Being a spectator isn’t a great pleasure that she gets to indulge in often he knows, though the way soft brows join together and lips press tightly together in disapproval make it seem less of a luxury and something akin to severe torment. Park Chaeyoung hums and murmurs underneath her breath, despite the boisterous roars of engines and the friction of the tires against the tracks. Censure appears to be the only hint of emotion in her expression, fingertips tapping in nix, against her injured kneecap. She has her eyes focused with extreme caution at every second that passes, completely divergent to the way his eyes roamed around, incapable of focusing on one thing. He’s look at the track, in the same manner her was so easily able to be absorbed in when she was riding throughout the previous months except he’d find his eyes wandering to her, watching the way her beige hues seemed to scream of misery and suffering before occasionally flickering down to her impatient fingertips, which didn’t help the urge in his fingertips that wanted to get lost in hers. It was almost as though, she was physically shaking him, holding him hostage and demanding for some sort of attention. 

But she wasn’t. Park Chaeyoung didn’t belong there. She didn’t belong on the sidelines. Park Chaeyoung wasn’t a spectator. 

She belonged on the track.

He brain can’t fathom why she’s there, why she purposely chose to sit in the front row and to watch the plethora of races that were happening tonight that reached numbers that weren’t nearly as good as hers. 

Perhaps, she did it for the same reason that he finds himself looking on the internet for every video that has her in it. 

She liked the pain. 

She wanted to torture herself. 

He knows, that she thinks she deserves it, that she thinks that this is God’s punishment of sorts for overreaching. 

Jeon Jungkook knows, because he’s felt the same thing whether it was looking at videos of her or watching her with such tranquil bliss bleeding off her expression as she spoke to another idol.

She felt like she deserved the heartache. 

And in that respect, perhaps the pair were connected.

“  Chaeyoung,  ”  he calls out, voice low like a bass, guttural in its own way and most certainly not calm and healing in their usual way, “  …  lets go.  ”

Agile fingertips reach for the soft cotton of her pain shirt, tugging on it as though his acti