Chapter Text
°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
The Moon’s son loved quietly, the way the sea loves the shore,
Always returning, even when it hurts.
Because the truth is, he never really stopped hoping,
Not even when he swore he had,
Not even when it ached to stay.
The Sun’s boy didn’t fall in love.
Summer simply took him by the wrist,
Placed him beside someone he’d always known,
And showed him why his heart had never looked away.
And just like that, it was there,
And everywhere,
Like the heat of July.
°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Jungkook had planned to spend the summer being responsible.
He’d told himself, very sensibly, that it was time to get a grip. One more year of uni left, and so, one last stretch to scrape together enough freelance gigs and part-time hours to fund both rent and ramen.
He was going to study, save, polish his portfolio, and maybe even figure out what the hell was going on in his brain lately.
You know.
Normal end-of-year stuff.
Clean boy things.
Solo plans.
Not... this.
Because now, he’s sitting on the edge of his bed with his bag yawning open beside him and absolutely nothing packed, already knee-deep in regret.
It had all started four days ago, and like most questionable decisions in his life, with his brother :
Taehyung had knocked on his bedroom door like it was the entrance to an exclusive VIP club, barged in without waiting, and flopped dramatically onto the bed—right before dropping a bomb the size of Jungkook’s emotional stability.
“Beach trip. Villa. One month. Seven idiots. Let’s go.”
Jungkook had looked up from his sketchbook, and bless him, he’d actually tried. “I can’t. I’m working, and I want to get a head start on next semester.”
“Gods, you’re so boring. Come be hot and unemployed like the rest of us.”
“I still have a year left, Tae. I can’t be hot and unemployed.”
Taehyung tilted his head in that mildly concerned, mostly-judging way he saved for moments when Jungkook was clearly being the human version of a closed window.
“Bro. It’s just a month. Come on. Sun. Salt. Chaos. Pool. Booze. Maybe you’ll meet a cute girl and finally stop acting like a character in a sad indie film.”
“I’m not—!” Jungkook paused, genuinely offended. “I’m not that bad.”
“Kook, you have six friends and one of them is me. And I’m legally obligated to like you.”
“Excuse me—!”
“Jimin’s coming.”
That last part had come out a bit too bright and a little too pointed, and Jungkook, being the idiot he is, had blushed immediately. “So ?”
Taehyung had grinned. “So... he said he’d only come if you did.”
Jungkook had snorted. “Right. That’s not real.”
“I’m dead serious. He said—and I quote—‘What’s the point if Jungkookie’s not there ? It won’t be half as fun without him.’ Then he winked. You know, in that way he does.”
“...You mean like all the ways he does ?”
Because that’s the thing about Park Jimin.
He winks like he breathes, flirts like it’s his native language, giggles and ruffles Jungkook’s hair, leans in too close, and smiles like the sun personally lives in his damn dimples.
He’s... how to say this objectively ?
A problem.
“Why—why would he say that ?”
“Dunno. Ask him. He’s been talking about you a lot lately.”
Park Jimin. Talking about him a lot lately.
Park Jimin. In that mesh tank top from last summer, the one Jungkook still isn’t emotionally prepared to remember.
Park Jimin’s collarbones. With sweat, with glitter, with nothing.
Park Jimin’s stupid lollipops... Jungkook doesn’t even like lollipops, so why is that important ? It’s not. It’s really, definitely, absolutely not.
Moving on.
°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
That, was the beginning of the end, and no, he didn’t mean to be weak, but the next thing he knew, he was on the living room sofa, blinking at the group chat blowing up with beach emojis, when Taehyung ambushed him again, and this time with company.
Jungkook remembers it too vividly, because it was hot that day, and the air smelled like sunscreen and banana milk, and Jimin was wearing the shorts.
You know the ones : tiny, frayed at the edges, and clinging for dear life. He looked like a summer ad for heartbreak, casually licking at a melting popsicle and humming something R&B under his breath as he entered their place.
“Hey, Kookie,” he said, perching on the arm of the couch, because even though this was technically Taehyung and Jungkook’s apartment, Jimin belongs wherever he wants. He always had that kind of presence.
He smiled.
Jungkook died a little.
“Hyung,” he managed, three semitones too high. “Hey.”
Taehyung smirked. “He’s being old and boring again. Says he wants to work this summer.”
“Work ? During the season of shorts and sin ?!!”
“I—well—I was thinking about—”
“Don’t make me suffer alone with these lunatics,” Jimin cut in dramatically, and then, as if the pout, full bottom lip out and brows tragically tilted, wasn’t already lethal, he slid down from his perch, slinking in next to Jungkook on the sofa and tucked himself right into his side. “You should come... We’ll swim and drink and we’ll bully Taehyung.”
“Bully you back,” his brother cackled as he launched a pillow at their heads.
Jimin threw it back instantly, which of course started a full-on war that devolved into limbs and laughter while Jungkook, trapped between the chaos and the couch, could only sit there and blink like a deer watching its own funeral.
Eventually, they collapsed.
Taehyung half-strangling Jimin with a throw blanket, Jimin retaliating by biting his arm.
...
It could have ended there.
Jungkook almost escaped the topic, and he’d even started to believe it himself.
Well.
That was before Park Jimin—who, apparently, never lets go of an idea once it’s lodged in that dangerous mind of his—decided the next reasonable step was to rest his cheek on Jungkook’s shoulder like he sometimes does when he comes to visit Taehyung but somehow always ends up spending half of the time with him instead, still flushed, still breathless from the pillow war, still glowing like a goddamn postcard, and leaned in right into his ear with a voice far too soft for the damage it did : “So... are you coming ?” A pause. “ Say you’re coming, Kookie. Please ? Or I’ll cry.”
Jungkook made a noise. A very uncool, very squeaky, very whale-adjacent noise that he prayed to every available deity in the vicinity no one had heard.
“...You’ve got Tae.”
“Kook’s got a point.” Taehyung chimed in, smacking Jimin’s ass once and then twice. “What am I, chopped liver ? I’ll be there too, damn. You can flirt with me instead.”
“You ?” Jimin scoffed, not even sparing him a glance. “Please. I see your face every day, and that’s already too much. Jungkookie’s a rare sighting.”
“I live here,” Jungkook muttered, mostly to himself.
“You know what I mean.”
Jungkook didn't, in fact, knew what he meant.
Sure, he could have asked, but that would’ve meant opening himself up to more potential embarrassment, and that would’ve implied he could even string together more than two syllables, which, at the moment—with golden hair brushing against his cheek—he absolutely could not.
In hindsight, maybe he should have asked, especially considering what his brother decided to say next : “Don’t pressure him too much, yeah ? He’s probably scared he’ll accidentally stare at your ass and implode.”
“I’m not scared of—!”
“Don’t worry,” Jimin chuckled, as he spinned the popsicle in his mouth again. “I’m flattered. Most straight boys only stare by accident.
You’re too dramatic, Tae.”
“Yeah ?” Taehyung shot back. “So are you. Jungkook is straight. He’s not gonna fold just because your gay ass is glorious.”
To Jungkook’s horror, his mouth moved faster than his brain : “Wait—You’re gay ?”
There was a pause.
A beat.
Jimin blinked at him, once, twice, too many times for it to not feel personally threatening. Jungkook started to seriously consider standing up, grabbing his passport, and never coming back, when finally, a smile curved on his brother’s best friend’s lips.
“Yeah, Kook. Loud and proud.”
His brain : error 404.
“I—sorry ! I—just, I wanted to—I didn’t know.”
Taehyung gasped. “Bro. He’s mentioned it so many times... What rock have you been under ?”
“He’s menti—Not to me !”
At this point of the conversation, the heat in his cheeks was already nuclear, but of course, his stupid brother had to make it worse.
Taehyung grabbed Jimin’s face into his hands, kissed his forehead, and turned to him with all the grace of a flaming wreckage. “Don’t bully my baby, JK. He’s a sparkly menace and only I get to emotionally destabilise him.”
Jimin shoved him off with a groan, “I’m literally older than both of you, stop patting my head,” and turned to Jungkook, eyes warm and just the tiniest bit concerned, “You good, Jungkookie ?”
And Jungkook—whose face was on fire, whose stomach was in space, who was rapidly realising he had no idea what the fuck he was feeling—nodded far too quickly and announced, “Yeah—I... I’ll come ! I mean— I’m coming ! I’ll go. I’m going. To the beach. With you. All of you. Everyone. Together.”
Silence.
“Can’t wait to tell our parents you’ve officially turned into a malfunctioning GPS.”
“Shut up,” Jungkook hissed, and fled to his room, soul and dignity left behind on the couch.
°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
He folds the shirt again, for the fifth time.
Maybe sixth.
At this point, it’s not folding. It’s ritual, and it’s a desperate attempt to control something while his brain continues its free-fall into the pastel and glittery hellscape of Jeon Jungkook Just Found Out...
He stares down at the shirt. It’s got a tiny embroidered peach on the hem that Jimin once said it was cute. Jungkook never wore it again, and not because he didn’t like it, but because he liked that Jimin liked it, and that felt... like a thing. A weird thing. A maybe-problematic thing.
But now ?
Now it’s a fucking crisis peach.
The fan drones lazily from the corner, pushing warm air across the room like it’s too hungover to bother trying and outside, someone’s dog barks, probably at a leaf, possibly in solidarity, because Jungkook is spiralling and Park Jimin is...
“Gay,” he says aloud, mostly to the t-shirt. “He’s gay.”
Like saying it again will help.
Like the word itself might clarify how it feels inside him—this weird fizzy cocktail of surprise and nerves and something that might be excitement if he could stop panicking long enough to check.
Gay.
As in, gay-gay.
Out loud gay.
Confirmed gay.
And yeah, it shouldn’t have shaken him that much, because Jungkook has nothing against gay people. He’s from Busan, not the Stone Age. He’s progressive. He votes. He follows queer artists on Instagram. He made a whole zine last semester about queer-coded narrative tension in shōnen anime, for fuck’s sake.
It’s not about that.
It’s about Jimin.
Jimin who giggles when Jungkook calls him “Hyung.” Jimin who once drunkenly tried to braid his hair and whispered, “You’d look good in a flower crown.” Jimin who sits on his lap when there are six other chairs available and smiles at him.
That Jimin ?
He’s... gay and Jungkook had no idea.
None.
Zero.
Zilch.
How did everyone else know ? Why didn’t he know ?
Gods, is he really that oblivious ? Is Taehyung right ? Is he just some pale Procreate freak in desperate need of vitamin D and basic social awareness ?
He groans again and flops dramatically onto his back, and a tube of sunscreen rolls off the bed and hits the floor with a thud.
From this angle, the ceiling looks too bright, and it’s definitely judging him.
And okay. Maybe. Maybe this is also about the fact that now, with that knowledge unlocked, his entire brain is being hijacked by some deranged film director, replaying every interaction they’ve ever had, only now with a big glittery banner flashing GAY SUBTEXT, BABY ! above it.
Like.
That time Jimin called him “pretty” and tucked a flower behind his ear.
Or the time Jungkook gave him half a cookie and Jimin licked his fingers after and said, “Mmm, sweet.”
Or the time they had to share a towel because Taehyung had one job—laundry—and didn't do it and Jungkook went to bed and thought about it. A lot. Too much.
But that doesn’t mean anything, right ? People are soft sometimes. Intimacy is fluid, masculinity is expansive and Jungkook is just—
He sits up suddenly, throws two pairs of swim shorts into his bag—one navy and modest, the other hot red and slightly indecent, gifted by Seokjin with the warning, “Wear this and you’ll get free drinks or arrested. Win-win,” and mutters to no one :
“I’m straight.”
He is.
Totally. Unequivocally.
He’s twenty-three years old, he would know by now.
And okay again, yes, there was the frat thing, but that was—look, that was college. That was different.
And—
Wait. Hold on.
Pause.
Let’s just... Let’s just review.
He remembers his old roommate—a prophet of heteronormativity with protein powder on his desk, three open dating apps, and a permanent semi—once groaning : “Bro, if you don’t help me out I’m gonna start texting my ex again.”
And really, what was Jungkook supposed to say to that ? No ?
He’s not a monster.
There was also that other time, when half his frat house got too drunk and the night devolved into what some of them still fondly refer to as “The Great Mutual Handjob Circle.” Jungkook hadn’t participated... for the first two hours. He’d loitered in the kitchen, stress-eating chips and pretending to be extremely focused pouring juice, until Minseok from the football team wandered in—for snacks, obviously—and claimed in between bites “it didn’t count it you don’t kiss”, and then, somehow, half the room was shirtless and the other half, suspiciously quiet.
They didn’t kiss, mostly. Once, maybe, and still, it was accidental, and if at some point there was tongue too, it was only a friendly tongue.
He may have watched, too, certain videos that didn’t exactly feature women, but that doesn’t mean anything either, because Jungkook’s always been curious and these times, he was just, as he likes to put it, expanding his worldview.
It was all fine.
A little weird the way Frat things are, like camping trips or war stories : everyone has one, and no one brings it up after.
So no, Jungkook doesn’t consider that part of his sexual identity, because that was just practice and he’s straight.
Frat-certified, bro-approved.
He slaps his Fujifilm X100V—the one that says “yes, I shoot RAW and no, I won’t explain aperture to you again”— two tubes of SPF 50 and a book on top of the shorts, something literary and impressive-sounding he knows he won’t read.
He doesn’t care.
He cares about not making this whole thing a thing, because that would be absurd, for him, and for Jimin.
Jimin is made of music and moonlight and affection, probably pets the security guard on the way into the building and calls them handsome just to brighten their day, and Jungkook—mildly awkward, not good with words unless he’s typing them into an assignment at 3am Jungkook—is just admiring that from afar and occasionally replaying compliments in his head for two to three weeks.
...
He reaches for the box of condom he bought yesterday on autopilot because he’s an idiot and a planner like that.
Oh, it’s not about him, Gods forbid.
He’s just being considerate, because one of the guys might need them, and he’s a good dongsaeng.
The box says nothing, but even it knows.
He yeets it into the bottom of his bag and zips the whole thing shut, hoping it might lock his feelings inside.
It doesn't.
Tomorrow, he’s leaving and it’s not a problem, just a trip, just a casual, friendly summer with a group of friends and one very beautiful man who is—now confirmed—both queer and alarmingly good at making him forget how to human.
And if he also happened to buy Jimin’s favourite pear juice earlier ?
Well. That’s... that’s just coincidence, definitely not gay, definitely not because he memorised Jimin’s drink preferences, and definitely not because he saw it in the store and thought, He’d like this after the drive. It’ll be hot.
One month.
One house.
One Park Jimin.
Jungkook glares at his bag.
He sighs, unzips it, and tosses the creased peach t-shirt in like it’s somehow responsible for all of this.
...
“Fuck.”
°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
The road trip is exactly as relaxing as Jungkook expects it to be, which is to say : it’s not.
The distance, the heat, the suitcase bruising his knee every time they take a turn ? Manageable.
Choosing, willingly, to be trapped in a car with his brother and Min Yoongi ? A mistake.
Taehyung, for reasons not yet understood by modern science, has created a playlist called “Summer Vibes for Horny Idiots” and insists on playing it at full volume through the speakers, and every time the chorus of a particularly cursed song hits—usually something from the early 2000s with too much synth and not enough shame—he sings along with vigour, just off-key enough to be legally actionable.
“Stop,” Yoongi groans from the driver seat. “Stop or I’m throwing you out the window.”
“You say that,” Taehyung sings back, “but I know you’d miss me. And I locked the child lock.”
In the backseat, Jungkook says nothing. He’s got one leg drawn up, his head resting against the window, and earbuds in but not playing anything.
He just needs the illusion of peace while his thoughts eat him alive.
He’s mostly thinking about Jimin, and at how he laughed in the group chat yesterday, texted back three crying emojis and a heart to Jungkook’s dumb meme and then sent a voice note of him snorting, which he’s maybe... replayed thirteen times.
“You’re being quiet back there,” Taehyung calls. “Are you car sick ? Love sick ? Morally bankrupt ? Chronically stupid ?”
“Don’t answer that,” Yoongi mutters, eyes still on the road.
“I’m fine, Yoongi-Hyung. Just thinking.”
His brother swivels half around in his seat. “Thinking ? Since when ?”
“Since now.”
“Uh-huh. Let me guess... Your tragic 2018 perm ?”
“Shut up.”
“Okay, okay—what then ? Existential dread ? Women ? Me ? The philosophical implications of socks with sandals ?”
“None of your business.”
Taehyung grins. The slow, smug kind he’s perfected for years. “Orrrr... Park Jimin in swim shorts ?”
“What the fuck ?! No !”
Yoongi snorts. “Wow. That was fast.”
“Oh my gods. That is it.”
“You’re crazy—”
“Don’t lie to me, Brother Mine. Is your tiny, barely-functioning brain currently booting up The Sims : Lust Expansion Pack ? Huh ? Is Jimin pixelated and shirtless ? Are you selecting the ‘Hot Tub WooHoo’ interaction and maxing his Charisma bar like a little freak ?”
“I swear to all the gods—NO.”
“Mmh. Listen closely : I’ve seen proclaimed straight men—Jeep-driving, protein-chugging, steakhouse-lurking hetero manifestos—short-circuit just because Park Jimin smiled and said ‘good morning’ with eye contact.”
“I hate you.”
“You should hate labels, my guy. That’s the real scam. You can slap a ‘no homo’ on it, call it a summer heat stroke, brand it a spiritual rebirth under the Cancer moon or whatever, but you’re not special. You’re just next. Welcome to the Jimin Crisis™.”
“The what—”
“The Jimin Crisis™. It’s that moment when your lizard brain realises he’s too pretty to be governed by human law, and your dignity just leaks out through your socks.”
Yoongi adjusts the rearview mirror and mutters, “Honestly, he’s not wrong.”
“So if you’re back there panicking about whether it means something that your stomach did twelve backflips the last time Jimin whispered your name, well. Congrats, you’re alive. You’re not immune. None of us are... Especially not the other twenty-three guys who ‘accidentally’ kissed him during Spin the Bottle.”
“Twenty-three—”
“I said what I said. Objectively.”
“...Taehyung. Shut. The. Fuck. Up. If you don’t, I’m ejecting myself from this vehicle and you can explain it to mum.”
“Tsss. Relax. You’re not that flexible.” Taehyung’s grin stretches wider. “But just so you know... Jimin is.”
Mariah Carey hits a high note.
Jungkook hits his limit.
Yoongi hits the brakes.
°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
The house is beautiful, and dare he says, annoyingly so.
All sea grass, glass, and light. The kind of place you’d find on a Pinterest board called Wholesome Beach Vibes and assume no one actually lives like that, except apparently Seokjin’s family does, because they own the damn place.
Jungkook would hate him, if Seokjin didn’t pay for half their takeout bills and give unsolicited skincare advice that actually works.
“I’m never doing that again,” Yoongi grumbles, stepping out with a sigh, because he’s apparently just survived a war zone. Jungkook doesn’t blame him. “Next time you both get a bus. Or a rocket to hell.”
It lands with zero effect, considering Taehyung’s already filming the place with his phone and the dramatics of a luxury travel vlogger.
“Say hi to the people, Hyung,” he coos, and Yoongi gives the camera a middle finger.
From the upstairs balcony, Seokjin is waving passionately, with Namjoon beside him, smiling like this is a rom-com and he’s the boy next door who always knew he’d marry the hot one with the sharp tongue.
They’re inside a minute later.
Luggage is dropped. Hugs are exchanged. Hoseok comes dancing down the stairs with a kiss to Yoongi’s cheek and a “You’re late, Beautiful” to Taehyung that makes his brother preen.
Yoongi rolls his eyes, but there’s a corner of his mouth doing something suspiciously fond.
Jungkook feels tense.
What they should be doing, if they were mature and responsible, is unpacking, coordinating fridge space, and maybe even discussing a cleaning schedule—Jungkook even made a Google Sheet for that... that no one filled in.
Rude.
What they’re actually doing is flinging bags over their shoulders like pirates and racing to claim bedrooms, and that’s when it happens.
“Uh,” Seokjin calls over his shoulder, halfway down the hall already, “just a heads up—there’s only three bedrooms. Our architect was a man of vision but zero logic. Huge rooms. Not many.”
Three ?
Three bedrooms. Seven people.
Do the maths, Jeon.
He does. Fast.
Namjoon and Seokjin... obviously claiming one room for themselves, and that’s non-negotiable. Married in all but tax paperwork.
Which leaves two rooms for five people.
Hoseok and Yoongi may or may not be sharing one depending on what stage of "not-together-but-suspiciously-close" they’re in, but surely, all five of them can organise themselves with some maturity.
Okay.
He can handle that.
He’ll just bunk with Taehyung.
They’re brothers, and even if he talks in his sleep and once kicked Jungkook in the ribs so hard he thought he cracked a soul, Jungkook’s survived worse.
He turns to say as much, only to find Taehyung already tossing his bag into a room that very clearly has Hoseok’s stuff on one of the beds.
“This one’s superior,” he declares, flopping onto a mattress and kicking his feet in the air. “Also, I’m third-wheeling these two.”
Yoongi doesn’t even look up from plugging in his charger. “No, you’re menacing these two.”
“You’ll love it,” Hoseok beams as he pulls Taehyung into his arms. “Be our little spoon.”
“...Wait. What—what about me, I—?”
“Oh,” Taehyung chirps, sitting up like he’s just remembered Jungkook exists. “Right. Yeah. Looks like you and Jimin are sharing.”
...
“Sorry, what.”
“You’re with Jimin... Oh my gods—Wait. You... you thought I’d be your buffer ! Oh, baby.”
“You begged me to come here !”
“You’ll be fine, Kook. It’s only Jimin. You’ve known each other for, like, five years now ? Practically brothers.”
“Stop saying that. Why does everyone keep saying that.”
Taehyung laughs. “Because it’s true ? Not like you and me, course... but close enough.”
“Meaning ?”
“Meaning you cried when he got that parking ticket.”
“It was unjustified.”
“Hmm... anyway. Let’s go see your room.”
Jungkook, increasingly panicked, follows him to the last remaining bedroom, and immediately wishes for death.
There’s only one bed.
Covered in crisp white linen and one perfect pillow arrangement. Soft. Sinister. A violently romantic king bed that suddenly feels aggressively intimate.
“For fuck’s sake.”
“Oh, Gods,” Taehyung whispers behind him, clearly delighted. “It’s perfect.”
“Do you have to sound so smug about it ?”
“I’m just saying... You’re living the fanfiction dream. Do you know how many people would sell their souls to be in your shoes ?”
“Do you want to switch ?”
“Absolutely not.”
Jungkook glares at him. It’s mostly for show.
His brother just pats his shoulder. “Don’t worry. Jimin’s like a gentle tropical storm. Harmless unless you invite him in.”
“You’re not funny. And I’m straight.”
Taehyung only laughs, skips out of the room, and shouts down the hallway, “Sure Kook ! Don’t forget to fluff the pillows before he gets here !”
Jungkook stares at the bed... and then at the window, the sea and the sun. The horizon mocking him.
He has one night of peace before Jimin arrives.
One night to pull himself together and to not imagine him curled up on the other side of that very bed, warm and sleepy and probably wearing something that doesn’t cover enough.
Jungkook rips off his shirt, grabs a towel, and makes a break for the shower.
Cold.
Definitely cold.
°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
A car pulls up the next morning, just after eight.
The villa smells like toast and ocean and someone burning coffee—probably Hoseok—and Jungkook, barefoot in the kitchen and halfway through peeling an orange he didn’t want, hears the door creak.
It swings open, and summer walks in.
Well. Technically, Park Jimin does... but only if you’re being pedantic.
It’s summer wearing sunlight and linen and honey-gold skin, pale blue shorts that are either way too short or absolutely perfect depending on your blood pressure, and a cream oversized shirt with its sleeves pushed up and its buttons left charmingly undone.
It’s summer smiling, and it’s obscene, really, the way the morning catches his earrings and threads through his hair, and it’s also unfair, because Jungkook has never in his life been more aware of the fact that he’s holding a stupid strip of orange peel.
He decides, on the spot, that he hates citrus.
“Good morning, my favourite disasters,” Jimin beams, waving with one hand and shaking with the other a tote bag that reads Make Boys Cry in sparkly pink letters. “I bought cinnamon bread and tteok.”
“My baby ! My Moon ! My tiny wrathful deity !” Taehyung screams, already halfway through the hall with his arms flung wide as he practically tackles him into a hug. Jungkook almost thinks Yoongi’s going to follow, with the way he grumbles “You’re late, kid,” and smiles like he didn’t mean a word, but Hoseok gets there first.
They wrap each other up in one of those tight, swaying hugs—the kind with cheek kisses and giggles—and if Namjoon and Seokjin were still asleep, well... they aren’t now.
“I missed you, Hobi-Hyung.”
“Say it again.”
“I missed you,” Jimin repeats, louder this time, before kissing his cheek again, and oh no.
Jungkook’s not looking. Just like he’s definitely not watching the way Jimin’s shirt rides up or how his fingers linger, warm and easy, on Hoseok’s waist.
Nope.
He’s peeling his orange. Ferociously.
And when they part, after what Jungkook frankly considers an excessive and deeply unnecessary amount of time, and Jimin sees him, his entire face lights up and everything brightens with it.
Jungkook opens his mouth, hoping for something witty or charming, or at least normal, but nothing comes out. His brain hits the emergency brakes and all he manages is a stiff little nod, like a glitching NPC whose dialogue tree failed to load.
Jimin doesn’t seem to mind.
He crosses the room in three easy steps, gaze softening the closer he gets, and it’s as if he’s seeing something gentle in Jungkook that makes him pause.
Jungkook forgets all about the orange.
“Jungkookie.”
Next thing he knows, Jimin’s arms are around his shoulders, warm and so close and fingers brushing the back of his neck, smelling of coconut and clean cotton and something sweet, of ocean breeze and too many memories and...
Listen.
Jungkook is not greedy, really, he just hugs back a little tighter and a little longer, and somewhere deep, deep, deep in the quiet place where thoughts haven’t quite formed yet, a truth awakens, and whether it takes days or the whole damn summer, it’s coming.
As certain as the tide, and as sure as tomorrow.
Jimin leans in, nose brushing his jaw, and whispers, “So glad you came.”
“...Me too,” he whispers back, and exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding, only to breathe him in again, not even stopping to think about what that might mean. “You smell really good.”
There’s a laugh against his skin, and it’s quiet and it’s pleased. “You always say the best things without trying... Pretty sure it’s your shampoo, though. I stole it last time I stayed over. Thought it was Tae’s.”
“That’s fine,” Jungkook mumbles, dazed. “You can have it.”
They’re still holding each other, and nobody interrupts, and it’s soft and stupid and strange, but in that moment, he doesn’t even feel shy.
Just full.
Jimin pulls back eventually, but not far. He ruffles Jungkook’s hair, eyes crinkling at the edges, and the pink rising on his cheeks blooms like rose petals in spring.
And then, because the gods are cruel and this universe is a sitcom, Taehyung has to ruin it.
“Stop climbing my brother like a tree, Park,” he calls. “We’ve talked about this. I will press charges.”
“I wasn’t climbing him. You’re just jealous because I held him longer than you...
Not implying you’re not climbable, Jungkookie.”
“I feel betrayed.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Barely.”
Jimin just beams and snatches a piece of toast off his plate.
...
Later, once everyone’s stopped pretending to be functional and Jungkook’s heart rate has mostly recovered, Jimin looks over and aks :
“Hey. So—where’s our room ?”
Taehyung winces. “Oh. Baby. Mmh. So. About that—”
“Don’t tell me you ditched me... We—”
“We always share, I know. Lifelong pact, pinky swear in blood, you’re my soulmate, et cetera—”
“Tae.”
“But Hobi-hyung looked too good when we arrived and Yoongi-hyung let me crawl into their room like a pitiful little goblin, and you weren’t here, and I panicked, okay ? Don’t make me choose between you and the way my magical duo’s arms feel.”
“He begged,” Hoseok grins.
“I never beg—”
“He pouted,” Yoongi deadpans. “He whined, and it was disturbing.”
“...Anyway. You’re with Kook.”
Jimin looks from Taehyung to Jungkook and his expression does something shy. Something very, very pink.
“Oh,” he says, before pulling his sleeve down a little. “Um... only if it’s okay with you.”
“Why wouldn’t it be okay ?” Jungkook blurts, definitely louder than he meant to, but also, given what’s happening inside his head, not unreasonable. “It’s totally—fine. I mean, if you’re fine. Like—of course. It’s a room. And a bed. Only one bed, but that’s what they’re for. For sharing. Between people. Who are friends. Which we are. I think.”
Taehyung has already started filming. “Bro. Do you hear yourself ?”
“Are you sure ?” Jimin smiles, small like he’s usually not, like the sun just dipped a little lower. “I just don’t want you to feel weird, and I can totally crash on the couch. I mean, we’re not—like—we haven’t really shared a space before and... well, I can be a lot.”
“No—no ! The bed is—uh—it’s really comfy. You shouldn’t sleep on the couch. It’s your holiday, too. And you’ll get a sore back. And maybe... like emotional damage. I read a study.”
“You read a study on sleep-related emotional trauma ?” Yoongi barks from across the room.
Jungkook ignores him. “I don’t mind,” he says to Jimin, softer. “Really.”
Jimin laughs, soft and breathy and full of light, and throws his arms around him one more time. “Okay, then. Thanks for having me, roommate.”
“I’m so proud of you both.” Taehyung sighs, dramatically clasping his chest. “Look at this healthy communication. Should I go get you matching pyjamas ?”
“Fuck off.”
“Go away.”
They say it at the same time.
They glance at each other.
They grin.
Jungkook’s stomach does a full somersault.
And just like that, the sun and the moon and the sky are in his room for the next thirty days.
Gods help him.
°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
It starts with a list.
Because Jungkook, unlike these half-baked creatures he calls friends, believes in grocery lists. He believes in categories, in price comparisons, in not buying six tubs of overpriced gelato just because it’s on an endcap whispering eat me in seductive Helvetica.
They don’t, though. They believe in chaos.
So when, the following afternoon, some semblance of group intelligence kicks in and everyone agrees they should stock the fridge before dinner, and that instant ramen, leftover chips or, as Seokjin claims with a full mouth, “one of Hobi’s emergency protein bars that taste like anxiety” aren’t that, Jungkook is pleased.
Finally : sanity.
Half of them pile into Namjoon’s car. Seokjin takes shotgun because of boyfriend’s privilege, and Jungkook climbs into the back, wedged between the door and Jimin, which is a whole separate crisis he’s working through.
They’re just about to back out of the driveway when horror strikes.
“Wait—my phone,” he blurts. “Hyung, stop, I don’t have it.”
Namjoon immediately eases off the gas. “You sure ?”
“I—” Jungkook pats his pockets, his hoodie, under his thighs. “Positive. I left it inside.”
Seokjin groans. “Oh my gods. Jungkook. You’ll be fine. People used to survive without phones, you know. Once upon a time, there were pigeons. And maps.”
“I made a list.”
“A what ?”
“A list. I spent forty-five minutes on it. Categories. Quantities. Backups. I colour-coded it... I’m not going into that store with you animals and no plan.”
“He’s not wrong,” Namjoon says mildly as he pulls the keys from the ignition. “The last time we shopped as a group, you bought seventeen avocados.”
“They were on sale !”
“They were also rotten, Jinnie.”
“Of course you’re siding with the spreadsheet...
Fine. Go. Be quick. Be efficient.”
“I will,” Jungkook answers, already fumbling for the door.
He doesn’t make it far, because just as he steps out, there’s a voice floating after him and it rings way too sweet :
“Want me to come help you look, Jungkookie ?”
“No, no—it’s okay, Hyung. I know where I left it. It’ll just take a sec.”
“...Okay,” Jimin says, resting his chin on his palm with a lazy grin. “We’ll wait for you, sunshine. Take your time.”
Sunshine.
The door shuts before Jungkook can implode on the spot, and behind him, through the open window, he hears :
“‘Take your time,’ he says. In this heat ?”
“He looked flustered. I was being nice.”
“You were being soft. There’s a difference.”
“Yeah, well. Sue me for having a heart.”
Jungkook huffs a laugh as he jogs back to the house, and inside, the temperature shifts again : cooler without the warmth of their voices, but somehow louder with the echo of his thoughts.
His room—their room—looks like it’s been swallowed by a well-dressed hurricane, but to be fair, Jimin arrived less than five hours ago. Of course he hasn’t had time to settle... but Gods, has he spread.
There’s a charm to the mess, the same way there’s a charm in the aftermath of a fashion show, a skincare haul, or a midsummer bacchanalia : facemasks sprawled like landmines across the dresser, socks kicked haphazardly under the bed, his tote bag regurgitating linen and glittery things, and even a pair of sunglasses balancing precariously on a bedside lamp.
Jungkook tiptoes through it like a respectful burglar.
“I’m not snooping,” he tells himself. “I’m recovering vital equipment.”
He kneels by the bed and starts rummaging, gently at first, then less so. He sifts through a pile of what might have once been folded shirts, checks under a snapback, under a towel, around a bottle of something that says “shimmer spray” in cursive font, and— there.
The cool edge of polished glass against his fingers.
“Yes !” he exclaims, triumphantly grabbing the edge of his phone from under a grey hoodie... and pulling something else with it.
Lace.
Black lace.
Black lace, delicate and far too pretty to be part of anybody’s day-to-day routine, and very much not meant to be held in the same hand as his innocent phone.
“Oh my gods.”
He stares.
It stares back.
It's tiny. Tasteful. Evil.
It has a bow.
Why does Jimin even own these ?
Does he wear them casually ? Were they for a hookup ? For fun ? For fashion ? For himself ?
Jungkook slaps a hand to his face, thinks better of it, and switches hands because the first one touched it.
“This is none of your business,” he whispers out loud. “He’s an adult. Underwear is normal. Sexy underwear is normal. Loads of people wear lace briefs. All the time.”
Do they ?
“Stop thinking about it.”
He shoves it back under the hoodie and launches himself out of the room, phone clutched to his chest like it’s a talisman of heterosexuality.
Back at the car, everyone’s bickering about what playlist to play.
“Finally,” Seokjin sighs. “Were you digging for buried treasure ?”
Jungkook slams the door and fumbles with his seatbelt. “Found it.”
“What took you so long ?” Jimin asks with a chuckle.
Jungkook doesn’t look at him. No way. He can feel the heat radiating off his own face.
“Just... got distracted.”
“You’re so cute when you’re blushing.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
Jungkook nearly chokes on air.
Namjoon turns up the volume, mercifully, and starts the car while Seokjin mutters something about horny chickens and doomed grocery trips.
They need food. They need order. They need cold, hard logic.
Jungkook stares out the window.
All he can think is : What if he’s wearing them right now.
They’re going to need booze.
A lot of it.
°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Supermarket, day two.
There are two trolleys. There are seven adults. There is no order.
Jungkook doesn’t know why he thought going grocery shopping with all of them would be manageable. He doesn’t know why he thought making a list would help, either.
In hindsight, that was adorable of him.
The moment they rolled in, it became clear : they were not here to feed themselves, they were here to cause chaos, break a few laws of physics, and possibly start a turf war in aisle seven.
Hoseok and Seokjin are doing... something. It involves arguing passionately over the best brand of seaweed snacks while throwing rival bags into opposite carts.
Yoongi, noble martyr of the group, is trailing behind them with a permanent grimace, methodically removing items like rainbow ice cream mochi and three tubs of tzatziki. He complains about everything except the stuff Taehyung adds... which is strange. Suspicious, even.
Namjoon tried to follow the list for fifteen whole minutes before giving up. “We’ll just survive on vibes,” he mutters, holding two types of olive oil like they’re grenades and he’s choosing which one to die with.
Taehyung, of course, is filming the entire thing.
“I am documenting the extinction of logic,” he announces solemnly, turning his phone toward Seokjin just in time to catch him slap a cucumber out of Hoseok’s hand.
He zooms in with Oscar-winning drama.
“Welcome to Fermented Madness : A Documentary of Domestic Decline. Edited by Jungkook. Score by chaos.”
Jungkook, trailing behind with the sensible list and dead eyes, groans : “I’m not editing this.”
His brother pans the camera to his face, and that’s why he should learn to shut up.
“Our fallen protagonist. Once hopeful, now hollow.”
And then there’s Jimin.
Park Jimin, also known as Park Black Lace Jimin. He’s been sticking close to Jungkook ever since they entered the store and not ‘normal-friend’ close. No, he’s in his space, orbiting him, a personal moon made of stardust and good hair brushing against him when reaching for things, giggling into his shoulder when he talks, and radiating warmth and affection in that easy way that’s always been uniquely him.
Jungkook should be panicking and he is panicking, but he’s also... kind of enjoying it ?
Because no matter how much stammering and flustering it involves from his part, things are always lighter with Jimin around and they’ve always have been. There’s something about the way he glows, something about how being near him feels like sitting in the sun : warm and addictive, and maybe a little dangerous if you stay too long and start noticing things you spent years misnaming.
And now ?
He’s sweating again, in that unfortunate way where even artificially fresh ambiance mist supermarket pipe through their vents, meant to smell like lemons and capitalism, can't save you, and not just because the AC in this place is a lie and the summer heat is biblical, but mainly because every time Jimin leans in to whisper something, he remembers.
Lace...
They’re at the end of aisle six when something cold presses to the back of his neck.
Jungkook yelps.
Jimin giggles—full-bodied, head-thrown-back kind of giggle—and sings, “Oops. Sorry. You looked like you needed to cool down,” without even trying to look sorry.
Jungkook’s sure his heart stops for a beat, which is frankly unhelpful considering he’s just trying to pick a brand of instant noodles and not...
Not what ?
“You’re evil.”
“I’m helping.” Jimin blinks at him innocently, then slides the can of cold brew into the cart.
He’s walking backwards now, pushing the trolley with his hips, and Jungkook is convinced someone forgot to inform him that this is not a music video.
“It’s really nice seeing you again. We haven’t had time like this in... what, months ?”
“...Yeah. I missed it.”
“Me too... You’ve been busy.”
“I’ve got another year to go,” Jungkook shrugs. “The others are out, partying, working, moving on with their lives. I’m just... still grinding.”
“Yeah, but you’re doing it, though. You’ve always been the hardworking type. Don’t act like that’s not hot.”
“Hyung—”
“What ?” Jimin leans in, eyes dancing. “It is. I admire you.”
“You—”
“I do.”
“...Okay. Thanks. You’re more supportive than my stupid brother.”
“I heard that, you traitor ! ” Taehyung yells from a few aisles down.
Jungkook rolls his eyes. “He’ll be dramatic about that for a week.”
“At least. He is kind of the worst sometimes.”
“He is.” A grin. “But you’re his best friend, so what does that say about you ?”
“That I’m loyal ! ... And okay, emotionally resilient too.”
There’s a quiet moment between them, just filled with the distant hum of pop music and trolley wheels on linoleum, before Jimin picks up a bottle of banana milk, turns it in his hands, and adds, “And you’ve been working out too.”
“Huh ?”
“Your shirts. They’re tighter.” He pokes his bicep. “Arms. Shoulders. Chest... You’re filling out, Jungkookie. Looking pretty buff these days.”
“I—I’ve just been hitting the gym between classes. It’s... good stress relief.”
“Stress, huh ?” Jimin smirks. “Not because there’s a girl ?”
Girl.
Jungkook’s brain hits a wall at 100km/h.
A girl ? Why would Jimin think—Of course he’d think that. Everyone would think that, because that’s the story. That’s the script. That’s the box he’s always been put in, and the one he’s never questioned. Until... Whatever.
There is no reason for the panic in his chest.
Only... there is, and it has a name, and a smile like the first day of spring, and Jungkook doesn’t want a faceless girl to be the image Jimin has in his head.
“N-no !” He almost screams. “No girl. I’m not—there’s nobody. I’m not seeing anyone. At all. Please don’t—”
Jimin blinks, then softens as he’s watching the panic rise, and slips his hand into Jungkook’s for a brief, grounding second. “Hey. Hey. You don’t have to explain, I was just teasing... I shouldn’t have asked.”
Jungkook tightens his grip without meaning to. “No—I don’t mind. I just... I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
There’s a beat.
“Oh ? ... And what’s the right idea, then ?”
Yeah Jeon. What’s the right idea ?
“...I—I don’t know. That it’s just me, I guess ? Alone. Extremely single. Really. I swear. Just uni stuff and design commissions and, like, soul-crushing deadlines.”
Jimin watches him again, and whatever he sees, whatever he understands, makes him ease away just enough to slip his arm through Jungkook’s, tucking in close as they start walking again. “I’m just happy we get time together. Don’t stress, Kookie.”
Jungkook feels... everything. It’s dizzying, all that warmth and relief and terror and joy, sipping through his veins and settling there, deep, deep, and deeper even.
He needs to change the subject before he breaks completely and says something he can’t take back.
“Hey—Hum... By the way. Congrats.”
“On what ?”
“Graduating. And, you know... valedictorian. That’s huge.”
“Oh.” Jimin’s ears go pink. “That. Right.”
“You’re pretending to forget you were top of your whole year ?”
“I’m pretending to be humble,” he answers with a roll of his eyes. “But between us, I only got it ‘cause I blackmailed my way through half my modules.”
“Liar.”
“...Okay, maybe I studied like hell. But still.”
Jungkook smiles, then bumps his shoulder. “So, what’s next ? Fancy job in Seoul ? Modelling career ? Influencer stardom ?”
“Tempting,” Jimin laughs. “But... no. Actually, Tae and I are trying to launch a business. Small scale events and branding gigs to start—pop-ups, themed parties. Maybe weddings later. Festivals, if we survive the taxes. For now, we’ve got big dreams, the tears to shred, two livers to sell, some solid contacts, and your brother’s insufferable enough to make people say yes.”
“...Seriously ? That’s—wow.”
“It is. And—well, once you graduate, if you ever want to join us... There’ll be a place for you. If you want it.”
And just like that, Jungkook’s mouth goes dry and he nearly drops the can of peaches in his hand.
“You—what ? Really ?”
Jimin looks at him like he’s said the most obvious thing in the world. “Of course. I’d love to work with you... I always have. You're one of the most creative people I know, and you’re cute. That’s a win-win in our line of work.”
Park Jimin wants him.
Well, as a designer. But still.
He’s so flattered it’s almost painful. “That means a lot. Really.”
“You’d say yes ?”
“I mean... yeah. Hell yeah.”
Jimin smiles, pleased in that specific, radiant way that makes Jungkook want to build him a shrine out of dried pasta and sun-drenched glances.
“I’m gonna hold you to that, Jungkookie.”
“You better.”
“Good. Now, as a reward for your future commitment, I’m picking you a treat.”
“Wait—what if you pick something terrible ?”
“I never pick terrible things, Jeon Jungkook” Jimin gasps, scandalised. “Except maybe men. But I’m trying to heal.”
Jungkook snorts. “I’ll let you have that one.”
Jimin tosses a grin over his shoulder, backing away toward the frozen section with a wink. “You better. Or I’ll start calling you Jungkookie in front of everyone.”
“You already do.”
“Yeah, but I’ll do it louder.”
°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Groceries : technically acquired.
Budget : obliterated.
Morale : strangely high.
Jungkook isn’t sure if it’s the sea breeze, the collective hit of vitamin D after months of grey library halls, or the fact that Jimin bought him his favourite ice cream and smiled when he did.
“Don’t eat it all at once,” he teases, as they load the bags into Namjoon’s car. “Or do. You deserve it.”
“Thanks, Hyung,” Jungkook says, and promptly refuses to share a single bite with Taehyung, who has the audacity to invoke brother’s taxes. “I’d rather share with Jimin-Hyung.”
“Jungkookie has taste. I’m clearly the superior sibling.”
“Can you not—You’re not my sibling.”
“Objectively true,” Seokjin calls from the front seat. “Also : shut up, some of us are emotionally attached to our retirement funds, and I just spent half of mine on oat milk and pretentious cheese.”
“...Aren’t you supposed to be like... rich and all ?”
“Not the point, Jungkook.”
They make one impromptu stop at a lookout point, cracking open beers—except Namjoon and Yoongi, who hold their sodas with the quiet despair of sober dads—and watch the sun bleed its gold into the sea. Jimin takes a photo, then another, then one of Jungkook without warning.
“That one’s for me.”
Jungkook doesn’t breathe properly for at least four minutes, but it’s a good photo and Jimin smiles at it, so he doesn’t ask him to delete it.
By the time they’re back, the world is steeped in golden hour and laziness. Someone puts on music, Hoseok starts dancing in the kitchen with Taehyung while Yoongi groans but makes no attempt to stop them.
Jungkook ends up cooking with Seokjin, because apparently he has “youthful muscles” that make him prime material for grating cheese and being bossed around.
Jimin showers while they work, and Jungkook tries really hard not to be aware of that fact.
He fails.
He fails harder when Jimin returns, still towelling his hair dry, wearing a cropped cotton shirt and sweatpants that hang low on his hips.
“Wow, smells amazing. What is it ?”
“Euh—soup ?” Jungkook manages, because that’s definitely a word.
“Can I taste ?”
He nods, as dumb as ever, and holds out the ladle with what he hopes is a neutral expression.
Jimin leans forward, parts his lips, and blows on the liquid and—Fuck. Society should allow a man to think about someone’s mouth, especially when it’s thought academically.
“It’s delicious... You’ll make someone very happy one day.”
Jungkook shrugs, casual on the outside, burning alive on the inside. “You’re eating my food right now.”
“Then I’m already happy.”
And okay, maybe it’s just the spice, but Jimin’s lips are redder than usual, and they’re glossy, and a little swollen, and suddenly Jungkook forgets about gochujang and about Seokjin a few metres away, and forgets about the fact that Taehyung is probably making the worst mojito mankind has ever seen.
“You’re staring,” Jimin says at last, voice sing-song, tapping the spoon against Jungkook’s wrist. “Do I have something on my face, chef ?”
“No ! No—just, uh. Spice level check.”
“...You do realise I was the one checking the spice level ?”
“...Semantics.”
Dinner is loud, predictably so, but gentle too, in that rare kind of evening when the moon hangs high, bellies are full and everyone is too content to care, when jokes blur into each other, laughter comes easy, and Namjoon spends half the meal explaining wine pairings to Yoongi, who listens politely while sipping soju from a teacup. Beneath the table out on the deck, their legs are all tangled together, knees bumping, ankles crossing, and no one bothers to move.
And when the sea begins to glitter sheet of dark metal beyond the railings and the stars peek through—hesitant at first and then all at once—and Jimin leans back, laughing at something Hoseok says, Jungkook thinks maybe coming here wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Even if his throat is full of affection he has no idea how to swallow.
Even if it means sleeping in the same room.
Even if it means sharing a bed.
He’s reminded of that fact rather brutally when Taehyung stretches, yawns, and announces, “Alright, my beautiful gays and grumps, clean-up time. Then bed. I want to be a morning person for once in my life.”
As they all gather plates, his brother casually loops an arm around Jimin’s waist like it’s nothing... only it’s not nothing, not to Jungkook, because something twinges.
It’s gone in a blink, as Jimin lets himself be held for a second before slipping free and reaching for his hand instead.
He smiles like he always does and tugs Jungkook toward their room, toward the en-suite bathroom that feels too warm all of a sudden. “C’mon. Toothbrush time, partner.”
They brush side-by-side, shoulders brushing occasionally, and Jimin starts humming something low and dreamy—probably Taemin again, Jimin loves him—and Jungkook tries not to make a big deal out of how good it feels, this closeness that’s somehow not awkward at all.
How much he doesn’t want it to end.
Jimin catches him watching their reflections in the mirror and raises an eyebrow through a mouthful of foam. “What ?”
“Nothing,” Jungkook mutters as he spits. “You brush really aggressively.”
“It’s called passion, Jungkook.”
...
Later, Jimin flutters off to “clean up his side of the room,” which mostly means throwing his clothes in a slightly more aesthetic pile, and Jungkook, now moisturised and glasses on, climbs into bed.
He opens his iPad. The canvas is still blank.
It doesn't stay that way for long, and yes, he should be working on his commissions piling up, but there’s a shape in his mind now.
A body, mid-turn and dancing like no one’s watching. Loose pyjamas with tiny clouds and graceful arms. The curve of a smile you only catch from the corner of your eye...
Jimin, without even trying.
He doesn’t even notice the mattress dip until Jimin sits beside him, a little flushed from his own chaotic version of tidying.
“You don’t have to stop,” he says, nodding at the iPad. “Keep the light on if you want, I don’t mind.”
Jungkook hesitates. “I wasn’t—uh. I mean, it’s not work. I was just...” He clears his throat. “Sketching you.”
Jimin pauses, and even the air in the room holds its breath.
Fuck Jeon.
He’s going to freak out.
He’s going to think you’re some kind of creep with a fetish...
And yet, what comes is not that, just a whisper and eyes that can’t believe. “...Me ?”
“You were dancing,” Jungkook explains, as if that’s enough. “It’s... a thing we learn in school. To sketch what inspires us. It’s not weird. I mean, maybe it is, but it’s not meant to be and I—Yeah.”
“...Can I see ?”
“Oh. Um. Yeah. Sure. Here.”
Jungkook turns the Ipad toward him, fingers a little clumsy and breath held tight, and Jimin leans in. His eyes move slowly across the screen and the lines and Jungkook watches him watch, because what else can he do, really, when his silence has already said so much ?
After a beat, Jimin murmurs, “It’s beautiful,” then shifts again, curls onto his side, and props his head in one hand, still watching.
Quiet, quiet, quiet, until he isn’t.
“Can I ask you something ?”
A nod.
“Do I...” he swallows, like the words might not make it out. “Are you saying that I inspire you ?
... You don’t have to answer if it’s too much, I just—I’d like to know.”
Jungkook’s ears go up in flames. “I mean—sure ? Yeah ? Of course you do. I think—you probably inspire a lot of people.”
It’s sincere, and it’s not untrue, but it’s also not the answer Jimin asked for nor the way he meant it, but summer is a forgiving thing and sometimes the truth slips in sideways, and Jimin hears it—what wasn’t said and what maybe never will be—and so, he swallows again and when he looks up, his eyes shine too bright for the low light to excuse.
Jungkook doesn’t understand it for what it is.
He doesn’t know the sound of longing that sits quietly in someone’s chest for years or what it means to live for the smallest piece of maybe, doesn’t recognise the shape of a heart stretching to make room for hope it thought it had outgrown, but Jimin’s smile still finds its way to him and it’s devastating.
“Thank you.”
Jungkook looks away, suddenly unable to meet it, the weight of whatever that thank you really meant.
He curls his fingers around the stylus, then powers off the iPad and sets it on the bedside table, and when he’s run out of small and silent motions that don’t require words, he slides deeper under the blankets.
Somewhere outside, the ocean kisses the shore, and through the breeze, even the branches of the old tree near the deck seem to sway softer, as if listening in.
“You’re still wearing your glasses,” Jimin murmurs, and reaches out.
Jungkook goes very still as fingers graze the skin under his eyes and curl around the frame, and it’s absurd, really, how delicate it feels... how carefully Jimin lifts the glasses off and sets them beside the bed like they’re breakable.
No one touches him like this. Not with this kind of care.
“They suit you,” he adds, before turning off the lamp. “But you’ll ruin them if you fall asleep like that.”
The dark is sudden, but it wraps around them with all the tenderness of a mother made of warmth and gold.
Minutes pass, five, maybe more, filled only with the hush of their thoughts and the thrum of tomorrow waiting, and then Jimin shifts closer. Not too close, never too close, because for some reason, he’s always giving Jungkook space, sometimes even more than he asks for, but close enough that he can hear the steady rise and fall of his breath.
“You’re really talented, you know that ? ... And kind. And funny... And completely unaware of how fucking attractive you are, which is almost unfair.
You should be more confident, and I mean that. You don’t see yourself clearly.”
Jungkook makes a noise, meant to be grateful, maybe a little dismissive, but it slips out something like, “Hnh.”
“...You don’t have to say anything,” Jimin chuckles, voice a bit bashful now. “Just... letting you know. Good night, Kookie.”
“...Night, Hyung,” Jungkook whispers back.
He doesn’t sleep until the aircon clicks off at 3:04 AM, heart still racing from the sound of Jimin’s voice and the soft press of his words, and when he finally does, he dreams of coconut shampoo, lazy laughter, and the way he’d been looked at... like maybe he was something worth sketching too.
What he never sees is the way Jimin stays awake beside him, still lying there with his eyes open in the dark and a smile far too full for something so fleeting.
His breath catches once, and he swallows the sound because this, this moment and the nearness... it’s enough.
He’s so stupid. He knows it.
This single sob of joy, strangled before it escapes, he’s swallowed it down a thousand times already, loved in silent from across rooms and across years, held it with both hands and hide it under the ribs, but here, now, with Jungkook closer than he’s ever been, Jimin lets himself ache.
And he thanks the stars and the sea and the summer night for this.
For just this.
Even if it’s all he ever gets.
°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･