Fire On Fire [TK]

(10) Pull it together

"We're pulling apart and coming together again and again
We're growing apart, but we pull it together
Pull it together, together again"

— Never Say Never, The Fray

❀

— Jk —

The studio smelled like rubber mats and old sweat, the air thick with repetition. Mirrors lining the wall fogged at the edges, smeared with fingerprints and the shadows of past routines. The music thrummed through the space, and for a second, the only sound was his breathing, ragged and uneven, like he’d been sprinting instead of dancing, though there were times when Jeongguk felt becoming an athlete would’ve been easier than this soul leeching process.

Sweat dripped from his hairline, gathering at his jaw before dropping to the floor. His T-shirt clung to his back, heavy and damp, every muscle buzzing with that sharp ache that lived somewhere between exhaustion and adrenaline. He counted under his breath, jaw tight, feet hitting the floor on instinct. Eight counts blurred into muscle memory—turn, slide, hit, reset. He didn’t need the mirror to know where he was supposed to be.

Until he didn’t.

The person beside him missed the turn.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just half a beat late, shoulder cutting into space that wasn’t his. Jeongguk adjusted automatically, as quickly as he could, shifting his weight to the other side, and recalibrating mid-step.

It was already too late.

His heel clipped the floor wrong, making him land away from where he was supposed to. It could've been overlooked had Jeongguk immediately skipped to the next step but he stuttered, drawing a blank on what he was supposed to do next. The mirror reflected it back at him, messy and obvious, while the one who disrupted him had flowed easily to the next step. Out of all the people he could stand next to, the universe chose to completely trash his day by placing him beside Jimin.

“Stop.”

The music cut, the sound of heavy breaths echoing across the room. Their instructor’s gaze landed on him immediately. “Jeonggukshi.” Son Sungdeuk was indeed a kind man, but when they practiced, he stood on business, analysing and correcting every minuscule mistake made. Jeongguk straightened, chest still heaving.

“What are you doing? Why didn’t you adjust?” Sungdeuk asked sharply. “You can’t dance like you’re alone on stage. It is one of the most basic rules. If someone misses, you compensate.”

“I did, seonsaengnim” Jeongguk replied, heat creeping up his neck. He could feel everyone's eyes on him. Every do over was tiring, and Jeongguk wanted to be the last reason for it. “I tried—"

“It was not enough,” he shook his head “Awareness is of utmost importance.” He sighed, waving his hand. “Again. From the top.”

They reset.

Jimin stood beside him, eyes fixed on the floor, shoulders pulled in like he was trying to take up less space while Jeongguk stared straight ahead, pulse loud in his ears. The fury rolled in his stomach. How dare he look guilty after Jeongguk took the brunt of his mistake.

The music started again.

They ran it clean this time. Perfect, even.

Four more rounds of the same routine later, it was finally called off. Some lay on the floor, or leaned back on the walls catching their breaths, while others, who had to catch the subway back home hurried outside, Seokjin among them. Jeongguk trudged to the corner of the room where his bag lay, picking up a water bottle on the way. He had vocal lessons in fifteen minutes, maybe if he had asked Seokjin earlier, he would have lent him a gimbap, at least his stomach wouldn't grumble. He stood there, rummaging through his bag, searching for a protein bar, even candy would do at this point, when a shadow in his periphery caught his attention. He glanced to his left and found Jimin hovered nearby, twisting the hem of his shirt between his fingers.