Chapter Text
The smell of instant noodles clung to the walls like wallpaper, mixing with the faint scent of sweat, damp laundry, and something suspiciously expired in the fridge.
Their dorm was too small for seven boys, but somehow they still had enough room for chaos. Kim Seokjin sat on the edge of the couch. Well, technically a pile of unfolded blankets, silently chewing rice that was slightly undercooked and completely cold. Across the room, Taehyung was draped over Jungkook’s back like a decorative scarf while Jimin filmed them for a video no one would ever watch.
“Can you two just stay still? For one second?” Jimin grumbled, repositioning for the fifteenth time.
“I am holding still,” Taehyung shot back, muffled as his face smushed into Jungkook’s shoulder.
Jungkook, looking more like a confused bunny than a trainee, blinked at the camera and silently waited for whichever hyung gave the clearest direction
The rapline had gone off to the studio to work on their upcoming debut tracks, leaving Jin behind as the eldest to babysit the chaos. Not that he minded. Well, he did a little but it was hard to complain when his own presence in the group still felt accidental.
Life had fallen into a dull, exhausting rhythm: dancing until their bodies ached, running vocal drills until their voices cracked, and returning here to this cramped, shoebox that they called a home, where dinner usually meant tearing open another pack of ramen. Seokjin couldn’t even remember the last time the group had a proper meal together, one without instant-anything.
Group?
It still felt strange to call them that. They were just starting to settle into the idea of being seven. Seven strangers, shoved together under the glowing promise of debut. Some of the others had trained for years. Seokjin, meanwhile, had been a college student minding his business until someone scouted him on the street.
No dance background. No vocal training. Just a good face, apparently, and a willingness to try.
He’d been too shy at first to talk much. Too busy playing catch-up with extra lessons, always one step behind. He barely had time to eat, let alone make friends. The only one he’d managed to bond with was Changwon, a childhood schoolmate he was fortunate to encounter at the trainee dorm and one of the few people who treated him like he belonged. Then Changwon got cut. Just like that. And Seokjin was back to square one.
Right up until the day he was told he had been chosen for the final lineup, Seokjin genuinely believed he wouldn’t make it. It wasn’t false modesty. Just a sense of reality. Everyone else seemed so far ahead of him, so certain. The trainees around him moved like they belonged in this world, confident and capable. Some had years of experience under their belts, having trained as singers, rappers, or dancers long before joining the company. Their skills were battle-tested.
Early on in training, there were whispers floating through the halls, rumors that BTS would debut as just five members. Then maybe six. Nothing was certain, but one thing was clear. Everyone knew who the frontrunners were. The “OG lineup,” people called them. Rap Monster, the lyrical genius, Smiling Hoba, the dancing machine. And Gloss, the mysterious producer who was an underground legend. They were the backbone. The untouchables. No one questioned their spots.
Then Jungkook joined. Barely a teenager, but gifted in a way that made it impossible not to notice. He rose to the top of the vocal class within weeks. It didn’t help that rumors circulated almost immediately about how he’d received offers from seven agencies, including a major label, but chose this one, a lesser label. Naturally, it made other trainees feel both impressed and threatened.
Next was Taehyung. A chaotic, charming boy who strolled in with his deep voice and boxy smile, the only one who passed the Daegu auditions. He felt like a wildcard no one saw coming but immediately couldn’t imagine the group without him.
And then, in what felt like the final stretch of a long, exhausting race, when everyone thought the final spot would be a fight among the remaining hopefuls, Jimin descended like a meteor. The trainees barely had six months left when he showed up, but it didn’t matter. He quickly dominated the classes and bulldozed through every ranking and every ounce of doubt in the room. The staff couldn’t look away. And neither could the other trainees.
By then, the six of them had started orbiting each other, talent recognizing talent even before anything was official. They practiced together, laughed together, struggled together. Everyone just sort of knew these were the ones. And they all kind of stepped back.
So when the final list was announced and Seokjin’s name was included, awkward late-starting Seokjin who still struggled to keep up in dance class and the other lessons, it felt… surreal. Like he’d stumbled into the wrong door and somehow ended up in the middle of destiny.
Now he was here. Staring at a half-eaten container of rice, listening to Idols-in-progress who seemed much more comfortable with each other than he ever felt. If someone had told him this would be his group; the kids hanging off each other, filming nonsense videos while surrounded by laundry and leftover noodles, he might have tried harder to push past the nerves and reach out sooner.
But it was too late for that now.
Or maybe not too late. Just… a little behind.
Taehyung let out a dramatic sigh, flopping harder against Jungkook like his bones had turned to jelly. “Jiminie, you’re terrible at this,” he declared.
Jimin didn’t glance up from his phone. “If you stopped squirming every two seconds, maybe it wouldn’t look like we’re filming during an earthquake.”
Taehyung shot upright, eyes wide with mock offense. “Excuse me?! I was being still! You’re the one with hands like a trembling chick!”
“That’s called stabilizing,” Jimin snapped. “But you wouldn’t know because you think ‘cinematography’ sounds like a type of dinosaur.”
“Well it kinda does,” Jungkook quipped softly, his big doe eyes blinking innocently.
Jimin became distracted by his eyes, and in a flash, Taehyung launched himself off Jungkook’s back, snatched the phone from Jimin’s hands with a sharp reflex.
“Yah!” Jimin lunged, but Taehyung was already halfway across the room.
Taehyung dived into the pile of blankets beside Seokjin, landing with a muffled “oof” and sandwiching himself against Seokjin’s side without warning.
“Hyung, look!” he grinned, shoving the phone mere centimeters from Seokjin’s face. “Jungkook looks like a haunted doll and I have six chins! Jimin’s camera skills are a war crime.”
Seokjin stiffened, his spoon hovering in midair.
Taehyung had just called him “hyung.” And for some reason, that alone made his chest tighten. He wasn’t used to being recognized like that casually. A feeling settled deep inside him, something unfamiliar and a little overwhelming.
Taehyung was also way too close.
His hair brushed Seokjin’s cheek. His arm pressed snugly against Seokjin’s side, his thigh warm and solid where it leaned into his leg. He smelled like fabric softener and something vaguely sweet. Probably the strawberry milk he was always stealing from the fridge.
Seokjin’s brain briefly blanked out.
He cleared his throat, trying to scoot an imperceptible inch away without causing alarm.
“I mean…” Seokjin glanced at the screen. The footage was chaotic. Blurry, shaking, and for some reason framed with someone’s foot in the corner. “It’s not… ideal,” he said delicately, trying not to hurt anyone’s feelings.
Taehyung smirked triumphantly and twisted around to face Jimin, still holding the phone up like a trophy. “See? Even Seokjin hyung agrees.”
There it is again.
Jimin rolled his eyes, arms folded. “Don’t drag him into your tantrum just because you’re mad I caught your ugly angles.”
“You only caught my ugly angles,” Taehyung retorted. “And don’t act like you’re some director just because you’re older by, what, two months?”
“It’s two months and 18 days!”
“Same thing,” Taehyung said cheerfully, flopping back against Seokjin like a cat marking territory. “And also, you’re bad at videos.”
“I will end you,” Jimin said, moving forward like he actually meant it.
Seokjin quickly lifted a hand, playing mediator despite Taehyung now half-leaning across his lap like it was no big deal. “Okay, okay, enough. Jimin, your video skills are… unique.”
“Seokjin-ssi!” Jimin looked betrayed.
“What are you guys even filming for?” Seokjin asked curiously, eyebrows raised as he glanced between the bickering trio.
Taehyung perked up. “It’s for our Twitter page,” he said proudly. “Jimin wanted us to post some ‘maknae moments’ to increase our followers. Right now we have, like what, 57? And most of them are staff or our families. Some are probably bots.”
“Taehyung,” Jimin warned under his breath.
“But then Jimin got this brilliant idea,” Taehyung continued, cheerfully ignoring Jimin’s death stare. “To film us being all cute and natural. Except, turns out, being natural on command is really hard.”
“Oh,” Seokjin said, nodding slowly like something had just clicked. Without warning, he reached for the phone on Taehyung’s lap and flipped the camera on.
He turned the lens toward Jimin, who was standing in the middle of the room. His arms were crossed and he was glaring at Taehyung until he realized the camera was pointed at him. Immediately, his posture stiffened and his face turned red.
Seokjin studied the frame through the screen. The dorm’s light was usually awful, but somehow, just then, a soft ray of sun filtered through the small crack in the curtain. It hit Jimin perfectly, highlighting the dyed golden-brown strands of his hair, the delicate shape of his lips, the warm blush creeping up from his neck to his cheeks. His eyes, wide with flustered confusion, glowed amber under the light.
And without realizing, Seokjin had started to speak, more to himself than anyone else.
“You know, most people think it’s about the pose. The way someone tilts their chin or sets their jaw. But it’s not. It’s the in-between moments. The second before someone smiles. The pause before they speak. That’s when they’re the most real.”
Jimin blinked, still too surprised to interrupt.
“You don’t need a studio or fancy lights,” Seokjin went on. “Sometimes it’s just about seeing what’s already there. Catching the truth of someone before they realize they’re being watched.”
He clicked the shutter.
The photo appeared on-screen; Jimin standing in the patch of sunlight, startled and flushed, beautiful without trying.
Taehyung leaned over and let out a low whistle. “Wow hyung! This is art. How did you know all this?”
Seokjin startled slightly, suddenly aware of what he’d said, of the attention now shifting his way. He cleared his throat and lowered the phone, cheeks tinting pink.
“I, uh… I studied Theater and Filming at Konkuk University,” he said, scratching the back of his neck.
Jungkook’s eyes lit up with admiration. “That’s so cool.”
“So you’re an actor?! No wonder you’re so handsome.” Taehyung gasped, practically vibrating.
“Oh, no, no,” Seokjin quickly refuted, waving his hand and blushing furiously at the compliment. “I only studied it! I’ve never actually, you know… acted. Professionally.”
“Well, this is stunning,” Taehyung declared, grabbing the phone and flipping it around to show Jungkook and Jimin. “We can upload Jimin’s photo with a cute caption like, ‘Hyung looks adorable when he’s angry.’ That’s got to get some attention.”
The picture was so mesmerizing that Jimin couldn’t even bring himself to protest. His lips twitched like he wanted to argue, but all he managed was a quiet, “It’s… not bad.”
“It’s perfect,” Jungkook agreed, nodding with all the seriousness of a cute bunny.
As Taehyung focused on uploading the photo, Seokjin stood up quietly and slipped into the kitchen. He’d already caught the time on the phone screen. It was past 5 pm. The rapline would be back soon.
Might as well start boiling water for some ramen.
And maybe, if he focused hard enough on noodles and seasoning packets, he could keep those creeping thoughts at bay. The ones whispering that he was getting too close to something warm, something bright, something that might burn if he let himself reach for it.