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There's a thing about falling.
Jimin remembers being eleven.
He was eleven, when he'd learnt about falling. About going too fast, about confidence alive where it should be kept quiet.
And here's the thing about falling: once you start, you don't stop.
He'd been eleven, when he'd fallen for the first time. Wobby, newborn-fawn knees, reddened palms pushing against ice. He'd received a pitying look from a passer-by, when the left side of his face had hit the floor and knocked the air out of his lungs. No, he'd wanted to cry. I'm usually good at this, I swear --
He'd kept falling. Three times, each in the same way, like the first had thrown him off enough to make his bones doubt what they'd been made for.
(He'd gotten off the ice that evening not quite looking anyone in the eye, palms stinging, face an aching red.)
Here's the thing about falling: they don't tell you what comes after picking yourself back up.
They'd called him a black horse.
He'd come out on the ice like a newborn fawn standing on four legs for the first time and it had been years ago, it had been years ago and no one knew his name, people whispered in the stands about how the previous skater had done and they'd only fallen silent after he'd finished, after his chest was heaving against the floor and he'd slumped from his ending position and the sweat dotting his forehead had suddenly felt the cold of ice.
They'd only fallen silent for a second.
When he'd dragged his luggage out of the glass doors he'd been seventeen. Seventeen-year-old eyes blinking, fresh, at a sudden explosion of light and noise and whispering, except it was all about him, now. It was all about him, now, the headlines that read Park Snatches A Promising Start To Career, And Season's First Gold and Figure Skating: Park Leads Short Program At Figure Skating Worlds and it all comes in a rush, comes in a rush that leaves him chasing again, comes in the taste of something he can't help but want to keep close.
It's been three years. When he steps onto the ice they erupt into a roar that should be encouraging -- but he finds it more terrifying than not, now. Spandex hugs at his legs and his waist and his chest, his chest can't quite seem to hold still.
Something's wrong.
He feels it, an uneasy gathering of clouds in his chest. Feels off-balance, off-kilter, he feels like a newborn fawn all over again.
He almost expects it. The fall comes hard, the ice rushing fast until his breath is knocked out of his throat. The crowd hushes. He gets up half as quickly as he'd fallen, his knees ache when he spins but he doesn't have the time, he doesn't have the time here.
His performance throws him all the way down to fifth. He sits and keeps a hand on his leg and pretends to watch the screen, until the camera moves away and the stadium's attention shifts from him to the next one about to take the stage.
He stands. His coach gives him a pat on the back -- he can barely feel it, through the fabric of his costume and her glove and his blank breath. He knows she's disappointed. She has every right to be. They'd trained months for this, six days a week carving the same patterns onto ice.
The plane ride back home is quiet. But only around him, perhaps -- Jeongguk looks at him, worry knitted between his brows and a word of sympathy ready to be pressed into his palm, but he only smiles back at him. It's not quite a full one, it feels like black coffee before milk but he forces it out anyway. "Congratulations, Jeongguk-ah," he says.
The younger had placed second. The others are yelling his name, draping arms over the backs of their business-class seats, giddy and drunk with the wine of a winner, "you did well. I'm happy for you," he means it. It's tired and quieter than his chest usually beats but he means it. Jeongguk deserved that glory -- all that time spent running through the same jumps over and over again proved that enough.
The younger musters a smile back. "Thanks, hyung," he says. And then he leaves him alone, perhaps resignedly, because this isn't the first time and he, perhaps, knows better than to try to prod.
This isn't the first time, his head echoes. (He must be a hopeless one, then, if he kept coming back here.)
He knows what every old proverb croons -- don't give up. Mistakes are learning points and mistakes aren't the finishing line, to give up is to resign to the fate of being a coward. He knows.
But with every time he comes back to this place, stuffed in a corner of the plane, earphones pressed hard into his ears, he finds himself not quite knowing if he wants to keep chasing, anymore.
He falls asleep like that, and wakes up with his ears hurting. Served him right, he should know by now. (He pulls them out for a second, before shoving them back in.)
He walks at the back of the group. Cameras flash but their light only outlines the others, now. The tall, victorious silhouettes of his friends, his teammates, his opponents. Reporters avoid his eyes and he should feel thankful, shouldn't he?
It settles heavy, in the bottom of his shoes.
He meets him again. The bodyguard stands by the doors, arms linked behind him, keeping the onslaught of screeching fans back with his frame. He's grown to recognize him, by now.
He looks far too young for such a job. Perhaps, not much older than he is -- around his height, which almost makes him wonder how he'd gotten the position in the first place. Black hair and sleepy, catlike eyes he can't quite bring himself to meet, now, head hanging as he pushes closer to the back of the group.
They make it to the car. He feels tired, tired all over, the kind that he doesn't think will quite go away in the morning. Clambers into the car but the reporters have decided to leave him alone, today. He wishes he felt grateful. More humble, about all of this. (He just finds that he hates it.)
Bodyguard-nim steps in behind him. The door slams shut, the driver knows their usual route. He lets his eyes fall shut, head lolling to the side. It blooms again, disappointment, and perhaps, a deeper sort of heavy, when the black-haired man stays silent.
(But he deserves that, doesn't he? He'd failed, that was only a fact. He shouldn't be expecting the usual. Was success his usual? He can't quite remember anymore.)
He exhales, and hears the quiet sound of a throat being cleared.
He opens his eyes, perhaps instinctively. What he finds is his bodyguard watching him, hesitance in the lift of his lips.
"You've worked hard, Jimin-ssi," he's saying. Voice rough, a smattering of earth, like how it always is.
He's holding something out -- Jimin blinks, and looks down. Flowers brush against the fabric of his sweater, daisies and carnations, pink, petals curling towards the light-greyed ceiling. A bouquet wrapped in paper -- they'd always been wrapped in the same, translucent-white paper.
It all comes out, a horrid bubbling in his throat, rushing upwards like a tsunami, spilling over his bare cheeks. Tears outline the curves of his cheeks and drip down, down to slip between unfurling petals, down to touch thin paper and spread in darker shades of grey.
The figure beside him surges forward before stopping short, hands hovering inches away from his arms. "Fuck, please don't cry, that's not what I--"
He shakes his head. Hard, energy suddenly seeping, tired, through his throat. "No, no," he says, nasally. Hands moving to curl around the bouquet, not quite being able to tear his eyes away from the bright whites and soft pinks. "Thank you. I--" he glances up, a little, tight smile shining through cloudy eyes. "You didn't have to. It's beautiful."
"You deserve it," his protector says. Insists. "I watched the competition. You did well, Jimin-ssi."
A new set of tears threaten to spill again, shame flooding his chest when he looks back down at his lap, at the crumpling paper. "I failed," he responds, hoarsely. Clears his throat and tastes salt on his lips.
The bodyguard is quiet, for a moment. Jimin takes the time to wipe at his face hastily, silence suddenly making him feel embarrassed for overstepping.
"Maybe you did," the young man says, voice holding a soft roughness. "But --" he thinks he hears him shift in his seat. "But, I think, we losers deserve flowers too, y'know?"
It makes Jimin huff out a laugh. Soft, teary and a little broken as he raises his head in an attempt to protest, you're not a loser, bodyguard-nim -- but the other is continuing. "You did your best, Jimin-ssi," softer, now. "You worked just as hard -- perhaps even harder, than everyone else out there -- you deserve more than flowers, really, but it's all I can offer," he says. Staples a rough, joking "shit's expensive," at the back and it makes Jimin choke out a laugh again, a small, genuine smile curling the corner of his lips.
"I'm sorry," he tries again. "You really don't have to keep getting these for me, anymore --" and the man before him is shooting him down, quick and huffy and indignant. "Yah, I say so much and that's all you take away from this?"
Jimin, Jimin laughs. Louder than he's been these two days, throwing his head back a little, cheeks pinkening beneath drying tear-tracks.
"Sorry," he repeats, for the last time. "Thank you, bodyguard-nim," he adds, softer, fingers curling around the bunched-up stalks of his single bouquet. "I really -- I really appreciate it."
Said black-haired man is quiet, for a second. "Min Yoongi," he says -- Jimin blinks. "What?"
"My name."
Jimin blinks -- scrubbing at his face a little -- tired, exhausted, weary, still -- but he smiles, then, soft and silent and grateful and real.
"Thank you, Yoongi-ssi," he corrects himself, soft.
Yoongi smiles back -- still in uniform, still on duty -- warm, gummy and a tad embarrassed, all of a sudden.
This is where they start.
Jimin goes back to practicing.
Perhaps, he only does because it was the expected.
He finds himself in-between not quite wanting to pull his skates on anymore and not quite wanting to stay at home, either, so he goes in at the same time as usual, sweater billowing as he tosses the counter staff a hesitant smile and finds himself in his usual corner of the locker rooms.
It smells the same, of sweat and an artificial cold. He knows the routine by now, and perhaps his coach knows it too. She paces the sidelines, phone pressed to her ear in conversation, while he stretches and does loops around the ice and makes it only to the run-up to his jumps, body lifting, rising, but not quite making it off the ground.
Jeongguk is there, too. He should be resting, he'd brought home more than what Jimin had -- but he's here, running through step sequences with his earphones in.
Jimin stays to his side of the rink.
At some point, he exhausts repetitions of his short program and Jeongguk has paused his toe loops to lean against the rink barriers and make a pretty brunet laugh, voice deep and bouncing off the walls. He goes back off the ice to get his earbuds and his song and his coach yells something about keeping his back loose and his arms fluid.
He's had her for years now. He likes her, he does -- she'd been firm on him from the start, a thin, tall woman and her trademark blonde, frizzy hair. He'd only gotten here with her help, with all the times she'd make him run through those exercises he hated and the times he'd stay behind after hours to keep practicing. But somewhere down the road he'd become only one of her many students, and he'd land jumps knowing she'd seen another do it better just hours before.
He ices his blistering feet, that night, as if they hadn't already spent the whole day on ice. Re-runs through videos of his performance days before and avoids the comment sections, measured as he scribbles down the bits he'd screwed over and forgotten about in his state of anxiety. His living room is the same as he'd left it a week before, only now warmer, ceiling fan quiet, casting flickering shadows against the wall.
It's midnight when he throws his notebook aside and pushes himself onto his bare, tingling feet.
He patters towards the side of the room that's been replaced with a ceiling-to-floor window -- passing his dining table on the way -- fingers brushing, soft, against the petals of the flowers that now sit in a vase.
He doesn't know why he'd bothered to buy a dining table, when he'd moved in. It was only him around here, anyway. (The chair cushions are silent in his passing, surfaces smooth in the same way they'd been when he'd first bought them.)
He parts the curtains slightly when he settles back down onto the floor. Lets his forehead droop, silent, until he can feel the coldness of glass against his skin and the lights blinking from below flaring behind his eyelids.
He sits, and admits to himself -- and perhaps later, to a city that can't quite hear him -- that now, he feels nothing but lost.
The next competition comes around, weeks later. He stands the the bottom of the steps leading up to his apartment building, cap pulled far down on his head -- alone, he's meeting the others at the airport. The car pulls up at half-past two and Yoongi's familiar face, always a little tired and far too soft, peers out from the side window.
The door is clicking, pushing open seconds later, the man moving to grab his luggage before he can protest.
"Hi," he musters, standing next to him uselessly as he pushes the baggage into the boot of the car.
"Hi," Yoongi says back. When he's got all the bags in, he turns. Jimin's clothed in black and it had probably been a bad idea, the sun beats down on him now and he's already sweating, dripping from his dark hair. "Jimin-ssi," Yoongi starts, like he wants to say something more.
It is silent, until they both realize the driver has been waiting for them for the past minute and Jimin can't quite afford to be late, so the rest of the drive stays like that.
When they get off, it's reasonably quieter. A few of his usual crowd is there, young girls he thinks should be in school and housewives he's somehow managed to earn the hearts of. Yoongi keeps close to his back, shoulder brushing the hood of his jacket with every step.
He smiles, and it's a tad more genuine than the last time he'd been here.
He doesn't quite know what he's done, to earn fans. Fans -- it wasn't like he was a musician, or an idol. He skated because it was what he knew.
He's grateful for them, he thinks. It's pressurizing, of course, but these people love him. Or, some version of him that they've seen on TV. He doesn't know, he hasn't met that Park Jimin yet. But they're here, now, so he smiles and waves and then keeps his head down.
There's a soft tap on his shoulder, just as they near the gates and the small handful of athletes crowded at the side, the sound of his coach's voice on the phone audible over the clicking of cameras.
"Good luck, Jimin-ssi," Yoongi murmurs -- head tilted to press the words to his ear, voice warm and soft and raspy. "See you."
And then his steps slow, enough for Jimin to complete the walk to his colleagues alone.
"Yeah," Jimin echoes. Faintly, softly. "See you."
And then his coach is waving him over and he's jogging the distance over -- when he turns back for the last time, Yoongi has already long disappeared into the crowd.
You'd think he'd be used to the cold, by now.
He stands by the sidelines, beneath the spectators' stands, partially hidden away from the roar of noise that rises and falls. Staring out to the ice, he goes through his stretches the way he always does. Neck and arms and calves and ankles.
He exhales and the artificial chill prickles at his skin -- a little off, a little different from the cold that arose from the earth. Staler, almost.
He turns, then leans down to pat around for something in his duffel bag. Pulls the small, half-emptied bottle out -- spinning back in the languid imitation of a lutz, one that falls away where it should rise.
He tugs at the material hugging his waist, and uncaps the bottle of moisturizer.
It had been a gift from a fan. Thrown onto the ice in the midst of a hurricane of noise, as he'd pulled himself up and let his arms fall from where they grasped air, stilling with the music. He usually gets flowers, sometimes stuffed animals, all with the consistent pattern of being chubby-cheeked and soft -- so it'd surprised him, just enough to make him laugh, when he'd sat in his living room, sorting through piles of gifts, to find a simple bottle of hand moisturizer, and a note attached by string telling him to use it, your skin will dry out easily on the ice, Jimin-ah.
It was one of the gifts he kept closer. Almost considers it lucky -- his hands smell like vanilla and lavender, tucked into the pockets of his jacket.
It's comforting, he supposes.
The crowd goes wild again. Raising a head a little from his hands, he watches another of his own land a quadruple salchow. Taemin has always resembled a snow leopard on the ice, he thinks. Sharp and smooth and powerful.
He blinks, and steps backstage to get his skates.
The lights are bright in his eyes, when he pushes out into the cold. The crowd rises, a roar spilling forth like boiling water -- amongst it all, with vanilla, lavender-kissed fingers, he breathes, and slows, and lets his heartbeat count down to the starting note of his song.
It's not perfect. It's four minutes of something about a bird, a program his coach had drafted out a year ago. It's always different, watching a skate through a screen. The ice leers up at him now, closer than ever.
He falls one, and saves another, and the stadium erupts when the music stills.
Even now, he doesn't quite feel deserving of a supernova.
He places third. It's better than a fifth. His knees almost buckle when he stands but he bows, deep and long, and shuts his eyes to the roar of an ocean.
Good job, his coach tells him. That's more like the Park Jimin we know, huh? She chuckles, heart and whole, a joke he doesn't quite understand. (He manages a smile back at her anyway, sweat dripping down the nape of his neck.)
Yoongi is smiling at him, when he steps out of the arrival gates.
His bodyguard tries to keep a straight face, he's trying -- pulls at the collar of his uniform and the corner of his lips, but it does nothing to dull the soft glimmer in his eyes when he meets his gaze.
It's yellow roses, this time. Twenty five of them, nestled between white-petalled daisies, wrapped in crinkled white paper.
"You did well, Jimin-ssi," he says, like before. The same, sweet, hesitant smile, sitting on the other side of the car. "I watched," a hand moves to scratch at his own ear, fingers outlining the shape of its' shell. "It was beautiful."
A laugh bubbles out of him, choppy and embarrassed. Curling a hand around the bunched stems of the bouquet, he waves him off -- "It wasn't that good," he insists, soft, eyes settling back down on unfurling, velveteen petals. "Thank you, Yoongi-ssi."
Yoongi looks like he wants to argue. (He doesn't.)
It's only three days later, when he sees him again.
He's running through step sequences alone. The rink has emptied out today -- he drifts and spins and closes his eyes and presses music to his ears, when he opens his eyes there is dust dancing in the air with him -- there is light, muted sun, falling in the shape of window panes, not quite managing to chase the cold away but turning grey to sepia. Yoongi stands, hands tucked into jacket pockets, watching him long before he'd noticed.
"Yoongi-ssi," he says, surprised, when he's pulled his earbuds out and spun himself closer.
The black-haired man is still staring at him -- off-duty, clad in something that isn't his uniform -- oversized, warm things that make him look -- make him look attractive, if Jimin let himself look long enough. Softer, realer. (Jimin has never been good with conversation.)
"Jimin-ssi," Yoongi says finally. He smiles a little, then, a slight, embarrassed lift of his lips. "Hi."
"Hi," he answers, feeling his face form an expression not quite different -- suddenly feeling shy, for some odd reason. He lifts a hand to tousle at his sweat-matted hair -- gloved fingers tugging at the black material of his tight shirt, eyes darting away from the other's for a second. "Why are you --"
"I'm here with a friend," Yoongi answers before he can finish. Turning his head a little in an action which drags Jimin's eyes across the rink, watching Jeongguk talk to the same brunet from before. He's dropping by more often than ever, now. Jimin sees them laughing together, sometimes, the younger's laugh bright against the dusty window panes.
"Ah," he says. Yoongi is still looking at him. "Sorry," the bodyguard speaks up, a little huff of a breath. "I just -- thought I'd say hi."
His hands fly up, quick to wave it off. "No, it's okay!" He blurts out. "I --" he pushes off the barriers a little, skating backwards to stand awkwardly in the middle of the ice. "I'm glad you did, Yoongi-ssi."
The black-haired man reddens. (Perhaps, it is but a trick of the light.) "Okay," he says, softer now, the word tinted with finality.
Clearing his voice, the moment breaks.
"Why aren't you taking a break, Jimin-ssi?" Yoongi says suddenly. Lips shaping into an almost-pout as pulls his hands out from his pockets to lean against the barriers. "Winning medals for the country must be tiring."
He flushes a crimson red, but he's laughing with it -- a loud, unexpected burst, disbelieving. "Shut up, you --" burying his face in his hands, he whines a little. "Stop that, Yoongi-ssi."
He receives a grin in return, wide and soft and brilliant.
"Hyung!" He hears, then. They both turn at the same time, to see brown hair and bright eyes walking over, tan hair falling long over the nape of his neck. Jeongguk has seemingly returned to the ice, pushing wireless earbuds into his ears -- before Yoongi's friend turns to wave, backwards-walking and beaming, and the skater drops them in an attempt to wave back.
(Yoongi snorts, soft and exasperated.)
"Done flirting with your boyfriend?" He deadpans. The brunet gives him a look, lips pushing out a pout before it melts into a grin, landing a halfhearted smack to the black-haired man's stomach. "Yeah," he grins, voice a deeper amber. "We can go now."
Jimin stands there, awkward and shuffling on the ice -- Yoongi's eyes move back to meet his and it is only then that his friend seems to truly notice him -- he drops into a deep bow, eyes bright and brown and glimmering.
"You must be Park Jimin-ssi. It's a pleasure to finally meet you," he flashes him a smile, wide and boxy, yet not quite enough to be overbearing. "I'm a big fan. Jeongguk's told me so many incredible things."
Jimin reddens -- instantly, gently, like a timelapse of a blooming flower. He falls into a deep bow just as quickly, hurrying to wave it off -- "No, no -- thank you. I'm really not much," he exhales, pushing away the hair that falls into his face with the movement. "It's nice to meet you too...?"
"Taehyung," the brunet answers for him, smile still tugging the corners of his lips upwards. "Taehyung-ssi," he adds to the end of his sentence. Eyes travelling back to the shorter man beside him, he finds Yoongi already watching him, the same expression on his face -- just gentler, muted.
It's silent, for a second that doesn't seem quite as short, before the latter clears his throat. "We'll get going, then," Yoongi says. Still looking at him, catlike eyes with their natural sleepiness, yet brighter with something more. He pauses. "Don't overwork yourself, Jimin-ssi."
"I won't," he promises, softer. Bowing again, just a little, for the sake of it -- "Thank you."
When they're halfway out the exit, Jimin beginning to circle the rink once more -- Taehyung turns and grins, bright and beautiful.
Fighting, Jimin-ssi! He mouths. Hand raising to form a fist, that he bumps gently in the air, just enough for him to see.
It keeps the small smile on his face for minutes more.
Yoongi begins to drop by more.
More often than not, he's alone. Taehyung still comes, brown hair and odd, hand-cut clothing to wave at him from where he laughs with Jeongguk, but he's usually later than the former.
Jimin will be on the ice -- sweaty and unattractive, running through quads over and over again at one end of the rink. He will pause, at some point, to catch some water and then his breath, only to find his bodyguard already sitting in the stands -- smiling, gummy and soft, when their eyes meet.
(Other days, he will fall mid-lutz, cool cheek pressed against colder ice. He will lie there, letting the artificial chill soak into his back. Exhale as he stares up at the beams overhead, holding up the ceiling.)
(Will hear a voice, rough and a soft, a little worried. "Jimin-ssi?" Yoongi will ask, draped over the barriers caging ice in. Jimin will bolt to his feet, red-faced and numbing fingers, wishing to disappear.)
Better days: "Yoongi-ssi," he will greet, breathless, when he climbs the few steps up to where the other sits, perched on one of the bright red, plastic chairs. Will unscrew the cap on the bottle in his hands, tilt his head back to take a rushing gulp of water.
"Hyung," is the first thing Yoongi says today.
Seeing his eyebrows crease in confusion, he adds -- "call me hyung."
It didn't really come as a surprise, to hear that Yoongi was the elder out of the two of them. Although the black-haired man wasn't the tallest, he'd always carried himself in a way that made Jimin feel like he knew nothing -- though, not necessarily in a bad way. He'd only assumed, silently, that he'd been the younger one.
"Yoongi-hyung," he tries now. A small grin curling the corners of his lips as he lowers his waterbottle and turns the cap once, twice, thrice -- Yoongi smiles back at him, satisfied.
They don't usually have much time to talk. Jimin will clamber up the stands during his water breaks and Yoongi will make little comments on his program, will talk about how pretty he makes his axels look, but will never quite give him the time to flush and deny it. He'll ask how it feels, making a jump, because it's something he'll never be able to know, with his skills on the ice -- Jimin will tell him about it, will tell him about how it feels to fly and how it feels to fall. And then he will apologize, out of breath, for being all sweaty and gross and Yoongi will wave it off like it were ridiculous to do so.
And then his coach will walk over and he's pushing back out on the ice again, practicing combination spins until the ice rocks unsteady beneath his feet, or step sequences that seem harder with the black-haired elder watching.
"Have you eaten?" Yoongi asks, now. Casually, almost absentmindedly -- Jimin yawns a little, pulling his black gloves off to find his water bottle. "Not yet," he answers, staring out onto the ice. Jeongguk's doing off-ice training today, so it was only him and a handful of other skaters he didn't know how to talk to.
Yoongi begins to speak. He sits back in red plastic and turns to face him.
"We should eat," the elder is saying. Jimin blinks. "Together," Yoongi clarifies, staples to the back -- a hand moving up to scratch at his ear, combing down a little, curling tendril of dark hair. He's looking at him, a little wide-eyed and pink. "--That's legal, right? I mean, I'm off work--"
"Okay," Jimin says.
"What?"
"Okay," he repeats. Resting both hands on the edge of the chair, nestled by his hips. "I need to change first, though." He chews at his bottom lip. "You--"
"I can wait," the bodyguard blurts out, before he can ask.
He finds the corner of his mouth curling, softening to push against his cheeks.
"Okay," he responds. Slides himself off the chair, shifting weight on the metal blades of his skates again. Stumbles a little on the way down the steps because sometimes it feels like he might move better on ice than he walks on land -- Yoongi calls after him, a, "don't fall, Jimin-ah!" that makes him giggle, just a little, pausing where he grips on to the edges of the aisle seats to make a face up at the elder.
He goes to wrap up training, and them some -- emerging from the locker rooms mildly fresher, ratty sweatpants and a large T-shirt hugging his frame. (He'd attempted to comb through his mussed hair with his fingers, splashing his face with water until it dripped down his neck, but it'd only managed to make him look a fraction less sweaty.) Yoongi sits there, still -- now tapping absentmindedly at his phone. Face placid, soft-looking.
"Where are we going?" He asks finally, after they've left an artificial winter behind them. Warm air rushes like a hot exhale of a breath as they step past the turnstiles, filling the spaces before they do. Jimin turns to give the security guards a wave goodbye, pausing to drop into a bow before hurrying after Yoongi.
"What do you feel like eating?" The elder asks instead. They cut across the carpark, his bag bumping his hip with every step against rough asphalt. He squints against the sunlight and hums.
"Burgers?"
"We're going to get burgers," Yoongi says, head tilting with his answer to his first question. Hands stuffed in his jean pockets; they don't walk quite close enough to brush arms.
Jimin smiles, eyes thinning like they've seen light. Yoongi looks away.
It becomes their thing.
Jimin's routine becomes: Wake up. Stumble into the bathroom by seven, have breakfast on his living room coffee table with the television playing the morning news to fill in the silent spaces with that day's weather reports. Hit the pavement by eight for his morning jog around the block, worn-in track shoes hitting warming pavement. Wave to the auntie working in the bakery round the bend as he passes.
Training begins at half-past nine. Greet the security guards. Stretch. Start on jumps. And after, get lunch somewhere in the city with his bodyguard, off working hours.
"What do you do, hyung?"
"Hm?" Yoongi responds, a noise from where he's bent over. Hands rested upon his thighs, black hair falling over his face as he picks out silent bottles of Ramune.
"Outside of, y'know," Jimin clarifies with a little shrug, as Yoongi pushes the glass doors open and they're stumbling out of the convenience store, harsh air-conditioning quickly replaced by the warm afternoon air. "Your day job."
The elder pauses for a while. They find a place on the pavement, perched upon the empty front step of a store long closed down. The For Lease sign taped to the doorfront lies weather-battered, white crinkled paper turning anything but.
"I make music," Yoongi says finally. Seeing Jimin's expression, he hurries -- "but it's nothing serious. Not really. I have a couple of songs out, but it's not --"
"Nothing serious -- " Jimin scoffs, landing a weak, halfhearted push to his shoulder, before he tips his head back to take another gulp of bottled juice. (Apple; he's never liked fizzy drinks.) "You have songs out."
"They're not --" Yoongi tries again. He's looking down at the floor now, casually enough to make the little drop of his shoulders seem miniscule. "They're not doing very good," he says, soft, the laugh that comes after cutting harsher. He picks at the loosened thread around the spaces on his knees where his jeans are ripped. "I have listeners, but -- as I said, it's nothing serious."
"You like it, though?" Jimin asks. Yoongi relaxes a little, again, slouching back until their shoulders brush.
"Yeah," he makes a garbled noise. "It's...just something."
They fall quiet, again. The warm, late-afternoon air rushes with the cars, staticky and constant, like the soft sound of a fuzzy radio. Jimin sips at his juice and Yoongi at his soda, and they watch old taxis and sleeker cars drive by in silence. Somewhere, the lady boss of a restaurant nearby yaks away at the phone. A dog and its owner walk by -- the dachshund pausing to sniff at Jimin's drink before the man on his walk tugs at the leash and they carry on.
Suddenly, there are earbuds being thrusted in his direction. Rough hands -- now, softer than ever -- holding one half of the pair out for him.
A little hesitantly, like heat spreading slow across a frozen lake, he takes it.
Yoongi is silent, when he presses play.
Jimin listens. Rests his temple upon the curve of his shoulder -- gentle, sure, and listens. Somewhere in-between, his eyes fall shut against the sounds of traffic and rushing air. Yoongi's voice takes its first breath, somewhere amidst empty noise and the awakening press of piano keys.
Yoongi's still watching him, he knows. He keeps his eyes shut and his lips soft and the earbuds nestled in the shells of his ears, listens to the story of a boy and his first love.
The black-haired man doesn't say anything, even after the song has fallen to silence and he's wrapping his earphones around his fingers, bunching together the bundle of white. He's staring down at the grey pavement and Jimin sits there, feels an inexplicable urge surge up in his chest like crested waves and hidden tremors.
"It's good," he says finally. Staring down at his hands, skin pruning where his fingers curl around the neck of his emptied bottle of juice. Softly, truthfully.
"Yeah?" Yoongi says with a little, gritty chuckle. He shifts to bump their arms together, an indignant push against his shoulder. "Yeah," he pauses -- "I think..." -- turning the bottle over in his palm, he exhales. "I think you should keep going," he says finally, quiet under the midday sun.
"Okay," Yoongi speaks up, soft and rough and familiar -- he exhales, not quite looking at him, but not quite ignoring him either. "I will."
(Jimin knows he means it.)
They fall silent again.
The year's competition season comes to a close.
They're at a bar, expensive one he doesn't know who booked. Squeezed into the candy-red cushions of a booth, between a bunch of skaters he can barely call acquaintences.
(But they're all family here, right?)
He picks at the bowls of chips and fries scattered over the table -- people come and go and at some point he stands, blinking through glaring, swivelling lines of neon. He can't move without bumping into someone else.
He pushes his way through the crowds like this -- saturated and heavy, moving in unorganized tandem like rocking waves threatening to beat the walls down. Barely stumbles over to the wraparound bar and rows of glittering, sparkling bottles.
He gets four. Downs most of it standing up -- throwing it back, again and again and again, feeling it all rush down his throat, bubbling up beneath his chest. Barely registers the wolf-whistling that erupts, the raking gazes that make him feel ugly, ugly.
It gets him halfway to drunk. Or so he thinks he might be, tottering over to where the people move with the music.
The song sucks. He dances to it anyway, switching through partners quickly. Some don't quite seem to know how to move and others do, and the only thing they have in common is that they are all uncaring. The lights spin and his eyes fight to stay open and he thinks someone may have switched his blood out for molasses, dripping out onto the shimmery floor.
He's ruining it. This place is too expensive for him, too expensive for him and his bronze medals and molasses blood.
He stumbles out into a darkness alike to the one indoors. The lights are less green and purple, now, more amber and white -- streetlamps spilling out onto asphalt.
He thinks, teeter-tottering down the street, that he forgot to tell someone where he was going. Anyone. They're going to kill him. Maybe they won't mind?
He calls Yoongi.
"Jimin?" He sounds confused, voice crackling over the phone. Jimin laughs, louder than 12am.
"Bodyguard-nim," he sing-songs. It sounds off, doesn't quite sound like him. (He's sung before, he'd know.)
A pause. "Are you drunk?" Yoongi asks, voice tinged with flickering concern.
He stops walking, slumping against the body of a streetlamp. The light flutters above him, golden coming down and then fading into nothing.
"Yeah," he admits. He can't quite make the words cut off his tongue clean, so he tries again. "-- but not very," he insists. "I'm a good drinker, hyung."
He thinks he hears a breathy, muttered, "good to know" -- but he can't quite be sure. There's the distant, choppy noise of jingling keys somewhere over the line. "Are you alone?"
"Yeah," Jimin drags the word out, then giggles. "Diminie--" he clears his throat. "Left them behind at the bar."
A pause.
"Where are you?" Yoongi asks, clearer now.
"Walking," he giggles into the empty streets, like it's funny. A car drives by, headlights dragging across darkened windows.
"Is there a building next to you?" Yoongi asks, softer. "A store?"
He turns his head, and blinks against harsh, fluorescent convenience store lights. "CU," his head lolls, and thunks against cold metal.
"You're going to have to be more specific than that, Jimin-ah," Yoongi says. There's a slight, amused tint to his voice -- a little fond and a little exasperated -- perhaps Jimin has drunken more than he thinks. "CU's a chain store, y'know."
He turns his head, this time to squint up at a roadsign, its solid blue washen into greys, under this light. Rattles off the street address to the elder over the phone, and hears more shuffling around. A door slams shut.
"I'm coming, yeah?" Yoongi speaks up again. He sounds a little breathless now, as if he's running somewhere. Jimin tilts his head back, watches his vision swim. "I'm coming to get you, so don't move, okay?"
Jimin hums something in reply.
"Can you sit down somewhere? On the pavement?"
"Okay," Jimin yawns. Sits down where he stands, pulling his knees to his chest. He feels a little dizzy, staring up like that. The stars overhead are sprinkled, stingy. "I'm sitting."
"Okay," Yoongi repeats. He exhales, and it comes out too loud over the phone. It's quiet, for a while. Jimin wonders if he wants to hang up. "Tell me something happy," Yoongi says instead.
He takes a while to think. "The stars," he exhales with finality, neck beginning to ache with the upward tilt of his head. "They're....there," he says, and then laughs, soft and lazy.
(God, he sounds so stupid.) The darkness overhead wisps and envelopes like shredding velveteen.
"They are," Yoongi says back. It's soft and staticky and breathy all at once, and it makes him wonder, just for a moment, how the words would feel pressed into his skin.
"Where are you coming from?" Jimin asks instead.
"What?"
"Where do you live?" He explains, and then a little hazy, apologetically, "You were at home, right? Sorry for making you come. It's late."
The alcohol simmers at the back of his mind now -- souring, soaking into the walls of his head, the insides of his eyelids. It's pathetic, he thinks. Wonders if any other olympic-level figure skaters are piss-drunk at this hour, slumped on the side of a pavement.
Yoongi clears his throat. "It's okay. I'm your bodyguard, aren't I? I don't live far."
A pause. "Yeah," he says, feeling a little empty.
When Yoongi's frame casts a Yoongi-shaped shadow over the cement he sits on, the feeling is gone -- losing interest in his silhouette, wandering off instead to dance with the streetlamps.
Wordlessly, he is pulled off the ground.
He blinks, confused, as he is then dragged into the convenience store he'd been staring at for the past fifteen minutes.
"What are you...?" He begins to ask, when they're inside in the artificial cold and Yoongi's bent down in front of a rack of bottled water.
"Do you have a favourite brand?" His bodyguard asks instead.
"No," he answers, still a little bewildered.
Yoongi gets two bottles -- mineral water that promises to be from Jeju. He pays for them both, and when he drags them both outside -- a large, gentle hand curled around his cold fingers, Jimin is glad he'd drunken enough for the flush on his face to be taken as a mere aftermath of too much alcohol.
"Drink," Yoongi says in the fuzzy darkness, thrusting one of the bottles to his chest.
Jimin does. The water is plain and it feels like a sudden gulp of air after a sticky-sweet haze. He brings the bottle back down from his mouth after two gulps but Yoongi's still looking at him, eyes dark and sleepy and glinting beneath the streetlamps, and he takes a third.
When the elder finally seems satisfied at the half-emptied bottle, he says, "let's get you home, yeah?"
"No," Jimin rebuts instead. Scuffs a foot on the dirty pavement like a halfhearted imitation of a whining child. "Don't wanna go home."
Yoongi looks at him -- really looks at him, and then exhales, deep and soft enough for Jimin to feel a breeze against his skin.
"Where do you want to go, then? All the shops are closed --"
"I know a place," Jimin says -- a amall, wondrous grin widening on his face, unfolding like flower petals.
His bodyguard squints at him. "Is it legal?"
He laughs. Giggles into the grainy darkness of 1am, feeling all sorts of stupid and happy.
"Maybe."
(The flower explodes into magnifcence, dripping colour onto the floor.)
Yoongi, Yoongi lets him drag them wherever.
He'd discovered the place two years ago.
It wasn't so much a discovery, per se -- the rooftop had always been there, low-lying admist towering business buildings. Most of them just forgot to look up.
Yoongi doesn't say anything, when they step out of the old cranky elevators running through the building. Beneath their feet, the rink lies colder than before -- fallen into silent slumber, blanketed in its own artifical winter.
He still doesn't say anything, when Jimin drops his hand and wanders to the edge. The cemented barriers would reach up to his chest if he let them, but he clambers onto his ledge instead. Dirtied by the imprints of his previous footsteps, when he'd come up here after practices alone.
Up here, the walls could never reach him.
The insomniac's wind billows into his hair -- rushes fingers through the midnight-black strands, makes him laugh, loud and giddy. The light of offices left empty glints in his eyes, reflecting brighter than before.
He exhales, and lets his shoulders fall, slack.
"Don't fall."
He smiles. Small and soft, at the sound of the elder's rough, ever-gentle voice.
When he turns to look back, he finds Yoongi right by his side. Though a step lower, a hand hovers extended, yet not quite touching him -- as if simply readying himself to catch him, if he ever did fall.
He takes it.
Yoongi blinks -- at him, and then the cityscape twinkling beneath their breaths. "S'pretty," he mumbles.
"Yeah?" Jimin sighs. Looks out into the oceans of light, buildings rising and falling like crashing waves. The wind seems colder now, sending goosebumps rising up against his skin, like dominoes on the nape of his neck. (Yoongi's hand is warm in his, tender but firm and real.) "Feels lonely," he admits softly with an exhale.
"Why?"
He shrugs, even though he knows. "There's no one in there," he points out. His voice quiet, hush against the rising crescendo of the night's air. "Those buildings," the vacant office lights stare back, blank. "The lights are on for no one."
Yoongi is silent, for a while. Jimin lets his hand fall slack, as if more tired than before, fingers loosening their grip around the elder's palm.
"Move over," Yoongi says. He does, and his bodyguard (friend, friend) hoists himself up with a huff and a noise, tight like exertion. Jimin giggles, and the sound gets caught up with the wind.
"You know --" Yoongi starts. Jimin is already looking at him, blinking against the sight of blemished cheeks and soft skin and dark, black hair. "You're right."
The air hangs between the both of them, still all of a sudden. Yoongi clears his throat, and continues.
"In a way, it does seem lonely. They're just --" he gestures to the business buildings, towers of grey and glass. Jimin looks down, a small, tired drag on his lips. "Waiting alone, for us humans to come back, y'know? But --" he blinks. "What if they like the night?"
Jimin looks up. The office lights stare back, white and boxed up.
"With every empty office and every light left on -- it only means that people have left, y'know? They've left, just for a while, to be with their families." He falls silent, before picking back up again. "These people, they're with people they love. People they're trying to love. Or maybe they're all alone in their shitty apartments -- but they're someone to love too, are they not?"
Yoongi exhales, and Jimin thinks he feels it expand, curl against his insides. "Maybe these lights like the night."
The wind calms.
The offices left empty return to being lit-up rooms, and Yoongi stands soft, next to him -- free hand resting in a coat pocket, other tangled with his. Jimin blinks, stares out into the mass of blacks and reds and oranges and whites -- he exhales, and lets his shoulders fall, slack. Imagines love, where loneliness once breathed.
They stay silent for a while more. Neither of them quite know what time it is, but the next time Yoongi opens his mouth, it's to say, soft and quiet -- "can I bring you home, Jimin-ah?"
Jimin lets him.
Park Jimin is going to write his own program.
He tells his coach over the phone. She's surprised, if the short pause of silence after says anything at all -- he waits patiently, phone on speaker as he stands before his mirror. (Peers at the swelling pimples scattered across his cheek -- not quite seeing as he stares back at himself, tired and raw, a body raised by artificial winters.)
"Okay," she says finally, a little disbelieving, a little weary. "Do you -- do you want a backup one drafted just in case?"
He exhales, moving to prop himself up, palms flat against the surface of his bathroom counter. "No. It's okay," he pauses, then glances back at himself in the mirror. "I'll do it well."
There is a blip of silence from the other end -- and then just like someone'd pressed play again, his coach speaks up once more. "You will," she says -- a soft agreement, almost a concession, the woman's voice bouncing off the four walls of his bathroom. "I'm looking forward to seeing it, Jimin-ah."
Then he makes another phone call. The clean sound of his dongsaeng's voice replaces, quickly, the repetitive, pulsing rings of a call in connection. (His voice is always like young, fresh earth, crumbling soft between your fingers. Jimin'd always envied him for it.) "Hyung?"
"Jeongguk-ah," he says, stepping out of his bathroom. Flicks the light off behind him and shuffles into his kitchen, taking a glass off the shelf with one hand. "Sorry, it's late. Are you busy?"
"No, no," Jeongguk interjects quickly, a curious softness taking over the surprised tint to his voice. "Do you need anything?"
"Yah, do I need a reason to call my favourite dongsaeng?"
There's a beat of silence, before Jeongguk's laugh flits over the phone -- happy, but a little taken aback. Familiar, nevertheless. It hits him now, how he can barely remember the last time he'd properly talked to the younger skater. They used to go out for lunch, on days their practices coincided. Jimin would laugh, loud, and he would tease Jeongguk and the latter would tease him right back. (Jimin wonders now, when Jeongguk had begun to call him hyung again.)
That version of him seems -- foreign, now. He knows him, yet he doesn't. He remembers being happy, but can't quite remember exactly what it'd felt like.
He pours himself a glass of water.
"You're right, I do need something," he concedes, soft, and a little apologetic. Jeongguk is smiling though, he thinks, one he can't see.
"My, what would the incredible Park Jimin ever want with someone as insignificant as me?"
He snorts. Takes a gulp of cold water. Imagines, if he were talking to the other in person, that he'd smack him halfhearted across the shoulder.
"Shut up. What do you know about creating programs?"
Half a month later, he performs it for the first time.
(--only in front of his coach, a finalized first try.)
The ice has been emptied out today, just for this. He moves and twists and pushes, pushes, and fills all that space up.
No one else has seen this. Yoongi, only the song. Jeongguk, only the soundless sequences. He breathes it in, and it feels a little like its his.
There are parts that need changing. There are jumps to switch out and step sequences to rearrange and turns to practice, but he's panting at the end of it and his coach is smiling at him, quiet and -- proud, maybe, if he looks close enough.
"It's wonderful, Jimin-ah," she says, then pauses. Looks at him, really looks at him. "I think you should be proud of yourself."
He takes the train home in the evening. His legs wobble with a wavering attempt to keep him upright but he walks, walks into oceans of faces he can't recognize. Doesn't quite take it all in, doesn't quite breathe with his lungs.
The train empties out, he's got three more stops to pass. He's stilted, weight pressed into a corner of the cabin, up against a sheet of glass that keeps the solid-blue seats together.
Feels a tap, then two more, against the surface he leans on.
He turns. A lady -- perhaps a mother sat a seat away, points down at the empty one next to her. Smiles a little, skin wrinkling at their edges.
He shakes his head. Smiles back, surprising himself, soft. She points again, the look on her face open, offering, but he declines again.
When his stop comes, she's fallen asleep.
(He wishes he'd told her thank you.)
He starts going out again.
It starts with only Yoongi. They work on the track together, Jimin leant over the side of his chair to peer at the computer screen, Yoongi clicking periodically at his mouse. He doesn't know how the elder does it, he can barely understand the words across the bars.
They end up staying later than they'd planned, more often than not. Yoongi doesn't bug him on letting him see the program but Jimin knows he's curious, words stuffed back into the pouches of soft cheeks.
Sometimes they go out for dinner. Yoongi insists on paying for his lamb skewers but he gets back at him the next time, pushes him out of the way when he tries to pay for their tteokbokki a few evenings after.
(There'd been a pause. The cashier had looked between the both of them, then, as Jimin'd slid a calm bill over the counter and Yoongi'd stood gaping. He doesn't think he's ever seen anyone look this affronted -- but when they finally leave the street stall the bodyguard begins to laugh, loud and gummy and disbelieving.)
("You--" he'd guffawed, grin brighter than Jimin has perhaps ever seen, as he bent over to collect himself. "You're impossible.")
(And standing there in that night, in that light -- impossible hadn't felt like something so terrible to be.)
One time, Jeongguk joins them. Jimin doesn't know how it happens but Jeongguk is sitting across from them, fresh-faced and gouging himself on lamb skewers. They laugh and talk and Yoongi is touchier than usual that evening, an arm tossed over the back of their booth, as if subconsciously reaching out for him. (But perhaps, it's only wishful thinking.)
Jeongguk ends up inviting Taehyung, the next time it happens. They find out they're the same age and form a silent pack almost immediately, Taehyung's laughter bright like the moon.
It's the four of them, the unlikeliest quartet, stuffed into a ramen store -- but for once, in a long, long time, Jimin doesn't feel like an outsider. Instead, he feels like he might belong, somewhere in all this happy.
Yoongi kisses him for the first time.
They'd ordered takeout, because Jimin had worn his legs down doing quads hours earlier and they both know, the elder would be more than happy to stay inside. The coffee table in the center of the elder's living room is less than empty that evening. Jimin digs into his fried noodles, slurping loud and unabashed when he settles back into the dip of the small couch.
They eat quietly. Yoongi's playing the radio from his phone, the voice of the SBS DJ fuzzy against the white walls and the screen of the computer, left on. Jimin sips at a coke and finishes his food quickly, scraping black bean sauce off the sides of his takeaway box with wooden chopsticks.
Then they return to the computer. The track has been revised time and again and Jimin thinks they've got it right, this time. He taps at his phone screen and follows the music with his hands, performs a rendition of his piece sitting down.
Yoongi's looking at him. He looks back, hands in the midst of what was supposed to be a camel spin.
And then Yoongi is laughing, voice an earthy stutter. Soft, sleepy eyes curving into gentle slits, shoulders jerking with the sound.
Perhaps he is laughing at him -- but Jimin laughs, despite himself. A little softer, falling over himself -- forwards, head lolling to bump against the elder's arm.
He twists his neck to look up at him, the corners of his lips curled up against his cheeks. Yoongi is staring back down already, something tender in the way he blinks.
"Jimin-ah," he says. Asks, voice suddenly quiet. "Can I kiss you?"
The question hangs, and the air stills. Jimin blinks.
"Okay," he says.
It comes out softer than he'd expected, the words spilling in a whisper he doesn't quite plan.
Yoongi moves, after a beat. Hunching down more than he'd already been, subconsciously, a large, gentle hand tracing the edge of his face. The elder isn't a touchy person and Jimin hadn't minded -- these fingers caressing his left cheek are more he's ever done, but the touch is soft and gentle and so, so careful -- Jimin is thankful, now, to not have been standing, for his legs would've long given out.
Yoongi leans in, and he lets his eyes fall shut.
It's the press of his mouth to his cheek. Soft lips, chapped after hours in an air-conditioned room -- tender and achingly gentle with their attempt to leave its indent against his skin. Jimin's eyes droop with the proximity, close enough to be watching the side of Yoongi's face, to trace the shape of his ear and etch the sight of black hair wisping against his temple into the back of his eyelids.
Yoongi still has his chin between his fingers when he pulls back up. Jimin's head spins. He belatedly realizes he hasn't taken a single breath throughout and sucks in a deep one -- he'd be feeling more embarrassed to be this affected by a mere peck on the cheek, but Yoongi's staring at him now, red-faced and dazed, looking just as winded as he feels.
He thinks, he wants him against his lips, too.
"Yoongi," he says, softly, hoarsely. He finds his eyes drooping down to the elder's lips, thin and soft and pink -- and exhales. Swallows, then asks, quieter than ever -- "Can i.....?"
"God," Yoongi blurts out, voice rough and cracking and trembling beneath his breath. "God, yeah."
It's just a peck. The angle is awkward and Jimin's neck begins to hurt almost immediately -- but Yoongi's lips are soft, tentative, rougher hands hesitating, hovering over his neck before they gather the courage to cup his face, holding him with all the gentleness one would watch a sunrise with -- and Jimin finds, that he doesn't quite mind it.
When Jimin opens his eyes Yoongi is blinking at him -- wide-eyed, breath shaky, skin at the beginnings of vermillon.
Jimin rises, sits up, and kisses him again.
He hears -- feels, the elder suck in a deep breath, his mouth hazy and warm like a summer night. It's not his first kiss -- but it's his first with Yoongi, and somehow, it feels right. The elder's left hand moves, large and gentle, to wrap around his waist and pull him in -- they stumble a little, Jimin into Yoongi's lap, but he finds that he doesn't mind.
He doesn't feel like prey. Feels less like a painting, hung still for people to watch, less like gold slipping through the cracks between fingers. He feels -- he feels like a person. Feels like a boy holding a love in his arms, being held right back, just as tightly.
Yoongi's just as nervous, just as winded as he is, he thinks.
(It feels, it feels like perhaps, Yoongi might like him back just as much.)
"Wait, wait," the elder interrupts against his mouth. Jimin draws back quickly, the space between his brows beginning to knit -- Yoongi looks at him -- a little out of breath, lips pink and soft and pretty.
"Is this legal?"
"What?"
"You're basically my boss, aren't you?" He croaks, suddenly starting to look like the beginnings of a mental breakdown. Pushing a palm through his dark hair, fingers curling (Jimin, dazed, wonders if it's as soft as it looks), "Oh god, I'm in love with my boss--"
Jimin throws his head back and laughs, and laughs.
"I like you," he finally says when he finds the chance to catch his breath, crescent eyes and moonlight grin high on ruddy cheeks. Hands shifting from where they'd been curling around Yoongi's shoulders to tug a little at the front of his shirt, the one he knew the elder favoured over all the others.
"Oh," Yoongi says.
Jimin tilts forward (when had his legs come to drape around Yoongi's hips?) and kisses him again. The elder is looking at him -- just staring, looking a little breathless and then a little bit unbelieving, eyes seeming to droop subconsciously when their mouths meet, soft.
"I'll visit you in jail."
The response is immediate. Yoongi almost moves, as if readying himself to land a fisted smack against his shoulder, until Jimin begins to slip back and he's jerking, almost instinctive in the way his hands wind tighter around his waist. "Hey--" He protests.
(Jimin's face aches with his smile.)
It's past nine on a thursday -- Jimin would be on his way home by now, alone on a train filled to its brim -- but here he is, in Yoongi's lap instead. Kissing him. Laughing. Being cradled to his person. He wonders, for a moment, if he's been dreaming again. Maybe he'll wake up soon?
Yoongi's watching him again. Eyes tracing along his face, catlike and bright, yet sleepy all at once. Then he smiles -- it grows suddenly, like he'd finally caught up to the moment. Like Jimin made him happy.
He can't help it. He leans in, kisses him again -- pressing a period to the end of a sentence. Giving way to the start of another.
(It's good, he thinks. Yoongi, Yoongi makes him happy, too.)
Park returns to competition.
The 20-year-old skater who will be competing in the upcoming Winter Olympics revealed earlier this year that he will be skating his free program to a jointly-produced piece, composed by himself and Min Yoongi.
"I have been released from the pressure that I have to produce results," he told Korean press last month. "I think, and feel, that I can skate for myself from now on."
He named his free program 'Lie'.
The crowd roars.
Jimin doesn't quite hear it all.
"Jimin-ah," his coach calls, voice raised over the noise from the stands. He turns, one skate pressed into rumbling ice.
He's vaguely aware of a cameraman to his left, large, black videocamera hoisted upon his shoulder. He keeps his eyes on the cold-weathered woman instead, a hand tugging lightly at the gauzy material hugging his waist.
"Jimin," she says again, clearer this time. Two hands, moving to grip at his shoulders, her skin, sun-blemished and worn, wrinkles when she speaks. "We're proud of you. No matter what."
He blinks, and lets his hand fall from his stomach. Exhales something deep and long, perhaps freeing. Something brave.
"I know," he says. And he does.
They're announcing his name, now. Loud, the syllables bouncing off the walls, down from the ceiling. He takes a chance, and leans down to hug her.
"Thank you," he whispers, and means it. She smiles at him, tender lines around her eyes -- it's the same smile she'd given him when he was twelve and landed his first waltz jump. The same smile she sent him off with early year on his birthday, forcing him to get off the ice early, stern with every, "Yah, stop wasting your life here -- don't you have friends? Go, and bring me some cake tomorrow."
"Go," she says now.
He does.
The crowds still scare him.
(But of course they do. He doesn't think there'll be a day he doesn't tremble, looping around the length of the rink under settling murmurs.)
He breathes in. The cold stings his nose and then, then he hears --
"Park Jimin!" A voice bellows, loud and splitting. Deep and dark, like the coffee cups he brings to practice. He looks, and searches.
Left of the judges' stand. Three rows up. He searches, then finds --
Taehyung, on his feet -- only momentarily, it seems, with the glances the security guards are giving him. The brunet doesn't look like he cares, not at all -- "PARK JIMIN IS THE BEST!" he screams again, frantically jostling the large banner in his hands -- obviously handmade, his name and face stuck on with glue. Next to him, Yoongi sits -- looking mildly embarrassed, face crimson as he tugs at the hem of Taehyung's sweater.
The crowd rumbles, smatterings of laughter mixed amongst sounds of annoyance.
Jimin can barely make their faces out from where he slows, but he knows Yoongi is smiling, too.
To his left, forearms perched upon the barriers, is Jeongguk. Hair slicked back, black sheer fabric and feathers climbing up his skin, the same little grin on his face.
Behind him, his coach. His parents, his brother. Banners with his name on them. His country's flag. Stuffed toys and bouquets and lavender hand creams.
It all falls silent.
His arms fall to his sides. Inhales, and exhales. Feels the ice breathe out with him, cold breath swirling at his feet, the metal of his skates. The strings begin to croon -- louder than his earbuds could ever manage, louder than he's ever heard them. Clambering up the walls -- rising, rising.
And then it holds. Suspended midair, like a rubberband pulled long, taut.
He stumbles forward, then, perfectly orchestrated -- as if thrown forward by the sound of his own voice, ricochetting through the stadium. Clearer than before, powerful. Pushing, pushing to get out.
The beat falls, and he comes alive.
(Somewhere in the sky, a star awakens.)
He dances. He dances, and then he spins, and loops and soars. A puppet of the sound of his own voice, something tumultuous and tempting and terrified.
Quadruple salchow. Triple flip. The crowd erupts with his landing, sounding like shaking earth.
The ice is leering, up at him again -- this time, he stares back. Watches and scrapes a truce onto its blue lips.
Flying camel. Layback. Bielmann.
He falls, and the star shatters.
He stays there -- on his throbbing knees, a hand thrown up towards the ceiling. The cold is already making quick work of seeping into the fabric of his pants -- but its nothing he's not used to.
He hears nothing, and then everything.
(Really, he hasn't heard any sound this loud in his life. There is yelling and whistling and a rumble so deep, overflowing into a roar.) The crowd, he thinks faintly. That's the crowd.
He lets his hand fall. Pushes against the ice until he's standing, head raising from where he'd been shuddering against the floor.
Flowers. There are flowers at his feet. Flowers and pink-cheeked plushies and more bottles of hand cream -- oh my god, is that Rose-scented?
"Oh my god," he repeats, to no one and everyone at once. It comes out more of a sob -- when had he started crying?
"Jimin!" He hears. Swivels around to see Taehyung, body thrown dangerously over a handrail. Yoongi right beside him, staring at him -- cheeks wet, grinning wider than he's ever seen. "Bow!" The brunet hollers.
He does. Drops down deep, hearing the stadium grow louder with it. When he straightens up he's not quite able to breathe, salt water tearing from his mouth in a nasally sob.
He can't quite stop. The next skater is waiting to come on but he can't quite stop crying, burying his face into the concaves of his palms, the soft, black fabric of his gloves. He turns and bows again, to the other end of the stadium -- when he lifts himself back up his body sags against the ice like the aftermath of an exhale, heavy and tired and relieved.
"Jimin, Jimin," his coach is repeating. He stumbles off the ice and into her arms, tears only then beginning to slow. It feels sour in his face, up his nose and in his lungs, and he wants to grimace, clean his insides of it -- she takes his face in his hands, old eyes glimmering. "You're magnificent, Park Jimin."
It's the highest score he's ever gotten.
The stadium is loud, loud, alight with a roar that doesn't seem to want to die down. He sits there in the Kiss and Cry, red-rimmed eyes and sweat-dripping hair and red-flushed cheeks, and crumples again.
(Just a couple years ago, he wouldn't have pegged himself to be someone who'd be bawling on live television -- but there's a first for everyone, isn't there?)
"--World Record--" someone is saying. Shaking him, hands stuttering on his shoulders. He thinks it's his coach, but maybe its the overhead speakers. When he opens his eyes he sees the ice. Sees the ice and the lights and the crowds, sees the flickering board overhead with his name at the top.
It's his coach -- teary, voice tight with what he thinks might just be pride. "You broke the record, Jimin-ah."
It's only after a while that he finally pulls himself together and up, wobbling onto his feet and stumbling off backstage with a last, quivering bow, teary and just a little bit embarrassed -- but he finds, it's not a feeling he detests.
(He inhales. In the stands, there comes the sound of grand, crashing waves --
and with his body folded, his head tilted to the floor, he lets it all in.)
The lights are dimmed.
All around, it is cold. The familiar, slightly-stale, artificial kind that he could almost, almost call home -- and then there is ice, white sheets stopping short at his toes, blue and gold beneath the spotlights.
First place. South Korea. Park Jimin.
The gates open, soft styrofoam in purples and blues tugged aside. He inhales, and puts one skate in front of the other.
There, there is that roar again. Clapping, sounding like a storm hitting the floor, when he circles the rink, sheer material hugging his frame. It's scary. It's terrifying. But he thinks, thinks that that's okay.
He bows. Four times, in all directions, arms pushed out to embrace the hurricane. Looks out into the crowd, lets his eyes wander over every single unfamiliar face, and feels something indescribable swell up in his chest, in his throat.
He swivels back to the podium, the blue carpet rolled out over part of the ice.
"Hyung," Jeongguk says, quiet as he leans down, melting awkwardly into his hug. Jimin pats his back -- once, twice, then squeezes him, hard. Then he pulls back, looks up at him, perched upon third place, and Jeongguk falls silent again. Thank you, he mouths.
Jeongguk stills, just a little -- then softens, black feathers adorning his neckline fluttering as he softens. Smiles. It's not all the same as before, a bunch of years ago when they'd play-wrestle on the ice and laugh over TV shows, but Jimin smiles back, and thinks they'll be okay.
The cameras are rolling. The crowd has quietened down now, scattered with quiet applause as he circles round to pull Taeyang into a hug too, the elder laughing airily as he leans down, back bent awkwardly with Jimin's arms around him.
Then he turns. Skates out, a little distance back from the podium -- and then inhales. Gets a running start, then jumps. Metal skates, glinting, laces a little worn -- lands, just like flying, onto first place. The crowd roars.
He stands here. Asian, gay. Tattoo on his right rib. Still a little lost, hands a little unsteady. Not quite close to liking who he sees in the mirror, but a little bit in love.
The metal is golden, cold -- but he's always had warm hands.
(It's going to be okay.)
He's in the dressing rooms, when they come to see him.
"Jimin," a rough, earthy voice croaks out, and his hands stop halfway from where they're rubbing makeup off his eyelids. He turns and Yoongi is standing there, in the doorway -- wide eyed, hair tousled like he'd been fighting his way through a crowd.
"Yoongi," he breathes. Relieved with all the weight of the world, hand dropping to press the darkened sheet of cotton onto the tabletop before he's crossing the length of the room, breaking out into a little run when the elder does, too.
He throws him into a hug. Yoongi's arms are tight around his waist, warm, his face stuffed into his shoulder. "Don't crush the flowers!" The elder yelps. They stumble across the room together so that he can set them down on a coffee table, Jimin laughing softly into the fabric of his shirt.
"Jimin, Jimin," Yoongi repeats, soft, his own name pressed in the form of his mouth against his neck. "If you get any more beautiful, the whole world is going to die."
Jimin picks him up, and spins him around. Once, twice. "Shut up," he says breathlessly, when he sets Yoongi down and the elder grins, warm and dazed across from him. "Thank you for coming," he says, quieter, fingers moving from his waist, up to curl around the base of his neck.
"Don't," Yoongi insists softly. Face falling back to placidity once more, his eyes still so, so soft. He takes his face in one hand, then leans in to kiss him -- Jimin sighs, barely having the time to melt against him before the bodyguard is pulling away again, lips parted to give way to a soft breath, Jimin's eyelids drooping with his smile.
"Congratulations," he says then. Quietly, the corner of his lips tugged up as he tilts his head in the direction of the bouquet sitting on the table. "You were incredible, Jimin-ah."
He opens his mouth to rebut -- but Yoongi is looking at him, eyes glimmering, face plain with fingers around his cheek, and he stops. "Thank you," he says instead, a little, tentative, growing smile on his own face.
Yoongi breaks out into a grin, wider than before -- he leans in again, and --
"Jimin!" Another voice hollers. He feels Yoongi fall slack against him, a defeated huff falling from his lips -- and laughs, detaching himself from his boyfriend. Taehyung comes barreling in through the doorway, laugh deep and loud as he jumps and Jimin catches him with a wheeze, arms supporting him from around his thighs. Jeongguk is right behind him, staring after his boyfriend -- Jimin takes one look at his face, and bursts out laughing.
A group hug ensues. Jimin is in the center of it, Jeongguk lingering hesitantly at the edge of the circle -- it's only after he peers out at him and threatens to hit him, does he sigh and join in too. Taehyung wraps an arm around the back of his neck, pausing to tickle his chin before smiling, squinty-eyed and boxy, and it doesn't take much to see that the younger, well -- the younger likes him, so very much.
(They're good for each other, Jimin thinks.)
He knocks out on the car ride back. The distance to their hotel isn't much but he manages to fall asleep anyway, fingers tangled with Yoongi's, head lolling to his shoulder in the backseat. The bouquet of flowers he'd brought lies in his lap, his right arm thrown protectively over irises and tulips and red roses.
"Did I snore?" He asks later, words slurring as he attempts to blink sleep out of his eyes.
Yoongi looks at him, fond, and says, "Yeah. It was the loudest I've ever heard from a person."
He throws his head back and laughs. "Shut up," he whines sleepily, a hand raising to push blindly, halfheartedly, at his shoulder. Yoongi laughs too, bright and boyish, and squeezes the hand in his.
They exit the lift. The corridors are quiet, darkness alight with tired, warm lights, and so their voices fall quiet with them too. Yoongi fumbles with the keycard and Jimin falls asleep on his arm, barely staying awake enough to wave a goodnight to their friends down the corridor.
He collapses on the large double bed with a loud, strangled noise -- hears Yoongi laugh behind him, soft and choppy, shuffling into the room behind him. He sighs and scoots further up the bed, not quite caring that he's been sweating in the cold -- Yoongi falls silent again and so does he, he's almost about to doze off again when he hears the elder say something.
"Mmph?" He says, muffled into a pillow.
"Let me take you out," Yoongi repeats, licking his lips. A hand moves to scratch at his ear and Jimin peers up at him, eyes drooping with his whine. "But I wanted to take you out," he protests. Yoongi doesn't reply for a while, until he feels a weight settle on the bed behind him, pale arms winding around his waist.
He summons the energy to roll over, after a second. Yoongi exhales as their foreheads meet. He moves to take both of his hands in his, pulling them to the soft of his mouth. "Yeah," he breathes finally, voice cracking. "I'd like that too."
Jimin cracks his eyes open. Takes one look at the sleepy, dazed look on his boyfriend's face and takes his face in his smaller hands. Pulls him in and then kisses him, deep and soft and slow.
"Okay," he breaks the kiss with a yawn. Yoongi laughs quietly, wrapped around his back, playing with the tag on the back of his shirt. "We can do both."
"Okay," his bodyguard agrees. (Friend, friend. Boyfriend. Love.)
(These days, Jimin looks out the window, and doesn't see loneliness anymore.)