Chapter Text
The chair fights against gravity as Hoseok tips it back, his fingers sliding through his red hair and then linking behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling. His posture is precarious, but the balancing act is easy after years of practice in the worn seat, and he barely pays any attention to it. On the desk in front of him, a blank notebook, as blank as the ceiling he’s staring at. A ragged edge of paper along the spine of the book is a testament to at least one page of ideas he’s ripped out, though the crumpled balls scattered around the garbage bin are even better evidence of his fruitless last few hours.
Damn it. Normally he’s got absolutely no problem with pulling out creative concepts – all his other classes have been a breeze in that respect – but the assignment sheet settled neatly next to his notebook feels like a weight pulling his imagination to the bottom of a dull sea. Maybe it’s the due date that’s freaking him out, scaring away all his creativity. The prof’s given the class almost a whole year for this filmmaking assignment, and that – hell. What kind of Hollywood production is she expecting if she’s giving a year to complete the project?
“Hoseok! Hoseok! Hobi hyung!” The words slide through Hoseok’s head, finding no purchase amongst the churning breakers that are currently forming his thoughts. He genuinely doesn’t even register them.
It’s a little different when the door to his room flies open, hard enough to slam into the wall as it swings. The crash makes Hoseok yelp, flail – and fall backwards, his balance savaged by the sudden noise. His collapse is far less painful than it probably looks – except to his pride – but his back and shoulders still throb from the awkward landing, his legs all tangled in the chair. When Taehyung’s face abruptly appears over him, it’s hard to tell if the concern there is real or an attempt to avoid getting smacked.
Hoseok wants to smack him anyways.
“Ahhh, hyung, sorry to barge in like that! Are you okay?”
It takes a moment, but with effort he manages to clear the scowl off his face. Waving off his roommate, Hoseok struggles to sit up, and Taehyung quickly helps pull him to his feet. The anxious look on the younger boy’s face – contrived or not – is too cute and the rest of his irritation seeps away.
“I’m fine, fine,” he says, and the concern disappears like someone swiped it with a magic eraser, miraculously replaced by a mischievous twist of lips and wide eyes.
Taehyung doesn’t – quite – laugh as he glances around the room. “Have you been busy, hyung?”
“The worst kind of busy,” Hoseok replies, and when Taehyung tilts his head, he adds, “The kind where you don’t get anything done.”
Nudging at one of the crumpled balls of paper with a colourful slipper, the younger boy smiles. “Looks like you got a ton of stuff done.”
There are a lot of ways to look at the mess of pages scattered throughout his room, but as evidence of productivity is not one of them, so far as Hoseok is concerned. He doesn’t want to think about it, anxiety twisting in his gut at all the progress he hasn’t made. His hands dance irritably across his (blank) notebook before flipping it shut, and he turns to his dorm mate. “Anyways, why’d you come running in here?”
“Oh, Jimin hyung wanted to know if you’ll be around to eat tonight. He was thinking we could make something since Jungkook’s the only one who’ll be gone.”
“Jimin’s here?” Hoseok asks, his brow furrowing. He hadn’t even heard the other student come in. When Tae nods, eager and hopeful, Hoseok shrugs. “I didn’t make any plans, so I guess so.”
“Awesome!” the younger boy exclaims. “It always tastes better when you help.” His grin is crooked, well aware of what Jimin’s reaction would be if he heard, but Hobi doesn’t berate him. Time enough for Jimin to do that later. “I’ll go tell him,” Taehyung continues, about to dart off when Hoseok snags him by his baggy hoodie.
“It’s fine, I was going into the kitchen soon. I’ll tell him.” I need a break, he thinks but doesn’t say, and besides, he wants to know why Jimin is around. Tae nods and they walk out into the main area together, passing by the room Jungkook and Taehyung share in the process.
“Aish, Kookie, really?” he exclaims as he enters the kitchen, and on the couch in the adjoining living room Jungkook grunts into his cereal bowl – presumably his second, because there’s another dirty bowl that’s been abandoned in the sink – and doesn’t look away from the TV. He’s playing some video game, his bowl balanced precariously on his knees, and if Hoseok shuts his eyes for too long he can easily imagine the cereal tipping over and adding to the colourful collection of stains the couch has already picked up. He tries to resign himself to it, since when he’s in his gaming mode Jungkook is as likely to listen to scolding as he is to purposefully try to lose.
From where he’s sitting at the small kitchen table, several pages spread in front of him, Jimin laughs. “He said he’ll clean up once he’s done this round. I mean, he won’t… but it’s the thought, right?”
“Such a thoughtful boy, our Jungkookie,” Tae remarks teasingly as he passes behind the couch, and swipes playfully at the controller in the muscular boy’s hand. Jungkook jerks it away and growls without missing a beat, and Taehyung snickers and joins Hoseok and Jimin at the table.
“I didn’t realize you were back, Jimin,” Hoseok says. “Don’t you normally have a class now?” He phrases it as a question, but it’s not. Within the first two weeks of moving in with his roommates, he’d had everyone’s schedule memorized – how else could he badger them into eating and cleaning and sticking to some kind of routine, scattered as it was? – and he’s certain the short dance major has a class at this time.
Jimin shrugs, a little abashed. “I’m skipping,” he admits, his round face sheepish. “Chanyeol said he’ll give me the notes, and I wanted to work on the choreography for our first presentation.”
He’s only known Taehyung and Jungkook for a little over a month now – since the two started as first years – but Jimin is a childhood friend, and skipping anything is not really… him. Mouth curling down, he leans over, looking at the flowing lines of notes, all detailing different methods and genres of dance, with annotations about how they could be combined. The bare bone preliminaries of creating choreography… which makes sense, given that Jimin’s first performance is more than a month away.
His concern grows, a shadow stirring in his chest, but he’s not about to call Jimin out in front of the younger boys. Instead he smiles. “Our Jiminie, working so hard. I’m looking forward to it! You’re going to make us so proud.”
There’s something nice about seeing Jimin’s shoulders straighten a little under the encouraging words, his embarrassment easing. It’s a feeling that lasts all of five seconds, at least until his best friend tilts his head. “What about you, hyung? Taetae says you’ve been closeted in our room for the last two hours. And you didn’t even hear me come in?”
Oh. Right. Shaking his head, he laments, “It’s that project I told you about last week, from film class. With Dr. Lee? There’s just… I still don’t know what I want to do for it, and the proposal outline is due in a few days!”
“Do it on gaming, hyung!” Jungkook exclaims from the couch, his eyes never leaving the screen. This is not the first time he’s suggested that, or something similar. “You could interview the different levels of gamers and game creators and stuff.”
Taehyung had been rummaging in the pantry, but he sticks his head out to comment. “You’re on the football team with a full ride, and you’re taking graphic design, but all you can suggest is gaming? Who the hell wants to watch a film about gaming? It’s playing that’s fun.”
Seamlessly Jungkook plucks a Cheerio from his bowl, turns and hurtles it at Tae’s face. The boy yelps and ducks behind the door, leaving the cereal to clatter harmlessly to the floor. And remain there, given that no one makes any move to pick it up and throw it out. Hoseok sighs as Jungkook says, “Yah, Tae, I don’t see you giving any ideas.”
Cautiously peering around his shield and only emerging once satisfied that Jungkook is thoroughly distracted, Taehyung suggests brightly, for the third or fourth time, “How about you visit the drama department? We’ve got like seven productions going right now! You could film them as they’re being created, and end with the final plays or something!”
“Oh, yeah, so much better than mine. A film about people wanting to be in a film. Filmception,” Jungkook says, and Taehyung shoots him a dirty look that goes unnoticed – or at least unacknowledged.
“He needs to do it about a job, right? What’s wrong with covering actors or anyone involved in movie making? Besides, you can’t call gaming a job.”
“You can if you get paid for it, which you do in some cases.”
“Tch, you would know all about getting paid in some cases, wouldn’t you?”
Which is about the time that Hoseok starts blocking them out. As creative as Kookie and Tae’s arguments can be, prostitute jokes are not about to get him closer to picking a profession to focus on for this assignment. He stares at Jimin’s notes blindly with an empty smile on his face, that heavy, familiar anxiety tearing at his insides. God, he doesn’t want to be a downer, but he’s a film major. It doesn’t matter if the other classes are easy; if he’s struggling so much with this one project in his actual major, how the hell can he expect himself to succeed for the rest of his life? What if it’s always this hard? What if this is a hint that he really isn’t suited for filmmaking? Or –
“Hey.” Jimin’s quiet voice draws him out of it and he sucks in one quick, sharp breath before the smile becomes fuller, more genuine. He tilts his head.
“Yeah?” he asks over – or rather, under – the rapidly escalating flurry of insults being slung between Taehyung and Jungkook, his low tone resting below their excited pitches.
Jimin settles his chin in his hand, staring at his notes as well. “Y’know, if it’s inspiration about jobs you’re looking for, maybe you should head to the downtown? That street I keep saying we should visit – you know, umm, Skymont? It’s not really far, and there’s a ton of specialty shops; one of them was where I got you that photo developing kit.”
Brows knitting thoughtfully at the first solid advice he’s been given, Hoseok glances at his phone, checking the time. Wow. Almost 3? He really had been in his room for too long.
Hesitating, he says, “Tae mentioned you wanted to make something for supper, though? I don’t want to just bail out.”
Fingers running through his black hair in one thoughtful push, Jimin barely seems to hear the comment; he’s obviously distracted by something, and Hoseok doesn’t think it’s the pages clustered on the table. “Oh, it’s fine…” the small student murmurs. “Taehyung and I can manage.” Stirring, making an almost blatant effort to pull himself out of it, Jimin looks up and gives a half-smile. “You can make it up to us later. Maybe take us out to one of those nice restaurants your parents are always suggesting.”
He feigns outrage, because if Jimin wanted to talk about it he would, and this is easier for both of them. “You’d rather eat out than taste my delicious cooking?”
“Is that even a question?” his friend asks dryly, and then abruptly giggles. “Besides, it’s nice to get off campus sometimes.”
Sighing in dramatic exasperation, Hoseok says, “You peasants have no sense of fine at-home dining. But fine. Maybe we could head out for dinner on Friday?”
“Won’t work, hyung.” Their argument has apparently simmered down; Taehyung leans against the kitchen counter, slicing off pieces of apple with a knife. Hoseok surveys the blade apprehensively – it’s skirting awfully close to Tae’s fingers – but the younger boy doesn’t seem to notice. “Hyoyeon asked me to help out with the wedding planning on Friday.”
“Hyoyeon?” He draws a blank for all of five seconds before it comes to him, some vague memory of Taehyung introducing her when Hoseok had been dragged to the drama department to meet everyone. What he remembers much more clearly is the black and red tree that had taken up most of her upper arm, which – according to Tae – had been a bonded tattoo. “She’s getting married already? Didn’t she just meet the guy like two or three months ago?”
Munching noisily on an apple slice, Taehyung answers around the fruit. “Hyung, I told you, she’s bonded with Sandeul! Why would you wait after finding your soulmate?”
“Because they snore,” Jungkook suggests from the couch, and they all laugh. Hoseok honestly can’t say how he’d react to a tattoo showing up on his skin, another one appearing on someone else, and that being the only blatant evidence for belonging together. Still… people find each other that way, here and there. He supposes there are worse things than having your happiness spelled out in a nice, obvious message.
“Saturday, then,” he suggests once the amusement has simmered down. “Anyone have plans on Saturday night?”
“Nah,” from Tae.
“I’m free,” Jungkook says.
“I’m busy,” Jimin says, but before Hoseok can sigh in exasperation, he adds, “I’m going to a fancy restaurant, and I don’t even have to pay for it.”
Taehyung barks a laugh, and Hoseok just snorts. “I always knew you only liked me for my money,” he says, grabbing his car keys from the counter. With anyone else, he’d never have voiced the words – because it wouldn’t have been a joke, but rather a deep and unsettling fear. He’s been Jimin’s friend for too long to harbour such doubts now, though.
Or at least, he doesn’t listen to those doubts when they whisper.
“I’m heading out! Jungkook, have a good practice. Just text me if it’s too cold to walk to the dorm, okay? I should be back by the time you’re done.”
“Cool, thanks hyung! I’ll pay you back, promise.” Jungkook even manages to make it sound sincere by putting down his controller and twisting to smile, all endearing earnestness.
“Aw, Kookie,” Hoseok coos. “If that bowl wasn’t still in the sink, I’d almost believe you.” Jungkook blushes – it’s actually cute how easy it is to fluster him, sometimes – but Hoseok doesn’t drag out his discomfort. He picks up the cereal from the floor, tosses it into the trash. “I’ll see all of you guys later. Jimin…” A pause, as he tries to decide if he should say something. Eventually, anxiety pricking his heels and urging him into motion, he resolves to talk about it after he gets back. “Thanks for the suggestion! Have a good supper. You too, Tae. Try not to poison each other.”
The protesting ring of his friends’ voices is a warm send off, and then Hoseok is shutting the door, cutting them off. Right. Skymont. God, he thinks as he descends the stairs of their apartment building. Please let me find something.
---
His car is a few years old and the least expensive of the ones his family owns, but it’s still pretty much nicer than every other vehicle that he weaves around as he exits the school dorm parking. Hoseok thought he’d stop noticing after awhile, but so far… nope. It’s not that he’s proud, at all – he didn’t buy the car – but it feels like he’s travelling in a bright red sign that screams “I made the wrong decision and everyone but me knows.” That’s not just idle anxiety talking, either. He’s had four – four – separate family members talk to him about transferring to a more prestigious university when his “youthful enthusiasm settles down” (that’s not including his parents) and when he’d driven his new roommates for the first time, he’d thought Jungkook was going to have a heart attack. The quarterback hadn’t said anything at the time, but his eyes yelled the question. Why the hell are you here if you can afford that?
Turning on the music helps, a little. The loud dance playlist crashes into his ears, jolting his thoughts and making it harder to hold onto the doubts. In fact, there’s something relaxing about accelerating in the sleek car, making seamless lane changes and stops too smooth to give rise to anything jagged. If he wasn’t so pressed for time, Hoseok might have even turned to the highway, just for the sake of hitting some pavement and driving faster than his apprehension.
The assignment sheet riding shotgun next to him is a reminder of his deadline, though, and instead he makes his way through light traffic to the street that Jimin’s been mentioning off and on for the last few months. On the weekend he’s pretty sure it’s a lot busier, but it’s not too bad now, and it only takes a few minutes before he finds a spot on the street to pull into. Swinging himself out of the car, Hoseok pauses for a moment, leaning against the open door and taking in the view, trying to decide where to go.
There’re a lot of people moving along on both sides of the street, all from different walks of life. He notices a few teenagers laughing and lugging several backpacks, probably just out of school. An old couple – with almost matching swirled tattoos on their cheeks – are holding hands as they stroll by, much to the annoyance of the harried businessman trying to pass them. One of them says something to him and he scowls, but their partner shoves their shoulder reprovingly, with such easy comfort that Hoseok feels a familiar twist of jealousy. What would it be like, to have – well, anyone, honestly? He doesn’t need a soul mate, but a partner of any kind at this point would be welcome.
That feels like he’s somehow cheapening his friendships, and Hoseok quickly distracts himself. At least there’s a ton to look at.
Young and old brush shoulders with careless indifference on the street, passing under awnings thrown out like shields by the various buildings, covering the walkers below from the weak afternoon sun. No two buildings are exactly alike, in size, shape or colouring, and this whole street hums with an energy that has him shifting, the colourful scene and lively people injecting his muscles with a similar buzz. It’s easy – a relief – to let go of his negativity and be swept up by the feeling.
He wishes he’d put more thought into going to Skymont when Jimin had suggested it before. The thing is, though, Jimin is always suggesting ideas, and given that most of his proposals are really good, it’s hard to do them all. Still… I’m definitely bringing him with me next time, Hoseok thinks to himself as he shuts and locks the car. Seems like he could use a break, too. This early into fall, the cold doesn’t quite manage to bite, but the small trees scattered along the sidewalk in tidy plots are beginning to turn their leaves and Hoseok regrets not changing out of his thin white button up shirt before leaving the dorms.
All the more reason to get moving. He rolls up his assignment sheet and sticks it into the back pocket of his black jeans before striking out in a random direction, whim his only guide. Most of the shops are one or two stories, though here and there a three-story structure looms over the rest, and he elects to enter one of those first. It’s got a gnarled old tree spreading out on the front glass panel, the branches framing the words “Earth’s Sky” which is an interesting enough name to warrant a closer look.
As soon as he steps into the store, he knows this isn’t going to be it. The insistent scent of some kind of sweet candle invades his nose, and a soft, nature-y music plays unobtrusively in the background. There are stones, dreamcatchers and animal sculptures everywhere, as well as little plaques with various positive inscriptions on them about channeling energy and getting rid of negative vibes.
Behind a counter nestled at the very back, a woman helping one of the customers calls, “Hello darling! You’ll find herbs and other natural remedies on the second floor. We’ve got cooking and potion making tutorials on the third floor, if that’s what you’re here for.”
“Ah – thank you,” Hoseok replies. “I’m just looking around for now.”
“Alright! Just let me know if you need anything.”
He stays longer than he originally planned, even knowing that this isn’t going to work for his assignment. Though he’s not a particularly spiritual person, it’s still interesting to take a look at everything in the store, and besides, he likes the feel of this place. Positivity is never a bad thing; he doesn’t care how people experience it, and the Earth’s Sky has a surprising number of customers, all of whom seem happy. Even the guy dressed completely in black with something suspiciously like a cloak around his shoulders smiles at Hoseok before heading for the counter.
Still… There’s just nothing that he wants to explore. Nothing that catches his breath in a prison inside his lungs, nothing that makes him want to stay rooted to the spot and stay there, just watching, for the rest of eternity. It’s fun to pick out a black and blue bracelet for Tae, and to consider getting Jimin the book titled “The Seven Modes of Growth” as a joke, but once he leaves this store, he’s not going to want to come back. It’s not going to be under his skin, itching and scratching and pleading with him to peel back the layers and capture all the little things that make it what it is. For as long as he can remember, that’s what he’s loved about filming. It’s why he prefers filming to taking pictures.
Pictures capture moments. Video captures motion. And motion is just a beautiful name for change.
Eventually he makes his escape from Earth’s Sky, the book abandoned but Tae’s bracelet slipped into his free pocket. His assignment sheet feels heavy on the other side, and he draws it out, his lips pressing together as he considers it. Hoseok isn’t really sure why he bothered to bring it; he’s been staring at it so much recently that he could probably quote all of it verbatim. Still, if he misses just one requirement, misunderstands one line of instruction, it’ll ruin the whole project, and he’s not about to let that happen.
Choose a profession. You may focus on the job process itself, or on the person or people who are doing the job. This assignment can be filmed in multiple locations, but it does not have to be. Your film should have a distinct theme and message. While mature themes are allowed, please ensure they are treated in an appropriate manner; if they are disrespectful or don’t fit with your message, points will be taken away. If you choose anything involving sex, drugs or illegal activities, your project must still abide by the Broadcasting Requirements of Public Posting.
There’s a list of physical requirements after that, about length, video editing programs that can be used, equipment and lighting and the various due dates, but Hoseok’s eyes slide down to the very bottom of the page, where the prof has included a final note.
Lastly, this is not a documentary. You are saying something about the profession or professionals, not just recounting what they’re doing. On that note, I strongly suggest choosing a subject that means something to you. If the profession bores you, it will be difficult to make it interesting for the viewers. Remember, though I’m giving you a lot of time, that means I’m expecting a lot. If you have any questions, feel free to ask after class or during my office hours, and have fun!
He’s holding his breath. The thought comes to him faintly and Hoseok exhales in a short burst, clearing his head. Shockingly enough, reading the assignment sheet for the thousandth time hasn’t exactly revived his muse, but at least the guidelines are clear. There’s got to be something on this street that means something to him, something that he really wants to film, something that he can speak meaningfully about. One shop failing is definitely not enough to start getting himself down about.
The pep talk running encouragingly through his head, he rolls up his sheet and starts off again, weaving through the various other walkers set on their own destinations. Skymont has hundreds of stores. There’s definitely going to be at least one that matches his requirements – though what those are, he’s not really sure yet.
Some one hundred stores and half again as many conversations later, Hoseok’s beginning to think he’s either wrong or he needs to nail down just what he’s looking for.
A tanning salon, a record store, a few bakeries (he grabbed a box of pastries for everyone), a barber shop, even a marijuana dispensary have all been crossed off his list, and he’s no closer to finding a muse for this project than he was two hours ago. As he leans against one of the trees, trying to collect his bearings, Hoseok can feel himself getting discouraged. It’s taken some five thousand steps to drum out his enthusiasm, but he’s at the last dregs of eagerness with low chances of anything better coming up. Maybe I should just go home? Or… I guess there’s that one place. Could I… go back there?
The most interesting shop he’s been to was one that sold flowers, and the interesting part was more because of the man running the store than any overwhelming curiosity about the flower displays. The young florist – who’d introduced himself as Seokjin without prompting – was, without a doubt, one of the most striking human beings Hoseok had ever seen, and his personality (plus his bright Mario apron) had just highlighted the fact. He’d pounced on Hoseok’s sheet as soon as he’d tentatively brought it out, and listed – without taking a breath – about fifty ways the different plants and arrangements could be videotaped. When, for his part, Hoseok hadn’t exactly pounced on any of those, Seokjin had feigned indignation outrageously… and then preceded to write down several other suggestions of different stores that Hoseok could try.
He’d left the store with Seokjin’s number, an insistence on texting him if he was still struggling later, and a complementary little potted cactus that Seokjin had assured him was almost impossible to kill.
Though he’d been grateful for the advice at the time, he’s visited all but two of the suggestions and they’ve so far been a bust. Glancing at the list, at the last two lines, Hoseok shifts on the balls of his feet, considering. There’s a part – a large part – of him that just wants to throw in the towel and be done with it. Just pick some stupid thing. Or do the dance studio, feature Jimin. Or maybe just go back to the flower shop. Seokjin had claimed the teacher would give extra points for the pleasure of seeing him onscreen. It might be worth a try…
Except that leaving before he’s completely satisfied he’s looked everywhere will drive him up the wall with regret later, and besides… he kind of wants to find something on Skymont, just to say that Jimin was right. He doesn’t know what was bothering his friend before, but Jimin loves being right and it’d be sure to cheer him up just a little. Sighing softly, he picks the tattoo parlour called Born Tiger over the bookstore named Page Reflection, mainly because, according to his phone, it’s closer.
He hefts up the box of pastries and the cactus resting patiently at his feet, balancing the latter precariously on the former, and trudges onwards. His feet are starting to hurt from standing around and walking so much, but the phone wasn’t lying; shortly the wiry student finds himself standing in front of a narrow, two story building wedged in between a squat pizza parlour and some ambiguously named, equally short place that gives absolutely no indication of what it sells. The store itself has a glass front, much like most of those on this street, and a big portion of it is covered by a beautifully done, dark blue tiger with black stripes, made to look like it’s leaping out of the glass. When he looks closer he realizes the stripes actually spell out “tattoos,” though the store’s “Born Tiger” rests just above the tiger’s back in stark black letters.
It’s not the first time today, but he’s intrigued and some of his discouragement trickles away. Hoseok shoulders open the door, a bell ringing as he steps into a tidy front lobby, the white walls of the small room covered by a variety of tacked up papers. They’re all tattoo designs, in multiple styles, colours and stages of completion, and they almost seem to pop off the paper. His mouth slowly falling open, Hoseok doesn’t know where to look, his eyes snagging on an eagle’s wing, a black swirl that reminds him of a tornado, a brilliantly vibrant storm cloud, a series of steps that spiral into infinity. Hardly aware of the long desk on which even more drawings are scattered, he paces further into the room, twisting in an attempt to see everything, all at once.
Heart beating faster, back to the narrow hallway leading further into the building, he stares at a Cheshire cat grinning down from above the entrance, the creature rendered with a horrible realism that makes the sharp, wide smile even more unsettling. Honestly, Hoseok knows shit about art, particularly drawing – if he can sketch a stick figure without shaming himself, he’s pleased – but he’s got an eye for colour and lines and beauty and the balance between the three, and these drawings… wow. He’s always found bonded tattoos pretty, but these are a step above what nature usually manages.
“Yo, can I help you?”
The hoarse voice makes him startle and he almost pokes himself in the eye with his cactus. Swivelling, the motion too fast, Hoseok hangs on to his burden for a precious, drawn out second before the cactus topples, falls and is shortly followed by the box of pastries when he fumbles trying to catch the plant. His fingers sting, but the skittering pain is nothing compared to the raw heat bubbling up from his stomach and surging into his face. In that moment, he might have chosen blindness if it had meant blocking out the look of perplexed amusement on the face of the guy who’d come so stealthily into the room.
Although, to be honest, there’s so much colour on the guy already, he’s practically blinding as is. And Hoseok means that in the very best way possible. The black t-shirt the artist – Hoseok assumes he’s an artist – is wearing just makes the tattoos scattered across his arms and trailing half-seen over his collarbone that much more vivid. He’s way too embarrassed to take a good look, but the mixture of coloured and black ink drums up something visceral and intense in Hoseok’s chest. Maybe it’s the mortification that’s making him feel this way. That’s probably it.
He’s reasonably sure his face is suffused with red, but embarrassment has never been much of a rein on Hoseok’s tongue. He just speaks faster, the words spilling from his mouth as fast as the items had spilled from his hands. “Oh, sorry, sorry,” he says with a strangled laugh, bending down to collect the fallen pastries. Only two had escaped the box on impact, and he tries to separate them from the others, wishing the apple strudel hadn’t been the one to crumble and spill. There’s a dollop of red paste on the floor when he straightens, box once again in one hand with the (unharmed) cactus on top, and he stares at it to avoid looking at the guy with the black beanie again.
He’s sheepishly attempting to toe together the scattered crumbs with his shoes when the guy speaks, still hoarse but lighter now. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll grab a cloth from the back in a sec.”
At that Hoseok’s lips twist together, a mixture of relief and protest, and he lifts his head. Making an apologetic face, he says, “I could clean it. I’m the one that messed it up. Sorry about that, I was just – there’s so much to look at and I didn’t even hear you come in. I don’t think it’ll stain, but, yeah, I’d be happy to clean it up right now if -”
“Dude, it’s just a pastry. The floor’ll survive.” Though the words are abrupt, cutting straight through Hoseok’s rambling, the short man’s arched eyebrow is way more amused than annoyed. Or so Hoseok hopes.
“Anyways, did you just drop in to look around?” The guy raises a hand, pulling his beanie more firmly over the fringe of blonde hair peeking out at the front. “Pretty sure my last appointment was half an hour ago.”
“Oh, yeah, no, I don’t have an appointment,” he hurriedly confirms, rocking on his feet. After so many times running through this in the last three hours, it shouldn’t be so hard – and seriously, normally it’s not – but this hasn’t exactly been a spectacular intro. Besides, most of the other people he’s spoken to weren’t fit, attractive twenty-somethings absolutely plastered with tattoos that screamed a strange combination of intimidating and beautiful. Actually… none of the other people were so intimidating or beautiful, period.
He resolves not to mention that thought to Seokjin if they ever talk again.
God, he feels strange, goosebumps tingling in waves over his arms, and the way the guy is staring at him isn’t helping anything. Hand running nervously along his jaw, and then dipping to press against his collarbone, Hoseok is about to speak further when the man’s eyes flick down, following the motion of Hoseok’s hand, and his expression… changes. It’s only a millisecond, a heartbeat, too fast to comprehend, before he’s abruptly whirling, stalking away and leaving Hoseok to gawk after him. “What…?”
The guy’s voice has descended into a rough, almost ragged snap when he yells from the back, “I’m just grabbing a cloth. Wait.”
With the uneven voice as a hint, Hoseok wonders, suddenly, doubtfully, if the expression on his face could possibly have been… fear?
He doesn’t get a chance to mull over it, because the guy reappears a short time later, a rag in his hands, his movements stiff, and for the life of him Hoseok can’t read his blank face. “Here,” the guy says, gesturing jerkily with his cloth, “move. I’ll clean it up.”
Hastily dancing back, worried and restless and feeling like rocks have taken up residence in his stomach, he offers, “Sorry, again, about that. Umm, and sorry about -” He doesn’t really know what else he wants to apologize for, and in fact when the guy straightens, the floor wiped clear, his expression is suddenly so bland, so politely inquiring, Hoseok can’t tell if he was just imagining things. Maybe it’s the stress and embarrassment and – everything else, just eating at his perception, making him assume people are pissed off. Or something.
Taking a deep breath, he forces himself to smile. Jimin always says smiling is the best way to make yourself feel better, and in recent years Hoseok has practically adopted the saying, certificate and all. “I’m Jung Hoseok. Again, sorry to just bust in here.” When the tattoo artist says nothing into the inviting pause, holding the cloth in a tight fist, Hoseok hurries on. “I don’t want a tattoo, although some of these look seriously cool. No, actually, I’m a student at Converse University. So, I’ve got a project – I’m a film major, by the way – and it’s to, like… umm, film people, I guess. Yeah. We’re supposed to choose a profession and pretty much create a – I guess a story, about it. I’ve been trying to find a good place and person and, ah, job to film for what feels like ages.” His awkward laugh fills the hollow space between them, but the guy’s expression doesn’t change – unless it’s to tighten, thin lips pressing together a bit harder.
Feeling distinctly like a man splashing around in too-deep water under the tattooer’s flat gaze, he fumbles in his pocket, draws out his assignment sheet and proffers it hesitantly. For some reason people seem to put more stock in what he’s saying after he shows them that. The man takes it with a reluctance that suggests he thinks it’ll bite, and anyways, he scans it for all of two seconds before looking up.
“I’m Min Yoongi,” he says abruptly, hand with the paper falling limply to his side. “And look, I’m really busy. You… what? Want to film me or something?”
“Nice to meet you, Min Yoongi,” Hoseok says, doing his best not to let his smile falter. You’re responsible for at least half of the mood in a room, and the lower you are, the lower everyone else gets, too. Not Jimin’s advice, that bit, but something Hoseok believes devoutly nonetheless.
“But yeah… That’s the idea. I kinda do want to film you. Well, I mean, not you, you. You, the tattoo artist, doing your… tattoo stuff.” He speaks as earnestly as he can, because it suddenly occurs to him that it’s 100% true, 1000% true, and if he’s looking for muse, this is the place. This place, with the walls that paint more stories than he’s ever going to be able to cover… but at least he can try. This guy, with the closed eyes and open art scattered across his body, he might be an even more intense experience than the shop itself.
Judging by the way Min Yoongi turns away, he might also be a long shot. His flat voice puts even more distance between them. “It’s just tattoos. People just say what they want, and I do it. No offense, but it’s not really that interesting.”
Hoseok shifts, pulling at the collar of his shirt, wondering in a vague way why he’s abruptly so anxious, so desperate for a yes. So uncomfortably hot. He pushes on. “One of my teachers said interest is a matter of perspective. If you’re good enough at controlling perspective, you can make anything interesting.”
Something like a smile comes to the tattoer’s pale lips, though it’s almost too mocking to deserve the term. “And are you? Good enough to make this interesting?” His fingers flick out, indifferently encompassing the room, the sketches.
The blunt question is bad; the disbelieving smirk is worse. It doesn’t make Hoseok angry, or at least not defensively so. But he can’t – he refuses – to believe that Yoongi has so little regard for his own art – his own vibrant, gut clenching, impactful art – to dismiss it in such a way. There’s no way in hell he can let this slide, and, as automatic as breathing, his chin comes up, his eyes meeting Yoongi’s levelly.
“If I’d just got my first camera, I could make this interesting. I don’t know if I’m good, but believe me – whatever we put together is gonna make people realize that they haven’t been living until they saw it.”
There’s a crinkling sound and at first Hoseok doesn’t react. His gaze is locked on Yoongi, trying to will him to believe. The air around him has gotten heavy, thick and stifling, pushing down on his shoulders. Which is funny, because the air in his lungs is too thin, too light, and he’s struggling to breathe in the difference. Slowly they both look down, although Yoongi’s already smoothing out the paper he’d crumpled in his fist, hard enough that it ripped a little. The artist stares at it for a long moment, his other hand rubbing unconsciously at the back of his neck.
Eventually he proffers the paper. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “I’m sure you’re great – really. But I seriously don’t have the time to do something like that. Y’know. Bills to pay and all that shit.”
It occurs to Hoseok that the words are utterly informal – and that he hasn’t exactly been speaking as if Yoongi is a stranger, either. The comfortable feeling lets him wave his hands, a little flustered but still firm, refusing to accept the page back. Yoongi’s words give him an idea, and as far as he’s aware he’s not breaking any assignment or school rules.
“I can pay you,” he says. “I – like, a lot.” The other licks his lips, suddenly indecisive, and Hoseok senses a weakness. Maybe a disappointing one, except he’d long ago decided not to judge anyone for needing or wanting money. Who the hell was he to talk? He pushes his advantage. “This means a lot to me, really. And I really do think we could make something pretty awesome with the things you do. How – could I ask how much you charge for your sessions? It’s by hour, right? I could pay you that for every hour we take.”
Still Yoongi hesitates, his eyes dropping away even as his body turns slightly, blocking Hoseok out, his arms pressed to his sides. Hoseok has to throttle his urge to reach out and shake the other male, prickling desperation skittering across his skin. He hesitates, too, hating the words that come so easily to his mouth, hating how eager he is to say them and hating the fact that he can. But he’s not a liar. This… this is important to him.
He has to prove he can make something he loves that’s actually good enough.
“Triple.” Yoongi jerks once, like he’s been electrocuted, and then goes still. Hoseok continues, and that terrible pressure is still there, making the words stretch out in agonizing slowness. “I’ll pay you triple your hourly rate. We can work around your schedule, whenever you want. You said you needed the money, right? It wouldn’t be all that hard, I promise. I dunno what I’ll need, exactly, but it’ll pretty much just be you doing your thing except that I’ll be there. Maybe some interviews about your process or something to get an idea of why you’re doing this and -”
“Triple?” The voice cuts effortlessly through the words Hoseok’s throwing out, and Yoongi looks up, his lips twisting. Again, almost a smile but not quite. “Seriously? Dude…. We’re talking about filming my tattoo stuff, right? Not something else?”
It takes Hoseok a few seconds to understand, and then abruptly the weight is gone and the air he’s breathing – and choking on – is exactly as thick as it’s supposed to be. His cough turns into a laugh, raucous, loud, like he’d laughed when Jungkook had been doing fancy tricks on his bike and smashed into one of the school signs. He laughs so hard he doesn’t see the way Yoongi’s face suddenly crumples, suggestive smirk disappearing like a mirage, replaced with a grief so hopeless it’s almost numb. Yoongi stares at Hoseok for a long moment, and then, like a switch, like a path that only goes one way, abruptly the lines smooth away, and his sardonic grin returns in time for Hoseok to get a hold of himself.
Shaking his head, Hoseok straightens, his stomach hurting a bit from laughing so hard. He doesn’t know what’s changed but he knows this, with a confidence that’s as innate as his eye for lighting; Yoongi is going to say yes. “I’m not in that business,” he says with a beaming grin. A pale hesitation and then, the sudden change in mood making him reckless, he adds playfully, “Although your tattoo stuff would probably look pretty good on camera.” He’s not even lying as he deliberately eyes the other’s tattoos, peeking out from his shirt. He can imagine more than one scenario where those would be stunning on camera.
Admittedly, most of those scenarios involve the shirt being off, but that doesn’t make the comment less sincere.
Jimin does say you’re supposed to sincerely compliment people to make them kinder and more beautiful. To be fair, Yoongi isn’t lacking in the latter department.
The other remains to be seen. Eyebrows leaping up, the artist’s smile finally – finally – thaws into something warmer, although he’s still got a bite when he replies. “I’d take your word for it, but you just promised to pay me triple hourly, and you don’t even know how much I charge. Seems like your eye for business is a little lacking.”
“It’s not lacking!” Hoseok insists. “It’s actually totally nonexistent.” The words might have hurt to say, except Yoongi laughs for the first time, a quick, low spike of amusement that fades too quickly but still makes Hoseok feel like he’s achieved something.
He takes a deep breath, enjoying the fact that he can, and tries to get a little more serious. “On that note, can I – are you saying you agree?”
Yoongi’s smile drains from his eyes, but when he proffers the paper again, this time Hoseok takes it back. “Triple times my hourly pay? I can’t really say no to that, can I? Trust me, you’re gonna regret it.”
There’s something strange about the way he says it – Hoseok has no idea if he’s talking about the price, or if maybe he’s referring to the film being bad, or something else altogether. That same something takes a little bit of the wind out of his sails (enough that he doesn’t start leaping around in excitement) but it can’t bury the enthusiasm growing in his chest. Letting out a clipped, exuberant shout – Yoongi winces – Hoseok rocks on his heels, clutching his cactus more tightly.
“This is awesome! So awesome!” he chants, choosing to ignore the last comment. “Honestly I was… kinda not super expecting to find anything in any of the shops. I need to think over a lot of stuff, like what I wanna do and – well, it’d probably be cool to hear some stuff about your art, like why you started and what you love about it, but – uh, not today. I’ve been here too long already, right?. But maybe we can talk just a bit more about the parameters and…” Hoseok laughs again, unable to help himself. “I guess I should find out just how much I’ve agreed to pay you, right?”
Yoongi must be a little shell-shocked – or at least he agrees without a fight, and doesn’t try to retract his agreement at all as they settle on a date to meet. He’s decidedly uncurious about the filming process, asking no questions beyond how much space Hoseok will need, but that could be shyness or the abrupt circumstances talking. He shows a flash of recovery when he tells Hoseok how much he charges an hour – his grin could have been copy-pasted from the Cheshire cat above the door – and while still completely in his price range, it does take the film major more than a little aback. Yoongi appears to appreciate that response, so Hoseok plays it up a little, dramatically bemoaning the money slipping through his fingers and being rewarded with another quick laugh.
The rest is a landslide of details, over before they’ve even begun. When there’s nothing else to go over and Yoongi doesn’t seem inclined to prolong the conversation, Hoseok says his goodbyes. His unexpected host holds open the door – which is either a kindness or a way to get him to leave faster – and Hoseok pauses with one foot out the door. He searches Yoongi’s reserved expression and then smiles, as reassuringly as he knows how. “This is going to be fun, don’t worry. I can already tell you’re going to be great on camera. Trust me.”
Yoongi inclines his head, saying nothing, and Hoseok holds back his sigh. Almost in reproach, he makes his voice even brighter. “Okay! See you on Saturday, Yoongi.” He uses the cactus to give an enthusiastic wave and turns too fast to see the tattooist’s response. It’s gotten even colder and a glance at his phone assures him he’s definitely missed out on supper with his roommates, but Hoseok can’t find it in himself to care. His long strides tear by people, and he’s moving so quickly he barely even feels the cold. At the back of his mind, he’s aware that the euphoria is going to fade, replaced by his usual round of self-doubt and stress, but at least right now he can ride the excited wave.
And ride it he does. The drive home is a blur (at least in part because he speeds), his thoughts taken up with throwing around ideas and then throwing them out just as quickly. By the time Hoseok gets back to the dorm he’s considered about a million angles that he could take the project, and discarded them all. Logically he knows he needs to get Yoongi’s perspective first, to see what makes those beautiful colours breathe, but that won’t stop his mile-a-minute mind from running its track into oblivion.
When he clambers the steps to their second-floor apartment and bursts into the door, he has the satisfaction of scaring the hell out of Taehyung, who’s siting on the coach down the hallway. Karma. As the boy tumbles to the side, Jimin’s snicker comes from the kitchen and Hoseok hurries into the open space, grinning. He literally can’t wait to tell his friend just how well his suggestion had worked. Jimin’s once again working at the table, a pile of dishes in the sink, and he looks up at Hoseok’s loud entrance.
The excited words are at the tip of his tongue when Jimin’s gaze slides down to Hoseok’s neck, staring at something that makes his eyes widen, eyebrows furrowing, his mouth dropping open. He leaps up faster than Hoseok can react, chair toppling backwards and eyes only getting bigger.
“What the hell is that?”
Frowning, Hoseok glances at his shirt. Did he spill some of the apple filling on himself? Or is Jimin referring to the cactus tucked under his arm? But no – his roommate isn’t looking at that, and now Taehyung has twisted on the couch and is gaping at him, too. Clotheslined by their shocked inspection, he shifts. “What?”
Taehyung giggles, his open mouth slowly turning into a boxy grin. “Funny, hyung. Really funny. So who is it?”
Jimin doesn’t look quite as pleased, still far more nonplused than anything else, but as he moves closer Hoseok is pretty sure his roommate is staring at… the collar of his shirt? His neck? Once again Hoseok looks down at himself, struggling with Taehyung’s weird question. He still can’t see what’s wrong, and frustration begins to sour the excitement that had been churning in his stomach. “Is this some prank you guys decided to do or something? It’s stupid,” he says with a light chuckle, trying to push it away. The younger kids do like getting him worked up sometimes, though he wishes they would have chosen a better joke or a better time… or both.
Taehyung snickers again, like he’s said the funniest thing in the world, but Jimin’s brows draw down even further, and his head tilts in a way that makes Hoseok nervous. “Your – on your collarbone, hyung. You can’t just pretend it doesn’t exist,” the dancer says with an uncertain air.
“Pretend? It? What are you…” Now he’s dancing on the spot, trying to see what the hell Jimin is talking about, and the pastries and cactus are unceremoniously dumped on the counter. There’s an uneasy sincerity in his friend’s voice, but Hoseok still says, “If this is seriously a joke…” He pulls at the collar of his shirt, chin ducked so much it’s hurting his neck, seriously looking this time, and there’s noth –
Wait. Just at the edge of his vision, like a mirage, like a flash of light caught on the edge of a camera lens, he thinks he sees something. Something like –
He dashes into the bathroom, Jimin hard on his heels, and stops so suddenly at the mirror that his roommate runs into him. Hoseok doesn’t even notice. He stares at his shaken reflection before tearing off his shirt, completely uncovering the graceful collection of white and blue lines that start at the corner of his left shoulder and then spread right, over his collarbone and just a little up his throat. The image doesn’t dip very low – not low enough to be casually noticed by him in the shirt – but it’s pretty big and blatant and, and, and –
And there’s some kind of faintly blue and white flower on his body where there’s never been one before. It’s about then that Hoseok starts shrieking.
---
The open sign is flipped to closed, but just in case some asshole still has plans to burst in, Yoongi’s locked the door. No one’s going to be bothering him. His palm is hot and sweaty as he rests his forehead on it, and he wishes he could summon up the effort to go turn down the thermostat. It’s too fucking hot in here. Just way too fucking hot. But he doesn’t move from his slouched position over the table he’s got in the very back room of Born Tiger.
Partially trapped under his elbow is the drawing he’d been working on before that guy – Hoseok – had come in. It’s not a commission. He hadn’t even really thought about putting it up during a flash sale or anything. He’d just, a week or so ago, decided to start it, and now the near finished product sits lifelessly on the page, mocking him. It doesn’t look as good as the replica he’d seen a few hours ago, or maybe that’s the fault of the canvas; does anything ever look as good when it isn’t on skin? Even blood looks better on skin than it does on paper.
He lifts his head, drops his hand to trace along the blue-tinged lines, the pale azure that spills off the framework as the merest hints of shadows and shading. The calloused pads of his fingers are rough against the smooth, soft white petals he’d originally debated colouring purple. He’s glad he didn’t. Basing the flowers off an orchid means they’re delicate looking, and too much contrast would have taken away from the impression. Besides, purple would have looked stupid on that guy’s collarbone.
That guy. Jung Hoseok, he’d said. The name pounds in Yoongi’s chest, almost as hard as the half a 2’6 of vodka is pounding in his head. He’s drank too much, even for him, but tonight’s a special occasion. He’s supposed to be celebrating, right?
It’s not every day you meet your soulmate, after all.
He can still picture it. Hoseok standing there with that stupid cactus and the donuts or whatever. And that sudden, awkward movement, drawing Yoongi’s eyes to a sharp collarbone that, frankly, showed way too well in the collared white button up he’d been wearing. That had been an idle thought, as easily discarded as a used pen; he never lets such things stay in his head for long. But much harder – too hard – to ignore was the splotch of colour that had abruptly appeared under the man’s long, agitated fingers, a splotch that had grown and twisted like some kind of corruption, grown until Yoongi was staring at a tattoo he knew as well as any, given that he’d been labouring over it for the last week.
Yoongi’s not stupid. He’d known exactly what it had meant then, and he knows exactly what it means now. Apparently, no semi-safe amount of alcohol consumption is going to blur out the truth. It barely even blurs out what his frantic search in the backroom had confirmed before; his part of the contract, a dull orange and yellow sun that had shown up on the inside of his forearm, presumably at the same time as Hoseok’s flower had appeared. Or at least Yoongi sure as hell doesn’t remember getting the sphere at any point in time… or drawing it, for all that it’s clearly his style.
The fact that it looks cool – the muted yellow of the center transitions seamlessly into the burnt orange of the flames licking the edge - does very, very little to make him feel better about it, and besides, none of his tattoos are so pale unless someone specifically requests it. And who the fuck would request a dull sun when the sun is literally supposed to be bright? What a stupid fucking tattoo.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, and shifts the bottle that’s sitting on another piece of paper, more important in many ways but definitely more depressing. A bill. The kind of bill that makes you want to go crawl under the covers of your bed and never get up again. The kind that makes you want to drink. A lot. A bill that, until an afternoon ago, had been utterly impossible to imagine paying. Now, though…
He still should have said no to that stupid, desperate smile. Shoving himself away from his desk, Yoongi stands and staggers, swaying, his hands latching onto the chair for support. He’s holding on so tightly it hurts – but everything hurts. His head, his hands, and god, his chest, his goddamn chest that’s too heavy and too empty and too fucking much, all at once. Red and white and grey, it all twists together in a haze of fear and rage and too-sharp hope, ripping up his insides until he has to get it out, he has to get it out.
Yelling is easy; swinging the chair is easier. Breaking the mirror his customers use to judge stencils and sketches is easiest of all. The impact of the chair smashing into the mirror, the crack like a gun to his head followed by a tinkling of glass as it collapses outwards, the clunk of the chair hitting the floor… The sounds savage his ears and he welcomes the discomfort because it’s always better when things are on the outside. His heavy breathing fills the quiet, and when he drops his head, all he can see is glass scattered around his feet. If he shifts, a high-pitched crunching keeps his panting company.
He’s still too hot. Shaking, shivering, Yoongi gives a last look to the two sheets juxtaposed on his desk. They blur together, and he can’t tell if that’s the alcohol or the tears stinging at his eyes. “Fuck,” Yoongi mumbles one more time, and then he’s stumbling from the room, clutching at the bannister as he struggles up the narrow stairs that lead to his apartment. He can – he’ll fix that shit later. Clean up. He’ll probably wake up in time for his appointment tomorrow – it’s in the afternoon, right?
Right. The world spins as he falls into his bed, but he beats back the nausea and closes his eyes. That doesn’t make it better, but nothing makes it better any more. His last even remotely rational thought is to hope he sleeps through Friday, and his Saturday appointment with Hoseok too.