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It was a weird joke. Firstly, Jungkook hit the gym on a rigorous schedule. Mondays, chest day. Tuesdays, back day. Thursdays, shoulders, Fridays, arms, Sunday, legs. Secondly, he had lifted and carried almost everybody. Yoongi, resting in his arms. Jin, stiff like a board. Taehyung, slumped and dragged like a cat.
“Don’t drop Jimin,” Hoseok still said, grinning lopsided, back against the condensed mirror. Of course Jungkook wasn’t going to drop him. He went to the gym. He didn’t drop anybody. During their performance, he’d have an arm wrapped around Jimin’s waist and thigh, then a straight lift into the air with his hands firm near Jimin’s hips. He princess carried Jimin during their last performance and he didn’t drop anybody.
“Jungkook-ah.” Jimin tugged him by the loose folds of his sweatshirt, bringing him back to position across the wooden dance floor. “Let’s do it one more time. I want to try something.”
This was how it always went. The music swelling over the radio, Hoseok’s smile slipping into a serious stare. Jimin marking his steps, hands swallowed by his long sleeves, eyes immersed into the mirror. Jungkook lifting him up, spinning around while Jimin had an arm outstretched, and then hunkering down for Jimin to cross over him, a final lift. Jimin knotted his brow at himself, focused on even the dainty unfurling of his fingertips. Jungkook, half-distracted when Namjoon opened the door to the studio, plastic bag of dumplings swinging from the crook of his elbow.
“Looking good,” Namjoon said. “Make sure you don’t drop Jimin, all right?” His gentle smile suggested this was a joke. Jimin, already having worked up a light sweat, seemed too busy pushing his hair from his forehead to hear him. Hoseok laughed.
Jungkook smiled and opened the plastic container with his blunt nails.
--
It was the season between winter and spring. The cloud’s heavy gray lining muted the dusk into a quiet dimness. Jungkook would have sat on the bench if puddles hadn’t dipped into the wooden slats. The last wash of rain had plucked the plum blossoms until the small white petals coated the gravel, sticking to the soles of his black boots. Between like and dislike, Jungkook would say he liked spring, but he couldn’t stop a painful tinge of memory that tinted into gentle cherry blossoms, picking at the label of his green tea bottle, a murmur by his ear.
“You didn’t bring an umbrella?” Jimin had arrived in a light jog, phone in hand. “They say it’s going to rain.”
“I’ll outrun it.”
“You can run between the raindrops?”
“Yeah, like.” Jungkook, hands still shoved into his long jacket, darted his head with the animated bobs of a chicken. Jimin laughed, eyes almost closed, back of his hand against his mouth. He had a nice laugh, light and breathy. When they were in stage make-up, Jimin looked sophisticated and eerie, eyes sharp and mouth unsettled. Here, now, Jimin looked young and earnest.
“You already have a petal in your hair.” Jimin reached up, nipping through the strands until he revealed the wet petal that stuck to his fingertip, delicate veins in a shallow crescent.
“A worthy opponent,” Jungkook vowed.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Jimin smiled at the flowers. The leaves had also unfurled, a bright green that stood out in its adamant vibrance when the sky clouded in thick blankets.
“Yeah.” Jungkook wanted to look at Jimin more, the fragile smile, but he could see the notifications already ghosting on Jimin’s phone. “We’re going to be late.”
“That’s what I was going to say,” Jimin said, head snapping back. “How dare you make us late.” With authority, he grasped Jungkook’s hand and lead him through the downtown streets. Jungkook knew the way, but he let Jimin hold the jutted boniness of his wrist. The speakers pumped out a faint pop song above the incandescent store signs. Despite the impending rain, the vendors still flocked in the middle of the street, an older woman snapping her fan on her knee, chalkboards covered in fake vines. A five-year-old girl in patterned overalls pressed her face against the glass wall of a restaurant. Her eyes watched where Jimin held his hand. Jungkook waved at her.
“You’re late,” Taehyung said, as a greeting. “Did you get my message?”
“Yeah.” Jimin checked his phone. “I just didn’t read it.”
“Yoongi couldn’t make it. He’s busy with production work.” Taehyung opened the door for them into the restaurant. “Isn’t that tough?”
It was like the old days, college students with pithy bank accounts. Taehyung and Jungkook squeezed into one side of the booth, Jimin lounging in the other. When the short ribs arrive on their burnt wooden platters, Jimin has already burst into boneless peals of laughter at Taehyung’s conviction that ‘hippo hippo hippopotamus’ was an authentic idiom (“For what?” Jimin says, eyes wide) and Jungkook’s imitation of Taehyung’s small devilish grin (“That’s me,” Taehyung said, somberly). They talked about music, the inane alarm clock sounds they’ve chosen, their days at the studio. Taehyung asked about their trip to Japan that they had taken as a late graduation present to Jungkook and Jimin described the sushi in vivid detail, hands mimicking the rolling of the seaweed, and Jungkook smiled.
“The performance, huh.” Taehyung lolled his head back to the booth, features sharp even beneath the withering booth lights. “Well, make sure not to drop Jimin.”
“Right.” Jungkook smiled. Jimin started to smile too, a natural response to Taehyung’s joking tone, but something about Jungkook must have caught his attention.
“Now, now,” Jimin said, placating. “Jungkook wouldn’t do that.”
“It’s the show-stopper scene,” Taehyung said, still focused on the ceiling. “What if you tumbled to the ground? Humpty-dumpty style?”
“It’s fine. I trust our Jungkook.” Jimin leaned over, tapping Jungkook on the chin. “It’s not unusual. Dancers trust each other for routines all the time. How many times could I have hurt Hoseok, you know? This isn’t the hardest thing that our Jungkookie has done, either. I trust him, he won’t drop me.”
“I’ve thought about it while you were talking,” Taehyung said. “I think it’d be cool if you fell. Makes a big splash.”
Jimin was correct. The rain had started, the droplets catching the neon lights of the store signs. Taehyung had made an offer to pay, but Jimin had shoved his wrist down. Jungkook didn’t bother, standing near the window. Outside looked gray and dark. The window reflection still showed the bright yellows of the light, Jimin playing with the flaps of his wallet while he waited.
“Jungkook doesn’t have an umbrella,” Jimin said outside, propping open his own. “So share with yours until he gets to his apartment.”
“What was your plan?” Taehyung asked Jungkook, mystified.
“Dodging.”
Taehyung’s umbrella had been bought at a convenience store, a clear vinyl. The rain drummed down upon the tautness. Jungkook stuck his hand from the brim and felt the water collect in the lines of his hand. Taehyung talked beside him, his voice a low rumble beside the white trucks that rolled by and the fading music from the overhead speakers. Jungkook breathed in the heavier air and the vague fragrant grass while Taehyung said, “At least you aren’t fighting anymore.”
“Fighting?”
“With Jimin.”
“I wasn’t fighting with Jimin.” They had their squalls, but they had been peaceful since their trip to Japan.
“I guess I didn’t mean fighting. Not getting along?” Taehyung frowned, umbrella tilting in thought. Despite Taehyung’s best efforts, Jungkook’s shoulder had gotten damp. Jimin actually did have a larger umbrella, a clean black one with light scratches on the handle. Jungkook probably could have fit under there, too.
“We get along.”
“Now you do,” Taehyung said. “But I know you were kinda offput. Earlier days. When Jimin really was aggressive about how much he liked you. I think you thought he liked-liked you when he just thought you were cute since you were young.”
“I never thought he liked me that way,” Jungkook said.
“Right. I’ve been friends with him for a long, long time,” Taehyung said, their walk taking them beside a row of electricity poles. “I know him like I know the back of my hand. You don’t have to be nervous or anything. Jimin doesn’t like-like you.”
--
“I like you.” Last spring. Japan. Jimin sometimes had a vulnerable softness in his tone. When he wasn’t trying to be charming or clever, or trying to be anything, he had such a gentle vulnerability. His eyes opened wider, like he was surprised by himself, but this smoothed to an awkward smile. He sat, shoulder to shoulder with Jungkook, on the stone ledge of the walkway.
Timing their trip for the cherry blossom season hadn’t been easy. There were the tickets, the boarding, the sheepish acceptance of the Welcome to Japan brochures, the hotel room faucet with an insufferable creak. Jungkook, map in hand, had trekked through parks with staggered branches. He had woken early in the morning dusk, the light masked from the thick hotel curtains. Jimin still slept in the next bed, arm flung beneath him and blankets kicked out. Jungkook had tied his shoes and walked around the closed stores, admiring the small shops, the anime figurines, the tidy bookstores, until he had seen the flowering trees. Waking Jimin hadn’t been hard, a few rough shakes and pushing him into the bathroom, and he pulled him over by the wrist. Jimin, still with heavy eyes, had stopped by a vending machine and bought him green tea. Sitting at the slight distance was enough to separate them from the thongs of travelers, phones honed onto the sight of the draping florals.
The sight was beautiful. A blue sky, framing the branches, and a fragility in the delicate petals that floated down in slow drifts. And yet, a vitality. A life, undaunted, a spring that brought the fresh scent and the spread of blossoms, that he feared would crumple under his touch, but he would never be able to hurt them all, not the relentless blossoming above him, a song that he couldn’t hear, a melody in pink and whites and greens and browns and loveliness that he could not hold.
“I’m sorry,” Jungkook said. His nail dug under the plastic label of his drink. A flock of girls in white flew past them, laughing and grabbing each other’s hands in excitement. One dropped her hat, a pretty woven brim with light blue ribbons. Jimin bent down, handing this back to a harried parent who offered quick, hastened thanks.
Jungkook looked at Jimin. This was after a moment. After the girls, after the parents, after the men in dark business suits, the tourists with cameras dangling from their wrists, the bumping baby stroller. Jimin had his head bent down. The spring day was light enough for him to bunch his jacket by his side, leaving his wrists bare, save for his watch. He held one hand in the other, thumb resting against his palm. To outsiders, he must have looked handsome and pretty. To Jungkook, he looked like his bony shoulders had a severe arch, tight against his shirt. Jungkook realized, with a start, that he had been looking at Jimin for forgiveness.
--
“It’s going to depend on your strength,” Jimin said, batting Jungkook on the arm. “And you’re way too strong.” His play battings had the same strength of a sleepy kitten, Jungkook not even moving from where they crouched over the playback. They had only gone through the steps in a slower beat, but the real performance would be faster. Much faster.
“If it’s too hard to turn, we can adjust it,” Hoseok said. He stood behind them, eyes shielded by a baseball cap. His mouth downturned into a serious frown.
“It’s fine,” Jungkook said.
“Don’t stand on pride.” Hoseok tilted his head back until his eyes became visible, small glints of severe judgment. “You’re going into the presage immediately. Two points of contact – bam and bam. It’ll be wet and Jimin’s going to need to balance himself.”
“I can do it.”
“It’s going well,” Jimin said. Hoseok didn’t say anything, only taking over the phone. They hunched in the corner, their bags shoved against the wooden slats. Across the room, Hoseok’s reflection scanned the recording, scrubbing back and forth. Jimin rested his hand against the small of Jungkook’s back, a touch barely felt, but obvious when Jungkook looked at the mirror.
“You’re compensating,” Hoseok said.
“I am?” Jimin asked at the same time Jungkook said, “Me?”
“Jimin. Look.” Hoseok lifted the screen. “After your arabesque. The promenade. Sometimes Jungkook doesn’t have his grip solid enough. Your form is too far back, you’re breaking your line, because you’ll fall over if you don’t. You’ll fall over if you keep doing this, too.”
“Okay. Let’s practice that some more,” Jimin said, wrist resting on his knee. “Maybe tomorrow. I still want to go over my parts and the last lift.”
“I’ll hold him tight.” Jungkook offered a smile. Hoseok’s instructor mode seeped out again, the severity drifting back into a bright, goofy grin and shrug.
“Sure,” Hoseok said.
“It’s all about trust,” Jimin said, leaning on Jungkook and patting his bicep. “And I trust our Jungkook’s muscles more than anything in the world. He eats and sleeps at the gym, you know.”
“I don’t. It’s not hygienic.”
As the sunset dripped into the studio, Jin stopped by with a friendly wave. It was fun and distracting to box with him, and even when Jin said, “Don’t drop him, you know?” that was just cue for Jungkook to smile and swing a fake uppercut towards his ears.
Jimin eventually waved him over to the mirror and he practiced lifting, again and again. “It’s all about the timing,” Jimin said, fingers resting over Jungkook’s larger hands from where he held onto his waist. “We just have to get the timing right. Because if I jump or you lift too early, then it’s not going to be good.” Seven, eight, lift. Seven, eight, up. Seven, eight, higher, because Jimin needed to reach towards the ceiling with the elegant lilt of his fingers. So close, he could see the bristles from the nape of his neck, smell the cleanness of his soap, feel his ribs and his waist beneath the rugged sweatshirt and he knew them intimately, the way his skin looked as he breathed.
--
Two years ago, he had knocked on the dormitory door. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, the faint burn from dance practice still fierce. The door swung open a few seconds later.
“Oh.”
“Were you looking for Hoseok?” Jimin rested on the handle. “Sorry, he went out.”
“No.” Jungkook rubbed his neck. “I wasn’t looking for him. Did he say when he’d be back?”
“Depends on if he drinks or not.” Jimin offered a small smile. “Did you want to wait for him here? I’m just doing homework.”
“I shouldn’t,” Jungkook started, and Jimin pulled him into the room. His haunting of their shared room hadn’t been a surprise. Jungkook liked Hoseok’s dancing in the only class that he did well. When the rest of his scores came middling, his dinner emerged undercooked and nothing like his mother’s dinners, his long-distance girlfriend failed to call for their weekly silence-filled check-in, Hoseok would let him sleep in his bed, enveloped in warmth and a cleaner scent. Jimin was the roommate.
Jungkook sat on Hoseok’s bed and hugged his pillow, Jimin heating up the water for late-night ramen despite Jungkook’s protests.
“It’s fine,” Jimin said. “I was hungry, anyway. Don’t stand on ceremony.” The last, an almost joke, since Jungkook’s classes always had been filled with those older than him. But Jungkook couldn’t complain, his empty stomach accepting the instant ramen. Somehow, he was moved to Jimin’s bed, since he didn’t want to leave any stains on Hoseok’s bed and Jimin didn’t mind, or so Jimin said, and Jungkook ate his ramen and the warmth filled up his cold form. The heavy tan curtains still had been parted. Along the way, Jungkook had looked up to see the squares of lights and the figures within them, the dormitory windows slanting to broad bookshelves and potted plants, paintings and wooden sculptures. Jungkook kept his curtains closed, but his room would have revealed his closet and his half-built PC.
“How’s your girlfriend doing?” Jimin asked, the dorm-assigned chair creaking when he leaned back.
“We broke up.”
“Oh.” Jimin sat down the plastic container. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. It just happened today.” Jungkook glanced at the alarm clock half-buried in Jimin’s sheets. “Three hours ago, so technically yesterday.”
“How are you doing?”
“I’m fine.” Jungkook looked at the wooden chopsticks in his hands where the wood had splintered. “We weren’t really that close. Even from the beginning. I didn’t—know what to do.” He sent her presents. He called her dutifully. He tried to reply to her pictures of her lunch.
“Still, I’m sorry.” Jimin stood, crossing the room in a step. Jungkook let Jimin touch his chin, feeling his touch against the soft hollow of his throat. He had to smile. He had done nothing to deserve such pity. Jimin’s partners must have been treated with better care, but three hours ago, Jungkook’s year-long relationship had just finished off with a shorter text exchange than what he had with his pizza delivery app.
“This kind of thing is hard,” Jimin said. “You’d like there to be a right or wrong answer, but sometimes there’s only the answer that’s best for you. It’s frustrating, isn’t it?”
Jungkook closed his eyes.
“You’re so grown-up now,” Jimin murmured. In the darkness of his eyelids, every word had a soft, curling edge. “When did you grow up to be so handsome and thoughtful?” Fingers on his eyelids, against his nose, palms against his cheekbones and nestled into the longer strands of his hair. Admiring against the ridges of his neck, chaste against his earlobes. Was this the moment that he was supposed to know.
“You can feel sad if you want. Wait, that’s a bad way of saying that.” Jimin laughed, self-conscious, and the hands rescinded into the cold. “I just mean, you don’t have to think you deserve to feel sad. When you’re ready, I’ll take you out for something nice to eat, okay? And if you want to be alone, I can go stay at Namjoon’s place for a while.”
“This is your dorm room.”
“But I’ve seen yours. They really gave you a small one,” Jimin said, “since you don’t have to share.” Jungkook had opened his eyes with enough time to watch Jimin’s brow knit together. Jungkook had to stoop to enter his postage stamp dorm room, crawling over his bed to bash his knees against his desk.
“I’m really not that sad. I’m just sad about not being sad, if that makes sense.”
“It’s a little puffed up for me to say,” Jimin said, reflective on his scrawled notes, “but I think you’ll be fine. You’re really cute, you’re thoughtful, you’re strong. You’ll meet someone who’ll make you want to sing all the time.”
“Sing?” Jungkook grinned.
“Sing,” Jimin said, defensive. “You hum when you’re happy. You get touchy when you’re affectionate. It’s obvious when you’re interested in someone because you start wat—” The sound of the key scraping against the handle resonated in the room, a clumsy skritch-skrtich. Hoseok had apparently gotten drunk with his friends, despondent even when Jimin had him drink the glass of cold water. Jungkook had no expectations to spring his break-up on a drunken Hoseok, but Jimin already started and Jungkook accepted Hoseok’s silent hug.
Jimin had already fallen asleep deep into Hoseok’s mumbled interrogations. Jungkook stayed on Hoseok’s bed, pillow hugged to his chest. Only the nightlight remained, a small smiling dumpling sitting on Hoseok’s desk.
“It was my birthday present to Jimin,” Hoseok said, catching Jungkook’s glance at the nightlight. “He gets nightmares where he’s alone. So now he just looks over and he can see me.” A slight chill crept beneath the covers when Hoseok climbed into bed. Jungkook, wedged against the wall, only saw the tufts of Jimin’s hair peeking out from where he had wrapped himself in his blankets. Hoseok hugged him, a comforting smell and a strong warmth.
“I worry about my babies,” Hoseok said, mirth replaced by a stumbling seriousness. “You keep things to yourself, take on more responsibility than you should. Jimin gets hurt easily and needs a lot of love. But you’re all growing up. You’ll see this one day. Taking care of someone.” Was this the moment he was supposed to have realized that Jimin liked him. Two years ago, lying in someone else’s bed, listening to Jimin’s stuttered sleep. If he had known two years ago, then one year ago, he wouldn’t have to sit in a restaurant that drowned in rich navy blue wallpaper and white wainscoting and a view of a sea and Jimin talking about how he enjoyed seeing the cherry blossoms while he kept his head bent over his plate.
--
“Jii-i-i-i-in.” Jimin crossed his arms over his chest. “Hyung. You said you’d come and help me buy new shoes. You’re not even pressing even half as much as Jungkook.”
“Listen here.” Jin leaned forward from his chest press machine. “It’s about warming up. Warming up, right? Do you want to get hurt? This handsomeness has a price.”
“Jiii-i-i-i-i-i-i-in. You know I like having a friend with me.” Jimin dragged his hand over Jin’s shoulders. Jin swatted at him, but without heat. His hair slicked to his forehead, his JV Women’s Volleyball 1998 shirt sagging from wear. He had already been at the gym when Jungkook had sat beside him.
“If you want me to hurry, then don’t insult me,” Jin said. “So what if I’m not doing as much as Jungkook, huh? He’s made of muscle and I am made of butterflies and flowers.”
“It really is impressive.” Jimin wandered beside Jungkook’s machines. The pin had been adjusted so the heavy black weights stretched beyond Jungkook’s forearms, fencing him on both sides. Jungkook wiped his sweat with the white towel he’d brought in his crumpled gym bag.
“He’s practicing to lift you. That’s two of you, right there.” Jin clapped his hands over his knees. “If I lifted weights like that, I could carry you in one hand.”
“Yeah.” Jungkook smiled. “I wouldn’t want to drop him.” Jimin looked at him, head listing to the side. He touched Jungkook’s chin, then turned so Jungkook could only see his back, Jin now hidden from view. The tinged smell of the steel weights surrounded him.
“Go change already,” Jimin said. “I’ll wait here with Jungkook.”
He grasped his fingers around the smooth steel. In the cardio corner, a few early risers jogged on the treadmills, their small screens flickering with the news reports and the freshest drama. Jimin knelt before him, hand resting on Jungkook’s thigh, the other holding a towel. From this angle, he had to kneel on his knees to wipe away Jungkook’s sweat on his neck and the hollow of his collarbone. He had already been at the gym for two hours. The towel felt clean against his damp skin.
“Okay,” Jimin said. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Jungkook layered his hands over Jimin’s, covering his fingers.
“Ah, really. You’re going to be like that.” Jimin grinned.
“Why do you think there’s something wrong?”
“I don’t know. Your smile, I guess.” Jimin’s eyes flew open, hand outstretched. “I like your smile, I really do. But I know sometimes you smile even when you’re troubled and it seemed like you were—troubled.”
Jungkook sucked on his teeth. When that didn’t earn a laugh, he looked at the hard floor. The rowing machine sounded like clattering bells.
“Everybody’s been saying I’ll drop you,” Jungkook said. “But I wouldn’t.”
“Yeah. Okay. Yeah, I know that.” Jimin stroked the side of Jungkook’s pinky. “But, they make that joke every time. You know that, right? It’s nothing special this time, either. They’ve joked about me too. They don’t mean it.”
“I’ve done harder routines.”
“I know. And I’ve been dropped before, too. It happens, the timing was off or the grip wasn’t tight. Something happens. I’m still okay.” Jimin paused, eyes flickering towards the row of machines. “If you’re talking about Hoseok, maybe he noticed something. It is about trust. I—trust you. Do you trust me?”
“Yeah.”
“Then we’re good. We’re good, aren’t we?” Jimin held Jungkook’s fingers with both his hands, slotted like the tense strings of a harp.
“Yeah. We’re good.” Jungkook hesitated. “Do you still—” He bit on his own tongue, clenching his jaw. His hair hung in loose strands over his eyes.
“I mean.” Jimin laughed softly, his eyes darting away. “It’s not something to put in your pocket, you know. That would be nice if I could. Tuck it away like a cute handkerchief. But, it’s okay. These things happen. It might not be—comfortable for you, to work with someone you know—likes you. But you’ve always known that I love you. Just because I like you, too, doesn’t mean we have to act different. I mean, I like you and I love you. I mean, ah.” Jimin withdrew his hands to ruffle his own hair, the loose bristles falling between his fingers.
“About the trip.” Jungkook curled his fingers in his lap. During the weekday, the gym appeared sparser. If somebody had been waiting for the machine, he might have leapt to his feet and run away.
“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say it then.” Jimin rested his fist against his mouth.
“I did it wrong.”
“No, you didn’t.” Jimin sometimes possessed an intense stare, furrowed brow and a sharp chin. “You feel what you feel. That’s all there is to it. I—No, I think it’ll be better. This is better. I’ve liked you for a long time and it started to feel like a secret. I wouldn’t want to have kept this from you anymore.”
“A long time.” Jungkook dug his nails into each other, clenched against the raw skin of his fingertips. “Is it insensitive. If I ask you when it started.”
“No. We should talk about it. We’ll have to.” Still, Jimin’s mouth had settled into a shallow unhappiness. “That’s a hard question. Maybe when we first met. Maybe after. If there was a moment, like when I saw you when you were humming and vacuuming and the cord was getting wrapped around you and the light was just right on your hair and your smile, then it was just a moment when I knew I had always liked you. That’s all.” He cut himself off with a short inhale, drawing his hand over his face.
Jungkook wanted to touch him on the chin. Hold him. Grab him and let him bury his sadness into his shoulder.
He didn’t move his hands.
Jimin finally breathed easier, a smoother exhale, and looked behind him to where Jin waited, gym bag slung over his shoulder.
“I should go,” Jimin said.
“Okay.” Jungkook held up a half-hearted hand. “Have fun.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I will.” Jimin smiled, troubled, and rose to his feet. He had to cross the room for Jin, who pretended to study his phone even after Jimin tapped his shoulder. Jungkook, though no longer sweating, grabbed his towel again and buried his face against the cloth. He did it wrong. He had done it wrong. He was still doing it wrong.
--
The rest of their day had been peaceful. They visited a temple, stone steps leading to the lacquered red pillars. At the department store, Jimin held up a Letters to Cleo sweater and asked if this looked pretty on him. On the street, Jungkook had bought a supersize crepe from a vendor, the cream frosting his upper lip as he fumbled with a glistening ruby strawberry. Jimin laughed and said, “You’re going to be sick,” and Jungkook said, “No, I won’t,” and Jimin said, “I won’t hold your hair back,” and Jungkook said, “If anybody’s going to be sick, it’s going to be me.”
“It’s not a competition,” Jimin said, bewildered, and this was normal. They could both forget that Jimin had said what he said and Jungkook had said what he said.
Their hotel room, with two beds, hadn’t been a splurge. Though Jimin marveled over the television and gold gilded painting, the room had the same square table and bland covers that Jungkook had seen in all hotel rooms. Surrounded by the smell of industrial cleaners and the rumbling hum of a vending machine, Jungkook stared at the dark ceiling. The folds of the curtained window had the heaviness of metal, impenetrable to the passing trucks that flickered in the ocean of darkness.
It started with a small groan. A shuffle of the blanket. Heavy breathing, rustling, a sudden stop. The blankets folded on themselves in a heavy thump, Jimin sitting up. The fire detector lit up in the shallow hallway, a small red beep. Not enough light to see him, but enough silence to hear Jimin’s painful grasp for breath.
“A nightmare?”
“I didn’t know you were up.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“That makes sense. Yeah. A nightmare. It’s nothing.”
“I’ll get you some water.”
“It’s okay. I just need a moment. I haven’t had one of these in a while.”
“Is it because of—today?”
“No. Go back to sleep, Jungkook. Hyung will take care of it.”
The gap between their beds was a single step against the hard carpet. Jimin’s bed smelled like the same industrial laundry detergent. Jungkook felt his way over the thick covers, over Jimin’s bony knees, his stomach, his face. He had to trust his hands, feeling up the neck and the lines of his chin, a cartography for the lost. The skin felt heated, flushed like a fever. Jungkook kissed him like he was tracing his mouth into his memory, the sacred flesh.
“Jungkook.” Hands firm on his chest, a stuttered inhale.
“Just once.”
“I don’t need—pity. I know you’re worried, but I’ll be sad. That’s all. A little bit. You don’t have to force yourself.”
“It’s not pity.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t want you to be alone.”
When Jungkook kissed him again, Jimin yielded. This was what his girlfriend had asked him, once. She had been sad and tears glistened in her eyes as she held her phone in her limp hand and she said kiss me, so he did, and he kissed Jimin with his hand digging up his shirt to feel the tension of his waist and hardness of his chest. Jimin was pretty and handsome and angles, sharp and jutting, threatening to cut into his palms when he pulled his shirt off and Jimin stroked his chest with longing, dragging his fingers over his stomach and resting on his hip. Jimin kissed him with lips that must have been red, glistening, desperate, voracious, swallowing him whole. Where Jungkook moved, Jimin would have his hand gliding along his arm, wresting in his hair, digging his nails into back.
A shattered choreography. Jimin stroked him, hand warm from the base to the dripping tip, and Jungkook kissed his cheeks to make sure they weren’t wet. Jimin was pliant, eager, small sounds when he leaned into the stiff pillows. When Jungkook was finally in him, he said does this feel good and can I move and where should I touch you and Jimin said good, it’s good, and Jungkook, please. This was what the wind had brought him, the flowering buds he pinched beneath his fingers. This feast he painted with his tongue, holding him by the elbows and kissing his eyelids. The slumbering snow had parted way to the green fields beneath, melting away from the twisted and gnarled trees that flowered and bloomed in fistfuls. Jungkook filled him, feeling the slickness drip down Jimin’s thighs, damp stickiness beneath the pads of his fingertips.
Jimin grabbed him by the back of his neck and kissed him. This kiss seeped into his bones because Jungkook could not ignore, any longer, what Jimin had meant. Jimin loved him. Jimin liked him. Jimin wanted him, in hard teeth and soft hands.
“Jungkook.”
“Yes.”
“I just wanted to say your name.” Treated like a pearl in his mouth, hair stroked and arm clutched tight. Jimin stopped kissing him and dropped his forehead to Jungkook’s shoulder. It was too dark to see, only possible to feel. Alone in his thoughts, moans replaced by the heaving pants, Jungkook felt his heart jerk away, struggling to untether. The cold washing over him felt like guilt. Like he had seen Jimin empty and in his selfishness, couldn’t stand it, and had wanted to fill him up with anything, even sadness.
“Thank you, Jungkook.”
Jungkook awoke later in the night. The bed beside him was cold. The heavy wall of curtains had been parted. Jimin sat on the chair, partially shrouded by moonlight. His finger listed across his mouth.
In the morning, Jungkook brushed his teeth. The curtains had been drawn open. Sitting at the foot of the bed, cleaned and clothed, Jimin looked listlessly to the hallway door. His arms crossed at the wrist. His eyes had a tinged red. He looked untouched, stoic, pristine.
--
It’d be their last group practice before the performance. The stage costumes had been pushed onto the racks, the set and props painted with last minute haste. Jungkook lifted Jimin and already knew it, even before he put him down, that he had made a mistake. He continued to dance, fixing the smile on his face as he drifted his arms to the air. The playback told the same truth. He could see him falter on the lift, his hand sliding too far down to Jimin’s knee. Hoseok had been right. Jimin was compensating the balance to halt his fall.
“Yoongi was saying he could just some company,” Namjoon told him. “If you have time.” They were kinder to him. Yoongi preferred business in his studio. An unofficial visit meant someone had told him something, budging the heavy black door open. While Jungkook bent down on the bench to lace down his boots, Jimin patted him between his shoulder blades and jogged to catch up with Namjoon.
Yoongi’s studio had an armory of recording devices. The tufts of his hair poked out beneath his beanie, satin jacket hunched to his neck. His dented laptop displayed the mountainous sound recording, the highs and lows in ribbons. He didn’t look up when Jungkook slipped into the room and sat on the black couch beneath the rows of album covers. This late at night, only a few people walked down the hallway, shadows behind the frosted glass. Yoongi pushed up a spindly row of buttons, an unseen piano.
“What did Namjoon say?” Jungkook asked.
“He didn’t say anything.” Yoongi had his headphones around his neck. “Are you nervous about the performance?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too. If you see me throwing up, don’t look.”
“You’re nervous?” The pleather sofa squeaked when Jungkook leaned forward. Yoongi looked at the diminutive nodules on his screen, placid as he scrolled back and forth.
“I don’t to screw up.” Yoongi looked at the ceiling. “I think about it. What if the mic breaks. What if I dance wrong. Fuck ups like that.”
“I worry about that, too.”
“Yeah?” Yoongi didn’t look at him. That wasn’t his style, just a tilt of his head to show his attention, eyes still averted to the beige planks of the wall.
“I don’t want to disappoint the audience.”
“I get that.” Yoongi studied the wall. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint the team, either. Everybody’s worked so hard. You trust me. I don’t want to let you down.”
“I know. That would be the worst.” Jungkook rubbed his neck. “In a perfect world, I do everything perfect. All the right notes and all the right moves.”
“Which moves?”
“All of them. I want to step in the right place. And convey myself. And do it in time. In order. I practice and practice, but I still think it’s missing something. I’m missing something.”
“The tempo?”
“No. Just—the part. At the beginning.” Jungkook leaned back into the couch, letting the quiet hum of the air conditioner speak for him. “I worry what will happen. If I don’t do it right.”
“So you do one spin instead of two.” Yoongi shrugged.
“What if I can’t hold him up at all? What if the timing is wrong? He jumps too early and I catch too late, and it’s slippery and wet. And I drop him.” Jungkook stared at his hands, curled on his knees.
“I mean, it’s Jimin. It’s not the first time he’s tripped. He can probably play it up.”
“But what if he breaks his arm. Or gets really hurt. It’ll be my fault. I—don’t want to hurt him.”
“We know that it’s not easy to hold up someone else. You worked hard during practice. You just do what you can.” Yoongi shrugged again, his jacket making a rough sound against the chair. “I think you and me, we’re the same in some ways. We both think we can think our way out of a box. If we just sit and think, then we’ll find the solution. Trying to ignore that we’re not brains in a jar. You’re worried about doing it wrong, but you’ve been training your body to do it right. Even in practice, I can tell. It’s written all over your face, ‘don’t drop hyung, don’t drop hyung.’ But when you’re just moving. All I can tell is that you love what you’re doing. Maybe just trust what you’re doing more than what you’re saying. That’s all.”
It was rare for Yoongi to speak so much. Jungkook hung onto his words, hands gripped to his knees. He didn’t know if he wanted advice or if he wanted a rebuke. What he received was Yoongi unplugging his headphones from the laptop, the music playing in an absent tune.
--
Only Namjoon seemed awake at five in the morning, corralling them towards the auditorium entrance. Jimin, especially, weaved on his feet with his eyes half-closed. While Namjoon talked with the manager, Jungkook trotted to the nearby café booth for whatever his pocket change could buy. The main hall had a few people already flocking to the wings, vocal warm-ups sliding through parted doors. The back hallway still held most of the dusk, a dimness that alluded to the base cement and peeling paint of the backstage rooms. He found Jimin in the atrium, sitting beneath the white flowering trees, leaning on his black backpack for a cushioning support.
“Coffee,” Jungkook explained when he pressed the corrugated sleeve into Jimin’s hands. He tried to brush off the petals from the bench but wound up with petals scattering over his dark hoodie. He finally sat down, petals and all since they’d have to change into their performance outfits. White-and-black feathery tufts along glittering shirts, designed for the heavy stage lights. He had already peeked at the stage, the props of the thick briar and stark stage trees against a snowdrop background.
Jimin seemed to warm through his hibernation. As he sipped the coffee, languid and sloven, he finally appeared to warm to the sunlight and peered at the trees. The petals fluttered into his hair. Jungkook, patient, combed through Jimin’s hair to clear the strands. They’d have to get their stage make-up done later, too. This always brought such a change to them, sharpening their expressions into dramatic theater. Make-up, hair, costumes, then he’d be jumping up and down, flinging his hands to warm them up, as he watched the props move onto the stage. Jimin would look nice, then. As he looked nice now, sitting in the sunrise with smaller fingers curled over the delicate lip of the cup.
“What’s that song?”
“Hm?”
“That you’re singing.”
“Oh.” Jungkook touched his throat. “I didn’t realize I was singing.”
“I guess humming.” Jimin rubbed his eyes, still sleepy in the slight arch of his neck. He had to bite back a yawn, a visible swallow to his throat.
“Still sleepy?”
“A little.”
“You stayed up too late again,” Jungkook chided, running his fingers over the tufts on Jimin’s nape. When Jimin bent so far ahead, he could even see the shallow bumps of his spine against his skin, which he traced with his thumb. “Playing games on your phone.”
“You don’t have to watch me that closely.” Jimin laughed, which meant he was guilty. He paused with his thumb to the corner of his eye. “There’s more leaves now.” The angle of his gaze meant the trees, the flowers now echoed like a chorus with the vibrant leaves.
“It’s hard to know when’s the peak for flowers.” Jungkook had been the one to study for their trip, timing out the historic seasons and averaging the prime cherry blossom times. Of course Jimin had been helpful, but helpful in the way he rested on Jungkook’s back and read his manga, sometimes explaining to Jungkook the pivotal moments of a fight scene of what he’d never read.
“Isn’t this the peak?” Jimin made a vague motion above them. True, the blossoms spread through the air like the broad stroke of a paint brush, dappled with tints and shadows of their petals.
“Maybe,” Jungkook said. “But you can see some are blooming late.” Though buried against the unfurling leaves, clusters remained hidden in their green buds. They stood out against the flowers, a sturdier green against the sun-pierced pale of the petals.
“They’re just taking their time,” Jimin said peacefully.
“The rest of them know, though. From the sunlight. And how it’s warming up. That’s why they’re blooming now, when it’s a better season.”
“You sound like you did a lot of research.”
“Yeah.” He did. He wanted to see the flowers with Jimin. He’d forgotten about that.
“I wonder if they think they’re late.” Jimin looked at the clusters of buds. “I guess they don’t think about things the way we do, maybe not even about time. To them, they simply bloom.”
Jungkook tried to follow Jimin’s gaze. He had been filled with a curiosity of what Jimin was seeing, whether he looked at each individual flower with a delicate care or whether he simply absorbed the wholeness of the flowers and branches and trees. Everything had a faint floral scent, an earthiness from the damp soil and gentle breeze. Jungkook rested his hand on the back of Jimin’s neck, fingers threading through the warmth, and thought about the stage primmed to the depths of winter, the atrium thrumming with a spring that always arrived, with violence, with grace.
“Jimin,” he started, at the same time the glass door swung open to Namjoon giving them a ‘let’s go’ hand wave. Jimin bit back another yawn, back of his hand against his mouth. He had that habit. Jungkook didn’t release his neck until Jimin finally shifted to sling upon his backpack.
“Sorry,” Jimin said. “What were you saying?”
“Can we talk—later?”
“Sure. Yeah.” Jimin dropped his hand from his backpack strap, searching to grab Jungkook by the wrist. “Is everything okay?”
“It’s nothing bad. After the performance,” Jungkook said, in a rush. “Can we meet back here?”
“The rest of them will probably want to do something. But yeah. We’ll make it work.” Jimin seemed half-distracted by Namjoon’s looming figure beyond the door, but he gave Jungkook a secret smile.
Performances always felt like they came in waves. There was the pause when the other performers arrived, the curtains drawn in casual partitions. There was the rush of the powdering and contouring, chin held with two fingers for lip balm to be applied, hair run through with the hair dryer blasting and the small mini-fans passed into his hands. The costumes drawn upon him, shaking the sleeve out, fingers pressed over where the feathers fluffed out from their sewn strings, glitter rubbing onto the inside of his wrists. The quick check in the mirror of lights, his own face illuminated towards him, and then the wave crashed over and there was the calm, standing in the dark wings. The prop trees seemed larger up-close than when he’d peeked from the auditorium seats, their branches spread over him like wings, and Jimin standing so close to him that their arms were pressed together. Then the crash, the dancing, the singing, the whirl with the faces of the audiences looking up at them and he could somehow see every one through the blasted lights in his face, the water seeping into his clothes, the practiced steps carrying further, arms out, core strong, the backstage and the stage blending together.
And there was the calm, when he lifted Jimin from the water and held him close enough that he could bury his face into the small of his back. It was like time held itself still, silence cloaked over the thorny briars. He knew each step. Hear his heartbeat in his ears. Feel the weight in his arms, heavy yet light, had enough time to know why he didn’t want to let go.