening his mouth to protest, but Wooyoung is barging back into the room, this time her phone is pressed to her ear.

“Dispatch says they’ll drop that story if they can run the other,” she announces, but there’s a high pitched voice still buzzing from the other end of the phone. Her eyes dart around the room, waiting for an answer. “Is everyone deaf? They said they’ll drop that story if they can run the other.”

Jeongguk’s eyes blink around the room as a series of people as they murmur amongst each other softly. A delicate buzz of hushed whispers that seemingly makes Jimin, at the center of it all, wince. Jeongguk watches him burying his face into his hands, smudging the mascara even further down his cheeks. 

His mother runs a gentle hand atop his head then she’s tossing a harsh gaze towards Wooyoung.

“You couldn’t squash them both?” She asks, and there’s genuine panic in her voice. Her gaze is back down to her son, where she combs her fingers through the tangled greasy mess of his blond hair. “I mean surely we can wire them—”

“We already did,” Wooyoung replied, shaking her head. Her eyes shift, a stiff, structured gaze full of intent as she covers the speaker to her phone. “It’s one or the other,” she continues. “And they want an answer.” A pause, her voice shaking slightly. “Quickly.”

Jimin’s mother’s throat bobs, chest heaving as she gazes down at her son. Jimin’s eyes are everywhere, lost in the cloud of swirling dust as they dance in the stream of golden morning light that ripples between the crooked blinds and splatters like yolk on the floor. His throat tightens, a harsh sniffle escaping past a congested nose, then he’s looking up with shaky, red eyes.

“I don’t care,” he resigns with a flick of his wrist and roll of his eyes. “Who really gives a shit anymore. Run whatever. Sure.” 

Wooyoung must understand his jumble of words because she’s dashing back into the opposite room. Her phone is still pressed tightly to her ear as Jeongguk hears her murmur out. “Run it,” her voice is swallowed by the walls as she descends deeper into the apartment.

There is an incoherent buzz that settles in the living room, Jeongguk can feel it heighten as he takes a step forward towards Jimin, unsure of what to say.

“What story?” He finally asks, but even his voice sounds unsure if that’s the right thing to say. 

He doesn’t receive an answer, at least not verbally, but his phone pings in his back pocket and he reaches to fish it out.

“Idol Sensation Park Jimin Caught on Camera Using Drugs in Neon Vault Club; Leaked Video Sends Fans Reeling (PHOTOS) DISPATCH Exclusive.” The words splatter across his phone screen in the form of a near celebratory headline. As do the dozens of incoming texts that ensue in its wake. Jeongguk’s eyes, however, trail up Jimin whose head is now perched against the back of the couch as his mother runs an affectionate hand through his hair. 

“You told them to run this story?” Jeongguk asks, head rattling as even more headlines appear on screen. He presses onto one of them, watching as photos of Jimin draped in cobalt blue light appear. He’s hunched over the glass octagon table from the night before, head hovering over two split white powdered lines. His eyes reach back up to Jimin, who seems to be avoiding everyone’s eyes by keeping his own sealed shut.

“You told them to run this story?” He repeats, this time a little louder because he isn’t sure if anyone heard him the first time. Though he was confused on how they didn’t, being that he seems to be the only one in the room shaken by the story. “Your manager is on the phone with Dispatch and gave them permission to run this story? Are you all crazy—?”

“I’m not sure if you understand how this all works, young man,” Jimin’s mother finally snaps. She abandoned her massage of Jimin’s scalp to dart her eyes over to Jeongguk with bridled fury. Then she’s taking small steps towards him, hands folded across her chest. “Do you?”

Jeongguk gapes at her, mouth suddenly full of cotton as he watches her slow approach towards him. He feels like she’s full of lightning, and Jeongguk thinks he can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as she approaches him.

“Jimin isn’t just Jimin, Jimin is a brand,” his mother details meticulously, tongue quick as she hisses out the words. “And Jimin has a brand to protect.”

“How is this protecting his brand?” Jeongguk retorts harshly. He dodges his gaze around his mother until he finds Jimin, still melted in the couch. “Is this your brand? Doing drugs and having it blasted into every news outlet in the country? In the world?” 

He waits for Jimin to answer but it never comes. Jimin’s gaze is down to his own fingers as he claws at the webbing between them. After a frustrated moment, Jeongguk’s gaze is back to Jimin’s mother who is still piercing towards him. 

“Jimin’s brand pays everyone in this room. Keeps their lights on, puts food on their tables. Sends their children to the best schools,” she continues. “We protect Jimin’s brand so we protect ourselves.” 

“They have pictures of your son snorting coke on the website of the biggest news outlet in the country!” Jeongguk exclaims, unsure of how everyone seems so calm at the present time. Unsure why his chest feels so tight, why his heart alone seems to weep for the young man currently splayed out on the couch. His eyes find Jimin’s mother again. “I mean, surely you have to care about your son—”

“What I’m not going to do is have a stranger walk into my son’s home and lecture me about what I should and shouldn’t care about—” His mother growls approaching him even further, encroaching directly towards him, when, Wooyoung pops her head out from the door she’d disappeared behind.

“Can I pull you for a minute?” She asks. The phone is still pressed to her ear, flushing her cheek in bright blue light.

Jimin’s mother casts Jeongguk one last glaring frown before stomping back into the apartment.

They’re alone now, at least just a bit. There is a guard still beside the window, shoulders broad, chest boasted out. Jeongguk can feel the presence of the guard who’d ushered him in still behind him, hovering beside the door. 

Jeongguk hovers uncomfortably where he stands, then he pads over to the couch across from Jimin and melts into it. Never loosening his grip on his bag as he peers at the person across from him.

Jimin’s eyes are lost, cast out to the sliver of window across from them. His eyes are glassy, miles away, still smeared with mascara and disillusioned distance. Eventually, his gaze crawls to Jeongguk, and a low slung, far away smile crawls onto his lips.

“Ah, they think I’m a fucking mess, man,” Jimin says, voice weightless as his gaze falls back somewhere beyond the window. It’s dark enough outside that he must catch his reflection in it. Jeongguk watches the way that the popstar frowns; Perfect porcelain face twisting up into a scowl. Perfect lips spread into a frustrated pout. He runs a shaky hand under his eyes, only smearing the already smudged black liner on even further. His eyes glaze over his reflection again, nose scrunching. “They’re not wrong though.” He pauses, sucking at his teeth. “But I don’t have a drug problem,” he tacks on with an accusatory tone. 

“I don’t think you have a drug problem either,” Jeongguk says softly, shucking out his phone as he scrolls through his emails. “But I do think you’re the biggest popstar in the world with so much of the world in your hands you don’t know what to do with it.”

Jimin’s head snaps towards him, a look of disbelief coloring his expression. He gapes at Jeongguk, jaw slacks, before finally opening his mouth to speak. “What is that supposed to mean?

Jeongguk pauses typing on his phone to cast his eyes up to Jimin. The blue pulsing light burns at his chin, and glimmers a pool of iridescence in the reflection of his square glasses. But through it, he watches the gaze of the person across from him, as it falters. A wrinkling of his brow, as he seemingly wrestles with Jeongguk’s words. 

“I mean,” Jeongguk continues, slightly pushing back the screen of his computer to gaze at Jimin. “You’re what, like 24–?”

“I’ll be 30 in a few months,” Jimin replies, deadpanned. 

Jeongguk snorts. “Oh, you’re older than me,” he replied with a shrug. 

Jimin blinks back at him, expressionless. Jeongguk has to physically stifle his laughter with the sleeve of his hoodie as he darts his eyes back down to his laptop and types out a few words before shooting a fleeting gaze back up to Jimin over the screen.

“I’m just saying,” Jeongguk finally chirps softly. “You’re an internationally famous popstar. The biggest name in music. I’m pretty sure having all of this makes it hard to see the world clearly.” 

Jimin is rising, the cotton of his plaid pajama pants squeals with the stride of his steps. He’s closer to the window now, wide brown eyes dancing across the glass as rain begins against it like pebbled tacks. Jeongguk can’t see his face anymore, only a distorted stretch of it as the rain warps its reflection against the gray sky. But he does see the clench of his fist as he crosses them across his chest. Watches the way his back tenses, shoulders rising and falling with each quickened breath. 

“Do you think I've always had this?” he murmurs out softly, voice barely audible over the patter of rain against the glass. 

Jeongguk can feel the tension thickening between them. If anything, he feels someone unraveling like a spool of frayed thread.

Jimin is folding his arms tightly together and pouting, looking very much as though he has something to say but doesn’t. Eventually, after a long, abbreviated moment, he does.

“And do you think I’m willing to give it all up because of a mistake?”

“You think being gay is a mistake?” Jeongguk asks.

“I’m not gay.” He pauses when he catches Jeongguk’s eyes. Jeongguk doesn’t know why his stomach feels so heavy inside of him. Almost as though Jimin’s gaze is enough to add too much weight to it. 

Jimin’s eyes dart around to the room where his mother and Wooyoung have disappeared to, then his eyes find Jeongguk’s again. “Queer,” he clarifies, but he whispers it as though it were a secret only between them two. “I like what I like.” 

“And there’s nothing wrong with that,” Jeongguk answers, and he means it. 

Jimin doesn’t reply. His eyes are on Jeongguk’s and he’s on fire. Burning a hole into the wooden floor beneath him. Jeongguk watches the way his fists ball against his chest where they’re folded across it. After a moment he is releasing a long, heavy sigh. 

“It is when you have people who rely on you,” when he answers he pauses, voice hitched, then he’s turning back to the window. “Nevermind, you don’t get it.” 

Jeongguk gapes at him, heart tightening in his chest. He watches Jimin cross the room, watches the way he strains as Wooyoung and his mother bicker a few rooms down.  

They spend the majority of the day like this, holed up in his apartment as Wooyoung issues statement after statement while Jimin remains balled up in the comforter tossed over his couch. It’s nearing evening when he finally rises, crossing the living room silently before emerging, moments later in a pair of black sweatpants and baseball cap tugged over his eyes. He presses to the window, hand pushing the curtain back to peek outside to the violet colored evening before turning back to Jeongguk.

“I like to go on a run when things get…” his voice trials off, eyes finding the window and tracking the whip of thin tree branches in the wind. There’s longing behind his eyes, Jeongguk notices, as is a clench of his fist as he tightens them at his side. Eventually his eyes find Jeongguk’s again, and he melts, and ever so slightly. But the longing remains.

“Wanna go on a run with me?” He asks, and there’s a gentleness in his voice that Jeongguk feels himself melting for. 

It’s a clear, quiet night in Seoul. The turbulent winds have mostly calmed, but Jeongguk can feel the tail breeze of midnight nip at the exposed skin at his waist as he sludges behind Jimin. The pop star is several feet ahead, the only visible marker being the nape of his neck, fluffed and exposed beneath his black baseball cap as he presses forward down the open trail he’d guided them to along the Han River. His arms swing at his side as he strides forward along the concrete with immeasurable amounts of grace. The swish of his shirts squeaking against each other in a rhythmic howl.

Jeongguk falters to a stop, heart threatening to burst free from his chest as he sucks in a burning gulp of air. Then he’s standing up, hands clawing through messy, sweat drenched hair as he narrows his eyes forward where Jimin has also faltered to a stop. He coils around for a moment, chest rising as he too, gulps in a heavy gulp of air. Then he’s jogging back to Jeongguk, a light laugh playing at his lips.

“Don’t tell me you’re giving up on me,” he says with barely any exasperation. The only evidence of it is the light sheen of sweat clinging to milky white skin that the moonlight catches its light in. He eases closer towards Jeongguk and judges him. “We’ve barely made a dent in the trail.”

Jeongguk winces, head tosses back as he sucks in another painful lungful of breath. His gaze shifts over to Jimin, who is glowing. He runs a delicate hand across his forehead and laughs. 

“I thought you were stronger than this,” he jokes, reaching forward to playfully prod at Jeongguk’s shoulder. “I mean, you look pretty strong.”

There's a hunger to his voice that Jeongguk chooses to ignore, mostly because his lungs are currently on fire. 

“I’m not weak,” Jeongguk protests, finally leveling from the hinge he’d been in, keeled over to the ground. “I do strength training. I box, I lift weights. But cardio? Cardio?” He can’t help the frown that blooms across his face. “I fucking hate cardio.”

Jimin is laughing and it’s beautiful, a lithe melody of giggles carried on the wind as the breeze ribbons between them. He reaches across to grab him by his shoulder.

“Well let’s just walk for now, how’s that?” Jimin asks, nudging him until they’re side by side, shoulder to shoulder.

To their right, the river sloshes against the shore, heavy slaps of cold water against rocky sand; they're close enough that Jeongguk thinks he can feel the spritz of it kiss his cheek. Jimin’s eyes are everywhere, head tilted back as he drinks in the stars, the moonlight colors him silver.

“Do you do this often?” Jeongguk asks, finally with enough breath in his lungs. 

Jimin turns to face him, a small smile cracking across his lips. “Not enough,” he answers gently. He turns his head to Jeongguk, and sighs. “I don’t have a lot of time to myself anymore.” He pauses, hesitating as though there were words lingering at the tip of his tongue. He swallows, frowning slightly. “My time is rarely mine.”

“Whose is it?” Jeongguk asks, gently.

Jimin’s head turns to him, head cocking. His eyes are unreadable, but Jeongguk watches the way the moonlight catches in the brown of them, sending them sparkling like diamonds. They stop for a moment under a towering metal streetlight. It washes them in warm golden light, and Jeongguk admires just how beautiful it makes Jimin look. He looks human, face still cast in shadow under the brim of his black baseball cap. He cracks a low, melancholic smile.

“My manager’s. My mom’s. My agent’s. My choreographer. My stylist’s. My fans—” Jimin counts off.

“Well, what’s the point?” Jeongguk presses.

The wind has mostly ceased, the branches above them still, but remnants of rustling leaves echo through the quiet of the empty street. Jeongguk takes a step forward, the rubber sole of his sneakers squeaking against the concrete. He’s close enough that he can smell the salt of the sweat that clings to Jimin’s skin. The lingering vanilla of his cologne at the nape of his neck. He feels so real up this close, startlingly human. The uncertainty in his gaze, the way he bites at his lip.

He watches as the wind picks up, carried by the current of the waves of the river lapping at the shores behind him and twists his blond hair into ribbons.

“I don’t know,” he says. That was the truth. Jeongguk can read the sincerity all over him. Watches his expression twist into an uncomfortable one; as though he were confronting a truth he hadn’t expected. Then he’s turning on his heel, sprinting off into a less aggressive jog and leaving Jeongguk behind.

They stay like that for a while. Jeongguk keeping pace just a few legs behind Jimin who strides ahead. The muscles in his back are clenched, sweat clinging to the shoulder blades that cut from his black windbreaker. Jeongguk follows the hiccup of Jimin’s breath, finding the melody in it. Following the staggered rhythm as they weave alongside the dark waves of the Han River under the staccato hiss of roaming street lights. 

Then Jimin is stopping, almost suddenly. Hands on his hips as he tosses his gaze down an empty alleyway to his left. Jeongguk doesn’t catch himself in time, feet skidding to a stop as he tries to halt himself. He ends up several feet ahead of him, rubber soles tripping over themselves as his arms flail out to balance. When he does finally stop, he’s heaving out. a heavy breath. Taking his hands through drenched hair as he turns to face Jimin.

“Jimin?” He asks, voice shaky, both from exhaustion and also from confusion.

Jimin doesn’t answer, instead turning his body from the trail and towards the dark alleyway. His gaze is mesmerized, throat bobbing as he swallows thickly.

“Jimin,” Jeongguk repeats, this time with a little more bass in his voice as he takes a tepid step towards him. Eventually he’s directly at his side, casting his eyes down the darkened alleyway watching as crumpled balls of ripped newspaper and discarded coffee cups dance in the wind against the brick. He turns to face Jimin, still confused.

“Jimin?” He repeats, this time reaching for Jimin’s shoulder. 

Jimin turns to face him, and where he expects a more ominous expression he finds subtle joy.

“Do you want to see where I grew up?” He asks.

Jeongguk gapes at him, confused, but Jimin is grabbing for his arm and leading him into the darkened alleyway.

Jimin leads them down the alleyway, past the ripped newspapers and crumpled coffee cups. There’s a dumpster to their right that blocks the majority of the walkway they have to shimmy past. Feet stomping over puddles of leftover rain and spilled garbage juice that reeks of soiled trash. Jimin’s grip on him tightens, weaving them a few more feet until they’re face to face with a tiny brick building. A rusted sign above the door swings in the breeze with a stuttered squeal. 

Jimin releases his hand, finally, but Jeongguk’s fingers ache from their abandonment. Sweat clinging to his palm as he presses it to his side, awkwardly.

“So,” Jeongguk finally says after a moment. “I thought you were gonna show me where you grew up.” 

Jimin is biting his lip, unable to contain his excitement. He eyes around them for a moment, making sure the coast was clear before pulling his mask down. His cheeks have bloomed bright red from the run, or maybe something else, Jeongguk isn’t too sure. But he finds his heart achingly charming smile beaming back at him.

“I am,” Jimin pressed, then he turned back to the brick building and pressed forward. One hand finds the golden doorknob, the other reaches into the collar of his shirt until he fishes out a singular bronze key. He’s lurching it forward, digging it into the lock, wriggling it around until the wooden door pops open with a squeal. He doesn’t turn to look at Jeongguk, instead he’s burrowing into the building, beckoning Jeongguk in with him.

Jeongguk hesitated at the doorframe, watching the way the moonlight spills into the door in a splatter of white paint. Jimin is deep within its shadows, he can barely see him. Only the swiftness of his silhouette as it dances through the darkness. He pauses for a moment, turning to Jeongguk and cocking his head.

“What are you waiting for?” Jimin says, gesturing him inside with the jut of his chin. “I’m trying to be vulnerable, let me be vulnerable.” 

Jeongguk gulps, unsure of what to do next. His feet feel frozen, glued to the concrete doorstep. He eyes around the darkened door, then buries his gaze into the darkness. He sees Jimin, in all his moonlit glory, beaming at him with unbridled hope. His eyes look hungry for acceptance, hungry for Jeongguk’s active participation. So Jeongguk concedes; not that he has a choice, his heart warns him.

He’s pressing inside before his brain can catch up. Piercing into the darkness until he’s side by side with Jimin again. Jimin’s beaming, teeth clenched in ill contained excitement as he bounds across the room and flickers with the light switch.

The room, which Jeongguk realizes, is just that, a singular, room, is engulfed in bright white light. Jeongguk winces, eyes bouncing around as he reaches a hand up to shield his eyes. 

He stands in the belly of a dance studio frozen in time. The early 2000’s, he assumed if the brightly designed posters that line the wall are any indication. There are old magazine covers that line the walls. The floors are a deep caramel wood, sealed with a thin layer of dust. The walls are a pale blushed pink, and mostly covered in dated encouraging posters Jeongguk remembers from his time in school. But just ahead there’s a wide, warped mirror that wrapped the rose walls. Jimin is leaning against the wooden railing nailed to it, arms crossed as he blinks across the room to Jeongguk through the dusty reflection in the mirror.

“This is the place I grew up in,” Jimin chirps, his voice echoing from the empty walls and bouncing from the glass. “This is the dance studio where I learned how to perform.”

Jeongguk’s head lurches around, eyeing the giant black box tv nailed to the wall. There’s a piano pressed to the furthest end of the room, the top littered with abandoned scatters of sheet music.

Jimin’s eyes are following him until they find him at his side again. They peer at each other through the dusty mirror, both choked on a million words without the courage to speak them. Jeongguk can feel Jimin’s hands outstretched across the bar, small fingers inches from his own. There’s a beat that ripples from them, begging to be touched.

“How?” Is all he asks, because curiosity feels like the most natural thing to succumb to.

Jimin shrugs, not moving his hand. 

“It’s been twelve years. Lost funding from the government and had to shut its doors,” Jimin replies with a shrug. “They were gonna tear this place down. Probably turn it into a shopping mall or something. I couldn’t let that happen. This place raised me.” 

His eyes lift from the mirror as he coils around, eyes trailing the room as ghosts of forgotten memories skate across the dusty floor. 

“So the first real paycheck I had, I bought it. Anonymously of course,” he tacks on with a shrug.

“So it just sits here,” Jeongguk says.

“So it just sits here,” Jimin repeats softly, eyes still tracing the room. 

“What are you waiting for?” Jeongguk asks.

Jimin turns to face him, face screwed up with an unintelligible expression then he’s brushing past him to the piano. He’s plopping down with a sigh, unhinging the key lid and pressing his fingers gently to the keys. Jeongguk can no longer see him from behind the piano, but he can hear as he pants out a sigh. A long labored one before pressing down on the keys with gentle accord. 

The music that spills from the piano is soft, a delicate melody of lithe notes that echo from the empty walls. Jeongguk is padding closer towards it, peering over the top to find Jimin diligently playing the piano. He glances up, only for a moment to cast Jeongguk a sweet smile, but his gaze is back to his hands as he presses through another chord.

“I—” Jeongguk begins, rounding the piano until he’s to its side, watching Jimin’s fingers trip through more complex notes and chords. “I didn’t know you could play piano.”

Jimin doesn’t answer, his brows are furrowed as he presses through another stream of notes. Then he’s looking up to Jeongguk and shrugging. 

“Eh, that's okay, most people don’t,” he replies.

The music subdues to something a little more gentle. Petals of delicate notes bead from the piano as Jimin looks up to meet Jeongguk’s gaze with eyes just as sweet.

“You’re really good, Jimin,” he says, and he hates just how incredulous he sounds. Would never want Jimin to think he doubted his talent, but being a musical prodigy wasn’t necessarily something that clung to Jimin’s image.

He plops down to the bench to Jimin’s right and watches as he physically melts at Jeongguk’s presence. Continues to play through another melody before he turns his body, slightly, in Jeongguk’s direction.

“Do you ever play for any of your music?” Jeongguk asks.

Jimin’s brow twists up, fingers pressed firmly against the keys. He shakes his head stiffly. 

“Nope”  he replies. “Not allowed.”

Jeongguk gapes at him, mouth falling slack. “What do you mean you’re not allowed?”

Jimin’s lip pouts out, and he pauses his fingers on the keys. The last note he played, C sharp, rattles the air around them. Marginally flat, Jeongguk’s instinct tells him. Jimin isn’t turning to face him, but he can feel the acidity pouring from his frame. There’s a sour expression twisted across his face, as though he were wrestling with an uncomfortable truth. Eventually, when he does turn to face Jeongguk, his eyes are stoney. Red, glassy, but stone.

“If it weren’t for music, I’d probably still be back in Busan,” he says bluntly. “Probably selling drugs like my dad. Or maybe I would’ve ended up with a kid way too early like my mom. Who knows.” He sniffles, diverting his eyes away from Jeongguk, almost too ashamed to meet him.

“All I know is that I wouldn’t be here. In this room, if it weren’t for music,” he continues. “Someone saw me dance and said, “Hey, let's give this kid a shot.” So here I am.” He pauses, hesitating. Breath hitched in his throat as he finally dares himself to meet Jeongguk’s eyes. 

“When you’re that lucky; When someone gives you a chance, you take it. Seize it. No matter the cost,” he continues. 

“So they pluck a kid out of poverty who has all this talent and for what?” Jeongguk asks, unable to control the anger rising in his voice. “For you to waste it all so they can make money?”

“You don’t get it, Jeongguk—”

“What am I not getting?” Jeongguk spits back.

“I didn’t have a choice!” Jimin retorts. He’s on his feet now, peering down at Jeongguk with wild, red eyes. His face is red too, bleeding down his neck. But Jeongguk notices the most is just how sad his eyes are. Pleading, begging for understanding. After a long moment the sadness is gone, replaced, instead, with an unwavering melancholy. He’s biting his lip, then falling back to the piano stand with a slump. 

“I was living with my grandma at the time. My mom had lost custody of me. I think she’d given me up, really,” he speaks with uncertainty, voice trembling as he speaks. His fingers ghost over the piano keys, never touching them. “I don’t blame her though. She was so young when she had me. Fourteen. That’s too young to be a mom. Too young to love someone unconditionally when you haven’t even learned how to love yourself. She didn’t even know who she was yet. But she had me. I think that’s why she does so much now. Trying to make up for lost time. Stolen time.” 

There’s guilt in his voice, undeniably. Jeongguk can hear the drip of it as it bleeds over his words, painting them in sticky dismay. Jeongguk bites back the itch to reach out to him for a moment, a split moment, then he reaches out. Wrapping warm arms across Jimin’s waist as he tugs him close. No one should be this close to someone falling apart at the seams and deny them a shoulder to cry on. It feels unprofessional, but Jeongguk’s empathy, and the strange stutter in his chest that seems to flutter whenever he’s in Jimin’s presence seems to win out.

He feels Jimin freeze initially, as though taken aback by Jeongguk’s touch. Then, slowly, like the steady drip of water from a leaky faucet, Jeongguk feels him melt into his hold. A head of messy blond hair lays against this shoulder and Jeongguk is endeared by the peppermint scent of his shampoo. Surprised by how soft it is against his neck. Surprised by the bubble of heat that floods his chest at their proximity right now. Surprised by how natural this feels. 

He feels Jimin sigh out; as though wrestling with his own scattered emotions, then he’s turning his head to cast glassy, warm brown eyes up to Jeongguk. They’re close enough now that Jeongguk can count each fluffy eyelash that crowns those beautiful brown eyes, eyes he finds himself getting lost in. Eyes he willingly swims through, eyes he’s willing to settle in.

A heated moment, narrated by the thud of their hearts against their chests and tangled breaths and Jimin is peeing away. Shaking his head and heaving out a wrangled sigh.

“What I’m trying to say is,” he finally murmurs, sniffling. “I was thirteen years old when the agency signed me. I was alone with Wooyoung in a room. She was new in the industry. I was her first client. She didn’t know what she was doing and neither did I.” He pauses, turning back to Jeongguk. “You can’t offer a kid with nothing the world and expect them not to take it.”

“So what?” Jeongguk asks. “You forfeit all your talent because they offer you some money?”

“I did what the agency told me,” Jimin retorts with a shake of his head. “They said they would make me a star, they’d help save me and my family if I would sign on the dotted line—”

“You’re a star now, so now what?” Jeongguk spits back. 

Jimin glares at him, mouth agape as though he has someone to say, but the sneer across his expression holds him back. 

“They don’t own you, Jimin,” Jeongguk mumbles to him, feeling himself deflate from whatever anger he’d been feeling. He watches Jimin deflate too.

“Nah…” he replies. “They kinda do.”

Jeongguk can tell Jimin has lost all the fire he’d been hoarding a moment ago. Vision back to its glassy, far away gaze. He can’t imagine how much those eyes have seen, how much they’ve had to endure to get him here. 

“Well,” Jeongguk concludes, trying to find the right words to comfort him. “They kept their promise. They made you a star. Now what? What are you gonna do with it? What was the point?”

He watches his words rattle around in Jimin’s head. Watches the way the corners of his lips twitch as though his reply was itching on his tongue, fighting to free itself. Instead, he’s fishing in his pocket again; yanking out his face mask and latching them behind his ear.

“We should go, I have an early call time tomorrow,” he’s hissing out, muffled behind his mask. He tightens the ball cap over his eyes, leaving them draped in shadow. But Jeongguk can still see the sadness in them, even in the dark.  

Jimin flicks off the light, the studio swallowing them back into purple colored darkness. Then he’s turning on his heel, pressing towards the door when he pauses. Turns back to Jeongguk, face expressionless.

“Can we just uh… can we leave this whole… can we leave everything—” He begins to stammer out.

Jeongguk smiles, hoping that it’ll heal whatever wound Jimin is bearing between them. 

“Off the record, I know,” he whispers with a weak smile.

Jimin flashes him a smile in return, though it’s mostly hollow. Jeongguk can see the bones of it shatter as he turns back  the door, pressing it open and waiting for Jeongguk to jog out beside him.

The building that houses the music company Jimin signed under, sticks out like a giant silver thumb in the middle of Seoul. Jeongguk had passed it hundreds of times, but never given it much thought, except for the swaths of giggling girls outside as they exchanged phones as each poses delighted in front of the rotating door.

Jeongguk passes by a group of them now as he jogs away from one currently snapping a photo of one of the shimmering windows.

“Do you work here?” She huffs out, unable to contain her excitement. 

“No,” Jeongguk answers, shaking his head as he fishes out his phone to find the email he’d been given and the clear instructions that are labeled within it.

The girls blink at him curiously, eyes narrowing as they dance them across his frame. 

“Bangtan Music doesn’t allow visitors,” she murmurs. “And you don’t look like you’re signed to the label.”

Jeongguk gasps, darting his eyes up to the girl who is blinking back at him with a stoic expression. Then he’s rolling his eyes, thumbing at his phone.

“I’m a…” he pauses, reviewing the email quickly. Then clicks it closed. “Designated visitor.”

The girl eyes him sharply, then she’s turning to her friend, a darker skinned girl who is thumbing wildly on her phone. Eventually, Jeongguk raises his eyes to them and cocks his head. 

“Are you guys fans?” He asks with a light laugh. 

The first girl, with long black hair, brightens at his question. Jeongguk’s eyes find the cluster of photocards and keychains bearing Jimin’s platinum smile that litter the girl’s bag. She giggles before speaking. 

“Huge,” she answers, and she can barely contain the brimming excitement as she speaks. “We met online because of him.” 

“Now we’re best friends,” the dark skinned girl answers, finally looking up from her phone to meet Jeongguk’s gaze. 

Jeongguk melts at that, but before he could answer, a man in a tight black polo is pressing from the glass door and padding towards him. The two girls stiffen when he approaches, but he maintains his eyes on Jeongguk.

“Mr. Lee is ready for you,” he murmurs through a tight jaw. 

The girl’s eyes dart between him and the man before realization colors them. 

“Do you know Jimin?” One girl hisses out, clearly trying to mask her excitement as Jeongguk rises to his feet. 

Jeongguk tightens his bag across his shoulders, but doesn't answer, beginning towards the man but not before turning to the girls and winking. 

Both of them explode into a fit of excitement and poorly contained giggles. Then the darker skinned girl rises, feet skidding across the pavement as she presses towards him. Jeongguk has reached the glass door, but pauses, coiling around to blink at her as she halts where she stands. 

“If you see him, tell him…” She begins, but her face twists up in discomfort. As though the words she so desperately longed for fell short, all congested on her tongue. “I met my best friend because of him… travelled halfway across the world with her because of him. So if you could just… if you could just…” The words feel supercharged, full of too much and too little as though she could feel the impatience of the guard standing just ahead of Jeongguk, holding the door open for him. 

Eventually the other girl rises, pressing to her friend’s side as she tugs on her arm affectionately. 

“Tell him thank you,” the girl adds and it must feel sufficient because her friend is nodding excitedly to her left. 

Despite their distance, Jeongguk can feel every bit of their sincerity and he finds his cheeks blushing in a very weird bout of solidarity. The guard grunts impatiently ahead of him. So he turns back to the girl and smiles widely. 

“I’ll do my best.” 

Once inside, a woman guides him up the elevator, then, to the cracked office door. 

“Mr. Lee, Jeon Jeongguk has arrived,” she says, the palm of her hand pressed firmly to the door. She presses in to reveal a long lean man with salt and pepper hair sitting behind a long glass desk. His head darts up when the door is pushed open, furrowed eyebrows melting into a more diplomatic smile as he finishes typing at the computer sitting in front of him.

“Jeongguk!” He exclaims, leaping to his feet and gesturing to one of the chairs in front of him. “Welcome! Welcome! Come in, please.”

Jeongguk turns to the woman who bows dutifully, before beginning back down the hallway. The clip clip of her heel echoing against the walls. Jeongguk turns back to Mr. Lee and begins to the desk, sinking into the chair as he peels his bag from his shoulders and presses it to the carpeted floor beside him. Mr Lee is sinking into his seat as well, wide plastic smile stitch across his face as he darts his eyes back to the screen.

“Just finishing up a quick email…” He says, voice trailing at the end of the sentence as his fingers skate across the keyboard.

Jeongguk uses this time to drink in the office: wide, ceiling tall glass windows encase them, but Seoul blooms in life around them. The city spilling bright early morning light into the giant office in yolk colored light splattered across papers and gilded awards. On most of the awards, Jimin’s name is inscribed, one from nearly every year of the past decade. There’s a few silver plaques that cling to one of the few opaque walls, each bearing one of Jimin’s many hits. One plaque includes Jimin, face waxy smooth and painfully young. His eyes hold a shade of nativity that Jeongguk thinks has all but melted from current Jimin’s. Shades of hope that only come to the young, not yet scarred by the cruelty of the world. 

“He was a cute kid, wasn’t he?” Mr. Lee says, fingers still moving like lightning across the keyboard. After a moment he pauses, casting one glance up at the photo Jeongguk had been gaping at, then back down to meet Jeongguk’s eyes, waiting for a response.

Jeongguk nearly chokes, clearing his throat awkwardly as he shakes out a laugh.

“Well,” Jeongguk says. “He is still very cute, I’d say.”

He winces, because those words tumbled out without his permission. Almost as though they’d been waiting, almost eagerly, at the tip of his tongue. 

If Mr. Lee notices his apprehension, he doesn’t say anything. Instead he finishes typing, then locks his computer, swiveling his chair until he’s fully facing Jeongguk. The morning sunlight from one of the large windows catches in his eyelashes and casts his dark brown eyes a shade of magnetic gold.

“Well,” he finally says, crossing his arms across his chest. “That is by design.”

Jeongguk’s head quips and he watches Mr. Lee lean back in his chair, folding his arms tightly across his chest as he drinks him in. There’s a disturbing edge to Mr. Lee’s presence that Jeongguk cannot quite tack down, only that he seems to drink in the energy of everything that surrounds him: the golden sun bouncing from the silver buildings around them and spilling into the office, the steady blinking white light from the computer screen across from him, and ultimately, all the ease Jeongguk had hoped he’d had before meeting him. 

“I hope you’d had the chance to catch the final show last month,” Mr Lee continues, reaching for his titanium mug of what Jeongguk assumes is coffee, judging from the ribbons of smoke pillowing from the open lid.

Jeongguk nods. “It was incredible,” he says, and he means it. His ears are still ringing from the screams still echoing between his eardrums. “It was the first big show I’ve ever attended.”

Mr Lee ducks his teeth, slimy pride slipping from his grin. “It’s the biggest show we’ve ever produced,” he says with a wide toothed smile. “91,000 in attendance. Can you believe it? Everyone there to see my act.”

There’s something bitter in his words, as well as his expression as he unfolds his arms and casts his eyes out of the window. Jeongguk follows his gaze reluctantly, keeping a mental note of his lack of commentary on Jimin’s performance.

His eyes flit to one of the posters, this one of what Jeongguk assumes is young, teenaged Jimin. Fat, full cheeks and wide brown eyes cast in shadow by his jet black hair as he poses for what he recognizes to be the pop star’s first album. There’s a blue snapback cast backwards on his head, a smile so bright Jeongguk wonders how it didn’t blind the camera.

“When did you sign him?” Jeongguk asks, genuinely curious as he coos at the next poster, this one shows a slightly older Jimin. Freshly dyed, now iconic platinum blond hair that hangs in curled tendrils at now slimmer cheeks. This was his sophomore album, the one that made him a star. There’s a golden plaque latched to the bottom of the poster, his first million dollar seller. 

Jeongguk turns back to Mr Lee, waiting for an answer, but his eyes are out of the window, lost to the bloom of Seoul. When his eyes eventually find Jeongguk’s again, they’re empty. He huffs out an equally hollow smile to him, tongue running across his teeth. 

“13?” he eventually answers. There's a question in his answer, almost as though he isn’t sure of it himself. His nose wrinkles up at it in thought, then he’s shaking his head. Following Jeongguk’s eyes to the poster and grinning. “Who would’ve thought that fat little boy with two left feet would’ve made me 12 billion Won that night.”

Jeongguk’s head snaps back to Mr Lee who is blinking back at him with a sterile, empty expression. Then he’s rising, stretching as he stifles a laugh.

“This is off the record, right?” He murmurs, as though unsure if Jeongguk were recording the extent of this conversation.

He’s not, but he suddenly feels very self conscious of himself. Feeling his ears burn as he shakes his head furiously. “Yes, yes, of course,” he says before his mind can catch up to it all.

Mr Lee eyes around the office, then he’s pressing towards him. Long, lean legs crawling from behind the desk to the cracked door which he presses shut with a snap. Then he’s back at the desk, this time, at its front as he leans his body against it. He lets out a long sigh, palms pressed back against the desktop as he leans his head back to drink in a breath.

“If we’re gonna be honest,” he says. “Off the record and all,” he’s sure to tack on. “It was never supposed to be Jimin. We were looking for someone who fit what we were looking for. Cute, charming, could sing, could dance. The whole package. We’d made our choice, it wasn’t Jimin.”

The laugh he bellows nearly shakes the room, nearly rattles the glass. Jeongguk feels uncomfortable, caught in the turbulence of it. He attempts his own laugh, but it comes out weak.

“So what made you land on him?” Jeongguk asks.

Mr Lee ponders, chewing the inside of his cheek as his eyes dance across the room. They land on the youngest poster of Jimin, and this time they stay. His gaze is biting, devouring as he glares at the 13-year-old grinning across from him. 

Eventually, he melts, but just slightly. 

“Who knows,” he says with a shrug. There’s a flippant way to his answer, as though it didn’t require that much thought to it. But sees through it, sees fragments to his words, fragments to his disposition. There’s a wrinkling of his brow, a slight, almost invisible sneer. After a long moment, he’s tugging his gaze away from 13-year-old Jimin to 28-year-old Jeongguk, who blinks widely at Mr. Lee.

“All I know is that decision has made me a millionaire. Billionaire, really. That decision keeps this building running,” he pauses. “Surprisingly, couldn’t do it without him.” His face lights up at that. 

“Okay, keep that quote on the record. That’s a good quote. Use that,” he instructs as he shuffles back behind his desk. But there’s a subtle authoritarian edge to it, as though he weren’t really giving Jeongguk a choice in the matter. 

“Do you want to see the rest of the building?”

The rest of the building feels like a monument to the gargantuan music titan that Jimin has become. Vast rooms of crystal and chrome housing all of Jimin’s near thousands of awards, platinum records strung up on the walls like plastered billboards of blistering success. Jeongguk follows behind Mr. Lee as he gestures wildly to them, mouth running constantly. 

They reach an elevator and Mr. Lee is pressing his palm to it, flashing Jeongguk a wickedly bright smile as he winks. 

“Biometric access elevators,” he says. The muffled sound of the zooming elevator below them billows and rumbles at the chrome floor beneath their feet. “Keeps the people we want in, in, and the people we want out, out.” 

The elevator doors open with a suctioned hiss and Mr. Lee is beckoning Jeongguk in first with a wave of his wrist. Jeongguk follows diligently, stumbling in and pressing his back against the cold railing inside as Mr. Lee follows. He’s pressing a button and the door snaps shut and they’re off, zipping up with a bounce and fling. 

They stand in that cold quiet for a while, the only sound around them is the swish of the metal elevator as it’s rocketed up, up, up. Eventually, Jeongguk turns to Mr. Lee, who has his fist clenched in the cotton of his slacks. Jaw tilted up as he watches the glittering green numbered panel displaying the floors they’re flying past rack up.

“I was reading a lot about you while doing my research for this piece,” Jeongguk confesses softly. 

Mr. Lee turns to him, but only slightly. His eyebrows quirked up in surprise as he bleeds out a proud smile. “Is that so?” He laughs out. “I thought we commissioned for a piece on Jimin, not me.” 

Jeongguk can’t help but laugh, but finds it an uncomfortable one. “I mean, yes, but I wanted to flesh it out a little more. Really get into the mind of the genius that made him.” 

Mr. Lee’s cheeks are blossoming a subtle pink, then he’s ducking his head slightly. The elevator is slowing to a crawl as he turns his head towards him. He doesn’t say anything, gaze devouring him as he slowly blinks across the dimly lit carriage towards him. His eyes are hungry, as though picking away at Jeongguk’s flesh, past the muscle, past the bone until he meets his soul. This man devours for a living, Jeongguk’s instinct tells him. He eats away at the flesh until there’s nothing left. 

When the elevator halts, and the doors are suctioned open, white lights spills into the cab and Mr. Lee is pressing out. Jeongguk follows him, but keeps a short distance between them. They weave down an empty hallway until they approach two double doors. Heavy thudding music spills muffled from their wood as Mr. Lee presses his hand towards it. 

“Jimin is rehearsing now, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if we stopped in for a visit, don’t you think?” He asks, but his words leave little room for any protest and he’s pulling the doors open and leading them in.

The music is blaring now, as they press into a wide open room that resembles a basketball court. The floors are a light wood, glassy and scuffed with sneaker marks as two groups of dancers leap across them. The air is thick as they press in, hot sweat clinging to it, and the massive glass mirror on the opposite wall. Jeongguk spots Jimin in front of it, spinning with a ferocity that sends his platinum hair flying around him like a shimmering golden halo. 

When he lands back on stable feet he halts, head flung back and chest heaving as he steadies his breath. Ribs flared out, eyes glued to the black ceiling as the dancers halt around them. The music bleeds off, and someone standing at the speaker presses on a keyboard and the music stops completely. It’s only then that Jimin allows his head to fall forward, eyes finding what Jeongguk can only assume is the choreographer as he lets out a breathless laugh.

“And?” He heaves out, lungs still fighting for air. 

The choreographer, a man with a long black bun sloppily compiled atop his head presses towards him. He’s shaking his head, sucking his teeth. 

“What did I tell you about emotion, Jimin?” He says, sneaker squeaking as he presses across the dancefloor towards him. “You’ve got to feel the dance. It’s not just hitting the beat perfectly.” 

Jimin rolls his eyes, running his hands through his sweat drenched hair as he spins on his heel absentmindedly. In his twirl, he catches sight of Jeongguk and wobbles to a halt. Eyes brightening as he casts them across the dance floor towards him. His choreographer is reaching for him, but Jimin is bounding towards him, face painted with a bright smile as he reaches him. When he does he lands at Jeongguk’s side and melts into a soft giggle, punching lightly at his arm.

“If I knew you were going to be here, I would’ve prettied myself up a bit,” he says as he runs his fingers across his sweaty brow and frowns. His cheeks are flushed a dainty shade of rose and sweat clings to every pore on his face. He looks exhausted, rightfully so, disheveled and out of breath. But Jeongguk can’t bite back the itch inside that thinks he might just be the most beautiful thing he’d ever laid his eyes on. 

“I was giving Jeongguk a tour of the campus,” Mr. Lee says, and it takes Jeongguk too long to rip his eyes away from Jimin, suddenly remembering that Mr. Lee was in fact still there. 

He casts his eyes up to Mr. Lee, whose gazes darts between them, almost knowingly. Then he sucks his teeth as though drinking back a laugh. 

Jimin’s breathing is growing back to normal. Heaving out a steady sigh as he rolls his eyes. 

“Well, I can take it from here, Mr. Lee,” he says, chest boasting out. Then he turns to Jeongguk. “We were just breaking for lunch, weren’t we, Seongho?” He casts his question to the choreographer, who is waving him off gently, very deep in conversation with another man who is holding a stack of papers in hand as they mumble in front of the mirror. 

Jimin turns back to Jeongguk, and flashes him a bright smile. “We haven’t really had a proper conversation yet, have we?” He says, voice full of honey. “On the record.” 

There’s flames in his gaze and Jeongguk feels like he’s drowning in them. The world around them has swallowed to a halt, and it’s only when Mr. Lee is clearing his voice does he finally find the courage to dissolve their locked gaze. Eyes flashing to Mr. Lee who flits his eyes between them. But when he looks at Jimin, again, there is a hunger in his gaze.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Mr. Jeon,” he says, extending a hand towards him. “Hopefully we can speak again, before your piece is published.” 

When Jeongguk takes his hand he feels Mr. Lee’s grip tighten, as does his gaze. There’s a sharpness to it, the hungry glare returning as he shakes Jeongguk’s hand with reckless abandon. Releasing it, giving Jimin a gentle nod before pressing into the room towards the choreographers. 

Jimin is rolling his eyes, combing his sweaty hair back as he nudges Jeongguk gently with his elbow. 

“He does that to everyone,” he says. “I think it’s his way of asserting dominance.” 

They have lunch on the rooftop patio. Jimin is weaving them up a series of metal staircases until they merge out onto the rocky graveled roof. In his hands he grasps two white plastic bags, shoving the door open with his hip as he leaps out into the open air with an exhausted gasp. Jeongguk is not far behind him, drinking in the freshness of the breeze as it whistles around them. 

Jimin shows him towards the far back of the roof, a tiny area of stone and he’s sinking onto it. Landing with a plop as he places the two bags in front of him with a sigh. He looks up at Jeongguk, hands working with the plastic bag as he beckons him down towards him. 

“Join me,” he says softly as he unpackages the two plates and sets them atop the bags. Then he’s reaching up with a pair of wrapped chopsticks, wagging them in front of Jeongguk. “Don’t let me eat and enjoy this view all alone.” 

The view is beautiful, Jeongguk agrees. Breathtaking, really. Lush rolling hills of ribboning green trees atop mountains bristle in the breeze. It’s overcast today, heavy silver clouds hang from the sky, framing the mountains, adorning the framing silver skyscrapers that surround them like cotton. But it’s all so beautiful. 

Jeongguk grabs the chopsticks and is sinking onto the concrete across from him. Jimin smiles, handing him a plate of pork belly as he reaches for the side of rice. Smoke steams up, tickling his nose as he leans back against the stone ledge. 

“I come up here sometimes to get away from everything,” he murmurs gently. 

Jeongguk is combing through his bag and reaching for his recorder. He places it between them, beside the side of rice. Jimin eyes it, then eyes Jeongguk. 

“This is on the record,” Jeongguk says, and it feels like a delicate precaution. 

Jimin chews at his cheek, eyes slightly narrowing then he’s stabbing his chopstick into the pork belly and into his mouth. “On the record,” he echoes as he swallows. 

Jeongguk clicks on the recorder, waits for a moment, then he’s leaning back too, mirroring Jimin’s casual stance. A long moment stipples between them, then, Jeongguk is speaking. 

“So,” he says, unsure why he feels so nervous right now. “I’m getting the chance to sit with the most famous popstar in the world and he takes me to sit on the roof of his label to eat pork belly and rice.” The words feel silly as he speaks them, but Jimin isn’t laughing. He’s swallowing another slice of pork belly, then chews on the end of his chopstick. 

“Do you know how many people would kill to be in my place right now?” Jeongguk asks. 

Jimin doesn’t respond. His eyes are out on the city, following the clouds as they swirl high above them. He lets out a sigh, shaking his head. 

“I mean, I guess so,” he finally exhales. He shrugs slightly, lips pouting. “I don't really get it though. I’m just me, you know.” 

“But you’re not just you,” Jeongguk retorts, shaking his head. “worth billions of Won and have an entire army of fans at your whim. You could never just be you.” 

Jimin blinks at him, and his gaze suggests betrayal. There’s frustration playing between his brows, teeth still chewing on his chopstick. 

“When I was seven years old, I begged my mom for a ticket to see my favorite singer,” he says softly. His voice is light, almost too light. Carried on the wings of the billowing breeze. So light Jeongguk worries if the recorder is even catching any of this. 

“I told you, my mom had me when she was 14, too young to be having a kid, but hey, everyone makes mistakes,” Jimin continues. 

Jeongguk frowns, hating the idea of Jimin thinking of himself as a mistake. But Jimin seems unfazed by it, almost as though this were an undeniable truth he’d come to terms with years ago. He’s digging into his plate again, fishing the pork belly though the bourbon colored sauce with a pout. 

“My mom was young and trying her hardest. But her hardest was barely paying the bills. But I had to see him. He was the coolest, most talented person I’d ever seen. I wanted to be just like him.” 

Jimin isn’t naming the artist, and though Jeongguk wants to ask the details of who it is, he doesn’t think it really matters. There’s a sparkle in his eyes as he speaks, thinking back fondly on a memory that feels just out of reach. Jeongguk can see the admiration in his gaze as he speaks, then he’s tossing his eyes back to Jeongguk. 

“Somehow she got enough money to get me tickets. I don’t know what she did for them, didn’t ask, it didn’t feel important,” he pauses, voice dipping. “But I saw him. Nosebleeds, but I was there.” 

A pause lingers. The wind feels ravenous, flittering between them with a gusting heave. Jimin’s golden hair is tangled atop his head, but Jeongguk’s heart leaps at the sight of him. He looks beautiful like this, gaze dreamy, eyes cast away. When he turns to look at Jeongguk, he’s melting, and it’s enough to make Jeongguk melt too. 

“I saw that guy perform and it was magical. The closest to God I’ve ever felt,” he pauses, sucking in a sharp breath. “There was magic in his music, magic in his dance.  And it was in that night, that moment, that millisecond, I knew if I could make music or— or— or if my performance could make someone feel the way that performance made me feel it was all worth it. That’s why I was put here. I think.”

Another pause. This one is longer than the last. 

“You were signed when you were 13, right?” Jeongguk asks, shattering the silence. 

Jimin nods. “I started training when I was eleven. Signed at 13.” 

There’s a sadness there, in his words. Jeongguk can see the feathers of a lost childhood in his gaze. 

“And what would you say to that 13-year-old Jimin, if you could?” He asks him. 

It takes a while for Jimin’s gaze to crawl towards him. He’s holding his breath, chest halted, wind tamed around them. A long moment flutters past, and Jimin, the real one, past the platinum blond hair and shimmering perfect smile, blinks back at him. 

“Actually, let me reframe that,” Jeongguk says, shaking his head. “Do you think 13-year-old Jimin would be proud of you?”

Jimin snorts. “I don’t think he’d imagine himself as a coke snorting queer who doesn’t have any real control over his life, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

Jeongguk’s eyes bulge, then he’s pressing forward, clipping the recorder off for a second. 

“Jimin, this is on the record,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Are you really sure this is something you want to discuss—?” 

Jimin rolls his eyes, reaching down to shovel another slurp down another piece of fried pork belly. “I am 30-years-old,” he states bluntly. “My entire life has been on the record since I was 13.” 

His words linger, slightly, as though he has more to add but he doesn’t. Choosing instead to cast his gaze back towards the hazy city ahead. 

Jeongguk chews weakly at his cheek, finger fiddling with the plastic tab of his recorder. He presses it, and it clicks loudly, shutting off. Jimin’s eyes dart down to the paused recorder, the dart back up to Jeongguk.

“Are you worried about people finding out?” He asks softly. 

Jimin turns to face him, head cocking slightly. “The correct answer would be no. The political answer is yes,” he replies and his voice is shaking when he does. 

“I’m not talking politically,” Jeongguk says, shaking his head. Feathered strands of his glossy black hair fall to cover his eyes, but he makes no effort to reach up and comb them away. So he blinks at Jimin through the curtain of his bangs, waiting.

Jimin blinks back, expressionless, until his face melts into something more fearful. 

“Of course,” he croaks out. 

The confession feels bleak, landing with a thud between them. Spattering in the pork belly, swimming though the sauce. Jeongguk watches Jimin’s eyes glean, watches the way they swell up, the way his throat bobs uncomfortably.

“Of course I’m scared,” he continues. “Because once people find that out, that’s all you are. I’m not Jimin anymore. I’m not a performer. I’m not a singer. I’m not a dancer. I’m not a musician. I’m just… that. Nothing else.” He pauses, and Jeongguk watches the way the tears that have swelled in his eyes have begun their track down his cheeks. 

Jeongguk fights back the urge to reach forward and wipe them. Instead he finally reaches up to claw his hands through his hair, freeing his vision. He blinks across to Jimin again, awkwardly balling up his fists to his side, buried in the gravel. 

“I’m an anomaly,” he confesses softly. “I’ve always known what I was. Always known who I’ve liked.” 

He pauses, giving his breath time to settle in his lungs as he turns his head back to Jimin who blinks back at him with wide, helpless eyes. 

“I formally came out when I was 13-years-old, but my older brother said I could’ve saved that breath because everyone always knew,” he pauses to laugh. “But it still felt nice. Felt freeing.” 

“Well it wouldn’t be freeing for me,” Jimin retorts, shaking his head. He darts his eyes to Jeongguk, pouting sternly. “It’d be leaving one prison for another.” 

“Do you feel like this life is a prison?” Jeongguk asks. He hasn’t turned the recorder back on, and doesn't feel the need to. In fact, it feels nice now,  wading in these weirdly intimate murky waters with Jimin. 

He isn’t sure if Jimin feels the same, but he finds comfort in the sigh of breath the popstar is exhaling now. As though he’d been holding it for too long and only now that he’s met Jeongguk’s gaze he dares to release it. 

“Too many people depend on my confinement,” he finally murmurs. “The longer I’m here, the better I do, the more money I make… It keeps them safe. Keeps their jobs safe. Keeps their families fed.” Another long pause, beats of honking horns beneath them harmonize against the wind. “Being this…. Trapped is the most selfless thing I can do.”

After a long moment, as the sun begins to set behind them, Jimin is rising. Dusting off his khaki pants, picking gravel from the knitted fabric. He is looking down at Jeongguk, jaw tight, then, very humbly, he reaches out a hand. 

Jimin isn’t a brat. He’s not this untamable beast he’d been warned about. He’s not a glamourous popstar with the world at his fingertips, He’s a prisoner, held captive by his own selflessness. 

Too much like himself, he realizes, grabbing Jimin’s hand and allowing himself to be pulled up with unmeasurable grace. They meet eye to eye, close enough that Jeongguk can feel the heat of Jimin’s breath pearl against his skin. Close enough to smell the vanilla of his cologne, close enough to count the dots of freckles that dust his cheek. 

Jimin, Park Jimin, is human. In all its complexities and faults.

But Jimin was also the closest ticket he had to saving the failing magazine he held so close to his heart. Jeongguk curses himself, taking a step back when he realizes he’s gazing at Jimin with the same money hungry eyes Jimin is so used to having cast upon him.

If Jimin notices, he doesn’t say anything. He’s flashing Jeongguk an awkward smile, then scooping up the last of their food and stuffing it into the plastic bag as it flutters against the unruly wind. 

Jeongguk follows Jimin back to the rehearsal room, where he settles in the furthest end of the room and simply watches. From witnessing Jimin’s stadium show, to the tiny confines of a rehearsal room, where the music booms from speakers loud enough to rattle the shiny oak wood floors. He thinks he finally comes to terms with just how much work it takes to polish him into the enigma he is on stage. 

By the end of rehearsal, most of the dancers are splayed out on the floor. Jimin stands in the center, hand suppressed to his hips and he exhales out breathlessly, forehead gleaming with sweat. He spins on his heel and pounces towards Jeongguk, breath haggard as he smiles down at him.

“So,” he breathes out roughly. 

Jeongugk smiles back up to him, abandoning the pen and paper he’d been scribbling on to flash Jimin a sweet smile. 

“You’re incredible,” he says, and that’s the truth. The entire truth, actually. He’d never seen someone so committed to precision before. “I had no clue so much went into these shows.” 

Jimin cracks his neck, dropping slowly to his knees as he melts into the floor. He’s shrugging until his back is pressed firmly into the mirror, directly adjacent to Jeongguk. “What’d you think? I’m dancing my ass off every night and you didn’t think it was hard?” Jimin scoffs back with a roll of his eyes. 

Jeongguk shakes his head profusely. “I mean, I’m not a big fan of idol music, I wouldn’t know how much work you put into all of this.” He gestures around wildly, around the stuffy dance room, around the legions of dancers who have all peeled themselves from the floor and clustered together by the speakers. 

Jeongguk watches the way Jimin’s eyes narrows on him as though he were drinking in every part of him. His nose scrunches, then he’s scooting closer to him, bringing the heat from his skin with him. 

“If you don’t listen to idol music…” Jimin begins slowly. “What type of music do you listen to?” 

Jeongguk gapes at him, unsure why he, the interviewer, was now being interviewed by the subject; but the earnestness in Jimin’s eyes has him melting into the role. He crosses his arms across his chest, head falling flat against the cold mirror behind him. 

“I’m not all that exciting,” he mumbles. “I’m more of the jazzy type. Maybe something with a piano.” He shakes his head before Jimin can interrupt. “Boring, I know.”

“I didn’t say it was boring,” Jimin retorts, and his gaze bleeds sincerity. Enough so, Jeongguk feels his chest tightening at the sight of such swift brown eyes peering back at him. 

The moment feels thick, cushioned by the sweaty, tight room and the delicate murmur of voices buzzing around them. Jeongguk isn’t sure why the buzzing has reached his ears, or why it seems to have bled down to his chest but he basks in the warmth of it. Basks in the warmth of Jimin’s brown eyes as they gaze at him from across the oak wood floor. 

He’s buried so deep into it, he doesn’t notice that Wooyoung has appeared. She’s tugging Jimin on his shoulder, begging for his attention. It takes a while for her to grab it. His gaze plucked away from Jeongguk after a long beat, blinking up to Wooyoung with heavylidded eyes. 

“Yes?” He asks.

Wooyoung is padding her fingers quickly against her phone screen, then she locks it, cast her eyes down towards him. 

“I think you’re done for the night,” she says. 

“You think?” He hisses out with a chortled laugh. 

Wooyoung rolls her eyes, and then she’s reaching down running an affectionate hand atop the crown of his head. “Okay, yeah, you’re done for the night. Schedule done,” she says with a delicate softness that Jeongguk is surprised at. Her phone ignites in her hand and she’s yanking it up to her eyes, fingers padding across the screen at lightning speed. Attention pulled to her phone, she still speaks over it. 

“You’re relieved for the night Mr. Jeon,” she says, fingers speeding across the glass of the phone, eyes  tracking across the screen. “He starts again tomorrow at 7AM for an album signing—” 

“My day here is finished, but my day still isn’t… done,” Jimin says, shaking his head. His eyes dart to Jeongguk, almost beggingly. “I still have a few things left, if you want to join.” 

Wooyoung’s eyebrows knit up in confusion, pulling her phone just slightly lower as she glances down at Jimin. Jeongguk blinks back at him with mirroring confusion. 

Jimin, however, grins between them both, rising to his feet and combing his hands through his sticky blond hair. But his gaze, as it usually does, seems to fall back to Jeongguk. 

“Just a few more things, I promise,” he breathes out. 

Wooyoung’s finger is flinging across her phone as she shakes her head. “I have all your events synced— you had a photoshoot at 7,  straight to rehearsal at 11—” She shakes her head as her finger continues its brightly lit scroll across the screen. Then she’s blinking over at him, shaking her head profusely. “There’s nothing scheduled after rehearsal—” 

Jimin is ignoring her, reaching his hand down to Jeongguk who is blinking at the small hand wagging in front of him. His eyes crawl up to meet Jimin’s, which are pleading, begging, for him to reach out. 

Jeongguk’s chest is tightening, his heart racing as it threatens to burst and rain in sticky splattered goo against his ribs. He’s unsure why he feels like this, unsure why Jimin in their short time together has managed to elicit such strong emotion in him. Unsure why the popstar can make him feel so flustered. But he’s reaching up, gathering Jimin’s hand in his own, and allowing himself to be hoisted up to his feet. 

Wooyoung’s eyes, dart between them knowingly. But Jimin is nudging Jeongguk’s ribs. “Let me go grab my bag then we can go,” he says, then he’s off, bouncing on his toes towards the crowd of dancers, deeper into the room. 

Jeongguk’s eyes linger on him for too long, he knows, because he’s blinking away with a shake of his head, only to catch Wooyoung glaring back at him. A long moment stilts between them, before Wooyoung is taking very slow, cautious steps towards him. 

She doesn't say anything, her lips pursed as she approaches him. She casts one look over her shoulder, then back to Jeongguk.

“You’ve been commissioned, on behalf of Vanity Fair Korea to write a piece on my client,” she spells out, tongue slow and viciously sharp. “This is a reciprocated effort. We give you all access to the biggest popstar in the world, you write a piece that will open him to an entire legion of potential new fans who probably never would’ve given him the time of day.” She closes the gap between them. “A piece, might I add, that has the potential to save your already failing magazine.”

With those words, Jeongguk chokes. He stumbles back, but finds himself pressed against the cold backing of the mirror. Wooyoung closes in on him, eyes narrowed. 

“Whatever you may think you may feel for Jimin, or whatever you may think he feels about you isn’t real. It’s fabricated, it’s formulaic,” she pauses, eyes so cold Jeongguk can feel the frost cast from them creep down his spine. She’s flashing him a cold, soulless smile. “It is by design.” 

Jimin is bounding towards them, clad in now a loose gray hoodie and black baseball cap. A leather bag is slung across his shoulders, and he’s coiled around, waving goodbye to the dancers as they spill from the rehearsal hall. Then he’s turning back to them, face brightening when it lands on Jeongguk again. 

Jeongguk peels himself from the mirror, but Wooyoung doesn’t drop her gaze. 

Jimin slows to a crawl as they approach them, seemingly unaware.  “Ready when you are,” he huffs out, tightening the strap on his bag.

The lobby is brightly lit, with blinding white light as they cross through it. Jimin is waving gently to the secretary at the front desk as they pass, before reaching inside of his hoodie’s pocket and fishing out a cloth black mask. He’s fixing it around his ears as they approach the sliding glass doors, flashing Jeongguk one last smile before yanking it over his face.

“What’s that for?” Jeongguk asks.

They’re emerging outside, out into the chilly wind as it combs between them. Night has fallen on Seoul, and it’s been flushed with glittering streetlights in return. The streets are mostly empty, save for a few cars that skid up the concrete streets. Jeongguk walks to the sidewalk and waits for Jimin. Watching the way his eyes dart around before he shuffles over to him. His eyes don’t stop their examination of his surroundings until he reaches him. That’s when he lets out a sigh, hand reaching up to tug at his baseball cap tighter on his head. 

“Sometimes I leave and people are uh…” he pauses, eyes still floating around. He scans the empty sidewalk behind Jeongguk; then his eyes raise to the blackened windows to his left. Eventually his gaze lands back to Jeongguk, eyes still shaky as he blinks through the chilled wind. “People have a tendency to camp out here.” 

“Camp out?” Jeongguk snorts back. “Camp out for what?” 

Jimin shrugs, and the movement is nonchalant but Jeongguk can’t help but notice just how stiff his movements are. There’s a hyperawareness to it, the movement of someone who feels surveilled, someone who has to be in constant awareness of his every move and how, potentially, it could be seen by others.

“Your fans think… camping out… outside of your work building after you’re off… is a sign love?” Jeongguk finally spells out, unable to disguise the disgust that’s bloomed on his tongue. 

Jimin’s eyes have melted in a waxy, slow blink. He’s shrugging, again with the nonchalance, again with the hyperawareness. 

“I mean… not all of them,” he replies. “Some of them are very nice. Just want to take pictures of the building like it’s some landmark. But others?”

He begins past Jeongguk down the sidewalk, murmuring something about not wanting to call a car, and instead wanting to enjoy the night. Jeongguk is a few steps behind him, still stumped by the nonchalance towards his own privacy, but can’t help but feel his own chest burn in anger on his behalf. 

So he’s leaping towards him in an awkward shuffle to join him. Jimin, despite being a few inches shorter, seems to be all legs because his stride is long. Jeongguk finds himself bounding beside him, nearly out of breath when they both stop for the crosswalk as the sidewalk glitters in flashing red light. 

Jimin isn’t speaking, hands buried in his pocket as he keeps his eyes on the ground. The wind is ribboning the exposed strands of blond hair at the nape of his neck and Jeongguk has to bite back the incessant need to reach forward and comb his hands through it. Eventually Jimin is lifting his head, meeting Jeongguk’s eyes. They hold, just like that for a long moment, then the sidewalk flashes green, and they both begin across it.

“You don’t think that’s weird?” Jeongguk presses as they reach the other end of the sidewalk. They pass by a group of convenience stores, all spilling yellow light onto the sidewalk as they shuffle past. “You can’t go anywhere without someone… anyone, knowing who you are? I can imagine that feels isolating.” 

Jimin doesn’t reply, but he does slow his steps. Eventually he pauses, just outside another convenience store. This one is older, tiny and cramped and shoved between two towering silver buildings on the corner of an empty sidewalk. The windows are vast, foggy with dried raindrops, but mostly covered with scattered advertisements. One of which, the largest, is of Jimin. The frayed edges of the paper ad have curled with age. The crown of his head has been ripped off, more than likely from the series of stacked ads clustered around him. He grins back at them a powdery, hand clasped around a bottle of soju. 

Jimin blinks at it, mindlessly, his throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. 

“This was my dream,” he says, and it feels like a confession. “I begged for this.” 

“But that doesn't mean you have to die under it,” Jeongguk retorts.

Around them, the air feels cold. Jiimin is shuffling closer to Jeongguk, perhaps subconsciously, brushing against him, reveling in his warmth. 

“I just sometimes…” He pauses, sucking in a breath. “Sometimes it’d be nice to go somewhere no one knows who I am.” He confesses softly. “Somewhere I could just be me, just Jimin.”

A long beat passes, and Jeongguk is taking off.

Jimin is trailing behind him now, the soles of his boots squeaking against the damp concrete as he follows Jeongguk towards, what is very obviously a dark alleyway. With that Jimin stops, but not before reaching forward and tugging at Jeongguk’s hand. 

“Jeongguk—” He begins, tugging him back.

Jeongguk finally stops, coiling around and meeting Jimin’s eyes. It’s dark where they stand, somewhere between the open alley and the street corner. Most of the street is quiet, save for the flickering golden streetlight above them that buzzes in a syncopated hiss as it rains down uneven light onto their skin. 

Jimin has not dropped his hand, and the heat of their joined skin sends electricity across Jeongguk’s palm. His eyes dart down to it, then back up to Jimin who is blinking at him with unwavering uncertainty.

“Jeongguk, where are we?” He says, slightly breathless. His eyes dart around, just as a ball of crumpled newspaper tumbles past them. “Where are you taking me?” 

Jeongguk wants to smile, but Jimin is rightfully concerned, so he bites it back. Eventually he reaches down, tightening his own hand around Jimin’s wrist. Jimin jumps at it, as though he’d been electrocuted. 

“You said everywhere you go there’s someone there, judging you,” Jeongguk murmurs, slowly, if not subconsciously, interlacing their fingers. “So I’m taking you somewhere no one knows your name.” He pauses, cocking his head. “Or if they do, they don’t care.”

Jimin’s eyebrows, one of the few visible features on his face twists up in concern. Jeongguk watches the worry as it ricochets across his eyes, so he tightens his grip on his hands.

“Do you trust me?” He asks him.

Jimin’s throat bobs, eyes daring to dart around them but instead they stay firm on Jeongguk. Drinking in every part of him, until, bitterly, coldly, and assuredly, he nods. Jeongguk can feel Jimin’s grip tight on his own with the gesture.

Jeongguk nods, then turns back around and continues their venture down the alleyway. 

The alley tightens as they wiggle down until, the only sounds are the squeak of their rubber soles against the wet ground and the rustle of wind as it bristles between the brick buildings. Eventually, there is the squeak of something metal. Jimin’s head tilts up, catching the shimmer of bright magenta light as it begins to spill down on him from the bright neon sign that is coming into view. 

The sign, as they approach, reveals itself to be a pony, legs flared out in the air mid prance. There are no words beneath it, only the rust of the metal sign as it squeals with each gust of wind. 

They approach a door, equally obnoxiously pink. Jeongguk slows to a halt at it, turning to Jimin as he squeezes firmly in his hand. He turns back to the door, which seems to pulse with the beat of muffled jazzy music behind it. Then, with a very firmly grasped hand, Jeongguk raps his knuckles against the wood.

Moments flutter past, but the door is wrangled slightly ajar. The jazzy music that had been muffled spills out onto them. A tall man with a strikingly beautiful face does too. He drapes himself across the doorframe as he folds his arms across his chest. Then, after a long moment, his face brightens. 

“Jeonggukie!” He exclaims, and his arms are free and yanking Jeongguk closer to him and wrapping him in a claustrophobic hug. 

Jimin is shuffled back in the mayhem of it all. Jeongguk, still snatched, is choking out a stifled laugh against the man’s broad shoulders. Eventually, when he pulls back, Jimin gets a good look at him— the man’s striking face is powdered and chiseled with a series of rhinestones and powder. The light from the neon sign paints him absurdly, but his beauty radiates through. All sharp lines and soft pink lips that seem to shimmer with a bold pink gloss. He puckers them, pressing them to Jeongguk’s cheek as he pats him gently on the back.

“Haven’t seen you in ages, I thought you’d fallen off the planet or something,” he says, tightening his hand on his shoulder. Then, his eyes travel and find Jimin.

A long moment stilts between them, and Jeongguk can feel Jimin freeze under the man’s gaze, awaiting the inevitable excitement and recognition that usually follows. But if the man recognizes Jimin, he doesn’t say anything. He simply flashes him a bright, blinding smile as he nods his head towards him.

“Jeonggukie, you brought a friend,” he says. 

Jimin has not dropped his shoulders, still hiked up uncomfortably as he clings to Jeongguk’s side. 

“I did, Seokjin, this is Jimin, Jimin, this is Seokjin,” he says softly, waving his free hand between them. 

Jimin, still uncomfortable, waves sheepishly towards Seokjin. Seokjin, in turn, waves back, though much more enthusiastically. 

“Jeonggukie never brings friends,” he says with raised brows. Jeongguk burns under the attention, cheeks flaming red, though luckily invisible under the glimmer of the pink neon sign that whistles above them. 

“That’s because you guys are my only friends,” Jeongguk retorts. 

“Sure,” Seokjin replies with the roll of his eyes. He turns his attention back to Jimin, widening the door as he welcomes them in with the wave of his wrist. “Well, welcome in! Welcome in. Be careful on the steps, people tend to trip.”

Jeongguk is pressing forward, and Jimin follows, pressing tightly onto Jeongguk’s side as they emerge into a very dark, narrow hallway. There’s a staircase descending just ahead, and Jeongguk turns to face Jimin, smile uncontrollable. 

“Do you still trust me?” He asks softly, tugging on their conjoined hands.

Seokjin has shut the door behind them, sealing them into the darkness. Jimin’s eyes are everywhere, all around the wall, plastered with brightly colored stickers and half torn posters. The jazzy music is coming from somewhere deeper, in the belly of the stairs. Jimin casts Jeongguk a worried gaze, eyebrows knitting up.

“I can’t say no, can I?” He replies, and Jeongguk isn’t sure if he’s speaking to him, or himself.

“You can say no and we can turn around,” Jeongguk says. “You have an album signing in the morning anyway—”

“No!” Jimin replies, tightening his grip on Jeongguk’s hand. “I trust you.” He pauses, and though he cannot see it, Jeongguk can hear the smile cutting across his face beneath the mask. “Of course I trust you.”

Jeongguk’s heart is melting, so he tightens his grip on Jimin’s hand, turning towards the staircase and begins their descent.

Each step squeaks as their feet press against it. All old wood that creaks and moans with each step. The walls are tighter down here, obviously constructed before any building codes were in consideration. The music is getting louder too, the muffled hum of a wailing saxophone growing louder with each step until they meet another door, this one dusted with a hanging pink crystal beaded curtain. 

Jeongguk reaches between the shimmering crystals to a diamond doorknob. Wrist flicking and opening the door, it springs open, and the world spills out.

They are in a bar, a tiny compact one. The lighting is a soft, blushed rose. The floorboards are a scuffed, matte oak. The walls are a matte oak too, but they mirror the staircase being covered in stacks of sloppily placed stickers and torn posters. Above their heads, a pride flag waves, illuminated by the bright pink light as Jeongguk scoops the beaded curtain out of Jimin’s way and Jimin presses under it and emerges into the room.

The bar is mostly packed, though no one turns to face them when they enter. Most of the people there are faced towards the tiny elevated stage just ahead as a group of men in shimmering makeup and rhinestoned tops continue their jazzy performance.

Jeongguk is pressing towards the bar and Jimin trails behind him. Eventually, they reach it and Jeongguk drapes himself across the wooden bar top; rapping his knuckles against the wood as the man behind it coils to face him.

“Look who decided he’s finally gay enough to come back to his friends bar,” the man says with a roll of his eyes. He’s shoveling into the ice bucket when he catches sight of Jimin and freezes. “And he brought a friend.” 

Jimin is clinging tightly to Jeongguk’s side, and Jeongguk never loosens his grip on his hand. 

“This is my friend, Jimin,” Jeongguk says. He doesn’t know why his chest feels so tight when he says that. “Jimin, Hoseok.”

“Call me Hobi,” Hoseok says with a wink. He’s reaching for two glasses, each dripping with water onto the floorboards behind the bar as he presses it to the wood in front of them. “And welcome to the Pink Pony.”

Jimin’s eyes are everywhere, drinking in every part of this tiny compact bar. The pink light has his skin washed a delicate pink. When his gaze falls, he’s reaching up to pull the mask from his face. He heaves out a breath, then flashes Hoseok a soft smile.

“Hi,” he murmurs out sheepishly, tightening his grip on Jeongguk’s arm. Then he darts his eyes to Jeongguk, brows furrowed annoyed. “You brought me to a gay bar?”

“It’s not a gay bar,” Jeongguk sneers back. “I mean… it is… but—”

“If we want to be technical, yes, it’s a gay bar,” Hoseok says as he snakes the tubed club soda and begins to squirt it into both of the glasses. The pink light from behind the bar catches against the glass and ice and sends rose colored diamonds dancing across Jimin’s face. “But if we want to be more poetic, I'd like to think of it as a safe space. Regardless of sexual orientation.”

Jimin has not dropped his gaze from Jeongguk, who is watching Hoseok play with the drinks until he’s scooting them down to two waiting men at the end of the bar. 

“Jeongguk, a gay bar?” He hisses again. “Did you even think what would happen if someone caught me here? If someone sees me—”

“No one is going to see you,” Jeongguk says, shaking his head. 

“Jeongguk, you don’t know that—”

“No one here cares who you are,” Jeongguk says, finally turning to face him. Due to Jimin’s tight hold on him, they’re deathly close. Jeongguk can feel the quickening of Jimin’s heart as it stammers against him. He tries to control the flurry of his own as he swallows deeply. “I promise,” he tacks on with a gentle smile.

“If you’re one of those Instagram influencers, no one here cares about that either,” Hoseok adds with a chuckle. “Or if you’re cheating on your boyfriend or whatever. I mean, we do care, that’s not good. But it’s also none of our business.” 

Jimin gapes at him, but Hoseok has turned his attention back to Jeongguk. “The usual, I’m guessing?” 

Jeongguk nods solemnly, eyes flitting up to the stage where the  group of ambiguously beautiful men have continued their set. Jazz music flutters through the room, the delicate chords sending goosebumps up Jeongguk’s arms, or maybe, he thinks, it’s the way Jimin’s grip on him tightens as well.

Hoseok turns to Jimin. “And for you?” He asks, shining two glasses from the rack and pressing them to the bar top.

Jimin gulps. “Just a vodka cran,” he murmurs. 

Hoseok nods and gets to work, shuffling behind the bar and he stuffs the glasses with even more ice. 

Jeongguk has turned his body back to Jimin, eyes dancing over his face before eventually finding his eyes. They stay there for a moment, lost in warmth in them, lost in the worry. He bites back the itch to reach forward and touch him until the burn is too much and he’s reaching forward, running a delicate finger through his blond hair and tucking a strand behind his ear. Where he expects Jimin to freeze under the touch he doesn’t. If anything he melts; melts into the movement, melts into the heat of Jeongguk’s hand as it lingers at his ear. His eyes fluttering closed as he takes a deep breath. 

“You’re fine, Jimin,” Jeongguk says with a soft tone, barely audible over the sound of the boisterous band behind them. “If you’re fine anywhere it’s here, I swear.” 

Jimin lets out another sigh, letting his eyes flutter closed for a long moment. The music binding him, the feeling of Jeongguk so close binding him as well. After a long moment his eyes flutter open again and he takes a step back. 

“Okay,” he says with a nod. Then his eyes trail the tiny bar. Up the paneled walls, up to the stream of multi-colored pride flags that string across the bar top then back to Jeongguk. “Is this Hoseok’s bar?” 

“Yeah, he opened it after we graduated from university,” Jeongguk explains. 

Hoseok is still behind the bar, concocting their drinks in a flurry of slushed tones and clattering ice. He moves as though he were dancing, laughing cheerfully with the other bartender, a woman with electric blue hair and a face full of piercings that glitter in the pink light. 

“You went to school with him?” Jimin asks. 

“Yeah, you’d never guess it but that guy has a law degree,” Jeongguk laughs out. 

Jimin gasps, watching the free spirited Hoseok top off the last of their drinks before sprinkling a few cherries inside with a plop. 

“How’d he go from being a lawyer to opening a gay bar?” Jimin asks. “The two don’t really seem connected, if you ask me.”

“Sometimes you gotta do what you’re meant to do,” Hoseok says as he approaches them again. He’s sliding the drinks towards them, shimmering glasses of a million bubbles as cherries and glittering ice dance inside lean glasses. He places Jeongguk’s drink, dark brown and bubbly in front of him and winks. “I was a good lawyer too. Just… not my thing.” He pauses, cocking his head, then he turns back to Jimin. “It wasn’t what I was meant to do, let’s say. Everyone is put here for a reason and practicing law just wasn’t mine.” 

“But I can’t imagine this pays you as much as being a lawyer would,” Jimin says, sliding his drink towards him. He dips down and sucks on the tiny black straw, trying his best to disguise the sour expression threatening on his tongue. This drink was strong, frighteningly so. 

Jeongguk reaches into his pocket, before shucking out a few bills and sliding them to Hoseok. Hoseok grabs them, tucking  them in the breastpocket of his denim vest and smiles. He looks at Jimin, for a split moment, eyes wide as though he were barreling through a rolodex of information trying to tack down the familiarity. His eyes narrow, then widen, before settling back to normal. He darts his gaze to Jeongguk who stares back at him with wide brown eyes. Then Hoseok is draping himself across the bar to face him. 

“I realized a long time ago I had the privilege to just… live. Live how I want. Love how I want. Out loud, proudly. That’s a privilege,” he says with a shrug. His hands are wrapped around a filthy, wet rag as he runs it across the damp bar, littered with rings of sweat from abandoned drinks. “Everybody was put here for a reason. I wanted to help people live their lives authentically. I wanted to free people. Practicing law was one way to do that, but this? Opening this bar felt more authentic to my life’s purpose, you know?”

Jimin is gaping at him with wide, wondrous eyes. Almost as though he’d never heard anything more liberating. His grasp on both the drink and Jeongguk’s hand is blindingly tight. Then he looks over the Jeongguk who he finds is already gazing at him. 

Hoseok’s eyes dart between the two, then lands back onto Jeongguk. He winks, and laughs. 

Jimin is then reaching into his pocket, pulling out his phone as he slides it across the bar to Hoseok. Hoseok eyes it, confused, then he’s looking back up to Jimin.

“What’s that?” He asks.

“My phone,” Jimin explains bluntly, taking another sip from his drink.

Hoseok’s eyebrows furrow, darting his eyes between Jeongguk, the phone, then back to Jimin.

“And what are you giving it to me for?”

There’s a shared measure of confusion exchanged between them, and it takes a long moment before it clicks in Jeongguk’s brain. He’s reaching for Jimin’s phone and pressing it coolly to his chest. 

“You don’t have to do that here, Jimin,” he says with a laugh. 

Jimin is grabbing it, but not without wrapping one of his hands gently around Jeongguk’s, still pressed to his chest. 

“I thought you had to do that at every bar,” Jimin says with a pout. “At least the ones I go to you have to.”

Jeongguk is laughing, awkwardly, then he’s shooting Hoseok one final goodbye as he peels them away from the bar.

“Well, not here you don’t,” he says, pressing a hand to the small of Jimin’s back as he guides them away.

“It was nice seeing you again Jeonggukie,” he says, then he turns to Jimin and gives a quick wink. “Don’t make yourself a stranger, cutie.” 

Jimin flushes the deepest shade of scarlet which is thankfully hidden under the pink light. He can feel Jeongguk pulling him away from the bar, but it takes a while for him to pull his gaze away. Eventually he does, turning and following Jeongguk as he weaves them through the scattered clothed tables. There is someone turning around at one of them, a tall man with a head of spiky blond hair who waves at them excitedly. Jeongguk’s grip on him tightens as they approach the table. 

When they reach it, the man’s face brightens at the sight of Jeongguk. He rises, scooping him into a full bodied hug. 

“I didn’t think I’d see you here so soon,” he laughs out, patting Jeongguk on the back with a heavy hand. Then, his eyes find Jimin’s and he freezes. 

Jimin has grown used to looks of acknowledgment followed by the inevitable frozen stare. The man is currently exhibiting that now: eyes widening and jaw growing slack as he blinks across at Jimin as though he were not real.

Jeongguk is peeling away from the man, then gesturing towards Jimin.

“Namjoon, this is Jimin, Jimin, this is Namjoon. We work together,” he explains. 

“We do more than just work together,” Namjoon stammers out, eyes still locked onto Jimin. He struggles to smile, as though the shock of having Jimin in front of him has frozen his muscles in place. “I—I’m his best friend.” 

Jimin, expertly trained to handle moments like this, stitches a soft, cordial smile onto his lips as he reaches a hand forward towards him. “Nice to meet you, Namjoon.” 

Namjoon’s eyes dart down to Jimin’s extended hand, then back up to his face. His eyes find Jeongguk, as he struggles with a gulp. 

“He doesn’t bite, Joon,” he mumbles towards him. 

Namjoon eventually does swallow, and it’s obviously an uncomfortable one. He wretches a hand out and grabs for Jimin’s timidly. Jimin shakes it enthusiastically, but Namjoon drops his hand, running his palm against his thigh as he turns back to Jeongguk. 

“You— you can—can sit with me if you want,” he says, slowly sinking into his seat.

Jeongguk reaches out for the chair beside Jimin and yanks it out. Jimin slithers down into it, and Jeongguk presses into his own at his side. Their knees brush as they settle beneath the table. Jeongguk has to physically fight down his heart as it attempts to climb up his throat. 

They stay like that for a while, legs pressed flush against each other as they sway to the music. Jimin’s head nods gently to it, face lighting up as the musicians continue their set under the glittering lights. Jeongguk’s eyes continue flirting in Jimin’s direction, shying away anytime Jimin’s eyes find his. Ducking a shy smile back down to the table cloth with each stolen glance. 

The set ends with a round of thunderous applause, and Jimin is turning to face both Jeongguk and Namjoon.

“They’re so good,” he exclaims, attempting to project his voice over the applause, but finding most of it is still drowned by it. The applause dies, and most of the men are descending the stage. Jimin waves at them enthusiastically as they weave between the tables and towards the back. Jimin turns back to Jeongguk. “They’re so good.”

Jeongguk realizes at this moment this is the happiest he’s seen the pop star since he’s met him. Realizes the authenticity behind this platinum smile is more beautiful than any one that’s plastered across billboards and flagging banners. 

“That’s just their first set of the night,” he explains softly, reaching forward to sip from his own drink. “They take a break for about 15 minutes then they come back to close.”

“Yeah, their closer is incredible, you’re gonna love it,” Namjoon adds, finishing his own drink. He presses the glass back to the table and turns his body to face Jimin. “I’m sorry if I’m being weird. I review museums and art exhibitions for a living. Not very common I meet a pop star on a casual Tuesday night out.”

Jimin blushes, ducking his face down into his glass as he fishes through the melting ice swimming through it. Eventually when he peels his gaze up he sighs. 

“I’m not a pop star tonight, I’m just Jimin,” he breathes out.

He finds Jeongguk’s eyes for a moment and holds it. Then he turns back to Namjoon. “You work for the magazine too?”

“Not for very much longer, let’s be honest,” Namjoon replies solemnly.

Jeongguk’s head snaps towards him. “Don’t say that, Joon.”

“What? It’s true. Print media is dying. No, it’s dead. Been dead,” Namjoon replies, now popping an ice cube in his mouth and rattling it between his teeth. 

“What do you guys need? Funding? I can help with funding—” Jimin begins. 

The men have traveled back to the stage, one of them, a tall man with glossy black hair pulled into a tight bun has settled behind the drums; thrumming against it as the other two men pick up their corresponding instruments. The lights flicker and flare, glittering against the shiny black wood of the piano.

“It’s not about funding, we need eyes. We need attention. You can’t buy that,” Namjoon replies with a shrug. He has to speak a little louder now as the speaker next to them wails back to life. One of the men is approaching the microphone again, speaking into it, but Jeongguk knows Jimin isn’t paying attention. His eyes remain on Namjoon, eyebrows furrowed, lips pouted. He’s opening his mouth to respond, but one of the men is speaking into the mic now.

“We need help with one of these last few songs,” the beautiful man purrs into the microphone, which Jeongguk notices is smeared with waxy, red lipstick. “I know you guys have been shy tonight, but do we have any volunteers?”

The crowd murmurs around them. Jeongguk is sipping from his drink, eyes wide as he scopes around the sparse crowd that engulfs him, then, to his right, he feels Jimin peel himself up from his seat. 

“Looks like we have a volunteer!” The man exclaims, waving Jimin up to the stage. 

Jeongguk’s head snaps to him, but Jimin’s attention is pointed squarely at the stage. He untangles himself from beneath the table and weaves through the tables until he reaches the stage. Reaching a hand out as the bandleader grabs for it, helping him up the squeaking stairs until he’s pressed to his side.

Under the wash of cheap bright lights and a set of squeaking speakers, Jimin still shines. He winces, shielding his eyes from them as the bandleader pulls him closer to him, hand still wrapped around the microphone as he turns to face Jimin.

“And aren’t you gorgeous? What’s your name, pretty boy?” He says with a smile, teeth subtly stained pink from his smeared lipstick. “Or pretty girl. Or pretty they. No judgment here, I promise.”

He points the mic towards Jimin who has turned a deep shade of scarlet. Jimin glances quickly out to the audience, finds Jeongguk and melts. Then he turns back to the mic.

“Ian,” he stutters out.

The beautiful man smiles. “Pretty name for a pretty face, how lovely, and what do you do, Ian,” he adds, turning  the mic back to Jimin. “Again, no judgments. We’ve all done something a little nefarious to pay the bills.”

The audience bursts into staggered laughter. Jimin finds Jeongguk again, an anchor, he realizes, then he looks back up to the bandleader. 

“Nothing, really,” he says with a shrug.

“Not true,” the bandleader ejects, shaking his head. “Everybody does something. I for one am a banker by day, but a musician by night. I was put here to make people feel things through the music I make. So lemme ask you again, what do you do?”

Jimin, tosses his gaze out to the audience again. Finds his anchor in the burn of Jeongguk’s gaze and holds it. He blinks, still blinded by the cheap stage lights that burn down on him, still burns for the heat of Jeongguk’s loving, heartfelt gaze then his smile melts into something a little more at ease. 

“I guess I just want to make people happy,” Jimin says very bluntly. 

The bandleader coos, pulling the mic away, then he’s wrapping gentle arms around Jimin’s frame as he pulls him into a hug. The audience coos along with him, delicate clapping engulfing him and Jeongguk feels like he’s going to burst. Jimin always deserves this. Yes, the love and praise of an endless stadium is nice but there’s something particularly heartwarming about watching Jimin embraced in this tiny bubble of safety as he’s surrounded by his peers and strangers alike. 

The bandleader is pulling away, then he’s wiping theatrically under his eyes as he pulls the mic back to his lips. “Alright, enough with the cute, therapy shit. We’re here to have fun.” He’s pressing the mic into Jimin’s hand but Jimin shakes his head profusely. He nods towards the piano, eyes glimmering with building excitement. 

“I do play, if you don’t mind,” he says cheekily. 

The pianist rises, gesturing Jimin over with an enthusiastic smile. Jimin bounds towards him, sinking into the bench, hands hovering over the keys. His eyes dash out to the audience as he searches for Jeongguk. When he does, his face widens into a blinding smile. He waggles out a small wave before letting his hands fall back to the keys.

Jeongguk watches the band begin, music swelling the tiny bar until it seems to buzz with it. Jimin’s eyes narrow as he leans in with concentration; fingers skating across the keyboard awkwardly until he finds the key, finds the melody, finds the rhythm and begins his dance across the piano. 

The music around them bellows, all jolted notes of winding strums of a guitar and scattered drums. Jeongugk can feel the bass pounding through his heart, buzzing through the marrow of his bones as the band clatters through music that seems to make his skin feel fuzzy. Actually, he isn’t sure if it's the music, or maybe it’s the beautiful way Jimin seems to rejoice in utter jubilee as his fingers bound across the piano. 

Jeongguk had never seen such a beautiful sight, someone so thoroughly in their element they seem to meld with the moment itself. Jimin was music personified, almost as though his smile were made of treble clefs and scattered quarter notes. The piano melted like butter through the air and Jimin with it. 

He was meant to be on stage, he was meant to share this gift, his gift of music with the world. This is what he’s meant to do, to make others happy with his gift. Jeongguk felt it, Namjoon felt it with each bob of his head. Every person in this tiny bar felt it. All woven together, threaded tight just through the gift of being able to witness a true genius at work. 

Jeongguk doesn’t notice Namjoon staring at him until he finally loses sight of Jimin who has disappeared behind the piano for a moment, swept up in the rhythm of the music. Jeongguk’s eyes find Namjoon beside him who is blinking at him with a tight, pursed lip. Then, he’s ducking his head as though he’s harboring a secret. 

The music is coming to a close, and Jeongguk watches as Jimin helps conclude the song. Ended with a resounding scatter of notes and a nod of his head. When he releases the keys he lets his head fall against the wood of the piano, as though he were absorbing its energy, absorbing the energy of the audience as they explode into thunderous applause around him. It’s only when he raises his head, eyes searching out through the crowd that he sees Jeongguk has risen to his feet, a proud smile stitched across his face as he claps, loudest of them all. 

They end the night outside. The air is chillier now that the night has grown older. Jeongguk is pressed against the brick wall, sucking on a cigarette as Jimin blabs incoherently to Namjoon and one of the members of the band. After the performance, after he’d floated back down from the stage and to the table he’d sucked down several more drinks. Surrounded by pats of encouragement on his shoulders as people murmured, “Have you thought about a music career?” Or, “I think you’d do great as a professional musician.” 

Jimin is drunk, cheeks dusted red as he blabbers on to Namjoon, who is sucking in the last of the cigarette he’d bummed off Jeongguk. When he finishes, the tip of it crackles orange then he tosses it, stamping it roughly with the toes of his boot. 

“You were incredible, Jimin, honestly,” Namjoon says, the last of the smoke cottoning around his lips. “And I’m not just saying that because I’m a fan.” 

“Thank you, Namjoon!” Jimin exclaims, and his drunkenness makes his voice boom slightly. “I’ll invite you to my next show. I’ll send it to you through Jeonggukie, I promise.” 

Jeongguk melts at the sound of his name on Jimin’s tongue. He turned to face him, tongue hot from the cigarette, but his cheeks even hotter as they burn at the sight of Jimin. Jimin’s eyes find him too, and they hold each other’s gaze for a long beat. Namjoon scoffs, rolling his eyes, then he’s prodding Jeongguk in the shoulder. 

“I’m sure whenever he decides to take his eyes off of you he’ll remember to pass me the invitation, isn’t that right, Jeonggukie?” Namjoon sneers out teasingly. 

Jeongguk, so swept up in the orbit of Jimin’s gaze, barely catches the last of Namjoon’s words. He finally yanks his eyes away from him, and sighs out, almost drunkenly. Namjoon scoffs again, rolling his eyes as he peels himself from the wall and nudges Jeongguk in his shoulder. “I’ll see you at work, Jeongguk,” he says softly. Then he turns to Jimin, still slightly starstruck at the sight of him. “It was really nice to meet you, Jimin, you’re incredible.” 

Jimin preens under the praise, then he’s reaching forward and engulfing Namjoon in a sloppy, drunken hug. Namjoon freezes under it, then very slowly, his hands creep up to brush at Jimin’s back. He glances across the small alley to Jeongguk who is finishing the last of his cigarette on a laugh. Tossing the butt under his shoe and stomping it out. 

“I’ll see you at the office, Joonie,” he says.

Jimin peels back, but not before squeezing Namjoon’s shoulders. 

“Nice to meet you too, Joon. Don’t make yourself a stranger!” 

Namjoon is positively glowing at Jimin’s words. He nods towards both of them before ripping down the alleyway and out of sight. 

Here, alone in the alley, both Jimin and Jeongguk fidget. Eventually, Jimin turns to face Jeongguk, breathing heavily. 

“I called a car, if you don’t mind,” Jimin blurts out. His eyes are unfocused, but they remain on Jeongguk’s face. Tracking everywhere across it before landing on his eyes. 

Jeongguk hitches out a heavy breath, then he’s patting at his chest, then his jeans pockets where he fishes out his phone. Thumbing at it mindlessly as it sparkles to life. 

“Oh, I’ll wait for your car to get here, then I’ll probably just catch the train,” he murmurs softly as he thumbs across the phone screen. “I can probably still catch the last one of the night if I’m lucky—” 

“I said I called a car, dumbass,” Jimin says, shaking his head as he shoves at Jeongguk’s hard chest. He’s drunk though, so he stumbles, face falling flat into the crook of Jeongguk’s neck. Jeongguk’s hands reach up to grab him, to steady him, but Jimin is slipping, until they’re both stumbling. Jeongguk’s back thudding against the cold brick as Jimin’s weight topples into him. 

The air around them stills, but it’s thick with electricity. There’s silver moonlight spilling between the buildings and stippling down into the alleyway. Jeongguk and Jimin are caught in the pool of it. Jimin is pulling his face from Jeongguk’s neck, but the moonlight catches it and he’s painted in iridescent moonlit shine. He glows under it, his rosy cheeks washed out, the gloss of his lips smeared. His eyes are heavily lidded, but his attention is on Jeongguk, all Jeongguk as he blinks at him weakly. 

Jeongguk has to bite back every intention coursing through him begging him, no, demanding him to kiss him. 

“This is embarrassing,” Jimin slurs out. “I’m a drunk mess and you’re—?” He pauses. “You drank too. Why aren’t you drunk?” 

Jeongguk is steadying Jimin by wrapping gentle hands at his waist. He’s pressed away from the moonlight now, but he still seems to glow with it. Almost as though his short time beneath it charged him full of celestial energy.

“My drink didn’t have alcohol,” Jeongguk tells him, hands still not dropping from his waist.

Jimin gapes at him, then he pouts. “That’s cheating,” he says. “So you let me get drunk?”

Jeongguk bursts out laughing, shaking his head. His eyes trail up the brick to the moon, it hangs between the buildings. The streetlights of the city have washed the sky free of stars. He resents their absence. 

“It’s not cheating, I just uh…” He pauses, chewing on his cheek as he ponders how to approach this. “My dad didn’t have a good relationship with alcohol. Kinda scars you as a kid. See your dad laid out drunk on the couch everyday, barely able to keep a job together, kinda makes you want to uh… not do that.” He pauses, shrugging. “Besides, I have the addict gene lodged somewhere deep in my DNA. One sip and I’m a goner, I swear.” 

“So you avoid it,” Jimin says sharply as though it were fact. 

Jeongguk nods. “So I avoid it,” he repeats with a nod. 

The evening groans around them, the city sharp with light croaks and beckons. There’s cars ripping down the street just ahead, the streetlights buzz, an ambulance, streets away wail as it weaves between boulevards. It’s a symphony, Jeongguk recognizes. A symphony of discoordinate strings and sounds of a city that is just as alive as he is. He doesn’t think he would’ve realized the harmony in it all if it weren’t for the delightfully beautiful drunk boy currently draped across his shoulders right now. 

“If I were smart I’d probably avoid it too,” Jimin says after a long moment. “I haven’t reached that level of maturity yet. I’m jealous.” 

“You’ll get there,” Jeongguk assures him. 

There’s a long beat that staggers between them. Jimin is gazing into his eyes with an undeniable hunger. Jeongguk watches the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Eyes tripping down to Jeongguk’s lips, then back up to meet his eyes. 

Jeongguk notices Jimin is shivering against him, so he leans back, peels his leather jacket from his own shoulders and drapes it gently across Jimin’s. Jimin melts into it with a sigh.

They share a heavy breath, exchanged between open mouths. It’s the only heat here, wrapped between them as the wind shuffles them closer together; as though clustering them and wrapping the breeze around them like a ribbon. Jeongguk burns to kiss him, but holds back. The burn in Jimin’s eyes dares him to believe he feels the same. 

“You’re the only person who looks at me like that,” Jimin whispers out. His words are no longer slurred. Each one has weight, bricks of certainty bound to them as though he meant each one. 

“Like what?” Jeongguk asks.

Jimin doesn’t answer immediately. He’s breathing more of Jeongguk in as though he couldn’t get enough of it. Getting drunk off the smell of him, off the heat off him, off the presence of their bodies melded together in this tiny, dark alley.

After a long moment he finally answers. “Like a human being,” he says softly. “You’re the only person who doesn’t look at me like you want something from me.”

Jeongguk finally breaks the space between them as he surges in for a kiss. Teeth clatter as he drinks him in, breathless and mindless. Jimin tastes like cranberry, and he thinks he can taste the lasting bit of vodka still lingering on his tongue but he also tastes like magic too. He tastes like passion, he tastes like love and lust and everything in between. They stay like that for a while. A tangle of scattered limbs and quickened hearts against the brick wall until they’re washed in the glow of bright blue headlights. 

It takes near Herculean strength on both of their ends, but eventually they pull apart. Still threaded together by a tiny string of saliva that connects the wetness of their lips. Jimin squints as the headlights grow closer, Jeongguk does too, but still can’t find the allure to pull his eyes away from him. 

Jimin dares to break their gaze first, diverting his head to the glowing headlights pointing in their direction. He melts, slowly unfurling himself from Jeongguk’s grasp as he combs at his mussied hair and swollen lips. He nods to the car and with a weak smiles heaves out breathlessly. 

“I think that’s the car.” 

When the elevator dings, and the doors open with a swooshing gasp, Jeongguk doesn’t immediately press out. In fact he falters, feet rooted to the white tile flooring as he peers down the endless hall of Jimin’s label. In all actuality, he didn’t actually want to be here. There was a particular flavor of guilt crawling like bile up his throat and no matter how many pep talks he’d given himself on the ride here, it was still chewing him up inside. He’d avoided most of the cheerful greetings of the security and staff as he’d pressed into the building just moments earlier. Finger stabbing at the elevator button, thanking every god imaginable when the elevator cab was actually empty. Spent the majority of the ride up racking his brain for an excuse to leave until he arrived here, alone as the doors swung open revealing the recording studio he’d promised to arrive at at 10AM sharp. 

But right now, as he peers down the narrow white hallway to it, as his stomach does flips inside of him, he realizes just how many lines he crossed the night before and can’t imagine actually having to confront him. 

Him, he thinks. Jimin, his heart reminds him and he feels butterflies unleash their feathered wings from where they were caged in his chest just at the thought of him. Jimin in all his celestial, moonlit glory. Jimin and his platinum smile, Jimin and his annoying laugh. Jimin, the subject he has been commissioned to write about, that he just so happens to be falling for. 

It’s at that realization his hand is reaching forward to seal the elevator door. Just as the doors begin their seal, the recording studio’s wide wooden ones open. He locks eyes with Wooyoung, who cocks her head confusedly as the doors snap with suctioned hiss. 

Jeongguk stands inside of it, awkwardly, listening to the roped pulley and mechanical hum of the elevators around him purr to life. He stands still, awaiting command. It only takes a moment when the doors are suctioning open. Wooyoung stands on the other side, head still cocked in confusion as she blinks across the elevator cab towards him. 

“Jeongguk?” She says, confused. 

Jeongguk gulps, then he reaches up with a stuttered wave. He can feel his cheeks blushing, then he’s pressing forward slightly. 

“I uh…” He hums out as he emerges beside her. “I wasn’t sure I was on the right floor.” 

“I emailed you the instructions on where you were to report to,” Wooyoung says. The phone in her hand has glittered to life but she mostly ignores it. Instead choosing to keep narrowed eyes onto Jeongguk. 

The elevator door has sealed behind him, and it rips off with a hiss. Wooyoung has crossed her arms, but she’s turning slightly as she begins back to the recording studio. Jeongguk follows behind her, as she more than likely expects him to. Their coordinated steps echoing through the empty hall in the clack of her heels followed by the squeak of Jeongguk’s sneakers in accordance. 

“So, you and Jimin went out last night,” she says suddenly. “After rehearsal, correct?"

They’re passing gilded plaques that commemorate Jimin’s most recent platinum selling album. They line the wall in golden frames that loom down at them with each step. 

“We did,” he replies, though breathlessly as Wooyoung continues her wide stride to the recording studio doors. They pass another poster of Jimin, this one he stands in what appears to be an empty white studio. His usually perfect blond hair is mussied, tossed askew atop his head. His full lips are glossy, and his eyes, Jeongguk notices, are a glassy red. 

“Did you really think it was a smart idea to take the world’s biggest star to a gay bar?” Wooyoung asks. Her voice is nonchalant, but her demeanor is buzzing. Jeongguk can feel every inch of her agitation as it peels off her towards him. 

Jeongguk stops, as does Wooyoung, a few steps ahead. They’re inches from the massive wooden doors of the recording studio. Jeongguk can hear the subtle thud of electronic music spilling out from between the crack of the doors. He thinks he can also hear what he assumes is the litheness of Jimin’s melodic laugh and his heart soars at the sound. Wooyoung must notice his reaction, the deep flush of his cheeks, and she’s sighing. Crossing her arms across her chest as she peers up at him. 

“How did you—?” He croaks out. 

“We keep constant eyes on our money maker, Jeongguk, do you think we’re stupid?” She says with a roll of her eyes. “Jimin makes this company 400 Billion Won. Billion,” she hisses through clenched teeth. “Do you even have any clue what that means? Do you have any clue how much money you’re playing with?” 

Jeongguk gapes at her, but she’s getting closer. 

“I was going to give you the benefit of the doubt,” she slurs out on a hot tongue. “But since you’ve decided you don’t really care anymore I’m just going to say this.” 

She presses close enough to prod her finger into his chest.

“Whatever… thing, you think you have with him… it’s not real,” she says sharply. 

Jeongguk’s chest is concaving. He feels as though his head is just moments from popping free from his shoulders, but the fury in Wooyoung’s eyes grounds him, roots him in the reality of the situation unfolding in front of him. “Jimin is the result of years of investment. He’s insured jobs for thousands of people. If his career is blown up because some low level journalist from a crumbling magazine fell for our perfectly crafted, parasocial relationship with our biggest money maker…?” 

Wooyoung starts laughing, but it’s venomous. Jeongguk can taste the acidity in it as she takes a slow step back, crossing her arms back across her chest as she rakes her gaze from the sole of Jeongguk’s feet until she reaches his eyes. She catches his gaze and holds it, steadily. “You write your piece, publish it, then you’re done with him, you understand?” 

Jeongguk foolishly nods, because he feels as though he has no other choice. He’s playing with fire, obviously. And he’s moments away from being engulfed in the flames. 

It takes a moment for Wooyoung to say anything. She doesn’t even move. She simply stands there, breathing heavily, until she seems satisfied with his answer and she turns. Pressing the palm of her hand to the door and pressing it open. 

Jeongguk follows her into a black caved recording studio where they find Jimin sitting in front of a massive board of glittering lights and buttons. There’s a stack of freshly wrapped albums in front of him and he’s signing each one, one by one. Hand dancing over the white album with a scribble of his black marker. It squeaks against the plastic, then he’s gliding to the next, bobbing his head to the music as he glides from one to the other. 

He lifts his head for a moment, catches sight of Jeongguk and brightens. He flashes him a wide toothed smile, visibly melting at his presence as he waves him over. 

“Jeonggukie!” He exclaims, voice full of undeniable joy that makes Wooyoung groan in accordance. “I’m almost done. I have a few things to record then we can go to lunch, is that okay?”

Jeongguk nods, but he can feel Wooyoung’s eyes burning into him to his right. He tries to calm his heart, but he finds it’s thudding against his ribs at an uncontrollable rate. 

So he tightens his hands on the leather strap of his bag, and stitches on his best performance of a smile. 

“Yeah, of course, Jimin,” he says with a choked smile. 

Jimin nods, delightfully oblivious to the drop in Jeongguk’s usual excitement towards him as he scribbles out a few more signatures. 

Jeongguk wades across the recording studio, drinking in the state of the art technology that enfolds him. There’s massive, towering speakers that loom above him, each framed by massive boards of shimmering lights that sparkle with flashing multicolored buttons and knobs. Jeongguk had always seen these in movies, but never imagined being inside of one. As he approaches an empty chair to Jimin’s right and sinks into it, he catches the reflection of light that bounces from the wide glass of the recording booth. A single black mic hangs from the ceiling, below it a chair, whose arms are wrapped in what Jeongguk recognizes as the leather jacket he’d offered to Jimin the night before.

Jeongguk tries to hide the way his heart has very clearly leapt onto his tongue by ducking his eyes down to his legs which he’s crossed uncomfortably at his ankles. 

Jimin glances over at him and blushes, then smiles. 

“I uh, actually wanted to talk to you about something Wooyoung,” he says, still signing at the albums. He scribbles out a few more, then looks up to her with bright eyes. “It’s something me and Jeongguk were talking about last night.” 

At those words, Wooyoung stiffens. Looking up from the brightness of her phone as she sneers over to Jimin in anticipation. 

Jimin, still oblivious to her sour disposition, scribbles out another signature, not looking as he hands it to the producer. 

“It’s about the next album,” he says. 

“You were talking about your next album, currently in production, with a journalist,” she laughs out with an incredulous laugh. “Dunno if that’s the best idea, but go on.” 

Jimin’s eyes seek Jeongguk’s, almost as those they were begging for their support. Jeongguk offers it to him, because of course he does. His hand itches to reach out and grab for him, but he bites that back down. Choosing instead to thumb mindlessly at the plastic corner of the producing board. 

Jimin gulps thickly. “Yeah, I was just uh… we were…” He hesitates. “You know my first love is the piano.” 

Wooyoung groans, rolling her eyes. “Jimin, we’ve talked about this before.” 

“I know I just—” Jimin says. He’s stopped signing, fully abandoning the stack of albums to turn in his chair to face her. His eyes flit to Jeongguk, for that final push of courage that he needs. Then he turns back to Wooyoung, gaze pleading. “It’s just that Jeongguk has helped remind me just how much I love playing. Just how much I love making music. Real music. The music I started with.” 

His eyes find Jeongguk and he melts. Jeongguk doesn’t need to touch him because their locked gaze is doing everything. There’s longing in it, a burn of desire. Jeongguk can feel Jimin all over him, clinging to every part of him without a single press of flesh against flesh. 

Wooyoung must notice because she’s pressing forward with a shake of her head, splitting the gaze by standing between them, blocking Jimin’s view of him. 

“Jimin, I’ve told you this before. You are not that kind of artist,” she hisses harshly. 

“Yeah, well why can’t I be?” Jimin asks. There’s a pain in his voice as he speaks. He’s gazing up at her breathlessly, chest rising and falling, heart climbing up his throat. “I have all these fans that love me, why can’t I introduce them to the real me—?” 

“Because that won’t sell, Jimin—” 

“Is that all I am to you?” He finally yells. 

The recording studio, a haven for the production of music and sound, swallows the majority of his volume in the padding of the walls that encase them. Jeongguk however, can still feel the pain of his words rattling in his ears, long after he’s shouted them. He can’t see Jimin, Wooyoung has made sure of that as she’s planted herself firmly between the two. But he can feel the pain, rippling off him in waves. The walls swallow that too. 

Eventually, Wooyoung speaks. Jeongguk can see the tension clinging to her back as she unfurls her crossed arms. 

“You are actually,” she says stiffly. “You are a multi billion dollar artist. Crafted after years of extensive research and study. We know the you that sells and that… that doesn’t sell.” 

Wooyung shifts, just slightly, and it gives Jeongguk an opening to finally see Jimin. The studio lights that bleed down on him have his face washed a pale yellow. His usually bright brown eyes are glassy, his throat bobbing as though he were fighting back a cry. For once, he doesn't attempt to look at Jeongguk. Simply gazing up at Wooyoung for a long, measured beat, then shooting his eyes back down to the album as he continues to sign.

Wooyung’s phone glitters to life and she’s pulling it to her face and thumbing through a reply. After a moment she’s tucking a heavy strand of hair behind her ear and coiling her body towards the door. She casts Jeongguk a scowl, then thumbs out another response across the phone screen. 

“We can talk about this later,” she hisses out, tossing her voice across her shoulder as she begins to the studio doors. 

For once, Jimin doesn’t respond.

They find themselves on the roof again. Seoul is bathed in the wash of hazy yellow afternoon light and Jeongguk squints as he holds the door for Jimin who is barreling onto the gravelled ground silently, two bags stuffed full of kimbap crinkle as the wind whips against them.

Jeongguk follows Jimin to the furthest end of the roof where they both sink against the graveled concrete. Jimin is fishing through the plastic bags, grabbing for the food as he leans forward and hands one to Jeongguk, then one for himself. He’d been mostly silent since the studio, but Jeongguk can feel the anxious energy barreling from him. 

They sit quietly for a long beat, eating silently before Jeongguk chews and swallows. Turning his attention firmly onto Jimin. 

“I think you were really really brave in there,” he murmurs out softly. “Asking your manager about doing a different type of piece for your album.” 

“It’s a little embarrassing though, isn’t it?” Jimin replies, and his voice is uncharacteristically small. Jeongguk barely catches it, finds it rippling away on the tail of the whistling winds that cocoons them. 

Jimin's eyes have not risen from the plastic container currently wrapped in his hands. He mindlessly prods his chopsticks through the stacked rice. 

“I’m 30-years-old and I’m still begging for permission like I’m still a kid,” he says. His voice cracks at that last part, almost as though the emotion were splitting from his tongue and spilling onto his lap. “That’s not fair.” 

“You’re right, it’s not,” Jeongguk replies. “So what are you going to do about it?”

With that, Jimin’s head snaps up. He catches Jeongguk’s gaze and holds it, almost, for dear life. They stay like that, wrapped in the chill of the breeze and the increasingly cold chill of each other’s gaze. Seoul feels frozen around them, the sounds of the city seem to muffle, the chill of the gravel beneath them fades until it’s just them. Gelled together in this little bubble they’ve ballooned for themselves. 

Jimin is abandoning his meal, letting it slip from his lap as he slowly crawls to Jeongguk. Whatever pain he must feel as his hands drags against the gravel and concrete seem to unfaze him, eyes locked with Jeongguk’s until he finally reaches him. They’re barely a breath apart now. Jeongguk can feel the heat of Jimin’s breath as it crawls against his skin, can feel the weight of his desire as it beads from his eyes to his lips then he’s pressing forward, planting his lips on his own. 

They stay like that for a while, all tangled lips and tongues until Jeongguk is, reluctantly, pulling back. He heaves in a heavy breath as he forces his eyes to focus on Jimin, directly in front of him. After a moment he allows his back to fall against the concrete wall behind him as he goes to lick his lips.

“You’ve got to—” he begins and he’s breathless, vision spotty, lips still craving Jimin’s. “Jimin, you've got to make a choice.”

Jimin sits back on his haunches, hands pressing to his thighs as he blinks over at Jeongguk confusedly. He cocks his head, licking his lips as he stares at him. 

“Jeongguk, what are you talking about?” 

The wind steals Jeongguk’s breath, and he watches the way it ribbons through Jimin’s hair so he reaches out to tame it. Tucking strand behind his ear as he blinks at him, heart bleeding. 

“I have never lived my life ashamed of who I am—” he begins.

“Do you think that I’m ashamed of you?” There’s genuine hurt in Jimin’s voice. It drips, clings to the wind, binds him. The skin between his brows furrows as he attempts, very poorly, to swallow back the tears threatening at his eyes. 

“No, I didn’t say that,”  Jeongguk retorts. He’s cupping Jimin’s cheeks now, eyes locked, heart quickening. “But I’m not too sure if you can say the same for yourself.” 

That stumps Jimin, shocks him as he jolts back, away from Jeongguk’s touch. Jeongguk’s hand drops from where it’d been cupping Jimin’s cheek and falls with a clattered splat against the gravel. 

“Jeongguk… how could you say that?” Jimin asks with a throat heavy with emotion. 

Jeongguk is sitting up, crawling closer to Jimin until they’re eye to eye. They sit like that for a while until Jeongguk dares to speak again. 

“So what are we going to do if… if this becomes something?” He snaps. 

“Who says it has to become anything?” Jimin retorts, annoyed. His heart isn’t in his words, it lacks all of the venom necessary for the words to stick.

“Well it isn’t nothing,” Jeongguk snaps back. He hates how emotional he feels right now. Hates the way his heart has clawed up his throat and has landed with a scattered splat between them. He’s never been this vulnerable before, never dreamed of it. But he’d never dreamed of meeting someone who makes him feel the way Jimin makes him feel. He feels like Jimin is the sun, and every second around him he’s being swallowed by him. 

“Well,” he says softly, swallowing his pride. “I want this to be something. And I hope you do too.” 

There’s a long, pregnant pause that blooms between him. Jimin’s face is contorted uncomfortably, tears dance like streaks down his cheeks as his jaw bobs. He swallows, ducking his eyes until he's blinking tears down to the gravel. 

“Well, I want this to be something too,” he whispers, most of his voice buried in the concrete. 

“Exactly what I mean Jimin,” Jeongguk says. He’s crawling his hands towards Jimin until he reaches him, linking their fingers together, pressing palm to palm. “I have always known who I am, and who I love. Always spent my life in the sun,” he murmurs softly. “I refuse to spend my life in shadow.” He pauses, tightening his grip on Jimin’s hand. “I would hope you wouldn’t want to live yours like that either.” 

Jeongguk fights for Jimin’s gaze and when he catches it, there’s nothing there. It’s empty, hollow. Almost as though he’d resigned a long time ago to the bitterness of the reality he’s living. 

Jimin painfully frowns, shaking his head. “Jeongguk… I can’t,” he croaks out. “You know I can’t. If I could, I would, but too many people— I have too many people—”

Jeongguk nods, resigning to bitterness of the reality unfolding in front of him. It takes more than he cares to admit to release Jimin’s hands but he does. Laying the flat of his palm against the concrete with a gentle tap. 

Then he’s rising, gathering his bag, gathering his blue jean jacket as he slips it over his shoulders. Jimin gaping up at him, breathless, eyes glassy and full of tears. 

“Jeongguk, please—” He begins as he struggles to rise to his feet. 

Jeongguk reaches forward and presses his hand to Jimin’s chest. He finds his heart flipping in the cage of his ribs. Around the wind roars, as gusts of wind carry the crunch of dead leaves against the rooftop. 

“When you decide to make decisions for yourself, and only for yourself, I’ll be waiting,” Jeongguk resigns with a soft smile. “But until then…” His voice trails as he tries to brand this image of Jimin into his mind forever. He isn’t sure when he’ll see him again, or if ever. Wishes he could’ve left his last sight of him in something more cheerful but he settles for the melancholy of this moment, assumes it’s better than nothing. 

“When I finish my piece it should be out by the end of the month,” He smiles but it’s a sad one. “It was so nice to meet you, Park Jimin.” 

He turns before Jimin can reply because he knows if he stays any longer his feet won’t move, remaining rooted to the floor. 

As he approaches the rooftop door he thinks he can hear Jimin wailing behind him, but the majority of its volume is swept with the wind. 

It’s as Jeongguk presses send on the piece that he hears footsteps approaching him. He doesn't look up immediately, waiting for the confirmation to load onto his screen confirming that he had in fact completed the piece he’d spent the past month toiling over. 

It’s only when he allows himself to lean back into his chair does his eyes trial up. Watching as Namjoon approaches him slowly, two cardboard boxes stacked on top of the other in his hands. There’s a solemn look on his face as he does, but he’s painting on a small smile as he presses towards his desk.

“Let me guess, you’re finished with your piece,” he says with a delicate laugh. 

Jeongguk’s eyes flit between the boxes to Namjoon’s face as the realization dawns on him. Then he’s rising, pressing forward. 

“Joon, what are you—” He stutters out, hands flailing as though reaching out, anywhere to grab for Namjoon. “What’s going on?” 

It’s obvious, but Jeongguk refuses to accept it. He simply watches the older man shrug, shifting the weight of the boxes as he fidgets where he stands. 

“They’re dissolving some departments,” he murmurs gently. “I guess they don’t need someone reviewing art exhibits no one really goes to.”

Jeongguk gapes at him, heart breaking as he watches others around the office with their boxes begin their shameful trek to the elevator which seems like miles ahead of them. When he finds Namjoon again, he doesn't look as sad as he’d expected. Almost as though he’d accepted the bitterness of the reality he’s living. 

“Joon, I’m—” He begins, but the words feel chalky as he speaks. “Joon, I’m so sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” Namjoon asks, and there’s surprisingly no bitterness in his voice. “You just finished a cover story. You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

“I know, but…” Jeongguk replies and it’s now that he realizes just how bitter guilt tastes. He frowns, shaking his head.

“There are no buts, don’t apologize,” Namjoon replies with a shake of his head. “Besides, without that cover story… you wouldn’t have fallen for your pop star.” 

It’s the reminder of Jimin that makes Jeongguk’s chest nearly concaves. If Namjoon notices his increasingly uncomfortable demeanor, he doesn’t say anything. He’s fishing through his pocket with one hand until he finds his phone, eyes the screen, then he flashes Jeongguk a sweet smile. 

“Don’t worry about me, sweetheart,” he says with a wave of his free wrist as he shuffles the boxes closer to his chest. “I’ll be fine. Hobi will probably let me mix a few drinks until I find something else but I’m fine, I swear.” 

Jeongguk finds it hard to believe him, but Namjoon’s smile is so sweet he can’t help but do so. Namjoon winks at him, then juts his jaw out toward the elevator as he begins towards it. 

The streets are quiet when Jeongguk finally leaves the office. He stands outside the glass revolving doors for a long moment, fishing through his bag for a cigarette when he feels his phone buzz against his thigh. He doesn’t check it though, frustratedly tossing his bag onto the bench at his right as he launches into the bag, determinedly until he finds the box with shaky hands.

He shucks the cigarette loose, pops it between his lips and with a click from his lighter he sets it aflame. 

He sits there, for a long while, as the cigarette burns at his lip. Puffing out pillows of cotton breath with sealed eyes as he allows his head to fall back against the bench’s back and listens to the quiet world hum around him. He gets lost in it for a while, the whistle of the wind between the empty branches, the scattered crunching tap of leaves as they skate across the concrete at his feet. Then again, a buzz, this one more frantic against his thigh. 

He still takes his time to pull it out, finding the screen illuminated with dozens of alerts, but it’s only when his eyes find the one branded across the top that he feels his stomach plummet directly down. 

Dispatch EXCLUSIVE: Video Leak Sends Shockwaves Through Fans of Singer Park Jimin Caught in Gay Midnight Makeout Drama.

At the headline, Jeongguk’s heart sinks. He scrolls from one headline to the next, each more salacious than the last. He finally lands back on the first one, clicking it as he scrolls down the article with a quickened heart.

“In a shocking twist that has sent fans and the music industry buzzing, pop sensation Park Jimin finds himself at the center of another controversy after a leaked video allegedly shows him making out with an unidentified man in a crowded nightclub.” The article reads. “The grainy clip, which surfaced late Friday night on social media, quickly went viral, sparking heated debates among fans, critics, and industry insiders. While the authenticity of the footage has not been officially confirmed, the video appears to capture Jimin in a dimly lit VIP section, sharing an intimate moment with a man whose identity remains unknown.” 

The last of the article is capped with a linked video of the first night at the club with Jimin. The boy Jeongguk remembers draped over Jimin’s lap’s face is mostly obscured, but Jimin is seen completely. Eyes lustfully heavy lidded as he presses heavy, wet kisses to the man under the heavy drone of the pulsing blue light. 

Jeongguk finds his phone has slipped from his hand and fell with a metal clatter against the bench. He can’t really breathe, so he tries to heave in a breath but finds it absurdly difficult the more time passes. 

It’s an unusually quiet night in Seoul, but Jeongguk feels as though the world is collapsing beneath him.

By the time he reaches Jimin’s apartment, an hour has passed. His phone was still pinging with alerts as he saunters quickly by the doorman he’d grown accustomed to greeting daily, who now offers him a wonky smile as he jets to the elevator until he reaches his apartment. When he approaches Jimin’s door it’s unlocked, surprisingly. He presses the palm of his hand to it, pressing forward as it squeaks with the movement. 

There is nothing out of the ordinary here. The television plastered to the wall is on, it’s on mute though, the remote tossed on the ottoman atop a silvery blue blanket that’s been balled up and spills onto the floor. The television is blaring the news, which, to Jeongguk’s dismay, seems to be playing the leaked clip on constant repeat which had seemingly spread like wildfire in the short amount of time it’d taken Jeongguk to reach the apartment.

“Club Chaos: Pop Idol Park Jimin’s Secret Gay Kiss Leaked Online” The television headline exclaims, and Jeongguk’s stomach drops even further.

“Jimin?” He croaks out, but his voice echoes through the silence of the apartment. Swallowed by the scattered pillows and chairs. “Jimin, it’s me, it’s Jeongguk.” 

He presses further into the apartment, down the long, empty hallway as he turns his head to the right where the kitchen sits empty as well. The light over the oven is on, and he notices a bowl of ramyeon sitting abandoned atop the counter, still folded in the white plastic bag it’d come in. 

“Jimin, please, it’s me,” he continues, pressing further down the hallway. He turns to the bathroom, shrouded in darkness, then bedroom, which is equally dark as well. It’s only when he presses into it, noticing the tangled sheets and comforter tossed on the floor does he notice that there is a nip of cold air biting at his ankles. His eyes trail down the burgundy carpet until they meet the balcony door, which, weirdly enough, is cracked open. The curtains that frames it billows with each rustle of wind and Jeongguk is pressing closer towards it until he’s pushing it open, fully with the palm of his hand and emerging out onto the cold balcony. 

The city of Seoul is draped in darkness, but the lights of the city have it washed in a deep amber glow. There is a silhouette of someone just ahead, their feet pressed to the concrete ledge, arms splayed out as they drunkenly sway with each gust of cold breeze. It’s only when the amber light catches in the tangle of blond hair that Jeongguk recognizes that it is in fact, Jimin. Jeongguk’s footsteps echo across the rooftop as he approaches, his eyes locked on Jimin’s fragile silhouette.

He’s surging forward, hand reaching out until he’s inches away then he stops when Jimin turns around to face him. His face is red, which has bled down to his exposed chest. His cheeks are painted in the smear of wet tears. He heaves out a heavy cry, chest heaving up and down before he shakes his head. 

“I’m so stupid,” he whispers out breathlessly. “I’m so fucking stupid.” 

His voice sounds aimless, barely audible, but Jeongguk catches every word of it. He presses closer towards him, watching the way his usually steady feet shuffle. As he gets closer, he thinks he can smell the stench of alcohol dripping from him.

“Jimin…” He says, cautiously flitting his eyes between Jimin and the ledge. “Jimin, please, baby, get down.” 

“I can’t do this anymore,” Jimin whispers, his voice breaking. “They’ll never see me as anything but this, won’t they?”

Jeongguk reaches out, his hand firm but gentle, daring to tug on the hem of Jimin’s shirt. “They don’t have to—” 

“But they will,” Jimin howls back. 

Below them, Seoul is unusually quiet. The absence of squealing cars against pavement or the murmur of people as they wedge between the streets only aids to the stillness growing above. Jimin is unraveling, his final performance, atop a windswept balcony and the only eyes on him are Jeongguk’s. 

Jimin turns back to the ledge, peering down into the pool of amber light below him. 

“It was always gonna end up here, wasn’t it?” Jimin asks with a slur low lull. “Me. This story. It was always going to end up here. All those years of people pleasing and I was always gonna end up here.”  He pauses, cocking his head as his eyes paint the streets beneath him. “You get so high the only way to go is back down, right?” 

Jeongguk’s mouth is so dry he feels as though there is cotton lodged between his lips. His mind is moving at a million miles a minute, then, as the wind cocoons him, he finds the will to speak. 

“The first day I met you, at the stadium, my cab driver told me he couldn’t afford to take his daughters to your show,” he blurts out. He isn’t sure where these words are coming from, but they’re blubbering out of his mouth with such precision he can only assume they are divinely written. “Said they were your biggest fans. They loved you. You inspired one of them to write poetry.” 

Jimin doesn’t respond, he’s swaying atop the ledge with the breeze, Jeongguk’s hand just shy from him. 

“The first time I went to your label, I met two girls outside of the building. They said they met online in a forum about you,” he continues. “Two girls from opposite sides of the world who met each other over a shared love of you.” He pauses, chest so full of emotion he might just drown in it. “You want to make people happy, Jimin, but you’re already doing it. No people pleasing needed. Just you. Being you. Unabashedly.” 

Jimin is wailing now, head swimming. He’s dropped his arms,  but Jeongguk is reaching up to tangle his hands in his shirt. 

“But now you’ve gotta start being a little more selfish, don’t you think? Make yourself happy. The happiest.” 

With that, Jimin collapses back into Jeongguk’s arms, the tension giving way to sobs. Jeongguk holds him tightly, refusing to let go. The city roared beneath them, but in that moment, the rooftop was silent; just two men, bound together by truth and vulnerability.

Jeongguk brushes the tangle of Jimin’s blond hair back as he peers down into his eyes. A small smile pulling at his lips as relief and the frantic gush of now icy wind washes over them.

“You know who you are, and what you love and no one can take that from you,” he says softly. “And no one can shame you for that either.” 

Jimin looks up, tears streaking his face, and for the first time since the scandal broke, amidst the fear, he felt a flicker of hope.

When Jeongguk wakes, he does so to the electronic buzz of the apartment door opening. When he opens his eyesight his face is buried in a sea of sticky blond hair. There’s sunlight spilling in from the window to his back, branding his skin in warm yolky light. 

The footsteps from the front door are growing closer, scattered heels against the hard floor. Jeongguk peels himself from the bed, eyes darting down to where Jimin lays, curled into his side, lips parted as he whistles gently in his sleep.

After pulling Jimin from the balcony, he’d helped him to his waiting bed inside. Wrapped him in his comforter as he pet softly at his head. Jimin shook through more ripped cries, head lulling on Jeongguk’s shoulder as he hiccuped through whatever emotions that were currently warring through him. 

Jeongguk, however, didn't leave his side until he’d cried himself to sleep. Eyes blinking down through the dark violet of the quiet bedroom as he runs a delicate hand through Jimin’s hair, admiring him.

It’s hard for him to believe that only a few months ago, the human currently cradled in a comforter in his lap was simply a figure. An idea, really, devoid of humanity. He was all platinum: platinum hair, platinum smile, platinum records. Hard to believe that he can’t imagine a life now without him in it.

Right now, the bedroom door is being pressed open, and Jimin's mother is on the other side. Her hand is still splayed out on the wood of the door, and when she catches sight of Jeongguk her voice hitches in surprise.

Jeongguk awkwardly smiles; removing his hand from Jimin’s head as he offers her a tiny wave. 

Wooyoung is pacing the living room when he emerges. He follows Jimin’s mother into it, though he stays a few steps behind, the padding of his bare toes against the hard ground drowned by the squeak of her socks. 

Wooyoung has stopped pacing to turn to the television, still playing a constant loop of the leaked video. Jeongguk’s heart drops as he watches it again, now in the light of day. Watching the blurry blue video blink across the screen as he swallows thickly. 

“We could say it’s AI,” Wooyoung says, back clenched uncomfortably as she blinks at the screen. “People doubt so much of what they see nowadays anyway—” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Jeongguk says and his voice cracks from lack of use. 

Wooyoung spins on her heel, hand clutching both her phone, and the remote. Her grip on both tightens when her eyes land on him. Expression flitting between frustration and genuine shock at his appearance. Her jaw tightens, then she breathes out sharply. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she hisses through clenched teeth. “You’re the reason this happened.”

“Me?” Jeongguk snaps back, prodding a finger into his own chest at her accusal. “What do I have to do with that?” 

“I’ve never seen him like this before,” Jimin’s mother cries, reaching up to claw beneath her eyes. 

“Before we commissioned you for that piece we had everything under control!” Wooyoung exclaims, voice bellowing as she tosses her hands up in the air. “We were on track for a new album, a new tour. Then you come in and start filling his head— with—”

“With what?” Jeongguk says as he presses closer towards her. 

Wooyoung is small, but makes up for it in presence. Jeongguk doesn’t intimidate her, even as he peers down the slope of his nose to her. He breathes out sharply, heavily. But Wooyoung is blinking back up at him with equally fiery eyes. He watches the way her face floods red, as though she were biting back every ounce of anger she has bottled inside. 

“He wasn’t like…” Wooyoung finally says, and her eyes dart around for the word, and though she doesn’t immediately say it, they both can feel it. The disgust is on her tongue and the bitterness that comes with it is moments from bursting free. Jeongguk can taste it, taste the way the disgust hangs in the air between them. 

“Jimin has always had… peculiar interests, but that was just that. An interest,” his mother chirps, eyes still glued to the television. Echoes of the screen mirror in her wide brown eyes, the same brown eyes Jeongguk loves on Jimin. Hers are sadder though, as she blinks at the giant television screen, as though she were witnessing the death of someone right before her. Eventually she turns back to them, and he’s right. Her glassy eyes have swollen up, chin quivering as she sucks in a deep breath. 

“This isn’t who he is,” she repeats. 

“You almost lost your son last night,” he says, breathlessly. “Do you care about that? About him?”

Jimin’s mother blinks back at him, devoid of any emotion.

Jeongguk has never felt so frustrated. He feels like he’s moments from bursting, so he steps away from Wooyoung, not wanting her to get in the middle of the fire of his fury. He claws his hands down his face, and when he emerges with blotchy eyes he sees both Wooyoung, Jimin’s mother, and surprisingly, Jimin staring back at him. 

Jimin has emerged from the bedroom. His blond hair is flat against his head as he blinks at the three of them with narrowed, blinded eyes. He rubs at them, then turns his attention back to the screen where he seems himself, echoed. 

The boy who’d had himself draped across Jimin’s lap that entire night is planting soft kisses to Jimin’s neck now. The cobalt light dances across Jimin’s pale skin, and Jimin’s head is lounging back against the couch as he sucks in a breath. 

“That was the freest I’d ever felt,” Jimin finally mutters. “I mean, at least until that night at the Pink Pony.” 

He rips his gaze from the television screen, to Jeongguk, then smiles, softly. “Until the first time we kissed.” 

Wooyoung and his mother exchange uncomfortable breaths but Jimin pays them no mind. His eyes are still firmly planted on Jeongguk as he blinks at him through glassy eyes. 

“The freest I’ve ever felt while being the most confined I’ve ever been,” Jimin continues. 

Wooyoung’s phone is glittering to life and she pads at it quickly. Simultaneously tucking a heavy cluster of hair behind her ear. 

“We can still spin this,” she mutters, fingers flying across the phone screen as she types out a quick response. “We can always spin this, we always do.” 

“Who says I want to spin this?” Jimin asks, finally ripping his eyes away from Jeongguk to meet Wooyoung.

Wooyoung gapes at him, then coughs out an uncomfortable laugh before turning back to him. 

“Jimin,” she says, slowly approaching him. “I don’t think you get it.” 

“I do get it, actually,” Jimin says, shaking his head. “I’m probably the only person in this room who gets it because it’s me. It’s my life. My career.” 

“This could end you,” his mother finally says. 

Jimin’s head turns to face her, and for a split moment, Jeongguk thinks he watches the realization, the preeminent arrival of grief weave itself across his face. 

“If you don’t let us wash this…” She pauses, breathing slowly. “This becomes all you are.” 

The blue light from the screen paints half her face in the shade of icey, cobalt. More footage of Jimin, this time, as he kisses the boy deeply in a fit of drunken, passionate lust fills the room. Jimin’s eyes flit from the television screen, across Wooyoung’s panicked face, then finally, they meet Jeongguk’s. 

The world doesn’t explode in a fit of passion, or earth shattering realization. There’s no moment of clarity, there’s no mind bending, heart thudding climax. For once in Jimin’s life, he realizes, that it’s calm. Jeongguk brings him calm, he feels as though he were the gravity rooting him to the floor. Rooting him to the center of the earth. Binding them together.

It’s a privilege to just… live.  Live how you want, love how you want. Out loud, and proudly. 

Eventually, after a long breath he turns back to his mother, and casually, ever so casually, he shrugs. 

“So be it,” he says, chest puffing out slightly. 

Wooyoung gapes at him, mouth falling slack as she shakes her head in disbelief. 

“Jimin… I need you to think,” she says, clawing at his shoulder. “People… people depend on you— you can’t— Mr. Lee will—?” 

“Replace me?” He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I made him a few billion Won, but I’m also the only one of his signed artists that can do that. His only signed artist that can fill a stadium.” He pauses, licking his lips.

“He’ll end your contract,” his mother says, and though there’s panic in her voice, Jeongguk can only imagine it’s more for herself. 

Jimin waits a long moment, but his eyes are on Jeongguk. Always and eternally.

“I’m not running anymore,” he finally responds, but the response feels directly pointed to Jeongguk. All his attention pointed, directly to Jeongguk. Eventually, when he does pull his attention away from him he finds Wooyoung, finds his mother and sighs out heavily with an exasperated sigh. “I’ve been running since I was 13-years-old. I’ve been running my entire life. I’m done.”

Wooyoung is gaping at him, but Jimin is ripping across the living room, past the television still blaring the blurry blue video of himself until he reaches Jeongguk and grabs for his hand.

“Where are you going?” his mother hisses through clenched teeth.

Jimin is weaving his and Jeongguk’s hands together and he's tugging him towards the front door of the apartment.

Wooyoung is pressing forward, grabbing his hand and tugging him back. Jimin’s head snaps towards her, down to where her hand is currently wrapped around his wrist before rising to meet her eyes. There’s fury bedded in them, but Wooyoung doesn’t back down. 

“You’ve been working your whole life and you’re gonna throw it all away?” She asks, and there’s genuine confusion in her voice. Her voice hitches, and it suggests heartbreak. “Jimin, if you walk out that door, it’s over. All of this, everything you work for? It’s over.”

Jimin doesn’t respond, his mouth gapes, then he’s slipping his hand free from her grip. His eyes find his mother, then Wooyoung before flirting back to Jeongguk, then he’s gone, barreling out of the door. 

Jeongguk allows himself to be pulled down the elevator, down through the lobby, down the steadily growing sidewalk until, finally, they reach the river. It’s mostly abandoned, save for the early morning joggers as they tread past them and down the concrete path. 

Jimin tugs them to the graveled shore of the river, and it’s only then that he releases Jeongguk’s hand. Both of their hands fall and swing between them. Jimin’s eyes are cast out to the rippling waves as they lap at the shore below. The sun is rising, the sky is citrus and bleeding it into their skin. Jeongguk pulls his eyes from the sun, to Jimin’s face, but Jimin doesn’t reciprocate the action. His eyes remain on the sun as it slices between the silver building ahead. 

“You don’t have to give it up, you know,” Jeongguk finally says. 

Jimin blinks slowly, eyes still on the citrus sky ahead. “I don’t think I really have a choice, Jeongguk.”

“You always have a choice,” Jeongguk retorts with a shake of his head. 

Jimin doesn’t answer immediately, but eventually he does. Pulling his eyes from the sky to his other one; the one in Jeongguk’s eyes. He blinks at him long, then he licks his lips. 

“If having a career means having to live in the shadows, I’m not sure I want it anymore,” Jimin replies softly. His voice is swallowed by the roar of the waves, but Jeongguk catches all of it because of course he does. “I’m getting tired of running, Jeongguk. I don’t want to run anymore. If I have to keep running to keep my career, then it was never my career to have in the first place.”

Jimin is not a product, Jeongguk realizes. He’s not a product to be packaged and shipped and sold to the awaiting hearts of millions worldwide. He’s flesh, and blood, and a soul. A beautiful, heartwrenching soul. Jimin is a human, in all of its beautiful forms. 

Jimin is crying, so Jeongguk is reaching forward and wrapping his arms around him, caging him. From the wind, from the world. Wrapped in the delight of the rising sun and Jeongguk’s beating heart against his own. 

When he pulls back, cupping his cheeks, he leans in to kiss him. Then he pulls back and Jimin is smiling, all teary eyed but smiling nonetheless.

“No more running,” Jeongguk says, reaching down to lace their hands together. 

Jimin sighs and it’s one of relief. Years of emotional turmoil and pity seems to lift, like dusted fog from his shoulders. He tightens his grip on Jeongguk, never dropping his eyes. 

“No more running,” he echoes.

6 Months Later

Heat rises. Jeongguk slices through a cloud of it as he emerges from the train platform and onto the busy street above. There’s legions of swaying bodies pressing around him, swimming past on concrete that seems to pulse with the sun’s rays from above. 

Jeongguk cuts through the humid air, sweaty shoulders slicing through a group of men as they trudge past in suits he knows they’re regretting, until he reaches the oasis of a newspaper stand.

It’s a Monday in mid July, and Jeongguk sees, for the first time, his cover piece in the wild. There’s only a few left, and the metal flap holding them bends slightly as though one had just been tugged from it moments earlier.

He reaches for it, eyeing the hefty magazine before lifting it up and dancing his eyes over the cover.

Park Jimin, Off the Record, the cover spells out in scribbled white scrawl. Beside it, a soft black and white portrait of Jimin steers back at him. He’s standing at the window of his label’s building. It was four months earlier, Jeongguk had snapped it in passing when Jimin had made the approach to the CEO about a suggested switch in music for his next album. 

“I can’t do this without you,” Jimin had murmured to Jeongguk that morning in the car. He peered over at him from the opposite seat, eyes wide and waiting for a response.

Jeongguk didn’t have one, at least not immediately. He gulped, eyes darting to the road out the window as it shuffled past in a blur of trees and bushes in bloom. 

He found himself gulping again, hands twisting uncomfortably in his lap.

“I’m not sure this is something that requires me, Jimin,” He’d responded. “I feel like this is something you need to do on your own. This is your music. Not mine.”

“Well, at least just join me,” Jimin concedes, reaching over the seatbelt to tangle their hands together as they were jostled in the back of the car together. “For moral support.”

When Jeongguk glances over to him, he was met with a pair of pleading brown eyes he could never say no to. He rolls his own and nods. Eyes out of the window again, watching as the car pulls into the dark velvet underground of the awaiting label building. 

Jeongguk had of course joined him, because how could he not. Choosing to spend the majority of the meeting in the corner as Jimin paced the floor at the top end of the long maple conference table as Mr. Lee peered back at him. It was a moment, as the sun caught him, face illuminated by the gilded light that Jeongguk felt compelled to snap the picture. Peering down at it, then back up to Jimin with the utmost pride. 

He stares down at the magazine now with the same pride as that day. Flipping it open and thumbing through the glossy pages until he finds the interview nudged somewhere in the center of the magazine.

When I first had been assigned to interview Mega Popstar Park Jimin, I didn’t expect I’d fall for him. But here I am, a few months later, and my heart is just as madly infatuated as the rest of the world seems to be with the entity that’s been molded to be Park Jimin, he’d written, though the words still seem very foreign to him, his mind still not quite wrapping around the fact that yes, he was in love with Jimin. Had it not been for chance, he’d still be just a figure to him. 

But the Jimin I grew to know over the course of our months-long interview; the Jimin I grew to love exceeds any king of hyper bubble pop and perfectly packaged foil wrapped doll melded in plastic and platinum smiles. The Jimin I grew to love isn’t the brat the tabloids have painted him as, nor is he lacking of that. The Jimin I grew to know, and will introduce to you now, is a lump sum of all of that and more. He’s uniquely human, in all of its ugliest and more feral beautiful parts. The sum of it all, the divides of the less. This is Jimin, in his own words.

“If you want to read the whole thing you’ve got to pay for it,” the old man at the counter mumbles to him. 

Jeongguk’s head snaps up, then he’s coughing out a laugh as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lump of bills. He’s pressing it into the man’s hand, then he turns, eyes still reading the magazine. 

“It’s a shame what happened to him,” the old man slurs out. 

Jeongguk turns to face him, face twisting up to retort, but the old man is continuing. 

“Privacy is no joke. Celebrities these days don’t get any do they?” He continues. The old man is reaching for the fan to his right as it sputters out what has to be equally warm air. It ruffles through his salt and pepper hair as he fidgets with it. “A shame. Can’t imagine living in a bubble. He seems like a nice guy.” 

Jeongguk’s heart soars at that, eyes flitting down to the glossy magazine pages where Jimin is grinning back up to him, smile just a platinum as he’d expect. 

“He does, doesn’t he?” He replies, trying to ignore the butterflies crawling up his stomach and threatening to free themselves from his tongue at the sight of him.

The old man must notice, and he’s laughing. There isn’t any animosity in his tone either, as Jeongguk would expect. If anything, the old man seems genuinely amused by it. Reaching for his bottle of water and he slurps it down enthusiastically. When he sets it back down, it lands with a crunch of plastic against the newsstand. 

“Have a good day, young man,” the old man mutters, and his voice is laced with genuine sincerity. “Stay cool.” 

Jeongguk nods towards him, rolling the magazine and stuffing it into his bag as he jets back towards the sidewalk. 

Jeongguk knows he’s reached it when he hears the sound of muffled screaming. 

It ripples down the sidewalk as he approaches the tiny alleyway. There’s also music, something jazzy being played and as Jeongguk turns the corner and begins down the now cleaner, brighter alleyway, he finds it. 

Jimin’s dance studio is just ahead, but after months of refurbishment, it stands out like a thumb between the buildings. The brick has been polished, the concrete below has been resurfaced. There’s a decent group of reporters ahead, all fiddling with their boxes of bound mics as they each fan themselves in the blistering heat. Jeongguk squeezes between them, pulling his cap low as he weaves between two men until he reaches the door. 

Above it, a metal sign waggles in the singular breeze that beckons through the alleyway. Park Jimin Dance Academy, it reads. Just below it, in fresh white paint written in Jimin’s scrawl it states. All are welcome. 

Through the glass door, he catches sight of Jimin, who is currently standing, arms folded tightly across his chest. His face is twisted up into a frustrated scowl as he murmurs something to Wooyoung. Wooyoung is on her phone, tapping at the glittered screen before pulling her attention away and murmuring something back. 

Jimin rolls his eyes, reaching up to claw at his now shoulder length blond hair, when he catches sight of Jeongguk through the glass. His face brightens, then he’s leaping towards it, yanking the door open. He exhales out a sigh, one that seems as though he’d been holding it for far too long.

“You came,” he says. 

“Of course I came, why wouldn’t I?” Jeongguk says. He itches to reach forward and press a kiss at his cheek, but reserves it. The feeling of the cameras currently burning into his back making him more self conscious than he wants to be. 

Jimin must notice it, because he’s pulling him into the studio. Reaching forward and planting a soft peck to his lips as he presses the door shut with a snap and ring of the bell above it. There’s a flutter of camera clicks that shutter behind them, muffled by the glass as Jeongguk is being pulled across the shiny, newly laid oak floors with Jimin’s hand wrapped around his wrist. Jimin tosses him a smile over his shoulder. 

“That shot is gonna help someone pay rent next month,” he says with a wink. “How’s that for selflessness?” 

When they reach Wooyoung, Jeongguk notices Jimin’s mother is there too. She’s currently at the mirror with a tall man with broad shoulders as she mumbles something to him. He’s holding an iPad, fingers flicking over a steady list, illuminating his chin. She catches sight of Jeongguk in the mirror and halts. Her eyes narrowing, then a slow, measured smile crawls on her lips as she lowers her head into a nod before returning her attention back to the man.

“...We just need better lighting in the bathroom, but I’ll put an order in later today. They should arrive next week,” Wooyoung is murmuring on the phone as they approach. When she catches sight of Jeongguk she tenses. Then, she’s turning back to the phone before hanging up swiftly. 

Her eyes flit down to Jimin and Jeongguk’s conjoined hands, then back up to Jimin’s face. 

“The press just want a few words before we open to the public,” she says softly. Her voice cracks slightly. “Nothing major. Just a few points about the opening of the studio. Your feelings. Just things that would make a good sound bite for the evening news.” She flits her eyes to Jeongguk, then her eyes dart to their hands. “Not sure if it’s a good idea for him to be there, though.” 

Jeongguk’s eyebrows knit up in confusion, but he can feel Jimin’s grip on him tightening. “Of course he should be there,” he retorts with a shake of his head. “This place wouldn’t exist without him.” 

Jeongguk’s heart tugs at that, and he lifts their hands up and presses a delicate kiss to Jimin’s knuckles. Wooyoung rolls her eyes, crossing her arms across her chest. 

“I don’t mean…. Like that,” she says, trying to disguise her annoyance, but it’s blatantly obvious, as it drips all over her tone. “I just mean…” She pauses, chewing at her cheek. “This is your first big venture, outside of the brand of Mega Popstar Park Jimin. This is the first time you’re doing something. Just you.” 

There’s a pause in her words as the muffled screaming grows louder outside, the group of fans Jeongguk had passed earlier must be being escorted into the alleyway by security. He can feel the heavy padding of their feet as they crowd outside, heavy thuds of excited feet against concrete. The screaming is muffled, but the electricity is still there, the excitement, still there. 

Jeongguk tugs at Jimin’s hand, then turns back to Wooyoung. Wooyung sighs.

“Your first solo adventure deserves just that,” she continues. “Let them get to know the real you, first.” 

There’s apprehension in Jimin’s posture as he sways slightly in his stance. There’s a man approaching him, tugging on his arm,  gesturing towards the glass door. Jimin turns to face Jeongguk, and for the first time, there’s genuine fear that seems to cluster in his eyes. 

Jeongguk gives their hands one last tug, but he’s letting him go. Gesturing with his jaw towards the growing audience outside. 

“You’ve performed in stadiums across the world, you can handle a few reporters and a handful of fans,” he tells him with as much softness and his voice can handle without crying. 

When Jimin opens his mouth to protest, Jeongguk refutes it with a shake of his head.

“No more running?” He asks. 

Jimin’s face contorts over a series of conflicting emotions before settling on the delicate contentment at Jeongguk’s words. He thickly swallows, then nods. 

“No more running,” he replies. 

Then he turns, the glass door as the man yanks it open and the muffled scream bleeds into the studio as a more thunderous one. Silhouetted by the sun Jimin presses out into it, in the belly of the beast before him as the door closes with a snap behind him. 

Jeongguk and Wooyoung stand, watching as Jimin approaches the bundled boxes of mics ahead of him. Jeongguk hadn’t been this close to Wooyoung in months, and for once he doesn’t think he can feel the annoyance peeling off her. If anything, there seems to be a softness to her; a delicate pride as she blinks through the glass to her client ahead. 

“He was the first client I ever took on,” she says suddenly, eyes still glued ahead of her. She pauses, tongue wetting her lips. “He was just some 13-year-old with big brown eyes and a platinum smile who had a dream of singing and dancing and playing music. He wasn't supposed to get this big. No one ever thought he’d become this.”  

She pauses, voice hitching and Jeongguk realizes she’s very close to crying.  He turns to face her, and confirms it. Her eyes are glassy; obviously chewing at her cheek as she gazes at him. After a long moment, she breathes out softly. 

“I thought I was taking a chance on him. I was 20-years-old and fresh out of school with a degree in marketing my parents told me was gonna get me nowhere,” she pauses again, voice getting smaller. There’s more muffled screaming outside and her eyes are drawn to it. “But I guess he was taking a chance on me too. We gambled together, struck out on our first try. I was scared of losing it all.” 

She turns her eyes to Jeongguk, and for the first time, Jeongguk sees a human blinking back at him. There’s genuine sincerity woven into her gaze as she gulps up at him with measured uncertainty. 

“I guess what I’m trying to say is…” she hesitates. Her phone glitters to life in her hand, but she doesn’t look down to react to it. She allows it to buzz, then eventually dies. Screen fading back to black as she tightens her grip on it, but never drops her eyes from Jeongguk. 

“I’m sorry,” she confesses. “But also… thank you. I’ve never seen him like this before.”

Jimin is pressing forward finally, after being strapped with the mic and hair gussied one last time as he stands before the legion of reporters and fans in front of him. He glows, painted in gilded afternoon light as he straightens his back and bows respectfully to the crowd in front of him. 

“The building behind me helped shape me into the artist I am today,” Jimin says as he gestures towards it with a small hand. “It’s where I cultivated the skills I needed to sing, to dance, to play piano.” 

The cameras shutter around him as he drinks in a hot breath. 

“It was shut down years ago, but after determination, hard work, and lots of renovations, I’ve decided to bring it back, open it under my name in hopes of cultivating as many new artists as possible.” 

He turns slightly, catching sight of Jeongguk through the glass who eggs him on with a gentle smile. It makes his heart burst in his chest at the sight of it. As he turns back to the audience, in the congested crowd of reporters he thinks he catches sight of Namjoon. He’s not stationed with Vanity Fair, but he’s typing away at his phone with another magazine. A few feet away, as his eyes can see the crowd of fans, mostly girls who gaze upon him with unlimited adoration, he notices, peppered throughout there seems to be more boys there, for once. They gaze at him with equally unlimited adoration, and if he’s seeing correctly, a gaze that seems to be laced with the joy of seeing someone, so much like themselves, draped in love and devotion.

Jimn’s heart swells with pride. 

“I’d like to thank you all for your never ending support, your never ending love, your never ending devotion. Especially over the past year with all the… changes. In myself and my music. You’ve all embraced it with so much love and support. I cannot thank you all enough,” he pauses. “Without you all, I wouldn’t be standing here.” 

There’s another steady thunderous cloud of shuttering cameras and Jimin uses this time to swallow back his growing nervousness. He closes his eyes, sighs and opens to a world painted anew. 

“Everybody was put here for a reason. I wanted to make people happy. I want to perform. I wanted to bring people joy. Being an idol is one way to do that, but this? Opening this academy feels more authentic to my life’s purpose.”

More camera’s shutter and Jimin straightens his back.

“The Park Jimin Dance Academy welcomes you all, all bodies, in all of its beautiful forms, to express themselves,” he concludes. “Thank you.” 

He turns from the microphone, back to the building when he halts. Hoisting himself back around to tug it back to his lips. “See you all on the world tour,” he adds with a mischievous wink before strutting back to the door. 

Wooyoung melts in annoyance as her phone explodes to life in her hands. She grabs it, and begins padding away at it frustratedly. “He wasn’t supposed to say that yet,” she groans out with a growl. 

Jeongguk’s heart soars as Jimin yanks the door to the Academy open. The muffled screams spill in, unfazed and so does Jimin. In all his golden, beautiful glory as he flashes Jeongguk a bright, platinum smile. It’s in this moment, strung between the ecstasy of the electricity pulsing outside and the same electricity pulsing through his frantically beating heart that Jeongguk realizes how unprofessional he’s truly been through all this. Realizing just how much he loves the popstar standing in front of him. Just how much he loves the delightfully beautiful human who skates towards him in a lustrous, golden glow. A human he loves unconditionally, and absolutely. 

Love, without performance.