Work Text:
If you, if you could return,
don't let it burn, don't let it fade.
- The Cranberries, Linger
Jungkook hadn’t really planned to do the travel show. He’d said he’d think about it, which usually meant no. But then the PD had cornered him in the cafeteria in the middle of his solo promotions, and Jimin had grinned over his paper cup of vending machine coffee and said it’ll be good for you, like it was a vitamin.
So, instead, Jungkook had decided to be difficult. The pettiness filtering in ways which seemed too easy. Not in the way he used to be—loud, theatrical, the kind of mood that made the stylists clear out of the dressing room. This was quieter. More practiced. Perfected over the last year, during all the solo promotion tours, when he'd been alone and prickly and pretending he wasn't lonely.
“Didn't realize you'd need a whole camera crew and sound system to want to spend time with me,” he said, pleasantly enough, but he knew Jimin would catch the sharp shards anyway. He's good at it, Jimin-hyung.
“This is not for me,” Jimin replied, voice mild. “They want clips for the military content. You know that.”
“Sure,” Jungkook said, folding his arms. “But I didn’t know they needed fifty two hours of it.”
“You signed the same contract I did.”
“That’s not the point.”
Jimin didn’t answer. Jungkook imagined him looking at his brochures and sorting them into a neat pile. The idea of this small gesture made something in Jungkook’s chest feel unreasonably tight.
“Just pretend you’re on vacation.”
“This is work.”
“It’s only work if you frown the whole time,” Jimin said, finally meeting his eyes. He had that look, bright and tired and a little amused. “Try smiling.”
Jungkook wanted to say something unkind and petty, but he didn’t. Instead, he leaned back on the bench and let the sun warm his face.
“It feels like nothing is my choice,” he said. "Like things are just happening, maybe even good things, but they're not choices I'm making.”
There was a pause. Jimin's voice far away when he said. “Is this your long-winded way of telling me you don't want to do it? You have the choice Jungkook-ah, you can choose not to.”
That's not what he means, he wants to say. He wants to choose it. He wants to say that he would have chosen it even if it didn't happen this way.
“Jungkook,” Jimin's sigh was bone-deep, like he'd already known this would happen. “Maybe this way we can spend some time together. I thought you'd like that too.”
Of course he would. He'd spent months making a fool of himself on Weverse, calling for Jimin, only to be rejected over and over. Sweetly, but still.
Call you on the phone, need you on the other side.
But he hadn't been. And when he'd finally finished his promotions and called, Jungkook hadn't picked up. Nor the time after. A half-formed thought in his head telling him: he was busy too, he didn't have time either.
But the difference was that Jimin never seemed to feel the resentment that he had, at being made an option. When they ran into each other in the studio, he had fussed over Jungkook, telling him to eat well, to not drink so much, to rest when he could. All the things he always did.
He didn't tell Jungkook that he couldn't possibly be so busy that he didn't have the time for a phone call. Didn't have the time for a drink. Show up at this door and demand his place in his life. All those things Jungkook, on the many drunken nights, had often thought of doing, of leaving on his voicemail.
Jimin just seemed to accept that he could be pushed aside in Jungkook's life. Like he didn't think he had the right to fight for the space he occupied. As if he could keep caring for Jungkook in his own orbit, in the ways he always had, even if they never intersected.
And Jungkook, who hated being pushed, hated being burdened with unmet expectations, found he hated this more.
-
After his final solo schedule in New York, he found Jimin in the kitchen of his uptown hotel, wearing loose black sweats and stirring instant coffee with a chopstick.
“You look like a college student,” Jungkook observed, leaning against the doorframe.
“You look like you slept in your clothes,” Jimin replied without turning.
“I did.”
Jimin’s shoulders shook with a small laugh. “At least you’re honest.”
He was. Too honest, sometimes. Like when the producer’s assistant asked if he and Jimin were close, and he’d said, a little too quickly, I guess.
As if close was too small a word.
So he acted up. Not in a dramatic way, it's just that he refused to be the first one to volunteer for anything. If the director asked who wanted to introduce the day’s schedule, he’d look down at his phone. If Jimin asked him to help unload the groceries, he’d move eventually, but only after making a face about it.
“Passive resistance,” Jimin muttered, lugging two bags of instant noodles into the kitchen. “That’s your concept for this show?”
“My concept is minding my business,” Jungkook said, without looking up.
Jimin set the bags on the counter and flicked him on the shoulder. “You’re impossible.”
“You picked me,” Jungkook reminded him. “That’s on you.”
-
Their first shot, the producer called it a “healing variety.” Jimin called it “fun.” Jungkook called it “a forced hostage situation.”
It was early, the sky still the flat, bleary color of unwashed linen, and the crew looked almost apologetic as they loaded the last boxes of camera equipment into the van. Jimin was the only one who seemed awake, standing beside the back doors with a checklist, cap on backward, pen tapping his bottom lip.
“You’re doing that thing,” Jungkook said, hauling his duffel into the seat beside him.
Jimin didn’t look up. “What thing?”
“That thing where you pretend you’re the director.”
Jimin finally lifted his gaze, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Someone has to pay attention. You certainly weren’t going to.”
By the second day, he’d learned the entire filming crew’s names, because Jimin introduced himself to everyone with a small bow and a bright smile.
“Stop trying to be liked,” Jungkook muttered, shoving his bag into the overhead bin of the van.
Jimin tilted his head, genuinely confused. “I’m not trying.”
“That’s worse.”
Jungkook knew, technically, that no one forced him to be there. Still, when the third assistant crouched in front of the camera to adjust his mic for the fourth time, he felt compelled to announce his displeasure.
“This is ridiculous,” he said, watching the wind blow Jimin’s hair into his face. “I could’ve just stayed home and waved at you over FaceTime.”
Jimin continued marking up the schedule with a pink highlighter. “Then everyone would know you’re a recluse.”
“Everyone already knows.”
“They don’t know how bad it is.”
Jungkook squinted at the horizon, which was pretty enough to irritate him further. “You’re acting like this is a vacation.”
“Because it is,” Jimin said, finally looking up. “A vacation you agreed to.”
“I didn’t agree to sunrise call times.”
“You did,” Jimin reminded him, voice mild. “You signed the contract.”
The drive took almost four hours. Jungkook spent the first hour glaring out the window, his cheek pressed to the cold glass. He could feel Jimin beside him, too close in the cramped bench seat, occasionally shifting to dig something out of his bag or adjust the cuff of his sweatshirt.
“You don’t have to act like you’re being punished,” Jimin said, not quite looking at him.
“I’m not acting,” Jungkook said, and it came out meaner than he meant.
They drove ahead anyway, because Jimin always preferred to keep moving when he didn’t know what else to say. Down Canal Street, past the little groceries and the bakeries that smelled like cinnamon. Jimin stopped to buy a bottle of green tea, and handed it over without comment.
“Don’t try to bribe me,” Jungkook said, but he drank it.
-
Connecticut was warmer.
Their cabin never felt far from the water. It smelled like salt and old wood, the air cool even at midday. Inside, the furniture was sparse: a low table, a single, low bed, a small kitchen with an ancient rice cooker.
“This is…rustic,” Jungkook said, toeing off his shoes.
“You’ll live,” Jimin said, already unpacking his toiletries into the bathroom cabinet.
Jungkook dropped his bag by the wall and watched him in the mirror over the sink, the way he lined up bottles by height without seeming to think about it.
“You’re nesting,” he observed.
Jimin didn’t turn. “I like things in order.”
“It’s weird.”
“It’s considerate,” Jimin said. “You’re going to thank me when you can actually find the toothpaste tomorrow.”
They filmed all afternoon: shots of the rocky beach, Jimin buying snacks from a woman with wind-chapped cheeks, a slow pan across the horizon while the wind raked at their hair.
Jungkook trailed after him with a plastic bag full of fried things and sweet rice cakes, trying to pretend he didn’t want to be seen standing too close.
“You look like a tourist,” he muttered, watching Jimin arrange the snacks in a neat row on the railing for a photo.
“I am a tourist,” Jimin said calmly.
“You’re not going to post that, are you?”
“Why? Worried people will know you eat food?”
“Worried they’ll know I’m here with you,” Jungkook said. He meant it to sound biting, but it came out muted.
Jimin paused, then reached for the next rice cake. "Should have thought of that before you applied to spend eighteen months in the military with me."
That night, after a half-way decent barbeque for the cameras, they sat on the floor with the crew, eating instant ramen out of paper bowls.
Jimin was talking to one of the producers, gesturing with his chopsticks. The overhead light picked out a pale spot on the side of his neck where his hair didn’t quite reach.
Jungkook tried not to look at it, but his gaze kept sliding back.
He didn’t notice the silence until he looked up and found Jimin watching him, expression carefully blank.
“What?” Jungkook asked, too defensively.
“Nothing,” Jimin said. His chopsticks tapped against the rim of his bowl.
Later, when the crew had drifted off to their rooms, they were left sitting across from each other at the low table, the remains of dinner between them.
Jungkook rubbed at the seam of his sweatpants, feeling the skin beneath go hot.
“You’re sulking,” Jimin said eventually, soft but unamused.
“I’m not.”
“You are. You have that little line between your eyebrows.”
“Stop noticing things,” Jungkook snapped, though it sounded too much like a plea.
Jimin sighed, folding his arms over the tabletop. “Why did you come if you were going to be like this?”
Jungkook swallowed, throat tight. “You asked.”
Jimin’s mouth curved, sad and a little fond. “I always ask. You don’t always say yes.”
Jungkook looked down, and neither of them spoke for a while.
-
Jimin fell sick the first night in, and Jungkook hated how grateful he was for an excuse to hover. He changed the humidifier water, checked the thermometer, brought the medicine.
“You don’t have to stay in here,” Jimin croaked, voice hoarse, "I don't think they're really going to be filming me like this."
“I’m not staying,” Jungkook lied, tucking the blanket higher over his shoulder.
Jimin closed his eyes. “I hate that you do this.”
“What.”
“Pretend you don’t care when you do.”
Jungkook looked at the wall instead of him. “That’s not it.”
"It's funny," Jimin said, his tone more contemplative than amused, his eyes on the stone tower outside which Jungkook would rather die than admit was for him. "You're so sweet to me. Candy-sweet under that toughness. You take such good care of me, even though you're my dongsaeng. But sometimes, when I watch clips of us talking, even I'm not sure you like me very much. It's weird because I know you do, but it's just like...like there's a cut and paste video version of you who doesn't. Who I keep chasing after and can't reach."
"Don't be ridiculous," Jungkook hears it, immediately. This line in a video, Jimin being vulnerable and him being dismissive. Even though he's not that. Even though they both know he means how could you ever doubt how much you mean to me.
"Just like that," Jimin laughed, then winced, turning around to fall asleep again.
He sat with him a long time, watching the sky darken behind the cheap curtains. He didn’t want to admit how much he’d miss this—the quiet, the excuses to be close.
-
When he was partly recovered, they filmed all afternoon on the boat, then in the harbor market. Jimin wore a cap that flattened his hair, and every stall owner tried to give him free samples.
He was chipper, which made it worse.
“Smile,” he said, elbowing Jungkook as they posed on the cliff for the drone shot.
“I am smiling.”
“Other than the incessant humming, you look like you want to shove me off this rock.”
“Only a little,” Jungkook said, but when Jimin laughed, bright and unguarded, he looked away before it could feel like too much.
Their schedule was ordinary enough: film grocery shopping in the market, cook a dinner segment, shoot sunrise b-roll the next morning.
Jungkook spent most of the shopping trip trailing after Jimin, pushing the cart and offering unhelpful commentary to make up for having somehow made their entire morning roll unusable by slapping his ass and then forgetting the sponge. But Jimin, kind, patient Jimin-hyung, was still persevering.
He insisted on getting fresh seafood, which meant Jungkook had to stand around holding two dripping plastic bags while Jimin explained—badly—to the fishmonger how much he wanted.
“You’re embarrassing,” Jungkook muttered when they finally stepped back into the street.
“You love it,” Jimin said breezily.
“You looked like you were trying to order a whole shark.”
“I was being precise.”
“You were being confusing.”
Jimin didn’t answer, just bumped his shoulder against Jungkook’s and kept walking.
Later, Jimin unpacked the groceries while Jungkook washed his hands, ignoring the camera perched on the counter.
“Don’t put the lettuce there,” Jungkook said.
“Why?”
“It’ll get wet.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
Jimin stopped, one hand still in the shopping bag, and looked at him with the resigned patience of someone who had known him too long to expect anything different.
“You get bossy when you’re in a mood,” he said.
Jungkook turned off the tap and flicked water at him. “I’m bossy because you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“That’s rude.”
“It’s true.”
Jimin set the lettuce on the far end of the counter, out of the splash zone. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic.”
Cooking was one of the only times Jungkook felt entirely calm. He lined up ingredients, arranging them the way he liked, on clean towels, each knife exactly where he could reach it. Jimin hovered in his peripheral vision, trying to help but mostly getting in the way.
“Do you want me to chop something?” Jimin offered, voice too innocent.
“No.”
“I can do the garlic.”
“No.”
“I’m good at garlic.”
“You’re not,” Jungkook said, picking up a cutting board. “You bruise it.”
Jimin let out a scandalized little huff. “How can you bruise garlic?”
“You’d find a way.”
Jimin opened his mouth, closed it again, and went to sulk by the fridge.
They filmed a segment on meal prep, the two of them standing shoulder to shoulder while Jungkook talked through the recipe.
Jimin kept sneaking bites of the raw vegetables, making exaggerated faces for the camera.
“Stop,” Jungkook muttered, elbowing him.
“I’m the comic relief.”
“You’re the nuisance.”
Jimin grinned, unrepentant, and stole a sliver of carrot from the pile.
“Let me cut the radish,” Jimin offered, resting a hand on the counter.
“No.”
“You’re not the only one who knows how to hold a knife.”
“You hold it wrong.”
Jimin made an offended noise. “I do not.”
“You curl your thumb under too much,” Jungkook said. He meant to sound annoyed, but it came out endeared, like it always did.
Jimin rolled his eyes and stole another slice of carrot. “Fine. Dictator.”
After dinner, they washed up together. Jimin stacked dishes while Jungkook rinsed, both of them moving around each other with the ease of practice.
It reminded him of all the years of dorm kitchens, of late nights when everyone else had gone to bed. The same feeling so far away from where he'd felt it first. If home was a place, he hadn’t lived there in years. If it was a feeling, he could apparently feel it anywhere. If it was a person—
He didn’t let himself finish the thought.
-
They ate sitting close, the low table crowded with little dishes.
Halfway through the meal, Jimin set his fork down and reached across to swipe a bit of sauce from the corner of Jungkook’s mouth.
Jungkook caught his wrist without thinking, fingers warm around delicate bones.
They both froze.
“You had something there,” Jimin said, voice too careful.
“I know,” Jungkook murmured, but he didn’t let go right away.
After dinner, they filmed the daily wrap-up segment, sitting shoulder to shoulder in front of the camera.
Jimin talked about the food, the weather, the plans for tomorrow's return. Jungkook mostly stared at the floor and thought about how difficult he had been, how he didn't want it to end, how, if he had the chance to, he would do it all over again, and then again.
When the cameraman finally clicked the record button off, Jimin didn’t move. Jungkook didn't either.
-
Jeju felt softer, almost like a truce. Taehyung drifted in and out for two days, sprawling across the kitchen floor with a bottle of makgeolli, watching them with faint amusement.
“You two exhaust me,” he announced, mouth full of tangerine.
“Then leave,” Jungkook suggested, half-serious.
“Stop flirting and maybe I will,” Taehyung shot back.
Jimin looked scandalized. “We’re not flirting.”
Taehyung only smiled, all teeth. “Sure.”
For a while it almost felt easy. Jimin and Taehyung playfighting while Jungkook stood on the balcony, watching the early light slide over the pool water. He could hear their voices downstairs, warm and familiar, and felt an ache that was too big to hold.
Later, when Taehyung went to bed, they ended up sitting shoulder to shoulder on the floor outside, their knees bumping when they shifted. The wind made Jimin shiver, but he didn’t go back inside.
“You should go in,” Jungkook said, the sound barely carrying.
“You’re not going.”
“Someone has to keep you alive.”
The coastal guesthouse was bright and airy, but the main bedroom didn't have enough beds. Jimin looked at the one empty bed, then at him, and then they were both in the one bed, tangled in knots, until Jimin said, too casually, “Rock, paper, scissors?”
Jungkook sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Just take the bed.”
“You’ll complain.”
“I’m already complaining.”
But he didn't leave, not immediately, lying stiff on one edge. Jimin slept on his stomach, cheek pressed to the pillow, hair falling across his mouth.
At some point in the night, he rolled closer. Jungkook woke to a warm weight at his hip, Jimin’s leg draped over his.
He didn’t move for a long time.
-
The next morning, they walked to the little grocery by the pier. The air smelled like seaweed and instant coffee.
Jungkook watched Jimin argue with the shopkeeper over the price of apples, his hands moving as he tried to explain in simple Korean.
“You’re making it worse,” Jungkook called.
Jimin glanced back, squinting in the bright sun. “Do you want expensive apples?”
“I don’t care about the apples.”
Jimin rolled his eyes and turned back to the shopkeeper, but he was smiling when he did it.
It was strange, Jungkook thought, how he was starting to miss moments not quite gone.
-
Sapporo felt like the last stop on a map neither of them had agreed to draw. The winter air was crisp, clean in a way that made Jungkook feel conspicuous, like he’d brought all his tangled thoughts with him in the pockets of his coat.
Their bags were piled near the table, camera cases stacked around the rice cooker. Jimin was unpacking with the easy efficiency he used on tour, folding shirts, smoothing them, setting them in a neat stack.
“You don’t always have to organize everything,” Jungkook said, toeing off his boots, like a clockwork automaton, as if he really had lines that he had to repeat, even though he knew Jimin, knew every crevice of his personality, had bookmarks in all of his quirks.
Jimin glanced up, smiling. “I don’t want to spend four days tripping over your mess.”
“You’ve survived worse.”
“That’s true,” Jimin said lightly. “But it’s less cute in your thirties.”
Jungkook made a face and dropped onto the floor cushions. His knee brushed Jimin’s ankle, and for a second neither of them moved. The air felt sharper, like it had been charged by something unspoken.
Then Jimin looked back down at the half-folded shirts, and the moment passed.
They shared a room, though they weren't supposed to in this stop, because the spare had a broken heater. The bedding smelled like sun and soap even now, in the middle of winter.
Jimin lay on his stomach reading subtitles on the small TV. Jungkook scrolled absently on his phone, not seeing anything.
At some point, Jimin turned his head on the pillow, watching him. His cheek was pink from the fabric.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
“You’re loud,” Jungkook countered automatically.
But he didn’t look away.
When Jimin bent to plug in his phone, the hem of his t-shirt lifted. Jungkook looked away, but too late. His ears burned, stupid and obvious.
Jimin straightened and turned, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“Do you want the window side?” he asked.
“I don’t care,” Jungkook said, voice rough.
They lay down in the dark, the hush settling over them like a second blanket.
Jungkook could feel the shape of Jimin’s breathing, the way it shifted when he turned onto his back.
-
They had been here two days, but he still hadn’t quite found the rhythm of the place. The quiet, the soft snow piled on the fences, the gentle hush in every shop.
Jimin seemed to belong anywhere. Even here.
That morning, he’d woken to the slow sound of Jimin boiling water, the kettle making a thin hiss in the kitchen. When he came out, Jimin was standing at the counter with his hair damp, reading the label on a packet of tea.
They spent part of the day walking along a narrow street lined with shops. Jimin stopped to look at postcards, lifting each one carefully between his fingers. Jungkook stood beside him, hands deep in his pockets, pretending he wasn’t waiting to see which ones he’d choose.
When Jimin finally turned, three cards tucked against his palm, he smiled in a small, almost embarrassed way.
“These reminded me of the first trip,” he said. “New York. Remember?”
He remembered too well, the ramen shop with the steamed-up windows, Jimin’s laughter, the way it had felt easier to think neither of them would have to leave.
-
The bath was steaming when they went out to the deck. Jimin stepped in first, drawing a long breath as the heat caught him.
Jungkook waited, hands in the pockets of his robe. He watched the way Jimin’s eyelashes clung together, damp and fine, the way his shoulders curled a little as he sank deeper, the drops on his inked skin.
“Are you coming?” Jimin asked without opening his eyes.
It sounded like a question with only one answer.
He stepped in. The water lapped at his chest, too hot at first. They sat at opposite ends, the snow drifting around them. Jungkook couldn’t look at him, couldn't stop looking at him, couldn't settle on which. Jimin’s collarbones shone with water, his hair plastered to his cheek. Snow piled on the rocks, steam curling up into the night.
Jimin sank further into the water with a sigh, closing his eyes.
“You look like you’re in a shampoo commercial,” Jungkook said, softer than he probably intended, Jimin's blond hair floating at the edges of his peripheral vision.
“Jealous?”
“Of what?”
“My aura,” Jimin said seriously.
Jungkook snorted, but he didn’t look away.
Jungkook thought of the next months. The barracks, the uniforms, the hours and hours of time he would have to pretend not to miss this.
He reached for the buttons on the side of the jacuzzi, just to have something to do with his hands. When he set it back, his fingers brushed Jimin’s wrist under the water. Neither of them moved.
He thought of all the times he’d tried not to look too closely. New York, the way Jimin fell asleep on the couch, wrist limp over the edge of the cushion. Connecticut, when he’d pressed the back of his hand to Jimin’s forehead and tried to pretend it was nothing. Jeju, with Taehyung watching them like he’d seen it coming before they did.
And now this.
“I like you,” Jimin said suddenly, voice low and certain.
It wasn’t clever. It wasn’t a confession, not really. Just a fact he’d decided to set down between them.
Jungkook looked at him. His heart hurt in a way that felt clean.
“I know,” he said.
Jimin’s mouth lifted, the smallest curve. “I thought maybe you didn’t.”
“I did,” Jungkook said. “I do.”
The last shot of the night was supposed to be them talking about what they’d learned from the trip so far.
They set the camera up themselves, too close, the lights too bright.
Jimin folded his hands in his lap and looked straight ahead.
“I think…you learn a lot about someone when you have to share a space,” he said.
Jungkook pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth. “What have you learned?”
“That if I'm going to be doing this with you for longer, I deserve a raise and some kind of stock option on the streaming platform,” Jimin said, but his voice was warm.
Twelve seasons, Jungkook said the next day, while Jimin laughed in his periphery, and he thought of growing old just like this.
-
They enlisted two weeks later.
It was anticlimactic, the way they handed over their phones, folded their civilian clothes into ziplock bags, and walked out to the bus in identical uniforms.
Jimin sat by the window, forehead pressed to the glass. Jungkook folded his arms across his chest and pretended not to watch him.
The first week was drills and blisters, cheap soap and tasteless rice.
But there were small comforts:
When Jimin fell asleep reading, Jungkook always slipped the paperback out of his hand and set it on the shelf.
When Jungkook forgot where he left his toothpaste, Jimin wordlessly handed over his own.
One night, when the regulations caught up to them, Jungkook perched on his bed with a pair of dull scissors.
“Don’t move,” he muttered.
“You’re going to ruin it,” Jimin said, eyeing the mirror.
“It’s already ruined.”
Jimin sighed, tipping his head forward. The back of his neck was pale under the harsh light.
“I can feel you glaring,” Jungkook said.
“I’m not,” Jimin said, and didn’t move.
Everyone said it would be easier together. That wasn’t quite true. It was easier to survive, maybe. But harder to pretend.
In the barracks, the bunks were so close they could hear each other breathe.
On the first night, Jungkook lay awake, listening to the rustle of Jimin’s blanket.
“Are you sleeping?” Jimin whispered.
“No.”
“Do you regret coming with me?”
Jungkook stared into the dark. “Of course not.”
Jimin’s hand reached out, like he was searching for something. His hand was warm.
-
In the barracks, they learned to share the same air.
Jimin woke up before him every day, always soundless, moving carefully around the cramped space.
One morning, Jungkook cracked an eye open to find him kneeling by his bunk, tucking a letter into an envelope.
“You have a pen pal?” he croaked.
Jimin startled. “It’s for my mom.”
“Sure,” Jungkook said, closing his eyes again.
Later, he thought about how he’d wanted it to be for him, and felt embarrassed.
-
The next day, they were assigned equipment checks together. Jimin counted spare batteries, scribbling notes, while Jungkook did a half-hearted inventory. He should be cooking instead, that's what he'd signed up for, how he wanted to carve a bit of himself in a place that didn't allow it.
“You look like you’re going to throw up,” Jimin murmured without looking up.
“Thanks,” Jungkook said.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed at being bad at something for once, golden maknae” he teased.
“I’m not.”
“Sure.”
Jungkook rubbed a thumb over the worn edge of a storage case. “You ever think we’re just—” He trailed off.
“Just what?”
“Pretending this is easier than it is.”
Jimin’s pencil stilled. He looked up slowly.
“I don’t think it’s easy,” he said, voice gentle. “I think I’ve just decided it’s worth it.”
Jungkook felt heat crawl up his neck. “You always say shit like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re not afraid of anything.”
Jimin’s mouth quirked. “I’m afraid of plenty of things,” he murmured. “Just not with you.”
That night, he didn’t sleep much. He lay there, listening to Jimin’s breathing, remembering the way he’d looked across the storage room: steady, unashamed.
And for the first time, he wondered what it would feel like to stop being afraid too.
-
A week later, Jimin nearly lit the kitchen on fire.
It was early, barely past six, and Jungkook had come stumbling in, bleary-eyed and half-buttoned, looking for coffee, only to find Jimin standing over a smoking pan with an expression that fell somewhere between proud and panicked, a few wide-eyed young soldiers surrounding him like they weren't sure how to deal with this newest situation involving the Park Jimin of BTS.
“I volunteered to help in the kitchen,” was his only explanation.
“The plastic is not a part of the ingredients list,” Jungkook said stoically, like his insides hadn't cramped inside with tenderness at the words. He stepped forward and waving the smoke toward the ancient ceiling fan.
“It’s a reinterpretation,” Jimin said, deadpan, even as the spatula began to warp from the heat.
“It’s a disaster.”
Jimin smacked his arm lightly with the spatula. “You try doing something nice, and all you get is criticism.”
“You try doing something nice, and the fire department has to be called in,” Jungkook muttered, grabbing the pan and setting it in the sink with a sizzle.
They opened the windows and stood in the cold morning air, watching the steam rise from the sink, breath curling in the space between them. The moment stretched. Jimin bumped his shoulder once against Jungkook’s.
“It would’ve tasted good.”
“I didn’t say it wouldn’t,” Jungkook said. “Just that it might’ve killed us.”
Jimin smiled at that, small, crooked. The kind of smile Jungkook felt in his chest more than he ever said out loud.
They managed to sneak out instead on an errand to get fresh ingredients. The bakery they found themselves in was warm and overly sweet, and they ended up splitting a red bean bun neither of them really wanted. Jimin talked about the training schedule for next month, about a new recruit who called him sir by accident, and Jungkook listened, chewing slowly, watching the snow melt in Jimin’s hair where it clung to his beanie.
“Sometimes I wish we could stay here,” Jimin said, too casually. “Just like this. No stages. No cameras. No expectations.”
“And no privacy,” Jungkook added, but it was soft, not a correction.
Jimin looked at him, eyes unreadable. “Still. It’s simple. You and me, walking around in cheap coats and arguing about pastries.”
“You think we’d survive it?”
“I don’t know,” Jimin said. “I think we already are.”
-
One of the days, they were late for formation.
Jungkook had overslept, the alarm drowned out by the heavy snowstorm that muffled all noise, and Jimin, always early, had apparently stayed curled up in his blanket across the room instead of waking him.
“You did that on purpose,” Jungkook hissed as they jogged toward the yard, boots thudding over the packed snow.
“You looked peaceful,” Jimin replied, breath coming out in little puffs. “I thought, why ruin it?”
Jungkook elbowed him. “You’re gonna ruin it now when we get marked late.”
Jimin smirked. “Blame it on love.”
Jungkook stumbled a little, startled, but Jimin didn’t elaborate. Just kept running, face forward, like he hadn’t said anything at all.
There wasn’t much space to imagine things weren’t different. Not when you brushed past each other four times a day in a corridor too narrow to turn around in, not when you had to sleep feet apart with everyone else breathing in unison around you. And not when Jimin kept doing those things, small, thoughtful things that didn’t belong to anyone but made Jungkook feel oddly responsible for them. For how much he liked them. How much he noticed. How much he’d come to expect them.
They started eating later in the canteen. Not on purpose, it just happened that way. Everyone else would finish early, and they’d linger, plates half-full and trays nudged slightly closer together. Jimin would always eat slowly, picking through the side dishes, folding the edge of the kimchi with his chopsticks before finally deciding it wasn’t the right kind today. Jungkook would tease him about it sometimes, but gently, in that soft voice he didn’t use often. The one Jimin never rolled his eyes at.
The conversation wasn’t anything special. It was always about something else: the new drill instructor, the state of the boots they’d been issued, a dream Jungkook barely remembered but tried to retell anyway. But underneath it, something quieter.
He tried to shrug it off, to chalk it up to shared time and habit. But it was hard to ignore the way Jimin lingered a little too long when he handed over his canteen, or how his gaze flicked down to Jungkook’s mouth when he was focused on something else. Harder still when they brushed shoulders by accident and Jungkook didn’t step away. Not right away.
-
He wasn’t sure when he noticed Hyunjae.
Probably the second month, when the teasing started. Small things, the way a couple of older soldiers rolled their eyes when Hyunjae talked. How they muttered under their breath about “guys like that.”
Jungkook didn’t join in. He just tied his boots and kept his head down, telling himself it wasn’t his problem.
Jimin didn’t say anything, either, until the day someone shoved Hyunjae’s folded uniform off his bunk. The slap of cloth against concrete made everyone look up.
“Pick it up yourself, princess,” one of them muttered. One of the only two guys older than Jimin in the barracks.
No one moved.
Then Jimin stood. Calmly. Like he’d been expecting this moment all along.
“You dropped something,” he said, voice soft but clear.
The older guy stared back, clearly stunned at being spoken to by Jimin. “Yeah, and?”
“You can pick it up,” Jimin said again. “Or you can explain to the first sergeant why you can’t follow basic decency.”
The silence felt brittle. Finally, the man bent to pick up the uniform.
Jimin didn’t thank him. He just set a hand on Hyunjae’s shoulder and walked away.
That night, they sat on the steps behind the barracks, the air sharp with frost. Jungkook knew Jimin would say something. He just didn’t expect it to feel like this.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he started, meaning make it worse.
Jimin didn’t look at him. “He didn’t deserve it.”
“I didn’t say he did.”
“You didn’t say anything at all,” Jimin said quietly.
Jungkook rubbed at the edge of his boot. “Yeah, but it's not like that,” he spoke through the cotton in his mouth, his heart taking permanent residence in his throat.
Jimin’s jaw tightened. “So you'd let them say it,” he started slowly, “you wouldn't say anything?”
Jungkook swallowed. “I didn’t want to make it worse for him. Jimin-hyung, this is the fucking military. Don't tell me you expected it to be different?”
He loved this about Jimin. His gentleness, his belief in doing the right thing, in believing there was a right thing to do, but he could be so unreasonable. There were equally as many people in here who hated them for being celebrities, as there were those who loved them. What was the point in making a point in a place like this?
“No,” Jimin said. His voice went softer, almost tired, “I didn't.” Jungkook sighed in relief, at least he understood. “I just expected you to be different.”
-
After that night, they didn’t talk about it again. Not directly. Jimin didn’t bring it up again. He just kept being himself, soft-spoken, determined, annoyingly sure of what was right.
But something changed anyway.
Jimin stopped filling silences with easy jokes. Stopped smoothing things over when the other soldiers made their offhand comments.
If anything, he became more obvious about where he stood. Sitting with Hyunjae at lunch, offering him the last protein bar from the care package his mom sent all the way from Busan, laughing with him between drills.
Jungkook watched, something sour blooming under his ribs. It wasn’t jealousy. Not really. Just the realization that there were parts of Jimin he’d never catch up to. He'd locked something inside him, and Jungkook, who had always had the key to all of Jimin, was empty-handed.
They shared a bunk room with six others, but most nights, Jungkook found himself awake long after the others turned over. The distance, a slow, cold ache.
Sometimes he’d glance down, and there was Jimin, face slack with sleep, one hand curled under his cheek like he was dreaming something harmless, always beautiful.
-
It was the night before a field exercise when it cracked open again.
They were in the rec room, half-watching the TV. One of the older sergeants made a joke about Hyunjae, something crass that made the air flatten.
Jungkook felt Jimin’s breath catch beside him, but this time he didn’t let it pass.
“Enough,” Jimin said, even.
The sergeant blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Don’t be soft,” the man muttered.
“I’d rather be soft than a coward,” Jimin said, his voice unshaking.
Jungkook’s palms went cold.
Later, when it was just them, Jimin sitting cross-legged on his bunk, Jungkook leaning against the wall with his arms folded tight, neither of them said anything.
For a while, the only sound was the scrape of boots in the hallway.
Then Jimin said, very low, “It’s not only about Hyunjae. You know that.”
Jungkook closed his eyes. “I know.”
“You can pretend you don’t care about me. But don’t pretend you don’t care about yourself.”
“You think this is about self-respect?”
“I think,” Jimin said carefully, “that you don’t always know the difference between hiding and surviving.”
He wanted to laugh. Or argue. Or reach out and touch him.
Instead, he said nothing.
When the lights went out, Jungkook lay awake, listening to Jimin shift under his blanket. He kept thinking about the way Jimin’s voice had sounded, low, certain, unafraid. And he hated himself a little for wishing he could be the same.
He thought of the last trip, the way Jimin’s fingers had brushed his wrist under the hot spring water. The way he’d said I like you like it was an admission and a benediction all at once.
-
The days continued in a rhythm, waking before dawn, the dry scrape of boots on concrete, the long hours of drills and drills again.
Jungkook would look across the yard and find Jimin, back straight, chin lifted, the most sincere, the ace, always the best in everything. And it felt stupid—like he was seventeen again, convinced Jimin had all the answers he’d never be brave enough to ask for.
But there was comfort too, when he didn't think about things like this. Mornings, far too many, when they ended up in the showers at the same time, and he was happiest to be exactly where he was. Rows of tile, steam curling against the frosted windows, water hammering the concrete in a steady hiss, singing sometimes, harmonizing or tuneless.
He tried not to look. Tried not to notice the slope of Jimin’s shoulders, the way the water glistened down his back. But the noticing happened anyway.
Once, he dropped the soap. It skidded across the drain grate, stopping near Jimin’s foot.
“You good?” Jimin asked mildly, bending to pick it up.
“Fine,” Jungkook muttered, voice too brittle.
Jimin straightened, eyes flicking over his face. “You’re so jumpy.”
“Shut up.”
But his cheeks were hot, and they both knew it.
-
The thing about Jimin was, he never made a performance out of caring.
Jungkook had watched it over and over. The way Jimin always noticed when someone needed help, or when a mood went sour, or when a silence grew too wide. He was gentle about it, like it cost him nothing to give small kindnesses.
Maybe that was why it felt worse when he offered Jungkook the same softness. Like Jungkook was just another person he was trying to make comfortable, instead of the one person who used to be different.
Jimin soared and he struggled. And this is what he'd always been afraid of, that outside the spotlight Jimin would realize he was nothing but a reflective surface. He was only shining the light of his hyungs, Jimin the brightest. He was still that painfully shy, awkward kid living off borrowed light.
He'd read so many comments before about how lucky it was that he would be there for Jimin during their enlistment, he'd almost started to believe them himself. But he didn't need anyone, Jimin-hyung, he never did.
It was Hyunjae who finally made something in him twist.
Hyunjae was earnest in a way that still made the older guys roll their eyes, though they left him alone now. He looked at Jimin like he was watching the person he wanted to become. Like Jimin’s quiet goodness was something he could hold in his own hands if he just stayed close enough.
He’d sit next to Jimin at meals, his shoulders squared like he was bracing for a laugh, always offering the last piece of whatever they were eating.
And Jimin, Jimin just accepted it with that small, patient smile. Like it didn’t occur to him that he was breaking someone’s heart a little, just by being decent.
One evening, they were doing kit checks at the long folding tables. Hyunjae sat across from Jimin, bent over the straps of his harness, talking about some movie he wanted to see when they were discharged.
“You’d like it,” he said, too quickly. “It’s—there’s dancing. I know you used to dance.”
Jimin gave that soft laugh that always hit something under Jungkook’s ribs. “Used to,” he agreed.
“You could come with me,” Hyunjae said, hopeful and awkward all at once.
Jungkook’s hand stilled on the buckle he was polishing.
Jimin didn’t look at him. “That’s kind,” he said gently, “but I don’t think—”
“It’s not—like that,” Hyunjae stammered, going red. “Just—you know.”
Jimin nodded, still gentle. “I know.”
And that was it. A kindness, a soft refusal, and Hyunjae went quiet again, looking down at his hands.
-
Later, when they were alone in the storage corridor, Jungkook couldn’t stop himself.
“He likes you,” he said, too sharp.
Jimin closed the cabinet he’d been checking. “It’s not like that.”
“Don’t be naive.”
Jimin looked up, something tired in his expression. “What do you want me to do? Be cruel?”
“Be honest.”
“I was,” Jimin said, voice so even it almost hurt. “You think being kind means leading someone on?”
“No,” Jungkook muttered. “I just think—you make it too easy for people to fall for you.”
Jimin didn’t smile. “That’s not my fault.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“But you think it is.”
For a second, Jungkook almost said everything. About how it felt to watch Jimin’s gentleness, knowing it belonged to everyone. About the stupid, sick envy that even Hyunjae—young, hopeful, clumsy Hyunjae—got something from him that felt precious.
But he didn’t.
That night, he lay on his back in the bunk, eyes open to the low ceiling.
Jimin was already turned away, his breathing slow, even.
Sometimes, he thought he could live with it. The borrowed light. The knowledge that Jimin’s patience was infinite but never just for him.
Other nights, it felt like being hollowed out from the inside. It wasn’t fair. He knew that. But the unfairness didn’t make it feel any less true.
-
One afternoon, as they were sorting supplies in the storage room, he finally let it slip.
“You going to take him to see that movie?”
Jimin didn’t look up. “Who?”
“You know who.”
“He’s just lonely,” Jimin said softly.
“He likes you.”
“He’s allowed.”
Jungkook’s jaw clenched. “You let everyone like you.”
Jimin paused, setting down a roll of tape. When he finally looked up, his eyes were too steady.
“And you don’t?”
It landed like a stone between them.
“You're mad at me?” Jungkook asks, leaning against the mirror. “For not having said it back?”
Jimin doesn’t look up. “No.”
“You didn’t talk to me all day.”
“That’s not new.”
Jungkook closed his eyes. “You’re freezing me out.”
“No,” Jimin said. “I’m just not warming you up anymore.”
That lands heavier than it should. He said it without anger. Which makes it worse.
“Like you're not doing it deliberately,” Jungkook scoffed, unable to help himself. “This thing with him.”
Jimin's jaw clenches, his dimple just a taut line on stretched skin. “This might surprise you, Jungkook, but not everything I do has to do with you.”
It's pretty tame, all things considered. But it's still the harshest thing Jimin has said to him since do what you want, I'm not going to care about you anymore. His Jiminie hyung, who's always so careful with him, like Jungkook really is made of twenty-four carat gold, malleable and ductile.
He's hurt, so he wants to hurt. “Sure, not everything you do has to do with me, only most things.”
The hurt flashed across Jimin's expression, lightning-fast, and he nearly apologizes, like a Pavlovian response drawn out of him from years of training. The same feeling making its way into crevices of his chest, pushing the air out. I am you, you are me. He can't even hurt Jimin without wounding himself.
Jimin turned to leave and he felt a surge of panic
“We can't leave things like this,” he could hear his voice tinged with desperation. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry okay.”
Then.
“You know I’m not happy,” Jungkook forced out, after a beat.
Jimin turned, a beat when Jungkook thought he was going to come closer. Then he settled back against the cupboard, the edge of his arm brushing Jungkook's.
“You always do this,” Jimin said, almost gently.
“What?“
“Make me feel like I'm the reason you're unhappy,” he stopped. “Or that I'm the only one who can make you happy. It's too much power to give someone else. Or the illusion of it.”
Someone else, but there was always him, and everything else.
”You're unhappy but that doesn’t mean you know what would make you happy,” Jimin continued. “It’s not the same thing.”
“You think I’m just confused?”
Jimin stands, slowly. “I think you’re scared. And I think you think I’ll wait forever.”
And then he turned, and Jungkook saw it, clear as the thought of Seoul somewhere far behind them, glittering and distant, the hurt Jimin had been carrying quietly. Softly. In every space Jungkook had asked him to wait in without promising he’d ever arrive.
“I never asked you to wait.” He felt sick.
“No,” Jimin's voice is low. “But you’ve never asked me to stop either.”
-
They still showered late together that night, despite everything, still unable to let go of the comfort of presence. Rows of white tile. Steam thick as breath.
Jimin scrubbed his hair under the spray, water pouring over the clean lines of his shoulders.
Jungkook tried not to stare, tried not to feel that slow, crawling, shameful heat.
“You ever get tired of this?” he asked suddenly, voice echoing off the tile.
“Of what?”
“Being—” He hesitated. “So good.”
Jimin tipped his head back, eyes closed. Water streamed down his throat.
“I’m not so good,” he said. “I’m just tired of pretending I don’t care.”
The words hit him somewhere tender. He didn’t answer. He didn’t think he could.
“And Jungkook,” Jimin said, picking up his towel, which Jungkook knew would be abrasive, harsh against his sensitive skin, leave marks where there should be none. “I don't know the story you tell yourself about yourself, but you're good too. So effortlessly bright, and kind, and good. So easy to love in all the ways that take me effort, that I can only try to be. Sometimes, I can't stand it.”
Jungkook turned around, a shocked denial half-caught in his throat, but Jimin was gone.
-
Minjeong entered the picture halfway through their service.
It was exactly the kind of stupid thing he'd have done when he was fifteen. That he though he'd maybe grown out of, but hadn't.
She was a friend of a friend. They’d met when she came along to a group dinner during his leave, sweet and clever in a way that made everything feel uncomplicated.
The first time she texted him afterward, he’d been sitting on the edge of his bunk, watching Jimin sleep. The contrast felt obvious and unfair.
They’d text between his kitchen sessions, her messages bright as a small window into normal life, while he applied aloe vera to burns over and over.
Eat something real, she’d send.
When are you back in Seoul?
You look tired in that picture—are you sleeping?
Sometimes he’d read them with relief, like proof that he was allowed to be more than whatever tangle he and Jimin had become.
But other nights, when the bunks were dark after lights out, he’d feel the guilt.
Because Minjeong's softness didn’t erase the way his chest pulled tight when Jimin’s arm brushed his in the mess line. Or the way he still looked for Jimin first when they were dismissed for the day.
They started dating slowly anyway, in the way you do when you’re trying not to think too much.
-
One evening, they were assigned cleaning duty together, just them, sweeping the locker hall in companionable silence.
Jimin hummed under his breath, something slow and tuneless.
“You’re in a good mood,” Jungkook said, more sharply than he intended.
Jimin paused. “Am I not allowed?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Jimin set the broom against the wall and turned. The fluorescent light washed him pale, made the shadows under his eyes look deeper.
“You’ve been...different,” he said finally.
“Different how.”
“Like you’re somewhere else. Even when you’re here.”
Jungkook looked away. “You don’t get to say that.”
“Don’t I?” Jimin’s voice was low. “You’re the one who keeps deciding what I get to know about you.”
Some other guys came in, loud with end-of-day relief, and the moment folded up small, like it had never happened.
-
He didn’t tell Jimin right away.
Not because it was a secret. Just because it felt simpler not to name it. But the barracks had a way of chewing up anything private. One misplaced letter, one stupid comment, one careless laugh, and the story made its way to every bunk.
It was after evening mess when he first heard them. Two of the corporals, lingering near the exit, voices pitched just loud enough to carry, the friendly ribbing clearly for him to hear.
“Jeon’s practically domesticated. You seen how he goes soft every time she texts?”
“He’s lucky,” the other one said, smirking, but good-natured, “Not all of us get to date at the level of a member of BTS.”
And then, the part that made his stomach clench:
“Good for your, Hyunjae. Guess you may get lucky after all.”
A bark of laughter.
Jungkook felt it immediately, the way Jimin’s posture shifted beside him. The way he went still, like he’d braced for impact.
“Jungkook-hyung, when are you introducing your girlfriend to us?”
Jungkook stiffened. “She’s not—”
Jimin’s hands slowed on the cloth he was using. He didn’t look up.
They didn’t talk about it that night.
But later, when they were both washing up in the showers, the lack of distance felt more loaded than usual.
Steam drifted between them, curling around the tile. Jimin’s shoulders were tense, his jaw tight.
“You’re not going to say anything?” Jungkook asked finally, unable to look at the familiar curve of his back.
Jimin didn’t meet his eyes. “Say what?”
“Whatever it is you’re thinking.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“That’s bullshit.”
Jimin turned towards him. Droplets of water slid down the curve of his neck. Something in his face softened, almost unwillingly. “Fine, go ahead, say it now. I can read in your face you're dying to.”
“I’m seeing someone,” Jungkook said, throat tight.
Jimin didn’t respond right away. “Okay.”
“It’s…new.”
“Okay,” Jimin said again.
Jungkook waited, stupidly, for something else.
“That’s all?” he asked.
Jimin finally met his gaze. “Do you want me to say something dramatic?”
“No.”
“Then yeah,” Jimin said. “That’s all.”
The silence that followed was loud. "I want," Jungkook began, and then realized it was true before he said it, "I want you to say whatever you want to say."
Jimin looked at him. “I don’t care that you’re seeing someone,” he said, voice edged. “I care that you didn’t tell me yourself. I care that I had to find out from people who don’t know a damn thing about us.”
Jungkook swallowed, throat dry. “It’s not serious.”
“Then why did you lie about it?”
“I didn’t lie.”
Jimin’s mouth twisted. “No? What would you call it?”
“Don’t act like you’re innocent,” Jungkook snapped. “You let him follow you around like a puppy. You let everyone think—”
“Think what?” Jimin interrupted, voice rising for the first time.
“That you’re—” He broke off, chest heaving.
Jimin stepped closer, not blinking. “That I’m what?”
Jungkook shook his head. “Forget it.”
“No,” Jimin said. “Say it.”
“You let everyone think you’d say yes to anyone who tried hard enough,” Jungkook bit out. "Though you know you won't. No matter how hard they tried."
Jimin didn’t look away. When he spoke again, his voice was level, but something in it was trembling.
“You can be angry,” he said. “But don’t pretend you’re angry at me.”
“I’m not angry,” Jungkook ground out.
“You are,” Jimin said, low but fierce. “You’re angry because you think I don’t care enough. Because you think if I cared as much as you want me to, I’d say something.”
His heart thumped so hard he could feel it in his throat.
“Then say something,” he said, softer than he meant, the plea so obvious, he should have been embarrassed.
Jimin exhaled. His eyes searched his face like he was trying to find something to hold onto.
“It wouldn't matter," he said. "Because you don’t trust it. Because you think if I don’t say it exactly the way you want, it doesn’t count.”
Jungkook felt something small and bitter crack under his ribs.
“Fine,” he said. “I’m glad you know.”
“Me too,” Jimin said, though his voice was softer now. “I’m tired of make-believing this is something it isn’t.”
Jungkook felt heat climb up his neck, his chest.
“So that’s it?” he demanded. “You’re just going to stand there like none of this is real?”
“That's not what I'm doing,” he said. “But you don’t get to be angry at me for not saying something you don’t want to hear.”
Later, when everyone was asleep, he could see Jimin’s hand flexed on the edge of his mattress.
“You know what the worst part is?” he said so quietly, he could almost be saying it to himself. “It’s not even that you’re trying to move on. It’s that you keep acting like you’re not.”
Jungkook felt something pinch in his throat. “I’m not—”
“You are,” Jimin murmured. “And maybe you should. Maybe it would be kinder. But—”
He trailed off, breathing out.
“But what.”
Jimin lifted his head. His eyes were steady, tired.
“But you don’t get to be surprised that it hurts,” he finished.
They didn’t speak the rest of the night. But when the lights went out, and the room slipped into dark, he heard Jimin sigh, a shaky, soft breath that sounded like it had cost something.
-
That morning, with bunks creaking faintly as others stirred. Jungkook turned over, arm curled under his head, and thought about the way Jimin’s hand looked when he pressed it flat over the cotton.
Jimin was already awake. Sitting on the edge of his bed, socks in hand, head bowed like he was lost in thought or just too tired to move yet. His hair was a mess. The kind of mess Jungkook wanted to touch. Flatten it down, smooth it behind his ear. Stupid thoughts. Dangerous ones.
When Jimin looked up, their eyes met for half a second too long.
It wasn’t that anything had changed. Not really.
They still shared shifts. Still split toothpaste. Still found themselves shoulder to shoulder more often than not. The time Jimin caught a cold, again, and Jungkook made a show of being annoyed, but still tucked an extra packet of ginger tea in his coat pocket and dropped it wordlessly on Jimin’s bunk.
Jimin smiled at it, not at him.
But ever since that night, something had frayed. Something delicate, barely visible. But Jungkook could feel it every time Jimin didn’t look at him too long, or laughed just a fraction quieter when Jungkook was near.
And he hated how much he noticed it.
They stood side by side peeling potatoes later one morning, hands moving automatically.
Jimin didn’t say anything for a long time. Then, without looking up, he said, “They’re going to keep asking.”
Jungkook glanced at him. “About our lives?”
Jimin gave a small shrug. “About anything we don’t answer.”
He didn’t sound mad. Just resigned.
Jungkook wiped his hands on the hem of his shirt. “We don’t have to explain anything.”
“No,” Jimin agreed. “But it’d be nice if it felt like there was something to explain.”
Jungkook opened his mouth, but no words came. There was something sour in his throat, a mix of guilt and longing, and none of it knew how to come out clean.
Jimin didn’t wait for a response. He finished his pile and walked to the sink without another word.
Later that week, they got paired up for ration delivery. A simple errand, two hours round-trip and a chance to breathe outside the base fences.
They walked mostly in silence, boots crunching over loose gravel. The box between them was light, not enough to justify the closeness, but neither of them commented on it.
“Did she send another package?” Jimin asked after a while.
Jungkook didn’t answer immediately.
“Minjeong?” Jimin added, tone still careful.
“Yeah,” Jungkook said. “Snacks. A letter.”
Jimin nodded. “That’s nice.”
“She asked if you liked the honey butter chips.”
Jimin smiled faintly. “Tell her thanks.”
Jungkook didn’t say that he already had. That he’d told her Jimin liked the ones that weren’t too sweet. That he’d saved the last bag and stashed it in his drawer, unopened.
Instead, he said, “She’s good. Kind.”
“I bet,” Jimin murmured.
“She reminds me of you, a little.”
Jimin blinked. “That’s either a compliment or a terrible decision.”
Jungkook gave a weak laugh. “I think it’s both.”
And still, there was that weight again. That something was being said around the truth but not inside it.
Jimin didn’t ask anything else. He just shifted the box slightly, so it didn’t bump Jungkook’s arm with every step.
In the rec room, Hyunjae was sketching in the corner with a half-used pencil, head bent low.
Jungkook passed behind him on the way to the water dispenser and glanced down without meaning to.
It was a drawing of someone sitting on a bench. A figure in sweats, hair tied back, posture soft and familiar.
He didn’t have to ask who it was.
Jimin came in a minute later, two cups of tea balanced in his hands. He set one down by Hyunjae, nodded at the drawing.
“You gave him my ears again,” he said.
Hyunjae flushed. “Sorry, hyung.”
“It’s cute,” Jimin said, smiling.
Jungkook looked away.
That night, they sat on the steps again, the chill biting at their fingers. Jimin passed him a packet of rice crackers. They weren’t speaking, really. Just sharing air.
“You ever think we got too good at pretending?” Jimin said suddenly.
Jungkook turned. “Pretending what?”
Jimin met his eyes. “That this is all there is.”
Jungkook’s throat closed up. “It is all there is.”
“Maybe right now,” Jimin said, not unkind. “But not forever.”
He said it like he believed it. Like time didn’t scare him. Like he didn’t know how easy it was to miss something by waiting too long to want it out loud.
Jungkook crumbled a cracker between his fingers and didn’t eat it. He thought about the simple truth he hadn’t wanted to admit: that no matter how much he liked Minjeong's warmth, or how much he wanted a life that felt uncomplicated, none of it made Jimin’s absence feel any smaller.
That he didn't know what he wanted from Jimin anymore. Or maybe he did. He just didn't know how to want it without burning everything else down.
-
It started like any other evening.
They were sitting in the patio after evening drills, trays scraped clean, everyone too tired to pretend they weren’t paying attention to each other. The stupid kind of conversation that happened when everyone was too worn to be polite.
Minwoo, as always, had the tact of a brick.
“So, hyung,” he started, leaning over the table toward Jungkook. “Winter—are you serious with her or just messing around?”
Jungkook didn’t look up. “Why do you care?”
“Because,” Minwoo said cheerfully, “everyone thought you were already taken.”
Hyunjae, halfway through a sip of tea, choked.
Jimin didn’t flinch. He tore the corner off a packet of salt and tipped it into his soup, steady as ever.
“Taken by who?” Jungkook asked flatly, even though he already knew the answer.
Minwoo looked genuinely confused by the question. “By him.”
He nodded at Jimin like it was obvious.
Jimin set the empty packet down neatly.
“We’re not,” he said, mild.
Minwoo blinked. “Never?”
“No,” Jungkook said, his tone a warning.
Minwoo frowned. “But…never? You haven't fooled around? Not even once?”
Jungkook’s jaw clenched. “No.” He didn't add the simple truth that they'd never even thought of fooling around because nobody they know would've been fooled.
“Not even—” Minwoo’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ve never hooked up?”
“No,” Jimin said firmly. A faint flush was creeping up his neck. And even now, in this insane moment, Jungkook can't help tracing the colour with his eyes. “We haven’t.”
The table went quiet.
Jimin stirred his soup with a plastic spoon, head still bowed.
Hyunjae ducked his head, mortified. Someone else let out a low whistle.
“Man,” Minwoo muttered. “I wouldn’t have bet on that.”
Jungkook snapped his book closed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Minwoo, sensing he’d hit something raw, tried to backpedal.
“I mean, no judgment,” he said. “You just—you two are always together. And when we watched that show, that travel show, you said it wasn't scripted.”
Jungkook’s throat felt dry. “So? What the fuck does that have to do with anything.” He ignored Jimin's soft sound of protest at him cursing in front of the kids, as Jimin called them.
“So it just…looks like more,” Minwoo said carefully. “Like you—”
“Like what?” Jimin asked, voice thinner now.
“Like you can’t stand to be apart,” Minwoo finished. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Jimin interrupted. He looked up, meeting Jungkook’s eyes for just a second. “It’s a fair question.”
And that was the worst part.
Because it would have been so easy, so many times. A single night, a single question. It should have happened after some drinks in his apartment, in Jimin's apartment. After a fight in their old studio. It should have happened in Japan, the first time, the second time. It should have happened in the heat of a tour, year after year, those nights he spent in Jimin's bed, electrified. After New York. Or that night in Connecticut when he couldn’t stop worrying. Or Jeju when Taehyung went to sleep. Or Sapporo when everything felt too close to ending.
It would have been easier if he could have told himself it was just about nostalgia. Easier still if he could pretend it was about the cameras.
But the truth was, it was always about Jimin. And instead, they were here, sitting side by side, acting like none of it mattered.
“Looks can lie,” Jungkook cut in, sharper than he meant.
Hyunjae cleared his throat. “Let’s change the subject.”
“Yeah,” Jimin said softly, still not looking up. “It’s nothing.”
He waited in the corridor until he heard footsteps behind him—Jimin, hands tucked into his sleeves, gaze careful.
“You know they don’t mean anything by it,” Jimin said.
“Doesn’t make it less annoying,” Jungkook muttered.
Jimin nodded, like he agreed, but his shoulders were tight.
“You looked embarrassed,” Jungkook said, voice low.
Jimin’s mouth twisted, like he'd bit his tongue. “Wouldn’t you be?”
“Why? Because it’s unthinkable someone wouldn’t want you?”
Jimin blinked, caught off guard. “That’s not what I meant. I just don’t like people assuming things I didn’t say.”
And for some reason, an inconvenient memory makes its way back: a few evenings back when Jimin had washed his hair for him over the sink when his hand was still burned and bandaged.
How he had felt feel his jaw sightly slack, as Jimin ran his fingers through his hair. And fuck, Jimin had to have noticed by then. The straining of his jeans against his leg, though they were fully dressed.
But Jimin ignored it. Didn't say a word. Continued caressing him, carefully massaging the shampoo in his hair, like they were in their old dorm and this was a regular Tuesday. Ignoring the elephant in the room, that Jungkook was so turned on, he was practically leaking.
Even though it felt slightly shameful to admit, made him sound conceited, Jungkook used to think that it was him, the only one holding back. That he only needed to give in, and then it'd all be okay. That all he needed to do was take a few steps to where Jimin had surely been waiting for him for a while. Not knowing for each of his, Jimin would take three back. Or maybe, he had never moved at all.
“Yeah,” Jungkook said. “Me neither.”
But the whole walk back to the barracks, he couldn’t stop thinking about how nobody had believed them.
-
It's weird, but he kind of thinks he's been telling the story wrong.
These were moments too, sure, but somehow he think he's missing the real story, the rest of it, the good days.
Days whey played foot volleyball with the others on Sunday, Jimin laughing so hard he fell backwards in the dirt.
Jungkook helped him up, grip firm around his wrist, and Jimin looked at him, breathless and bright, for a second too long.
Later, when they washed off in the cold showers, Jimin sang under his breath, a half-remembered melody from an old album.
Jungkook hummed along without thinking.
The other moments, far greater in number, where he laughed with Jimin, where Jimin was around to eat with him, when he sang with Jimin in the showers and planned for a future on the stage, where he packed just the food Jimin liked when he went into training, when he bandaged his bleeding foot and Jimin fussed over his burns, and nothing else mattered, because nothing else ever had.
All the times Jimin leaned back on one arm, his eyes catching the light, the curve of his smile the same one Jungkook had first memorized eight years ago on a balcony in Japan, when neither of them had known yet how far they’d follow each other.
-
On the last night before discharge, he found Jimin sitting on the back steps, the cold seeping through their fatigues.
They ended up outside, sitting on the back steps in the dark.
It smelled like wet concrete and leftover disinfectant.
“You know,” Jimin said after a while, “it wasn’t all bad.”
“No,” Jungkook agreed. “It wasn’t.”
“I’m glad we did this together.”
Jungkook felt his throat close. “Yeah.”
Jimin didn’t look at him when he spoke again.
“I’m not...mad,” he said, voice low. “About Minjeong. About any of it.”
“I know.”
“Your devotion is so big,” he continued gently. “I'm glad you found a place for it.”
Who is my heart waiting for, to show you what devotion is.
He thinks, for a moment, of all the numbers their albums made, the charts, the Billboard titles, the articles, and this life here; a sparse bunk at the end of a row, and a shoulder to carry his weight. His heart had never had to find a place before.
“Do you think we’ll talk like this after?” Jimin asked suddenly.
Jungkook blinked. “Like what?”
Jimin shrugged. “Like we do here. About nothing. About everything.”
Jungkook swallowed. “I want to.”
Jimin nodded slowly. “But wanting doesn’t mean you will.”
“You think I’ll just forget?”
“I think,” Jimin said, “that it’s easier to stay close when the world is this small.”
That night, after lights out, Jungkook felt something brush against his fingers, something light and familiar. He blinked in the dark and realized Jimin’s arm was dangling down loosely in the gap between them.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then he reached up, and let their fingers hook. Not quite a grip, not quite not.
Jimin didn’t move.
They just stayed like that, suspended in the quiet, until the ache in Jungkook’s chest softened into something else. Not relief, exactly, but not quite not either.
-
Jimin glanced up, pen stilling over his notes. “You’re going to be insufferable all week, aren’t you?”
“It’s four days,” Jungkook said. “I can pace myself.”
Jimin didn’t smile. But the corner of his mouth quirked, like he was tempted.
Jimin looked up from his notes, blinking slowly. “We’re being paid to do this, Jungkook. You like money, don’t you?”
“That’s not the point.”
Jimin’s mouth half-curved again. “You like attention too.”
Jungkook narrowed his eyes. “I liked it better when we were in the barracks. No cameras. No stylists.”
“You also complained every day that any food you didn't personally make was bad,” Jimin said.
Jungkook shrugged. “At least you couldn’t run away.”
Jimin stilled, just for a second. His expression did something small and unguarded, then smoothed over again.
“I don’t remember trying to run away,” he said, and flipped to the next page in the schedule.
They were supposed to film a short segment about post-service routines for the second season of Are You Sure. Jungkook had shown up in a black t-shirt and a pair of jeans he’d worn the day before. Jimin was in a pressed button-down that looked too nice for the cluttered kitchen.
When the director called break, Jungkook helped himself to the fruit platter meant for the staff.
“You know that’s for everyone,” Jimin said mildly.
“I’m part of everyone,” Jungkook replied around a piece of melon.
Jimin looked him over, like he was trying to decide if it was worth arguing. “You never change.”
Jungkook chewed thoughtfully. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Jimin only laughed at him, bright and present, still the sweetest thing on his tongue. For half a day in Hanoi Jungkook had thought of Minwoo saying it looks like more and tried to stay out of Jimin's orbit. But, strangely enough, pretending he was acting, that it was all a script, was far more exhausting, and he'd gravitated right back in.
-
It was easier, somehow, to bicker when there were cameras in the room. They filmed interviews and staged walks through the market, Jimin gamely tasting every sample the shopkeepers offered, Jungkook mostly lurking just out of frame with his hands in his pockets.
During breaks, they sat on low plastic stools behind the vendors. Jimin leaned against the wall with his eyes closed. Jungkook cracked sunflower seeds between his teeth, flicking the shells into an empty cup.
“You’re going to ruin your teeth,” Jimin mumbled without opening his eyes.
“You’ll be devastated if I’m not handsome anymore.”
“Truly inconsolable.”
Jungkook tipped his head back, the sun bright on his face. “When we were in the middle of everything—BTS, the tours, the press—I used to think it would all get clearer when we slowed down.”
“Did it?”
He shook his head. “No.”
Jimin nodded like he expected that answer too.
“I keep thinking,” Jungkook said slowly, “that I want to do something, say something. But by the time I figure out what it is, the moment’s already gone.”
Jimin gave a small smile. “That’s very you.”
Jungkook looked up. “Is that a compliment?”
“It's an insult, Jungkook-ssi, learn to read the lines before you read in between them.” But he was still smiling.
-
The first week back in Seoul, they met up with the others for drinks. Jimin arrived late, short hair damp from a shower, black t-shirt clinging to his chest. Some things never changed.
Jungkook had tried not to watch him. He was bad at pretending.
They talked around each other all evening—loud, practiced, familiar. Or at least Jimin did. Jungkook reprised his familiar role as the wallflower, his blood in restless motion, at not having Jimin right next to him, and no excuse to demand it. They weren't in the barracks anymore. They really should be sick of each other by now.
Halfway through dinner, Jimin slid into the seat beside him, smelling like laundry detergent and something warmer.
“You haven’t spoken to anyone in thirty minutes,” he said.
“I’m listening.”
“You’re sulking.”
“I’m enjoying myself,” Jungkook insisted.
Jimin’s hand brushed against his under the table, so briefly it could have been an accident.
“You don’t have to stay.”
“I know,” Jungkook said, voice low. “But you’ll talk about me if I leave.”
Jimin winked at him. “Probably.”
-
Rehearsals for the comeback started the next week. They were back in the mirrored practice room, everyone moving in half-familiar ways. Hoseok barked corrections. Yoongi sat on the floor, looking unimpressed.
Jungkook saw Jimin first at the entrance, propped against the glass wall, scrolling his phone.
For a second, he almost stopped walking. Like his body hadn’t caught up to the idea that they weren’t in uniform anymore. That they could stand as far apart as they wanted.
Jimin looked up, and something flickered across his face. Not quite a smile, not quite anything else.
“Morning,” he said, voice casual.
“Morning.”
That was it. Like they’d rehearsed it. Jungkook felt an absurd little rush of relief just seeing him. They walked into the room, Jimin set everything down and looked around the room like he was trying to remember where he’d left himself.
“You look exhausted,” Jungkook said before he could think better of it.
Jimin sat down cross-legged on the floor. “Thanks.”
“You should sleep more.”
“You should mind your own business more.”
“I felt better when I could feed you, hyung,” Jungkook said, out loud, which alone told him that he'd not been taking the distance well.
“Remember that week I was in the army kitchen?” Jimin said suddenly.
Jungkook snorted, only a little peeved Jimin had ignored the undercurrent. “You mean when you almost burned the place down and made that rice that turned into concrete?”
“You ate it.”
“I was starving.”
“You said it was good.”
Jungkook looked over his shoulder. “I was trying to impress you.”
Jimin stilled, the lists still in his hand. The fragrance of the steam from his cup misting the air.
“You’re annoying,” Jimin said finally.
“I know,” Jungkook said.
They were still sitting there when Taehyung walked in, took one look at them, and said, “Are you two going to help, or just do your married couple routine?”
Jimin rolled his eyes. Jungkook threw a balled-up tissue at him.
Taehyung looked delighted. “Exactly like old times,” he said, and walked off to set up the speakers.
-
He knew it was a stupid idea when he came into the studio room, and Jimin startled, nearly dropping his phone into his lap.
Jungkook’s brows lifted. “You’re jittery.”
“You’re very quiet,” Jimin said, pressing a hand to his chest. “You should wear a bell.”
Jungkook hovered there, holding a paper bag with one hand, unsure if he was really allowed to come inside.
“You’re working late,” he said finally.
Jimin glanced at the clock. “Not that late.”
“It’s late,” Jungkook insisted, and came in without waiting for permission he likely wasn't going to get. Jimin hated being distracted from work.
He set the bag down on the piano bench, avoiding Jimin’s eyes like it was something that required discipline.
“What’s that?”
“Food.”
Jimin tilted his head. “Why?”
“You forget to eat,” Jungkook muttered. “I was nearby.”
“Nearby,” Jimin repeated blankly.
Jungkook cleared his throat. “Sort of.”
Jimin looked at the paper bag and then back at Jungkook, who tried to school his face into something less cautious, less like he was afraid of being scolded.
“Minjeong's okay with this?” Jimin asked, unexpectedly.
Jungkook rubbed his cheek with the back of his hand, like he needed to do something with it. He honestly hadn't even thought about it. “Because I got food for my bandmate?”
“Mm. Is that what you did? Get food for your bandmate?”
He hesitated. “No. I got food for my best friend.”
Jimin fell silent at that, picking up the bag. Jungkook knew Jimin was imagining him standing in line at some late-night restaurant, trying to decide if he should buy it or not. The thought of Jimin reading him so easily made his chest ache in a quiet, inconvenient way.
“Are you going to eat with me?” he asked.
“I’ll sit,” Jungkook said. “I already ate.”
They ended up on the floor, backs against the wall, with the takeout containers between them.
Jimin stirred the dumpling broth idly. Jungkook watched him with his knees drawn up, forearms resting on top.
“This is too much,” Jimin said eventually.
“It was only twenty thousand won.”
“I don’t mean the money.”
Jungkook looked away, a faint line between his brows. “Don’t think too much about it.”
“I’m not the one thinking too much,” Jimin said.
Jungkook looked at him, exasperated, but softer at the edges. He should've known better than to imagine that Jimin would take even this small gesture quietly. He never did. He gave so much and was so bad at taking.
Eventually, Jimin closed the empty soup container and set it aside. “You don’t have to keep trying so hard,” he said.
Jungkook blinked at him. “Trying what?”
“This. Being—” He gestured vaguely. “Considerate.”
“I’m not trying,” Jungkook said, trying to keep his voice even. “You’re hungry. I brought food. That’s all.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” Jimin murmured.
There wasn't really a counter to that.
-
The first real crack came three weeks in, when they were alone in the practice room.
Earlier that evening they'd argued over counts until Hoseok had kicked a water bottle at them.
“Sort it out,” he'd said, exasperated.
It was supposed to be just choreography review and walking through the duet bridge, nothing serious. Jimin was adjusting the playback volume, and Jungkook caught himself watching the way his hand hovered over the console. The way his wrist flexed. The way he always did this, like everything was delicate, even the things that weren’t.
They stood close enough that the space between them felt charged, like an electric fence.
Jimin stretched, the hem of his t-shirt rising over his ribs.
“Stop staring,” he said, not turning around.
“You’re in the way,” Jungkook said, even though he wasn’t.
“You’re transparent,” Jimin muttered, and reached for his water bottle, without moving back. “You’re going to make this weird.”
“It was already weird,” Jungkook muttered.
Jimin finally came closer, hand settling on his waist, warm through his shirt.
“You’re off count,” he said for the third time.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Jungkook threw his head back. “You’re imagining it.”
“Just—come here,” Jimin said, exasperated. He stepped behind him, pressing a hand to his spine, guiding his weight forward.
“Count,” Jimin said, voice steady. “One, two, lift—”
But when Jungkook’s hands gripped his hips, neither of them moved. For a second, it felt to him that if he exhaled, the room might catch fire. He held his breath.
Jimin looked up at him.
“We have to practice,” he said, but his voice had gone hoarse. He was still the one to pull away first.
But still, every time they stood too close in the mirror, something in him went taut. Once, when Jimin adjusted the mic pack at the back of his shirt, his fingers brushed the skin there.
Jungkook tried not to shiver. He failed.
“You okay?” Jimin asked, voice low.
“No,” Jungkook said. “But you knew that.”
That evening, Jungkook met Minjeong for dinner. She kissed his cheek and held his hand across the table, smiling in that soft, careful way she did when she was trying not to crowd him.
“You’re quiet,” she said, brushing her thumb over his knuckles.
“Just tired,” Jungkook said.
“Long rehearsal?”
“Yeah. It was…a lot.”
He tried to focus on her voice, on the easy comfort of her presence, but part of him kept drifting back to that old practice room.
-
But it didn’t change the way they were, even in L.A.
At rehearsal, Jimin still fixed the collar of his shirt without asking.
At photoshoots, in lives, he still muttered jokes under his breath to make Jungkook smile.
And at night, when they were too tired to pretend, Jungkook still felt the pull of him, like a string he didn’t remember tying. The old, haunting, longing, inescapable melody of Arirang playing in his head on repeat.
-
A few days later after their return to Korea, he ran into Jimin in the company kitchen after a schedule. Someone had handed them bento boxes, but neither of them seemed interested.
Jimin wandered around the kitchen, opening cupboards like he expected to find something better hidden away. He was blond again, his hair longer, Jungkook hadn't run his hand through it. Hadn't had an excuse to since Are You Sure, where everything was sanctioned, and, if not, at least forgivable. He sat on the counter, ankles crossed, watching Jimin with an easy familiarity he tried not to think about too hard.
“You’re going to unpack everything and still end up ordering delivery,” he said.
Jimin closed a cupboard. “We’ve been back two months, and you haven’t learned to shut up once.”
“Your memory is going,” Jungkook told him solemnly. “I’ve always been like this.”
Jimin let out a huff of laughter. He was wearing the same black cap he’d worn through most of their enlistment. His hair was longer again, but the shape of him was still familiar, something steady that made Jungkook’s chest twist in a way he didn’t want to think about.
“You leaving?” Jimin asked.
“Yeah.”
“Want a ride?”
Jungkook hesitated. “Minjeong's picking me up.”
“Oh,” Jimin said. His expression didn’t change, but he shifted his weight, like he’d thought about offering before remembering he shouldn’t. “Right.”
They stood there awkwardly.
“You’re going to be late,” Jimin said finally.
“Yeah,” Jungkook murmured, but didn't take a step.
Jimin stood, walked over to the tiny fridge, pulled out two bottles of water. Handed one to Jungkook without looking. He cracked his open and took a long sip.
“You know what’s funny?” Jimin said. “Sometimes I think you’re waiting for me to leave first.”
Jungkook blinked. “What?”
“You act like I’m already on my way out. Like you’re getting used to the idea.”
“That’s not—”
“But I’m still here.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that,” Jimin said. “But I’m not sure it’s enough.”
Jungkook twisted the cap of his bottle, tightened it again. “Then what do you want me to say?”
Jimin looked tired. Not sleep-deprived tired, but something else. Something deeper in the bones.
“Nothing,” he said after a pause. “Just—something real. Not whatever version of you you keep putting in front of me when there are other people watching.”
Jungkook said, “I don’t know how to be real around you without fucking it up.”
Jimin’s expression didn’t change. But something in his posture did.
“Then fuck it up,” he said, voice low. “Just once.”
Jungkook looked down. “I don’t know what to do with you.”
Jimin laughed. It wasn’t cruel. But it wasn’t soft either. “That’s the closest thing to the truth you’ve said all day.”
Jungkook exhaled, shaky. “Then what now?”
Jimin didn’t answer right away.
He took another step. Just close enough for the tension to shift again. The space between them redefined. Not quite touching. Not quite apart.
“I don’t know,” Jimin said finally. “Maybe we wait. Or maybe we stop pretending this isn’t a choice.”
Jungkook paused. “You mean—us?”
“I mean you,” Jimin’s voice didn’t rise. “I’ve already made mine.”
He reached out, touched Jungkook’s wrist, just for a second. Enough to feel. Enough to be remembered.
Then he stepped back.
“Don’t call me unless you mean it,” he said. “I’m tired of answering to the version of you that doesn’t.”
When they parted, Jimin’s voice was small but steady.
“I'm serious. Don’t call me tonight.”
Jungkook nodded. “Okay.”
Jimin hesitated. “I don’t mean forever.”
“I know.”
When Minjeong pulled up, she leaned across the seat to wave.
Jungkook looked back once. Jimin was still in the doorway, one hand lifted in a small, almost embarrassed wave.
It struck Jungkook, sudden and sharp, how much time they’d spent together, every meal in the mess hall, every night in the same dark barracks, every shower silhouetted by the steam, and how quickly it had become something they weren’t supposed to talk about.
It turned out that sharing a bunk and a locker for eighteen months made it nearly impossible to pretend you didn’t know what the other person looked like first thing in the morning. Or what their laugh sounded like when they were genuinely happy. Or how many times they started to reach out and stopped.
Minjeong looked at him in the car, studying his face, and then turned around to look at where he knows Jimin must be standing, if he could only look.
“Oh,” she said. “I knew, but I didn't know who.”
They break up in the car. She gives him one last kiss on the cheek before driving off.
“You're so bad at hiding it,” she said, not unkindly, rolling up the window. “Maybe get more practice or stop trying.”
-
At the first party for the album launch, everything felt too loud, the place full of old friends and strangers pretending they were old friends.
Namjoon gave a toast, Jin made people laugh, Hoseok filmed a TikTok challenge with anyone who asked, and Yoongi disappeared after ten minutes.
Jungkook nursed a beer by the railing, half-listening to Taehyung recount a story he’d already told.
Minjeong slipped her hand into his once, knowingly smiling up at him. “You look distracted,” she said gently. He didn't answer, he didn't need to.
Jimin arrived late. His hair was pushed back carelessly, and he had that dazed look he got when he’d spent too long in the studio. He was near the catering table, glass of champagne in his hand, talking to an idol from another company that Jungkook had seen before but couldn’t name.
The man was leaning in a little too close when he spoke. Jimin didn’t look uncomfortable at all. Or maybe that was just Jungkook’s brain, inventing something to be jealous of
“Earth to Jungkook,” Minjeong murmured, fingers brushing his wrist.
He flinched. “What?”
“You’re staring.”
“No, I’m not,” he said too fast.
She studied him for a moment. “Liar.”
He spent the next half hour pretending to listen while making small talk, nodding and smiling and checking over their heads every few seconds, tracking exactly where Jimin was, who he was talking to, whether he was still laughing.
It was humiliating.
At some point, someone pressed a glass into his hand. He drank it without tasting it. Taehyung appeared out of nowhere, clapping him on the shoulder, his grin too wide.
“Having fun?” he asked, obviously knowing the answer.
“Yeah,” Jungkook lied.
“You look like you’re about to climb out a window,” Taehyung observed.
He didn’t dignify that with a response.
Later, when the hall had emptied out, he slipped outside to the loading dock, lighting a cigarette he didn’t really want. Footsteps approached, and then Jimin was there, leaning against the rail.
“You’re going to give yourself an ulcer,” Jimin said, voice quiet in the still evening.
“You’re going to flirt yourself into a scandal,” Jungkook muttered back.
Jimin’s brow lifted, amused. “Jealous?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Don’t lie.”
Jungkook turned his bottle in slow circles on the table. “You look nice.”
Jimin stilled, the smile flickering. “That’s new.”
“What?”
“A compliment without a disclaimer.”
“I’m growing as a person. You looked cozy.”
Jimin laughed, head tipped back, Jungkook felt it like a hook behind his ribs. “Don’t start,” he warned.
“You looked happy.”
Jimin dropped his chin. “You want me to apologize for talking to people?”
“No,” Jungkook said, stepping closer. “I just don’t want to watch it.”
For a beat, the air between them felt charged. He'd almost said it.
Then Jimin reached up, brushing his thumb over Jungkook’s jaw.
“You’re the most frustrating person I know,” he said. And left to go back inside.
Later, when he was with Hoseok, who was talking to someone near the DJ booth, he glanced back across the room, just in time to see the man with Jimin lean in and say something right against his ear.
Jimin laughed, head tipping back, mouth soft. It was stupid how fast irritation burned up his spine.
And then he let the man touch his elbow, steering him toward the side exit.
Something punched low in Jungkook’s stomach. He turned away so fast he nearly sloshed his drink.
“You okay?” Namjoon said. He too was looking in the direction Jimin had gone. Fuck, what the fuck was this. Did every single fucking person in this room know? Had he accidentally worn a placard announcing it?
“Fine,” Jungkook said, voice thin.
“You don’t look fine.”
“I said I’m fine.”
But he couldn’t stop thinking about it, about Jimin leaving through that door, about the way he hadn’t looked back.
He left before midnight, ignoring the calls of goodbye, ignoring Taehyung’s look.
Outside, the cold air felt like relief and punishment all at once.
He took out his phone twice, thumb hovering over Jimin’s contact, before he shoved it back in his pocket.
-
He told himself all morning he wouldn’t bring it up. That he’d act normal, pretend the party hadn’t happened.
But the second he stepped into the practice room and saw Jimin standing at the mirror, stretching his shoulders, he felt it all clawing up his throat. He kept seeing it, Jimin’s hand on that man’s arm, the way he’d looked back at him once, just once, and then not again.
Jimin turned, gave him a small, polite smile.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Jungkook said, voice rougher than he meant.
Jimin’s eyes flicked over him, searching his face.
“You look like you didn’t sleep,” he murmured.
Jungkook swallowed.
“Did you?”
The question landed between them, unexpected even to him.
Jimin tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable.
“I slept fine,” he said evenly.
Jungkook’s hand tightened on the strap of his bag.
“Did you have fun?” He asked suddenly, before he could think better of it.
Jimin frowned. “What?”
“At the party,” he said, too loud. “You seemed like you were having a good time.”
Jimin’s mouth tugged into something that wasn’t a smile.
“Are we really doing this?”
“I’m just making conversation,” Jungkook lied.
Jimin set his bottle down, slow and deliberate.
“No, you’re not,” he said. “You’re picking a fight you don’t have the stomach to finish.”
“So…you went home?”
Jimin blinked once. “What?”
“You left with that guy,” Jungkook said, forcing the words out before he could second-guess them. “I just—did you go home?”
“You’re serious?” he asked quietly.
“You didn’t answer,” Jungkook said.
The quiet stretched.
Jimin’s eyes dropped to the floor.
“That’s not your business,” he said after a moment, voice very calm.
“Maybe not,” Jungkook muttered. “But you didn’t even look back.”
Jimin’s gaze lifted, annoyed. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he snapped. “Was I supposed to ask your permission before I went home?”
Jungkook felt heat crawling up his neck. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you meant,” Jimin shot back.
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“You think I owe you that?” Jimin asked, still soft, but there was an edge under it now. “You think this makes you honest? Saying shit like that?”
“I don’t know what it makes me,” Jungkook muttered.
“It makes you an asshole,” Jimin said flatly. "You think you have the right?"
“I know,” Jungkook muttered, hating how unsteady he sounded. “I know I don’t.”
“Then why are you?”
He looked at the floor, voice low.
“Because I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Jimin went still, the air between them going tight, brittle.
“That’s not fair,” he said finally, almost gently.
“I know,” Jungkook said again. “But why do you do it?”
“Do what,” Jimin snapped.
“Why do you always look right through me when you’re with someone else?”
Jimin’s mouth opened, closed.
“You don’t get to ask me that,” he said, lower now. “Not when you’re the one who—”
“Who what?”
“Who picked safe,” Jimin said, and instantly looked like he regretted it.
They stood there, breathing hard.
“Don’t act like you’re better than me,” Jungkook said, voice raw. “Like you’re not doing the same thing.”
Something in Jimin’s expression crumpled.
“Maybe I am,” he said. “But at least I’m honest about it.”
“Bullshit,” Jungkook bit out. “You think you’re so above it? You couldn’t even look me in the eye when you left. And now you're doing this."
“Doing what?”
“Acting like it’s my problem for wondering,” Jungkook said. “Like there's any universe in which I wouldn't.”
Jimin exhaled, leaning his head back against the wall.
“You're always like this,” he murmured. “You act like you don’t care until it’s too late.”
“And you act like you do care,” Jungkook shot back “Like you're the only one who does. Like you don't know I've been in love with you for years because I can't say it out loud as easily as you can tell me you like me.”
And there it was.
Jungkook hated that even he could hear his voice shaking. “You act like I'm actually good at hiding it, like every fucking person who knows us hasn't known it forever. Like you haven't known it forever.”
There was a silence then. Not quiet, silence. Like sound had been drained out of the room.
Jimin looked away, rubbing a thumb along his wrist like he was grounding himself. "You don’t get to be the only one who’s scared.”
The most honest thing he'd said in a while.
Jungkook knew he’d ruined whatever peace they’d been pretending to have.
“Do you remember,” he said finally, “when we enlisted and you told me it would be a good thing? That it would clear everything out?”
Jimin’s mouth curved without any real humor. “I remember.”
“You were wrong.”
“I know.”
Jungkook swallowed. “I still think about it all the time.”
“The army?”
“No.” His voice came out quieter than he meant. “You. Only you. And then everything else.”
Jimin’s eyes flicked to his eyes. Then, almost as if he couldn't help it, his mouth, then back up. Jungkook felt something in his stomach twist, hot and resigned.
“I love you. I love you. I'm fucking in love with you,” he said. “So there, you don't have to always be the one who says things first.”
More silence. He doesn't know the meaning of it. But, for once, he could try to be brave too.
“I know my feelings can be too big to carry,” he said, because it's the truth. His devotion is terrifying, it's like worship, all-consuming. He's self-aware enough to know that.
Jimin looked at him at that, really looked at him, gaze searching, though he didn't know what he was looking for. All he could see in the moment was his own fear, his own burning longing, reflected in the calm of Jimin's eyes.
And when he's honest, he knows that's part of why it took so long. Because Jimin-hyung already carried the weight of so much. That maybe if he knew the full force of it, how deep it runs, it might be too much, even for him.
Maybe Jungkook just made a huge mistake. Fuck, how could he have thought this was possible to ask for, to even dream of. Maybe he should have—
“You know I've been weightlifting, Jungkook-ssi" Jimin said, finally, and then he's smiling, Jungkook's reflection disappearing as his eyes crescent. An expression Jungkook's captured on paper so many times, it's imprinted on his fingers. "I'll be fine.”
Jungkook let out a half-laugh, voice choked, the relief so strong, he could keel over with it.
“You ever going to stop?” Jimin asked, voice almost gentle.
“No,” Jungkook said. “You ever going to get there?”
“You’re—” Jimin sighed, rubbing his palm over his mouth, “so difficult. You’re like a stray cat that hisses when someone tries to pick it up and show it love.”
“Good thing then you love stray cats and have about forty YouTube videos bookmarked on how to pet them,” Jungkook shot back.
They rode in the same van back. Something old, something new. Jungkook watched the streetlights steadily flicker over Jimin’s face. It was strange, looking, and not hiding he was.
Jimin caught his gaze, once, then twice, then sighed, something inevitable in his eyes. “You're going to be impossible from now on aren't you.”
“Worse,” he said, "I'm about to fuck it up," and leaned in.
But I'm in so deep,
you know I'm such a fool for you,
you got me wrapped around your finger,
do you have to, do you have to let it linger?
- The Cranberries, Linger