Chapter Text
Park Jimin was a firm believer that destiny was just a poorly organized library of clichés, and he was the main character waiting for his volume to be checked out. His life was not a series of random events; it was a pre-scripted narrative, and he was currently in the opening montage where the protagonist dreams of a love as grand as the movies.
His current obsession was the "Brooding Artist" trope. He’d seen it a hundred times: the cynical, emotionally unavailable creative genius whose cold heart is thawed by the relentless sunshine of a charming, beautiful soul (namely, himself). It was a tale as old as time, or at least as old as romantic comedies.
Which is how he found himself on a Tuesday morning, clutching two overpriced iced americanos outside the intimidatingly sleek door of Agust Productions. Inside was Min Yoongi, a music producer known for two things: his genius and his glare that could curdle milk.
"This is it," Jimin whispered to his reflection in the dark glass of the door. "My cliché begins now. I am the sunshine. He is the grumpy cloud. Physics demands we create a rainbow."
He took a deep, dramatic breath, pushed the door open, and immediately fumbled one of the coffees. The plastic cup hit the floor with a wet smack, its lid popping off and sending a tidal wave of caffeinated darkness across the pristine, light-grey concrete.
From the depths of the studio, a head of mint-green hair slowly rose above a massive soundboard. Two dark, uninterested eyes locked onto the caffeinated crime scene. Min Yoongi did not look angry. He looked… profoundly disappointed, as if Jimin had just kicked a puppy in front of him.
"Ah! I'm so, so sorry!" Jimin squeaked, his voice an octave higher than usual. He scrambled, pulling a wad of tissues from his pocket and dabbing pathetically at the lake. "I brought you a coffee as a, you know, a nice gesture. A trope! I mean, a token!"
Yoongi stood up, moving with the languid, unhurried pace of a predator that wasn't particularly hungry but felt obligated to investigate. He stopped a few feet away, arms crossed. He was shorter than Jimin expected, but his presence filled the room, sucking out all the oxygen.
"You've successfully created a biohazard on my floor," Yoongi stated, his voice a low, sleep-rumble. "The gesture is noted. And rejected."
Jimin’s brain short-circuited. This wasn't following the script! The brooding hero was supposed to be secretly touched by the clumsy, endearing gesture. He was supposed to grunt, "You're a mess," but with a hidden smile!
"I'm Park Jimin," he blurted out, springing to his feet and thrusting the surviving coffee toward Yoongi like a peace offering. "From the dance team? For the 'Eternal Sunshine' project?"
Yoongi’s eyes flickered from Jimin's desperately smiling face to the proffered coffee. He made no move to take it. "The floor has had its share. I think I'll pass." He turned and walked back to his chair. "Sit. Let's talk about the track before you decide to redecorate with a smoothie."
For the next hour, Jimin tried valiantly to steer the conversation toward their inevitable romance. When Yoongi played a melancholic piano melody, Jimin sighed dreamily. "It sounds so... lonely. Like it needs a duet."
Yoongi didn't even look up from his screen. "It's a solo piece."
When Jimin mentioned he'd stayed up late watching old films, hoping to bond over a shared love of art, Yoongi simply replied, "Your timing in the second verse suggests you should have been in bed earlier."
Every attempt at "sunshine" was met with a "cloud." Every clumsy, rom-com-worthy moment was treated as a simple, logistical failure. The grand romantic tension Jimin was trying to build was, in reality, just the tension of one man being mildly annoyed by another's existence.
The session ended with Yoongi giving him a USB drive. "Practice. And next time," he said, finally making direct, unwavering eye contact. Jimin's heart fluttered. This is it! The moment! He's going to ask me for dinner!
"Next time," Yoongi finished, "watch your step. My floor can't handle another assault."
Jimin walked out of Agust Productions, his shoulders slumped. The surviving iced americano was warm and watery in his hand. He had entered as the hopeful protagonist and exited as a clumsy janitor.
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Later that night, Park Jimin lay in his bed, the glow of his phone illuminating his pout. He opened a notes app titled CLICHÉ LOG.
He typed:
- Potential Cliche #1: The Brooding Producer (Min Yoongi)
- Setup: Clumsy meet-cute with spilled coffee. Check. I was charming and apologetic. Check. He was brooding and cynical. Check.
- Expected Trope: Grumpy/Sunshine. Forced proximity through work. He reveals his secret, tender heart to me alone.
- Actual Outcome: I am now apparently a one-man environmental hazard. He looked at me with the same enthusiasm one reserves for a parking ticket. He cares more about his concrete floor than my soul.
- Verdict: EPIC FAIL. Cliché rejected. Maybe he's not the brooding hero. Maybe he's just... an ass.
Jimin sighed, locked his phone, and placed it on his nightstand. He flopped back onto his pillows, staring at the ceiling. The first chapter of his epic love story had been a disaster. But every hero needs a rocky start, right? Tomorrow was a new day, and a new cliché was waiting just around the corner. He was sure of it.
With that hopeful, if slightly delusional, thought, Jimin closed his eyes and went to sleep.