Chapter Text
* * *
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Yoongi asks doubtfully.
“Just stay still,” Jungkook says from behind him. “The more you move, the more I’ll make a mistake.” He leans forward to talk to his son face-to-face. “You do want to keep both ears, don’t you?“ he chuckles.
Yoongi frowns at his father’s teasing. Sitting on a stool at their kitchen counter, he looks like he’s been sentenced to prison. Meanwhile, Jungkook busies himself with preventive clean-up, patting sheets of newspaper into place underneath the stool.
“You ready to look the absolute best you’ve ever looked in your life?” Jungkook asks.
Yoongi suspects that the outcome will be very different from what his father envisions, but he nods nevertheless.
For the next few minutes, the snip, snip, snip of Jungkook’s scissors is the only sound in the kitchen.
It’s a few more minutes later when Yoongi realizes that the kitchen has been quiet for longer than it’s supposed to be.
“Dad, you’re too quiet back there,” he says worriedly. “What’s happening?”
His father pops up in front of him like a jack-in-a box. “Nothing I can’t fix with a couple more snips,” Jungkook says brightly, brandishing the scissors.
Yoongi is doubtful. The expression on his father’s face is very similar to the one he had when he almost burned the apartment down from trying to make, in his own words, “the pancake that the Guinness Book of World Records thought would never happen.”
“I feel like my hair is heavier on this side,” he says. He looks at his father, who is standing in front of him with an embarrassed and suspiciously guilty look on his face. He reaches up to touch his hair and finds that an alarming amount of it has disappeared.
“I want to see it. Can you get me a mirror, please?” Yoongi asks calmly.
Jungkook continues to stand still, looking at Yoongi with eyes narrowed as if trying to figure out how to fix the mistake he doesn’t want to reveal to his son just yet.
He’s still standing there, tapping the scissors absently against his palm, when Yoongi slides down from the stool, running to the bathroom in his socked feet.
“Hey!” Jungkook protests, caught off-guard by his son’s surprise move. “No run-“
He hears the slam of the bathroom door and the click of the lock.
He sighs and waits for the screaming to begin.
* * *
Jungkook hears Yoongi’s footsteps a few moments later - the footsteps of a small person with the weight of the world on his small shoulders. Yoongi steps in the kitchen a few moments later. He fixes Jungkook with a dismayed look.
“Dad.”
Jungkook winces at the stern expression on his son’s face. “It needs a bit of fixing, but - “
“Dad.”
“Just get back on the chair, Yoongi. I’m sure I can fix it,” Jungkook tries again.
“Dad, you had the scissors for less than three minutes, and ‘this’” - Yoongi jabbed the side of his head repeatedly - “happened. Can’t we go a barber shop? Namjoon got his haircut at a barber shop. He said, you should leave jobs like this to a perfe - prefer -“
“Professional?” Jungkook supplies wryly. “In case you forgot, I AM a professional,” he protests.
“Not at cutting hair!” Yoongi wails.
Jungkook wants to laugh at the situation unfolding in their kitchen at 7:42 in the evening, but the anguish on Yoongi’s face tells him that that would be a bad idea. His son is a miniature buddha, composed and hardly ever ruffled, so he knows that Yoongi’s meltdown elevates this to a Level 5 situation.
Yoongi clambers back up the stool, sits down and puts his hands on his father’s shoulders, willing his father to look him straight in the eye. “I need a haircut, Dad. A real one. If I go to school tomorrow with long hair, Mrs. Baek is going to send me to the principal’s office.”
Jungkook knows when he’s beaten. He can cook, sing, take photographs, paint, box, and play sports. But for the life of him, he can’t cut hair, and there’s no time to learn tonight.
He grabs his keys off the counter and opens their coat closet, handing Yoongi his jacket and grabbing his own.
“The closest place is the salon on the corner,” he tells Yoongi as he ushers him out into the hallway, reaching back into the apartment entryway to turn off the lights.
Yoongi nods solemnly.
Jacket on and lights off, Jungkook turns to his son.
“We’re going to a professional now, but promise me you won’t tell Grandma and Grandpa about this.”
“What are you putting on the table?” Yoongi counters.
“Hot chocolate when we get back.”
“You were gonna make me hot chocolate, anyway,” his son objects. “This has to be special.”
Jungkook sweetens the pot with something he knows Yoongi can’t resist. “I’ll throw in 20 minutes for comics before bedtime.”
Yoongi grasps his father’s large, warm hand in his and gives it a firm shake. “Deal.”
* * *
Taehyung and his boss/friend/friendly boss Jin are standing outside Mori, having an impassioned debate on the gastrointestinal pitfalls of having sushi for dinner on a Wednesday when the restaurant gets its fresh fish delivered on Saturdays. Their last appointment, a cut and blow-dry, left 15 minutes ago, and after giving the floor a quick sweep and locking the trolleys of equipment in the staff room, they emerge from the salon and out into the busy street, eager to go someplace warm and dig into a hot dinner.
Taehyung jumps up and down in the cold, huddling his coat around his body for warmth. Eager to get moving, he raps on the glass and yells to the person still inside, “Hurry up! It’s fucking freezing!”
He turns back around to see a man and a young boy walking up to the salon hand in hand. The man puts a hand on the door, about to push it in, but Taehyung stops him with an apologetic, “Sorry, we’re closed.” He points at the words stenciled on the door: Salon Hours: Monday to Friday, 10 A.M. to 8 P.M.
“It’s just a few minutes after 8 o’clock,” the man says rather desperately. “My son just needs a haircut. I’ll pay extra,” he pleads with Jin, who doesn’t look like he’s inclined to give in.
In the brightness of passing cars, shop windows, and street lights, Taehyung gets a good look at the pair.
The man has long, wavy hair tucked behind his right ear; the sleeves of his leather jacket curve impressively around his biceps. His face is startlingly handsome, with large eyes and a strong nose. He looks young; if he hadn’t mentioned that the boy with him was his son, Taehyung would have made them out to be brothers. He’s not into guys, but he can definitely appreciate that the human standing before him is a magnificent specimen of a man.
“You’re asking the wrong person,” Jin replies. “I don’t do hair,” he says. “Jimin does.”
“Jimin? Is he still here?” asks Jungkook, trying to peer through the window. The lights turn off one by one as he does, and soon the salon is in complete darkness.
The door swings open then, and a man - presumably, Jimin who does hair - steps out.
Except it’s not just a man, and he doesn’t just step out of the salon. Compact, slighter in build than Jungkook, he seems to glide down the salon steps and onto the pavement. His His cream leather jacket fits easily across his shoulders, and his black jeans stretch around taut, full muscle. Unaware that people are standing so close to the door, he almost collides with Jungkook, but rights himself just in time.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” he apologizes, voice pleasantly low.
He realizes that the man isn’t alone, but has a little boy with him. Attraction flares almost instantly when he catches a glimpse of the man’s face; however, another feeling blooms alongside it when he spies the little boy standing so solemnly beside him. They’re dressed like mirror images of each other - white shirt, jeans, and black leather jacket - except the boy is wearing an oversized flannel button down over his white shirt.
The sight of the two stirs a feeling of tenderness within him that Jimin doesn’t understand, and for a brief moment, he feels envious of the wife and mother who gets to welcome them home. He shakes himself out of his thoughts to find the man staring at him, and the boy staring at the man in turn.
Now that the boy has turned his head, Jimin can guess the reason they’re standing in front of a salon at eight in the evening; the boy’s hair is obviously uneven, with too much hair taken from the left side and the back shaped something like a square and a rectangle that had been glued together.
Taehyung watches the progression of expressions flit across Jimin and Jungkook’s faces with amusement, and he lets a few more seconds elapse before he interrupts the staring match.
“Jimin, this man has a very important question for you.”
Jimin adjusts the strap of his black fringed bag and looks at Jungkook expectantly.
“Are you single? Or what time you get off on Friday, maybe,” Tauhyung says sotto voce, snickering.
Jimin’s cheeks color. Taehyung knows his type.
He glares at Taehyung, then looks at Jungkook again. “What’s going on?”
Jungkook doesn’t want to admit to this mortal god that he’s shit at cutting hair, but there’s nothing for it.
“My son really needs to get his hair cut tonight. I -“ He shrugs helplessly. “Can you fix it, please?”
Jimin is silent for a few beats, looking at the boy. He stares back, unblinking.
“Please, he really needs one,” Jungkook begs. He gestures at Yoongi. “Look at him.”
“What happened?” Jimin asks. He glances at Jungkook. “Ah.“ A knowing smile creeps across his face. “Judging from the guilty look on your face, I think it was a “who”, not a “what.”
Jungkook rubs his nape sheepishly. “I tried to give him a haircut, but - “
“It’s not your skill set," Jimin finishes, looking amused. “Fine,” he agrees, finally. “I can’t let him be punished for something that’s not his fault, can I?”
“Thank you so much,” Jungkook says, almost falling over in relief. “It won’t take long, I promise. He doesn’t have a lot of hair.”
“Not anymore, he doesn’t. You took care of that.”
Jungkook flushes, embarrassed at having his mistake poked fun at. But he looks at Jimin to find him smiling fondly, as if the haircut debacle is something both of them should be laughing over.
“Jimin, you’ve saved the day,” says Jin. “Tae and I are going to head out for dinner; join us when you’re done. You’ll lock up?” he asks without waiting for an answer, tossing Jimin the keys.
Jimin nods, pushing open the door and flicking on a couple of switches from the panel behind the reception desk. Yoongi follows him with Jungkook’s hand on his shoulder, the door swinging shut behind them with a click.
“Take the second seat,” he tells Yoongi. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
He disappears behind a door marked “Employees Only,” leaving Jungkook and Yoongi standing next to a wall of mirrors fronted by a row of chairs.
Jimin reappears a few minutes later, wheeling in a steel trolley of tools. He gently fits a sanex strip around Yoongi’s neck before fastening the salon’s pink hair cloth around his shoulders.
“So,” he begins conversationally as he spritzes Yoongi’s hair with water from a plastic spray bottle, “what’s so urgent about this haircut that you had to DIY it?”
Jungkook laughs. Reassured by Jimin’s smile, he finds it easier than expected to answer the question.
“It was the first day of school yesterday, and Yoongi came home with a letter from the school. It said students aren’t allowed to wear their hair this long.”
It’s the remembrance of this injustice that spurs Yoongi, who hasn’t said a word since they arrived at the salon, to speech.
“Just the boys, Dad,” he says. “Not all the students - just the boys! It’s so unfair! The girls can have short hair, but the boys can’t have long hair. Hyemin - from my class last year - went to school yesterday with short hair, and she didn’t even get a letter.”
Jimin and Jungkook meet eyes in the mirror, covertly sharing a smile over Yoongi’s indignation.
He continues, “It’s MY hair, and it’s growing on MY head. Why can’t I choose how long I want it to be? I don’t tell anyone how long THEIR hair should be.” He frowns, slouching lower in the chair.
“That’s a fair point,” agrees Jimin, as he puts the scissors down. He steps back, surveying Yoongi’s hair, before stepping closer for a final snip, touching Yoongi on the shoulders gently to get him to straighten up.
Haircut done, he pulls his trolley closer and begins unwinding the cord from around the handle of the hair dryer.
Plugging it in, he asks, “So what would happen if you were to go to school tomorrow with long hair?” He’s gentle with Yoongi, brushing his hair with care, treating him like something precious.
“My teacher will send me to the principal’s office,” Yoongi replies.
“Just for having long hair?”
“Uh-huh,” Yoongi nods bitterly. Jimin ruffles his hair as a gesture of comfort, sensing correctly that it wasn’t the hair the boy was upset about, but the unfairness of being left without a choice.
“That’s not fair at all,” he says in solidarity. “What does hair have to do with it? When I was your age, the smartest kid in my class had long hair. He was a great student - the best. Did all his homework - helped all the teachers, too.”
“Sounds like Yoongi,” Jungkook smiles. “ Top of his class.”
“Your name’s Yoongi? Means shine, right?” Jimin asks with a soft smile.
Yoongi nods.
“The smart kid in your class, what was his name?” he asks shyly.
Jimin pushes his blond hair off his forehead and grins. “Jimin.”
He laughs, and Jungkook joins him. From his seat, even Yoongi smiles.
The soft, warm whir of the hair dryer lends a comforting, almost domestic atmosphere to the scene, and Jungkook gets lost in watching Jimin tend to his son.
A few more minutes lapse, and Jimin finally lays the hair dryer back in the trolley.
“All done,” he says. The words are spoken so softly that Jungkook doesn’t even hear them, and only realizes that the haircut is over when Jimin begins to unfasten the hair cloth from Yoongi’s shoulders.
Jungkook gets up, surprised that he feels put out about having to leave.
He can’t quite put his finger on it, but he feels - sad? Disappointed? - that Jimin completed the task so quickly and that the little moment among the three of them has come to an end. In those few minutes, watching Jimin cut Yoongi’s hair so carefully and listen to what he had to say without being dismissive or patronizing, biting back smiles with Jimin as Yoongi vented his frustration, he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time - that intimate conspiratorial alliance between two people who are raising a child together.
Snap out of it, he tells himself. He gave your son a haircut, that’s all. There’s nothing there.
“What do we owe you?” He asks, taking a worn black billfold from his back pocket. There’s an Iron Man sticker on it, the edges discolored. Yoongi had stuck it on his billfold when he was just three, confident that Iron Man would protect Jungkook from “ouchies and bad guys.”
“It’s on the house.”
“I insist.” Jungkook is persistent, waiting patiently for Jimin to name a figure. “We’ve already kept you past your usual time; we can’t leave without paying, too.”
“I wouldn’t even know how much to charge,” Jimin says, busying himself with putting away his tools to keep from having to look at Jungkook again. The spark of attraction when he had first seen Jungkook has gathered heat, burning even brighter as the three of them sat together in the salon; when he teased Jungkook and listened to Yoongi, while talking with them, he felt an unfamiliar sensation of belonging - that the three of them belonged together. The short encounter had warmed him, and now he is loath to give it up. He slides his scissors into a small vat of disinfecting solution and winds the cord slowly around the plastic handle of the hair dryer, warming his hands with its heat. “We haven’t added haircut repair to our services menu.”
“Oh, it’s like that, is it,” Jungkook grins. He’s usually defensive about his single parenting skills, afraid that maybe it’s true, that he’s as bad at raising his son as most people assume he is when they see him and Yoongi together. But here with just the three of them, it’s easy to laugh at his mistake. He may have butchered his son’s haircut, but with Jimin, he doesn’t feel judged, doesn’t feel like his parenting skills are found wanting.
He slips his wallet into his back pocket. “Then maybe I can just pay you in kind.”
Jimin’s heartbeat quickens despite himself. “In kind?” Not the kind you’re hoping for, his mind cautions.
“A service for a service. I have a shop on Gong-il Street. It’s called Inked. Come by some time. Tell them you’re my friend.” He gestures to himself. ”Jungkook.”
Jimin’s laugh rings out in the salon. “So - Jungkook - I save your son from potential doom at the principal’s office, and you want to give me ink? Is that a fair exchange? Who even prints anything these days?”
Jungkook smiles, and Jimin’s heart kicks into overdrive. “It’s a bit more exciting than that.”
* * *
“I’ve always wanted to see this part of town,” Jimin mutters to himself. “That’s all it is.”
He doesn’t attempt to explain why, having made up his mind that morning to pay a visit to Gong-il Street, he flings open the doors of his closet and proceeds to try on every pair of jeans he owns, finally settling on the one Taehyung had christened, “The Gaymaker.”
He digs out his phone from under the tangled mound of jeans on the bed and presses number 2 on his speed dial.
“Do I look hotter in the leather bomber jacket or the zip-up suede?”
“Leather bomber jacket or the zip-up suede?” Taehyung’s voice comes through the phone line distantly; he’s currently attaching Swarovski crystals to Ms. Yoo’s index fingernail. “Hold on, I just need to do the eye of the swan . . . and we’re done.” He turns to Mrs. Yoo. “Give it some time to set.” He turns his full attention to Jimin. “Are you trying on date fits?”
Jimin delays his response, knowing that Taehyung has more questions.
“Are you finally making good use of your day off? No more solo trips to the museum?” Taehyung traps the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he screws on the lids of the tiny pots of crystals. “Are you finally going on a date to forget about Jungkook?”
Jimin remembers - the morning after had been a field day for Jin and Taehyung.
“How was the date?” Jin asked when Jimin came in the next morning
“Date?”
“Hot dad, cute kid. How can you forget?”
Jimin scoffed. “Emphasis on kid, Tae. I’m sure Yoongi is a miracle and a joy, but he still had to come out of a woman. I don’t know if she’s in the picture, but even if she isn’t, I don’t know if he’s interested in me. Hot. STRAIGHT. Dad.”
“Oh, please,” Taehyung snorted. “I saw that moment the two of you had when you first laid eyes on each other. You,” he said, jabbing Jimin with a finger, “looked like you wanted to settle down. And I saw his face, too. He was gone, Jimin. A ruler may be straight, but it can still be bent.”
Jimin takes a deep breath. He had told Taehyung about the conversation he had with Jungkook and the shop on Gong-il Street. Jimin knows confessing about going to Gong-il will cost him, but he needs Taehyung’s opinion. He wants to look hot when he goes to Gong-il, in case he runs into Jungkook.
He inhales deeply and tries to keep his voice from shaking, something it tends to do when he’s lying. “I’m going to look at the shops on Gong-il. There’s also a new restaurant I want to try. Five stars. Best pho in town, if you believe Jin,” he says glibly.
Jimin doesn’t need to see Taehyung to know that his friend is wearing a shit-eating grin.
“Why yes, Jimin, I do believe Jin. He’s quite the connoisseur when it comes to Vietnamese food.”
And now it begins, Jimin groans inwardly, not missing the sarcasm dripping from Taehyung’s voice.
“I do not, however, believe that you’re going to Gong-il just to fulfill your craving for pho and spring rolls. Other cravings, perhaps? Ink?”
Jimin sighs. “I already told you, Tae. I just want to walk around. I haven’t really been to that part of town before."
“That’s cause you didn’t have a reason to be, Jimin,” Taehyung laughs. “But you certainly do now."
Jimin hangs up before Taehyung can say anything else. He already knows Taehyung is right; he doesn’t want to have to admit it aloud. He tosses his phone on the bed and throws himself face down on the denim mountain.
* * *
That was this morning.
Now it’s four in the afternoon, and he’s standing at the crosswalk of Gong-il and Hongsuk Street.
It’s been three weeks since Jungkook brought Yoongi to the salon for a haircut, and if Jimin’s being honest, he had wanted to go to Gong-il Street the very next day. To see Jungkook again, to find his shop, to sit down and talk to him in the sunlight. These reasons for going, he can admit to himself in the daylight. It’s only when he’s safely of his bed in the dark that he allows himself to acknowledge why he wants to see Jungkook again: To recapture what he had felt that night at the salon, between the two of them, and with Yoongi.
The following week, to spite his heart, he’d deliberately gone in the opposite direction of Gong-il. He bought a ticket to the Modern Arts Museum, expensive enough that he would regret the wasted money if he didn’t use it. He refused to give his heart what it wanted, but he couldn’t fool it, either. It stayed true; day or night, it knew only one name.
* * *
He walks down Gong-il slowly, taking cursory glances at the shop windows. He’s halfway down the street when he sees it, a two-story beacon between a flower shop and a dimsum take-out.
Inked.
The exterior is black wood and glass, the floor-to-ceiling windows allowing an unobstructed view of the shop’s lobby. A leather sofa and coffee table delineate the waiting area, bordered by a wooden panel that stands perpendicular to the sofa, blocking his view of the rest of the shop. The lights on the second floor aren’t on, but he can make out frames on the walls.
“Come to collect?” says a voice from behind him.
Jimin turns around. Jungkook is standing there with his hands in his pockets, grinning ear-to-ear like he’d just won a bet.
Jimin exhales.
God, he’d missed the sight of him.
Jungkook’s in the same leather jacket from that night, his dark wavy hair pulled back in a bun, exposing the lovely shells of his ears with their hoops and helix piercings.
Just seconds in his presence and Jimin feels warm again.
They smile at each other in silence, just regarding each other in the sunlight.
“I needed ink,” he says.
Jungkook laughs, full-bodied, throwing his head back. “You’ve come to the right place, then. He pushes the door open. “After you.”
Jimin steps over the threshold, the echo of his heeled boot masked by the music playing softly from wall-mounted speakers. He catches faint notes of magnolia and citrus in the air and inhales deeply; it's the same scent he had caught on Jungkook’s clothes the night he had nearly careened into Jungkook’s chest.
Shaking himself free of the memory, he asks, “How’s Yoongi?”
“He’s great. Thankfully, he never saw the inside of the principal’s office. You were a lifesaver, really,” Jungkook responds warmly.
He leads Jimin past the sofa and the front desk, past the wooden panel and into the interior of the shop that isn't visible from the street.
It’s only then that Jimin understands his offer of payment that night: a service for a service.
On the wall, in white neon lights, reads a sign: Come Get Inked.
Underneath, glass partitions separate three beds. Two are occupied: a young woman’s lifted shirt exposes her rib cage where a young man in glasses is inking an octopus’s tentacle curling under her breast, the bearded man on the second bed is enduring the stinging inking of a likeness of a woman, possibly a lover, on his bicep. There’s an older woman in the third partition, cleaning a tattoo machine in practiced motions; she glances up and sees Jungkook.
“Hey, boss. Your 5 o’clock is here.”
Jungkook lifts his eyebrows and glances at the clock on the wall. It reads 4:32.
“She’ll have to wait a bit. She’s early.”
“She’s always early,” the woman says with a knowing smile. “Probably hoping to grab a coffee with you before the session. Can’t be helped,” she sighs exaggeratedly, “when the boss is this hot,” lowering her voice to imbue the statement with a particularly salacious tone.
“Keep your voice down; she’ll hear you!” Jungkook warns, laughing in spite of himself.
“There’s no need to keep my voice down, she doesn’t hide why she keeps coming back!” the woman crows. “This is what - her 11th tattoo with you?” She snorts. “Soon she’ll run out of skin for you to ink.”
Jimin stands silent as the two banter; he’s distracted, watching the objects burgeoning to life on the skin of the people recumbent on the beds. It’s only when Jungkook introduces him to Jiyeon, the woman cleaning the tattoo machine, that Jimin notices he's discarded his jacket.
Taking in the sight of Jungkook in a short sleeved white t-shirt, heavily inked arms on display, Jimin feels light-headed. It may be the dizzying intricate patterns of Jungkook’s tattoos, but more likely it’s the sight of his skin, smooth and golden and corded with muscle, that has Jimin’s brain going haywire.
The ink on his left arm is especially magnificent. It looks like huge patches of skin on Jungkook’s forearm have been ripped away, leaving steel plates, screws, rods, and pistons visible underneath. It’s so lifelike, at this moment Jimin would believe that Jungkook isn’t human; that he’s not man, but machine.
In a trance, he steps nearer, itching to touch. “May I?”
Jungkook nods, moving imperceptibly closer at the same moment that Jimin moves to take his forearm. He grasps him loosely by the wrist, brushing the pad of his thumb against Jungkook’s warm, pulsing skin. The throbbing beneath his thumb gives him a jolt, shocking him with its life.
The labyrinth of steel inked on Jungkook’s forearm is so faithful to detail, he’d almost expected to touch cold metal and feel the low thrum of a machine underneath his skin.
He lowers Jungkook’s arm slowly, almost regretfully. He looks up to find Jungkook staring at him, and he wonders if it was too much. Something has shifted in the air, but Jimin can’t tell the direction.
"Should I pencil you in for a session, then?” Jungkook asks. A smile blooms easily across his face. “Any ink you want. Anywhere you want. On the house.”
It’s the image of Jungkook bent over him, fingers brushing his skin, that leaves Jimin feeling like he’s about to combust.
He shakes his head and laughs, hoping the tremor in his voice goes unnoticed. “No ink for me today, sorry. I actually just saw your shop by accident.”
“That’s a shame.” Jimin knows he’s imagining the disappointment in Jungkook’s voice, because why would he be disappointed that Jimin hadn’t come to his shop on purpose? “I was going to ink you myself.”
The disappointment in his tone vanishes as quickly as it came. “Piercing, then? Looks like that’s more up your alley.”
He walks over to a display case set against the opposite wall, pulling it open and selecting an earring - a gold hoop with three feathers of varying lengths dangling from it. He hands it to Jimin, who holds the earring up to his ear in front of a mirror, the feathers glinting in the light. “I always thought silver was more my color.”
Jungkook shakes his head. “Definitely gold.”
“Why not silver?” Jimin asks, still studying his reflection.
“I don’t know,” Jungkook says, looking at Jimin speculatively. “I guess I just thought - “
“Yeah?”
“You could never be second.”
Jimin doesn’t know what to make of Jungkook’s words. They’re giving him something that feels suspiciously like hope, so he changes the subject quickly.
“This is mine now?” he asks, holding the earring out on his palm.
Jungkook nods. “It’s yours if you want it.”
Jimin deftly replaces his silver earring with the gold hoop, zipping up the silver cross safely in the pocket of his bomber jacket.
“So what did you come out to Gong-il for?” Jungkook asks. “Seems a little out of your way.”
His excuse ready, Jimin replies, "I wanted to try this Vietnamese restaurant a friend of mine recommended. ”
“Aren’t there any pho places close to the salon?”
“A couple, but the food is passably edible at best. The one here came with a must-try recommendation.”
“Five stars, best pho in town - that sort of thing?”
Jimin laughs. “Exactly.” Eager to fortify his excuse, he quips, “When food calls, I answer.”
Jungkook grins. “It’s just a few shops that way, towards the end of the street.”
The words sound like an ending. Jimin knows Jungkook has to go, but he doesn’t want to leave. Still, he knows that their afternoon has come to an end.
“I guess I’ll head over there now and let you get on with your five ‘o’ clock. Bye.”
“OK,” Jungkook says, not saying goodbye. If Jimin didn’t know better, he’d say Jungkook was lingering. He holds Jimin’s gaze, and Jimin wants to say something, anything, to keep from having to leave.
“Is this really her 11th tattoo?” It’s the only thing he can think of.
Jungkook nods. They look at each other and burst out laughing.
“Cause the boss is soooo hot,” Jimin says, dipping his voice as Jiyeon had done.
Jungkook’s cheeks color pink, but he fires back. “Look who’s talking,” he chides. His eyes sweep over Jimin, slow and heated.
“You can’t tell me you don’t have girlfriends lined up around the block.”
Jimin snorts. “I really don’t,” he says.
It’s the most truthful thing he’s said all afternoon.
* * *
Jimin steps out onto the cold concrete of the pavement, the late afternoon sun blanketing the streets with a soft yellow film. He lets the heavy glass door swing shut behind him, already missing Jungkook.
Alibi forgotten, he crosses the street. He tries to keep walking, but despite himself, he turns around and looks back at the tattoo shop. Through the glass windows, he sees Jungkook climb the stairs, and he watches as the lights come on in the second floor.
Just as Jimin is about to turn away, Jungkook starts down the stairs and spots him standing on the opposite side of the street. A smile breaks out across his handsome face, and he waves.
In Jimin’s heart, the light comes on, too.
* * *