chapter 3 : snowbound

Snow fell thick and relentless over Seoul, a white curtain that smothered the city in silence and pinned the trainees inside their cramped dorm. The streets beyond the window were swallowed by drifts, the usual hum of traffic reduced to a faint whisper under the storm’s weight. Inside, the air was warm but restless—Hoseok sprawled on the floor, scrolling through his phone, Jin bickering with Yoongi over the last bag of chips, their voices a low buzz against the quiet. Jungkook carved out his own space on the couch, legs crossed, sketchbook balanced on his knee. His pencil moved in steady strokes, tracing the stage from memory—seven silhouettes under a wash of lights, a dream etched in graphite and shadow.

The dorm’s heater rattled, spitting warmth into the room, and Jungkook hunched closer to his work, headphones dangling around his neck. The sketch was rough—lines jagged, proportions off—but it was theirs, a fragile vision of the future he clung to when the days grew heavy. He shaded the edge of a figure, imagining the roar of a crowd, the sweat and thrill of a debut that still felt impossibly far. The pencil scratched soft and rhythmic, a counterpoint to the chaos around him, until a familiar weight sank into the couch beside him.

Taehyung flopped down, too close, his knee knocking Jungkook’s with a careless thud. His trainee jacket was unzipped, hair a tousled mess from an earlier nap, and he carried the faint scent of citrus from the shower. “What’s that?” he asked, voice a warm rumble that cut through Jungkook’s focus. Jungkook flinched, pencil skidding across the page, a dark streak marring the stage. “Nothing,” he mumbled, angling the book away, but Taehyung’s hand was quicker, snatching it with a grin that lit up his face.

“Hey—!” Jungkook lunged, face heating, but Taehyung held it high, leaning back out of reach. “Chill, Kookie,” he teased, flipping it open with exaggerated curiosity. His eyes widened as they landed on the sketch, tracing the seven figures frozen mid-performance. “This is us!” he said, voice bright with wonder. He pointed at one silhouette, its hair a messy scribble. “That’s me, right? All fluffy like this?” He patted his own head, laughing—a pure, unguarded sound that bounced off the dorm’s walls and sank into Jungkook’s chest.

Jungkook’s ears burned, a flush creeping up his neck. “It’s not done,” he muttered, reaching again, but Taehyung tilted away, playful, cradling the book like a treasure. “It’s good, though,” he said, softer now, handing it back. His fingers brushed Jungkook’s as he did, a fleeting warmth that lingered, and he settled closer, shoulder pressing against Jungkook’s in a way that felt deliberate yet effortless. “You’re good.” His voice dipped, stripped of its usual bravado, and Jungkook’s pulse stumbled, a quiet thud under his ribs.

“Thanks, hyung,” he whispered, barely audible over the snow tapping the glass. The sketchbook lay open between them, a fragile bridge, and Taehyung traced the lines with a finger, his touch light but curious. “You draw a lot,” he said, glancing over, his dark eyes catching the dim light. “Why?”

Jungkook shrugged, picking at a frayed thread on his sleeve. “Keeps me calm,” he said, hesitant. He paused, then added, quieter, “Makes things real.” His voice was small, almost lost in the dorm’s hum, but Taehyung nodded, like he understood something Jungkook hadn’t meant to say. He leaned back, stretching his arms along the couch, his elbow brushing Jungkook’s neck. “Draw me sometime,” he said, casual, but his gaze lingered, steady and searching.

Jungkook’s throat tightened, a flush creeping higher. “Maybe,” he muttered, ducking his head, and Taehyung’s grin widened, satisfied. The snow kept falling, piling high outside, and the dorm grew colder despite the heater’s efforts. Taehyung shifted, grabbing a blanket from the pile nearby—a faded blue thing, patched and worn—and draped it over them both without asking. “You’re freezing,” he said, tugging it higher, his fingers brushing Jungkook’s arm as he adjusted it.

Jungkook didn’t argue, the fabric soft and warm, trapping their heat beneath it. They sat shoulder to shoulder, the sketchbook forgotten on Jungkook’s lap, and Taehyung started humming—a low, aimless tune that wove through the silence. It was a melody they’d practiced, rough around the edges, but it settled over Jungkook like a second blanket. “Sing something,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Taehyung blinked, surprised, then smiled—slow and soft, a curve that crinkled his eyes. “Only for you, Kookie,” he said, and his voice rolled out, deep and steady, a ballad they’d drilled for weeks. The notes filled the space, rich and warm, drowning out the dorm’s chatter, the storm’s whisper. Jungkook closed his eyes, letting it wash over him, the sound tethering him to the moment—to Taehyung, humming beside him, close enough to feel his breath.

When the song faded, Jungkook opened his eyes, meeting Taehyung’s gaze. “That was good,” he said, quiet, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Taehyung chuckled, low and warm. “Told you I’m a genius,” he teased, but his hand found Jungkook’s under the blanket, squeezing once—a brief, firm press that sent a jolt through Jungkook’s veins. He didn’t pull away, didn’t want to, and Taehyung didn’t either.

The others faded into the background—Hoseok’s phone buzzing, Jin’s laughter—and the world shrank to the couch, the blanket, the soft hum of Taehyung’s presence. Outside, the snow hushed the city; inside, something stirred, fragile and new, a thread stretching between them that neither named. Taehyung leaned his head back, eyes half-closed, and Jungkook watched him, sketching the moment in his mind—messy hair, soft smile—a picture he’d draw later, when the storm passed

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