Chapter Text
The window of the bus was cool against the side of his head. It rattled against his skull, which was more than unpleasant, but he couldn’t be bothered to shift his position. It was the last bus of the night—as it always was—and was remotely empty.
Jungkook liked it that way.
When the bus rolled to a stop where he was supposed to get off, he shoved out of his seat, grabbing his bag and exiting the public transport. He never needed it to get home, as he always had a ride, but he sometimes wished he would just suck it up and spend the money for a car.
It was late, as usual, but he didn’t mind all that much. The late time allowed him to practice alone. Jungkook wasn’t sure he’d really ever be able to practice with others, but he surely wasn’t going to start trying, now. Stepping into the building, the faint music played in his ears as he headed to the locker room, dropping his bag off on the bench. His hands dropped to his shoes, pulling them off and kicking them under the bench. It wasn't like he would hinder anyone by being messy, or anything.
Opening his black duffel, Jungkook looked down at his skates. They were a sleek, black material, the caps that covered the blades of the same color. Sighing, Jungkook slipped off his sweatpants, revealing the tighter bottoms beneath, and tossed his coat to the side. He shivered—it was always cold at the rink—but didn’t bother to put another layer on. The black shirt would do—he’d be warm soon enough.
Lacing up his skates with practiced ease, Jungkook turned at the movement in the corner of his vision. He yanked his earbuds out by the cord, music cutting off abruptly. Namjoon lounged in the doorway, checking his watch. “You going to be ready anytime soon?”
His hands fiddled with the laces, trying to move faster as he sucked a breath through clenched teeth. “Sorry, sir.”
Namjoon, who was always so kind, so patient, let out a soft groan. “How many times have I told you to call me ‘hyung,’ Kook?”
Jungkook shook his head, finishing with his skates. It had been a full year, but he knew it wasn’t going to sink in anytime soon. They both knew it, even if they didn’t say it. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry.”
His coach rapped his knuckles on the doorframe. “Good to go?”
Jungkook merely nodded, following him out of the locker room and towards the rink. It never changed, hadn’t in a year, at least, but he still let out a breath every time he saw it. Whether it was out of anticipation or fear, he was never positive, but he told himself it was the first. He had to.
Taking the protectors off his blades, he stepped onto the ice, sliding forward a bit. Pushing off, he let himself get warmed up, stretching out a bit more as his skates moved on the ice with ease. He rolled his neck, then his shoulders, and nodded at Namjoon.
“From the top,” his coach said, and then the music started, and Jungkook began to skate.
All Jungkook did was skate. It was what he was good at, when he let himself believe it on the rare occasion. The ice was his home, his passion. He loved it, he truly did, and every completed jump and turn was like a separate breath of air in his lungs. All he wanted to do was skate for the rest of his life, even if he didn’t need to win.
He was competitive as hell, though, so winning was a must. Even if he couldn’t win, it was a must. That seemed to happen more often these days, each loss being another constricting fear placed on his shoulders, but he couldn’t help it. He just wasn’t good enough.
With a single hand, he reached upwards, panting as the song cut off. His program was difficult, and he surely felt as though he was going to die each time he finished, but it had to be difficult. It had to be perfect.
From the side, Namjoon clapped, before resting his arms on the edge of the rink. He grinned as Jungkook skated closer, accepting the water bottle with a small nod. “Jungkook,” Namjoon started, and he knew that this wasn’t going to be good. It never had been, a year ago. “I really think you should push the triple toe-loop to a quad.”
He looked at the older man as if he was insane. “I can’t make that.”
“I’ve seen you do it. Multiple times.”
Jungkook shook his head, handing the water back. “I can’t guarantee it. It’s not going in the program if I can’t be sure I’ll make it.”
Namjoon leaned forward on his arms, dimples forming as he smiled. “Will you try it? Just here, in practice?”
It was a bad idea. He knew he had half a shot at landing it, but his coach was asking, and he agreed. Moving toward the center of the ice, he started his program over with a quick shake of his arms. He already had one quad in his program—the salchow—it was pointless to put in another. It would just take points off if he missed it, but—
His skates left the ice, before connecting once more, the double axel finished. He needed to stop messing with his mind, it would only make it worse. Moving on with his program, he tried to calm himself down, the music sounding a bit tinny in his ears. It was the triple axel and then the quadruple toe-loop Namjoon wanted him to land.
His coach was right. If he could do it, it would be big. Not big enough, but good. Hitting the axel correctly, he braced himself, before getting into the quadruple toe-loop. His momentum was good, just one more—
Fuck.
Jungkook hit the ice. He skidded a bit, the cold biting into his skin as he hissed in pain. It hurt like hell, as falling always did, but he wasn’t bleeding. Still, the pain whipped through him as he pushed himself to his knees, gritting his teeth.
The pain came first, the fear always came second.
It was as though his brain never figured it out. Never realized that it was Namjoon, that Namjoon would never do anything, would only softly tell him it’s alright and that he didn’t have to try again, that he could take a few minutes to breathe.
It had been a year, and Jungkook still wasn’t ever able to believe him.
His hands trembled on the ice as he heaved himself upwards, way too fast. Kicking at the ice with his skate, he wrapped his arms around himself, head down low. If he paid attention, he could feel how fast his heart was beating, how his breath came too quickly. The cuts his skates had made in the ice were white, they were still white, but Jungkook could never forget when they were red.
The panic always came with the fear. He shouldn’t have tried the jump, he knew he would fall, and then—
From the edge of the rink, Namjoon’s voice met his ears. “That was good, Kook. We’ll leave it out of this one, but maybe we’ll put it in the next, if you can perfect it.”
Jungkook was barely listening. He had been so relieved to find that this new rink didn't have a bathtub, had even gone so far to ask Namjoon if there was one hidden somewhere. His coach had raised an eyebrow at the question, but had said nothing about it, only told him that there wasn’t. Jungkook could still remember the burn of the ice against his skin, thrashing in the water as he was held down.
Yes, he had been relieved to hear that there was no bathtub.
He made himself breathe. Three breaths were usually enough, but today he needed four. Namjoon stayed quiet, letting him take his time. Slowly, Jungkook raised his head, and skated toward his coach.
Wrapping his hands inside his sleeves, he gripped them, hiding his tanned skin. He wasn’t cold—it was a protective mechanism. Another thing Namjoon had never commented on. Sometimes, while he rode home in the older’s car, he would look out the window and thank the stars for his coach.
Namjoon knew enough to change the topic, move away from the jump, even though he knew that, when he wasn’t looking, Jungkook would practice it until he landed it ten times. “The competition’s tomorrow. You think you’re ready?”
“Do you think I am?”
“I think it’s perfect.”
Jungkook rolled his lower lip inside his mouth. He slid one of his skates on the ice, avoiding eye-contact with his coach. “It could be better.”
“It’s good enough to win, Kook.”
“It’s not,” he spat, turning away from Namjoon. “It won’t win.”
“Second place is good, as well. You know that.” But he didn’t. Second place was never good enough. It had never been, and it would never be. Behind him, Namjoon sighed, rapping his knuckles on the edge of the rink. “I’m cutting it short tonight. You need to sleep. I’ll start closing up, get off the ice soon, alright? We’ll leave in twenty.”
Twenty minutes. Jungkook tipped his head in a nod, waiting to hear the older man retreat, before he began.
Ten times. He had to land it ten times, and then he could go home.
Jungkook had been surprised to hear that Namjoon wouldn't make him stay at his place a few nights a week. Namjoon had been shocked at the assumption, and the two of them had stared at each other for a long moment when the topic was broached. But then his coach, kind as ever, had merely said that as long as they communicated well, Jungkook could basically do whatever he liked.
It was so odd that Jungkook hadn’t known what to do with himself.
He could go to college, if he liked. He had never even thought of that idea, before. And then there was his diet, his workout schedule, everything. Namjoon gave him tips, occasionally, but that was it. He never forced Jungkook to do anything.
It had been a year, and Jungkook still couldn’t believe it, sometimes.
He landed the seventh quad, letting out a breath. Three more. At this point, he was panting, so tired that he knew he should stop. But he couldn’t, he physically couldn’t.
Missing the eighth, Jungkook slammed the side of his fist into the ice, slowly forcing himself back onto his feet again. The panic rushed in once more, dark eyes darting around the rink, but he was alone. He was alone, and he only had three more. Just three more, even though he was exhausted, even though he was a bit shaky on his feet. Still, those skates began to move, and he somehow managed to land the final three.
Maybe if he landed another, he’d make his coach happy. Maybe he could just do one more, just—
Jungkook hit the ice again, head slamming into the cold rink. A pained groan left his lips. He shouldn’t have tried for another—he knew Namjoon was pleased that he even tried it the first time. He knew he didn’t have to land ten, much less eleven, but he had been stupid. He had been an idiot and gone for it again, and now he could do nothing but lay there on the ice, staring up at the rafters.
His ankles hurt like a bitch, and every place that had collided with the unforgiving ice screamed in pain. Maybe if he just laid there, he would melt into it, and he wouldn’t have to lose again, tomorrow.
At the sound of Namjoon’s footsteps, Jungkook slowly pushed himself upwards, catching how his coach sighed at the sight. Getting on his hands and knees, Jungkook crawled the first meter or so, before finally getting to his feet, legs almost giving out as he slid toward the exit.
Namjoon handed him the skate guards, one at a time, and he braced himself as he pushed them onto the blades of his skates. “You need to stop that,” his coach said, voice soft. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
Jungkook didn’t say anything, moving to step off the ice. But then that was when his legs finally failed him, and they gave out, forcing Namjoon to catch him on the way down. He couldn’t tell his coach that he would stop—they both knew it would be a lie if he did. So he let Namjoon haul him towards the locker room, helping him walk even though his ankles felt like they were burning with pain.
He didn’t say anything, even as he collapsed into Namjoon’s car, head leaning against the window. It didn’t rattle like the bus, but he still couldn’t sleep. Legs stretched out uselessly in front of his body, Jungkook went through his program again. And again. And again.
It was no use, though. They both knew it, even if Namjoon wanted him to believe he could win. He knew he couldn’t, that he would get second, like always. He knew he’d lose.
Because he was going up against Park Jimin.
And Park Jimin always won.
-
Jungkook didn’t know much about Park Jimin. He was super secretive—which he somehow managed to pull off, despite being something like the face of men’s figure skating in South Korea. It also didn’t help that Jungkook didn’t truly want to know about him, but something might have been nice. Something might have explained how he was just so fucking good.
All he knew about the man had to do with skating. It was surface level. It was enough to get under his skin.
Park Jimin liked classical music.
Jungkook liked soundtracks. He liked watching movies, dramas, anything, and wondering how he would play the parts. He liked putting on a show, playing a character.
Park Jimin skated with grace. Like he belonged there. Like he was dancing on ice. Sometimes, it was impossible to believe he could even move like that.
Jungkook skated with power. He skated with passion. He wanted those watching him to be left breathless, to wonder how he did it, how he pushed through. He battled with the ice, rather than became a part of it.
It might have explained why he wasn’t good enough. Why he couldn’t just win.
He looked up at the building as Namjoon smoothly slid the car into park. They didn’t say anything. Namjoon knew he liked his silence, his time to think. They would talk later. Whether it be in the car, in the kiss and cry, or just outside the rink, they’d talk.
Sometimes, Jungkook hated ice skating. He hated it for the notoriety, the competitions, the flashing cameras and the microphones in his face. Apparently, all of that had to come with being second best.
Not to mention, the former-coach-going-to-jail-thing, as well.
Maybe that had something to do with it.
Gripping the strap of his duffel bag, he pulled the black bucket hat lower over his face, before making sure the matching mask was secure. Namjoon sighed, watching him fiddle with his protection, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “I hate this part.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
“How far do you think it is to the doors?”
Jungkook tipped his head back so he could see from beneath the brim of his hat. “Ten meters?”
“Want to run?” Namjoon asked.
He managed to laugh. “How about a swift walk?”
“I’m sure that could work too,” his coach said, before opening the door and climbing out of the car. Jungkook did the same, slamming the door behind him and hauling his bag with him, slipping the strap onto his shoulder.
He kept his head down, but it didn’t matter all that much. The reporters knew him, knew what he looked like, what his coach looked like, and knew exactly when to pounce. The two of them had it down to routine by now, as Namjoon managed to hold off some reporters with his taller frame, guiding Jungkook through them as he murmured, “Earbuds.”
Jungkook didn’t need to be told twice. Hands fumbling for his phone, he unwound his earbuds, pushing them into his ears and playing a random song. It helped to drown out the questions, at least a little. He hated hearing them, how they just asked. It wasn’t that easy—it shouldn’t be that easy. They would have read the case. They couldn’t have understood, but there was a lack of regard that was baffling.
They made it inside without too much trouble, unlike some of the other times. Each time they did it, Jungkook wished he could have just stopped. Just let it be over, never skate again and live his life.
But skating was his life, and he just couldn’t abandon it like he knew he should.
Namjoon placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. His coach was on the short list of people that could touch him—a list that consisted of five people, maximum. But Namjoon had proven himself trustworthy, and had made the list, shockingly enough. Jungkook pulled out an earbud, listening to his coach as he spoke. “Go change. This place is big enough to find a quiet corner, if you don’t want to stretch in the locker room.”
Ducking his head in a nod, Jungkook peeled off, checking over his shoulder. Maybe it was habit, maybe it was paranoia.
He had come to this rink to compete multiple times before. He had never won in it, of course, as it was one of the national preliminaries and quite literally everyone seemed to show up, but he’d surely competed. Still, he slipped into the locker room, surprised to find it empty.
The other skaters looked at him differently. It hadn’t been a thing, before, but it surely was now. Jungkook hated it. He didn’t want to be treated differently, by anyone, much less the other skaters.
Thankfully, Park Jimin never even looked at him.
Not even when they were standing next to each other, medals around their necks and bouquets in their hands. Jungkook was never even acknowledged, and he wasn’t sure if he was better off for it. Rumor was that the best male figure skater in South Korea was a bit of a bitch, to put it nicely.
He tucked himself into a corner, so far back away from the door that he couldn’t even see it. The rows of lockers were a nice barrier, allowing him to set his duffel down and sit down on the floor. Stretching in costume was just uncomfortable, so he never did it unless he had to—like when the stares got a bit too much, or when he had to change quickly and get out.
Reaching for his phone, he turned up the volume on his music, and got to work. He spread his legs, leaning over one and pulling his toes toward his chest. It burned, maybe a bit more than normal, but it wasn’t too uncomfortable. It didn’t really matter if it was, anyway—he’d skate even if he was dying and the act would kill him.
Jungkook couldn’t help but roll his eyes when he heard the door open and close. Now someone else was here. How wonderful. Hopefully, they’d just change and leave, and he’d be alone again.
But, of course, that was too much to ask for.
Under the brim of his hat, he could see a pair of shoes appear across from him. They were slippers. They were Gucci.
Jungkook only paused for a half-second, before continuing to stretch. Even as he heard a bag clatter onto the bench—it was Chanel—and he flicked his eyes upwards. It was probably a terrible idea to look, but he couldn’t help himself.
Park Jimin looked at him over the top of his sunglasses. His full lips were pursed, like he clearly wasn’t happy to see Jungkook back here, and his arms were crossed over his chest. As always, his clothes were tight, accentuating just how toned his body really was. The tip of a slipper tapped on the floor.
Jungkook saw his mouth move, and reluctantly reached up to pull one earbud free. “Excuse me?”
He had never really heard the other speak before. Not like this, not so close, not just the two of them. “Are you throwing some sort of pity party back here, or something?”
Blinking, he tilted his head back to see the other more clearly. “I’m stretching.”
“I’m not blind.”
Jungkook looked back at the floor, folding his body forward a bit. “Your glasses are dark enough to say otherwise.”
Jimin didn’t speak for a moment. Long enough to make Jungkook wonder if he had fucked up, but it wasn’t like the other was entitled to this back corner, or anything. After a solid minute, Jimin huffed. “Are you going to be here for a while?”
“This entire locker room is empty. Find another spot, if you don’t want to see me.”
“I could care less about seeing you.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Jimin snatched his bag, pretty rings glittering on his fingers. “You’re a bit snarky, aren’t you?”
Jungkook tilted his head to the side. “Did you expect something else? You’re being a bit rude.” He turned back to his stretching, a bit bored. Well, as bored as he could be when something like panic was flooding his veins. This was the Park Jimin, and he should really shut up, now.
“I don’t even—” Jimin started, before the door to the locker room opened once more and another pair of footsteps entered the room.
“Jiminie? You in here?”
Jungkook didn’t recognize the voice. It didn’t matter all that much, as he hadn’t expected to, but he had gotten used to recognizing the cadence of footsteps, the different vocal tones, any sort of tell someone had. But this person was new, and it meant he didn’t have to worry all that much.
Whoever it was came into Jungkook’s line of sight, feet standing next to those Gucci slippers. “They said you might be in here. Haven’t you changed? What’s taking so long?” The other voice practically sang the words, and Jungkook glanced up just enough to see a pair of tan arms wrap around Jimin, swaying him from side to side.
Jimin let out a sigh, pushing the other off. “About to, Tae. It’s been like—what, three minutes?”
“Well, why haven’t you—oh.”
There was this startling silence, enough to make Jungkook look up. The other man’s hair was a dark brown, the fluffy-looking curls accentuating his soft eyes. His features were strong, but he seemed kind enough, if Jungkook cared to bother.
He didn’t.
“Wait—” He said, moving away from Jimin and closer to Jungkook. “You’re—you’re Jeon Jungkook, right?”
Jungkook tipped his head back fully, catching the eye of the other man. Then he saw Jimin, who stared at him over those glasses as if he hadn’t actually known who he was talking to. “Yeah,” he said, dragging the word out a bit in confusion.
The other man beamed and held out his hand to shake. “Kim Taehyung, professional best friend. You’re amazing, really.”
Jungkook looked at him, then his hand, then back again. He didn’t extend his own. “Professional best friend?”
Taehyung seemed a bit disappointed at the fact that Jungkook didn’t shake his hand, instead using it to jerk a thumb at Jimin. “Jiminie’s best friend since high-school. So—” He gestured to himself. “Professional best friend, and professional apologizer. Sorry if he’s been a bit—snappy. He gets like this before competitions.”
“Tae,” Jimin snapped, and Jungkook saw what Taehyung meant. Those eyes slid to him once more, looking at him on the floor. “You’re Jeon Jungkook? Why are you hiding in the corner like this?”
“Why are you?”
“Cameras,” Jimin said, as if he should have known.
He visibly waited for Jungkook’s answer, so he directed his voice at the floor and said, “I prefer to be alone.”
Jimin hummed. It was a nice tone, and Jungkook gritted his teeth. Of course, he could sing, too. Add that to the list of things the man was better at than him. Taehyung cut in, his voice bright as he looked down at Jungkook. “Are you going to win today?”
“No.”
The locker room got a bit quiet after that. Taehyung visibly frowned. “No?”
Jungkook pushed his legs out in front of his body, reaching out to grab his feet. “I’ll come second.”
“Well, that’s a shit attitude.” He looked up at Jimin, who rolled his eyes. “Have some desire, will you? Then it’s actually rewarding when I win.”
“And you wonder why I have a shit attitude,” Jungkook muttered.
“Okay, well, it was nice to meet you,” Taehyung cut in, turning Jimin around and forcibly pushing him away from Jungkook. “Hope to see you again, sometime!”
“Yeah,” he mumbled, pushing his earbud back into his ear. He was glad that they were gone. Maybe Park Jimin was exactly as the rumors said. At least his friend seemed nice enough, if not a bit excitable. Those types of people made him uncomfortable, if he didn’t know them.
Sighing, Jungkook stood up, stretching his back out a bit. Namjoon would be looking for him soon, and he wasn’t even ready. A huff of air escaping his lips, he tugged his earbuds out of his ears—hating the silence—and took out his skates.
If he had to lose, at least it was to Park Jimin.
At least it was to someone unbeatable.
-
Park Jimin liked things he was good at. It was nice, then, that he was good at many things. Figure skating was only one of them.
He propped his elbows up on his vanity, staring at himself in the mirror. The dressing room was small, but it was his, and he liked the breath of solitude it provided. Dipping his finger into the jar of tint, he swiped it across his lips, watching as they moved in the mirror.
Skating was nice. Skating was fun—at least most of the time. It got a bit boring when he constantly won, of course, but he was never going to turn down one of those gold medals, and it wasn’t like he was ever going to stop. He might have been able to stop, to find something else, something where he truly had competition, but that would have been years ago. Now, he had to keep skating. He couldn’t lose now.
Park Jimin’s only competition was Jeon Jungkook.
It was a matter of time. He was only ahead because he had an edge, but the kid was good. Really fucking good. At least he didn’t believe it—he’d win the moment he did. Jimin knew it, the kid’s coach knew it, hell—even Taehyung knew it. A part of Jimin didn’t want him to ever truly believe it. He didn’t want to lose.
In the reflection of the mirror, Jimin stared at the gold medal he had won that morning. It had been close, but he had been off his game. A few points would have been it, and Jeon Jungkook would have finally beaten him, but he had wobbled on his quadruple salchow.
Jimin hadn’t seen him after that.
His short program had been good though, as it always was. The kid skated as though he would die if he didn’t. Sometimes, Jimin wondered what that was like.
But he had won, so he didn’t really care all that much.
Crossing his legs at the knees, he draped an arm over the back of his chair, checking the clock. Ten minutes until it was two in the morning, and time for him to begin. He fought back his yawn—he was always a bit more tired on competition days.
Jimin kept odd hours. Morning was for practice, midday was for sleep, and night was for work. He didn’t need to work—the money from skating was more than fine—but it was just another thing he was good at. Not to mention the fact that it kept him in shape, and gave him that edge that he needed to keep winning.
It also made him rich, but that was just a side note, he thought.
There was a knock on the door to his dressing room, and then the redhead was popping around the open door. “Hey, Minnie. You win today?”
Jimin waved his fingers at the medal. “Like always, hyung.”
The older man stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him and throwing himself onto the pink loveseat pushed against the wall. “You’re too good, you know that? Like, seriously. Ever thought about giving the others a break?”
“Are you talking about yourself?” Jimin raised an eyebrow, leaning forward in his seat to push colored contacts into his eyes. They were a pretty blue color—he liked them, even though he knew no one would really be able to see them in the dim lighting.
He liked Hoseok. Hoseok was a good friend—kind, caring, looked out for him. He’d been doing this for a while, at least two years longer than Jimin. Sometimes, he reminded him a bit of Jeon Jungkook. Powerful, good at what he did, and second-best.
On the loveseat, Hoseok let out a joyful laugh. “I got you into this, I’ve got seniority. Don’t sass me, Minnie, or I’ll take your time slot.”
He pouted in the mirror. Two in the morning was the best time, and they all knew it. Patrons weren’t too tired to go home, but were much too drunk to understand how much money was trickling out of their wallets. “You wouldn’t, hyungie,” he sang, winking at Hoseok in the mirror.
“God,” Hoseok said, shoving himself off the loveseat and wrapping his bare arms around Jimin, swaying him from side to side. “You’re insufferable. You’re on in four, don’t forget.”
When he pulled away, Jimin frowned. “Where are you going?”
“That cute bartender is working tonight, I’m just going to go make him uncomfortable. In a good way,” Hoseok said, a lilting tone to his voice that made Jimin laugh as he watched the older leave the dressing room in a flourish.
Sighing in the now-empty room, Jimin took another long moment to look at himself in the mirror. His eyes were lined with a dark shadow, lips a beautiful tint of red, blond hair mussed into a perfect style. He looked good, but he always looked good.
Jimin slid out of his seat, adjusting his clothing—or, what there was of it. The black shorts were tiny, but did the trick, and the white long-sleeved shirt was so cropped that it wasn’t much more than a tease. He’d gone simple for the night, most likely as a result of the lack of sleep. Still, everyone knew it wasn’t really the clothing that mattered.
Stepping out of the room, he made his way through the back halls, glancing up at the clock that hung right above the back curtain. It was a dark, velvety thing, and was the only barrier between himself and those gathered to watch. With a quick brush of his fingers through his hair, Jimin heard his music start to play, and stepped out onto the stage.
The only reason Jimin kept winning was because he had an edge that made him better than the others. It made him better than Jeon Jungkook.
A tanned hand wrapped around the silver pole.
Park Jimin had an edge on the ice, because Park Jimin was a stripper.
-
Jungkook knew his roommate wasn’t surprised to see him curled up on the couch, eyes bleary and blinking at the light he flicked on at five in the morning. It wasn’t necessarily routine, but it was close enough. His roommate glanced at him as he tugged off his shoes, then his flannel, tossing it on the counter haphazardly.
“You should sleep,” he said, rubbing at his face a bit. He’d just gotten off work, and Jungkook knew that he wouldn’t see his roommate again until sometime around dinner.
Jungkook tugged at the blanket that was wrapped around his shoulders, scrubbing at his eye with a fist. “Tried.”
His hyung made a noncommittal noise in his throat, before striding over to the couch. Jungkook whined as he unwound the blanket and settled down next to him, covering them both with the thick material. The older man tugged at Jungkook’s head lightly, coaxing him to set it on his small shoulder as they sat there, staring at a dark television.
Yoongi was number one on the list of people that could touch him. They had lived together for years—something bordering on five, now—and he had been there through the worst of it. He never asked questions, even when he came home from his job at the light hours and caught Jungkook trying to fight off sleep. Yoongi did his best, but he had his quiet way of caring that was all Jungkook could ever ask for.
It was simple things—placing a bowl of food in front of him without a word, making sure he stayed hydrated, showing up to his competitions when he could. There was none of that unnecessary explaining, as they just seemed to understand each other. It helped that Yoongi never scolded him, either. That was nice.
Yoongi never complained, as well. Not when Jungkook screamed himself awake, or stumbled home after days of being unreachable, or anything of the sort. He merely kept quiet, doing what was necessary and then either leaving him alone or staying by his side, depending on what he needed.
His hyung ran fingers through his dark waves. “Want to talk about it?”
Jungkook did his best to shake his head, feeling his eyes get a bit heavy. “Tell me about work.”
Yoongi never said much about his job. He was a bartender, that much Jungkook knew, but he wasn’t sure at what club. It wasn’t that Yoongi was secretive, but he just didn’t care to share the information, and Jungkook wasn’t going to press him on it. He did share some things, sometimes, though. Jungkook liked hearing about it, about the normalcy of it.
“Slow night,” Yoongi said, his voice deep as he was tired. “Not much happened that was exciting. I think I made something around twenty screwdrivers, though, and I think I’d die if you said we had orange juice in the fridge. I literally never want to look at it again.”
He let out a little giggle at the idea. “One of us finished it the other day. Probably me. I don’t remember.”
“Don’t get any more.”
“Noted.”
Yoongi pulled him a bit closer, rubbing circles on his upper back. “Are you going to watch your program?”
Jungkook was quiet for a minute. “I wobbled my salchow.”
“The quad?” At Jungkook’s tiny nod, Yoongi let out a breath. “At least it was the quad.”
“I could’ve beaten him, if I had made it.” He remembered the moment, remembered how his hands had shaken in the kiss and cry, remembered how he had fled the rink after. That fucking salchow—he never missed his salchow. But Park Jimin had thrown him off in the locker room, and it had been hell after that. Jungkook tightened his grip on the blanket. “I could’ve fucking won, and I fucked it up, and he won. He won like he always wins,” he spat, gritting his teeth.
Yoongi didn’t stop the gentle movements, even if Jungkook felt him still slightly. “I’m sure you looked fantastic. Can I watch it? We can watch together, if you’d like. If that’s better.”
The older man hated talking about Park Jimin. He had never told Jungkook why, but he had always neatly turned the conversation away from the man. Sometimes, it was nice. It was a nice escape from thoughts of always being second-best. But, sometimes, he hated it. The other man wasn’t insignificant like Yoongi made him out to be. Still, Jungkook would never ask about it, just like Yoongi would never ask about him. It worked out better, that way.
“Can you watch it later? I don’t—I don’t want to see it right now,” Jungkook mumbled, shutting his eyes and trying to block out the feeling of wobbling on that turn.
“Sure,” Yoongi murmured, his voice soft. “What did Namjoon say?”
“He said I did great.”
“I bet you did. You always do great, Jungkook.”
He knew it wasn’t true. He would have been okay if he hadn’t wobbled, even if he didn’t win. It would have just meant that Park Jimin was better, not that he lost because he messed up. “Yeah,” he whispered, eyes glassy as he stared at that blank screen opposite the couch. “Thanks, hyung.”
Yoongi tapped his back a bit. “Bet you’ve been up for a while. I’m going to sleep, I feel like I could sleep for days. Coming?”
Now, this was routine. It only ever happened after competitions. Yoongi let Jungkook sleep with him, a comfort that was only a few inches away. It helped with the nightmares of competitions past, of the parties that were held afterward.
Of being drugged out of his mind, helpless and vulnerable, nothing more than entertainment for party guests—the second-best male figure skater in South Korea, a party favor. It didn’t matter then that he had gotten second place, but sometimes he had let himself wonder if it would have been different had he won. Had Park Jimin finally messed up for once and actually gotten second.
At his exhausted nod, Yoongi unwound himself from Jungkook, lightly helping him to his feet and to his bedroom. They didn’t say anything as Jungkook collapsed on the unmade bed, letting Yoongi tug the covers up around his shoulders before sliding in on the other side. Jungkook faced away from him, as he always did.
And Jungkook let himself cry silently, like he always did.
-
Jimin dropped the Chanel bags on the ground the moment he stepped into his apartment, unsurprised to see that Taehyung was already waiting for him. His best friend had a key. Sometimes, Jimin regretted giving it to him.
Taehyung’s dog—Yeontan—rushed over to Jimin, jumping excitedly and making him laugh. He squatted down to pet the pomeranian, looking up at Taehyung after a moment. “If you’re here before me, you should at least make breakfast.”
Taehyung, who was sprawled out on the couch, glanced over the top of his phone at him. “I’ll do the dishes if you cook.”
“I’d rather clean up.”
“Want to order something?”
Jimin paused. “Definitely.”
Sighing, he picked up his skate bag, setting it on the counter and stretching his arms above his head. Then, the second bag came next, which was his favorite. Taehyung looked at it. “How much did you make last night?”
Jimin shrugged, unzipping it and looking down at the bills inside. “A lot.”
“As always.” Taehyung rolled his eyes. “How’s Hobi hyung?”
“He’s always flirting with that bartender. It’s a bit funny, how the other guy just brushes him off. Hoseok’s got a challenge, there.” Jimin sat down on the floor, dumping the bag out and beginning to go through the bills, placing them in stacks of five-hundred-thousand Won each. Yeah, last night had been a good night. “It’s really funny.”
“Is the bartender good-looking, at least?”
“He’s pretty. They all are. You know that,” Jimin said, off-handedly. “What are you ordering?”
“Haven’t decided. Hoseok’s usually good at that type of stuff. Does he make more than you?”
“Depends on the crowd. Last night, no. Night before, yes.”
Taehyung looked over at him, then the money on the floor. “Does it bother you?”
Jimin counted the money. Eight-million. A great night. “I won gold yesterday, and then made enough for two months of rent in a night. No, it doesn’t bother me.”
The other man laughed, shaking his head a bit. Dark curls fell into his eyes, but he brushed them away with long fingers, and continued on. “About that—what’s up with you and that kid?”
“What kid?”
“You know what kid, Jiminie. Jeon Jungkook, the one you were snapping at the other day. He seemed to be minding his business,” Taehyung said, continuing to scroll through his phone, presumably looking for food choices. Though, he could have really been looking at anything.
Jimin pinched his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. It was a bit sticky, reminding him that he needed to take his makeup off. Digging in his bag, he pulled out his makeup kit, fishing through it to find a cleanser. “He was being a bit of an asshole. What’s up with him, anyway? He’s kind of—I don’t know.” Jimin waved his hand in the air. “Weird. Loner-ish. You know what I mean. Like God, kid, wear some color .”
Taehyung dropped his phone onto his chest, eyes wide as he looked at Jimin as if he was insane. “Do you read anything ?”
“If it’s not about me, then no.”
Taehyung let out an incredulous laugh. “You’re such a narcissist.”
Jimin hated that word. They had always called him that. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t care about everyone in the world. He just said the wrong thing sometimes, was a bit insensitive sometimes, and didn’t keep up much with anything outside his little world.
Jeon Jungkook was not a part of his little world.
“Shut up. What?” Jimin snapped, beginning to wipe off his eye makeup. “What’s the big deal?”
Taehyung pushed his tongue into his cheek for a moment, shaking his head. “His former coach went to jail.”
“Lame. For what, tax fraud?” Jimin giggled, leaning back and throwing the now-dirty cotton at the trashcan.
“Abuse.”
Oh.
He slowly sat back forward, staring at his best friend. “Is that why everyone’s so obsessed with him?”
“I can’t believe you didn’t know any of this,” Taehyung said, sitting up on the couch and crossing his legs beneath him as he looked down at Jimin, who hadn’t moved off the floor. “It was huge. Reporters still won’t leave him alone about it, and he hasn’t said anything. No one even knows how the authorities found out.”
Sometimes, Jimin was able to stop himself from saying something rude. It wasn’t like he was able to really pick and choose, but this was one of those times. The word snitch burned on his tongue, but he managed to swallow it. That was more than insensitive, it was just false.
Jimin’s fingers toyed with the money on the floor, just looking for something to do. “He’s got a new coach now, though?”
“Yeah. The guy’s pretty nice, actually. Name’s Kim Namjoon.”
“How do you know all this shit?”
Taehyung huffed. “They did, like, a whole piece on the whole situation, something like a year ago. I might still have it, if you want to read it.”
“Why would I want to read it?” Jimin said, finally shoving off the floor and collecting the cotton that had missed the trash, tossing it inside. “It’s not about me.”
“‘Cause it might make you less of a dick when you talk to him.”
Jimin turned, feline eyes narrowing. “I don’t plan on talking to him.”
Taehyung whistled, calling Yeontan over and letting the dog jump up onto his lap. He messed with his brown fur, cooing at the animal with a smile on his face. “I’ll give it to you to read. You really should.”
Scoffing, Jimin tossed his head to the side. He wanted to end the conversation, didn’t want to know any more about Jeon Jungkook than he had to, but something was nagging at him. “It could have been domestic abuse. Or child abuse. What makes everyone think it was the kid?”
The other man paused playing with his pet. It was a bit quiet for a second as he tilted his head to the side. His voice was soft when he finally spoke. “They confiscated his skates. Just to make sure, I think.”
“And? They’re skates.”
Taehyung pet his dog slowly, the playfulness gone. “There was blood all over them. Like—a crazy amount. That was all they found, really, but—can you imagine being cut with your skate?”
Jimin glanced at the Chanel bag on the counter, trying to imagine it and finding that no, he really couldn’t.
-
Jimin sat on his bed, a glass of champagne in his hand. It was his off night, but he was still basically nocturnal, explaining the fact that he was perfectly awake at three in the morning. The television was bright in front of him, mounted on the wall across from his bed, but he couldn’t help his flickering gaze.
Taehyung had left the magazine on the edge of his bed that morning. Jimin turned his gaze back to the movie he was watching. And then his eyes found the magazine again.
“No,” he said, quaffing the rest of his glass. “Nope. Not happening.”
Pouring himself another glass, he toed the magazine off the bed, hearing it hit the floor. Out of sight, out of mind.
It was only five minutes or so before he was climbing off the bed and picking up the magazine, turning off the television as he stared at the cover. It was a paparazzi photo, one of Jeon Jungkook climbing out of a car. Just like at the rink the other day, he had that hat pulled low and mask high, hand gripping the strap of his bag.
Words were plastered over the cover of the magazine, and Jimin sighed loudly. “Fuck,” he hissed, opening the magazine. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to know.
He was a bit disappointed that it was a big fuss for nothing. Jungkook hadn’t spoken on it, so the journalists knew very little. All that it basically said was that the kid’s former coach was found guilty of abuse, that Jungkook had denied showing up to trial but they had enough to convict him anyway, and that he had decided to continue skating under a new coach.
There was a piece on the coach, though. Kim Namjoon, Taehyung had said. That was the interesting part, the part that had Jimin sitting up on his bed, drained flute sitting forgotten on the bedside table.
Because Kim Namjoon wasn’t new to this. He was rich as hell, and owned one of the rinks in Seoul. He had taken on Jungkook without question—it had been him that approached the kid, apparently, after his former student had retired.
His former student being the Kim Seokjin.
It was enough for Jimin to stare wide-eyed at the magazine, making sure he had read that right. Jungkook’s coach had also coached Jimin’s literal idol.
Jimin tossed the magazine aside. No wonder the kid was so fucking good. He was probably getting tips from the best male figure skater South Korea had ever seen, retired or not. Jimin dreamed of living up to what Kim Seokjin had done, wanted to one day beat the records he set.
His own coach was good, even though he wasn’t necessarily needed, but the two were—incomparable. Jungkook’s former coach had been good enough, or so Jimin thought. He’d watched the kid on the ice before, warming up, and had seen his insane discipline. Even Jimin didn’t have that—though, he’d always been a bit free with just about everything.
A sort of fire coursed through him, forcing him out of bed and into some real clothes. It was late, way after closing, but he had a key. Perks of being the best, he guessed.
Well, at least he was wide awake. Shoving his feet into his slippers, Jimin grabbed his bag off the counter and his keys off of the table next to the door. He had to practice.
He might have won, but he wasn’t so sure that Jeon Jungkook would lose next time.
-
“The combination’s good,” Namjoon said, gesturing for Jungkook to come closer. He skated over, bracing his hands on the edge of the rink as he panted, catching his breath. They’d already gone over his short program three times, and he hadn’t bobbled the salchow once. It had been a fluke at the preliminaries, and made him that much more infuriated with himself. “But there’s just something—missing.”
Jungkook’s heart sank into his stomach at that. “I can—I can do it again? Maybe my jumps were off, or—”
“No.” Namjoon shook his head, effectively cutting Jungkook off. “It’s not that. Everything was perfect, but—what do you think of? When you’re on the ice?”
“Not fucking up.” It was blunt, but it was the truth.
His coach chuckled. “Well, that surely should be part of it. Do you listen to the music?”
Jungkook chewed on his lip, trying to remember. “Only to keep time.”
“That’s it. Listen,” Namjoon said, messing with his hair a bit. “The reason Jimin is so good is because he’s there. He’s a part of it, like it’s all one thing. Him, the ice, the music, all of it. You’re just—thinking too hard.”
“He’s good because he’s just better,” Jungkook spat, finally catching his breath and pushing off the edge a bit. “It doesn’t matter if I feel the music or not. It’s not like it’s classical. Classical always wins.”
“Classical wins because he knows how to use it.” Namjoon had a point, and they both knew it. It was another month until the national championships. Jungkook had a month to learn how to beat Park Jimin, and he wasn’t going to do it by just feeling the fucking music. It was the highest level of bullshit. If he could get another quad, he could win. That was what he needed to practice.
Namjoon snapped, and Jungkook blinked at him, ready to listen. It was that obedience instilled so deep within him that forced him to be ready, to listen, to agree to try whatever his coach asked. Jungkook had never been great at saying ‘no,’ that was for sure.
“We’ve been here for two hours already. Get those skates off and we’ll go home, alright? We can talk it over another time.” Jungkook dipped his chin in a nod, taking the skate caps Namjoon handed him and fitting them onto his skates, before stepping off the rink. His coach checked his watch, then his phone. He paused for a moment, glancing up at Jungkook, visibly debating before he spoke.
“What?” Jungkook asked, eyes flickering nervously to his coach.
“Jin’s, well—he’s making dinner. He told me to invite you, if you’d like to join,” Namjoon said, gauging his reaction. “You can just go home, if you’d like, but I know your roommate is never home at this hour, so—yeah.” He shut himself up as Jungkook looked down at the floor.
“He’s cooking this late?” Jungkook asked quietly, trying to figure out the situation.
“Sometimes he just gets like this.” Namjoon shook his head. “I couldn’t tell you why, but it’s not like I’m going to turn down a good meal, you know?”
Jungkook thought it over. Namjoon was right—Yoongi was never home this early in the night, not when he was working. The thought of willingly going to his coach’s house was paralyzing, but he forced himself to remember how kind the two of them were, that this was different. He rolled his bottom lip into his mouth. “Just the three of us?”
“Just us,” Namjoon said firmly. “No one else. You can stay if you like, until the buses start, or until your roommate is off work, or one of us can take you home in the morning. If you decide to come, of course.”
They finally made it to the locker room, and Jungkook sat down on the bench as he undid the laces of his skates, pulling them off and stretching out his feet a bit. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I’ll go.”
“Really?” His coach seemed surprised, but managed to knock it off almost immediately. “I’ll tell Hyung you’re coming. Meet me at the car in five?” At Jungkook’s stiff nod, he left the locker room, already in the middle of raising the phone to his ear.
Jungkook thought he must have been insane. But, little by little, he had to get over this. It was just a meal, that was all. He had his phone, he had his earbuds, he could watch something until Yoongi showed up after his shift. It wouldn’t be too long. It was just a meal.
He told himself that, over and over, until they reached his coach’s place.
It was a nice house—sometimes, he forgot how much money Namjoon had—and was a thousand times better than his apartment. Grabbing his bag, he slid out of the car after his coach, shutting the door behind him and shaking himself off. It was fine.
Kim Seokjin was a retired figure skater. He was Namjoon’s former student. He was the best male figure skater South Korea had ever seen.
And, he was Namjoon’s boyfriend.
Jungkook never understood how he forgot what Seokjin was like. They didn’t see each other too often—when he said he was retired, he meant it—but Seokjin was so different from what Jungkook had thought he’d be that he always wondered how he forgot. He had assumed that the older man would be stoic, graceful, calm—everything he was on ice.
Yeah, absolutely not.
Jungkook still laughed, sometimes, when he remembered the first time they had met. God, he had almost fucking passed out from being starstruck, combined with Seokjin’s intensity. He’d gotten his name on the list of five pretty easily, though Jungkook was reluctant about it. Still, the retired skater had forced himself onto it, and Jungkook hadn’t found himself to care too deeply about it.
“Jungkook!” The older man sang as they stepped inside the house, rushing over to greet them. He tossed his arms around Jungkook for a minute, before untangling himself and giving Namjoon a peck on the cheek. Grinning, he turned back to the younger. “It’s been so long. Too long. Come over more often, hm?”
Stiffly, Jungkook nodded, looking for a place to set down his duffel. Seokjin held a hand out, offering to take it for him. When he handed it over, albeit a bit reluctantly, Seokjin smiled, ruffling his hair a little. “You two go sit. I’ll be done in a minute.”
“Isn’t a bit late for dinner?” Jungkook asked, more than a bit curious.
The other man waved a finger at him. “Start practicing earlier, then come criticize me. Until then, sit and eat, Jeon Jungkook. You look like you’re starving yourself.” He spun on his heel, moving into the kitchen with Jungkook’s bag. “Three plates!” He called to them, making Namjoon roll his eyes. “I want you to eat three plates, Jungkook, I don’t care if it kills you!”
Jungkook still wasn’t sure that this man was truly the same man that held most—if not all—of the male figure skating records in South Korea. Still, he found himself smiling down at his feet, and followed his coach to the table without another word.