Chapter Text
The dorm smelled like instant ramen, sweat, and the faint chemical tang of hair dye that still clung to half their scalps. It was late—too late for seven boys who were supposed to be resting—but sleep felt like a waste when everything was still so new. The walls were thin enough that if someone sneezed in the living room, the guy trying to nap in the back bedroom would hear it. They had one decent couch, two bunk beds that creaked like old ships, and a single window that looked out onto a narrow Seoul alley where stray cats fought at 3 a.m.
Jimin sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, nursing a cup of cold barley tea. His legs ached from practice, but the ache felt good. Real. Like proof they were actually doing this. Debut had happened two months ago with No More Dream, and the world had shrugged. A few thousand views, some polite comments, a handful of articles calling them “promising.” Promising. The word sat heavy in his chest sometimes, but tonight it didn’t matter.
Because across from him, Kim Taehyung was laughing so hard he was nearly horizontal, legs kicked up over the arm of the couch, boxy smile taking up half his face. That laugh could fill the whole cramped room. It bounced off the walls and made the exhaustion feel lighter.
“Hyung, you’re doing it wrong,” Taehyung wheezed, pointing at Namjoon who was trying—and failing—to recreate a dance move from their debut stage. “Your arms look like angry noodles.”
“Ya, respect your leader,” Namjoon grumbled, but he was grinning too, dimples deep.
Jimin couldn’t stop watching Taehyung. From the first day they’d been thrown together in the practice room, something had clicked. Taehyung was loud where Jimin was careful, weird in ways that made the whole group feel alive. He’d drape himself over people without thinking, talk about aliens at 2 a.m., and then switch to singing old trot songs in a voice so smooth it made Jimin’s stomach flip. Busan boy recognized Busan boy, maybe. Or something more.
Taehyung rolled off the couch and crawled over, collapsing half on Jimin’s lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Jimin-ah,” he said, voice warm and sticky with affection, “we’re 95z. You know that, right?”
Jimin laughed, the sound soft in his throat. He pushed Taehyung’s hair back from his forehead, damp from the long day. “Yeah, I know.”
“Soulmates,” Taehyung declared, slinging an arm around Jimin’s shoulders and pulling him in until their temples pressed together. “From now on. Even when we’re old and I’m a famous actor and you’re the best dancer in the world. 95z forever.”
The words settled warm in Jimin’s chest. He could feel the flutter there—young, bright, a little scary. Friendship, sure. But also the way Taehyung’s fingers absentmindedly traced circles on his arm, the way their laughter synced up without trying. Jimin leaned into it, letting himself soak in the closeness. “Soulmates,” he agreed quietly, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt.
From the corner of the room, Jungkook watched.
He was fifteen. Still small compared to the others, all limbs and baby fat and eyes that seemed too big for his face. The maknae. Fresh out of middle school, dropped into this chaos like someone had thrown him into deep water and said swim. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall, knees drawn up, hood pulled low. A half-eaten cup of ramen cooled beside him, chopsticks stuck upright.
He didn’t say much. Never did. The hyungs were loud and easy with each other already—Hoseok’s bright energy, Yoongi’s quiet grumbling, Seokjin’s dad jokes that somehow landed every time. And then there was Jimin. Jimin who moved like the music lived inside his bones. Jimin who smiled at everyone like they mattered. Jimin who was currently letting Taehyung cling to him like they’d known each other for lifetimes instead of months.
Jungkook’s fingers tightened around the hem of his oversized shirt. His feet still hurt from today’s practice. He’d stayed behind after the others left, running the choreography again and again until the mirror showed someone who wouldn’t embarrass the group. Until his socks had faint red stains. He wanted to stand on that stage next to Jimin-hyung and not look like a kid who’d wandered in by mistake.
But talking to him? That was harder.
The variety show had been a few days ago. Some small cable program, cameras in their faces, lights too bright. The MC had asked the classic dumb question: “Who do you like the least in the group?” It was supposed to be funny. The hyungs had joked around—pointed at each other, teased. Then someone had pointed at Jimin, and the others had piled on, laughing.
Jungkook had frozen. His face had gone hot. The words tangled in his mouth. “N-no, it’s not— I don’t— hyung is…” He’d stammered something that came out sounding like a weak denial, eyes wide in panic, ears burning red. The clip had made the rounds in the tiny circles that actually paid attention to them. “Jungkook hates Jimin,” some early fans said with laughing emojis. “Maknae shade!”
If only they knew.
He didn’t hate Jimin. He was terrified of him. Terrified of how bright he was, how effortlessly he pulled people in. Every time Jimin danced, something in Jungkook’s chest tightened like a fist. He wanted to be better. He wanted Jimin to look at him the way he looked at Taehyung—easy, warm, like they belonged together. Instead, Jungkook stayed in corners, practicing until his body screamed, stealing glances when no one was watching.
Later that night, when the laughter had quieted and most of the members had dragged themselves to bed, Taehyung stayed up.
He was hunched over a notebook at the tiny dining table, the lamp casting a yellow pool of light. Earphones in, humming under his breath. The melody was soft, almost shy. Lyrics came slow, careful—lines about crescent-moon eyes and laughter that made the practice room feel less cold. About hands that fit too well and a future that felt too big to face alone. He wrote about dancing under city lights, about never wanting the song to end.
He read it back once, twice. Chewed on the end of his pen.
Too much. Too obvious.
The producers would shake their heads again. “Tone it down. You’re best friends. Keep it platonic or scrap it.” They’d said it before with an earlier draft. He’d crumpled that one up too.
Taehyung glanced toward the couch where Jimin had fallen asleep earlier, curled under a thin blanket, face soft and peaceful. The words stayed on the page, private. He closed the notebook gently, like hiding something precious, and rested his forehead on it for a moment.
In the bunk room, Jungkook lay awake on the top bunk, staring at the ceiling. He could hear faint snores, someone shifting in their sleep. His mind replayed the variety show moment on loop. The way Jimin had laughed it off, eyes crinkling, reassuring everyone it was fine. That smile. Jungkook turned on his side, pressing his face into the flat pillow.
One day he’d be good enough. One day he wouldn’t freeze up. For now, he’d just keep practicing. Keep watching from the edges. Keep the twist in his chest a secret, even from himself.
Outside, the Seoul night hummed on—cars in the distance, a cat yowling, the low buzz of the dorm fridge. Inside, seven boys breathed the same air, dreaming different versions of the same future. None of them knew yet how tangled those dreams would become.
But Jimin, half-asleep on the couch, felt Taehyung’s gaze on him earlier and smiled to himself. 95z. Soulmates. It felt like the start of something unbreakable.
Jungkook, eyes finally drifting shut, held onto the image of Jimin’s laugh like a promise.
And Taehyung, notebook tucked away, whispered the chorus of his secret song into the dark one last time before sleep took him.
The debut days were long. They were messy. They were everything.