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a-new-superhero · 2 months

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Fall From The Stars (Straight Into Your Arms) (One-Shot)

Summary: Maybe it should have been obvious to Jimin, after so many years.

Maybe, after so many years, it sometimes was, if he let himself think about it, let himself believe.

Sometimes, Jungkook would look at him in such a way that Jimin would feel himself falling falling falling. In love, in lust, into the galaxies in his eyes.

Pairing: Jungkook x Jimin

Warnings: Canon compliant, coming out, mentions of homophobia, mild self-loathing

Word Count: 4,322

Masterlist || AO3

Author’s Note: Well, hi there! It's been a while (note to self: when all of your author's notes start that way, you definitely spend more time procrastinating than writing...). I have been trying to work on the first proper chapter of Shattered for months now, but writer's block is actually real, I swear, and it's just not coming easy to me right now.

This, however, came out of nowhere. I wrote it in about two hours yesterday evening, and I'm not even sure if I like it or if it's any good, but I have had A Day and so, I figure, fuck it! Let's actually get some work posted. What's the harm?

So, have some unplanned slightly angsty, awkward Jikook circa 2015ish. Enjoy!

P.S. The title is from the song Stars by Simply Red. The song itself isn't at all relevant to this little one-shot really, but the title fit too well to not use it.

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Maybe it should have been obvious to Jimin, after so many years.

Maybe, after so many years, it sometimes was, if he let himself think about it, let himself believe.

Sometimes, Jungkook would look at him in such a way that Jimin would feel himself falling falling falling. In love, in lust, into the galaxies in his eyes. And he'd sometimes think - sometimes wonder - whether Jungkook was perhaps falling too. It made him feel a little better to believe, just for a moment, that he wasn't falling alone without a parachute, without a hand to hold or the promise of a safe landing, lost lost lost in those starry eyes. Maybe he and Jungkook were freefalling together. Maybe they were floating, weightless. Maybe.

But then he'd watch the easy way that the younger would laugh with Jin, the way he'd wrap a nonchalant arm around Taehyung's shoulders or fall asleep curled up to Hobi on the couch, and he'd remember the hesitance that painted the maknae's face the last time he'd made physical contact with Jimin, just a tentative hand at the top of his arm, and he'd convince himself that it was all in his head, those looks, the notion of the two of them riding an air current, defying gravity, reaching reaching - always reaching, for each other or for a future they couldn't help but hope for.

“He's just a kid,” Yoongi would assure him, on the rare occasion when Jimin would whisper his confusion to him in the deep dark of night, two hushed voices frighteningly loud in the sleepy silence of the dorm. “He's awkward. He doesn't know what he's doing yet. It's how it's supposed to be.”

“But he won't even…” Jimin would tail off, searching his drowsy, overworked brain for the right way to explain. “It's like I disgust him. Like he knows what I am, how I am, what I feel, and he hates it. Maybe he hates me.”

“How could anyone?” Yoongi would murmur, so nice, so kind when there was no one else awake to witness it. “Jimin-ah, don't you remember what it was like? How you'd fumble around your crushes when you were still trying to figure shit out?”

“Well, yeah, but…”

“But?”

“But I was never friends with them. I didn't live with them, work with them, spend every second with them. This is- It's different.”

“Yeah, it's different.” Yoongi would fidget, all sharp angles and long limbs against Jimin's firm muscles and soft curves. “He's having to do all of this with everyone watching, with a camera in his face the whole damn time. Of course he's gonna be self-conscious, second guess himself. It's not like this is the most accepting industry.”

“I know, but…”

“He's scared, Jimin-ah. Give him time.”

And he knows. That’s the thing. Jimin knows Yoongi’s right. Jungkook is scared. They’re all scared: of failure; of success; of being seen; of their secrets being torn from their chests and held bare beneath the spotlight for inspection. He and Yoongi most of all, he thinks. They’re the ones with the most to hide, after all, the ones who know who they are and what they want, but couldn’t ever dare admit it for fear of losing it all, everything they’ve been running towards.

Fame is fickle, but the team is a family, and neither one of them could stand to let their family down.

But Jungkook…

He’s brave, Jimin thinks. So shy, so afraid with his bitten-red lips and bambi eyes, staring staring, always staring, as if he can’t quite believe he’s there, in the midst of the show, in the centre of the stage, on the covers of the magazines. But he’s still there, standing in the middle of their line-up, glaring defiantly at the cameras even as his cheeks flush pink at the attention. He’s still belting out his high notes and hitting every beat as they perform their hearts out, desperate, so desperate to be accepted, to be loved.

He’s brave because he fears but does it anyway, chases his dreams, and so, maybe, if he’s not chasing Jimin, it’s because Jimin isn’t one of them. Maybe Jimin is just another brother to him. Maybe everything else, anything else, only exists in Jimin’s imagination.

Maybe.

***

It’s late. He should really be back at the dorm, Jimin knows, trying to get some rest before another day of schedules - interviews and pre-recordings and practice practice practice. He should be tucked up in his bunk, catching up on the sleep that his body desperately needs, but his mind refuses to switch off, stuck in a loop of Jungkook Jungkook Jungkook and it’s enough to drive anybody mad. But Jimin… Jimin is exhausted. He’s drained physically, emotionally, mentally. And he’s almost certain that his mind’s refusal to stray from the youngest of their team might actually send him spiralling into insanity if he gives himself over to it, and so he’d dragged himself up and out, and now he’s here: in the gym, skin glistening with sweat under the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights.

He can see himself in the mirror as he runs, feet pounding against the treadmill, eating up the miles as he wrinkles his nose and tries not to hate the way the bright copper of his hair makes him look paler, the way his tiredness paints dark circles beneath his eyes and makes them droop, the way no amount of hard work and no strict a diet seems to lessen the roundness of his cheeks. He never used to judge himself so harshly, he knows, but it’s different now. Everything is different now, with so many eyes watching him, assessing him and finding him wanting, always wanting. He’s not a boy anymore, not a man either. He’s an idol and that means he has to be perfect. There’s so much about himself that he can’t change, but his body, his hair, his features… They’re fair game, so much that can be done with exercise and dyes and wax and make-up. He can at least strive for physical perfection even if he so often falls short.

What’s beneath… He understands by now that there’s no changing that. God knows he’d wasted enough years trying. There’s no make-up that can change how a body yearns, how a heart loves; no exercise that can train his gaze to submit to the teasing swish of a short skirt around full thighs rather than the taut flex of muscle under skin; no dyes that can colour him anything other than what he is. He just has to trust that, if he can work a little harder, if he can get as close to perfect on the outside as possible, that it might be enough of a distraction that nobody will care to look any deeper. Maybe.

The soft sweep of the automatic doors sliding open at the other end of the room tears Jimin from his cutting inspection of his own reflection, and he snaps his head to the left to see who has intruded on his late-night workout, only to find himself gulping nervously when Jungkook shuffles in. He’d been sleeping when Jimin left, he was certain of it, but now he’s here in the gym, soft brunette locks pillow-tousled and broad shoulders looking smaller somehow in his oversized tracksuit, though, of course, he’s bigger than Jimin. Has been for some time.

“What are you doing up?” Jimin asks - hates that his curiosity sounds so accusatory when he didn’t mean anything by it, except perhaps, ‘Why aren’t you sleeping?’ or ‘Are you okay?’; hates that Jungkook’s mouth curves down into a frown.

“I woke up and you were gone,” is his only explanation, as if that’s enough of a reason to be leaning casually against the weights machine at 2am, watching as Jimin slows the treadmill he’s using to a brisk walking pace.

Jimin says nothing. The silence between them feels stilted, awkward, and he hates that too; hates so much about himself and this and the whole situation that he’s scared he might scream it out into the void between them if he dares to open his mouth. So he doesn’t, turning back to the mirror and continuing to march on the spot, letting the whirr of the machine and the steady thump of his pulse drown out the stifled sound of his loathing.

“Why’d you leave, hyung?” Jungkook is moving closer, seemingly unwilling to let himself be deterred by Jimin’s determination to ignore him, and Jimin wishes he wouldn’t because when he’s standing right in front of him he can see the creases in his cheek where it had been squashed against his pillow and those damn galaxies in his eyes, stars on stars on endless stars. He feels winded all of a sudden, as if he can’t draw in a deep enough breath, and he slows the treadmill to a stop, leaning heavily on the handrails as he pants.

Jungkook watches him. Waits. He keeps waiting as Jimin leans down and grabs his water bottle, popping the cap and taking a sip, letting the cool liquid soothe the fire that’s burning in his veins. Finally he shakes his head, raising one hand to wipe away the sweat that’s beading on his brow. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“But you’re exhausted. We all are.”

Jimin nods, waits for Jungkook to say something more, to ask him why or if he can help at all because he’s like that, would do anything for his hyungs, but instead it’s Jungkook’s turn to stay silent and he just watches watches watches as Jimin finds himself falling once more.

“Spot me?” Jimin asks, but it’s not really a question. It’s a demand or perhaps a plea for help, a way to drag himself out of the starry depths he’s losing himself in and ground him. The padding of the bench gives a little beneath the press of his spine when he sits down and lays back, but it’s still firm enough, still solid, still real. He’s not floating. He’s not falling. He’s here, and the cool metal of the barbell is bliss beneath his sweaty palms, the weights either end forcing him down down down towards the earth, exerting his muscles and it feels good. It feels like something other than weightlessness, so he’ll take it, enjoy it while he can.

But perhaps he didn’t think it through all the way because, of course, Jungkook is spotting him, and that means he’s watching Jimin intently, gauging his abilities, his comfort, how much more he can take. His bottom lip has disappeared between his teeth as he watches - he’s always watching, waiting - and Jimin has to close his eyes because he can’t breathe again and how can he work out when he can’t get enough air into his lungs? He can’t. He can’t and now his arms are shaking with the strain, his biceps aching, failing, and he’s sure he’s going to drop the bar, crush his ribs beneath its weight, until he blinks and it’s gone and he’s floating again with nothing to weigh him down. Or perhaps he’s falling. He’s not sure he can even tell anymore when Jungkook hovers over him, concern pinching his brow.

“Hyung, are you okay?” he asks, slightly panicked, his voice an octave higher than usual. “What happened?”

“Must’ve overdone it.” Jimin can hear the words leaving his mouth but he can’t quite remember forming them. Jungkook’s hair is falling into his eyes, starlight shining through leaf-laden boughs and dappling Jimin’s skin, and all he can think is pretty pretty, he’s so damn pretty, and Jimin just… He wants to touch. His arm lifts on its own before his mind catches up with his urges, and his fingertips are almost there, almost close enough to brush against Jungkook’s cheek, trace his scar - pretty, so pretty. He can feel the warmth emanating from the other boy and he wants wants wants.

If he thought falling was painful, lonely and endless, then crash landing, Jimin finds, is excruciating. Jungkook flinches at the close proximity, and just like that he’s plummeting back down to earth and the impact hurts. It’s jarring. He yanks his hand back like he’s been burned and maybe he has because his eyes are burning too, his vision blurring and no… No, he can’t cry, won’t cry, not in front of Jungkook, not like this. He won't cry and he pushes himself up from the bench to hide the telltale puffiness of his lids and reddened face, wiping away the threat of tears as if they were just more beads of perspiration.

There's silence behind him for several long moments, and then movement, footsteps, the brush of fabric and the creak of the bench under new weight.

“Spot me now, hyung.”

It doesn't make sense. That's Jimin's first reaction and his second and his third, because Jungkook just watched his arms almost give out, had to save Jimin from weeks of pain and bruising by plucking the barbell from his grasp just as his strength was about to fail him, so why on earth would he trust Jimin to spot him now? But his fourth reaction is, of course, to do as the other boy asks, because when could he ever say no to Jungkook after all, and he turns and takes up his position at the maknae's head.

He watches, swallowing hard when Jungkook’s hands wrap around the metal where his own had just been, wonders if he can still feel traces of Jimin's body heat beneath his fingers. Jungkook adjusts his position, shifting on the bench, and then he lifts and Jimin can see the tendons in his neck strain as he bears the weight.

“Hyung, can I ask you something?” He's barely done a rep when he starts talking, starry eyes fixed somewhere far above them.

“Just focus on lifting, Kook-ah,” Jimin tells him, but the younger just grits his teeth, lowering the bar almost to his chest before heaving it towards the ceiling once again. He used to be such a scrawny kid, Jimin thinks, cute but lanky, like a string bean. Not anymore. He's growing up, his body changing, broadening, and it suits him. It suits him far too well.

“I wanted to ask…” A pause, another rep, and then, “Jin-hyung said I should just ask. I was talking to him about it but,” - another rep - “well, he couldn't really help me.”

“Help you with what?”

Jungkook looks more at ease now that he's into the rhythm of his lifts, or perhaps he's just too distracted by the conversation to notice the strain anymore. Perhaps he's showing off, just a little, after Jimin's pathetic attempt. “With… Well, the thing is…”

“Spit it out, Jungkook-ah.” Jimin forces back a wince at the bite to his tone, but he’s growing agitated, his mind filled once again with Jungkook Jungkook Jungkook when the whole point of coming here was to drive those thoughts away.

“Hyung…” Jungkook sucks in a deep breath, and Jimin notices a tremble in his hands, so slight he may have missed it had he not been focusing so intently. “Hyung, do you like boys?”

Jimin's first instinct is to laugh. He's not entirely sure why - habit, perhaps, or hysteria. He feels the corners of his mouth twitch, air escaping from his nose in a soft huff of amusement, but then Jungkook's gaze settles on him, seemingly studying him upside down, and Jimin is sure he can see right through him, right down to his heart and soul, so what's the point really? And, more than that, what's the harm? He can trust Jungkook, he's sure of it.

“Why'd you ask?” Jimin hedges, buying himself a little time to think - he just needs to think - and Jungkook is still watching him, his joints locked with his arms extended and the weights raised above him.

“Jin-hyung… He said he thought you might; thought Yoongi-hyung might too. But he wasn't sure. And I just wanted to be sure.”

“But why?” There's that tremor again in Jungkook's hands, and this time Jimin reaches out, takes the barbell from him and sets it back down, anything to distract himself from that look in Jungkook's eyes. He doesn't know that look, can't read it, and it's setting him on edge.

Jungkook sighs, long and heavy, as if, now that Jimin's taken the weight from him, he's left with the weight of the world bearing down on him instead. He looks small in that moment, shoulders hunched, and Jimin's reminded of the boy he used to be, so cute and so so lost. “Because I do,” he says and he's almost whispering but it sounds loud, so loud, in the empty gym. “I think I do and I just need to know I'm not alone.”

Jimin is silent. He's not watching this time though, or waiting. He's reeling. Because he'd thought and he'd hoped, and he'd wondered if maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see, despite Yoongi thinking so too and agreeing and being absolutely certain. And he trusted Yoongi’s judgement above all else, he really did, but he hadn't quite let himself trust his hyung this time because if he'd been wrong… If he'd been wrong…

But he wasn't wrong and now Jungkook is looking at Jimin, galaxies swirling with equal parts hope and terror and Jimin's mouth won't work and so all he can do is sink down beside the younger boy on the bench and hope that their arms pressing together provides some level of comfort.

The silence is suffocating. Jimin wants to break it, wants to reassure Jungkook and confess to him and wrap his larger frame up in his arms and tell him that he's there for him and that it's all going to be okay, but he's worried - that it might be too much all at once and he's not sure he knows how to be anything but too much right now. So, instead, he clears his throat and asks, “Why me?”

“M’sorry?” Jungkook mumbles, shooting Jimin a sideways glance full of confusion.

“Why are you talking to me? Why not Yoongi-hyung?”

Jungkook thinks for a moment, then shrugs, shakes his head, sighs again. “You didn't answer the question,” he points out, a slight challenge to his tone. “Answer my question first, and then maybe I'll answer yours.”

The gym floor is linoleum, yellowing, with small cracks criss-crossing the expanse and faded patches beside each machine where hundreds of feet have worn it away over the years. If Jimin squints, he's sure that he can make out words in some of the marks, just like he would make out shapes in the clouds on a summer's day. His sneaker leaves a black scuff mark behind when he drags it over the aged surface with a high-pitched squeak.

“Yes,” he says, when the moment has dragged on too long and he realises he has no choice but to be honest, because he wants to hear what Jungkook has to say, needs to hear it like he needs oxygen in his lungs. “Yes, I like boys.”

“You never told any of us?”

“Didn't come up,” Jimin explains with a shrug, though he knows there have been ample opportunities should he have wanted to take them. “Yoongi-hyung knows. Only Yoongi-hyung. I'm sure some of the others think… I mean, obviously Jin-hyung does. But I've never actually… I mean, it's hard, y’know? You never know how people are gonna react.”

“Idols can't be gay,” Jungkook states, matter of fact despite the fact that Jimin's sure the conflict is tearing him in two. It certainly had Jimin. He isn't sure he'd have managed to put the pieces back together, make them somehow fit without Yoongi's wisdom. Sometimes he forgets that his hyung is only 2 years older than him because he just deals, he copes and he doesn't falter, and Jimin has needed that more than anything else as he's come to terms with himself and tried to reconcile his heart and his dreams. He hopes that Jin has managed to do that for Jungkook, at least a little, but he's not sure it's possible for anybody who hasn't been through the struggle to really understand.

He looks at Jungkook now, huddled in his too-big sweatshirt, wide eyes fixed on his fingers as he twists them together, and his heart bleeds and bleeds and bleeds.

“Your turn,” Jimin says, clearing his throat when his voice comes out a little thick, a little too full to the brim with raw emotion. He hopes that Jungkook won't notice.

Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. Maybe he's too caught up in his own thoughts, his own insecurities, to register it. His lips are chapped and red, moving wordlessly as if he's running lines inside his head, and Jimin wants to rub the pad of his thumb over the bottom one, soothe the sting that he knows all too well comes from gnawing on it endlessly. He tucks his hands beneath his thighs in case his urges should take over again, doesn't want to make Jungkook uncomfortable - more uncomfortable.

Jungkook stays silent, his mouth stilling, eyes hazy and unfocused as he continues to gaze down at his hands, and Jimin's about to tell him it doesn't matter, that he doesn't need an answer, even though he does. He needs needs needs so badly, but he also cares, and he doesn't want to pressure Jungkook when this has already been so hard for him, so intense. And then the younger boy speaks, his voice so quiet that Jimin has to strain to hear him.

“I- I wanted to talk to you. I thought about going to Yoongi-hyung, thought he'd be… I don't know… More practical about it. Better at giving advice maybe?” He pauses, shrugs. “But then I realised I don't… I don't really care if Yoongi-hyung’s gay. It doesn't matter to me whether or not he likes boys, or whether he likes girls or both. I don't… I don't think I need to know.”

A lump has formed in Jimin's throat and he can't swallow it down, can't shift it, can't speak. He's not sure he wants to speak, feels like he should, but what if this isn't what he thinks it is, what he hopes it might be? What if he's wrong and he says the wrong thing and it goes wrong wrong wrong? He couldn't stand it, couldn't…

But Jungkook's still talking, still not looking at Jimin and Jimin just needs to see the stars.

“I wanted to talk to you, hyung. I realised that… that it bugs me that I don't know who you like. I don't know why but it does. Jin-hyung said he thought you were, and it put the idea in my head, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. I just… I just know that it matters to me if you're gay. I needed to know.”

“And now you do,” Jimin rasps because he's found his voice, finally, but that lump in his throat is still there. “Now you know.”

“Now I know.” Jungkook nods slowly, taking it in, and then he turns to Jimin, meets his gaze and Jimin almost whimpers. Because he can see the stars now, those galaxies that he finds it so easy to get lost in, and they're on fire, blazing bright, endless and beautiful and burning burning burning. Jimin’s cheeks are burning too, set aflame by the intensity in Jungkook's eyes, and he knows he's falling, a meteor hurtling through space, on course for collision and eruption and heat heat heat. “I'm not…” Jungkook starts, stops, tries again. “This is new. I can't… I'm not ready to-”

“It's okay,” Jimin cuts him off, surprised by how steady he sounds, how sure. “You don't have to be. We've got time.”

Jungkook nods again and Jimin swallows hard, finally letting his urges take over again as he frees one of his hands and lets it cover Jungkook's, tangling their fingers together and staring in fascination at how the younger’s fingers seem to dwarf his own.

“I'm scared,” Jungkook whispers.

“You're brave,” Jimin whispers back, and Jungkook squeezes his hand, bringing their palms together. Warm, Jimin thinks. Warm warm warm. Warm hands, warm smile, warm heart. Everything about this boy is warm, but the fire in his eyes is blazing hot.

***

Maybe it should have been obvious to Jimin, after so many years.

Maybe, after so many years, it sometimes was, if he let himself think about it, let himself believe.

Now though, he knows. Jimin is falling, hard and fast and endless, hurtling through space. But he isn't afraid. He is in awe. Because he’s amongst the stars, so high above the ground and surrounded by so much beauty, raw and timeless and hot hot hot. And maybe, just maybe, the stars are falling too - into him, around him, for him, constellations collapsing and being born again, starting anew but always beautiful, always brilliant, shooting across a vast black sky and painting pictures against the mundanity. Jimin thinks, if he squints, he can make out a vision of the future in the patterns they paint, just like he would make out shapes in the clouds on a summer's day. Two figures shifting and dancing and together together, always together. Collapsing and being born again, starting anew but always beautiful, always brilliant.

And he thinks, maybe, that's exactly what the future has in store for him, for Jungkook too, the both of them, together.

It's too early to say, but maybe.

Just maybe.

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