Chapter Text
The first time he sees him, it’s already a lost cause.
Now that he’s started the MFA program, he spends practically every day sweating through practice with some of the most dedicated—and toned—guys he’s ever worked with, and it’s really been no big deal. So you’d think he’d be, you know, chill. Impervious. It’s the end of a long practice, and they’re all gathering their stuff and chatting; Jungkook feels a pleasant ache in his calves, knows he needs to do some extra stretching tonight. Someone catches his eye. Jungkook doesn’t recognize him—he’s over talking to Jimin, must have come in right when they finished, and at first he only notices because he’s the only one in the room with light blue hair. He’s a little taller than Jimin, thin, in a brightly-patterned sweater even though the weather has only just started edging toward cold, and it’s not like there’s anything incredible about him. Maybe his face is striking. He has flat, expressive eyebrows and what could accurately be described as perfect cheekbones. Jungkook keeps hearing snatches of their conversation as he packs up, and then Jimin says something and his friend laughs, and Jungkook sees how his whole face changes. He drifts a little closer, rooting through his bag, hears him tease Jimin back. His voice has this odd timbre, dark and a little low, and he’s good-naturedly ribbing Jimin with this bright, rectangular smile, strands of blue hair in his eyes, and suddenly Jungkook feels dizzy. He redirects his gaze to his bag, tries to remember what he was even pretending to search for.
Jungkook really isn’t looking for a crush. First of all because he tends to fall too hard, and he’s trying not to be that way anymore. And second of all because he needs to focus on this new program—to find his bearings, prove that he belongs. He doesn’t need any distractions. So this thing, where this guy he doesn’t know is ruffling Jimin’s hair and making Jungkook feel fluttery—it’s not ideal. He tries to reorient himself, abruptly asks the person next to him what they think of the choreography. For some reason he keeps fake searching his bag while they answer, and when he looks again, Jimin and his friend are gone.
Jungkook keeps kind of expecting him to appear again at every practice for a while. But he doesn’t. Who knows, maybe Jimin isn’t even that close of friends with the guy; maybe he won’t ever be back. So—that’s that. Crush averted. He has a million things going on anyway: making sure he follows his schedule right and doesn’t mix up the buildings or the days, finding his classrooms in that maze of a humanities building, figuring out the laundry situation at his new apartment. He’s TAing for the first time, and it comes with a whole host of responsibilities. Sitting in on lecture and counting attendance is fine, but he has to run his first discussion section on Friday—just him, alone in a room with twenty undergrads who have no reason at all to listen to him, and he worries about it all week even though the professor gives him a list of things to discuss and questions to ask.
“They’re adults,” Wendy, one of the second-year MFAs, tells him. “Just level with them. Be cool.” She seems really confident about it, but then she gives him awkward finger guns. He knows he tends to overthink things, so he tries not to, tries to go into it confident and chill. Just a roomful of fellow adults gathering to discuss and appreciate dance.
It doesn’t go well. Nothing explodes, and he remembers to take attendance, but otherwise it’s fifty minutes of suffering. He’s planned out things to say at the beginning, and he’s gone over them so many times in his head that he’s sure it won’t be a problem to say them off the cuff—most of the time when he talks he doesn’t need written notes—but when he’s standing in front of a room full of students he just can’t think, flubs the little jokes he’d been convinced would go over so well, and by the time he’s telling them that they’re adults and he’s going to level with them, he can tell he’s already lost them. They spend the rest of the class locked in a silent battle where no one answers his discussion questions, and he’s too afraid to forcibly call on anyone since, you know, they’re adults, and he ends up just lamely volunteering answers they could’ve given. He perks up toward the end when someone raises their hand, but they just ask whether or not he’ll be taking attendance every Friday. As in: do they even have to come to this. All in all, it’s not Jungkook’s finest fifty minutes.
So he’s already feeling vulnerable during practice that day. And then the guy shows up again, this time during a break. His hair is brighter blue now, like he’s re-dyed it, and he’s giving Jimin a hard time for something, drops a set of keys into his palm and hits him on the butt. And then he’s leaving, out the door before Jungkook can get himself to stop staring. He waits to be sure he’s really gone, then edges over to Jimin’s spot by the bar.
“Alright, Kook?” Jimin asks, fluffing his hair, and Jungkook immediately feels a little better. Jimin’s been nice to him since he got here, making sure he isn’t lost in the shuffle. He kind of expected his attention to be fleeting, since Jimin is popular and bright and doesn’t really need an awkward new guy following him around, but he’s starting to think that Jimin actually just likes him as a person, which is nice. Jungkook works up his courage, asks:
“Was that, uh—was that your boyfriend?”
Jimin perks up. “Who, Tae?”
Jungkook shrugs, tries to look nonchalant. “The guy who came in just now with, um, the hair.” Eloquent.
“Blue hair?” Jimin asks, like he’s taking pity on him. Jungkook nods. “Yeah, that’s Taehyung. Not boyfriend—best friend.” Jungkook doesn’t realize how tense he is until he relaxes at that. “Tolerable roommate. Also the reason why my hair looks so good—I can’t dye and maintain a color for shit.” He glances at the mirror, makes a minor correction to his pink bangs. “We’ve known each other since middle school—it’s really lucky we both ended up here. I wanted him to apply when I knew I was doing the MFA, but I didn’t want to push him, you know?”
Jungkook nods like he’s taking in the information, but he’s really just working himself up to his next question. “Do you think—you could introduce me sometime?” He tries to say it casually, worries that he’s utterly transparent.
There’s this look that passes over Jimin’s face, like he’s concerned, or sad, but then he nudges Jungkook with his shoulder and says of course. “I would’ve already, if you’d come to that thing last Saturday. Taehyung’s, like, one of my favorite people to ever exist—you’ll love him.”
Jungkook leans against the bar, feels his ears burn.
Jimin stretches his calves and whines about how tired he is, and Jungkook tells him a little about his discussion section failure, tries to make it seem funny instead of pathetic. When practice starts up again, he’s a little too bouncy, gets reminded to stay in sync. Not boyfriend, he thinks. Best friend. And he does a full jump when he’s supposed to just be turning.
~~~
Taehyung doesn’t want to be at this party in the first place. It’s for the dance MFAs, not for boring history masters students, and it’s in someone’s trendy loft apartment, so it’s already too crowded and way, way too hot. Taehyung can feel his sweater sticking to his back as he edges toward the wall and watches Jimin butterfly around, looking striking and effortless in his thin shirt and ripped jeans. He decides to get a drink mostly out of fear that someone will ask him if he wants one. He weaves through gregarious clusters of people who are way fitter than him and roots around in the kitchen. The fridge is half party platters and half extremely domestic items, like a small expired carton of half-and-half and a package of vegan cheese, so he isn’t sure what he’s allowed to take. Someone bumps into him and grabs a beer from the back, so Taehyung decides that’s fair game, takes what turns out to be a fairly inoffensive domestic lager. There are a few dance students he sort of knows, just via his constant proximity to Jimin, and they wave him over when he steps out of the kitchen. He ends up in their circle, partly feeling bad for being such a misanthrope, since they’re all decent and nice, and partly wanting to escape as soon as possible because it’s too loud and they keep having to ask each other to repeat their inane small talk. There’s something a little soul-crushing about having to say “Yeah, the semester’s going good,” four times in a row.
At some point he feels Jimin’s hand on the back of his neck, and he’s thankful for it even though it’s too hot. He drapes an arm around Taehyung’s shoulders, says hi to everyone, then flashes Taehyung a brilliant smile and says there’s someone he needs to meet.
“Is it that new kid you won’t shut up about?” Taehyung asks while he drags him along.
Jimin nods happily. “You’ll love him.”
Taehyung kind of doubts that, but he also feels profoundly relieved when Jimin leads him out onto a porch and it’s immediately quieter and cooler. They pause at the edge of a group by the railing that’s in animated conversation, and Taehyung sips his inoffensive beer. His gaze drifts, stops emphatically on him before Jimin even breaks in to start introductions.
He’s too good looking, to start with. He’s handsome in a way that signals danger—dark hair and pink lips, small hoop earrings and an actual leather jacket. Taehyung knows it’s unfair of him to think this, since Jimin is basically a living GQ model, but he feels like someone that handsome has to know it on some level, has to realize they can get away with more, get what they want. People like that live on a different plane of existence than Taehyung and his yellow sweater.
Jimin introduces him to everyone but puts a kind of special emphasis on this guy—Jungkook—and Taehyung’s a little surprised by the way he talks, when Jimin prompts him. He’s careful with his words, emphatic, maybe a little shy. But then he pushes his hair out of his eyes with a kind of ease that makes Taehyung’s guard go up again.
“Kook’s having some trouble TAing,” Jimin’s saying, “and I figured the best teacher I know might be able to help.” Taehyung raises his eyebrows at him but asks Jungkook gamely what’s going on.
Jungkook looks rueful. “Um. Everything?” Taehyung knows the feeling. “It’s my first time teaching.”
“Don’t you guys have a pedagogy class?”
Another one of the dancers, Wendy, answers him: “If you have your own class, yeah, but not if you’re just running discussion.” Her mouth twists a little, affectionate and wry. “You know you’re worrying too much, Kook. They’re adults—you just gotta, like, be chill.” Taehyung winces.
“Don’t bother so much with it,” someone else adds. “I have my best days when I don’t prepare at all.” Taehyung tries not to visibly roll his eyes. Jungkook doesn’t look rueful anymore, just anxious.
“I don’t…think that works for me,” he says quietly. Taehyung feels a small surge of compassion. And then Jimin steps in again.
“Why don’t you guys meet up sometime, and Tae can help you?”
Taehyung shifts his weight, annoyed. He should’ve known that’s what Jimin would be going for. He shoots Jimin a glare, but he just smiles back at him like he never tries to set Taehyung up like this, like Taehyung has never explicitly told him not to. He’s about to say that he probably wouldn’t be that helpful, that he’s sure Jungkook will figure this out on his own, but then he gets hung up on the way Jungkook is looking at him, like he really isn’t assuming that Taehyung will say yes, like he’s nervous and expectant and needs something.
“Sure,” Taehyung concedes, shrugging. “If you want.” He sees Jungkook look relieved, his perfect brow unfurrowing.
“Is it ok if I come too?” Wendy asks. “I’m not terrible, like I’ve TAed before, but also I think they’ve started snapchatting the dumb faces I make.”
Taehyung agrees instantly, thankful for a buffer between him and god’s gift to leather jackets. He feels even better about it when he hears Jimin tsk under his breath.
They plan to meet at the library while the conversation picks up again around them. Taehyung types the time into his phone and then mentally checks out while everyone else dissects one of their professors and whether or not it’s appropriate for them to bring their dog to the studio. He notices that Jungkook has fallen silent too, smiling quietly at the cup in his hands. Taehyung looks away forcibly, thinks that out of everything, the easy handsomeness of all his features, that soft smile is what scares him the most.
~~~
He knows it’s like nerd cliché #1, but Taehyung really likes the library. Not the upper floors; they’re depressing, closed in, and you’ll be rounding a corner and happen upon someone hunched in a carrel who looks like they’ve been reading their chemistry notes for five hours straight and can only think in atomic numbers. Plus there’s this haunted quality to the air conditioning that creeps him out. But the expansive ground floor is different; it’s bright and buzzy and always smells like coffee, and people filter in and out and help each other study, and Taehyung will happily wait in the long line and buy an overpriced chai latte just so he can sit there and work. That afternoon he’s grading at a small table by the window while he waits for Jungkook and Wendy to show up, and there in one of his favorite places, cushioned by disjointed chatter, it feels a little silly that he’d stressed about meeting some totally inoffensive guy in broad daylight. He’s kind of glad he didn’t complain to Jimin about it last night, even though he’d wanted to.
He’s trying his best to decipher some truly unreadable student handwriting, wondering if it would count as tough love, or just assholery, to give them a zero and move on, when he sees a pair of timberlands stop at the edge of his table. He glances up to see Jungkook—hesitant and unnecessarily handsome, a large black backpack slung over his shoulders.
“Hey,” Taehyung says, anxious despite himself. “Wendy coming?”
Jungkook tilts his head toward the registers. “She’s in line. I’m supposed to ask if you want anything.” Taehyung picks up his chai latte, raises it like he’s toasting him. “Right.” Jungkook bites the inside of his cheek, glances over at the line again. He looks softer than Taehyung expected, long-sleeved white shirt and baggy leggings. It settles him a little, that it seems like Jungkook feels weird about this too. He shifts into awkward student-teacher conference mode, tells Jungkook to sit down and tries to get him talking. He learns where Jungkook got his undergrad degree, what track he’s taking for the MFA, what class he’s TAing for. Jungkook asks what program he’s in, seems impressed when Taehyung tells him he’s going for his masters in history, and it throws him a little, how genuine he is about it.
“Does that mean you’re going to be a historian?” he asks.
Taehyung shakes his head. “I love history, but I’m not, like, that good at research or anything. I’m just getting a masters so I can get a better teaching job.”
Jungkook starts to ask him something else, and Wendy appears with a to-go cup in each hand.
“Hey there,” she says brightly, sitting down and positioning one of the cups in front of Jungkook. “I know you said black coffee, but that was too tragic, so I got you a latte.”
“Good call,” Taehyung says, unable to imagine anyone actually wanting to drink black coffee.
“There’s a price difference,” Jungkook says defensively.
“Relax, Kook. I wasn’t gonna let you pay anyway. Plus an espresso gets you two stamps on the stampy card, so, like, score.” She gives him a double thumbs up, like he’s the one who did her a favor, and Taehyung’s reminded of why he likes Wendy—she’s earnest and spacey and occasionally weird as hell. He asks them what isn’t working in their classes, and he nods and grimaces along as they explain because their problems are versions of what he went through when he first started teaching high school, albeit lighter and gentler, softened by the fact that the majority of students at the university at least nominally want to be there. Wendy and Jungkook are both too nice, too ready to admit fault, don’t demand enough from their students, and Taehyung advocates for being a bit of an asshole, explains that you can get nicer as the semester goes on, but you can’t really get meaner.
“I’m screwed then,” Jungkook says, looking a little haunted. “I already messed up the first day.”
“No one ever remembers the first day,” Taehyung says firmly. “Just think of day two as a reset.” That had been kind of his mantra, when he was trapped in that job two years ago. It’s partly a lie, because classroom culture builds up and solidifies over time, but it’s what would get him to go back in after he was mocked and ignored, after he found insults scrawled on the whiteboard or a whole shelf of books on the floor. Every day was a reset. He tries to give them specific strategies for issues they’re dealing with, and Wendy starts jotting down notes, which is gratifying and a little disconcerting.
“Can I ask, like, a really specific question?” she says at one point. Taehyung nods, bemused. “How do I, uh, get them to stop asking for my measurements?”
“Shit.” He leans back, surprised. “Just outright? During class?”
She fluffs her hair self-consciously. “Yeah. I tried to establish, like, a cool vibe, but it turns out some of them are, uh, not cool.” She says it lightly, like she’s trying to not sound upset.
“Geez,” Jungkook says quietly. “That’s bullshit.”
“I mean, first of all, kick them out of class. And second of all report them to the professor—or the university, if they don’t do anything.”
She shakes her head slightly. “I’ve never kicked anyone out. I dunno if I can. How would I do that in, like, a cool way?”
Taehyung looks at her levelly. “You say: ‘If anyone asks about this again, I will ask you to leave the room.’ And then you dab or something.”
She laughs a little. “Got it.”
They discover that Jungkook doesn’t actually know what a lesson plan is, and Taehyung tries not to audibly groan. He gets him to pull out the materials for the class and starts helping him to draft one for his next session right there, wondering how anyone can be this hapless. Wendy says she has to get to the gym before her evening class, and Taehyung waves goodbye absentmindedly, trying to figure out how to make the discussion questions less obtuse. When they finish, Jungkook puts his backpack on his lap, tucks everything away carefully.
“Thanks for helping me,” he says earnestly, sliding it back onto the ground.
“It’s really nothing. It’s kind of nice, actually, to realize I know anything that could be helpful.”
Jungkook’s giving him that expectant look again, asks: “Do you want to meet some other time, so I can tell you how it went? I could get you ice cream or something, to say thanks.”
Taehyung feels his chest tighten with anxiety, shakes his head. “We don’t need to. You’ll do great.”
Jungkook’s eyes flicker away. “Right. Ok.”
Taehyung exhales, feels guilty. “You can text me about it, if you want? Here—gimme your phone.” Jungkook pulls a black smartphone out of his back pocket, hands it to him. It’s an older model—Taehyung remembers Jimin frying his version of it years ago by putting it through the washing machine. He puts his number in, calls himself. “Teaching advice hotline, ok?” he says, handing it back. “Anytime you have a question.”
Jungkook’s looking down, fussing with his backpack. He stands and slings it back on. “That’s nice of you,” he says, turning to go. “Thanks again.”
“Don’t forget to be mean!” Taehyung calls after him when he’s halfway to the circulation desk, and for some reason the smile Jungkook flashes over his shoulder makes his stomach flip-flop.
~~~
Taehyung knows he should’ve learned the bus system by now—it’s his second year here, and he doesn’t have a car, and Jimin’s always insisting that it’s really not that hard, that there’s literally an app he can download that shows the bus routes. But Jimin also doesn’t mind being five minutes late to everything, and Taehyung does. And Taehyung likes biking. It’s a little stressful near the busy roads, but it’s only a few blocks from their apartment to campus, and there’s a big hill that ends at one of the quads, so he gets to let his momentum build up without worrying about having to stop for traffic at the bottom. He winds his way through campus, swerving around groups of students walking inexplicably in the bike lane. He knows all the tricks of the route—where the bricks are too bumpy, when to catch the last ramp before the sidewalk abruptly ends. He can get through without having to ever hit a curb or walk his bike up the stairs.
He only has this evening seminar once a week, but he really likes it, even if the reading is overwhelming. It’s a combined class with the doctoral students, and that tends to pull the discussion up, helps Taehyung understand what he should be focusing on and what kinds of questions to ask. He gets to the classroom and sits down, nods at Yoongi, a third-year PhD student who’s always there early with his wireless headphones blasting. Yoongi gives him a lazy salute. He has this distinctively flat affect, and every time Taehyung sees him looking his way during discussion he’s immediately worried that whatever he’s saying is complete nonsense. Yoongi tends to be quiet, almost like he’s not listening, but when he cuts in he’s verbose and sharply intelligent. They never talk when they share the room before class like this, so Taehyung’s surprised when he gets his attention.
“Kim. You gotta speak up today. I didn’t do the second reading, and if Park dominates discussion again I’ll lose my goddamn mind.” He’s slouched a little in his chair, holding one headphone just away from his ear.
Taehyung tries to laugh, hopes it’s not obvious how intimidated he is. “I don’t really have a handle on anything. I always have trouble when they pull in too much psychoanalysis.”
Yoongi tilts his head back. “Because it’s bullshit. That’s why I skipped that article. Whatever your interpretation is will be the only useful thing anyone says today.”
Taehyung blinks at him, surprised, but Yoongi already has the headphone back in, nodding along to the music. Taehyung shakes his head a little, pulls out his notebook and pens. Probably he wasn’t serious. Taehyung’s definitely not the most cogent speaker in the class, and he’s usually just asking questions or talking about things that confused him. But he pulls out the stack of readings anyway, flips back through the articles to gather his thoughts.
Taehyung likes history because you can always keep asking ‘why.’ There’s so much information to learn, but when you really look into anything, it’s always just one narrative, one way to string together a storyline out of the messy facts, and there are so many more possibilities than that. You can keep pushing, knocking on every door until one opens and gives you a different way to look at everything, a new, twistier line through.
He doesn’t like biking home at night. It’s only about 8:30 when the seminar gets out, but it always feels later, yellow lights emanating in a faint ring as he hurriedly unlocks his bike, nods to a classmate who’s walking to the parking garage. His path back is dotted with bright blue emergency call stations. He never notices how many trees there are on campus until they’re obscuring the light, stretching long shadows across the sidewalk. It’s objectively pleasant, biking alone in the quiet, but he’s always looking over his shoulder, waiting for something to happen. He’s gone into an actual panic before, had to stop and calm himself down, but most of the time he just bikes too fast, like he can lacerate straight through his fear and keep going.
~~~
The nice thing about dance is that no one criticizes Jungkook for being too obsessed with it. He’s learned over the years that he needs to hold himself back anyway; he tends to drive too hard at things, at difficult moves, at sequences that he sees and wants urgently to learn, to push unrelentingly because he just wants his body to be able to do it, everything, right now. He’s had to realize that it’s also effective to let go sometimes. It’s hard to tell when, though, because most of the time pushing himself a tad mercilessly yields results. He knows without a shadow of a doubt that it’s his work ethic that got him here; it’s the one thing teachers and professors always praise him for. Which means that it also has to be his work ethic that keeps him here, that gives him any shot at going professional.
He knows, too, that his tendency to hyper-focus has cost him. He’s always been well-liked, knows he can be fun to hang out with once he gets over being shy, but he’s never been very tight with a group of friends, usually isn’t at the center of anyone’s life. He’s always that guy who’s there on scholarship, who can’t come because he’s staying late to practice. He wishes sometimes that it were different, figures that’s probably why he’s always too much, too fast in romantic relationships, tends to fixate on someone until he drives them away. He loves dancing, though, loves the release, the control, so most of the time it’s worth it, even when he’s spending most nights watching anime alone in an apartment he can’t afford.
And he’s making friends here, he thinks. Jimin invades his space more and more often, pulls him into whatever group he’s chitchatting with and doesn’t seem to mind when he’s quiet. Hoseok is a mentor, way ahead of him in his third year, so he’s obligated to be nice to Jungkook, but he thinks it still sort of counts. He finds Wendy really confusing at first, but they bond over their shared knack for parodying dance moves and genres, and it’s always a nice release, for the two of them to bug Jimin with exaggerated impressions of the dramatic fan dance he’s working on for the showcase, one-upping each other until he gives up being fake annoyed and cracks up. They fall into a routine of eating together a few days a week when she finds out how often he skips lunch. It’s a bad habit, he knows—fitness starts in the kitchen, and all of that—but he doesn’t have the money to eat on campus all the time, and it’s easier to throw a power bar into his bag than it is to pack a lunch. The first time she drags him to the dining hall and gets the cashier to swipe them both in on her card, he’s frustrated and resistant, feels like she’s treating him like some charity case.
“It’s not a big favor, Kook,” she insists. “I’d have to be Dwayne the Rock Johnson to use all my meal swipes.” It turns out she’d bought the most expensive meal plan available, and he feels better when he learns that it really does go to waste if she doesn’t stop by the dining hall enough times per week.
“Why’d you pick this plan?” he asks her, grabbing a plate of japchae to go with his cake and cereal. All-you-can-eat is really a weakness of his.
She leans toward him, eyes intense. “I love food.”
So that’s another thing they share. And all in all Jungkook’s doing a decent job of finding his balance in this new program, of obsessing within acceptable limits. So it really isn’t that weird, that he’s spent an inordinate amount of time the last few nights typing out and deleting texts to Kim Taehyung.
Part of the problem is that he really does have a lot of questions for him—teaching has only gotten better to the extent that he now remembers where the classroom is, and he writes down what he needs to say beforehand so he doesn’t trip over his words. But he can’t figure out how many questions it’s ok to ask, doesn’t want to bombard Taehyung when he really only gave him his number out of politeness. And then there’s the issue of Taehyung being intimidating as hell. Jungkook figures someone who does graduate-level historical research probably isn’t going to look too kindly on his typos. At one point he has a text he’s actually happy with, and then he deletes the whole thing in a panic when he realizes he’s used the wrong version of “you’re.”
On Tuesday night, disaster strikes. He’s typing out a paragraph while eating at the kitchen bar, and he decides to scrap it and is almost done backspacing when his thumb slips, and he nearly drops his phone into his spicy ramen. He manages to fling it onto the carpet instead, and when he retrieves it his stomach drops, because he sees that he’s just sent his first text to Kim Taehyung, and that text is: Heyb.
His insane first instinct is that there’s some way to fix it, to magically recall the text, and he’s still working on that thought process when Taehyung texts him back: Heyb there. Jungkook stands there and just stares at his phone, mortified. Finally he replies:
Jungkook
That was a mistake
Sorry
Kim Taehyung
Haha I figured
How’s teaching going?
Jungkook
It’s good
Kim Taehyung
Great
Jungkook
Ok, actually
I don’t know why I instantly lied
It’s not good
Kim Taehyung
Relatable
What’s going on?
They spend the next quarter hour or so going through some of the issues Jungkook’s having, Taehyung being verbose and helpful, and the only time Jungkook feels dumb is when Taehyung’s trying to send him some resources, and he can’t remember his new email address off the top of his head, and Taehyung sends him an entire paragraph about why it’s important for him to check his university email every day. The conversation goes quiet, he assumes because Taehyung’s sending him stuff. Jungkook slurps his cold ramen, thinks that maybe—maybe that went well?
He thinks, sends: So what made you interested in history? Why do you like it? A moment later, Taehyung texts: Glad to help! Unfortunately, I have to go work on a paper now. Jungkook involuntarily makes a face at his phone. He hates it when people do that. Formally ending a text conversation kind of seems like you were annoyed that it was happening in the first place. He assumes Taehyung sent the message before reading his question, waits for him to acknowledge it. He doesn’t. Jungkook taps a little forcefully: Ok. Thanks again. Taehyung doesn’t reply. Jungkook wonders: Is it because of the heyb thing?
~~~
It’s always been comforting for Jimin to do his makeup. Taehyung trusts him, and he likes seeing the different ways he can look—always did, even when Jimin was still figuring things out, like back in high school when he went through that phase of doing a brick-red tightline with every look, which worked fine on him but always made Taehyung look kind of undead. He closes his eyes when Jimin tells him to, relaxing at the familiar way he puts a thumb on his temple to keep him in place. He’d missed this in that year he was teaching public school, when he was trying to become flat and conventional in every way possible, when slipping up and leaving an earring in from the night before meant snide comments in the hallway. He knows he shouldn’t get used to it, that he’ll be back there as soon as he finishes his program, but right now Jimin’s trying this thing where he goes straight over his BB cream instead of using a matte primer, to get more of a muddy, watercolor effect, and it looks damn good.
“Look up,” Jimin says, and Taehyung complies. There’s a tapping sound, and then he feels the brush buffing piecemeal underneath his eye.
“Am I driving tonight?” Taehyung asks when Jimin leans back to grab a different palette.
“No. I got us a ride from Hobi.”
“Been getting a lot of rides from Hobi lately.”
“Because he’s a friend? With a car?” Jimin’s frowning at the palette, tapping lightly between two different colors, and Taehyung can’t tell if he’s being defensive or just distracted. Defensive would be odd, because Jimin’s usually pretty unabashed, moves easily from guy to guy. “I make you drive too much anyway. Look up again.” Another tap of the brush against the side of the palette, another incremental sweep along his lashline. “You’ve gotta remember how to have fun.” Taehyung rolls his eyes, and Jimin huffs at him to stay still.
Jimin is the kind of friend who always, always comes back around. Their collective history goes back to middle school, when an older student named Seokjin sort of adopted them, turned them and his friend Namjoon into a mighty foursome. Taehyung keenly misses those days, when they were like a strange little family, bickering over video games and riding their bikes to that construction site they weren’t supposed to go to and begging Seokjin to cook them food. It was the same in high school until Seokjin and Namjoon graduated and left for different colleges, and Taehyung and Jimin intertwined tighter as their older brothers drifted away.
The first few years of undergrad were kind of a phase for Taehyung, a whole messy and ultimately disastrous process of trying to figure himself out, and he and Jimin lost touch. And then, right when Taehyung’s life fell apart, Jimin came back, resolidified his place by his side. Taehyung, in turn, tried to be there for him in that bleak year after college, when Jimin was going crazy and wasting his potential trying to make a living off of doing private dance lessons for a bunch of rich kids. Granted, Taehyung had to work around his own busy schedule of coming home from a hellish day of teaching, bingeing YouTube videos to avoid the reading list he’d optimistically taped to his mirror, and waiting until he was too hungry to think before throwing together some sort of insane depression meal in the kitchen. He never missed any of Jimin’s recitals, at least. If he were Jimin, he would’ve thought twice before getting an apartment with his moody, unreliable best friend, when they both went back to university. But it wasn’t even a question for him. Grad school recentered both of them, pulled them back to what made them feel competent and productive and hopeful. The difference is that Taehyung knows Jimin really is going to make it afterward, has this talent that no one else does. The best Taehyung can hope for when he finishes his degree is the same job with a higher salary.
They’re going to some massive house party tonight, so when Jimin finishes Taehyung’s makeup he shoos him out so he can spend way too long on his hair. Taehyung’s kind of excited about the party, or at least about the concept of a party. He daydreams in the car while Jimin and Hoseok chat animatedly, thinks that he’s glad he’s going somewhere instead of holing up in his room to study. But when they get there and bump through the crowd until Jimin finds a group of friends, Taehyung’s first thought is that he doesn’t really know these people. Getting trashed with near-strangers had always seemed meaningful and daring in undergrad, like they were discovering something, truly living. But now it just seems like a waste of time. He follows Jimin drink for drink anyway, mostly because they have a long-running thing where Jimin insists that Taehyung has a low tolerance and Taehyung tries to prove him wrong. The drinking doesn’t make him any happier.
~~~
Jungkook likes to get places early, but he knows from experience that coming early to this kind of party is social poison, that there’s nothing resembling a vibe and you end up trapped with the few other early people in a long, fruitless conversation where no one admits that they don’t remember each other’s names. So by the time he gets to this party, exactly 45 minutes late, it’s already in full swing.
It’s at a real house, a two-story that someone’s renting, and a few people are already spilled out on the front lawn smoking. Inside is a slow-moving swirl of bodies and throbbing bass. He pushes his way through, six-pack clutched in his hand, trying not to spill other people’s drinks, gets smacked in the face by some sort of houseplant. He fights his way to the kitchen. He has to cut mercilessly through a couple who looks like they’re about to kiss so he can shove his alcohol contribution into the fridge. He slides one out for himself, cuts back through the amorous couple to grab a bottle opener that someone’s drunkenly brandishing. He goes to hand it back after he’s used it but sees they’re already gone. He grips the beer tightly, starts the painful process of looking for someone, anyone he knows. He usually ends up liking parties, enjoys being goofy and losing himself and freaking people out by unexpectedly break dancing. But this part is the worst.
He follows the bass to a darker room where music is reverberating around bare walls. It’s packed with people who are just yelling over the noise and pulsing ineffectively to the beat, but in a corner there’s a few third-year MFAs who are really getting into it. He pushes his way over, has fun dancing and messing around. They figure out at one point that Russian Roulette is the perfect rhythm for one of the sequences they’re working on for the showcase, just way faster, and they all rival each other trying to fit the moves in at breakneck speed. He gets sweaty, loses his beer, hopes he finished it. He wishes he had someone to really dance with. At some point people start grabbing the phone that’s bluetoothed to the speakers and changing the song sporadically, right when he’s getting into it, and he gets frustrated, gives everyone a salute and pushes his way back out—he realizes how truly loud the music was when the din of the rest of the party is a relief.
He discovers a quieter rec room-type area upstairs and feels a profound relief when he catches sight of bright pink hair over top of a large, shabby couch. And then a small nervous thrill when he sees bright blue. It’s another MFA cluster, plus some vocal majors he doesn’t know, and Jimin waves him cheerily over to the couch, his arm draped around Taehyung’s shoulders. Taehyung leans into Jimin’s chest to make room—his makeup is pristine, but his face is thunderous, and Jungkook hesitates.
“Don’t mind him,” Jimin says blithely. “He’s just a lightweight who hates fun.” Jungkook notes the shot glasses on the coffee table.
Taehyung pushes further into Jimin’s chest. “I’m not a lightweight.”
There’s a pair of black combat boots on the end of the couch, and Jungkook moves them and sits down; Taehyung immediately puts his feet in his lap. He says hi to everyone, listens to the conversation and tries not to get too worked up over a pair of hot pink socks. There’s the usual bitching about professors and bad choreography and that one third-year who gets all the solos, and people filter in and out with drinks. Someone who seems completely trashed is floating around the room enigmatically handing out gum, and when they pass Jungkook a piece he wonders if it’s sketchy, then pops it in his mouth anyway when he recognizes the brand. Seulgi feeds hers to Wendy, possibly to try to shut her up; she’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, and she keeps making dramatic proclamations of love for Sooyoung, a vocal major with long dark hair, every time she catches sight of her across the room.
Taehyung’s mostly just been growling in response when people ask him things, and he and Jimin end up in a loud, circuitous argument about whether Taehyung’s the lamest person at every party. Finally it seems like Taehyung gets to a breaking point, and he starts chanting “party, party, party,” pulls his feet off of Jungkook’s lap and grabs someone’s empty cup.
“Flip cup PARTY!” he yells, flinging it into the air and spattering purple droplets everywhere.
“Tae—ugh—what the hell,” Jimin complains, dabbing at his shirt. Taehyung pushes his back up against the couch, flops ungracefully over the edge—Jungkook leans over compulsively to make sure he’s ok. “Keg stand PARTY!” he yells from the floor. Wendy makes a whooping noise.
“Ok, ok!” Jimin says testily. “You’re the most fun—the party don’t start till you walk in.”
Taehyung puts a hand on the couch back, pulls himself up until he’s level with Jungkook’s face. “Gum, gum, Jungkook, gum,” he says earnestly, holding out a hand. Almost involuntarily, Jungkook takes the gum out of his mouth, drops it into his palm. Taehyung’s already grabbing his own gum from off of his tongue, and he presses it gently against Jungkook’s lower lip until he takes it in. Then he stands, dramatically lobs the other piece into his mouth. “Gum swap PARTY!”
Jungkook chews automatically, his heartbeat loud in his ears.
“That’s not a gum swap,” Seulgi says dryly. “It’s supposed to be, like, mouth to mouth.”
“Taetae we get it—we get how extremely fun you are,” Jimin grouches, trying to grab him as he rolls back onto the couch.
Taehyung wriggles away and leans toward Jungkook, buries his hand in the couch next to his shoulder. “Real gum swap?” he asks, his smile brilliant. Jungkook nods stiffly. And then Taehyung’s expression turns wicked, and he’s closing the distance; he pushes his gum—Jungkook’s gum—between his teeth, and Jungkook lets him slide his tongue into his mouth. It should be gross—there’s a lot of spit involved—and also no big deal—Jungkook’s had far dirtier things in his mouth. But for some reason he’s bothered, defenseless, as Taehyung crushes their mouths together, sweeps his tongue in deeper. Jungkook pushes his gum forward obediently, feels Taehyung curl his tongue against him, drag back along his teeth; Jungkook can’t stop himself from closing his lips over him as he slides out, hopes Taehyung doesn’t realize why. And then he’s off him, spinning back around. He puts his hands up, yells, “REAL GUM SWAP for the HATERS.” Wendy gives him a little cheer, and Seulgi flashes a peace sign.
“Why do I take you anywhere?” Jimin groans, tries to haul him off to go dance, and Jungkook can’t stop thinking, repeatedly, inaccurately, that Kim Taehyung just kissed him. Kim Taehyung just kissed him. They get in another argument, and Jimin ultimately stomps off alone. Taehyung looks pleased, announces that it’s lazy time and spreads out on the couch, the top of his head just next to Jungkook’s thigh. Jungkook’s left trying to tamp down on himself while Taehyung lays there looking unfairly good, eyes half-lidded, hair curling a little at the ends. He’s wearing what could fairly be termed a clubbing outfit—tight grey jeans, long-sleeved black shirt with a lacey overlay—and Jungkook wonders about the contradiction, of him both trying and giving up.
Wendy returns to her primary occupation of overreacting to Sooyoung, and Taehyung starts getting what seems like a bunch of texts all in a row, wriggles his phone out of his back pocket and scrolls grumpily. Jungkook realizes that his fingers are surprisingly long, tries not to follow that thought toward any sort of conclusion.
“Do you think she even knows I exist?” Wendy’s asking, her eyes wide and forlorn.
Seulgi puts her boots on the coffee table. “She’d better—didn’t you lend her your art history textbook?”
“No,” Wendy answers earnestly. “I sacrificed it to a goddess.”
Seulgi looks simultaneously exasperated and amused. “Well let’s hope the goddess returns your offering before our test next week.”
Taehyung tosses his phone onto the floor, flips onto his side like he’s annoyed.
“She’s on the move—she’s going downstairs,” Wendy says urgently.
“Wendy,” Seulgi says warningly, but Wendy’s already scrambling up, calling after her.
“Sooyoung do I have a chance?! Will you ever love me?!”
“Wendy, this is not the time.”
Taehyung rolls onto his back again. “Can I tell you something, Jungkook?” he asks. Jungkook looks down, surprised, as Wendy pounds toward the stairs and Seulgi hurries after her. “I’m a little drunk,” he adds, holding his thumb and index finger together in the air to indicate how little. “So you gotta not hate me if this comes out wrong.”
Jungkook feels his heartbeat pick up. “Ok.”
“I don’t date.”
Jungkook blinks at him. “What?”
Taehyung sweeps his arm dramatically through the air. “I’ve foresworn dating. Done, no more, not now, no thank you.” He makes eye contact, seems to see something there that sobers him. “Not implying that you—” He smiles. “You’re out of my league, babe.” Jungkook feels his eyebrows shoot up. “All you dancers are. You’re like another species of human, and I’m over here just crawling through life in your wake.” His eyes go serious again, and he reaches up to brush Jungkook’s temple, looks at him like there’s something he wants him to understand. It’s painful, when it dawns on him.
“Ok,” Jungkook says, mostly just to say something. He’s been given this speech enough times to recognize it even in this form—this is the ‘you’re cute, really, but I’m not gay’ speech. He can’t believe how completely he’s set himself up to be knocked down. Taehyung claps once, like everything’s solved, and flops onto his side again.
“Serious conversation, check; Chim can shut up now, check. Nap time,” he says, as if only he can hear it. Jungkook’s skin is hot with embarrassment—he wishes Taehyung had at least made up something more plausible than the idea that he doesn’t date at all.
“I’m going to go…I dunno,” he says, getting up. “Don’t lose this,” he adds, retrieving Taehyung’s phone from the floor. He lines up the black combat boots by the edge of the couch and slides the phone into one of them. Taehyung follows him with his eyes, something new in his expression, but Jungkook’s already leaving.
~~~
A few drinks later, Jungkook’s back in the crowded dance room. There’s been a run of electro swing songs, and Hoseok’s radiating pure positive energy, occasionally grabbing Jungkook to swing dance, which is a little scary because he leads very confidently. Wendy comes over, and she and Jungkook try to figure out how many different genres they can make work with the beat. Eventually someone switches to an R&B playlist, and Hoseok disappears, and Jungkook and Wendy end up just chatting and swaying tiredly to a really croony slow song. At some point she stops paying attention, her eyes following someone across the room, and Jungkook doesn’t even have to ask. He hovers a finger over her lips, and she waves him away.
“I’m chill now, I promise.” She makes a wry face. “Seulgi says I have to wait until I’m sober instead of just yelling that I love her.”
Jungkook laughs a little. “That seems like a good plan, yeah.”
“She’s never going to notice me.”
“Why don’t you ask her to dance?”
She takes her hands from his shoulders, puts them on her cheeks like he’s just said something groundbreaking. “Yeah? You think that’s not too much?”
“I mean, assuming you don’t also propose marriage.” Wendy’s staring star-struck over his shoulder. “Wendy,” he says, moving to reclaim her attention. “Be chill about it, ok?”
She leans back, gives him finger guns. “I’m always chill.”
He makes a skeptical face, but she’s already absentmindedly patting him on the head, slipping away. He watches her go, relaxes when he sees her leaning in to talk, Sooyoung pushing her hair back from her face with a smile.
“—best thing here,” he thinks he hears just behind his ear. He startles, turns to see someone standing close behind him—Taehyung.
“Huh?” he asks, his heartbeat a little fast.
Taehyung grimaces, steps back. “Sorry. I figured Jimin’d be somewhere around. But now I kinda feel like a party ghost. Spooky time.” He wiggles his fingers a little, makes a ghostly noise. Jungkook doesn’t know how to react, doesn’t understand how one person can be so confusing. Taehyung grimaces again. “Maybe Jimin’s right, that I’m the worst thing at every party.” He looks oddly still there, everyone around him moving to the music.
“You can’t be the worst thing,” Jungkook says despite himself. “Some parties have, uh—” he casts about for something obviously terrible. “Chex mix.”
Taehyung smiles, bites his lip. “Do you wanna dance?” Jungkook thinks about his mouth on his, his speech about not dating, and he doesn’t know. Taehyung’s hair is a little rumpled, his eyebrows dark under his blue bangs. “Ghost dance is a rare opportunity. It’s like a normal dance, except you don’t feel anything.”
Jungkook shakes his head, smiles. “Yeah. Ok.”
Jungkook isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but it’s definitely not for Taehyung to move deliberately into his space and slide his hands onto the back of his neck. Jungkook reaches instinctively for the small of his back, lace rough under his fingers. He’s purposely not pulling, but he feels Taehyung edge closer anyway; he breaks eye contact, puts his head next to Jungkook’s, drifts in until their hips are almost touching. Jungkook’s heart is in his throat, goosebumps trailing every time Taehyung’s hand moves on his neck, but it’s almost like Taehyung’s body is louder than his own. There’s something about the way his chest is moving, his breath uneven in Jungkook’s ear. It’s still the ballad, and Jungkook moves slowly, mostly just sways, and he feels Taehyung relax against him. They don’t talk, and nothing changes until the music shifts, crossfades into a song with a faster, grimier rhythm. Taehyung steps back, and Jungkook gives him a small smile, figures this is over. Taehyung looks vulnerable for some reason, his eyes too big for his face.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he says. Jungkook tilts his head, confused. “To dance.”
“Oh.” He bites the inside of his cheek. “Follow my lead?”
Taehyung hesitates, nods.
And then Jungkook lets himself pull at him, and Taehyung settles back into him. Jungkook shifts his weight to the faster rhythm, feels Taehyung follow, and he thinks that this kind of dancing is more like just listening. He rolls his hips cautiously, hears Taehyung inhale by his ear. He bumps into Jungkook awkwardly, laughs quietly into his neck, and then he’s moving against him, with him. Jungkook slides his hands to his hips, to guide him, and they settle into an achingly good rhythm. They’re quiet, focused, and their bodies are hot against each other but Jungkook keeps getting chills. It’s surreal, that this is happening, that Taehyung is on him like this, and it should be awkward, because Jungkook barely knows him, but it’s like Taehyung is listening back, slotting easily into Jungkook’s rhythm, responding to every change. He presses his thumb into Taehyung’s hip, unable to summon the self-command to worry that he’s getting hard.
The room is packed now—apparently this playlist is more of a crowd pleaser than electro swing—and when Taehyung pulls back to reset as a song crossfades, Jungkook can see that his bangs are twisting into clumps on his forehead. Taehyung repositions himself against him, and Jungkook feels like his thoughts are turning into static, because Taehyung’s definitely, definitely hard against him, and he’s moving more deliberately now, nearly grinding. Jungkook tightens his grip, to hold him there; he needs him there, needs him to stay. He nuzzles along the side of Taehyung’s face, drags toward his mouth, swears he smells peppermint. And then Taehyung stills, takes his face in his hands.
“I’ve gotta go,” he whispers. “I—I’m too drunk.” Jungkook feels like his whole body is throbbing. He nods shakily, their foreheads knocking together. “You’re the best—the only good thing here.” Jungkook looks at him, bewildered, but he pulls back and weaves his way back through the crowd without another word. A ghost dance, Jungkook thinks woozily. He shakes his head and goes to lean back against a wall until he calms down.
~~~
Jungkook doesn’t see him again that night. He gets a text from him the next morning, though, while he’s munching on a late breakfast. Heyb. I’m apologizing to everyone because I was way too drunk last night. Sorry if I was weird.
It’s maddening, but it aligns so perfectly with everything else that Jungkook actually laughs, rubs his temples in consternation. He tries to think it through. Not that it’s much effort to remember every fleeting moment of physical contact, since that’s been in his head on repeat all night. He’s sure Taehyung initiated things, but he worries that maybe he went too far or freaked him out. More than everything else, though, he’s just confused. Taehyung was tipsy, for sure, but he really didn’t seem that drunk. He can tell this text is a way to avoid saying that he regrets something, but Jungkook has no clue which thing, out of everything, he might regret. And then Jungkook almost laughs aloud again, because he still doesn’t even know if he’s gay.
Jungkook
Don’t worry about it, seriously
You were fine
Kim Taehyung
Thanks
Jungkook
I’m sorry, too, if I was too drunk or made you uncomfortable
Kim Taehyung
No you’re good
Anyway
Every day is a reset
Jungkook blinks at his phone. Then groans aloud when Taehyung follows that up with: Don’t forget to check your university email. He types out and deletes a few responses, including: Thanks, dad and Do you want to get lunch? and I find you deeply confusing. He settles on a profoundly bland: Haha ok. Then he channels Wendy, gives his phone finger guns. It makes him feel marginally better.