Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Perhaps it was their own complacency that allowed them to be snatched right from under the noses of their company. Perhaps it was the mistake of their company itself. Maybe it was no-one’s fault except their kidnappers but as the seven men in the van stare down the barrel of a gun, there’s a distinct feeling that they should’ve known this was coming. That this is somehow their own fault.

“Don’t move, and don’t say a fucking word,” the man in the passenger seat had said when he turned with the handgun pointed straight at them, the van still hurtling towards some unknown destination. They’d obeyed, terrified of what he would do if they so much as squeaked. The driver had watched them as well, dark eyes piercing in the rear view mirror as they swept over them periodically.

They’re all frozen, feeling like this is some out of body experience as they watch the man in the passenger seat cock his gun casually towards Jungkook in the front row of seats, then angle it further towards Yoongi, smirking at them as if he’s not holding their lives in his hands. Jimin’s squished between Hoseok and the window in the second row of seats, heart hammering in his chest with a force that makes him nauseous with fear. The others look much the same.

Taehyung and Jungkook in the front seat are both leaning as far back in their seats as possible, angling themselves away from the gun even as the man watches them squirm. Yoongi, Hoseok, and Jimin are statues, the only movement Hoseok’s fingers clenching down on Jimin’s leg with enough force to bruise. He doesn’t dare look back at Jin and Namjoon.

They drive out of the city, nighttime meaning it is impossible for Jimin to make out anything about where they are. Hoseok still has his hand holding tightly onto Jimin’s leg, and when Jimin risks a tiny, almost imperceptible glance downwards, he can see how white his knuckles are. Surprisingly perhaps, Jimin’s leg stopped hurting a long time ago, maybe sensing the fact that Hoseok doesn’t look like he’s going to let go for a long time. Jimin is pressed against the window, cheek cold against the glass. He doesn’t know when Hoseok and Yoongi started leaning in towards him but their combined body weight acts like a barrier, stopping Jimin from moving properly in his seat and instead, squishing him against the window. He can’t even tell them not to because the man in front still has the gun pointed at them, eyes flickering over each of their faces every few seconds.

Finally, the van slows to a stop, the almost tangible tension in the air increasing rapidly as they pull up outside some sort of building. The darkness means all they can see are dark squares against an indigo sky, and it does nothing for their anxiety.
“I’m going to get out. I’ll open the door for you and then you’re going to exit the van in a single file. If you make any move to run away, I will shoot you and all of your little friends,” the man with the gun says, eyeing them with open hostility. “Do you understand?” He’s silent, seemingly waiting for an answer, and they all nod. There’s nothing confusing about his orders and any infractions could have deadly consequences.

Taehyung exits the van first, followed closely by Jungkook. Then Yoongi, Hoseok, and Jimin. As every one of the members exits the van, the tangle of fear in Jimin’s stomach swells dramatically until it’s taking all of his willpower not to break down right there and then. He takes deep breaths as he follows Hoseok out of the van, focuses on not tripping and falling flat on his face as his feet land on hard cobbles. The five of them stand there in a single row, completely silent, watching as Jin and Namjoon climb out of the van as well and Jimin feels the hairs on the back of his neck rising with every passing second. He risks flicking his gaze over to the man with the gun, almost jolting backwards when they make eye contact, the man’s lips curling imperceptibly. Jimin hurriedly looks back at the ground.

“Follow him,” the man with the gun says, pointing at the driver of their van. Jimin catches Hoseok’s terrified eyes for only a split second before they all turn, following behind the man as he walks off towards one of the buildings only a few metres away. It’s as they are entering the building that Jimin is struck by the thought that this could be the last time he ever sees the sky again, and he looks up quickly, sees a final glimpse of the stars twinkling distantly above before his feet stumble on a small step and he’s practically falling inside the building.

They’re led down a small concrete hallway, footsteps echoing on the bare floors, breaths sounding especially loud in the confined space. Jimin can barely focus above the sound of his own pulse drumming frantically in his temple as they’re pushed forward into another room, this one pitch black, Jimin whacking into Hoseok’s shoulder as he turns to look behind him. Then the lights flicker on and the man with the gun enters the room behind him. For a split second, Jimin almost entertains the idea of rushing forward, smashing the gun out of the man’s hand, and bolting along with his members but then the man steps aside and there’s a combined, sharp intake of breath as more men file into the room from behind him. They’re all dressed similarly in jeans, dark t-shirts, some in white ones, all of them impassive and watching the seven of them with gazes that seem vaguely predatory. Jimin doesn’t even realise he’s taken a step back till he hits a body behind him, turns to see Yoongi before he snaps his attention back to the front.

There’s about twelve, maybe fourteen men in the room besides the seven of them, and Jimin feels like his lungs are seizing up when one of them, dressed in blue jeans and another of those plain black t-shirts, suddenly steps forward. He smiles at them, lips curling upwards in a way that could be friendly but is anything but when faced in this situation.
“Hopefully, your ride here was pleasant?” He says, grinning wolfishly when the men around him stir, some sneering derisively at the seven members. “You can call me Chang. As you may have realised by now, this is not your hotel and we are not your maids.” He smirks. “If you even think about trying to escape, my men are all armed and all of them are excellent marksmen so you would not escape alive. You will stay here for the foreseeable future, depending on how much your company loves you.”

He laughs at his own words, though his amusement doesn’t seem to stretch to his eyes. Jimin can’t help but shiver as Chang’s eyes scan them with calculating coldness. Then he turns his head, signals to his men behind him and all of a sudden they are surrounded. Jimin barely has a chance to blink before he’s being grabbed by the arms and forcefully spun around, a swift kick behind the knees making him buckle. He hits the concrete floor with enough force for his teeth to clatter painfully together and bolts of pain to shoot through his kneecaps, a strangled noise escaping his lips when his arms are wrenched behind his back. There’s a horrifying click as cold metal clamps around his wrists and Jimin registers the feeling of what can only be handcuffs.

He can’t think past the roaring in his head as the adrenaline of the whole situation kicks in till he’s hyperventilating, hardly able to breathe from raw terror but there’s no chance to catch his breath. A hand suddenly fists itself into his hair and Jimin’s head is yanked upwards. Around him, he can see the others in much the same position as he is, although he seems to be the only one with his head jerked up. He finds out very quickly why when Chang suddenly appears in his line of vision. His eyes pierce into Jimin’s and Jimin instinctively shrinks back, prevented from doing so by the fingers twisted in his hair, making his scalp burn from the pull.
“You’re Jimin, correct?” Chang asks suddenly, moving right forward till Jimin’s head is level with his thigh and he has to crane his neck upwards to see Chang’s face. Jimin hesitates, doesn’t know how to answer the question, whether to answer at all, but then his face is exploding in pain and he loses all ability to think clearly. “Answer me,” Chang demands, and Jimin struggles to nod, trying to figure out whether he’d lost any teeth from Chang’s punch, jaw throbbing white hot with pain.
“Ye-yes,” he manages to get out, hoping it’s enough. Around him he can hear the others protesting, random noises filtering through the ringing in his ears, can hear Taehyung yell something at whoever is holding him.

Chang lifts his hand again and Jimin automatically flinches backwards unsuccessfully, still held in place by the grip on his scalp. But this time Chang doesn’t hit him, just brings his hand forward and rubs at Jimin’s bruised jaw with his fingers. In every story Jimin’s ever read it seems the bad guys always have icy fingers but Chang’s hands are warm. Normal to the point where Jimin could almost pretend it was Taehyung waking him up in the morning but it’s not. Instead, he’s trapped in a concrete room with his members, hands cuffed behind him, head held up at an unnatural angle, and a strange man rubbing at the bruise he just inflicted.
“I saw you dance once,” he murmurs, fingers burning against Jimin’s cheek. “You were good. Very good, in fact.” He pauses, dark eyes flitting from Jimin’s eyes down to his lips before he grins suddenly. “You’ll do very well for a little demonstration.”

This is far from normal.

Jimin sees the others being forced to their feet, pushed to the wall where their cuffs are attached to a metal bar with another set of handcuffs low to the ground. He waits to join them, something comforting about being back amongst his members but it doesn’t happen. Instead, he’s yanked up and half-dragged to the opposite wall away from the others. And now the real panic sets in.
“Wait—no, no—”
“Shut the fuck up,” the man behind him snarls, and Jimin obeys, not wanting another bruising punch to the face.

He can hear Yoongi yell out behind him, “What are you doing? Why the fuck are you taking Jimin?” But the men don’t answer and Jimin is forcefully slammed chest first into the wall, all the air knocked out of his lungs in one resounding exhale. He’s still so bewildered with panic, it takes him a moment to even gasp some oxygen back into his system and by the time he manages there is a body pressed flush against his, hot breath tickling his neck and making Jimin twist away. He wonders what sort of demonstration Chang has in mind.

“Stop moving,” the man says, and Jimin identifies the man behind him to be Chang himself. He wants to obey (isn’t that what they always tell you to do in hostage situations?) but a bigger part of him gives into the fight or flight mode, and since he can’t exactly run away, Jimin puts all his energy into fighting. He struggles against the weight of Chang’s body pressing him into the wall, tries to throw out a leg to kick his kneecap, squirms away with all the skill of a snake but there’s nothing he can do when he’s caught in cuffs, hands trapped behind him and face smushed into cold concrete.
“Get off me!” He chokes out, still attempting to wriggle away. Chang laughs in his ear, sounding utterly amused. He already has a height advantage over Jimin but he’s also much more muscled, built like a man who spends at least seventy percent of his time in the gym.
“If you keep fighting, you’ll only make it harder for me to resist you,” Chang purrs, teeth grazing Jimin’s neck, and Jimin freezes because this is not something he knows how to deal with.

What the fuck does this man want from him? What does he mean?

Chang’s meaning of a demonstration suddenly becomes crystal clear when Jimin feels two other men step up and grab his arms, keeping him pinned against the wall as Chang’s hands land on Jimin’s waist, tugging at his belt. Before Jimin can even cry out, his belt is being ripped out of his pants and Chang is grabbing at the loops in his pants, trying to tug them down.
“What—the fuck!” Jimin yelps, thrashing against the wall as Chang’s fingers pull at his trousers.. “Get off!” He renews his efforts, pure unfiltered terror coursing through his veins like acid. It burns, only getting worse as Jimin suddenly finds his pants yanked down over his butt till they’re pushed down around his shins and cool air rushes over his legs. With his pants around his ankles, Jimin is unable to kick out and the true horror of the situation hits him with striking force. The others are screaming behind him, yelling things unintelligible to Jimin as he jerks against the men holding him fast, trying to wrench his arms out of their grip off just so he can escape Chang’s heavy weight against his back.
“Stop fighting, baby,” Chang murmurs, his hands gliding down Jimin’s back till they reach the flesh of his butt. “You wouldn’t want any of your members getting hurt, would you?” He accompanies his words with a harsh squeeze, Jimin’s stomach churning at the implications behind his threat.

He’s not given any warning before his boxers are suddenly yanked down and Jimin is naked from the waist down, whole body frozen in fear and horror and shame. He’s still pressed against the wall and even though his arms are still cuffed behind him, there are hands hooked into his elbows, holding him stationary. Every point of contact between his own body and Chang’s sends waves of debilitating terror flooding through him, only made worse because he can’t even struggle now without endangering the lives of his fellow members. His members. Fuck. They’re behind him, they can see this, and the shame burning through his body intensifies to the point Jimin thinks he’s going to internally combust.

Chang’s hands remove themselves from his body and Jimin vaguely registers relief through his panic. His relief is short lived however, when he hears the sound of a zipper being pulled down, Chang’s hands returning to knead at his ass with a strength that will surely leave bruises. Jimin thinks he’s going to be sick, the urge to struggle combined with the need to protect his members making his brain short circuit haphazardly. But even his hazy inner turmoil can’t ignore the feeling of something warm poking at his butt as Chang presses in closely behind him, the feeling of fingernails digging crescent moons into his hips, and the all-consuming agony as Chang rams straight into Jimin’s body without any sort of preparation.

When Jimin was thirteen, he’d broken his arm playing on the swings at school. At the time he’d thought it was the worst pain of his life but right now, as Chang slams Jimin’s body into the wall and thrusts into him with all the power he can seem to muster, Jimin wonders why he’d cried at a simple broken arm.

He’s wailing in agony, every movement of Chang’s hips drawing a fresh scream from Jimin’s throat as it feels like he’s being torn in half, a rod pushing into him and carving into his insides with the same gentleness expected of a metal bar. Jimin’s eyes are streaming, tears running down his cheeks and smearing against the concrete wall in a constant flow. He’s bitten down on his tongue hard enough to break the skin and his mouth fills with blood. It dribbles down his chin and mixes with his saliva to drip on the floor.
“God, you’re tight,” Chang says breathlessly, hips pistoning into Jimin’s with enough force to bruise. “Fucking made for this.” Jimin writhes against the wall and tries to focus on the black dots prickling at the edge of his vision. At this point passing out seem preferable to the pain taking over his entire body, anything better than the feeling of warm liquid which Jimin is sure is blood trickling down the insides of his legs. Succumbing to the pain is preferable to the knowledge that Jimin’s six brothers are watching him right now, pinned, helpless, hurting, being fucked against the wall like he’s nothing more than a piece of meat.

“You’re my message,” Chang pants when he’s finished and Jimin is slumped against the wall, only held up by the tight grip the other two men have on his arms. “Smile for the camera, baby.” Chang shoves a phone in Jimin’s line of vision, grabbing at Jimin’s hair and jerking his head back till it’s bent so far Jimin’s breathing is almost cut off.
“Stop! You’re fucking—stop!” That’s Seokjin, Jimin thinks absentmindedly, brain floating somewhere between pain and unconsciousness.
“He likes it, don’t you?” Chang says, lips pressing wet kisses along Jimin’s neck, fingernails pressing further into Jimin’s hips. No, he doesn’t like it, Jimin wants to say, but he’s so out of it he can’t get his mouth to form the words. Chang says something to his men, pulls Jimin’s boxers back up in a gesture that Jimin is almost grateful for, recovering some of his lost dignity through such a small action. Then he finds himself suddenly spun around till his back hits the wall and he’s faced with Chang front on.

Chang’s eyes are glittering, a thin sheen of sweat visible on his forehead. He looks dangerous and Jimin tries to press back into the wall, trapped with tears still running down his cheeks, the taste of blood sharp on his tongue. Everything hurts but nothing hurts more than the fear Jimin feels when he looks at the man in front of him, when he knows this is the man that has broken him into a thousand pieces.

Chang licks his lips and holds the phone up by Jimin’s face, shows him the paused video on his screen. “You’ll be my message. Do you think your boss will like this too?” He grins. “With your face, I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” Jimin panics, shakes his head, shrinking away as Chang presses closer to him, fingers stroking lightly over Jimin’s cheek.
“Don’t send it!” Jungkook yells suddenly, and Jimin’s eyes flick up to where he can just see the rest of the members over Chang’s shoulder, sitting on the floor, still cuffed to the wall about a metre apart from each other. It feels like a punch in the gut seeing their faces, all of them wearing matching expressions of horror, sympathy, and anguish, and Jimin has to look away just as quickly, the humiliation of the whole situation making his blood run hot and his stomach flip. He’s crying again, small, hiccuping sobs bubbling past his lips every time Chang’s fingers swipe at the tears trickling down his cheeks.
“Don’t cry, baby,” Chang whispers, smirking when Jimin twists his head away from his hands. “You know you liked it.”
“I didn’t!” Jimin chokes out, voice rough from all the screaming he’s done. It cracks when he repeats himself. Chang’s fingers tap themselves son his lips ever so gently, the man’s smirk increasing.
“It’s bad to lie,” Chang whispers before surging forward and pressing a kiss to Jimin’s lips. Jimin thinks he’s actually going to be sick.

They cuff him to the wall, still away from his members on the opposite wall. They don’t pull his trousers back up for him and so he’s left shivering on the concrete floor, bare legs freezing against the stone. Chang laughs as he leaves. Then the seven of them are left alone, only the light from a single bulb above the door to pierce through the darkness.

Yoongi doesn’t think anything will ever hurt as much as seeing Jimin being assaulted by Chang. The feeling of helplessness and rage as he watches Jimin being pinned to the wall, stripped of his clothes and his dignity. They’re all screaming, trying to do something to stop what is happening them before them, willing Jimin to keep fighting, to keep struggling in the hope that something will save him because this can’t be happening. But then Chang says something to Jimin, hands pulling him closer, and Jimin stops trying to escape and stands there, frozen in place even as they see his legs shaking, his head bowing till his forehead hits the wall. And that’s when Yoongi knows there is no way they can stop this from happening because whatever Chang has said to Jimin has made him give up.

And Jimin never gives up.

There’s a moment, when Jimin’s underwear are being pulled down and they’re all still screaming and yelling when Yoongi thinks that maybe they should look away. But morbid curiosity, the need to understand what is happening, to know if Jimin is alright —it wins out in the end and they’re left struggling against their own restraints as Chang unzips his pants. He can hear Jungkook and Taehyung crying next to him, both of them choking on their words. Namjoon, Hoseok, and Seokjin are yelling for Chang to stop, all of them yanking desperately at the cuffs attaching their wrists to the wall. It’s futile.

Yoongi can finally feel himself losing all hope when Chang lines himself up and thrusts into Jimin, the force pushing Jimin’s body flat against the wall. And Jimin screams in such obvious agony Yoongi has to fight not to cover his ears. It kills him.

When Chang finally leaves with his men, there’s silence of the worst kind. The kind of quiet which occurs only because no-one can think of any words to say. They’re all looking at Jimin slumped on the floor, down on his knees with his pants still loose around his legs, and his head resting on the ground. He’s crying, deep sobs that he seems to be choking down although his shoulders are obviously shaking with the force of them. Yoongi feels his mouth dry out completely, the sickness in his gut threatening to make him throw up as he looks at his friend, his brother, curled on the concrete before him. Seokjin is the first to speak, his own tears wet on his cheeks as he looks at Jimin in utter despair.
“Jimin? Are you—” He stops. Jimin is not okay, it would be a stupid thing to ask. Jimin doesn’t even lift his head.
“Jimin?” It’s Taehyung this time, voice trembling. Jimin still doesn’t answer them. Ever so slowly, and they can just hear the pained whimpers pushing past his lips, he sits up and they can see scarlet blood streaking down his chin, his face lined with suffering and swollen from crying. Yoongi thinks he’s going to speak but then Jimin does something that threatens to break Yoongi in two. He turns away from them, hiding himself as he forms a ball on the ground, hands coming up to his face and back angled towards them.

He’s shutting them out when he should be reaching out, when they should be trying to help him.

And Yoongi knows in that moment that things will never be the same again.

Chapter Text

They keep trying to talk to Jimin, trying to get some sort of reaction out of their brother curled up in a ball on the ground. But Jimin doesn’t move and at a certain point they stop, not wanting to push too much when he’s been through such violence already.
“Why isn’t he talking to us, Yoongi?” Taehyung whispers next to him and Yoongi wishes he could come up with a suitable answer to alleviate some of the fear and pain in Taehyung’s eyes.
“I don’t know, Tae. Just—he’s coping with it in the only way he knows right now.”
“I’m scared,” Taehyung mumbles, and Yoongi can see the way Taehyung’s lip is wobbling. He doesn’t know what to say so he settles for honesty.
“I’m scared too.”

Jimin’s whole body is screaming. Every time he so much as breathes, pain spikes through his spine and snatches the air right out of his lungs. His tongue is swollen in his mouth from where he’d bitten it so hard, and his jaw throbs where it’s pressed against the ground. But what hurts more is hearing his members calling out for him and being so ashamed he can’t even bring himself to face them. And he knows it’s stupid because what happened to him wasn’t his fault and he knows it’s not his fault but there’s a little part of him that wonders if there’s something he could’ve done to prevent it. If there was somehow a reason Chang picked him instead of one of the others.

He loses all concept of time lying there on the floor. They’d cuffed his hands in front of him when he’d left so he doesn’t have his arms so awkwardly pulled behind him but he can’t find the energy in his body to readjust his aching bones. At some point, he falls asleep, although it doesn’t feel like he’s been sleeping for all that long when the sound of the door slamming open makes him jerk awake. Immediately, a fresh bolt of pain shoots through his body but the crippling fear he feels as he looks at the men entering the room is worse.
“Get up,” one of them says at Jimin, nudging him with his foot. He can’t help the cry that escapes his lips when he shifts onto his knees and agony races through his body like lightning. Something had torn down below when Chang had thrust into him, and Jimin goes woozy from the pain as it reopens with his movements, hot blood soaking through the back of his underwear and trickling down his thighs once more. One of the men walks over and unlocks his handcuffs from the railing, clipping them back in front of him as he’s yanked up to his feet. Jimin feels like he’s a reed swaying in a strong breeze.
“Who’s the eldest?” One of the other men yells, and Jimin manages to look up enough to see the rest of the members staring in obvious fear. He looks away quickly.
“Me,” Jin’s voice drifts through quietly, and Jimin glances up again and watches as Jin’s cuffs are unlocked from the metal piping and he too is jerked to his feet, handcuffs locked up with his hands in front of him.
“Where are you taking them?” That’s Yoongi’s voice. “What the fuck are you people doing?”
“Shut up,” the man holding Jimin’s arm yells, Jimin unable to hold his flinch at the loud noise next to his ear. “Don’t speak or I’ll make sure this one will feel it,” he growls out, shaking Jimin hard enough for Jimin’s head to pound uncomfortably. Thankfully, the others stop asking questions.

His pants are still loose around his ankles, and he realises it’s going to be a problem when he’s being pulled forward and he almost trips.
“M-my pants,” he whispers, voice hoarse. The man holding him stops, looking down and cursing before he grabs at Jimin’s trousers, yanking them up his legs and over his butt so Jimin can at least walk without falling. “Thank you,” Jimin mumbles, feeling oddly grateful for the recovery of some of his modesty. He doesn’t want to think about the fact that they’ve literally all seen him butt naked just a few hours ago.

He’s pulled forward again and he has to clamp his teeth into his lips to muffle the wail bubbling out of his throat as his whole body seizes up. He’s never been in so much pain and it’s incomparable to anything he could’ve ever imagined. So bad he can feel his stomach rolling and bile burning in his chest.
“Move faster,” the man growls out, and Jimin has to fight the urge to cry out loud, tears already making his eyes feel hot and leaving scalding trails down his cheeks. They’re pulled out of the room, Jimin able to see Jin’s back as they’re led back into the concrete hallway through which they’d entered the building. But they’re not going back outside, instead, they’re pushed further into the hallway, the way only lit by bare bulbs, like emergency lights lining the walls. Jimin can barely focus on where they’re going through the haze clouding his brain but he feels himself propelled into a new room, this one much brighter than in the hallway. It makes his eyes sting through his tears.
“Sit,” someone says, and Jimin is pushed down into a chair, yelping out as his butt is forced onto hard wood that makes the pain in his body multiply by a thousand. Then their hands are attached behind them once more, looped through the wooden backs of the chairs so they can’t move, can’t stand up.

They’re left like that, the men who’d brought them leaving without another word.
“Jimin,” Jin hisses next to him, and Jimin turns his head to his friend next to him, catches one glimpse of Jin’s worried gaze before he looks away again, unable to separate the humiliation of Jin’s pity from his sympathy. “Jimin, are you okay? We—we’re so sorry.” Jin sounds like he’s about to cry and it makes Jimin feel intensely uncomfortable. Shouldn’t he be the one crying? He sort of is.
“It’s not your fault,” he says in the end, looking down at his knees and avoiding Jin’s eyes burning a hole into the side of his head.
“Jimin—we won’t let them do it again. We’ll-we’ll—”
“Don’t say anything you can’t promise, Jin,” Jimin whispers.
“Jimin—”
“Don’t. Just don’t.” Jimin doesn’t want to talk anymore. This conversation—it’s not helping anything, and it only makes Jimin feel more alien, more like he’s swimming through syrup without being able to swim at all. He’s drowning.

They sit in silence.

The door swings open just a few minutes later, banging into the wall and making Jimin and Jin flinch in unison. The sight of Chang walking in makes Jimin’s heart beat faster, his breath coming in short puffs as Chang advances towards them. This man strikes a chord of such vivid terror in Jimin’s heart that he has never felt with anyone else. Chang’s lips curl when he looks Jimin up and down, stepping forward even as Jimin leans as far back as possible.
“Your company hasn’t responded to my message yet,” he says, hand coming forward to stroke over Jimin’s cheek even as Jimin twists his head away. Fear is coursing through his veins, making him sick with unfiltered terror.
“Don’t touch him,” Jin spits out next to him, and Chang chuckles lightly.
“I don’t think you’re really in a position to be making demands, hm?” He muses, hand still gripping Jimin’s face. In one swift movement he suddenly pulls his hand back and slaps Jimin, palm cracking against his cheek and making Jimin’s head whiplash to the side. His whole face feels numb but then his nerve endings respond and his cheek is on fire, flames licking up the side of his face. Chang laughs again, this time moving over to Jin. “I wouldn’t try that again if I were you.” It’s disconcerting how pleasant his tone is, almost as if he’s speaking to them at an official function and not when they’re tied down to chairs as hostages.
“Why are we here?” Jin asks, anger clear in his voice, and Jimin winces, wishing Jin would just stop talking. Talking isn’t helping. Talking is getting him hurt.
“We have some demands we want to be fulfilled before we can think about returning you to your company,” Chang says, stepping back and folding his arms across his chest as he stares at them. “You’re going to read them out on camera, and then we will send it to your company. Do you understand?” Jin and Jimin nod, not seeing any point in arguing.

One of the other men steps forward with a camera and a tripod, setting it up in front of them. Another brings a piece of paper forward and holds it up so they can see it just above the camera.
“You’ll read them like this so you’re still looking at the camera,” Chang explains. “You,” he points at Jin, “will read the demands and Jimin will read the consequences of not following these demands.”
They both nod again but Jimin is busy trying to read the consequences at the bottom, his puffy eyes making it hard to see. Suddenly, Jin leans forward, peering closely at the paper and cursing.
“How the fuck are they meant to get three-hundred million dollars? They’re not made of money!” Jin says, obviously exasperated and panicking. “They can’t just get that sort of money from the bank!”
“Shut the fuck up,” Chang snaps. “Your company will get the money or—”
“Or we die,” Jimin interrupts softly, reading the consequences in a state of disbelief and horror. Chang smirks.
“We’ll kill the other six but I might end up keeping you for a bit longer.” He licks his lips. “You were fun last night.” One of the other men steps forward, holding out some sort of black fabric.
“Here, you wanted these.”
“You take the mouthy one,” Chang tells him, flicking a thumb over to Jin, “and I’ll take the slut.”
Jimin’s gut clenches again. He’s not a slut, he’s not. Chang grabs one of the fabric things and when he pulls it over his head they realise it’s a balaclava. Only his eyes are visible through the cut-out holes and it makes him look a hundred times more terrifying, like some sort of emotionless, expressionless monster. He is a monster, Jimin thinks. No question about it.

They’re taken aback when Chang and one of the other men, also wearing a balaclava, come around behind them. Jimin’s heart automatically speeds up even more, drumming so hard in his chest he wonders if it’ll jump out of his mouth. Then there is a hand fisting itself into his hair and his head is being pulled painfully upwards till he’s straining his eyes to see the piece of paper being held above the camera. What is a hundred times more terrifying is the hand that wraps itself around his throat, eliciting a whimper from Jimin that he can’t manage to swallow down. Chang’s fingers squeeze just a little, enough to let Jimin feel the possibility of what could happen if he disobeys.

“Read it out,” Chang growls, and Jin starts speaking next to Jimin, reading out the demands and how the money should be delivered. Jimin can’t get his mind to focus on anything except the claustrophobic feeling of Chang’s fingers locked around his windpipe. Before he realises, Jin has finished and Chang’s grips his hair a bit harder, fingers sinking into his neck with unmistakable pressure. Jimin tries to swallow around the hand on his throat, eyes scanning desperately over the text in front of him.
“If—if these demands are not met, the seven of us will be k-killed,” Jimin’s voice is shaking. He swallows again. “And our bodies will be delivered to the bottom of the Han River.” He hesitates as he reads over the next line in his head, and Chang jerks his head a little harder, an obvious signal to keep going. “If you somehow manage to f-find us, every po-policeman will be killed and their bodies will be sent to their fam-families as a warning. Do not attempt to find us or we will also die.” He’s finished, neck craning painfully under Chang’s hands, saliva pooling in his mouth from the bile rising in his throat once more. He’s physically sick at the thought of dying.

The man in front switches off the camera and Chang’s fingers finally release him, Jimin’s head dropping back onto his chest. He’s exhausted from the strain of fear and pain.
“We’ll see how your company responds to this one,” Chang says, grinning at them with satisfaction written all over his face. Then his eyes drift back to Jimin’s and he turns back to his men.
“Take the other one back and this one,” he points to Jimin, “to the bathroom to clean up. He’s a mess.” Jimin’s heart sinks, any shred of hope that he might be left in peace going straight out the window. He can’t just stay quiet this time. He doesn’t want this.
“I don’t—please don’t,” he pleads, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want—don’t make me—”
“Shut up,” Chang snarls as he moves forward, fingers closing back around Jimin’s neck and squeezing till sheer panic makes Jimin jerk his torso from side to side, trying to dislodge the vice-like grip choking his windpipe. Only when the blood has all rushed to his head and he’s lost any remaining oxygen in his body does Chang release him and Jimin bends sideways, coughing desperately, trying to get air back into his lungs as his head and heart pound in unison. By the time he’s recovered, Jin is gone and it’s just him, Chang, and two of Chang’s men remaining.
“Which bathroom do you want him in?” One of them asks, and Chang pulls away from Jimin, turns back to them.
“My one,” Chang replies, “and unlock his handcuffs too. I’ll be there in a minute”

One of them waits with Jimin in the bathroom, unlocking his handcuffs but pulling his gun out of his pocket. He cocks it casually towards Jimin’s legs and the message is clear: move and I will shoot.
Jimin’s left in a state of silent waiting. Waiting for Chang to reappear, wondering why the man has to be there if he just needs to clean up. It’s nerve-wracking and the silent demeanour of Jimin’s guard makes the situation even worse. Finally, the door opens and Chang walks in, nodding to the guard who immediately stands up and leaves. And then Jimin’s left standing in the bathroom as Chang advances towards him, and there’s nothing he can do.

“Why’d you bite on your tongue, hm?” Chang asks softly, eyes glinting dangerously. “All that blood mucks up your pretty face.” His fingers come up and brush over the crusted blood covering Jimin’s chin and Jimin automatically flinches backwards, his own hands coming up to ward away Chang’s touch. Chang just laughs, dropping his hands down away from Jimin’s face. But then his smile falls away and he leans back against the sink, arms crossing over his chest. “Strip.”
“Str—strip?” Jimin asks, and Chang rolls his eyes.
“Yes, strip. Like, take off your clothes.” Jimin stares at him for a moment but there’s something brewing in Chang’s gaze that he’s not willing to test and he’s aware Chang’s patience is running out.

Slowly he takes a step back and brings his hands down to the bottom of his shirt before pulling it over his head. Immediately goosebumps prickle up on Jimin’s skin but it has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with Chang’s hungry gaze devouring him at any sign of exposed flesh. He hesitates with his trousers, the idea of taking them off for the man who raped him last night so deplorable it physically hurts him to think about it.

But Chang is waiting and Jimin is so terrified of this man he can’t bring himself to resist. It’s painful bringing his pants down, his muscles screaming out in agony and whatever tearing had occurred pulling open once more. What Jimin doesn’t anticipate is the disgusting feeling that occurs when he peels his underwear down and clumps of dried blood peel off his legs, the fabric sticking to his skin like it’s been glued with some sort of bloody adhesive. He can’t help whimpering as he draws them down his legs, partially with the pain but also with the utter humiliation of having Chang’s eyes roaming over his naked body under the harsh lights.

“Get in the shower,” Chang demands, and his voice is already increments lower than it was before. Rasping with obvious lust. Jimin covers himself as much as he can, hardly daring to turn away from the man for fear of what he may do when Jimin can’t see him. But Chang doesn’t move until Jimin is huddled in the far corner of the shower, pressed against the wall where he can feel at least somewhat in control. He's smiling, eyeing Jimin up and down as he reaches into the shower and flicks the handle for the water.

Jimin yelps as freezing water hits him square in the face, water running into his eyes until he can reach up and fumble the shower head so it’s facing further down. He can hear Chang laughing even as he scrubs blindly at his eyes to rid them of the water. The water quickly starts heating up until it’s at a reasonable temperature and Chang suddenly reaches back into the shower and yanks him forward so he’s directly under the stream of water. Immediately, his ass is stinging, pain shooting through him as the water makes contact with the open wounds. Jimin bites his lip and tries not to cry.

He needs something to distract him so he focuses instead on scrubbing the blood off his chin, off his thighs, carefully reaching back to clean around his raw hole even as his cheeks burn with shame. All the while he keeps one eye on Chang. There’s an indescribable sinking feeling in his stomach when Chang starts undressing, black t-shirt lifted off his body, jeans pulled down, and in seconds he is fully naked and stepping forward into the shower. Jimin tries to back away but he only has smooth tile behind him and he knows there’s nothing he can do at this point, not much Chang can do to hurt him more.

His skin is crawling with revulsion as Chang’s hands swoop down to his hips and pull Jimin flush against him. It’s a position that has Jimin’s cock pressed against Chang’s and the feeling makes bile rise in his throat. He doesn’t want to feel this man anywhere on him but especially not there.
“You’re so pretty, you know that?” Chang murmurs, hot lips pressing against Jimin’s neck through the steam of the shower. It’s so utterly revolting that Jimin can’t help but flinch away only to find himself forcefully dragged forward again. This time, Chang’s voice is low with warning when he speaks. “I told you last night already, don’t even think about it or I promise you, your bandmates will feel it worse.”

Jimin’s mouth dries out and he has to swallow, Chang’s hand surging up between them so he can grip Jimin’s chin and force them to maintain eye contact. His eyes are dark with something that Jimin can hardly identify. It’s lust and power, and a combination of things that scare Jimin beyond belief. Then Chang is forcing his lips onto Jimin’s, moving them powerfully even as Jimin stands there without reacting. Chang is clearly unperturbed.

“Turn around,” he says, and Jimin’s gut clenches with dread. It must be obvious on his face because Chang’s grinning, and that’s when Jimin understands part of Chang’s personality just a little more. It’s not just about power and lust, it’s about seeing people so scared of him that they will literally and knowingly obey instructions that they know will have dire consequences for them.

He must’ve taken too long to turn because the next thing he registers is Chang’s hands on him, roughly pushing him to face the wall, streams of water running directly into his eyes and making them sting. He’s expecting to be pinned to the shower wall and for Chang to thrust back into him. What he’s not expecting is for Chang’s hand to slip around his waist and for his fingers to wrap around his dick.
“Wh—no—” Jimin protests, trying to turn around but Chang’s low growl at his neck has him frozen in fear once more.
“Don’t fucking move.”
“Please don’t,” Jimin pleads to the wall as Chang’s hand starts slow pumps on his cock. Jimin doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want any of this but he especially doesn’t want Chang to find a way for him to enjoy this. This isn’t—this shouldn’t be enjoyable but he can’t deny the warm feeling of arousal curling in the pit of his stomach with every lazy stroke of Chang’s hand around him. His cock is reacting, stiffening up under the stimulation. He’s getting hard and there’s no denying it.
“I knew you liked it,” Chang murmurs into the crook of his shoulder, teeth nipping sharply at Jimin’s skin.
“I don’t like it,” Jimin hisses, flinching at the bites. “I don’t want any of this.”
“Your body’s giving you away, pet,” Chang says, laughing against his neck. “I told you it was bad to lie.” Jimin can’t find it in himself to argue, too preoccupied with trying to think of anything that will kill his erection. But the constant movement of Chang’s hand forces his body to react, for the arousal to swell in intensity until he’s choking down moans through the tears running down his cheeks.

He comes eventually, Chang’s hand continuing it’s motions even as Jimin squirms away with disgust. His own body’s betrayal makes his mouth sour and he finds himself suddenly so overwhelmed that the bile which has threatened to exit his body so often in Chang’s presence suddenly emerges, Jimin bending and heaving into the drain. It stings, acid burning up his oesophagus like wildfire.
“That’s disgusting,” Chang’s voice cuts through his nausea and Jimin feels Chang’s hand land on his ass with a loud slap, pain radiating through the remnants of his orgasm.
“I told you, I didn’t fucking like it,” Jimin spits then, a sudden wave of courage making him reckless as he turns and glares at Chang with all the hatred he can muster. “You’re a fucking rapist. And you—you disgust me. You're revolting—”
“Watch your fucking mouth,” Chang snarls, slamming his hand down on the shower handle so the water turns off. He’s moved in to box Jimin against the wall, arms coming up on either side of Jimin’s head. “I have no qualms about cutting out your tongue if you don’t shut up so I would be very, very careful if I were you.” His chest heaves as he speaks, the dangerous glint in his eye sharpening till Jimin wonders whether he’ll be impaled on Chang’s gaze alone. “You have no power here. None at all. It is by my mercy alone that I don’t kill you and your six members because, believe you me, your ass is NOT worth it!” He growls, and Jimin has to look away, regretting his words and whatever consequences they may have for his members. Has he just endangered them with his outburst?

He doesn’t even try resisting when Chang stops talking and shoves Jimin back against the wall, turning him so his face is squished into the tile. After yesterday, the dread in Jimin’s stomach is well-founded. He doesn’t want this. But Chang doesn’t care whether he wants it when rough fingers grip at his hips. Chang doesn’t care when he scrapes his nails down Jimin’s back till he’s writhing. He doesn’t care when he shoves his cock deep into Jimin’s ass, ignoring Jimin’s scream of pain as every wound from yesterday is reopened. Chang doesn’t just not care —he revels in Jimin’s pain, and it makes him a thousand times more despicable.

He likes breaking Jimin into pieces.

Chapter Text

They bring Jimin back into the room a few hours after Jin returns. Jin had told them about the video they’d had to make, how Chang had slapped Jimin and was choking him when Jin had been dragged out. Jungkook is worried.

He’s always been told by the others (in the nicest way possible) that he’s slightly emotionally constipated. He never really talks about how he feels; most of the time he’s more worried about his hyungs than he is about himself, and their swinging emotions directly influence his own. Even now, just feeling the tension radiating off the others is intensifying Jungkook’s own worries, making his fear increase rapidly with every passing minute Jimin isn’t with them.

“Chang took him to the bathroom,” Jin tells them, face grim. “Said something about him looking a mess so I’m assuming he’ll let Jimin clean up the...um, the blood.” Jungkook thinks of the blood streaked all down Jimin’s chin and the insides of his thighs. He didn’t know someone could bleed that much and still be alive. It doesn’t seem to fit Jimin. Blood and Jimin are two things that really shouldn’t go together.

“Do you—do you think he’s coming back?” Jungkook asks then, not really thinking about what he’s saying. But Taehyung obviously reads more into it than Jungkook had intended and he bursts into tears.

“Don’t say that! Of course he’s coming back!” He wails, and all of them, even Jin who normally doesn’t get mad with him, frown at Jungkook disapprovingly. And Jungkook wants to explain to them that he didn’t mean Jimin was...was dead or something, just about whether he’d be back soon. But he can’t put it into words and so he just curls his knees further into his chest and tries not to let Taehyung’s crying release the tears that’ve been burning behind his eyeballs since last night. He’s okay. He has to be strong. He’s okay.

They sit in relative silence for a long time and with every passing second the tension in Jungkook’s body increases.

“Yoongi?” He whispers eventually, turning to see Yoongi with his head back against the wall and his eyes shut. Yoongi opens one eye, regarding Jungkook with little interest.

“Mm?”

“Do you think Jimin’s gonna be okay?”

“I don’t know, Jungkook. Don’t think about it too much,” Yoongi mutters, closing his eyes again. Jungkook knows he shouldn’t be offended, he knows this cold version of Yoongi is just worried for Jimin but he wishes someone would say what he’s sure they’re all thinking. Is Jimin coming back at all?

It feels like hours before the door slams open and two men bring Jimin back into the room. He looks different and it takes Jungkook a second to figure out why. His hair is wet, plastered to his scalp, but the blood on his face is gone. The thing they all notice immediately however is Jimin’s clothing. Or lack thereof. He’s clad only in a pair of boxers that definitely aren’t his own, stripped of his shirt to reveal his chest, and completely trouserless. Jimin’s barely walking, most of his body weight being held up by the two men returning him, and his feet drag pathetically on the ground. He looks even worse than when he was taken with Jin, even with all the blood washed away. He’s still not looking at them.

Jungkook waits for them to tie Jimin up on the opposite side of the room, watches as Jimin curls himself back into a ball, feels his heart clench as he sees red scratches carved into Jimin’s back.

“Yoongi?” He whispers again but Yoongi doesn’t even spare him a glance, obviously preoccupied with Jimin’s still form lying across the room. Jungkook tries again. “Yoongi?”

“Not right now,” Yoongi snaps, and Jungkook shuts up.

A few minutes later, one of the men comes in with a plastic bag in his hand, walking over to Namjoon nearest the door. He doesn’t speak but as he places the plastic bag on the ground he pulls out his gun. It’s not hard to guess what he’s saying. The man uncuffs one of Namjoon’s hands before moving onto Hoseok, then Jin, Taehyung, Yoongi, and finally Jungkook, leaning close enough for Jungkook to get a big whiff of some sort of cinnamony cologne that makes his nose sting.

All the muscles in his arms are screaming when he stretches them out, able to sit comfortably against the wall for the first time in hours. Then the man picks up the plastic bag and puts a bottle of water and a sandwich in front of each of them. It’s the type of sandwich Jungkook only ever ate in the airport when he was starving, wrapped in a hard triangular box, probably with way too much mayo in the bread and one piece of limp lettuce . But just the sight of food and water is enough for Jungkook’s stomach to rumble and he realises he’s dehydrated and absolutely starving.

The man walks over to Jimin afterwards, placing a sandwich and a bottle of water within reachable distance although Jimin doesn’t react except to curl a little tighter into his ball. Jungkook wishes he’d sit up and eat something. Didn’t they say food makes everything better? At least, that’s what Jin always told him.

The others are picking up their sandwiches and their water with their one free hand so Jungkook does the same. It’s difficult trying to open them but once Jungkook can take the first big bite of sandwich and his stomach practically growls in approval, it’s all worth it. When was the last time they’d eaten? More than twenty four hours at least. The sandwich is some sort of corned beef and mustard combination that makes Jungkook queasy, and the water is stale like it’s been sitting in its bottle for years. But Jungkook eats his sandwich in only a couple of bites, and he doesn’t stop drinking, thirst finally quenched, until more than half the bottle is gone. Then he puts it down thinking that maybe he should save some for later.

There’s not much to do in this concrete room except worry, Jungkook decides. They worry when Jimin isn’t there, and they worry when he is. He worries about his hyungs, he worries about Yoongi who isn’t even talking to him anymore. He worries whether they’ll make it out of this alive. But what is this even? They’re hostages, Jungkook knows that. But why?

“Yoongi?”

“What the fuck do you want now?” Yoongi explodes, turning to Jungkook with an exasperated expression. Jungkook swallows, hurt stinging in his chest at his hyung’s reaction.

“I just—” the look on Yoongi’s face makes him stop short. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing.” Yoongi huffs a big sigh, twisting away from Jungkook without a second glance, or even another word and Jungkook tries to bite down the resentment swelling inside of him. Yoongi is just stressed. Worried, and probably scared too. Jungkook’s scared as well but it’s the type of fear that curls in the pit of his stomach and makes him feel absolutely nauseous. He looks down the row of faces next to him and can see his own fear mirrored in the way they all sit there in silence, shoulders hunched, some staring over at Jimin, some chewing on their sandwiches.

He’s startled out of his staring by a slight movement in the corner of his eye and he turns his head to see Jimin starting to move. They’ve all noticed if the sudden absence of movement on their own side of the room is anything to go by. Jimin’s back muscles ripple under his skin, the red scratches looking even more painful as they watch him sitting up. He doesn’t look at them but he turns so his back is against the wall and he can pick up the bottle and the sandwich, eyes flicking over the labels. He looks like he’s been crying again. Jungkook holds his breath.

It turns out watching Jimin nibble at the edge of a sandwich before putting it down is just as satisfying as it sounds. Which is not at all. The only thing Jungkook wants to do is run over to him and hug him, hug this broken shell of Jimin that doesn’t even seem like Jimin at all, but he can’t so he has to settle for looking at his hyung sipping now on his water, eyes closed and head tilted back against the wall. There’s bruises around Jimin’s neck, a dark necklace of fingerprints that make Jungkook’s own breathing constrict. He doesn’t want to think too hard about why they’re there. There’s blood on Jimin’s thighs again as well. It wasn’t there earlier, at least, Jungkook doesn’t remember seeing it earlier, but it’s there now, sticky and red and just visible under the shadow created by Jimin’s knees where his legs are bunched up to his chest. Jimin’s still not looking at them, and Jungkook can’t help but wonder where his strong, proud hyung went, and who this person is, hunched over across the room with his eyes shut and fingers clenching around his knees.

Who are you?

“Your company isn’t taking us seriously,” Chang says, face set in a grim scowl, arms crossed over his chest as he paces over the floor between the two walls. He’s radiating furious energy and Jungkook can’t help but feel even sicker with every one of Chang’s steps. He’s not surprised BigHit isn’t responding as they want. He knows they’ll be doing everything possible to get them home and they’ll have the whole of Seoul out searching for them if they have to. They’re not going to let them die.

“There’s not much we can do about it,” Yoongi mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Jungkook to hear. Chang stops pacing, whirls around to face them and Jungkook realises he must’ve heard too.

“There is something you can do about it, actually,” Chang hisses, eyes narrowing as he glares at them. Then his eyes flick over to Jungkook. “You’re the youngest?” Jungkook’s heart is beating rapidly in his chest. He nods, ever so slightly. Chang surveys him for a long second, raking his gaze up and down his body till it almost feels like a physical thing. Then he suddenly turns to one of the eight men in the room with them. “Grab the balaclavas, and tell Zico to bring the camera.” The other man nods, glancing at Jungkook with disinterest before he exits the room. There’s tense silence, Jungkook hardly able to breathe as Chang keeps eyeing him with a ruthless glint in his eye.

When the man returns with the balaclavas in one hand and another man, Zico, following with a camera, Chang finally makes a move. He unlocks Jungkook’s hand from where it’s attached to the metal bar before gesturing for Jungkook to stand up. He does so, sick with apprehension and raw fear.

“Hands behind your back, and turn around.” Jungkook obeys. He’s got the muscle to put up a fight but he knows now is not the right time to do something that could endanger either him or his members.

Jungkook might be scared but he’s not stupid.

The handcuffs are quickly snapped back around his wrists and when hands pull at his shoulders so he’s facing Chang again, the dread pooling in his stomach increases drastically at the sight of three of the men in the room now wearing the balaclavas, and Zico holding the camera right near his face. Jungkook swallows, pulse thrumming in his temple. Chang is standing behind the view of the camera and he makes a small hand motion to the three men in balaclavas.

It’s all the warning Jungkook receives before the first punch hits him square in the stomach and he doubles over, winded, coughing in pain. They don’t stop. Fists raining down on him, hitting anywhere they can reach till Jungkook loses his balance trying to avoid the pain, toppling over to hit the ground with a loud thud, shoulder jarring from the impact since he can’t break his fall with his arms behind him. Then there’s a foot slamming into his spine and the impact makes his whole body seize and his back arch. He’s spluttering with pleas and cries even as another boot hits him directly in the nose and he feels it crunch, hot blood splattering over the rest of his face till he’s blind from the pure agony.

The beating feels like it goes on for hours, till Jungkook is so weak he can’t even get his body to move as waves of pain flood his system. They drag him up when they’re done, when Jungkook’s seeing stars and there’s this odd buzzing feeling behind his eyes. Zico sticks the camera in his face and Jungkook drops his head to avoid having to see the little red light blinking in front of him, recording his pain. But he’s not even granted that satisfaction as someone grabs his head and yanks it upwards, and the sudden movement is enough for Jungkook to pass out, black dots peppering his vision until it is completely obscured and he’s falling into a bottomless pit.

When he wakes up, Jungkook’s cheek is pressed into a pool of his own blood, warm and sticky and strongly metallic, the scent cloying in his nostrils. He lies like that for a long time, eyes barely able to flutter open as he assesses the damage to his body. He’s attached to the wall by just one hand again but he doesn’t even want to twitch his fingers from the pain. Saying everything hurts is an understatement, and Jungkook has to focus on breathing so he doesn’t panic.  

“Jungkook? Are you awake?” A voice asks near him, and Jungkook fights to open his eyes a little more, registers Yoongi’s face, concerned, sympathetic, oddly guilty. “Jungkook? Can you open your eyes properly?” There’s something weird about the way Yoongi says it and Jungkook groans as he shifts, moving one hand up to wipe at his eyes. It comes away scarlet with blood and Jungkook blinks. He can see Yoongi so where is this blood coming from? And then he realises that he’s looking at Yoongi with his right eye and that his left eye isn’t showing him anything, just dark and wet and stinging when he touches it. Panicking feels like a very real possibility now.

“Yoongi? I can’t see! Yoon—” Jungkook gets out, tongue thick against his lips. Or maybe it’s his lips thick against his tongue. They’re split from where they’d smashed into his teeth as they’d punched him in the face.

“Ssh, Jungkook. Don’t try talking, just—” Yoongi swallows. “Just focus on breathing, okay?”

There’s something in the way Yoongi’s voice cracks that has Jungkook struggling to sit up, trying to show that he’s okay because he is. He has to be okay. And it hurts. God, Jungkook’s not even going to try to pretend it doesn’t hurt because even lifting his head has his whole body wailing in stiff agony, ripping through him again and again and again. But he has to be okay.

He has to be okay.

“Jungkook! Don’t move—you’ll hurt yourself even more.” That’s Namjoon, and Hoseok as well, but Jungkook’s determined to sit up and he manages in the end to get himself draped against the wall, even as every muscle, bone, every piece of his body cries out. He’s panting by the end, eyes gritted shut but feeling marginally better now that he’s not lying on the ground in a literal puddle of his own blood.

The others keep talking, murmuring soothing words into the air, and Jungkook hears it when Yoongi rattles his handcuffs and manages to slide them a little further down the pipe with sheer force just so he can rub Jungkook’s shoulder as comfortingly as possible.

The kindness in that gentle touch—it’s enough for Jungkook’s eyes to start watering. He still can’t see from his left eye but it’s crying too, tears spilling down his cheeks and dripping onto his chest. He cries for a while, trying to choke the sobs down because he’s okay, but they keep on coming. Finally, the strain of holding them in is too exhausting and he just lets them go, crying freely and letting the small whimpers escape him properly. Yoongi keeps rubbing his shoulder, fingers digging in just enough for it not to tickle, warm and comforting and filling Jungkook’s hurting heart a little more. And maybe he wants a hug but this is the closest to a hug he’s going to get and he savours it. He’s okay.

Hours later, when they’re all sitting there in silence and Jungkook finally has the energy to open his eyes, he’s shocked to make immediate eye contact with Jimin for the first time in what feels like forever. Jimin is watching him with a look of such intense concern that Jungkook wants to laugh. Jimin’s more hurt than he is; why is he looking at Jungkook like that? He tries to smile at Jimin but it ends up coming out as more of a grimace. Jimin’s brows knit even further together.

‘You okay?’ He mouths, and Jungkook tries to nod.

‘I’m fine. You?’ Jimin shrugs, a wry smile flitting over his face before it disappears.

‘I’m okay.’ They smile at each other, albeit both in a slightly pained manner, Jimin’s eyes drifting slowly over Jungkook’s battered body before they move on down the line. None of the others have even realised Jimin is looking at them but Jungkook doesn’t want to alert them in case Jimin stops. There’s something desperate about the way his eyes rove over them, obvious sadness on his face but also something else. Loneliness, Jungkook realises at last. And no wonder. Jimin’s all alone on the other side of the room, so close yet so far away, clad only in a pair of underwear, suffering from shit Jungkook can’t even imagine and none of them can possibly understand.

Of course he’s lonely.

Jimin’s eyes are back on Jungkook’s and they share another smile before Jimin looks away again, fingers coming up to run through his hair. It sparks such a wave of nostalgia in Jungkook’s heart, he feels like he’s falling away from reality.

He’s seen Jimin do that simple action so often, always pushing his hair away from his face when he’s excited, when he’s nervous, when he’s tired, when he’s laughing, even when he’s crying. But there’s something different about seeing him do it when he’s half-naked, bruised, and violated.

It hurts Jungkook more than every aching part of his body.

Chapter Text

Jimin is woken by hands on his body. He’s moving before he’s even awake properly, brain still foggy with sleep as he lashes out to try and get the hands off his legs, making contact with warm skin. There’s a curse and then Jimin’s ribs explode in pain as a foot jabs itself swiftly into his side.

“Wake up, you bitch,” someone hisses out, and Jimin opens his eyes to see one of the men standing in front of him, glaring at Jimin with fervour. “Get up.” Jimin checks his wrist and finds it free from the handcuff so he does as he’s told, heart sinking when he sees his members asleep along the wall. Their faces are lined with exhaustion and stress, and as Jimin is pulled out of the room, he realises they’re not all asleep. Taehyung is awake, watching with huge, sad eyes as Jimin is taken away yet again. Jimin swallows and manages a tiny attempt at a reassuring smile before he’s out in the hallway and the door is shut behind them.

“Where are we going?” he asks, trying not to wince as every step brings with it excruciating pain.

“Shut up,” The man growls out, pulling Jimin along so they’re almost speed-walking. “You’re not meant to talk.”

Jimin isn’t surprised when he’s brought back to the door he’d been in last time. This was the bedroom with the attached bathroom where Chang had raped him in the shower. He’s pushed in, expecting the other man to follow behind and oddly unnerved when he doesn’t. But the room isn’t empty and Jimin feels his pulse speeding up when he sees Chang sitting on the bed. The room is rather small, the bed taking up most of the space, but Chang seems to take up the most space out of anything. He looks up when Jimin’s forcefully shoved inside, and the gleam in his eye makes Jimin feel like the sacrificial lamb being fed to the wolf. It’s not a nice feeling.

Chang stands up and walks over to Jimin, hand swooping forward to grab Jimin’s wrist when Jimin automatically moves backwards. It burns his skin.

“We’re changing things up a little,” he murmurs, eyes raking over Jimin’s face and down to his lips. Jimin doesn’t know what he means. What is he changing? How much is a little? But he doesn’t get a chance to think about it, for in a split second Chang has his mouth pressed against Jimin’s, tongue slipping over Jimin’s own lips and leaving behind a trail of saliva that has him fighting the urge to throw up.

“D-don’t,” he whispers, pulling himself out of Chang’s grip. He doesn’t know why he’s even trying to refuse but the lingering guilt from his forced orgasm earlier has Jimin braver than he should be in the given circumstances. Chang just laughs.

“It’s cute how you still think you have any right to dictate what I do or don’t do.” His expression sobers as quickly as his laughter came. “Do it again and I’ll beat you until you can’t speak any more shit like that.” Jimin swallows, forces himself to keep his arms at his side, to not turn tail and run. Running won’t help anything.

Surprisingly, Chang steps back, cocking his head and regarding Jimin with an odd look on his face. It’s...victorious, almost. But what’s the victory, Jimin wonders. You’ve broken me. There’s not much else you can do. But then again, that’s what he’d thought last time and Chang had surprised him anyway.

Don’t think. Just don’t think.

“Turn around,” Chang says, still watching Jimin with the strange expression on his face. Jimin turns, looks at the wall, traces the lines on the wallpaper. It’s an oddly fussy thing to have in a building that seems to be made ninety percent of concrete. But Chang is a man of contradictions and surprises. Having fussy, expensive-looking wallpaper shouldn’t be that shocking.

Jimin almost gives in to the urge to flee when Chang’s hands land on the back of his neck, warm fingers stroking down the length of his spine before making their way back up to the top. He can’t hold back a shiver and Chang’s fingers dig a little harder into his nape.

“Don’t move.” Jimin forces his body to still. He can hear Chang moving behind him, hears the grating of wood as a drawer is opened and shut, feels his scalp prickling as Chang’s footsteps move around the space and finish behind him once more. Then all of a sudden there is something cold wrapping itself around his neck and Jimin’s hands can’t help but abandon their order to remain by his side, immediately flying to his throat in panic at the feeling of something constricting his breathing. But Chang is quicker, pushing him violently forwards so he’s slammed chest first into the door, body pinned in place by Chang’s own, hands held down at his side. The impact hurts, Jimin’s ribs screaming out, but Chang doesn’t care. Of course he doesn’t care.

“I told you not to move,” Chang hisses in Jimin’s ear. It tickles and Jimin has to fight the sudden desire to laugh. He shouldn’t be laughing. This isn’t funny.

Chang’s fingers are back up by his neck and the cold thing around Jimin’s throat shifts slightly before tightening until finally there is a solid click and Chang’s hands fall away. “There, that wasn’t too hard, was it?” He murmurs mockingly, lips pressing down on Jimin’s bare shoulder. And then he pushes Jimin over to the bathroom, hands steering his shoulders till he’s in front of the mirror and he can finally see exactly what it is sitting heavy against his adam’s apple.

It’s a collar. A thick black leather dog collar complete with shining metal studs and a loop on the front where a leash would normally go. When Jimin turns his head ever so slightly to the side he can see a padlock threaded through the back preventing him from being able to take it off.

“It’s a collar,” Jimin whispers, and the voicing of this realisation has his stomach turning in such utter dread and revulsion he almost bends over and vomits into the sink. Chang smiles behind him, visible in the mirror reflection.

“You’re mine,” he says simply, fingers coming up to fiddle with the padlock on the back, “and this is proof.”

Jimin’s lungs choose this moment to stop working. One second he’s breathing and then the next his mind shuts down and all he can think is that this man is never going to let me go.  I’m going to die here. BigHit will pay the ransom and the others will go home and I’ll be stuck with Chang for the rest of my life.

“Why aren’t you breathing?” Chang asks, hand stilling on Jimin’s neck. They make eye contact in the mirror and Jimin’s still not breathing and he thinks that even if he could, he doesn’t think he wants too. “Breathe, you fucking fool!” Chang says a bit louder but Jimin just stares at him in the mirror, an iron lump lodged so deeply in his trachea he doesn’t think it would take anything less than surgery to remove it.

I’m going to die here, raped, beaten, owned by this man until the day he gets sick of me.

“Breathe goddammit!” Chang screeches in his ear and Jimin feels the first shreds of panic start to bloom in his chest, his blood drumming in his head because he doesn’t actually want to die . He’s opening his mouth, trying to inhale, to get air to flow past the lump in his throat but it doesn’t happen. It’s almost laughable; he’s choking to death on his own despair.

There’s a moment when Chang’s hands grab around his throat and he’s shaking Jimin like it’ll somehow get Jimin’s lungs to work, and Jimin’s just viewing the whole situation with a weird sense of detachment, like he’s floating near the ceiling and looking down on this whole scene without being in his physical body. And it doesn’t stop. He can watch with morbid interest as his face starts to go red, as Chang’s hands start pounding on his chest, the man trying desperately to get Jimin to take in oxygen, and he can see the second Chang’s face drops into true confusion and panic and he looks around him in alarm. Jimin sees Chang’s gaze settle on the shower and from his spot by the ceiling he watches as Chang drags Jimin’s body into the shower, dropping him onto the floor, hand slamming down on the handle and releasing an immediate burst of water.

Jimin’s back in his body, lungs shocked into action, and he’s taking huge, gasping breaths even through the water spraying in his face. Chang’s screaming at him but all Jimin can do is curl into himself on the cold tile of the shower floor, fingers scrambling uselessly as the freezing spray rains down on him, pelting his body and making him shiver uncontrollably.

He’s frozen but he’s breathing.

He’s breathing.

The collar is still around his neck and Jimin’s hands automatically curl around the leather, pulling it away from his skin so he can take in deep, shuddering breaths that rattle him to his core. He’s coming back down to earth, everything fading back into grim reality.

He’s breathing.

Jimin doesn’t know how long he lies there under the icy stream of water pouring into the shower. Chang leaves the bathroom at some point, returning several times and standing where Jimin can just see his feet at eye level, but he leaves again only to return a few minutes later. Or maybe it’s hours. Jimin has no idea.

He can’t help the whine that erupts from his lips when Chang’s hands fist into his hair and he drags Jimin forcibly out of the shower. Jimin’s scalp is on fire, and he can’t help but reach up to try and get Chang to release him, crying out even more when Chang just shakes him like you would a dog before shoving him down on the floor so his face slams into the tile.

“You fucking stupid piece of shit! Do you want to die?” Chang yells, eyes glowing with the type of intensity Jimin has thus far only associated with further infliction of pain. “You can’t stop fucking breathing you dumb mutt!” Jimin just shakes his head, still woozy with pain and completely frozen.

Chang turns then, spinning on his heel and walking back into the bedroom even as he’s spitting curses behind him. Jimin still can’t move. When Chang returns a few minutes later, Jimin can hear him coming before he can see him. Footsteps aside, there’s an odd jangling noise, metallic and loud that has Jimin wracking his brains to figure out what it is until it clicks at the exact moment Chang walks back in. It’s a chain. A chain that is now being attached to the loop in the front of his collar and shut with another heavy padlock. A chain that is being pulled till Jimin is dragged over the slippery tiles, trying not to choke as his neck bears the weight of his body being hauled into the bedroom. A chain that Chang locks onto the bed frame and keeps Jimin prisoner, unable to move more than a metre from the small patch of concrete and the edge of the rug next to the bed.

A chain that keeps him immobile as Chang bends him over the edge of the bed and fucks him hard and fast, teeth digging into his shoulder and fingers jerking into the leather of the collar with every rough thrust slamming their hips together.

And Jimin dies just a little more inside.

Jimin is gone and Yoongi is livid.

“What do you mean, he’s gone ?” Yoongi’s yelling at Taehyung, unable to stop himself even when Taehyung’s eyes well with tears and he pulls himself as far out of Yoongi’s reach as possible. Yoongi’s frantic as he stares at the spot where Jimin was when he went to sleep and where he was no longer when Yoongi woke up.

“One of the men came and took him again,” Taehyung whispers, and Yoongi growls so deep in his chest, such pure fury rolling through him it’s remarkable he’s not completely losing it.

“Why didn’t you wake us up?!”

“Hey, calm down, Yoongi,” Namjoon murmurs from the end of the row. “It doesn’t make a difference whether we were awake or not and it’s not Taehyung’s fault. They would’ve taken him anyway.”

“I don’t want him gone either!” Taehyung spits out, scrubbing furiously at his cheeks as he engages in a glaring contest with Yoongi. “And I only had about five seconds before he was gone. What was I going to do?”

“I don’t fucking know,” Yoongi snarls, slumping down against the wall and rubbing at his own eyes. They took Jimin and he wasn’t even fucking awake.

Jin shifts, stretching his arms and legs as much as he can.

“Let's not argue, guys. It’s not going to do any good to anyone, least of all Jimin.”

“How do you know what’s good for Jimin?” Yoongi snaps right back, frustrated and angry. He’s so incredibly angry.

“Jimin wouldn’t want us fighting,” Jin replies, fixing him with a look that has Yoongi’s anger fizzling out just a little more under such blatant authority.

“Don’t talk about him like he’s dead,” Jungkook mutters from next to him, and Yoongi turns to look at him. Jungkook’s eyes aren’t even open and he’s leaning against the wall with pain obvious in every line of his body.

“You’re the one who kept asking if Jimin was coming back at all,” Taehyung says from Yoongi’s other side, and really, the last thing Yoongi needs is to be stuck between Taehyung and Jungkook when they start bickering.

Jungkook’s eyes finally open and his head lolls to the side even as blood trickles out of his left eye although the glint in his good eye is sharp.

“I didn’t mean it like that and you know it.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you meant. You still asked a fucking stupid question,” Taehyung hisses. Yoongi decides it’s time to step in.

“Shut the fuck up you two.” Both of them shut up.

“Why are we fighting?” Hoseok pipes up suddenly. “Regardless of whatever you’re yapping about, Jimin isn’t here. It’s not good to be dividing amongst ourselves when they’re dividing us too.”

There’s silence. Jungkook shifts again, groaning ever so slightly under his breath. He must be in a lot of pain, Yoongi thinks, wincing as he remembers the sound their boots had made when they’d made contact with Jungkook’s body. Jungkook’s pleas for them to stop and the crunch as his nose snapped. It’s purple now, swollen and garish on Jungkook’s face, but no-one wants to tell the youngster. And his eye, a mess of blood and bruises, the eyelid so enlarged it barely opens. Another thing they’re not telling Jungkook.

Yoongi needs to stop thinking about it.

Just. Stop. Thinking.

But it’s not that easy to stop his brain from whirring incessantly.

“Do you think they’ve found the money somehow?” Hoseok asks then, and Yoongi turns to look at him, notes how the bags under his eyes are more pronounced than Yoongi’s ever seen them. Jin sighs next to him, eyes shut but not asleep.

“I told Chang it’s going to take a while. They’d have to take out a shit ton of loans,” he laughs dryly, “if they even plan on paying it off.”

“Jin,” Namjoon says warningly. Don’t make it worse.

“It’s true,” Jin retorts, fixing Namjoon with a glare, “it’s literally going to sink the company.”

“Can you stop!” Taehyung cries out. “Just stop fucking talking if none of you have anything good to say!”

“Don’t talk to me like that!” Jin spits right back. Taehyung yanks angrily on his cuffed hand, metal clanking against metal.

“Then stop talking all your negative shit! You—You’re the one who said Jimin wouldn’t want us fighting!”

“There’s nothing negative about being realistic.”

“Hey,” Yoongi protests then, aware of the way Taehyung’s eyes are filling with tears again and really not ready to deal with this again, “let’s all calm down, yeah?”

“Don’t you get involved in this,” Taehyung hisses, spinning to look at Yoongi with fire in his eyes, and really, this was not where Yoongi wanted this to go. It’s almost funny when he thinks about it. Hoseok was right with what he said earlier.

They don’t even need Chang and his men to split them up; they’re doing a perfectly good job on their own.

When the door opens the next time, they’re all wide awake, craning their necks to see if Jimin is back. He’s not, and something crumbles in Yoongi’s chest.

There’s three men who walk in. “You’ve got bathroom breaks in pairs,” one of the men says, walking over to Namjoon and Seokjin and  undoing their handcuffs while the other men stand their silently, guns drawn. They’d had this yesterday too. Twice a day the men undoing their handcuffs and leading them off to the bathroom. Every time Yoongi has to resist the urge to swing at every man they see.

When the others have all had their turn, the men come over to Jungkook and Yoongi, undoing their handcuffs and pointing them to the door. Jungkook can barely move, groaning deep in his chest as he struggles to stand up, stepping carefully over the congealed puddle of blood on the concrete. Yoongi’s heart bleeds for him.

They make it to the bathroom with Yoongi supporting most of Jungkook’s weight, trying not to trip over from the added strain of Jungkook’s body draped half over his. When they get in, Jungkook makes a beeline for the sink, Yoongi watching in apprehension as Jungkook’s eyes take in the damage done to his face. His lips open just a little like he’s about to say something but then they close again and his tongue darts out, licking at the blood smeared over his skin.

“At least I still have all my teeth,” Jungkook says eventually, looking slightly out of it as he stares at his reflection. Yoongi wants to beat the men who made Jungkook thankful to even have all his teeth.

“Let’s get you cleaned up a bit, ‘kay?” He manages instead, grabbing wads of toilet paper and wetting them in the sink so he can dab at Jungkook’s face and clean it of the blood from his broken nose, from the cut on his forehead, from his black eyes, and his swollen mouth. Jungkook doesn’t say anything else except to whimper in pain as every swipe reveals a bit more of his skin. Under all the blood, it’s not a normal colour. Instead, Jungkook looks like a bruised bunch of grapes.

They each do their business and succeed in cleaning Jungkook up just a little more before the men are slamming the door open and Jungkook and Yoongi are herded back to their concrete prison. Without so much of the blood, the bruises blossoming under Jungkook’s skin are incredibly prominent but at least he’s not looking like something out of a horror movie. Well, not quite so much.

There’s a little part of Yoongi that walks back in praying to see Jimin tied up by the wall again, just so he knows where he is. Not knowing where he is is worse than seeing him in pain and unable to even do anything about it. At least when Jimin’s curled up on the opposite side of the room, ignoring their attempts to talk with him, Yoongi knows he’s alive.

Chapter Text

This is a waiting game, Taehyung decides. The days are made up of waiting for a series of events to occur. They wait for their two allotted bathroom breaks, they wait for the sandwiches and water they’re fed once a day, they wait for Chang to bring Jimin back.

Only two of these things ever happen.

It’s been four days since the men last came in and took Jimin away. At least, that’s what they’re estimating; it’s hard to keep track of time without windows or clocks. Taehyung’s permanently sick now. It’s not a sickness like the flu or a common cold. No, this is the sickness of fear that has buried itself so deeply in his body Taehyung’s not sure he’ll ever be cured. They don’t really talk amongst themselves anymore either. Not really. There’s nothing more to say.

So they wait. Taehyung busies himself by emptying his mind as much as he can. He thinks of his brain like a library and he imagines himself walking through, pulling books off the shelf and chucking them on the floor. If he can stop thinking then maybe he’ll stop feeling, and then maybe he’ll stop hurting.

But there’s one book in his library of thoughts that Taehyung can’t stop thinking about, no matter what he does, even if it makes him sicker by the hour. Park Jimin. His fellow bandmate, his best friend, his brother. All Taehyung can see in his mind’s eye is Jimin’s body smashing into the wall, the way he struggled and fought until Chang had whispered something in his ear, the sound of his screams reverberating around the room as he was raped. And worst of all, Jimin’s tiny smile as he was forced to his feet and taken out of the room the last time.

This is a waiting game and Taehyung is waiting to see Jimin’s smile at least one more time.

“Your boss sent a video,” Chang snarls when he walks in, and Jimin forces himself to sit up, immediately dreading the consequences of Chang’s foul mood. Chang walks over to where Jimin sits hunched next to the bed and yanks the chain attached to Jimin’s collar so it cuts into his throat as it has so often these past few days. He hasn’t had a chance to have a proper look but the skin feels raw from the chafing leather. “It’s like he doesn’t even want you back,” Chang says, thrusting his phone in Jimin’s face.

It’s the weirdest thing to see Bang Shi-Hyuk’s face on the small screen in front of him. It feels like something from another world, his face on an iPhone being something that doesn’t fit with Jimin’s experience of the world right now at all. He doesn’t know why he suddenly feels like crying.

“Play it,” Chang growls, and Jimin reaches out with shaking fingers to press the start button. Bang Shi-Hyuk starts speaking immediately.

“To whoever is watching this. BigHit Entertainment is in the process of transferring the requested 300 million dollars into the bank account provided. However, we have been informed by our banking associates that transferring such a large sum into an overseas account cannot be done in a single transfer and will have to be completed through a number of smaller transfers, each needing to be verified. This is likely to take longer than you would have anticipated. We would urge you to please bear this in mind and not to further endanger the lives of Seokjin, Yoongi, Namjoon, Hoseok, Jimin, Taehyung, and Jungkook. We are willing to pay the ransom and ask that you do not harm them any more than you have already done.”

The video finishes and Chang yanks it out of Jimin’s line of sight. “Your company is walking on very, very thin ice,” he hisses into Jimin’s ear, jerking again on the chain so Jimin’s coughing trying to get closer to Chang to alleviate some of the pressure on his windpipe. Chang just curses before releasing the chain, letting Jimin drop back on the ground as he himself starts pacing the room, boots clacking onto the hard concrete. “I don’t know what game he’s playing but we don’t have forever.”

“It—it’s true though,” Jimin dares to whisper, “overseas money transfers take longer.” Chang’s expression hardens as he stops his pacing to stare at Jimin.

“Are you an accountant or a singer?” He asks mockingly, tone icy, and Jimin instantly regrets opening his mouth when Chang moves towards him, fury etched into every line of his face. He looks crazed.

“I’m sorry!” Jimin squeaks out, terrified as Chang storms forward and grabs the chain, pulling it so hard Jimin is forced against his legs, scrabbling at the leather around his neck to make room to breathe. He’s choking with how hard Chang is yanking the chain upwards, till Jimin’s face is only a few centimetres from his own.

“Do. Not. Speak. Again.” Chang punctuates every one of his words with a harsh tug on the chain till Jimin thinks he’s going to snap his neck trying to find a way of diminishing the pressure on his throat.

When Chang finally releases the chain, Jimin is sure he’s blue in the face, light-headed from lack of oxygen. It’s funny how Chang has no qualms about cutting off his breathing when days ago he was screaming at Jimin for not being able to breathe of his own accord. Thankfully, Chang doesn’t do much else except kick at Jimin’s naked body, landing a solid impact in Jimin’s gut. It sends pain radiating from the centre of his body right to his fingertips. Another bruise on top of a bruise. But then he’s gone and Jimin is left by himself again, wondering how he’s going to take what is likely going to be weeks more of this.

It’s a waiting game, he decides. Waiting for rescue or for the ransom to be paid. Waiting to see his brothers again. Waiting for a day where he isn’t in pain.   A waiting game is all about patience and Jimin forces himself to be patient, to empty his mind so he’s not even thinking in terms of time. It’s difficult.

He curls himself back into a ball on the ground. He’s always cold here on the floor, especially now that he’s completely naked. Even the underwear are gone, thrown across the room within hours of Jimin being chained to the bed, never to be replaced. It’s funny how he’s less embarrassed the longer he’s naked. It doesn’t seem like such a big deal anymore, unimportant in the big scheme of things. When he wears clothing Chang takes maybe thirty seconds longer ripping them off and the same outcome still occurs.

Chang seems to take a vindictive sort of pleasure in tormenting Jimin about it though. Yesterday he’d only referred to Jimin as his ‘pet’, whistling at him like a dog, telling him he’s nothing but a drooling mutt. It’s the dog collar, Jimin supposes. It makes Chang even more drunk on his own power.

And Jimin isn’t going to pretend it isn’t humiliating. Of course it’s humiliating to be tied to a bed, completely naked except for a collar, kicked around and fucked at Chang’s whim, but it seems somehow less weird the longer he’s left like this. It’s not normal but…it’s so far removed from what he experienced before that his brain can only come up with one coping strategy and that is to downplay it in his mind. It’s not healthy but it stops Jimin from going crazy. Then again, maybe he’s crazy already.

There’s a spider under the bed. Jimin had found it during the first day in this bedroom. It’s in the corner, nearest the wall, and Jimin can watch as it builds its web bigger and bigger till the thin threads stretch almost the entire width of the wall. Impressive, he thinks as he lays on his stomach and watches it building another section of the web. Chang had asked him yesterday why he kept looking under the bed but Jimin hadn’t said anything about the spider. Chang probably would’ve killed it and then Jimin would’ve had nothing to do except worry; he probably would be completely batshit loopy by now. Because he doesn’t want to think about anything important.

It’s not that he doesn’t think about his members but there is just something so blatantly inappropriate about thinking about them when he’s basically Chang’s pet. He feels dirty, so incredibly dirty, and even his brain feels like it’s covered in a thin film of scum. He doesn’t want to think about his members then. Doesn’t want them to become at all associated with this feeling that has his skin crawling perpetually.

Chang comes back in the evening. Jimin has no idea what the man does all day because he doesn’t see him that often. Occasionally he comes in to throw a bottle of water and another one of those revolting sandwiches in Jimin’s direction but otherwise, he’s left alone mostly all day until Chang comes back at night to fuck Jimin before he goes to bed.

He’s obviously still in a bad mood judging from the way he slams the door open and almost dents the wall.

“Get up,” he snaps, flicking his hand irritably and Jimin gets up as much as he can on his one metre of chain which is not very much, a well-postured crouch at best. He waits as Chang starts undressing, gut clenching as the man removes every article of clothing until he’s naked. It’s happened so often now but the dread hasn’t disappeared yet. He walks over to Jimin, picking up the chain and unlocking the padlock attaching it to the bed with one of the keys he keeps on a chain around his neck before gesturing for him to get up on the bed. “On your stomach.”

Jimin has managed to stop crying every time Chang fucks him. He’s learnt to handle the pain by biting down on his lip till it bleeds, or sometimes on his arm, focusing on the pain from anything but Chang’s actions. There are teeth marks gouged into his forearm and Jimin feels slightly sick every time he looks at them.

Chang spits on his length, slicking it up just a little before he thrusts into Jimin. He has his hand on the back of Jimin’s head and when Jimin’s body wracks with shivers as pain flares from the base of his spine to the rest of his body Chang presses down, muffling his cries till Jimin is sure he’s going to suffocate into the sheets. It’s arguably less bad than the first time, maybe because his body is loosening up from the constant intrusion, maybe because he’s realised fighting only makes it more painful.

He’s learning the tricks to survival.

“Turn,” Chang says behind him, and Jimin turns over so he’s on his back and Chang slips out, the man crawling over his body until he’s above Jimin’s head, dick tapping against Jimin’s lips as he opens his mouth obligingly. This is his least favourite part of the whole ordeal. As Chang ruts his hips forward and his cock hits the back of Jimin’s throat he has to swallow the strong desire to gag. It’s revolting tasting Chang’s pre-come on his tongue and the taste of his body, musky, sweaty, a heavy flavour that lingers in Jimin’s mouth for hours and hours afterwards. It’s worse when Chang keeps going till he comes in Jimin’s mouth and he almost chokes, Chang’s hand clamping down on his mouth once he’s pulled out so Jimin can’t even spit it out. He’s forced to swallow it down, warm and thick down his throat till he’s sure he’s going to vomit it straight back up the moment he’s able.

But he doesn’t. He’s learning the tricks to survival.

Chang chains him back to the end of the bed afterwards, sore, aching from deep inside, feeling disgustingly sticky from Chang’s sweat and his own cum. Because that’s the other thing Chang does which Jimin hates even more than being choked with the man’s cock. He forces Jimin to enjoy at least part of it, a hand on Jimin’s dick stroking him till he’s rock hard and pleasure is swirling through his body. It doesn’t matter that Jimin hates it, it doesn’t matter that everything else still hurts — the warm flush that shoots through his body when Chang forces his orgasm succeeds in making Jimin feel more disgusting than anything else Chang could possibly do.

It’s the only time he always cries.

Taehyung’s still waiting. It’s been a week since they last saw Jimin, and only a few days since Chang had stormed in yelling about some sort of delay in the company’s transfer of the ransom money. They hadn’t understood half of what he’d been talking about but it was clear to them all that there had been a message from the company telling their kidnappers it was taking longer than expected to send the money. Taehyung isn’t sure if he can wait much longer.

Jimin is gone. They’re not sure exactly where but one time, for maybe a split second when the men had been taking Taehyung and Hoseok to the bathroom, they’d heard someone crying. Taehyung is convinced it was Jimin. If he’d had the chance he would’ve stopped right there and then in the hallway to be sure but the men escorting them had seemed oddly alarmed, rushing them forward and slamming the door of the bathroom shut behind them as quickly as possible. They haven’t heard him since.

Taehyung is exhausted too. It seems unlikely considering they spend ninety-nine percent of their time just sitting there, locked onto the metal pipe without even being able to stand up, but he’s so incredibly tired. He asks Namjoon about it one time and Namjoon just sighs.

“I don’t know, Taehyung.”

“But isn’t it weird?”

“I don’t know,” Namjoon repeats, and Taehyung gets the message. Stop talking.

He always thought they’d be fine if they went through some sort of trauma together. They’re basically a family; they can cope with anything and it’ll only bring them closer together. But the past days have proven otherwise. Taehyung’s never felt more alone even after spending every day and night together with his brothers for almost two weeks.

It started with the talking. They can’t anymore. Everything descends into an argument or just gets incredibly negative which usually starts another argument. So no-one talks anymore unless they absolutely have to, and Taehyung keeps organising the library in his mind.

But it’s not just the talking either. Sometimes Taehyung will look down the row of faces and it’s like he’s looking at a row of strangers. These aren’t the members he knows; the stress lines and the pain on each of their faces are so different from what Taehyung’s used to and yet it shouldn’t be because he’s seen them when they’ve been stressed, and he’s seen them when they’re hurt. But it is. It’s so incredibly different the way Yoongi can stare at the opposite wall for hours and hours, hardly blinking, eyes not flicking to the side even once. It’s so incredibly different the way Jungkook spends all the time sleeping to the point Taehyung wonders sometimes if he’s even breathing. And he shouldn’t think that way, none of them should think that way, not in terms of life and death because it’s a dangerous zone to venture into and once you start thinking about it, it’s very difficult to stop.

There comes a point when Taehyung realises you can die inside and still look like alive.

They’re shells of themselves, worn and polished by the ocean of worry and pain they’re experiencing, and Taehyung can’t help but wonder when it happened.

Did you change?

Or did I change?

I guess we changed.

I guess that’s how everything is.

Jimin thinks it can’t get any worse. This is a waiting game and he’s being patient and if that means he stops thinking altogether, if he lets himself become numb to the world, then that’s how he’ll play this game. But it’s difficult when the rules of the game keep changing, the floor under his feet shifting abruptly and shocking him back into reality. He can never block it out, can’t ever become completely numb to what’s happening because it constantly changes with every one of Chang’s volatile mood swings.

Something has happened to Chang today and it leaves Jimin filled with unspeakable dread. Chang hasn’t done anything to him —yet— but he walks in at one point and stares at Jimin for a long time, something indescribably ‘off’ about the way he’s behaving. His gaze is clinical, appraising Jimin with cold detachment. It’s unnerving and Jimin keeps waiting for him to explode but Chang doesn’t say a word before he leaves the room again.

Something’s changed.

Chang is back within the hour, this time with two of his men. They walk over to Jimin and he can’t help the hot flush of humiliation making his cheeks burn as he shields his body from their view. He’s still completely naked and although he’s stopped caring so much when it’s just Chang, being naked in front of the other two is utterly embarrassing.

However, the men barely blink, merely unlocking the chain from the bed and using it to drag Jimin to his feet. Chang is just watching from the doorway, eyeing Jimin with a particularly unreadable gaze as the men pull him forward. Jimin covers himself with his hands and tries not to flinch when Chang brushes his shoulder with his fingers on the way past.

It’s when they’re walking back down the hallway to the concrete room where he’d originally been held with his members that Jimin starts to panic. They’re getting closer and closer to the room and there is no way in hell he wants to go in there in his current state.

“Please don’t,” he begs the men holding the chain but they ignore him, only jerking the chain a little harder so Jimin’s collar cuts into his throat and he has to stumble forward another step to take the pressure off. “Don’t make me go in there—please!” He’s almost crying, already feeling the mortification of being dragged naked into that room as if it’s happening to him right now. The men ignore him again and as one of them starts to unlock the door, Jimin loses it.

He drops himself to the ground, ignoring the way the collar tightens around his windpipe, and digs his feet into the concrete, hoping somehow it’ll stop where this is going. One of the men curses and yanks on the chain but Jimin desperately claws himself backwards, both hands on the chain in front of him to stop his neck from breaking. It’s futile but Jimin can’t just walk in.

What he’s not expecting is Chang’s voice behind him.

“Get up.” It’s so incredibly cold Jimin almost finds himself automatically standing. This man is dangerous. But then his brain latches onto where he’s being taken and he finds himself shrinking even further down on the floor, frantically pulling against the chain’s force. “I said, GET UP!” Chang yells, and his boot is suddenly in Jimin’s face, connecting with his cheekbone with such impact Jimin’s whole head snaps back and he’s instantly dizzy with pain. But still, he stays on the ground, the shame of willingly walking naked and beaten into a room where his six bandmates, his six brothers are locked up, so monumental he won’t do it.

But something in Chang has changed and his next actions surprise even Jimin. There’s a sudden movement, the click of the safety being thrown off, and now there’s a gun in Jimin’s face. Chang’s face is steely, eyes glinting in the dim lighting in the hallway. He’s pointing the gun straight at Jimin’s forehead.

“Get up or I will blow your fucking brains out and feed it to your bandmates.” Jimin stares at the metal barrel aimed towards him, heart skipping a hundred beats, and he knows Chang will do it.

Slowly, tears already making his eyes burn, he gets to his feet.

Walking into the room is about as bad as Jimin expected. The look on their faces when they see him, shifting from relieved to concerned and almost instantly to horrified is so quick Jimin just manages to catch it before he shoots his own gaze away and squeezes his eyes shut. He thinks he’s going to be pulled back over to that wall on the opposite side but instead, in a move that echoes the very first time he was brought in here, there’s a foot slammed into the backs of his knees and he’s falling down, hands just able to catch himself before he smashes his teeth out, chain rattling as it drops onto the concrete.

He tries to lift his spine but there’s a boot planting itself in the middle of his back, pushing him back down till his nose is brushing his knees and Jimin’s heart feels like it’s about to spill onto the floor.

What is going on?

There is absolute silence in the room but Jimin’s thoughts are so loud he can’t think about anything but the dread sinking further into his bones. Chang coughs above him and the boot on Jimin’s bare back shifts with the movement.

“No-one say a fucking word.”

No-one’s talking, Jimin wants to scream out. Let me go!

“Your company is making things much more difficult than they have to be,” Chang says, irritation creeping into his voice, “so I want to send them another message to tell them to hurry up.”

Jimin can hear his members shuffling in front of him, the clink of metal as a handcuff slides a centimetre down the pipe.

“Which one of you is Namjoon?” Chang asks, something dangerous creeping into his tone. Jimin feels his gut twisting even more with foreboding.

“Me,” Namjoon replies quietly, and Jimin almost cries from hearing a familiar voice after what feels like years alone.

“Stand up,” Chang orders, and there are more footsteps as one of Chang’s men walks over, presumably to unlock Namjoon’s handcuffs. “Come over here.” Namjoon’s footsteps move closer to Jimin and he thinks that if he turns his head he might be able to see Namjoon’s feet only a metre or two away. “You’re going to help me send my message. Think of it as a leader’s duty,” Chang says, voice dripping with mockery.

“What is the company doing that is making it so difficult?” Namjoon asks suddenly, and Jimin is hit with an odd sense of pride that his voice doesn’t even wobble. Chang is silent for a moment, maybe tossing up whether to answer or not. His boot presses a little harder on Jimin’s spine and he has to focus on manually expanding his ribcage to get more air into his lungs. He’s like an insect being crushed under Chang’s shoe.

“They sent some bullshit message about transfers to international accounts taking longer than domestic ones.” Chang laughs but when Namjoon replies he sounds puzzled.

“He’s correct though. They do. They need to be verified properly.”

“Oh—another accountant?” Chang snarls, and Jimin is hit with the sudden, bizarre urge to laugh. Before he can even stop the feeling it bursts from his chest and he ends up giggling into his knees, desperately trying to choke it down but at the same time the adrenaline of the situation making it almost impossible to stop.

There’s a stunned silence broken only by Jimin’s hiccuping laughter until the boot in Jimin’s back disappears and he’s suddenly yanked up by his hair, roots aching as fingers curl into the strands with fervour. Chang’s eyes are bottomless pits of fury but Jimin can’t swallow down the smile stretching across his face.

This isn't funny. This really isn’t funny.

“What the fuck are you laughing about you crazy bitch?” Chang hisses, and Jimin attempts to school his expression into something more serious. It fails and he throws caution to the wind and says what’s on his mind. There’s not much Chang can still do to break him.

“It’s just, I told you the exact same thing when you showed me the video,” he says, watching as Chang’s face goes red, a vein bulging prominently at his temple.

The slap hits him before he even realises Chang moved. It’s painful but nothing Jimin hasn’t felt thus far.

“It’s no use sending a message about something the company can’t change,” he continues even as his cheek throbs. “They can’t transfer the money faster.”

The second slap is harder than the first and hurts considerably more but Jimin doesn’t bow his head, unwilling to yield to this monster who apparently doesn’t know anything about banking despite asking for ransom. Chang’s face is almost purple with anger now.

“I told you I would blow your fucking brains out earlier. Don’t think just because my gun isn’t pointed at your head that I won’t still do it!”

And Jimin knows he can and probably will if he crosses another line but there is something so satisfying about getting even one victory from Chang, even if it is as minor as Namjoon echoing something he’d said earlier. He can’t find himself regretting his words.

Chang seems to take a breath, pausing before looks to Namjoon, and Jimin gets his first glimpse of his leader, any remaining satisfaction vanishing when he sees the pained way Namjoon is looking at him. Oh, right. He’s naked and bruised, kneeling at the feet of the man holding them hostage. The man who is now utterly livid.

“Stand here,” Chang snaps at Namjoon, pointing to a spot just in front of Jimin, and Namjoon shuffles forward, albeit hesitantly until he’s so close Jimin could touch him if he just reached out a hand. There’s a hard jerk on his collar when Chang picks up the chain, yanking it upwards so Jimin has to crane his neck to still breathe. He can faintly hear his members shifting by the wall, the small, sharp intake of breath as Chang pulls the chain even tighter.

The coil of dread that had settled so firmly in Jimin’s stomach just minutes before returns with dizzying force.

Chang smirks then, maybe seeing something in Jimin’s eyes that wasn’t there before, and he gestures towards Namjoon with his free hand. His smile is honestly terrifying.

“You’re going to give your dear leader a blowjob, and you’re not going to stop until he comes.”

Chapter Text

Jimin stares at Chang, absolutely aghast. “Wh-what?”

“You heard me,” Chang snaps, “use that mouth of yours and get your leader off.”

“No— no,” Jimin whispers out, unable to look anywhere but the vindictive gleam in Chang’s eyes. He tries to back away but Chang curls his fist into the chain and Jimin finds himself being yanked forward again.

“It’s not a fucking request.”

“But—”

“Do it or I will make him fuck you against that wall. Your choice.” Jimin’s heart sinks so far in his chest he thinks it’ll disappear completely. He’s vaguely aware of Namjoon trying to step backwards as well but then Chang has his gun out, barrel pointing at them both alternately. “Go on,” he taunts, “do your dear leader a favour.”

Jimin thinks he’s actually going to be sick. He risks a glance at Namjoon and sees his face wan with shock, frozen in a mask of horror. But then Chang thrusts the barrel of the gun against Jimin’s temple and the metal digs into his skin.

“Undo his pants,” Chang says, and Jimin takes a deep breath, has to swallow the lump building in his throat.

He doesn’t want to do this. God, he really doesn’t want to do this.

His fingers are shaking when he reaches forward, not even able to look at Namjoon’s face, fumbling with the zipper of his pants till he’s finally able to get it down, and he doesn’t even want to think about how close his own face is to Namjoon’s dick.

He pauses, not wanting to continue in the slightest, but then Chang is pushing the gun into his temple with even more force and jerking the chain so the collar tightens around Jimin’s neck and he has to move even closer to Namjoon to tug his trousers down just a bit.

Jimin’s seen Namjoon’s dick before, one time when he’d come out of the shower butt naked after leaving his towel in his room. He’s probably seen the dicks of all the members at some point, and he’d met half of them for the first time when they were only wearing underwear but there’s a very big difference between seeing a dick in an accidental way and actually having Namjoon’s dick in his hand. He can see the way Namjoon’s whole body tenses when Jimin pulls it out of his underwear and Jimin doesn’t even look at him, tries to disconnect himself from the person on the floor, to escape somewhere deep into his mind where he doesn’t even have to think about this.

It’s warm and completely flaccid and Jimin would almost prefer to have Namjoon just fuck him at this point so he doesn’t have to do the work, so he can pretend none of this is happening, that he’s not about to give his leader a blowjob in front of all the rest of the members as well. But he can’t do that to Namjoon. He can’t make him become Chang and at least a blowjob relieves Namjoon of any responsibility on his part.

Jimin hesitates, sits there on his knees and just stares at Namjoon’s cock with his fingers wrapped around it as if it’ll somehow do all the work for him.

He’s actually going to be sick.

He hesitates for too long apparently because suddenly Chang’s hand fists into his hair and he’s being pushed painfully forward till Namjoon’s dick is pushing against Jimin’s lips and he’s forced to open his mouth just to stop it from pressing against his face.

It’s the worst feeling in the world. Jimin’s got one hand bracing himself on Namjoon’s thigh and he feels the exact moment Namjoon shudders as his dick is forced into Jimin’s mouth, feels how his muscles tighten and hears the choked noise comes out of his mouth. And it’s surreal, the feeling of it pushing past his lips, Jimin hollowing out his cheeks just so he doesn’t hurt him, the warmth as it fills his whole mouth and constricts his breathing. It doesn’t taste good, the same combo of musky sweat and skin making his stomach turn just as it did with Chang, but Jimin squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to do whatever he can to get Namjoon hard. He doesn’t want to do this but there’s a part of him that would rather do it well so Namjoon can get off quickly and they’re both spared from extending this torture even more.

It turns out, Namjoon is one of those people who can’t get hard just because someone’s sucking his dick. Jimin has spent minutes now trying whatever he can, shutting down the part of himself that wants to pull away and just let Chang shoot him, ignoring the occasional movements of his fellow bandmates next to him, not acknowledging Namjoon’s stifled noises spilling out from the cracks of his self-control. But it’s not working and Namjoon still isn’t hard and Jimin’s jaw is exhausted, his brain trying to disconnect and just let his mouth do the work but it’s not working, and the urge to cry keeps overwhelming Jimin the longer they’re at it.

Finally, he pulls off, ignoring the way Chang tightens his grip on the chain, and he forces himself to look up at his leader.

“Think of someone else,” he manages to get out, voice already hoarse but he needs Namjoon to try. Namjoon’s face is so red he looks like he’s about to explode, and the expression on his face is one of such despair it physically hurts Jimin to know he’s the cause of it. And he has to look away because he’s actually going to start crying as the shame of this whole situation forces a crack in his heart, something deep in Jimin’s chest breaking into pieces till there are tears slipping down his cheeks but he has to do this.

It doesn’t take too long after that. Namjoon seems to shove his own self-control aside and when Jimin takes him back in his mouth, trying to get him to respond, Namjoon’s whole body shivers from whatever he’s feeling. His cock is swelling to hardness within a short amount of time and Jimin glances up once to see Namjoon’s eyes screwed shut, hand clamped over his own mouth but mind obviously far away. It’s better that way, Jimin supposes. Namjoon’s had girlfriends, he just needs to picture it to be them down on their knees. Not Jimin. God, please not Jimin.

Right before Namjoon comes, his hands pull away from his mouth and he manages to grunt out a rough warning, fingers brushing softly in Jimin’s hair before he seems to catch himself, only whispering out a choked apology as he comes in Jimin’s mouth. It’s nasty, Jimin isn’t going to deny it, but he’s somewhere else in his own mind, locking himself up in a corner of his brain. He barely registers when it’s over and he swallows so he can pull off, wipes at his lips to get any last taste off his lips.

Namjoon’s lightning quick to tuck himself back in his pants, still mumbling apologies even as Jimin rests his hands on the concrete and tries to breathe through his aching jaw and the sickening mortification running through his bloodstream. He can’t look up. He won’t look up. He vaguely registers Chang saying something to him before he’s being hauled to his feet with the collar digging into his throat and then the camera is shoved in his face and Jimin dies just a little more inside.

Oh. He’d forgotten about the camera.

There it is, red light blinking obnoxiously in front of him till Jimin twists his head away and shuts his eyes. He’s not going to look at it. He’s not going to think about the fact that Bang Shi-Hyuk is going to see this, that maybe there will be police officers who will see this and judge him because who gives someone they consider basically their brother a blowjob? What level of fucked up do you have to be?

Rationally, Jimin knows he couldn’t do anything about what just happened but he’s not thinking rationally and it keeps getting bigger and bigger in his brain until he’s consumed with shame and guilt and he can’t find it in him to feel anything but relief when he’s tugged out of the room, away from his members, away from Namjoon to be tied back to the end of the bed, brain still floating somewhere in the hallway.

He’s disgusting. It’s better this way.

Jin doesn’t open his eyes till he hears Namjoon’s handcuff being reattached to the metal piping. He’s just in time to see Jimin being dragged out again, neck straining against the collar Chang has padlocked around his throat. Is it a dog collar? It looks like it with the metal studs. Jin swallows down the bile rising into his mouth.  

Namjoon is hunched over next to him, head in his hands, back curled so far into himself he’s almost folded in half. He looks like he’s breaking.

“Joon,” Jin whispers. “Namjoon, it’s not your fault.”

“Don’t—” Namjoon grits out, and Jin can see the way his fingers flex against his scalp, ripping into his hair. “Don’t even try and make it okay. It’s not,” he chokes, “it will never be okay.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jin repeats, trying desperately to get Namjoon to see reason. “You’re just as much a victim. You can’t—it’s not your fault in the slightest.”

“I didn’t have to get down on my knees though, did I?” Namjoon spits out, head finally coming up as he turns to Jin with red-rimmed eyes. “I didn’t have to suck Jimin’s dick, did I? I fucking raped him, Jin!”

“You didn’t, Namjoon. That’s not—” Jin doesn’t know how to make this better, “that’s not what it was, Joon.”

Namjoon’s mouth sets into a thin line, eyes narrowing as he glares at Jin. It’s misplaced anger, Jin knows that, but it doesn’t stop Namjoon’s anger from stinging.

“Then what was it? Because if Jimin had a choice I doubt he would have chosen this.”

And he’s right. Of course he’s right because Namjoon has always been right when it comes to moral matters like these. It’s the reason he’s worked so well as their leader over the years. But Jin swallows that down, sees the way Namjoon’s breaking inside even if he’s trying not to show it. As much as Jimin was forced on his knees, Namjoon was forced as well to partake in something Jin knows he didn’t want to do. He just needs Namjoon to see that.

“But did you choose this? No, Namjoon. You didn’t either. You’re both victims.”

There’s silence as they all wait with bated breath, a quick glance behind Jin revealing all the members to be looking at the two of them with varied expressions of shock, fear, and anguish. Namjoon’s back to gripping his head in his hands, body so wrought with tension Jin is worried he’ll turn into a statue. But then his shoulders start shaking and barely a second afterwards they hear him start to cry.

It’s the worst type of crying. Deep, shuddering, bone-wracking sobs that bubble out from Namjoon’s chest and spill into the air to hang over their heads like the darkest storm clouds. And Jin doesn’t know what he can do to make it better because none of them knows what it’s like to feel like you’ve in some way raped one of your best friends, even if it wasn’t your choice. Only Namjoon knows that pain. They’d all heard Jimin when he’d told Namjoon to think of someone else, and it didn’t take a stretch of the imagination to think about what context those words were spoken in. They all know. And they all know Namjoon was thinking about someone else but it was Jimin on is knees. Their Jimin.

Jin always hears about people talking about the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s a term thrown around as a loose message not to lose hope but he’s not sure if he’s ever felt more hopeless.

They’re stuck in the tunnel and the end is pitch black.

Chapter Text

Jimin is trapped in a perpetual dream. At least, that’s what it feels like. Every time he thought Chang had broken him and then he would be surprised once more when something new would happen and he would break a little more. But this time Jimin can feel himself literally shattering into a thousand pieces on the floor and it’s left him in a daze he can’t seem to escape.

It’s been days since Chang had dragged him to the concrete room with the other members. Days since he’d been on his knees for Namjoon. He doesn’t know how many days because at some point he’d stopped counting.

Jimin can’t get himself to fight anymore.

He lies there on the ground next to the bed with the leather collar digging sharply into his skin and he just stares at the wall for hours. He’s still somewhere deep in his mind where he doesn’t have to think, where the pain is dulled and the vicious cycle of thoughts whirring through his brain bypasses his consciousness. Chang still rapes him daily, sometimes twice. Oftentimes on the bed, occasionally in the shower, just recently bent over the bathroom sink so he has to watch himself in the mirror reflection. But it’s like Jimin is watching a movie of someone else because he’s not quite there, always experiencing it through a fog that doesn’t numb the physical pain but blunts the mental.

Chang seems to know something’s different in Jimin’s head because he tries even harder to make Jimin respond in some way to his attentions. He doesn’t just make Jimin come once; now his ministrations force Jimin into multiple orgasms that leave him drained and disgusted, barely finding the energy to lift his head even when Chang beats him with a belt before he fucks him. It’s like a child kicking a dog just to hear it whine, only to kick harder when the dog stops whining completely.

He’s still floating somewhere else.

“Get on the bed,” Chang says, and Jimin obeys, pulling his weary body up onto the mattress before he slumps over. He waits for Chang to fuck him or do something but it never comes. Instead, Chang doesn’t do anything except sit on the side of the bed so Jimin is level with his hips when he turns his head out of the sheets. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Chang asks, and he sounds so genuinely confused Jimin wants to laugh. He feels like laughing a lot these days. Doesn’t really understand it either.

“M just tired,” he mumbles in the end, and it’s not exactly a lie. He is tired. So fucking exhausted.

“You fucking sleep all day! How can you still be tired?” Jimin shrugs, unable to find it in himself to come up with a proper answer to appease Chang’s mood. This time he’s broken and there’s absolutely nothing left for Chang to destroy.

Nothing.

“I’m just tired,” he repeats. Chang snorts, one hand coming up to brush over Jimin’s spine. It’s one of those rare moments he doesn’t seem to want to inflict immediate pain on Jimin in some way, his hand just stroking up and down Jimin’s spine from top to bottom in a way that could almost be described as gentle.

“It’s because you’re not fucking eating,” Chang mutters, and his hand stops on Jimin’s back, a heavy weight pressing him into the mattress. Jimin shrugs again, not really caring all that much. The gnawing feeling in his stomach distracts him from his thoughts, stops him thinking about Namjoon’s face when— stop. Don’t think.

“Just don’t die before the money’s paid,” Chang says, fingers digging into Jimin’s vertebrae. Jimin wants to laugh again. He knows he’s not going to die; don’t they say the human body can go three weeks without food? And to be honest, thinking about the nutritional value of those sandwiches, it won’t make much of a difference whether Jimin eats them or not. So he doesn’t.

“On your back,” Chang murmurs, and Jimin rolls over, blinking at the ceiling as Chang pulls himself up onto the bed and leans over him, teeth digging into the skin on Jimin’s hips till he’s flinching, muscles twitching sporadically from the sensation.

He’s still floating.

Namjoon is covered in an invisible layer of filth, coating every inch of his body, worming into the cracks of his whole being and making it weaker with every second. It’s invisible because it’s not a physical thing; it arrived the moment Jimin was forced on his knees in front of him and it hasn’t left since. Namjoon wants to run a bath, dive in and let himself sink.

Or maybe he’ll just float. Float for years until he can wash himself of the overwhelming guilt chipping into his soul. There have been many things Namjoon has regretted doing in his life, lots of them things he wished he’d never said, things he should never have done, but it’s an entirely different feeling to regret doing something when he didn’t exactly have a choice. No option for a different decision but all the guilt.

Jimin, their Jimin, is the obvious victim here. He was forced onto his knees, collared and naked , treated like a dog and made to give Namjoon a blowjob with a gun to his head. Jimin is a victim.

Despite what Jin keeps telling him, Namjoon feels like such an imposter labelling himself as a victim too because there’s a significant portion of his brain that refuses to let go of the fact that if felt good, that his body responded accordingly and he got aroused and yet he shouldn’t have because it was Jimin with his mouth around Namjoon’s— stop . Don’t think.

It’s been days and Namjoon can barely sleep anymore. It’s weird because they spend all their time in the same square metre of concrete and Namjoon’s body is exhausted but he can’t sleep. He lies awake and his brain refuses to grant him even a second’s rest and he thinks he’s going mad because obviously he must be sleeping at some point or he’d be dead.

“Do your dear leader a favour.”

“Think of someone else.”

Stop. Stop it. Stop—get the fuck out—don’t wanna, don’t think, don’t—I’m sorry, I’m sorry , I’m–

“Namjoon! NAMJOON! ”

He’s awake now.

( But how? He can’t sleep.)

When he turns his head he finds five concerned faces staring straight back at him.

“It’s just a dream, Joon,” Jin murmurs, and Namjoon can’t help but look at him in disbelief because it’s not a fucking dream.

“Think of someone else.”

“Just a dream,” he echoes somewhat dazed, thoughts like thick soup running through his brain. Jin nods, worry written on every facet of his face. Namjoon’s going crazy, he has to be going crazy. “It’s just a dream?”

“Do your dear leader a favour.”

“You were talking in your sleep.” Jin’s eyeballing him with more than a little concern now. Namjoon is so confused and he doesn’t even know why.

“Do your dear leader a favour.”

“Namjoon.”

“Think of someone else.”

“Namjoon, breathe.”

“Do your dear leader a favour.”

“Namjoon!”

Jimin’s startled out of his sleep, bones aching from where they’re pressed into the concrete floor next to Chang’s bed. Why is he awake? His side is throbbing so he rolls over onto his other side, tries to go back to sleep, tries to find a comfortable way of sleeping without lying on the chain. He’s so fucking tired.

He’s almost drifting off again when there’s a noise that pulls him back into reality.  

It’s very faint, almost like Jimin’s hearing it from kilometres away — a sort of banging sound. He sits up.

What is going on?

It’s getting louder, and it’s not just banging anymore. Thumps, crashes, people. He can hear people. Unintelligible yelling, noise, so much noise.

Jimin wonders briefly if he should wake up Chang, a quick glance behind him showing the man to be fast asleep, sprawled on his back with his arms outstretched. He probably should but he doesn’t really want to.

As it turns out, Chang wakes up anyway.

There’s an incredible crash from right outside the door, and then suddenly the door itself is flying open and one of Chang’s men bursts in, screaming for Chang to, “WAKE THE FUCK UP! THE POLICE! THEY FOUND US—FUCK, THE POLICE!”

Police. The police are here. Jimin’s brain short-circuits. But he has no time to even process this thought because Chang is scrambling in his sheets, clambering out of bed and rushing past Jimin without even another glance.

He just leaves.

And there’s a part of Jimin that seems to have reverted back to some sort of prey instinct because he’s suddenly so terrified of all this noise, all this yelling outside, that he scurries backwards under the bed, shrinking into the darkness as much as he possibly can without choking himself on the chain.

It feels somehow safer under here. Dark, quiet. Jimin has a clear view of the door which had slammed shut behind Chang, but he shouldn’t be visible. At least, that’s what he hopes.

The police are here. The police are here .

He waits, listens to the yelling drop away sharply until the whole building is quiet but then hears the crashing noises start up again. There’s more voices now, not exactly yelling but calling out. He still can’t make out what they’re saying.

He’s scared. He’s so scared. And he shouldn’t be because if this is the police it’s all going to be alright, he’ll be rescued and reunited with his members and everything will be okay. But he’s so scared this is a trap, an evil plot by Chang to give him an excuse to punish him even worse than he has already.

All of a sudden there’s a huge, jarring thump and Jimin sees the door shaking on its hinges, voices screaming just outside that, “They’re coming in!” When it does open, he can’t help the terror coursing through his veins as he pulls himself even further under the bed.

Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Leave me—

“Anyone here?” There’s a figure storming in, dressed in the uniform of the police, barrel-chested with the bulk of a bulletproof vest. Another figure appears behind, male or female, Jimin can’t tell.

“Don’t think so,” the second person says, torchlight sweeping through the room, blinding Jimin as shards of light pierce the darkness.

Leave me alone! Leave—

“Hold on. What’s that chain?”

Jimin jerks backwards even further, neck straining against the collar. They’ve found him.

Then the people are in the room and there isn’t just two of them, there’s four, and they’re bending down to look under the bed, one of them tugging on the chain to see what it’s connected to.

Leave me alone!

“Hello?”

Jimin starts crying. He’s so overwhelmed, frozen with fear, but the voices switch to soothing, asking him for his name until finally, Jimin manages to choke it out past his sobs.

They pull him out from under the bed, and Jimin curls in on himself, hands looping around his knees to hide his naked body from their eyes. Someone grabs the blanket from the bed and wraps it around his shoulders.

“You’re okay,” they murmur. “You’re safe now.”

He’s still crying. He tries to stop but it’s like a dam exploded in his chest and all he can do as their fingers fiddle with the collar is cry.

“We’ll call for some bolt cutters, okay? Don’t worry, we’ll get you out.”

One of the police, a woman, Jimin realises after hearing her speak, kneels down next to him and tucks the blanket even closer around his body.

“Are you cold?” Jimin tries to shake his head but he’s shivering so hard he can’t even manage to do that. “He’s going into shock,” the woman says to one of the others.

No, I’m not! Leave me alone!

“Just breathe, okay honey?”

Jimin doesn’t want to breathe. He wants to be alone. He wants them to stop touching his arm. He wants—he doesn’t know what he wants anymore.

They bring the bolt cutters at some point, jumbled voices murmuring for Jimin to stay still while they loop them through the padlock and slice it in half. When the collar is finally off his neck, Jimin takes a huge breath, not even realising how much the leather had dug into his skin and obstructed his breathing.

“That’s it, honey. Keep taking deep breaths.”

He can barely stand when they pull him to his feet, body so rigid with fear it’s turned him to stone, but he pushes his muscles to comply.

It’s an odd experience walking through the building without being forced to by Chang. It’s when they’re making their way past one of the open doors that Jimin gets a glimpse inside and freezes. It’s the room where—

“My ban-band mates?”

Where are his members? Oh god. If Chang—

“ They’re safe as well. Don’t worry, buddy,” one of the policemen says, pointing to the end of the hallway. “They’re all outside.”

They’re safe. Chang hasn’t—

“Keep walking and you can go out and see them too, okay?”

Jimin stops walking. He doesn’t want to see them. Not—not yet.

He can’t stop shaking.

“You don’t have to, honey,” the woman says, and Jimin breathes a sigh of relief through the guilt making his cheeks warm. “They’ll still be there tomorrow.”

They guide Jimin out of the very exit he came in, his bare feet stepping from smooth concrete onto gravel and then he’s outside, the night seeming so very big after Chang’s bedroom. The fresh air hits him like a wall, so different from the stifling air inside, and when Jimin looks up, he feels so incredibly small.

Stars. So many stars, and now he’s tearing up because he remembers the last second before he’d first stepped into this concrete building when he’d looked up at the sky and seen this very sight. How long ago was that? Who was he then?

“This way, Jimin.”

Jimin turns, sees the policewoman watching him carefully, pointing one finger in the direction of a number of police vehicles. She leads him over, Jimin clutching the blanket even more tightly around his shoulders when he sees the number of people. They open the door to one of the vehicles and slot Jimin into the backseat.

He feels like a criminal. Is he a criminal? What he’d done to Namjoon—

“We’ll get you to the hospital in a few minutes.” Jimin manages to nod. They shut the door and he’s alone.

There’s a bit of loose skin on one of his fingers and Jimin pulls at it. When did he start biting his nails? It stings when he tears it off, blood beading to the surface almost immediately. He wipes it on the blanket.

At one point he hears someone calling his name outside, and turning his head he sees Yoongi standing just a few metres away, one of those silver aluminium emergency blankets wrapped around his shoulders. He’s looking at Jimin with something bordering sadness but also relief, and Jimin has to swallow before he manages to lift the corners of his mouth in what he hopes is something resembling a smile. Yoongi follows suit.

A long moment passes where Yoongi just stands there and Jimin stares at him through the window and he almost wants to get out and go to him but his skin is still crawling with invisible filth and he doesn’t want to taint Yoongi like that. Then a policeman approaches, gesturing about something or other and Yoongi has to go and Jimin feels that pang of loss deeper than he should. He fiddles with the blanket, pulls at another bit of loose skin on his finger.

When he looks up again, Yoongi is gone.

Chapter Text

They leave Jimin alone in a hospital room. Steel, chemicals, white walls, and an overarching feeling of utter sterility. He sits there on the bed, paper sheets rustling under his body still wrapped in the blanket, and the feeling of helplessness in his stomach twists and turns with every breath till it feels as if he’ll never be able to take a proper breath again. He focuses on pushing his stubby fingernails deep into his palms. If he hadn’t chewed them to shreds, they’d cut his skin.

The door opens after only a few minutes and a doctor walks in. She looks to be about Jimin’s mother's age, and the realisation makes something twinge painfully in Jimin’s chest. He hasn’t seen his mother for months, even before their kidnapping.

“Hello Jimin,” she says quietly, smiling at him with both sympathy and understanding. There’s something about her Jimin likes; she doesn’t look at him like he’s broken. “I’m very sorry to hear what you’ve had to experience,” she continues. “My name is Dr Jung. I’m going to explain to you what the next steps are for you but first, we would like your permission to perform a rape kit.” She walks over to the bench and places down a stack of paper she had in her arms, then turns and looks over at Jimin expectantly. He swallows.

“A—a rape kit?” he whispers, stomach churning. Dr Jung nods.

“This is a key factor in any trial so it is of a rather significant importance the rape kit is performed for the perpetrators to be convicted.” She smiles kindly. “That being said, we cannot proceed without your consent.”

Jimin nods mutely. He doesn’t really have a choice, he understands that.

“O—okay.”

Dr Jung gets him to sign his name on the bottom of one of the forms, assuring him they can do everything at Jimin’s pace.

“We have plenty of time so if it’s getting too much for you then you can tell me and we can take a break, okay?”

“What do I have to do?” Jimin asks, trepidation sitting heavy in his chest. Dr Jung unfolds a large sheet of paper and places it on the ground.

“First, I’ll get you to stand on this piece of paper and we’ll take the blanket off. Do you have anything on underneath?” Jimin has to swallow again, not trusting his voice to work for him. He shakes his head, mortification running red hot through his veins. Dr Jung doesn’t seem surprised, although her eyes soften somewhat as she helps Jimin climb off the bed and walk over to the paper. When Jimin finally gets the courage to slip the blanket away from his shoulders, hands immediately dropping down to save some of his modesty, Dr. Jung hands him a paper gown to put on and takes the blanket from him, placing it in a large paper bag which she then places in a box on the bench.

“This will be used as evidence,” she explains. “Now, you can come back over to the bed and we’ll do some swabs and things, alright?” Jimin rustles over to the bed in his paper gown, nerves making his muscles taught and his jaw tense unconsciously.

Dr Jung swabs nearly every part of Jimin’s body. She starts off with his hair, searching through the strands for some sort of evidence. Jimin remembers Chang smearing his sperm on his face, and he shrinks down a little further on the bed. But Dr Jung’s fingers are gentle as she collects her swabs before moving down to his mouth, scraping from his teeth and the insides of his cheeks. Each swab she places in an individual bag labelled with where the swab was collected before it joins the blanket in the box.

Jimin manages to lie there relatively still as Dr Jung moves down his body, sliding the paper gown further and further down his body as she goes. She talks to him softly, asks about the latest BTS album, asks Jimin about his family, even about their pet dog. It all feels so far from Jimin’s mind but he manages to mumble out some answers, trying not to flinch as he fingers brush over his body, secretly grateful for the distraction of her conversation. It’s when she cautions him that she will have to remove the paper gown completely as she examines his genital area that Jimin feels himself flush, hot tears springing immediately to his eyes, unable to get his legs to part once the gown is removed. Dr Jung sits there quietly, even as Jimin curls himself into a ball to hide. He’s never felt so humiliated, never felt as low as he does now.

He’s hit rock bottom, stripped of his dignity and his own bodily autonomy by Chang and now he has to suffer the consequences.

“It’s okay, Jimin. We can take our time,” Dr Jung murmurs, reaching out to pat Jimin’s hand with her own gloved fingers. He cries even harder, tears slipping down his cheeks to dampen the paper sheets on the bed. He’s shivering again, not with cold but with fear and shame and this indescribable sickness in his stomach. Dr Jung keeps patting his hand, her fingers warm even through her rubber glove.

“How about you close your eyes and try to focus your brain on something else completely,” she says gently. “I’ll try and do it as quickly as possible. Then we’ll be almost done with the swabs.” Jimin almost chokes on another sob, coughing into his hand instead, smearing the tears into his skin till his cheeks feel like they’re going to crack.

“I don’t—it’s gon—it’s gonna hurt,” he manages to say, struggling to breathe as he covers his face with trembling fingers.

“I won’t let it hurt, Jimin,” Dr Jung reassures. “It’s really gentle but I need to assess the damage before we can get you better, okay? I’ll take couple swabs but it’s also to see if you might need some stitches.”

It takes Jimin another ten minutes before he sits up, embarrassed at his own tears but feeling marginally better when Dr Jung just smiles at him with deep understanding. She’s a professional, he reminds himself, throwing the last of his dignity into the trash as he leans back against the pillows, fighting the fear curdling in his stomach as he spreads his thighs.

Dr Jung is just as gentle as she told Jimin she’d be, fingers light against his skin but firm enough to not tickle. He grinds the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and tries to separate himself from his body, wanting nothing more than to crawl into a hole and never emerge as she prods and pokes in the places Chang’s fingers have done the same.

“You’ll need a few stitches,” Dr Jung says quietly at the end of her inspection, shooting Jimin a sympathetic look, “so I’ll get you booked in for that straight after this.” Jimin doesn’t even respond, teeth digging so hard into his lip he can taste the sharp tang of blood on his tongue. He doesn’t move even when she swabs all over his genitals, frozen even as she uses some sort of metal device so she can take swabs of evidence from inside of him. But Jimin cries. Wracking sobs that bubble out from some deep recess of his heart, tears blocked by his hands till they’re slipping through his fingers and down his cheeks, burning wet trails into his skin.

I’m disgusting. So fucking disgusting.

Jimin thinks it’s all over with the swabs, thinks he can go and have the world’s longest shower to drown the memories of Chang’s touch in scalding hot water, but then Dr Jung talks to him about the next stage of the kit, holding up a camera.

“We need to take photos of your entire body, as evidence of the abuse.”

Jimin loses it. The sight of the camera in her hand breaks open something inside of him, brain flooded with images of Chang holding up the camera in his face, the red light like a laser searing into his forehead. He’s off the table and cowering on the floor in a matter of seconds.

“No, no, no, no, no, no—don’t, no, please—don’t!” He cries out, so overwhelmed with the memories running amok in his brain, unable to separate the camera in Dr Jung’s hand from the one haunting his dreams.

I’m disgusting. No camera! No, no, no, no.

Dr Jung comes around the bed, face twisted in worry, but her hands are still wrapped around the camera and Jimin can’t help his natural instinct, lashing out and making contact with the device as she kneels down to his level on the floor. It happens almost in slow motion, the camera spinning through the air, the impact sending it flying to the side before it lands on the floor with an almighty crash, glass and bits of plastic shattering over the floor. Dr Jung freezes, staring at Jimin with her mouth open, but he’s gone, crawling under the bed where it’s marginally darker, quieter, safer.

No camera, no camera, stop the camera.

Jimin’s shaking so hard it feels like his teeth are going to rattle out of his head. He keeps trying to press himself further under the bed, terror coursing white-hot through his veins till it feels like he’s going to internally combust from the pressure exploding through him.

No, no, no, no.

He doesn’t even notice when Dr Jung leaves the room.

They’re in one room altogether except for Jimin and Jungkook, both of whom have been taken to separate sections of the hospital to collect ‘evidence’ as they’d been told. It’s quiet and Jin is leaning back against the wall in one of the chairs, trying to stop his heart from hammering with worry with every minute they’re left without any news of Jimin and Jungkook. They’ve all been brought some sort of meat and vegetable stew from the hospital cafeteria, and according to the doctors, there will be a police inspector along shortly to get their statements about the entire kidnapping. Jin just wants to sleep but after the doctors had established that the five of them weren’t injured in a physical sense apart from some malnourishment, they’d all had showers and changed into fresh clothing provided by the hospital before being cooped up in this room with nothing to do but worry and wait. At least he’s clean, Jin muses, tongue running over his teeth and liking the easy slide after being able to brush them for the first time in weeks. Clean in some ways, at least.

He’s startled out of his reverie by the sound of a knock on the door before it opens and a harried-looking nurse enters the room.

“You are the friends of Jimin, correct?” She asks, stress lines deepening on her forehead. There a rustle as all of them sit up a little straighter and Jin’s heart beats even more frantically in his chest.

“Yes,” Namjoon answers for all of them. The nurse makes a sound of relief.

“Great. We’re having some issues with Jimin’s kit exam and we were hoping one of you would be able to help us calm him down.” She looks around at all of them with an expectant expression and it takes Jin a second to realise that one of them needs to go.

“I’ll—I can come and help,” he says, standing up with groaning muscles. The rest of them just look at Jin, varied expressions of worry and relief on each of their faces.

The nurse leads him through the corridors with hurried footsteps, explaining the situation as she goes.

“Dr Jung who performed the kit—“

“The kit?” Jin interrupts quietly, confused by the term.

“The rape kit to collect evidence,” the nurse replies. Jin’s stomach twists uncomfortably. Oh, Jimin. “Anyway,” she continues, “Dr Jung who was performing the kit has requested assistance because Jimin has gone into a panic at the sight of a camera to the point he lashed out and knocked it out of her hand.”

Jin’s breath catches in his throat. Of course, he did.

“The man—Chang—used Jimin to film these, um, messages which he would send to the company.” It makes Jin’s gut clench just to think about but the nurse nods understandingly as he follows behind her down the warren of corridors.

“That explains the reaction then.” Jin nods as well.

They stop outside a door and the nurse knocks briefly before opening it and stepping in, gesturing for Jin to follow her.

Stepping into the room, the first thing Jin notices is the remains of a camera scattered all over the floor by his feet, the body of the device in the centre of it all. Then he sees what must be Dr Jung kneeling on the floor next to the bed and he’s confused for a moment before he takes another step forward and suddenly Jimin is visible. Jin has to fight from voicing his shock out loud.

Jimin is huddled under the bed, completely naked, tears streaming down his cheeks, lips moving rapidly as he mutters something unintelligible under his breath. His eyes are flickering around the room at high speed but they’re unfocused, slightly glazed over like he’s fallen into a trance. If Jin is being honest, he looks slightly mad.

Dr Jung looks up at them when they walk in, relief flooding her face when she sees Jin.

“Hi,” she whispers. “Jimin’s having some difficulties with the photographic aspect of the kit.”

That seems like the understatement of the century as Jin sees Jimin curl even further into himself, shuddering cried spilling from his lips with every breath. Dr Jung looks back over as well, and her expression settles back into one of worry. “Maybe if you talk to him, he’ll be okay,” she says quietly, glancing back at Jin hopefully. Jin explains to her the reason for Jimin’s panic and she purses her lips into a thin line.

“But don’t worry, I’ll try and help,” he reassures her, stepping carefully over the camera debris till he can bob down next to her. Jimin doesn’t seem to notice him, too caught up in his own mind.

“Jimin,” Jin murmurs, “it’s me.” Jimin’s eyes snap over to him with dizzying intensity and Jin feels his chest locking up as he holds his breath. But then Jimin’s face crumples even more and his hands are reaching out to Jin and he’s wailing now, babbling about the camera, frenzied repeats of the word ‘No’ interjected into every sentence. Jin’s heart breaks and he feels tears starting to burn behind his own eyes. Carefully, he shuffles forward till he’s under the edge of the bed with Jimin and Jimin’s hands are fisting into his shirt, pulling him desperately forward.

“Jin, they’re gonna make me—I don’t want—no messages, no messages, please Jin!” Jin has to swallow, reaching out tentatively to hold Jimin even in all his nakedness. He’s so skinny, already so drastically different from when they’d last seen him but his current hysterical state leaves him unrecognisable. Jin tries not to panic himself.

“You’re okay, Jimin. Deep breaths for hyung, okay?” Jimin just keeps babbling into Jin’s chest, fingers knotted deep into the fabric.

“Don’t let them! I don’t wanna do another message, Jin!” Jimin sobs.

“This isn’t another message, Jimin,” Jin murmurs quietly, stroking his fingers through Jimin’s hair and feeling his own heart ache with sympathy. “These are photos for the trial — it’s not a message. You don’t have to worry, Jimin.”

Jimin keeps crying. Jin’s own eyes are prickling with tears but he bites them down as he gently rubs over Jimin’s shoulder and pets his hair. It’s understandable, of course, that Jimin is so terrified of the camera. Everything Chang made him do, so much of Jimin’s suffering, was caught on film to be sent to the company, and Jimin doesn’t seem to be able to separate Chang’s vindictive actions with the actions of the doctor.

Jin doesn’t blame him.

“Jimin, Dr Jung just needs to take photos for the police, okay?” He whispers, but Jimin shakes his head.

“I don’t wanna— Jin .”

“Hyung will stay here with you, Jimin.” Jin gulps. “I’ll hold your hand, okay? You can just lie there and we can talk about something else.” Jimin’s arms curl tightly around his knees and he’s rocking back and forth, fear so painfully obvious on his face.

“Don’t make me, don’t make me.” Jin’s gut curdles again uncomfortably. He can only think of one way to get Jimin to comply but it feels manipulative, even to himself.

“Jimin, do you trust me?” It’s a loaded question, and Jin holds his breath as Jimin looks at him, hesitating for a long second before he finally gives a tremulous nod. Jin feels relief sag in his chest. “ I’m telling you Dr Jung isn’t using this for a message, Jimin. This is for the police, so they can convict Chang. Can you let Dr Jung take the photos if I stay here and make sure it’s all safe?”

There’s another long pause as Jimin eyes him and then looks over at Dr Jung, tears still glistening wet on his cheeks.

“You’ll stay? Jin?” Jin nods, using his fingers to wipe away the wetness on Jimin’s face. Jimin looks almost childlike right now: eyes wide, fingers twisted into Jin’s shirt, an expression of such basic fear on his face that Jin feels sick.

But he gets up when Jin draws him out from under the bed, Dr Jung quickly wrapping a paper gown around his hips. And he sits there on the bed with one hand clenching Jin’s in a vice-like grip as Dr Jung raises the camera and takes careful photographs of every inch of his chest and back. Jin can’t even bring himself to look, just the glimpse of the bruising when he was under the bed with Jimin enough to make the tears sting yet again. They really have no idea what horrors Jimin has experienced.

“You can close your eyes, sweetheart,” Dr Jung says to Jimin as she snaps away with her camera. “Sometimes it’s easier that way, and you can forget I’m taking the photos.” Jin expects Jimin to do exactly as she says but he doesn’t, keeping an eagle eye trained on her as she moves down his body. Jin’s fingers are going numb from how tightly Jimin is holding his hand. He’s still crying, tears sliding down his cheeks and dropping into his lap even as Dr Jung moves around him.

“You’re okay, Jimin,” Jin murmurs, and Jimin glances over at him, eyes narrowing for a brief second before his cheeks flush and he looks away, although he doesn’t let go of Jin’s hand.

“I’m not okay,” he mumbles, “I’m disgusting.”

“You’re not—You’re not disgusting,” Jin manages to get out, chest constricting at hearing such harsh words falling from Jimin’s mouth. “You’re not disgusting,” he repeats. Jimin fiddles with the edge of the paper gown still wrapped around his waist and doesn’t respond.

Dr Jung takes so many photos Jin is surprised she hasn’t run out of space on the camera’s memory card. Once she’s finished with Jimin’s chest and back, she focuses on his legs. Jin gets one glimpse of a bite mark deep in Jimin’s thigh before he hurriedly looks away, not wanting to pry and feeling more than a little sick.

But at some point, Dr Jung puts down the camera and fixes Jimin with a sympathetic and apologetic look.

“I’m sorry Jimin but I have to take photos of your other injuries now so you’ll need to remove the gown.” It’s clear what she means and Jin feels the moment Jimin shrinks backwards, body curling into himself on the bed and his fingers digging hard enough into Jin’s wrist for it to hurt. Jin doesn’t say anything, just turns his body further around so he’s only looking at Jimin’s head. He doesn’t want for Jimin to feel like he’s under a microscope from more than one person.

Jimin’s face is so white he looks like he’s about to pass out, teeth catching sharply in his lip as he clutches onto the last saviour of his modesty, looking over at Dr Jung with terror in every hollow and angle of his face. He’s pulled his legs up to his ribs, hiding, defending, protecting.

And Jin gets it. He really, really does. He can’t even imagine how Jimin must be feeling at this point, stripped of his dignity, forced to undress yet again for a camera.

“Jin, I don’t wanna—” Jimin whimpers then, looking at him beseechingly as if Jin can somehow make it better.

(He can’t. He can’t make it better.)

“You’re almost at the end, Jimin. Just be brave for a bit longer, okay?” It really is like talking to a child, and Jimin’s lip wobbles and his fingers are leaving aching bruises in Jin’s arm.

“It’ll be over before you know it,” Dr Jung says, “and then we’ll let you get cleaned up and you can put some clothes on, alright?” Jimin’s eyes flit over to her before shooting back to Jin and he’s crying again and Jin really doesn’t know what to do except to let Jimin squeeze all the blood out of his arm while he murmurs soothing words to distract him.

“You’re okay, Jiminie. Deep breaths. Hyung is here for you, okay?”

It takes another few minutes before Jimin even lets Dr Jung move the paper gown, and when she does, his thighs clamp together again, refusing to part till Dr Jung persuades him with more placating promises. Jin keeps his eyes firmly upwards and cards his fingers gently through Jimin’s hair to distract him. He’s never seen Jimin so distraught, so utterly destroyed as he sobs through the entire process. Eventually, Jin is crying as well, and so he sits there and lets the tears slide down his face, feeling Jimin’s pain as acutely as if it was his own every time Jimin flinches with the sound of the camera shutter, and all he can think is how much he wants to kill Chang for breaking his brother.

If he was allowed just five minutes in a room with Chang alone, god, Jin would do some fucking damage.

By the time Dr Jung is finished, it’s been hours and all Jimin wants to do is go to sleep and never, ever wake up again. His head is pounding from crying, his body is sore in unimaginable places, his whole being is drained from the adrenaline of fear, and he’s so utterly defeated he can’t even imagine being able to get up again. He’s back in that dark recess of his mind, somewhere where he doesn’t have to think and feel and he can just exist. He’s living in a world completely muffled by a bubble of his own creation. His bubble.

He doesn’t remember exactly when Jin got there. Maybe around the time Dr Jung brought out the camera? In some ways he’d been mortified to have Jin there, feeling so disgusting he worried he’d taint him forever with the filth crawling over his skin. But having Jin there was a distraction, and at least Jin was a familiar face and not another stranger. Jimin doesn’t trust strangers.

Dr Jung sent him along to another doctor to get his stitches after the rape kit was finished, and Jimin didn’t let go of Jin’s hand the entire time. They injected some sort of local anaesthetic around the area, muttering something about his skin having torn due to a ‘foreign intrusion’. Jimin thinks of Chang slamming into him on that first day. Was that a foreign intrusion? It’s not really foreign, Jimin thinks absentmindedly as Jin wheels him down another corridor behind a nurse, Chang is Korean. He knows the word ‘foreign’ is being used in a different context here but he’s still floating deep in his mind and it gives him something to think about instead of the memories of the pain.

“Just in here,” the nurse says, leading them into a quiet room with a bed and a large window. The blinds are down but Jimin can just catch a glimpse of city lights peeking through the plastic slatting. The nurse gestures them to follow her and Jimin sinks a bit lower in his wheelchair as Jin rolls him forward into a bathroom.

“You can take a shower or a bath here,” the nurse explains to Jimin. “We’ll give you clothing to wear but we’d like to keep you in the hospital for a few days at least, just to keep an eye on some of those wounds and bruises, and also to get your weight up.” She eyes him over the top of her spectacles. “You’re very malnourished.” Jimin thinks back to the sandwiches. How long has it been since he’s eaten? He’s not even hungry.

“I’ll leave you here, Jimin,” Jin says from behind him, and Jimin twists in the wheelchair, a burst of fear sparking in his chest.

Don’t leave me alone! I don’t want to be alone!

“Bu—but—don’t leave me—I don’t want—please, Jin!” Jin’s brow furrows. He looks confused.

“I’ll wait in this room,” he points at the room with the bed, “and let you have a bath on your own.”

Oh. He’s not leaving completely. But—

“Can you—can you watch the door?” Jimin asks tentatively, that same fear of Chang finding him somehow making his stomach curdle even though logically he knows he’s safe. Jin’s eyes soften.

“Of course, Jimin.”

Jimin nods gratefully before pulling his tired body out of the wheelchair. It takes so much more effort to stand but he needs to get clean. Well, as clean as he possibly can. The nurse walks back in holding a small bundle of clothing which she sets down on the counter.

“Would you like a shower or a bath?”

“Bath,” Jimin answers immediately, not even having to think. He can’t look at a shower the same way anymore. Not after—

“I’ll let it run for you.”

“Thank you,” Jimin manages, half-distracted as Jin quietly exits the bathroom with a reassuring smile in Jimin’s direction.

Don’t go. I don’t want to be alone. Not anymore.

“Bye,” he whispers instead, and Jin pauses, smiles a little more, something sad flitting over his face before he gestures to the door.

“Don’t worry, Jimin. I’ll make sure no-one comes in.”

Jimin can’t get clean. He sits in the bath and scrubs at his body with the horrible hospital soap till it feels like anymore scrubbing will have layers of his skin peeling off and floating on top of the water. It hurts how hard he’s trying to clean the scum off of him. God, it hurts but he has to do it. Every one of Chang’s phantom touches tickling over his skin must be removed and only then will Jimin be able to sleep at night.

It’s impossible.

The water turns tepid and still Jimin scrubs, pausing only to let the plug pull out before he turns the water to scalding and allows the bathtub to refill with hot water. Anything to burn away the feel of Chang’s bruising grip on his thighs, down his back, all over his face. He doesn’t know how long he’s even in the tub, only stopping when is skin is bright red and tender to the touch, the sound of knocking on the door pulling him out of his manic cleaning.

“Jimin? Are you almost done?” It’s Jin, and Jimin freezes, only the sound of the hot tap running to interrupt the quiet.

“Um,” he chokes on the words, “alm—almost.”

“Okay, well,” Jin sounds concerned, “you’ve been in there a while. Is—is everything alright?”

Jimin looks down at his raw skin, sees darker red lines where his nails had scraped over his body around the soap, feels the water almost blistering his skin as the tap keeps running hot water into the tub.

“I’m fine.”

Chapter Text

Jimin can’t sleep. He feels trapped under the starched hospital sheets, the standard issue pyjamas scratching unpleasantly against his raw skin. There’s a needle stuck in his arm with fluid dripping steadily into his system. Jimin doesn’t know exactly what it is except that it’s meant to help with the effects of malnutrition, and he’s too afraid to ask the nurses who’d been bustling around his bedside for the past few hours.

“You can sleep for a few hours now,” his nurse had told him, “and we’ll wake you up to eat something for a late breakfast, okay?”

It’s almost six o’clock in the morning. Jimin can’t sleep.

The only comforting thing in the room is the dark shape in the corner, lying on a trundle bed and wrapped up in blankets. It’s Jin. Jimin had almost had a panic attack thinking about being in this unfamiliar room all alone while it’s dark, and so Jin had asked the nurses if he could have a bed brought in here instead of being placed in his own room. They’d agreed, although there’s an IV line leading to Jin’s sleeping form and he’d had to have a nurse check on him before he was allowed to stay.

The rest of the members are also somewhere in the hospital.

It’s a weird thought, and Jimin’s heart rate spikes suddenly as he thinks about them. He knows Jin isn’t injured but what about the others? They could be hurt—they could be dying and he would have no idea. But then again, would Jin really be here if one of the others were dying? Probably not, Jimin decides.

He still can’t sleep.

It’s not that he’s not tired because Jimin is exhausted, but he’s dancing on the edge of sleep without being able to fall over the edge into unconsciousness. There’s so much wrong with how he feels. He hates the way his clothing tickles his body, and he hates how the bed feels like it’s swallowing him up. It’s all so soft, so fine, so delicate.

All Jimin can think of is the hard concrete he’d slept on for the past weeks. The way the cold stone dug into his bones and anchored him to the floor. The feeling of the collar around his neck, tying him down. He hated it but at least he was grounded in a way he is lacking now. He’s floating on a cloud of blankets, and mattress, and pillows, and all Jimin really wants is to have something solid to hold onto, just so he doesn’t feel so insubstantial.

It doesn’t really hurt when Jimin rips the IV out of his skin, climbing carefully out of the bed so he doesn’t fall. And it feels right when he curls up on the floor, hard vinyl digging into his tailbone and poking at his ribs, only the thin layer of his pyjamas to protect him from the cold. At least he’s not floating anymore.

“What did he say? Why can’t we go see him?” Yoongi asks, frustration bubbling hot under his skin. The nurse looks apologetic.

“He’s asked for only his family to be allowed in.” She offers them a sympathetic smile. “If it makes you feel any better, your other friend was asked to leave this morning as well.” As if on cue, Jin appears in the doorway, looking utterly drained, almost gaunt with obvious exhaustion in his pyjamas.

“How’s Jungkook doing?” He asks when he walks in, looking over to the bed where Jungkook lies, one arm covered in plaster and a number of bandages around various parts of his body, still fast asleep. One of his eyes is a mess of purple and red. Even so many days after his beating, it’s still swollen shut, although the doctor had assured them the damage wasn’t permanent. Yoongi just sighs, worry swelling in his chest, not just for Jimin and Jungkook, but for this whole damned situation.

“He’s okay. He broke his arm though. Not the whole way through but enough for a cast.” Yoongi watches Jin’s lips purse as he moves over to the bed and brushes Jungkook’s fringe out of his eyes.

“How’s Jimin?”

“He asked me to leave so I’m not sure,” Jin replies, and there’s a stiffness to his body as he lowers himself into a chair that has nothing to do with exhaustion. “They did a rape kit on him yesterday. They had to take photos and after the whole camera thing—he didn’t—he struggled.” Jin trails off and Yoongi swallows. Hard.

“I only saw him briefly in the police car but he looks, um, skinny.” It sounds stupid but Jin nods slowly in agreement.

“Yeah, he’s malnourished. I’m not sure if Chang was feeding him while—” Jin shuts up. Yoongi swallows again.

“His family’s coming in an hour or so.”

“I know, the nurse told me,” Jin murmurs, gaze trained on Jungkook once more. “Where are the others?”

“Still asleep,” Yoongi replies, and Jin nods again, looking as if his thoughts are far away. They’re silent for a long second, both just watching as Jungkook turns his head and smacks his lips in his sleep. Then Jin frowns, letting out a long sigh, far too weary for someone his age.

“He was on the floor this morning.”

“Who?” Yoongi knows who but he has to make sure.

“Jimin.” Jin looks up at Yoongi and there’s an echo of some deep despair just visible in his eyes. “I found him just lying there next to his bed, asleep on the ground without even a blanket. He ripped his IV out too.” They both wince in unison. “‘Said something about floating but then the nurse came in and he panicked.”

“Oh.” Yoongi doesn’t know what to say. “That’s not good.”

“No, it’s not.” God, Jin sounds tired. Yoongi tries to think of something else to say but he comes up short. He’s almost grateful when Jungkook wakes up with a whimper of pain.

“Do you need more pain meds?” Yoongi asks immediately, not at all liking the ashy look on Jungkook’s face as his eyes flutter open. Jungkook shakes his head. Of course he won’t admit he might want some.

“I just pulled at the stitches—”

“You have stitches?” Jin yelps, looking from Yoongi to Jungkook and back to Yoongi incredulously. Yoongi gulps. Whoops.

“Didn’t I tell you?”

“No, you did not! Where are these stitches?” Jin growls, fixing Yoongi with a look reminiscent of an angry mother bear. Even Jungkook shrinks back a little.

“Six on my side. Apparently one of Chang’s cronies wore steel-capped boots and the cut hadn’t healed properly. They gave me medicine for an infection.”

“Oh, Jungkookie,” Jin says, shaking his head with clear concern.

“Is Jimin okay?” Jungkook asks, his one eye flicking between Yoongi and Jin with lightning speed. “I tried to ask the nurse last night but she wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“He’s okay,” Jin assures, although his reassuring tone isn’t reflected in his expression. It’s not enough, Yoongi thinks to himself, watching as Jungkook’s eyes narrow.

“You’re lying,” Jungkook says accusingly. “What’s wrong? What happened?” He tries to sit up properly in his bed but obviously jogs his stitches and he has to flop back against the pillows with a grunt. Jin and Yoongi both automatically lean forward, trying to stop Jungkook from injuring himself even more.

“He is okay,” Jin repeats, “but he’s asked for only his family to be allowed into his room.” Jungkook’s expression falls, lips parting in obvious surprise, and for a brief second, poorly-concealed hurt.

Yoongi understands exactly how he feels.

“But why? Doesn’t he—doesn’t he want to see us?” Jungkook sounds so incredibly confused, it makes Yoongi want to wrap him up, keep him away from the world.

“It’s not like that,” Jin murmurs, petting Jungkook’s hair. “He’s been through a lot that we don’t know about, also a lot of tough stuff here in the hospital, and it’s important for him to be comfortable right now. If that means he just wants his family there, then we have to respect that.”

“But…” Jungkook’s expression keeps getting more and more sad, eyebrows knitting together unhappily, “aren’t we his family too?” And Yoongi knows what he means, knows why Jungkook is reacting this way, but it’s not up to them.

“He’s been through a lot of shit, Jungkook. Just let him be, okay?” Jungkook stares at them both but then he reins in his crestfallen expression, looks down at the sheets and fiddles with the edge of his cast.

“He’s okay though, isn’t he?” And Yoongi has no idea but he nods as convincingly as he can.

“Don’t worry, Jungkook. He’s going to be just fine.”

Jimin’s parents arrive only a few hours after he wakes up. Actually, Jin had woken him up, calling Jimin’s name softly near his head. He still flinched hard enough to whack his elbow on the bedside table.

But it’s just him here now, tucked back in bed by the nurses who hadn’t mentioned his unusual sleeping location but had reinserted his IV line and eyed him with the expression Jimin is used to seeing by now. You’re broken, it says. What’s wrong with you? why are you like this?

They also bring him food, some sort of meat stew that’s obviously laced with vitamins from the strange chemical aftertaste. Jimin chokes down a few spoonfuls before he gets queasy and the nurses take it away again, sharing around another of those looks. He’s broken, they say. What’s wrong with him? Why is he like this?

Jimin’s mother cries the moment she sees him and it makes Jimin cry too. She rushes over, hands flapping uselessly in the air as she hesitates to touch him, concern evident in every line on her face. Jimin reaches out for her and inhales her familiar scent as she finally wraps her arms around him and cradles him against her chest. Jimin sees his father standing behind his mother, looking slightly lost, reaching out to pat Jimin’s arm rather tentatively. Jimin is crying too hard to think about it properly.

There’s nothing like a mother’s love, people say, and Jimin has to agree. The love he feels for his mother runs deeper than anything else he knows and his chest physically aches as she perches herself on the side of his bed and strokes his hair, her own tears dripping on the blankets as she pulls him close to her. He doesn’t know how long they sit like that, both crying without end as Jimin’s father sits on the other side of the bed and pats Jimin like he’s a wounded puppy. Hesitant, unsure, as if he’s made of fine china.

Eventually, even Jimin’s tears have dried up and he sits there with his parents, something crumbling deep inside of him as he looks at them both with their matching expressions of worry and fear. He doesn’t want to be the cause of that. His mother manages to smile at him although her cheeks are still wet, and her fingers keep carding through Jimin’s hair with soothing rhythmicity. Jimin tries to return it but his lip wobbles and he has to bite on it before he sets them both off again.

“I’m okay, Mama,” he mumbles instead, and she promptly bursts straight back into tears.

“My baby, what have they done to you? Oh, Jiminie,” she wails, and Jimin forces himself to swallow back the overwhelming urge to join her in her cries.

“I’m okay,” he repeats softly. Jimin’s mother just sobs and pulls him forward against her chest once more.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” Jimin’s dad says quietly, nodding at his own words and still patting Jimin’s leg as Jimin turns his head and sends his father a watery smile as well. Of course, he loves his father as well, although years of scorn when he was younger due to his father’s disapproval of Jimin’s dancing had made their relationship more strained.

“Me too,” Jimin whispers out, blinking hurriedly as the burning behind his eyes increases with every passing second. Jimin’s father pats his leg a little harder, blinks in unison with Jimin’s own eyes before he clears his throat with a gruff cough and looks away. Jimin’s father has never been one to show a lot of emotion.

Jimin’s parents stay a few hours, consisting mostly of Jimin’s mother finding any way to hold him, and Jimin’s father sitting somewhat awkwardly next to her, before Jimin is so tired he can barely keep his eyes from slipping shut. One of the nurses talks to his parents even as Jimin’s brain starts to slide into unconsciousness, and he just manages a weak smile in their direction before he’s falling over the edge, body being crushed into the mattress by some sort of invisible pressure that starts behind his eyes and extends to the tips of his toes.

He’s asleep before they even leave the room.

When he wakes up, it’s evening and Dr Jung is in his room, carrying a clipboard and with a warm smile on her face. Jimin can’t help the way his heart rate picks up uncomfortably at the sight of her.

“Hi Jimin,” she greets. “How are you doing today?” Jimin hesitates, shrugging tentatively as she approaches the bed. “I’m  just here to check on your stitches, alright?” Jimin feels his gut swoop but there’s not much he can do about this.

He feels sick as she chats to him while pulling the blankets down, helping him so his hips are on top of the blanket rather than underneath. He’s trembling bodily by the time Dr Jung gets him to remove his pants, and by the time she has him spreading his legs, Jimin is crying again.

He’s so fucking sick of crying all the time.

Dr Jung is quick about it though, and her constant stream of one-sided conversation keeps Jimin at least partially distracted as her fingers poke and prod. It takes only a few minutes and she ends by passing him a box of tissues and helping him back under the sheets, Jimin’s cheeks burning with shame that he can’t seem to shake.

“I’ll be back tomorrow to check on those stitches again but they’re healing well so don’t worry.”

Jimin watches her leave in silence and wonders if his body will ever be his own again.

Yoongi tries to see Jimin before the rest of them are released from the hospital. They’ve all given statements about their ordeal, explained to the police what had happened to them, what they’d seen, what they’d been forced to experience. Yoongi thinks of how Namjoon had emerged from the room of officers and inspectors with swollen eyes from crying. It’s a lot for a man who Yoongi’s only seen cry a handful of times. But they’re allowed to go home now, back to their apartment to sleep in their own beds for the first time in weeks. It’s almost like they’re being given an opportunity to go back to some semblance of normal life. Except that Jimin isn’t returning with them just yet, apparently having to spend at least one more night in the hospital before he’ll be going back to his family in Busan, and Yoongi can’t leave the hospital without seeing him at least once. Otherwise, who knows when they’ll see Jimin again?

He goes to the nurses station, hoping someone will be able to help him, and thankfully, after some embarrassing pleas have spilt from Yoongi’s lips, one of the nurses sighs and allows Yoongi to follow her to Jimin’s room. He’s given strict instructions to wait outside as she knocks lightly and enters, and he does so, hands clenching and unclenching with every second he has to stand out in the hallway. He can’t leave without knowing if Jimin’s okay, despite Jin’s best assurances, and the tension in his chest only grows tighter as the door between them remains firmly shut. Finally, the nurse opens the door again, sticking her head out in the hallway.

“Who are you?”

“Yoongi. Min Yoongi,” Yoongi replies, hoping desperately not to be turned away. She ducks her head back inside and the door clicks shut again. Yoongi sinks his teeth into his lower lip and waits again. This time only a few seconds pass before the nurse opens the door with a curt nod.

“You can go in.”

Yoongi’s mouth drops open unintentionally and he has to forcefully remind himself to snap it shut, thanking the nurse before making his way hesitantly into Jimin’s room.

He’s unconsciously holding his breath when his eyes find Jimin lying on the bed, and it’s like someone’s kicked him swiftly in the stomach, any air in his lungs forced out in one great whoosh.

It’s a completely different feeling from when Yoongi had seen Jimin naked and collared or slammed against the wall, even huddled in a blanket in the back of a police car, because in some weird way that had been so far from reality it had felt more like a nightmare. A distorted moment in time which they had to wake up from at some point. But this Jimin, huddled under the bed covers with rounded shoulders, dark shadows in the gaunt hollows of his face, avoiding Yoongi’s eyes as if they’ll bite him, and with a raw ring around his throat as the last remnants of the collar — this is the reality and it’s both an expected yet shocking blow to his heart.

Jimin still doesn’t look at him when he walks over and Yoongi doesn’t really know what to do (god, he’d never expected to get this far) so he pulls one of the plastic hospital chairs closer to the bed, wincing as it scrapes over the vinyl. Jimin’s still fiddling with his fingers, picking at the skin around his nails, not even acknowledging Yoongi’s presence a mere metre from his bed. Yoongi clears his throat.

“How—um, how are you doing?”

You’re really fucking this one up.

Jimin shrugs almost imperceptibly before his mouth corners twist up into a tiny, bitter smile so unlike the Jimin Yoongi knew before this whole ordeal.

“Could be better, you know.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi agrees after a pause.

Why is this so awkward?

There’s a long silence and Jimin still hasn’t looked up and Yoongi starts to wonder if maybe he made a mistake invading Jimin’s room. He swallows that thought straight back down, desperately thinking of something to say to make this normal.

“You’re going back to Busan tomorrow?” Jimin nods, rubbing at some invisible mark on his hand.

“I have to talk to the police first but then my parents are taking me home. My mum probably won’t let me out of her sight for the next few months anyway,” he murmurs, huffing a humourless laugh. Finally, he looks up, and there’s something so sad, almost like he’s embarrassed, in the way they make eye contact for barely a half second before Jimin’s cheeks flush and he shoots his gaze back down to the blanket. “You’re all leaving tonight?”

“Yeah,” Yoongi manages, “Everyone’s going home for a bit as well.”

“You too?” Jimin asks quietly, glancing at Yoongi from the side of his eye. Yoongi knows why he asks; his relationship with his parents is strained to put it mildly. Wouldn’t they have loved another doctor in the family.  Jimin knows all of this.

“Not for long,” he says, pulling at a loose thread on his pants. “I’d rather be in Seoul anyway.”

“Is everyone okay? Jungkook—”

“Everyone’s fine,” Yoongi says, and he sees some of the tension in Jimin’s body relax. Trust Jimin to be worried about everyone else when he’s suffered the most. “Jungkook’s got a fractured wrist and stitches on his ribs but he’s doing well.” Jimin’s eyebrows crease together and Yoongi almost wants to laugh because it’s the same look Jin had given him.

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“You know Jungkook, he’ll be up and trying to lift weights in the gym tomorrow.” Jimin has to smile at that, nodding softly at his blanket. It’s true — Jungkook will probably have to be forcibly restrained by his parents if they want him to rest.

The silence is back. Yoongi doesn’t know what else to say, and Jimin isn’t looking at him. It’s so different from how it used to be; Yoongi and Jimin never had awkward silences. They could sit in the same room and both be doing different things in silence, but it never got awkward. It’s awkward now.

“The others wanted to say goodbye to you as well before they leave.” Jimin stiffens at that, fingers clenching together till his knuckles go white. His eyes dart back up to Yoongi’s and there’s pure, unfiltered shame clear in his eyes.

But why? It doesn’t make any sense. Why would Jimin be ashamed?

“I don’t—you can just say bye to them for me,” Jimin mumbles, and his teeth nibble on his lip. His fingers are shaking where they’re gripping at the blanket and Yoongi fiddles with the edge of his own shirt. It’s so fucking awkward.

He looks around the room, takes in the IV line still attached to Jimin’s arm, and the empty pill cups stacked on the bedside table. There’s a pamphlet next to them about STI’s and Yoongi rips his gaze away, mouth drying up as he tries to find something else to focus on but comes up short. There’s a buzzing in his brain, so many things whirling through at high speed as he looks at Jimin’s thin figure curled under the blankets, and yet he can’t pick one to bring to fruition until this tornado of thoughts just blurts one out at random.

“I’m sorry.”

He shouldn’t have said it, he knows the moment the words leave his mouth because Jimin deserves so much more than his shitty, misplaced apologies, but it’s been eating at him ever since the first day they were taken hostage. He hears rather than sees the sharp intake of breath from the bed, wincing as Jimin’s cheeks go bright red and his knuckles turn the colour of snow.

“Don’t,” he whispers, and it’s like he’s forcing the words out of his chest. “It’s not your fault.”

“I’m still sorry,” Yoongi mumbles, an overwhelming wave of emotion threatening to have all his walls crumbling. “I wish I could’ve done something.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jimin repeats, and his lips are squeezing together into a thin line. “There’s nothing you could’ve done, or anyone, so don’t— don’t think like that.” He wipes at his nose, pulling his knees up to his chest under the covers. The raw, chafing wound around his neck is glaringly obvious against the white of the sheets.

There’s so many things Yoongi wants to say, so many apologies he feels he still owes, but one look at Jimin’s face and he can almost see the moment he shuts down, pulling the curtains on their conversation.

“You’ll be leaving soon, right?” Jimin asks, eyes flicking over to Yoongi before they break away, back to the spot on the bed which seems to have held so much interest to him throughout their entire exchange. Yoongi shrivels in his seat even as he nods. It’s a dismissal, a kind one but a dismissal nonetheless. He stands up, pushing the hospital chair back to its original place and smoothing his palms over his legs.

What the fuck do I say now?

Jimin beats him to it.

“Have fun at home.” He sounds so small. Yoongi swallows through the lump in his throat, takes a step towards the door.

“Um, look after yourself.” Another step. “And—text me, okay? Even if it’s just—just an emoji or something.”

This sounds so stupid, you dumb fuck.

“Just so I know you’re doing alright, you know.”

Just stop talking. Stop talking. Oh my g—

“Yoongi?” Jimin’s looking up at him, cheeks pink, fingers twisting into the blanket. “I’m sorry.” Yoongi’s brain short-circuits.

“Why are you sorry? What the—”

“Just—everything’s fucked up now,” Jimin mumbles, forehead wrinkling as he frowns down at the bed.

“But—but,” Yoongi’s flabbergasted. “Jimin, that’s not your fault.” Jimin looks back up at him then, and Yoongi’s shocked to see his eyes shiny with tears.

“I hope you have a good time at home, Yoongi. And tell the others bye from me, okay?”

For the second time in as many minutes, Yoongi finds himself at the end of a dismissal, but this one hurts a million times more.

Why did Jimin’s ‘goodbye’ sound more like a farewell forever?

Chapter Text

The morning after the rest of the members were released from the hospital, Jimin has a number of visitors. Three police detectives, two inspectors, and two officers all enter Jimin’s hospital room with grim expressions and a tape recorder. The part of Jimin that has totally repressed what has happened to him is pried open once more, wounds sliced anew, nightmares brought back to life as he is forced to recount the 27 days they were held captive by Chang and his men.

Was it really that long? It feels like a split second.

It takes hours. Hours where Jimin’s cheeks never cease to glow with shame, and his hands shake continuously with uncontrollable tremors. At more than one point he dances on the edge of a panic attack and he has to take a break to calm himself. It would have been humiliating enough telling his story to just one person but having to explain to seven people that he was basically treated like an abused dog, a fucktoy for another man — Jimin’s never felt so ashamed in his life.

“Do you believe there was a reason he chose you as his victim and not one of the others?” One of the inspectors asks at one point, and Jimin is about to say no when he remembers something Chang said to him within minutes of meeting him.

“He said—he said he saw me dance,” Jimin says faintly, sick to his stomach as Chang’s words ring through his head. The seven men in front of him frown.

“Dancing?” One of them asks almost disbelievingly. Jimin flushes, dropping his gaze down to his hands.

“I’m one of the main dancers in our group so he must’ve seen me at some point.” He feels stupid saying it out loud but one of the men is writing it down.

“Dancing,” they murmur, “who would’ve guessed.”

It’s almost eight hours after they began their recording that the police finally leave. Jimin thinks he’s done enough, thinks he’ll be able to at least partially put this whole horror behind him, but then Dr Jung is knocking on his door to check his stitches for the last time before Jimin’s parents take him home, and Jimin can’t do it anymore. He sits there as she’s checking his stitches and cries with tissues balled up in his fists, so utterly overwhelmed and exhausted. He doesn’t want to do it anymore. And then his brain sorts through all the emotions flooding through him and Jimin decides, it’s not even that he doesn’t want to do it anymore — it’s that he can’t.

But Jimin has always been good at hiding his vulnerabilities, covering his breakdowns with convincing smiles and excuses of tiredness. It’s his greatest coping strategy; it’s always been that way, and by the time Jimin’s parents are there to collect him, Jimin has pulled himself together, the only remnants of his weakness being the hundred-something screwed up tissues in the bin next to the bed.

His mother has brought him clothes, something Jimin is extremely grateful for as he locks himself in the bathroom and strips off the scratchy, starchy hospital pyjamas he’s been wearing for the past few days. He’s careful to avoid his own reflection in the mirror, not wanting to see the last marks Chang had inflicted upon him. But it’s hard to ignore the purple bruises blossoming over his hips and thighs, and an accidental sideways glance shows brilliant plum striping covering his back, tinged with yellow and green around the edges.

“I told you not to fucking move again,” Chang snarls, hands twisting in Jimin’s hair and pulling him up from the floor in one swift movement. Jimin can’t help the wail that escapes his lips as parts of his hair break, his scalp on fire. “You’re asking to be fucked up, you dumb mutt.” Jimin whimpers in pain and his hands scrabble at Chang’s wrists, trying to get him to ease some of the pressure on his head. It won’t just be his hair being pulled out; the next thing to break will be his skin.

“Please—let go—Ah—stop!”  

“Shut the fuck up!” Chang yells, but his hands release Jimin’s hair as he throws him down on the ground. Jimin hits the side of the bed and his ribs throb, forcing another yelp to burst from his mouth, but he can’t help the relief flooding through him. He thinks he’s escaped the worst of Chang’s anger but then Chang is reaching for his belt, pulling it out of the trouser loops and curling it around his hand, and Jimin is filled with terror all over again as the belt is raised above Chang’s head to come down at lightning speed. It hits Jimin with the force of a speeding car, a resounding ‘crack’ echoing through the room as it makes contact with his curled back.

And then comes the pain.

It hits him a split second after the initial blow has struck and it drives every bit of oxygen from his lungs, flames licking in a white-hot stripe across his shoulders. Before his body even has the chance to react, before the scream even exits his lungs, the belt is cracking down again, whipping over his ribs with blinding force.

“Jimin? Do you—do you not like the clothes?” Jimin’s mother calls through the door, and Jimin startles, snapped out of his stupor.

“Oh—no, they’re fine, they’re good!” He calls back hurriedly, turning away from the mirror completely and grabbing the clothes out of the bag. He pretends not to notice how his hands are trembling.

The clothes are comfortable —just some sweatpants and a hoodie— but they hang off Jimin like they’re somebody else's. He didn’t even realise he’d lost that much weight but apparently eating nothing but sandwiches and then not eating at all will do that to a person. Jimin can count each of his ribs individually now, and he shivers unconsciously as he steps out into the hospital room.

His parents are waiting on the plastic chairs, Jimin’s mother wringing her hands and shooting him teary smiles every few seconds, Jimin’s father staring resolutely at the vinyl flooring. Jimin tries to swallow back the odd, empty feeling in his chest as he leaves what has become relatively safe place here in the hospital, even if he was only here for two nights. What is safety anyway?

“We talked to the doctors, and they told us about—about the extent of your injuries,” Jimin’s mother says, standing up to brush Jimin’s shoulder with warm fingers. “They’ve given us recommendations for doctors in Busan, and—and therapists.” Her voice trembles a little and Jimin’s cheeks feel warm as he looks anywhere but at her sympathetic eyes. He’s so fucking tired of feeling ashamed.

“Your company booked flights,” Jimin’s father says, and Jimin blinks, surprised. He’d forgotten all about BigHit. It’s like a weird, warped world he’s emerged into, and yet, he’s still Jimin from Bangtan Sonyeondan. Still Jimin with millions of fans around the world—

You think they’d still be fans if they knew—

—Still Jimin who’s technically a celebrity, a public figure in Korea. Still working for BigHit Entertainment.

“Oh. That’s… nice,” he manages. Jimin’s father nods in agreement, fiddling with his watch.

“No-one knows you’re here, except for the hospital staff and executives at the company, but you need to wear a mask in case anyone recognizes you.”

That brings up another question Jimin has.

“Do the fans—do they know?”

Do they know we were kidnapped? Do they know I was raped? Do they know I’m disgusting now?

“No,” Jimin’s father says, and it’s almost an order, the way the word spits out into the air, a single syllable of harsh authority. They do not know and they must not know. “No, they do not.” He moves then, not really looking at Jimin as he picks up his coat and walks over to the door. Jimin swallows, relieved but feeling a sick weight settle in his stomach at the thought of having to carry the weight of their fans expectations when they have zero understanding of what they’ve all been through.

He shouldn’t think about it.

“Let’s go,” Jimin’s father says, and Jimin forces his feet to move as his mother hands him a plain mask.

Time to leave. Time to face the world.

Taehyung ends up spending a mere week and a half at home before he returns to Seoul. It’s not that his parents and siblings have done anything wrong per se, and Taehyung doesn’t want them to feel like it’s their fault, but he just can’t stay. Everything is just so wrong and the longer he is at home, the more frustrated he gets with the constant, hovering concern, and the pitying looks everyone shares behind his back. And he has nothing to keep him occupied which would alleviate at least some of his own inner turmoil. It’s like a stewing pot of guilt, worry, and irritation bubbling just under the surface of his skin, constantly reminding him that things are different now.

The group chat has been silent too. Not a single message has been sent from any of them, and in some ways, this shakes Taehyung more than he’d like to admit. Leave it to a group chat to tell their current state of affairs in the digital era. But then again, he hasn’t sent anything either because everything he wants to say seems insignificant given their current reasons for being apart.

However, even if he doesn’t text the group chat, there is one person he tries texting, only for his messages to appear as ‘read’ but to go unanswered. It’s Jimin. Taehyung sends him more than a dozen messages, trying to get some sort of response from his friend who would’ve previously answered in a heartbeat. Every single one of them is ignored. It hurts Taehyung more than he’d like to admit.

But nine days of being at home is enough for him and he finds himself on the next train to Seoul, happy when the bright lights of the city appear through the window, and an odd sense of relief blooming in his chest. He just wants everything to go back to normal and Seoul is the start to this.

He’d sent a message to Sejin, one of their managers, telling him he’d be returning, just like he would’ve before their abduction, but there’s still a weird, apprehensiveness he feels as he makes his way up to the front door of their apartment at nine o’clock at night.

To Taehyung's utter surprise, the lights are on when he unlocks the door and steps inside.

“Hello?” He calls out, dropping his bag unceremoniously in the middle of the hallway and shucking off his shoes in much the same manner. The apartment is quiet and Taehyung pads his way through to the living room, trying to figure out who is here. He finds his answer lying fast asleep on the couch, a random movie playing silently on the t.v.

“Yoongi?” Taehyung is confused. He repeats Yoongi’s name again, waiting as Yoongi stirs, smacking his lips before his eyes crack open. It obviously takes a second for Taehyung’s presence to register in Yoongi’s mind but when it does he suddenly jolts upright, balance still poor enough from sleep that he overbalances and falls off the couch. Taehyung winces.

“Jesu—Taehyung? What are you doing here?” Yoongi asks, coughing to clear his gravelly throat.

“Just,” Taehyung shrugs softly, “you know—family...“

“It’s exhausting, isn’t it,” Yoongi agrees, picking himself up from the floor and sinking back into the couch cushions.

“Is that why you’re—?”

“Yeah.” Yoongi yawns, scratching his head before yawning again. Then his eyes sharpen. “Have you heard from—?”

“No.”

“Me neither,” Yoongi mutters, gaze shuttering as he glances at Taehyung.

“How long have you been back?”

“Three days,” Yoongi replies. “Namjoon and Hoseok texted to tell me they’re coming back tomorrow and Seokjin is thinking he might come back then as well.”

Taehyung isn’t surprised. “What about Jungkook?” Yoongi shrugs.

“I didn’t text him to ask. He should be at home so his family can keep an eye on him, make sure he’s not moving around too quickly.”

“Seokjin would probably kill him if he tried going to the gym under his watch.”

“I did think about that,” Yoongi says, lips curling amusedly, “but then we have to deal with Jungkook’s whining.” They both grin at that but then Jimin pops back into Taehyung’s brain and the smile slips off his face just as quickly. Yoongi seems to pick up on his thoughts because his smile disappears as well and he sighs.

“I talked to Sejin and Bang PD. Jimin’s looking to be spending at least two months at home before he’ll come back to Seoul. If he—” he cuts off. Both Taehyung and Yoongi know what he was going to say. If he comes back at all.

“Oh.” Taehyung swallows the lump in his throat. There’s something that’s been preying on his mind ever since their kidnapping but he hesitates to say it aloud. He opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again, and shuts it just as quickly.

“Just say it, Tae,” Yoongi says, and Taehyung looks up to see Yoongi watching him quietly.

“I—what—what’s going to happen? Does Bangtan—will we keep going after this?” It hurts to put it out there, to vocalise the possibility of something so terrible, but Yoongi seems to have thought about it as well, for he doesn’t look surprised.

“It’s not that simple, Tae.”

“I—I know. But...but—”

“I know,” Yoongi interrupts quietly, and he shoots Taehyung a tired grimace that’s probably meant to be a reassuring smile. “Don’t think about it too much, okay?” Taehyung’s heart sinks a little in his chest but he manages to nod in what he hopes is a somewhat convincing manner. He’s getting good at that —putting on a mask to stop people from worrying. And why should they worry about him in the first place? He’s not Jungkook who got beaten to a pulp; he’s not Namjoon who got forced to — or Jimin who was—

Don’t think about it too much.

Taehyung sleeps better in their apartment than he does back home with his parents. Maybe it’s because he has Yoongi for company. Someone who understands what they’ve been through, who understands waking up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, heart racing with the remnants of adrenaline and fear. When Taehyung stumbles out of bed that first night he finds Yoongi still lying on the couch, now some random black and white movie playing on the t.v with the sound almost muted. Yoongi doesn’t say anything but he shifts on the couch, moves over so he’s not taking up the whole of it. It’s an open invitation, and for Taehyung, fluent in ‘Yoongi speak’, it’s one he’ll gratefully accept.

He tucks himself under Yoongi’s fluffy blanket, lets Yoongi pull him closer so he’s almost lying on top of him. They lay like that for such a long time Taehyung thinks Yoongi’s fallen asleep but the Yoongi shifts, fingers curling to brush through Taehyung’s hair. It’s comforting, reminding Taehyung of when he was a toddler and the only way he could get to sleep was to have someone petting him.

“Do you—do you have dreams about...it?” Taehyung whispers, listens to Yoongi’s breathing hitch just a little.

“No,” he says, and Taehyung frowns, craning his neck sideways to look at Yoongi’s face staring impassively at the t.v screen. It seems unbelievable; Taehyung hasn’t had a single night where he hasn’t. But then Yoongi swallows, and he’s still not looking away from the t.v but something clenches in his jaw and his fingers stop playing with Taehyung’s hair. “I have nightmares.”

Taehyung sighs, patting Yoongi’s arm clumsily, brain absolutely exhausted.

“I think about it all the time,” he mumbles into Yoongi’s hoodie. “I can’t help it.” Yoongi sighs as well, and it’s a great, shuddering exhale that has Taehyung’s head rising and falling from where he’s slipped down to lean on Yoongi’s chest.

“Go to sleep, Tae,” Yoongi mutters, but it lacks any real bite and, if anything, he pulls Taehyung a little more firmly against him.

“What about you?” Taehyung asks, aware how uncomfortable it probably is for Yoongi to be crushed by him. But Yoongi just chuckles wryly, patting Taehyung’s head.

“I’ll be fine.”

“But—”

“Sleep, Taehyung.”

As promised, Namjoon and Hoseok arrive the next day, the sound of their footsteps entering the apartment a wake-up call for Yoongi and Taehyung. They’re still lying on the couch, although Taehyung is defying all laws of physics with the way he’s balanced precariously on the edge, and that’s how Namjoon and Hoseok find them when they walk into the living room.

Taehyung wakes up a split second before Yoongi, squinting up from where his head is hanging off the couch, as the familiar shapes of his two hyungs enter the room. The next thing he knows, Yoongi stretches, his elbow catching in Taehyung’s ribs, and Taehyung face-plants into the carpet.

“You two look comfortable,” Hoseok says, kicking one of the cushions on the ground and grinning above Taehyung’s head..

“It’s fucking un comfortable,” Yoongi mutters sourly, just as Taehyung says, “We need a better couch.”

Neither Namjoon or Hoseok ask why they’re sleeping on the couch in the first place, although Taehyung sees the way Namjoon eyes them both with thinly-veiled concern.

“When’s Seokjin coming?” Hoseok asks instead, flopping down on one of the beanbags. Taehyung picks himself off the ground and yawns obnoxiously loud, looking to Yoongi to answer. Yoongi pulls his phone out from between the couch cushions, flicking immediately to his recent messages.

”He’s saying his dad is driving him and that he’ll be here about lunchtime.”

“Why are you guys back so quickly as well?” Taehyung asks, regretting it slightly when both Namjoon’s and Hoseok’s expressions sober up considerably and the mood in the room plunges.

“It’s too hard to explain to my family,” Hoseok says in the end. “They think everything’s just going to go back to normal overnight, just because we aren’t there anymore.”

“I had the same thing,” Namjoon mumbles.

There’s quiet before a thought inches it’s way intrusively into Taehyung’s brain.

“How—how much did you tell them about what happened?”

“Just the...basic stuff. About Jungkook as well,” Namjoon says, and Hoseok nods in agreement. Yoongi pipes up then from the couch.

“Not about…?”

“No,” Hoseok says sharply, eying Yoongi and Taehyung with some wariness. “Did you?” Both Yoongi and Taehyung immediately shake their heads.

“It wouldn’t be fair to tell people about something—something like that,” Taehyung murmurs, and Namjoon and Hoseok look relieved.

“That’s why I came back as well,” Namjoon says. “It’s hard for them to understand when they don’t know the whole story.” He looks slightly sick.

An uneasy silence settles upon them. Yoongi and Taehyung pick themselves up from the couch and the floor respectively.

“Did you hear about what Chang said to the police?” Hoseok asks suddenly, and all their heads snap back around to look at him.

“No—what did he say?” Namjoon asks. “And who told you?”

“My uncle. He works as a chief police inspector in Seoul so he asked for an overview of the case files.” Hoseok swallows, looking intensely uncomfortable. “Chang is admitting the kidnapping charge but he’s denying all charges of rape.”

“What!?” All of their eyes are bugging out. Taehyung’s mouth drops open in pure shock. “How the hell is he expecting that to stand up in court?”

“We saw that motherfucker doing it!” Yoongi spits out incredulously. “He fucking—“

“We know, Yoongi,” Hoseok interrupts gently. “It’s a pathetic attempt to throw a spanner in the works.”

“There’s footage of him—of him—“ Yoongi snarls, unable to finish what they all know he wants to say, and Taehyung doesn’t think he’s ever seen Yoongi so livid as he is now.

Hoseok is chewing on his lip, hands twisting in front of him almost guiltily.

“The trial is going to be hard to keep out of the eye of the media so my uncle said he’s probably bargaining with the fact that…that,” he hesitates, and Taehyung has to suppress the urge to shake the words it of him.

“What, Hoseok. What is that fucker counting on?” Yoongi says, voice sharp enough to cut through glass. Hoseok swallows uneasily.

“That homosexuality is looked down upon in society and most companies would probably rather drop any rape charges than for the sexuality of their idols be brought to question.”

There’s stunned silence for all of three seconds before the room explodes.

They’re in uproar, poor Hoseok flinching back as Yoongi curses wildly. Namjoon is in obvious shock, a barrage of emotions swirling over his face as he fires more questions at Hoseok. And Taehyung; He’s never felt such a sharp burst of injustice and betrayal as he does now. It consumes him and fills him with a raw fury unlike anything he’s ever experienced.

All he can see in his mind’s eye is Jimin’s curled body as he’d lain there wracked with sobs, blood streaking the insides of his thighs, the absolute epitome of fear and pain. And Taehyung will never know how that feels —god, none of them will ever know— but he knows that Jimin deserves so much more than for Chang to not have to answer for being the cause of that pain.

“How dare he?” Taehyung’s shaking. “How dare he?”

“BigHit isn’t like other companies though! They won’t let the charges be dropped just for the sake of a reputation!” Hoseok says desperately, and Taehyung understands he’s trying to make this better but it’s not helping.

“But Chang is fucking suggesting it was—that it was consensual! ” Yoongi snaps, teeth gritting together. “He’s a manipulative bastard for even—Jimin would never—“ Yoongi breaks off, and he swallows harshly.

“I shouldn’t have told you,” Hoseok mutters miserably. “I didn’t want you guys to get upset—”

“How could we not get upset?!” Taehyung asks incredulously.

“Because it’s a hypothetical issue!” Hoseok says, and he sounds so tired. “You’re basing your anger off the idea that BigHit or-or Jimin would agree to drop the charges.”

He’s right (of course he’s right) but Taehyung can’t help the frustration bubbling in his gut. There’s a raging tension almost tangible in the air between them all, stifling in it’s thick concentration. They’re only feet from each other but it could be miles at this point.

“I’m going for a walk,” Taehyung mumbles when the tension becomes too much to bear. It feels like he’s drowning in the apartment, and stepping outside is like being offered a chance to breathe.  

A quick glance at his phone shows it’s almost midday and the sun is shining warmly on the city. Taehyung doesn’t really knows where he’s going; he lets his feet take him where they will, walking blindly through the haze of his thoughts. He’s never been good at navigating anger —not like other people his age. For Taehyung, he doesn’t deal well with conflict, even when it’s not targeted towards him, and he’s even worse at sorting out his own feelings. And right now, he’s angry. Actually, he’s fucking furious at the nerve Chang has to even suggest his actions were anything less than a violent, unwanted attack on someone Taehyung loves with all his heart. That’s why he left the apartment. Because he doesn’t know how to process his own feelings and all he can think about is his best friend, his virtual brother, hurting because of this man’s cruelty.

Taehyung takes deep breaths of the Seoul air, regretting it slightly when he tastes the dust pollution on his tongue, and resists the urge to punch the nearest tree.

In one of those weird, subconscious things your brain do when you’re preoccupied, Taehyung’s feet take him all the way to the BigHit company building. He’s still not thinking when he pulls the door open and steps inside but almost immediately he realises what a mistake this probably is. The two reception ladies, who Taehyung has known for years, watch him stumble in open-mouthed.

And why wouldn’t they be? You’ve just been kidnapped for almost a whole month.

Fuck.

Taehyung is aware of how random his appearance is but he’s not going to turn tail now. Lord, that would make it even more awkward than it is already. Instead, he mumbles a quick greeting, nodding at them both in a hurried bow before almost sprinting towards the stairs.

He avoids all the stares on his way down to the basement level. Everyone knows them at BigHit. Hell, everyone works for their success in some way considering they’re the only group in the company, so it’s not like Taehyung can be inconspicuous in any way. He’s immensely grateful that no-one talks to him, everyone content with ogling him with blatant shock instead, and he manages to make it down to their studio without having to speak a single word.

It feels like walking into a part of his life he hasn’t even had to think about for so long. The studio is almost exactly how it was when they left: still the random shelf with shoes chucked haphazardly in no particular order; the racks of clothing the stylists left in the corner; polished floors marred with the occasional random scuff mark; the pile of empty cups and the water cylinder next to the door; a yellow shirt draped over one of the chairs they’d dragged in from the offices upstairs. The shirt used to be Yoongi’s but Jimin had adopted it as his own, He’d worn it constantly, to the point where Taehyung had been considering buying him another one so he never had to go a day without being able to wear it when it was in the wash.

It’s like a snapshot of a life they can’t get back, and it fucking hurts. Taehyung almost brings his hand up to his heart, convinced he must be bleeding with the way the feeling stabs deep into his chest.

But he’s not bleeding and he can’t go back in time and they'll never go back to being the seven people who left this studio last. It should be obvious but the realisation strikes Taehyung so deeply he doesn't even realise when his legs buckle under him, knees hitting the wooden floor with a resounding thud. 

They can't go back.

Chapter Text

They’re falling apart.

It’s like they’re drifting away from each other; feathers floating through the wind, pulled in a thousand different directions, trapped in a swirling hurricane that has them completely in its grip.

Yoongi’s watching it happen, and yet he can’t do anything but plummet. The feather that can’t even seem to float anymore.

It doesn’t have to be like this, he thinks desperately to himself. He doesn’t have to fall. But it’s so hard to clear his mind of all the memories, all the horrors, and it’s when Yoongi finds himself hunched over in the shower, vomiting bile from the intensity of the flashbacks, that he realises he’s losing his battle to gravity, and soon, he’s going to crash straight into the ground.

So Yoongi does the only thing he knows how to do: he throws himself straight back into his studio and doesn’t reappear for days.

It’s not even like he has a deadline he’s working towards, and he certainly isn’t there because he’s been struck by some sort of creative inspiration that has his fingers itching to touch the keys of his keyboard. Yoongi is there because music in the one thing that has kept him afloat for all of these years.

And it’s not working anymore.

He sits there at his desk, unable to do anything when every note sounds like Jimin’s screaming, and every drum beat feels like his heart pounding in his chest as they’d waited for Jimin to be returned to them. But even the silence feels oppressive. He sits there at his desk and he chews at his thumbnail till the torn skin is bleeding rivulets down his hand, till the pain is the only thing he’s focusing on. He sits there at his desk and suddenly, the ground doesn’t seem so far away at all.

The worst thing is that Yoongi doesn’t have an excuse. He doesn’t have an excuse for all the times he finds himself curled in the bottom of the shower, unable to distinguish the heat of his tears from the heat of the water pounding on his back. He doesn’t have an excuse for staying in his studio for three days without even emerging once so he doesn’t have to confront the shuttered faces of his members. He doesn’t have an excuse for not answering Sejin’s texts when he doesn’t turn up to his scheduled therapy sessions.

He doesn’t have a single fucking excuse because he knows he shouldn’t be so fucking weak. He wasn’t beaten, he wasn’t forced to do anything to anyone else, he wasn’t raped. Nothing happened to him.

Yoongi should be okay, and there’s no excuse for admitting he’s not.

Jungkook comes back to Seoul after two and a half weeks at home, stitches removed and a shiny pink scar to show for it. He doesn’t tell his parents he’s coming back, and Jin suddenly finds himself inundated with panicked calls from Jungkook’s family wondering if Jungkook was with them or if he’d been abducted again. What follows is a stern talking to from Jin that seems to have no effect on Jungkook if his impassive expression is anything to go by. It’s unlike Jungkook, who is normally on very good terms with his parents, and they’re all surprised when it takes some blunt words from Namjoon, threatening to send him straight back home, for Jungkook to even pick up the phone to call them himself to let them know he’s safe. It’s a short call, and Jungkook leaves the apartment straight afterwards, door slamming so hard the walls shake.

Aside from his obvious aversion to calling his parents, Jungkook is doing an impressive job of appearing as tough as possible but Yoongi sees right through it. He knows Jungkook knows as well and Yoongi is unsurprised when, a few days after Jungkook’s return, there’s a soft knock on the door of his studio and it is Jungkook standing there, drowning in one of his massive hoodies as he waits patiently for Yoongi to let him in. Yoongi does, of course, because seeing someone who actually has a valid reason for not being okay, and being able to help them, distracts Yoongi from his own misery.

Jungkook doesn’t even talk, just walks in and heads straight for Yoongi’s couch. It’s part of a routine they used to have even before the whole ‘incident’ for whenever something was troubling Jungkook. He’s always found it difficult talking about his feelings, even if it was minor, so Yoongi knows to just let him in, to go back to his own work and wait for Jungkook to start talking on his own.

It only takes ten minutes before Jungkook cracks.

“They didn’t want me coming back.”

“Who didn’t?” Yoongi asks quietly, fiddling around with random folders on his computer so Jungkook doesn’t feel like Yoongi’s listening too much.

“My parents,” Jungkook mumbles. “They want me to stop being an idol.”

“And are you going to listen to them?” Yoongi asks, heart clenching at the thought of Jungkook leaving them forever. His answer comes in the form of a disbelieving scoff.

“What do you think?”

“They’re just worried about you.”

“It’s not like it’s going to happen again,” Jungkook says sourly, “and how the fuck is quitting music going to help anything?”

“Language,” Yoongi murmurs admonishingly, not really caring all that much. “Is that why you left without telling them?”

“I was mad,” Jungkook admits.

“You shouldn’t act impulsively just because you’re angry. Especially not something which could worry them even more. They’re your family, Kook.”

“ You guys are my family,” Jungkook mumbles, sounding muffled, almost like he squished his face into the pillow. Yoongi spins his chair around and looks at Jungkook sprawled out on the couch.

“They’re your family first, and you should respect their concerns.” Jungkook scowls at that.

“You’re meant to be on my side.”

“I am.”

“Sure not sounding like it right now,” Jungkook grumbles petulantly, although he flushes when Yoongi raises an eyebrow in his direction.

“You know I am but I also want you to be respectful to your family. They’re not worrying for no reason.”

Jungkook just groans although he manages a somewhat convincing nod when Yoongi keeps eyeing him sternly. They’re silent for a minute, Yoongi pulling out his phone to delete yet another text from Sejin. But then Jungkook suddenly sits up, pulling the sleeves of his oversized hoodie further over his hands as he tucks his feet underneath him on the couch.

“What did your parents say to you?”

“About what?” Yoongi asks guardedly, knowing exactly what Jungkook’s asking but hoping he’s asking something else. Jungkook raises his eyebrows and Yoongi sighs.

“They’re glad I’m safe, yadayadaya.” It’s not a lie. Not exactly.

“Really? They said yadayadaya?” Yoongi shoots Jungkook a look and the younger boy smirks at him.

“I didn’t tell them that much so there wasn’t a lot to say.”

“What did you tell them?” Jungkook’s curious now, eyebrows arching subtly with interest. Yoongi swallows uncomfortably.

“I told them a bit about what happened, and about you being beaten up. Some stuff about the rescue.”

“You didn’t tell them about—”

“No,” Yoongi snaps, regretting it immediately when Jungkook shrinks down in his seat. “Sorry.”

‘S’okay, hyung,” Jungkook murmurs, smiling at Yoongi with far too much understanding. “I didn’t tell mine either.”

They fall back into silence and Yoongi twirls absentmindedly on his chair.

“Everything’s changed, hyung,” Jungkook mumbles out in the end, and when Yoongi looks up he’s shocked to see Jungkook’s eyes glistening with unshed tears. Fuck, he doesn’t know how to deal with tears.

“Don’t cry, Kook,” he says in the end, trying to be as comforting as possible. But then he realises it’s probably quite healthy for Jungkook —their normally emotionally-constipated, concrete-exterior Jungkook— to cry, and he changes tack. “Or you can cry. That’s, um, okay too.” Jungkook laughs a little then, sniffing and wiping at his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“I just don’t like how everything’s different now.” He sniffs again, clearing his throat and looking at the carpet in an obvious attempt to not cry properly.

“I know. It’s going to be okay though,” Yoongi reassures, hoping he sounds more confident than he feels. Jungkook snorts, a bitter smile drifting onto his face as he picks at the edges of his hoodie.

“No-one’s talking to each other, Jin spends all his time mothering everyone else and not himself, Namjoon’s locked himself up in his room with a shit ton of his stupid philosophy books about Justice, Hoseok’s been in the dance studio every day till he’s so tired he can barely walk, I don’t think I’ve even spoken more than one word to Taehyung, you lock yourselves in here for fucking hours, and Jimin has basically dropped off the face of the planet. How is any of that okay, hyung?” Jungkook’s actually crying now, glaring at Yoongi through a sheen of tears as more roll down his face, sniffing aggressively every few seconds. “Nothing’s fucking okay.”

He’s right, and Yoongi feels a knot of guilt wrap itself around his insides as Jungkook waits for him to answer, to say something more than just, “it’s okay.”

It’s not fucking okay.

“I’m sorry, Kook,” is the only thing he manages in the end, and Jungkook looks almost disappointed.

“‘S not enough. We’re not going to be okay unless we go back to how we were before. Enough of all this—this avoidance shit! I’m so sick of it and you guys are my family and if we don’t fix it now then in a couple months there’s not going to even be a Bangtan to fix!” Jungkook pushes himself up from the couch, rubs furiously at his wet cheeks with his sleeves. He’s waiting for Yoongi to say something good, to promise him that things are actually going to get better, but all Yoongi can think of is how everything Jungkook said is true, and yet there’s too much guilt in his heart weighing him down.

He can’t do it. He can’t promise Jungkook anything when he’s still falling.

He can’t fucking do it to the kid.

“Do you even care?” Jungkook spits out in the end. “Do you even want for us to work or are you happy letting it all fall to pieces?”

His words are like shards of glass, puncturing through existing wounds. Yoongi swallows harshly, pulls himself up from his own chair so he’s standing as well.

“Of course I fucking care.”

Don’t yell at him! He’s just upset.

“Then don’t hide, hyung,” Jungkook pleads. “Don’t lock yourself away!”

“It’s not that simple, Kook.”

“Yes, it is that simple—”

“No! It’s not!” Yoongi’s yelling and he hates himself for it. He’s turning into his father. “It’s not as easy as fucking pretending to all be happy! You don’t think I want things to go back to how they were before? You think I spend all my time in here because I don’t fucking care? Well, maybe I care too fucking much!”

Jungkook’s eyes are wide. He looks scared, Yoongi realises, the comprehension plunging over his body like a bucket of ice cold water. You fucking scared him.

“Leave, Jungkook.”

No! Don’t send him away!

“Leave!”

“Hyung—”

“Leave me the fuck alone, Jungkook!”

Jungkook stares at him for another second before his eyes suddenly well with a fresh round of tears and he turns, storming out of the studio and slamming the door so hard Yoongi’s ears pop from the compression of air in the small space.

He’s still falling, and this time he cut his own fucking wings off.

But Yoongi’s always prided himself on never giving up. He may not make a huge fanfare of it, but even if it feels like he’s swimming against a current, Yoongi tries. He finally texts Sejin back and asks him to reschedule another therapy appointment; he forces himself back to the apartment even if he skulks in his room the whole time; he even goes to Jungkook and pulls him out for lamb skewers, just like they always used to do. They don’t talk much but when they’re walking back home, Jungkook mumbles a gruff ‘thank you’ and both of them know it’s not just for the skewers.

Jungkook’s right with his analysis of the rest of the members and Yoongi can’t help but feel even guiltier when he’s out of his studio long enough to recognise it properly.

Somewhat surprisingly perhaps, from Yoongi's perspective it seems like Taehyung’s dealing with everything the best. He’s always been a social person, able to find friends in the unlikeliest places, but it’s only now that Yoongi realises the extent of Taehyung’s circles. Jungkook’s lamentation that he hasn’t spoken more than a word to Taehyung seems to be because Taehyung’s never even home to be able to share more than a second of his time.

Every day he’s out with one of his friends, returning late at night to disappear into his room again and leaving early enough that Yoongi barely catches a glimpse of him. It seems to be working for him, helping to take his mind off the dark energy in the apartment, utilising all the support he can from his endless pool of contacts, and Yoongi can’t even find it in him to feel remotely bitter at Taehyung’s popularity because he looks the healthiest and happiest out of all of them (which isn’t saying much, to be honest), and who would Yoongi be to begrudge him that?

Jin seems to have taken it upon himself to become their resident caregiver, tending to their household needs before they even realise they have needs. It’s like he’s a machine, whirring around the apartment with either food or mops in hand, dusting the shelves with a level of enthusiasm that is disconcerting considering the tediousness of the task, finding four million ways to cook soup when Hoseok mentions on the offhand that he’s not feeling well.

It’s a coping mechanism, that much Yoongi can recognise, but even with this almost impenetrable mask of responsibility firmly jammed on his head, Yoongi can’t help but notice the dark circles under Jin’s eyes, and the way he’ll avoid any questions about his own wellbeing. Jin seems to be doing everything to focus on anyone but himself.

Yoongi hasn’t spoken to Hoseok for at least a solid week.

It’s not even that they’re actively avoiding each other but where Yoongi still spends most of his time in his studio, Hoseok spends every waking moment in the practice room, constantly dripping in sweat, face scrunched in focused concentration as he runs through every single dance they’ve ever performed.

Yoongi sees him one day, flat on his back on the floor, tears streaming down his face to puddle on the polished wood and the swooping violins of ‘Lie’ swelling through the speakers. Yoongi stands there and watches their nicknamed 'sunshine' fade into darkness till the last strains of Jimin’s voice fade out and his own cheeks are tight with drying tears.

He leaves before Hoseok can look around and catch him staring.

Namjoon is the one who seems to be struggling the most. He’s lost enough weight in the past few weeks to be almost unrecognisable —a worn-down version of himself with too many awkward hollows in a face that used to be comfortably rounder. He spends all day holed up in his room, only coming out sometimes to eat or drink something, and when he does, he doesn’t interact with everyone.

He’s reading thick novels about morality and law, philosophical papers about the existence of mankind and it’s inevitable destruction — all normal Namjoon reading material but in an absolute overkill of quantity. To make matters worse, Yoongi’s never been good at talking about feelings so any attempt to talk to Namjoon about his ‘emotions’ leads to a panicked look and a twenty-minute discourse about some deep and completely unrelated facet of life.

And Yoongi understands why. He understands Namjoon’s distraction techniques as much as he understands Hoseok’s, and Jin’s, and Taehyung’s, and he sees it for what it is: a man panicking with his forced embroilment in something terrible, struggling to come to terms with it.

Namjoon was one of Chang’s victims too. Another plaything in Chang’s games.

But it’s hard to see someone Yoongi’s always admired for their compassion and logic unable to extend that same forgiveness to themselves. The haunting expression constantly present on Namjoon’s face is guilt. Pure, raw guilt, awash with shame and self-blame.

Namjoon doesn’t see himself as a victim; he sees himself as a perpetrator.

Like Yoongi said earlier, they’re falling apart.

In some ways, Jungkook is the only thing keeping Yoongi together. The younger man spends almost all his time following in Yoongi’s shadow, much like he did when he first came to Seoul at the age of twelve. When Yoongi is in his room, Jungkook will be somewhere in the apartment, but the moment Yoongi leaves, Jungkook will magically appear. And when Yoongi is in his studio, Jungkook will knock on the door with some random excuse and end up on Yoongi’s couch for hours and hours, fiddling on his phone, sometimes sleeping, other times just watching as Yoongi achieves nothing. They don’t talk much but at least it stops Yoongi from self-destructing completely.

Keep it together for Jungkook. Be there for Jungkook.

It’s not perfect, and Yoongi knows he’s distracting from the real issues at hand but at least having Jungkook relying on him eases some of the consistent aching that’s found a permanent home in his chest.

The therapist he’s basically forced to go visit keeps spouting some bullshit about ‘survivor's guilt’.

“You shouldn’t feel guilty for not having experienced the same traumas as your bandmates, Yoongi,” the woman tells him, eyeing him over the edges of her spectacles. “You’re a victim too.”

“I’m not a victim,” Yoongi spits back at her. “I didn’t get attacked.”

“But you were abducted against your will, weren’t you?”

“We all were; not just me.”

“You’re all victims, Yoongi.”

Her words make sense in some deep part of Yoongi’s brain but he can’t make them stick.

“I should’ve done more.”

“But what else could you have done? You did all you could given the circumstances.”

“I’m the Hyung, I should’ve done more,” Yoongi repeats. “I didn’t protect Jungkook, I didn’t protect Namjoon, and I didn’t protect Jimin.”

“You couldn’t.”

“There’s always a way!” Yoongi yells, finding some sort of vindictive pleasure in the way the therapist jerks back a little. Almost instantly he feels sick with shame. “There’s always a way,” he says again in a much quieter tone. “If I’d said something more—if I’d put up a fight, then maybe Jimin wouldn’t have been—“ He swallows it down.

“You need to say it, Yoongi,” the therapist murmurs. “Acknowledge what happened to him and then you can start to heal.”

“I don’t need to fucking say anything!” He snarls, trying to think through the thrumming in his temples. “I wasn’t there for him when he needed me.”

“It’s not your guilt to shoulder, Yoongi.”

“He needed me,” Yoongi mutters, physically aching with the guilt in his heart. “And I didn’t help him.”

Yoongi’s lying on the couch, half-watching some sort of fancy French film Taehyung picked out earlier, half focusing on Jungkook sketching on the floor. Jungkook’s got his phone out, drawing a Japanese anime character with surprising accuracy. Well, not so surprising really. Jungkook’s always been good at everything, even if he’s never done it before, and Yoongi feels that bubble of pride that exists purely for Jungkook swelling a little more in his chest. He imagines it’s the feeling a father has for his son; the type of secondhand accomplishment borne from seeing someone grow up in your care.

Jungkook looks up, sees Yoongi watching and flashes a grin, holding up his sketch pad so Yoongi can see it a little better.

“What do you think?”

“I think you need to share around your talents a bit, Kook. It’s not fair you have them all,” Yoongi comments dryly, satisfied when Jungkook chortles with laughter and flops back down on the carpet. It’s good to see Jungkook laughing again; it makes Yoongi realise it’s been a while since he’s heard any of them laughing.

“Food’s here!” Jungkook and Taehyung sing out in unison when the doorbell rings, and Yoongi groans as he pulls himself off the couch, padding to the doorway and pulling out his card. He’d promised to buy the two of them jajangmyeon if they came out and watched a movie with him and they had jumped at the chance at free food, hence the shitty French film and added company in the living room.

He opens the door without checking who it is, trying to pull his card out from where it’s jammed itself into a seam in his wallet. Maybe if he’d checked the peephole before swinging the door open he would’ve been able to do more than just stare, jaw dropped to the floor, absolutely frozen because standing outside the door is the last person Yoongi expected to see tonight.

“Jimin?”

Chapter Text

“Good morning, honey! Did you sleep well?” Jimin looks at his mother’s expectant smile and forces a smile onto his own face, nodding as he slides onto one of the bar stools around the island in their kitchen.

“I slept great.” He didn’t; he barely slept at all. Kept awake by nightmares of Chang’s hands wrapping around his neck, he’d woken up with a strangled scream catching in his throat and his own fingers scrabbling at the raw wound etched into his skin.

Jimin had spent the rest of the night dozing on the floor of his room, one hand wrapped around the leg of the bed.

“That’s good!” Jimin’s mother almost squeals, looking positively overjoyed, and Jimin pretends not to notice her red-rimmed eyes and tremulous smile, choosing instead to look at his fingers and pick at the loose bits of skin around his nails.

There’s an awkward silence, Jimin’s mother standing on the other side of the island just staring at him before the tension becomes overwhelming and Jimin looks up. It seems to startle her out of some sort of daze and she flushes pink, turning away to rush over to the stove.

“I made you porridge for breakfast,” she says, beaming at Jimin with another thousand-watt smile. Jimin murmurs a ‘thank you’, trying not to focus on the nausea nestling in his stomach at the thought of eating. It’s just not what he feels like doing right now and even the thought of choking down an entire bowl of his mother’s porridge seems like an impossible task. But there’s not much he can do when she slides a bowl in front of him, dried currants arranged on top to look like a smiley face. He looks at it for a moment, watching as the currants start sinking into the steaming surface of the porridge until the smiley suddenly looks more like a pained grimace.

“Thanks, Eomma,” he manages, shooting her what he hopes is a grateful smile.

“That’s okay, honey. You need good food now you're not—” Her lips press together, her eyes suddenly glistening with tears and Jimin doesn’t have to be a mind reader to know what she’s thinking about.

“I’m fine, Eomma,” he mumbles, quickly spooning some porridge into his mouth to stop her from worrying. “I can eat lots of your food now.”

Now that you’re not with Chang.

What was one of his favourite childhood memories tastes like mud in Jimin’s mouth. He has to concentrate just to get his jaw to chew and swallow, chew and swallow. Each bite settles like a lump of concrete in Jimin’s stomach.

But the satisfied look on his mother’s face is enough to get Jimin to lift the spoon to his mouth again and again and again until he’s scraping the bottom of the bowl, taking a deep breath to find the energy to push the final mouthful past his lips.

“I’m going back to my room for a bit, Eomma,” he says when he’s finished, rinsing his bowl and placing it in the dishwasher, conscious of her eyes burning into the back of his head.

“Oh… do you—is there anything you want?” She sounds so hesitant, so unsure of herself, and Jimin avoids her gaze as he points at the stairs and fiddles with the strings of his hoodie.

“I’ll just, um, hang out on my own for a bit… if that’s okay?”

“Of course!” It’s unconvincing but Jimin barely notices as he heads for the stairs, only able to breathe properly for what feels like the first time in hours once there’s a door between him and the house and he’s on his own.

He flops back down on his bed and stares at the ceiling, nose crinkling as he looks over the TVXQ posters plastered to his ceiling from when he was a teenager with stars in his eyes, desperate to make it in the music industry. They’re peeling around the edges, the tape stained brown with age, and it takes barely any effort for Jimin to stand on his bed on his tiptoes to pull them off. The posters are old; they don’t represent who he is anymore. Still, the little child inside of him can’t help but smooth his fingers over the faces of the members, their intense expressions still effortlessly cool after so many years.

It’s odd to remember his younger self so in awe of the popular singers in the industry at the time.

If only you knew what would happen.

All of a sudden, the urge to get out overwhelms him, and Jimin finds himself headed for the door, taking the stairs two at a time just to appease the claustrophobic feeling pressing on his lungs.

“I’m going for a walk,” he calls out to his mother as he grabs a coat and scarf on the way out. He feels only slightly guilty when she looks up with a startled expression as he slips on his shoes, eyebrows furrowing together in obvious concern and mouth opening to say something just as Jimin slams the door shut behind him.

He slips his arms through the sleeves of the coat as he walks, winding the scarf to cover the mark on his neck, and masking the lower part of his face in case someone recognizes him. He doesn’t even think about where he’s walking, feet automatically carrying him in the direction of the beach.

Jimin has spent an accumulative time that probably adds to years on the beach in Busan. His family home is only a short walk from the shoreline and most of his childhood was spent playing in the soft sand and swimming in the ocean. It’s winter now, freezing air making Jimin’s cheeks sting as he quickens his pace. In only a few minutes his shoes are sinking into soft sand and he’s greeted with a view of the sea.

It’s one of those days where the sky is a flat ceiling of cloud, pressing down closely on the earth, and Jimin’s claustrophobia is only appeased by the wide expanse of ocean in front of him. It’s the colour of slate, broken up by white caps as the wind whips over the surface, reflecting the grey colour of the sky. The beach is utterly deserted.

He doesn’t stop right away. Instead, he keeps walking along the sand, pulling his coat closer around his body to stop the wind from cutting straight to the bone. Only once he’s a suitable distance away from the entrance to the beach where he's less likely to be disturbed does he allow himself to sink to the ground. The sand is icy underneath him, the cold immediately seeping into his bones as he sits there, but Jimin doesn’t care.

It’s a chance to breathe. Not a soul in sight, just the vast ocean in front of him and an empty stretch of sand extending into either side of his periphery.

It’s intensely calming but there’s also something about the sea that evokes a feeling of such emptiness. As much as it lets him breathe, there’s a hollow in Jimin’s chest that only seems to increase as he sucks in deep lungfuls of salty air.

Like everything seems to do now, his memories of the sea, memories of his childhood here in Busan, they only make the stark contrast between who he was a month ago and who he is now feel that much more isolating. He’s emerged from the entire ordeal as a completely different person, yet the other life still belongs to him. 

Just like a square peg in a round hole — it doesn’t fit.

The longer Jimin sits there, the more intense the hollow feeling in his chest becomes till it’s consuming his whole being and he has to grit his teeth together to keep himself from falling apart. He pulls his scarf down completely and feels the way the winter air bites at his skin. He needs something to focus on, something to distract him from the loneliness threatening to overwhelm him, and Jimin forces his brain to latch onto the coldness of his skin instead of the coldness in his heart.

The thing about the inevitable is that there's no stopping it and Jimin only realises he’s crying when he can’t separate the tang of salt left by the wind from the saltiness of the tears running down his cheeks and into his mouth.

He’s so fucking hollow.

Every second it seems another part of him is lost; like the dead leaves on a tree, the irrelevant, destroyed parts of Jimin are carried away by the sea winds to be scattered over the waves. He can’t get them back, no matter how much he may want to go back to who he was before. But whereas it may be healthy for a tree to be cleansed of its dead leaves, Jimin is only left feeling like a shell of his former self.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, unable to drag his eyes away from the ocean. Even as the wind snatches his tears right off his cheeks Jimin doesn't look away from the wide expanse of water in front of him, crying for all the times he’d sat on this very beach without knowing the circumstances under which he’d return.

By the time Jimin can even think to move, he finds it almost impossible. The onslaught of freezing winds has made all his muscles cramp up and it takes him a full minute to find the energy to stand up.

‘You’re malnourished,’ Dr Jung’s voice echoes in his head. ‘You need to eat 5 to 6 small meals a day to bring you back up to a normal weight which will give you the energy to function to your highest capacity.’

His legs are shaking with the effort of standing up and he sways slightly before he regains a slightly more balanced footing in the sand. The walk back to his house shouldn’t take long but Jimin seems to have lost all energy just from sitting outside in the winter cold. Not his smartest move, he decides as he stumbles up to his front door, teeth chattering together as his body has realised exactly how frozen he really is.

He makes it less than a metre inside the door before his mother is flying towards him, tear tracks streaked down her cheeks and eyes desperately flicking over his body like she’s checking for injuries. She’s obviously been crying heavily.

“Jimin! We were about to phone the police! I had no idea where you were and you just left and you didn’t even bring your phone. ” Her arms wrap around Jimin’s shoulders and she pulls him close to her and it should be nice but all Jimin can feel is shock.

“I just—I just went for a walk,” he mumbles in confusion, and his mother draws back to stare at him.

“But—but darling, you were gone for four hours!  Where did you go?”
“I went to the beach.” Four  hours? He hadn’t even realised it had been that long.

“Oh—you’re so cold! Your fingernails!” She shrieks, grabbing at his hands in near hysterics. Jimin’s fingernails are purple-blue, tingeing on a sick grey. “You should’ve worn gloves—come and sit by the fire and I’ll get you some warm clothes—No, don’t take your jacket off!”

And that’s how Jimin finds himself bundled up on a chair next to the fire, skin aching uncomfortably as it warms up far too quickly, wrapped up in too many clothes and scarfs till he may as well pretend to be a laundry hamper. His mother keeps chatting away about how worried she was, about how she’d phoned his father at his work in case Jimin had gone to his offices for some strange reason.

“I’m calling your father right now to tell him you’re safe, okay?” She babbles, running off to find her phone. “You stay right there, alright honey?” Jimin nods dazedly, not exactly going to protest after seeing how hysterical his mother has become after not hearing from him for a few hours.

It’s not normal to disappear for four hours, he tells himself. You’re not normal. But the problem is, had this happened a few months earlier, his mother probably wouldn’t even have noticed. Not that she wouldn’t care but she’d trust him to be safe, to behave like an adult and be able to look after himself.

It’s different now.

The days pass slowly when Jimin is at home. He doesn’t leave the house much after that first day, spending most of his time in his room even if deep down he aches for company, staring at the ceiling for hours because he can’t find the energy to do anything else. BigHit sends his phone in the mail and Jimin pulls it out of the envelope but doesn’t switch it on. He wonders if they’d had their phones on the night of their kidnapping, would they have been rescued earlier through some sort of location tracker? But they hadn’t had them, all of their phones in their manager’s backpack because that’s what they always did during a concert as a method to prevent them from being misplaced in all the backstage chaos.

He doesn’t feel any desire to see what had happened in the world during their absence. It’ll only make everything feel more real.

His parents tell him how BigHit had regularly released pre-recorded content to prevent their fans from getting suspicious about their absence, even going so far as to post on their twitter with unseen selfies sent in by each of their families.

“Have you heard from the others?” Jimin’s mother asks him after his first week at home. “How are they doing?”

“I’m not sure,” Jimin mumbles, stirring his soup and watching the droplets of oil on the surface shimmer.

“Have you talked to them?” His mother presses and Jimin shakes his head.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“I’m sure there is,” Jimin’s mother protests, scrunching her eyebrows in confusion. “They’re your best friends.”

Maybe she’s right.

Maybe there is something to talk about.

Maybe Jimin should tell them how he feels like he’s drowning every time he looks in the mirror and sees the remaining bruises still staining his skin, how the scabs on his throat feel like a noose.

Maybe he should tell them he can’t even find the energy to get out of bed in the morning and the only reason he manages is because he doesn’t want his parents to worry even more than they already do.

Maybe he should tell them he’s barely sleeping at night and the only time he does is when he’s on the floor, curled next to his bed.

Maybe he should tell them how he’s cried through two consecutive therapy sessions because they’re peeling his brain apart, and all he wants to do is hide from the world and never emerge again.

Maybe he should tell them he doesn’t think he can be an idol anymore.

Maybe he should tell them he’s sorry.

“Please, Jimin? Just check your messages. I’m sure they’re worried about you too.” She sounds so pleading, so desperate that Jimin can’t find it in himself to argue.

“I’ll check, Eomma.”

He does so a few hours later, the phone feeling weird in his hand after so long without it. Predictably, there are about a million texts from Taehyung, each more persistent than the last, although there's none from anyone else. Not that Jimin can complain —he hasn't exactly done a good job of the whole 'contact' thing himself.

Jimin! I got my phone back! Did you get yours? Are you home too?

Don’t answer that actually. I know you’re home.

How are you doing, Jimin? Hope you’re okay.

Jimin?

I'm worried about you. I went through my phone today and I found all those selfies you took. I never even knew about them!

Are you getting these? 

My mum said to say ‘hello’ and that she’s thinking of you.

Jimin? Maybe you have your phone turned off.

Today I went to that cafe we went to together last time you were in Geochang with me. Remember the one with the massive hot chocolates? We should do that again.

Jimin?

So many more messages, so many purple hearts. His phone suddenly vibrates in his hand, and Jimin sees a new message pop up. He’s too slow to click out of it before he reads it.

I’m going back to Seoul soon, I think.

Jimin? You’re reading these? Finally!

Jimin chews on his lip, watches as Taehyung’s icon shows the ‘writing’ symbol.

How’s home?

Jimin?

I can see you’ve seen this so why aren’t you answering?

I mean, it’s okay. You don’t have to.

I get it.

But

I’ve missed you.

It’s not the same anymore.

Have you talked to the others?

Jimin?

Jimin clicks out of the chat and turns his phone off. His throat feels full, like he’s being choked. He throws his phone on the floor and ignores the way it keeps buzzing against the carpet.

He can’t do this right now.

Jimin’s parents are treating him like he’s made of glass. It’s not entirely unexpected —not really— but it does nothing for Jimin’s whole ‘wanting to forget this whole thing’ mood.

His mother is overbearing with her concern, constantly checking up on him, feeding him more than he ever thought he could eat, taking any chance she can to touch his arm or pet his hair, almost like she thinks he’s going to disappear and holding him will prevent that.

Jimin’s father has taken a different approach entirely. It’s like he can’t even look at Jimin without this odd, uncomfortable expression appearing on his face. Every time Jimin so much as makes eye contact with him, his father will look away as if he’s been caught staring at a stranger. And maybe that’s the root of the problem —he’s uncomfortable with Jimin in the same way you’re uncomfortable with someone you don’t know.

Then again, Jimin’s relationship with his father has never been the strongest. His whole childhood had been a series of fights between the two of them. One after another, everything Jimin did became a contentious point but none more so than his love of dance. He’d never been as much into sports as his father, at least, not the sports that other boys his age were interested. Instead of football, Jimin had fallen in love with dancing after a local troupe had performed at his school when he was seven, and from thereon the biggest sore point for his father was Jimin’s unrivalled passion with the subject. By the time he was eight, Jimin had convinced his mother to let him start dance classes, and she’d persuaded his father on the condition Jimin didn’t take ballet classes as he’d originally wanted since that was too girly . He’d chosen to take contemporary and hip-hop instead. It seemed like a small price to pay at the time when all Jimin wanted to do was learn how to move his body to a beat, and even his father’s frowning disapproval could do little to stifle Jimin’s enthusiasm.

His first dance recital Jimin was given one of the lead roles and he’d run home with the news to tell his parents. His mother had cooked his favourite meal and they’d waited together, Jimin glowing with pride, to tell his father when he came home from work. Finally, this would prove to his father that Jimin’s dance classes were something worthy of his father’s approval, and Jimin had barely been able to contain his excitement as he’d run to greet his father as he’d come in the door, waving the teacher’s letter she’d written to inform his parents filled with praise of Jimin’s skill at such a young age.

“I got a lead role, Appa! I’m a water nymph and I get my own solo and—”

“Not now, Jimin.”

“But—but I’m the lead, Appa! My teacher said I’m— ”

“Not now, I said! Don’t be disrespectful!” His father had yelled at him right there in the hallway, and Jimin’s excitement had been squashed in an instant. His mother had come out then as well, frowning as she asked what the problem was.

“Children should be seen and not heard,” his father had snapped, and Jimin’s mother had looked over at Jimin’s eyes sparkling with tears, her own eyes filling with sadness.

“He did well. You should be proud of him,” she said reproachfully, but then she was helping her husband out of his jacket, smoothing his tie with gentle hands, and they hadn’t spoken of the subject around him again.

(Jimin still has the letter somewhere in an old shoebox filled with certificates and photos from his dancing.)

Even if his father’s initial reaction was disappointing, Jimin had thought the sight of two tickets to the recital would maybe evoke some enthusiasm, especially because his face was one of the few printed on the little slips of paper.

“I got you tickets to my recital,” he’d told his parents over dinner, sliding the envelope across the table. His mother had cooed as she pulled them out, gasping proudly as she pointed at his face and showed it to his father.

“Darling! How amazing! Don’t you think?” She’d asked his father, nudging him with her elbow.

“Well done,” Jimin’s father had muttered but to Jimin’s naive ears it was genuine approval, and his chest had filled with happiness.

“You’ll come and watch, won’t you?”

“Of course we will!” His mother said, reaching over to place another sausage in Jimin’s bowl. “We’re so incredibly proud of you, sweetheart!”

The night of the recital, Jimin had his face painted in an assortment of brilliant blues and whites to represent the water nymph he was playing. He’d danced across the stage with the knowledge his parents were in the audience, and every leap was higher than ever before, every expression that much more passionate. Finally, his parents would see why he loved dancing, why it filled him with a feeling of joy he’d never experienced with anything else.

He’d hunted for his parents in the audience when they’d been taking their final bows, eyes straining to see past the bright lights of the stage, and even if he couldn’t see them then, the joy hadn’t left him. He was still floating on a cloud as he made his way backstage with the thundering applause still ringing in his ears, smile stretching from ear to ear when he saw his mother waiting outside the dressing room with a bouquet of flowers in her arms.

“Well done, Jimin! That was absolutely amazing, honey!” She’d wrapped him up in her arms and pressed the flowers to his chest. “Here you go, just like a professional!” She’d said.

“You liked it, Eomma?” He’d asked her, and she’d nodded enthusiastically.

“I loved it, baby! You did so well and Eomma’s so proud of you!”

“Where’s Appa? Did he go to the toilet?” Jimin had asked her, eyes searching the backstage area for his father’s figure. But when he’d looked back to his mother, her eyes were sad and she'd pressed her lips together into a thin line.

“He couldn’t make it, honey. They had a work meeting that ran overtime.”

“He didn’t see—He’s not here?”

“He’ll come and see the next one, Jimin. He wanted to come, you know that!” Her words did nothing to soothe the ache in Jimin’s chest as he searched desperately for his father, even now he knew he wasn’t here. It stung more than anything else he’d ever experienced in his short life.

That was the night Jimin found out stage make-up wasn’t waterproof, the blues and whites melted together with the heat of his disappointed tears till Jimin’s face was streaked in greys and the last faint swipes of turquoise.

Despite his mother’s best promises, his father had never come to one of Jimin’s dance recitals and he’d gotten used to the last minute excuses leaving him disappointed every single time. Finally, he started buying only a single ticket, giving it just to his mother and looking away when she cried.

Jimin was accepted into the Seoul Arts Academy when he was fourteen. The only thing that had stopped his father from tearing his acceptance letter into minuscule pieces and letting them fly off on the wind was Jimin’s status as class president and first in his class for his studies. And maybe the fact that the school was in Seoul where Jimin’s father was sure he’d fail and come running back to Busan. It’s the only time Jimin had ever won an argument concerning dance.

His mother had sent him off with a thousand hugs and sobbing pleas to ‘keep in touch’, his father with a gruff pat on the back. As much as he disapproved of Jimin’s choices, there was no mistaking the glint of tears in his eyes and it had softened some of the bitterness in Jimin’s heart. His father acted out of concern for Jimin’s future —that’s what he always reminded himself. Dancing is unconventional for his traditional mindset.

When Jimin auditioned and was accepted for BigHit Entertainment at the suggestion of a teacher, Jimin’s father took time off work and drove down to Seoul, turning up outside Jimin’s classroom with a single shiny balloon printed with the word ‘congratulations’. For others, it may have felt minimal but for Jimin it meant the world. His father had come to terms that dance and music was Jimin’s life, and this was the proof.

In many ways, their relationship had matured over the years, and although Jimin’s father still wasn’t necessarily proud of Jimin’s career, and he still voiced constant disapproval, most of the time it felt more like lip service, like something Jimin’s father felt he had to say as others disapproved. It didn’t make it hurt any less but Jimin had learnt to deal with it, knowing not to spend too much of his energy trying to persuade his father he’d made the right choice. The important thing was that he sent his parents tickets to their concerts in Korea, and for the first time in his life, Jimin wasn’t disappointed when he came into the dressing room and saw both of his parents waiting for him instead of just his mother.

But now his father doesn’t even treat him like a son of who’s career he disapproves —he treats Jimin as if he’s a complete stranger.

It wasn’t even that obvious, to begin with. Jimin’s father has never been a hugely affectionate person but anytime he touches Jimin now he gets this wary expression on his face as if Jimin’s somehow going to shatter into a thousand pieces. In the same thread, he was never a particularly talkative person but now Jimin can go whole days without hearing a single word from his father that isn’t a reply to something Jimin asked him. Not only is it disconcerting, it’s confusing. It’s hurtful.

“I’m still the same person, Appa,” Jimin mumbles to him after almost two weeks of this has passed. They’re stacking firewood against the side of the house and Jimin’s father won’t even look at him, snatching his hand back when they brush together.

“I know,” his father snaps, and Jimin flinches, feeling the little bubble of hurt in his chest swell even more, but he can’t let this go.

“Just—you’re acting weird since I’m home.” His father stiffens, eyes flicking over to Jimin as his eyebrows knit together. But when Jimin looks at him, his father looks away just as quickly.

“You’re imagining things,” he says, clearing his throat and slamming another log on top of the stack with unnecessary force.

“I’m not —Appa, you don’t even talk to me anymore.”

“We’re talking now, aren’t we?” His tone is harsh and Jimin stops his log-stacking to straighten up.

“That’s not what I mean. You don’t talk to me like I’m your son!” His father straightens up then as well, pulling his gloves off and throwing them down on the ground.

“Don’t be disrespectful.”

“Then stop treating me like a—a stranger! Like you don’t know me!”

“Do not speak to me like that!” Jimin’s father yells, and Jimin is forced to take a step backwards as the aggressive tension drops like a solid weight in between them.

“Actually speak to me then!” He screams back, but his father is storming back into the house, door slamming loudly, and Jimin is left there outside in the cold, the hurt inside of him taking over his whole being till he thinks he’s going to crack in half.

Jimin reaches breaking point about three weeks after coming home. He’s so fucking lost.

Get it together.

He’s slumped in the bathroom after one of his twice-weekly therapy sessions. The door is locked and Jimin is on the floor. He’s crying again.

I’m so fucking sick of crying. STOP CRYING!

Jimin hates the therapy sessions more than he hates anything else that has resulted from everything Chang has done to him. He can deal with his father’s frigid behaviour; he can deal with his mother’s constant hovering; he can deal with the overwhelming loneliness and the sleepless nights; he can’t deal with having to rehash everything that has happened to him.

It’s not part of Jimin’s plan on getting better. He’s meant to sweep everything under the carpet and then nail the carpet to the floor so it can’t be peeled up again, so he doesn’t have to think about it ever again. But that’s not how therapy works and as much as Jimin despises talking about it, the therapist, Yoona, basically forces him to face it head-on.

It’s the most vindictive of all the remaining tendrils of Chang’s influence and he hates it.

This time, Jimin can’t do it anymore. She’d asked him about the members, about how he felt knowing they’d seen at least some of what Chang had done to him, and then she’d discussed how they could make ‘strategies’ to help Jimin ‘deal with these turbulent emotions of shame and insecurity’ so he can refocus his career.

It's fucking bullshit.

It’s the worst thing to think about and it only makes Jimin realise he’s not prepared to go back to being Park Jimin of BTS. He’s not prepared to stand on a stage (he doesn’t think he wants to stand on a stage) and he doesn’t think he’s ever going to be able to regain the Jimin from before their kidnapping. That Jimin, the dancer and singer, the idol —he can’t do it.

He manages to stop crying long enough to slip back to his own room, shutting the door behind him as he tries to find his phone. It’s on the dresser. He hasn’t replied to any of Taehyung’s messages and now it sits silently, a reminder of how disconnected Jimin is. He grabs it, hands shaking as he tries to find the number he needs.

Once he's found it, Jimin sinks down to the carpet, leaning his back against the wall as he listens to it ring once, twice, three times before his call is picked up.

“Jimin? Is this actually you?”

“Bang PD,” Jimin manages to get out, trying not to let his voice shake as he's hit with such a strong wave of nostalgia it leaves his head spinning.

“I really wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon. How are you, Jimin?” Bang PD’s voice filters through the phone and Jimin can picture his kindly face, lined with concern and probably confusion. But he’s not calling to have a chat with Bang PD about pleasantries and he scrubs at his face, resting his head against the wall and letting his eyes close. He feels sick to his stomach.

“I’m calling because,” Jimin swallows, “ because I want to terminate my contract with BigHit. I want to leave Bangtan.”

Chapter Text

Some small part of Jimin regrets the words almost as soon as they come out of his mouth.

I don’t want to leave! I don’t want to—I can't stay. I can't stay—

“That’s—Jimin—why do you—” Bang PD’s obviously struggling to find words and he seems to take a moment to think, the silence almost as loud in Jimin’s ear. There’s a firm exhale, a rustling noise, but then Bang PD says something Jimin had not anticipated.

“I can’t let you do that, Jimin.”

Jimin sits there, frozen against the wall, the phone slack in his grip.

“You can’t—you can’t make me stay. You can’t make me sing and dance for you.” Jimin swallows harshly. “I’m not a puppet.”

“I’m not going to make you sing and dance, Jimin.” Bang PD sounds so sad. “But I’m also not going to let you make a rash decision so recently after everything has happened. I’m not going to terminate your contract.”

“I can’t perform anymore. I can’t!” Jimin’s almost panicking, breaths coming quick and short in between each of his words.

“Why do you want to terminate your contract, Jimin?” Bang PD asks quietly, but he may as well be yelling in Jimin’s ears. “You have time. You don’t have to come back till you’re completely healed up and rested.”

I don’t want to leave but...but I have to.

“I can’t do it. I can’t do it after—I don’t—I can’t. Don’t make me! ” He’s practically begging, pleading with Bang PD to understand.

“I’m not going to make you do anything—”

“I can’t be in Bangtan anymore. I just can’t.” Jimin’s chest is heaving with the effort of not crumbling into pieces.

I can’t do this.

“Jimin, I promised you at your debut that if any of you ever wanted to leave, I would let you go, but I cannot let you terminate your contract because of something like this.” Bang PD sounds firm even as Jimin hears the concern seeping into his tone. He’s going to be sick.

You can’t me stay!

“When you’ve had time to rest at home, you can come back to Seoul and we’ll discuss this, okay?”

“You can’t make me—isn’t this illegal?”

“It’s not illegal, Jimin,” Bang PD murmurs. “You’re in a legally binding contract.” 

It sinks in then. Jimin can’t terminate his contract without Bang PD’s consent or a lengthy court case.

I’m trapped.

He doesn’t know when he started crying again but the next thing he registers is the choked sobs spilling out of his mouth, and he jams a hand over his lips to try and keep them in. It doesn’t work and Bang PD is saying stuff that Jimin can’t understand through the white noise in his head so he presses the button to end the call.

I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this!

At some point the phone drops out of his hand to fall with a muffled thump on the carpet but Jimin doesn’t even notice. He’d not really thought this through, hadn’t planned what he was going to say to Bang PD, but he certainly had not expected a refusal.

It hadn’t even crossed his mind that Bang PD would be able to say no.

Deep down Jimin knows the refusal isn’t done out of some cruel desire to break Jimin further. Bang PD sees them as his sons; there’s no evil intention there. But he can hardly breathe at the thought of standing on stage, having to put on a smile for all their fans, singing and dancing as if nothing has changed, as if Jimin isn’t absolutely disgusted by himself. And he hates himself for it —hates that Chang has ruined such a huge part of his life and that even though Jimin is aware of it, he can’t find the strength to stop his own spiralling descent.

Because that’s what it is.

Jimin is falling faster than he’s ever fallen before, hurtling towards the ground at a million miles an hour, speed increasing with every nightmare, every flashback, every phantom touch of Chang’s hands on his body. Every time he looks in the mirror he drops another hundred metres, every time his father looks at him with those cold eyes he drops yet again, and every time his mother watches him with such concern as if he’s a broken marionette, strings about to snap —Jimin swears he thinks he’ll shatter right there and then.

How could he ever think about performing again when just living is catapulting him into a dark pit of Chang’s making?

But even if performing on a stage seems impossible, Jimin is nothing if not a born performer and that evening he scrubs the residual tears off his face, picks up his phone off the floor and reads the texts Bang PD sent him after ending the call.

I’m so sorry, Jimin. We will discuss your contract upon

your return to Seoul but please know that I want nothing

but the best for you. This is not a refusal but I cannot

terminate your contract under these circumstances.

Please rest, recover, and spend time with your family.

I wanted to speak to you about the next steps for

Bangtan but I will just outline that briefly in text.

We will continue to release old content until the

point of your return in a few months. The fans have

been told you are all busy working on a new album

but this is only to stop any media attention for a

period of time at least.

I care about you all first and foremost and we are

going to figure out how to help you all recover

in the best way possible. If you need anything,

please make contact and I will do my best to

make it happen.

I’m sorry I cannot terminate your contract

as you wish, Jimin.

I hope you understand.

Jimin reads the texts again but it only succeeds in making the helplessness in his heart increase.

I can’t do this.

“Get it together,” he grits out, switching his phone off so he doesn’t even have to look at the texts anymore.

They speak of a future; they speak of Bangtan; they speak of hope, and Jimin’s never felt so far away from hope as he does now.

He makes his way down to dinner with a hollow heart, brushing off his mother’s worried questions about his tear-stained face with poorly-formed excuses, forcing himself to smile and pretend everything’s okay even when it’s not.

He doesn’t tell them he tried to terminate his contract. He has to pretend to be okay.

This is one performance Jimin will not fail although he may as well have an audience of one. His father doesn’t look at him the entire meal, only speaking to Jimin as he’s standing up to leave.

“The Seoul police inspector phoned. They’re coming here next week.” Jimin’s eyes snap up to his father’s.

“How—why—they’re coming here?” His father nods, turning away to bring his plate to the kitchen.

“They’re coming to discuss the case against your kidnappers.” He sniffs distastefully and Jimin shrinks a little further into his seat. Oh.

“Didn’t they already speak to you, honey?” Jimin’s mother frets, hand gripping onto Jimin’s wrist.

“Y-yeah. In the—in the hospital.” Why are they coming to speak with him again?

“You shouldn’t have to go over it again!” Jimin’s mother says indignantly, frowning as she pets Jimin’s arm. “My baby — It’s cruel!”

“It’s fine, Eomma,” Jimin mumbles. “It’s not a big deal.” It is a big deal. “They’re just trying to get Cha—them convicted quickly.” He keeps scooping rice into his mouth, ignoring the way his hands are shaking. He hasn't told them anything about Chang; the only information they know is what the hospital had told them.

“Well, I still think it’s mean,” Jimin’s mother murmurs. “You shouldn’t have to.” Jimin sighs, suddenly so incredibly done with this conversation.

“It’s fine, Eomma,” he repeats. “They’re the police; they can do what they want.”

“But—”

“I’m going to bed,” he interrupts, guilt slithering in his gut at his mother’s crestfallen expression.

“It’s only seven.”

“I know, Eomma. Goodnight,” Jimin says, shooting her what he hopes is a smile and not a grimace, and kissing her cheek to shut up her protests. It works, and he’s out of the room before she can even open her mouth to say anything more.

The police arrive just after one o’clock on the day of their meeting. There’s three of them —one chief inspector and two officers carrying official briefcases with the crest of the Seoul Police Department emblazoned on the side. They shake hands with Jimin and then Jimin’s parents standing behind him. The Inspector introduces himself as Inspector Lee, the two officers as Officer Park and Officer Shin, and they ask to sit down at the kitchen table.

“These are your parents?” Inspector Lee asks, and Jimin nods, rubbing his clammy hands on the side of his jeans to wipe off some of the nervous sweat. “I’m assuming your parents will be there to support you through the ensuing court proceedings?” Jimin swallows, glances over at where his parents are standing together.

“I think—I guess so?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as a question but it does. Inspector Lee doesn’t seem to notice, nodding at Jimin’s answer.

“We would recommend they remain a part of this discussion then, as we are discussing more of the legal aspects of the case.”

“Oh.” Jimin doesn’t want his parents here but he’s too scared to disagree. “That’s… that’s fine.”

“Great,” Inspector Lee says, pulling out a chair and settling down with a stack of papers. “Let us begin.”

Jimin doesn’t think he’s been this uncomfortable for a long time. The conversation starts off okay, Inspector Lee just sliding the stack of papers in his hands over to Jimin.

“This is a transcribed copy of your statement after your release. You will need to read over it to make sure you are happy with it’s accuracy and anything else you wish to add can be written on the extra pages provided at the end. Once you’re finished, you have to sign it and send it to the address marked on the envelope.” Inspector Lee pushes an A4 envelope over the table as well, and Jimin picks it up to place it on top of the stack, covering up the thousands of words underneath. He doesn’t want to read it.

Inspector Lee leans forward, hands knitting together as he looks over the table at Jimin and his parents on Jimin’s left.

“The initial investigation has uncovered that the suspected ringleader, Park Chang, had gang affiliations that allowed the operation to become as big as it did. You said in your initial statement you think there were up to twenty men at one point?” There’s a pause as Jimin tries to stop the static in his head from overtaking his ability to speak.

Park Chang. Not just Chang. Park Chang.

It makes it more real in a way, and almost morbidly amusing they happen to share the same surname.

“Jimin?” They’re all waiting for him to answer and Jimin clears his throat.

“Sorry, um, what was—what was the question?”

“You recall up to twenty men at one point, correct?” Inspector Lee doesn’t seem to mind Jimin’s hesitation.

“I think so… there were a lot of them at the start but also new ones later on.”

“There are twenty-three suspects in custody but not all of them can necessarily be convicted, depending on their involvement in the kidnapping and subsequent crimes.” Inspector Lee holds a hand out and Officer Shin places another stack of papers in his hand. “The majority of the suspects would likely take a plea deal which would see them incarcerated for approximately 5-10 years, maybe less, maybe more, again depending on their involvement as described by your testimony and the statements from the other six hostages.” He glances up at Jimin, eyebrows knitting together. “You spoke of Park Chang being your primary abuser?”

“Yes,” Jimin murmurs, clenching his fingers under the table, hyper aware of his parents shifting next to him.

Inspector Lee clears his throat, scanning over the document in front of him.

“You should be made aware, a case of such a scale cannot be kept out of the eye of the media, even considering your celebrity status—” Jimin sinks even further into his seat “—and although some details may be able to be kept under wraps, the majority will end up released.”

“There’s no way of keeping it private?” Jimin’s mother interjects from the side. Inspector Lee shakes his head apologetically, and Jimin dies a little more inside.

“Even...?” He can’t finish but Inspector Lee shakes his head again, obviously understanding Jimin’s unspoken words.

“That is undetermined as of yet but it is likely to not be kept private in a case such as this.” At his words, Jimin swallows, trying to quell the rising tide of panic in his chest.

The fans. They’re all going to know. They’re all going to know how fucking broken he is.

Jimin gets so caught up in his head he jerks back instinctively when his mother reaches out to pet his arm.

“They’re all going to—to know?” He has to make sure. Inspector Chang murmurs his assent, looking uncomfortable even through his stoic gaze.  

“Along that thread, Park Chang is looking to be charged with kidnapping, assault, bribery, extortion, blackmail, and rape, simply put, but his lawyers have been in contact with us about how he will be pleading.” Inspector Lee pauses, lips pursing as he eyes the document in his hand. “There have been some rather… interesting developments in that aspect. Park Chang’s lawyers have put forward that he will plead guilty to both charges of kidnapping and assault but,” he hesitates, “he argues his alleged sexual crimes were consensual and therefore he will plead not guilty to any charges of rape and sexual assault.”

Not guilty.

Jimin stares at Inspector Lee in utter shock. Not guilty? How— not guilty? The realisation drops like lead in his stomach and all of a sudden the room is spinning, the only thing echoing in Jimin’s brain being the words ‘not guilty’ until he can’t concentrate on anything else.

Chang is saying it was consensual.

He’s saying Jimin wanted to be slammed against a wall and raped in front of his members. He’s saying Jimin wanted to be fucked in the shower with his blood washing down the drain. He’s saying Jimin wanted to be pinned to the bed all those times, chained up like a dog while Chang forced himself into him. He’s saying every crescent bruise dotting Jimin’s hips where Chang’s fingernails had pressed into his skin was something Jimin wanted .

By Chang’s plea, every bite mark on his thighs, every drop of blood spilling down his legs, every bruising kiss pressed to his lips, every hickey sucked onto his collarbones, every time Chang forced his cock into Jimin’s mouth —it was all consensual.

“But—I didn’t—I didn’t want any of it. I didn’t want him to—I— no,” Jimin stammers, heart pounding so hard in his chest he thinks it’s going to break his ribs. “He never—I didn’t want any of it. It wasn’t consensual. It—it wasn’t .”

“We know, Jimin,” Inspector Lee says quietly, and Jimin looks up at him, so utterly confused.

Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty.

“I don’t understand. How can he—how could he say that?” He asks desperately, blood rushing to his head. “I don’t understand.”

“He is likely hoping you will drop the charges considering any case involving celebrities will tend to be quite high-profile.”

“Why would I drop them? That’s like saying I wanted it—that’s saying I asked for Ch-Chang to—to r-rape me every time.” Jimin is shaking, words spilling out of his mouth without filter. He doesn’t even think about his parents sitting at the table, all he can focus on is the desperate rotation of thoughts flying through his brain.

Not guilty. It was consensual. Consensual—It was consensual—not guilty—

Inspector Lee shifts in his seat, glancing at the two officers next to him like he’s asking for help until finally Officer Shin speaks, her lips pressed into a sympathetic line.

“You would be aware of the negative societal mindset towards homosexual relationships, I’m sure.” Jimin gapes at her.

“It’s not a relationship! I wasn’t dating him! He—he kidnapped me!”

“We know that, Jimin,” she says gently, “but as I'm sure you know being a public figure, the damage of rumours about sexuality and dating is enough that any talk of such subjects can be career-ending. His lawyers may be hoping you will drop the charges to protect your own reputation and the future of your career as well as the career of your bandmates.”

Jimin sits there in a daze. “It wasn’t consensual,” he repeats. “It wasn’t consensual. I didn’t want any of it.”

“We’re still building the case against Park Chang and the other suspects and once the results of your rape kit have been processed, there is no way such a plea will hold up in court,” Inspector Lee says. “It’ll be months before this is something you even have to consider—”

“Months?” Jimin’s father chips in then. Inspector Lee nods.

“These sorts of things take time, especially the processing of a rape kit since there is such a huge backlog waiting to be tested. Such a lengthy time is not uncommon.” Jimin looks up just in time to see his father grimace, looking as if he’s just had a rather unpleasant smell wafted towards him.

“As I was saying,” Inspector Lee continues, “it’ll be months before these pleas are something you will have to be concerned with and by then we will have all the details necessary to build a strong case against your kidnappers.”

“Do you think I should drop the charges?” Jimin asks suddenly. Inspector Lee’s eyes widen and he stares at Jimin but Jimin doesn’t look away. He needs to know.

“You’re asking if you should drop the rape charges?” Jimin nods, breath catching as he waits for Inspector Lee’s answer. The man looks intensely uncomfortable, eyes shifting around the room like he’s looking for an escape.

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “There’s a lot to think about with such a case.”

“Would you ?” Jimin asks bluntly, ignoring the way his mother gasps and the thrumming of blood in his own temple. Inspector Lee grimaces.

“I think,” he says, hesitating slightly. “I think I understand what his lawyers are trying and you should consider what you value in life. There are consequences of both dropping and pressing charges like these and both would be difficult, especially considering it will be impossible to prevent a kidnapping case like this from being shared in the media.”

“Is that all you needed to speak to Jimin about?” Jimin’s father interrupts, and all of them look over, startled. Inspector Lee clears his throat.

“There’s a few more documents for Jimin to read through that we’ll leave here but yes, that was the bulk of what we needed to discuss. Unless you had any questions?” He asks, looking over to Jimin. Jimin shakes his head, swallowing to quell the nauseating uncertainty swirling in his stomach.

They leave soon afterwards and Jimin forces himself to stand up to thank them for coming all the way to Busan to speak with him. Inspector Lee just smiles sympathetically, shaking Jimin’s hand before they leave.

“You have time to make your decisions,” he says. It echoes Bang PD’s words on the phone.

You have time.

There’s a tangible tension in the air that has Jimin's skin crawling once they've left. His parents stand on one side of the table and Jimin is on the other.

A rift of their own making. It’s silent.

“I didn’t know it would take so long to come to trial,” Jimin’s mother murmurs finally, and Jimin nods, looking down at where his hands are gripped on the back of a chair, knuckles white.

“You’re dropping the charges, aren’t you?” Jimin’s father asks abruptly, and Jimin’s head snaps up. His mother is just as shocked.

“Seunghoon!” She doesn’t often call him by his first name and it reminds Jimin of some of their fights when he was younger.

“I’m not sure,” he mumbles after a moment, gut twisting at his father’s steely expression.

“You should drop them.”

“Seunghoon!” His mother cries out, stepping back and smacking his arm. “Don’t be like that!”

“What?” his father snaps. “You want everyone knowing he had sex with another man?”

“I didn’t have sex with another man —I was—I was raped ,” Jimin hisses, taking his own step back and putting even more space between them. There’s lightning bolts of anger shooting through his body. His father scowls, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Rape is between a man and a woman,” he says stiffly, and Jimin reels back as if he’s been struck. Jimin’s mother does the same, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“Seunghoon! Stop!”

“You think I wanted it?” Jimin forces out, bile burning in the back of his throat as he looks at his father’s grim expression. “You actually think I had a choice?”

“I think it would be best for you to drop the charges and forget about it instead of prolonging this embarrassment.”

“How do you expect me to forget about it when I barely sleep because of all the fucking nightmares! Does that sound like a choice I made? I didn’t choose to be raped!” Jimin’s yelling now, fury making his voice crack.

“I will not have a son of mine ruining his reputation and the reputation of the family through selfish decisions!” Jimin’s father bellows, cheeks flushing. “You will drop those ridiculous rape charges or you will not step foot in this house again!”

“SEUNGHOON!” Jimin’s mother cries out, grabbing at his arm but he shakes her off.

“IT’S ALWAYS ABOUT FUCKING REPUTATION!” Jimin screams, chest heaving as he faces off with his father. “WHAT ABOUT ME? WHAT ABOUT HOW I FUCKING FEEL? YOU VALUE A FUCKING REPUTATION OVER YOUR OWN SON!”

“Men can’t be raped,” Jimin’s father spits, “and you would do well to remember everything we’ve done for you over the years before you disrespect me again.” Jimin stares at his father, feeling as if someone’s just torn his lungs right out of his chest.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs, suddenly so empty, any remaining fight drained out of him just as quickly as it came. “You’ve done nothing for me except oppose my entire career. You never even wanted me to succeed, did you?” He looks at his father’s glowering face, and his mother’s wet cheeks. “If you actually think I would ever choose for someone to collar me to a bed and fuck me—” he ignores his mother’s sharp intake of breath and his father’s purpling face— “then you don’t know me at all.”

“Jimin, your father didn’t mean it like that,” his mother pleads, and Jimin turns to stare at her.

“Don’t defend him anymore, Eomma. It’s not going to work this time.”

“I meant what I said,” his father hisses, and Jimin doesn’t even recognize this man glaring at him with such hatred. “You will drop those charges or I will no longer call you my son.” Jimin’s mother bursts into tears but Jimin just nods, oddly calm despite being so hollow it’s a wonder he’s still standing.

He can’t even bring himself to reply before he walks out of the room.

Jimin grabs his coat, scarf and gloves before he leaves the house, patting his pockets to make sure he has has phone and his wallet and stuffing the papers from the police in a bag he slings over his shoulder. The wallet in question was given to him by his father when he turned eighteen, to commemorate his coming of age. Now, it burns a hole through the fabric of his coat and Jimin empties the contents as he walks, throwing the empty wallet into the nearest bin without hesitation and shoving everything else deep into his pocket.

He doesn’t care that he’s freezing; he doesn’t care about the wind burning his cheeks; he doesn’t even care that it takes ages to get to the nearest train station if you don’t drive. Jimin just walks.

It takes him an hour just to get to the train station and by the time he gets there, Jimin’s face is completely numb and his feet are stinging in his boots. It’s almost painful entering the warmth of the station but he forces himself inside, tucking his scarf high around his face and keeping his eyes on the ground in case anyone recognizes him. He doubts they will considering he still has his hair black from the last comeback where none of them had coloured their hair.

Jimin buys a ticket for the next train to Seoul leaving in twenty-three minutes before finding the nearest empty bench and sitting down. His body is still aching with cold but inside he’s completely numb. The events of the past few hours don’t even feel like reality, more like something from a drama.

I will no longer call you my son.

Jimin grits his teeth and shakes his head to clear the echo of his father’s voice out of his brain. He doesn’t even want to think about, somehow terrified that allowing his mind to process the meaning of the words will crumble what little is left of him.

Instead, he sinks his overgrown fingernails into the palms of his hands and focuses on the pain it brings.

Men can’t be raped.

Jimin manages to snag an empty set of seats in the train. It’s not particularly crowded and he pulls the hood of his jacket up to make himself look as standoffish as possible. It works and not a single person even asks to sit in the seat next to him.

By now, it’s getting dark and Jimin keeps his eyes on the lights of Busan, winking in their thousands but fading fast as they reach the outskirts of the city and enter the shadows of the countryside. The movement of the train lulls him slowly into an uneasy sleep, plagued with thoughts of Chang and the scattered phrases of his father still echoing in his brain.

Men can’t be raped.

“Should I cut off your finger and send it to your boss? Do you think he’d stop bulshitting and actually send all the money?” Chang murmurs, tracing the curve in Jimin’s collarbone with cold fingertips. Jimin shakes his head, panic making his brain feel hot. He tries to voice his dissent through the dirty cloth Chang stuffed in his mouth earlier but it comes out as a garbled mess of unintelligible sounds. Chang smiles, lips curving cruelly as his fingers trail over Jimin’s shoulder along his arm till they’re tracing one of the handcuffs keeping Jimin splayed out on the bed like a starfish, unable to move.

“Was that a yes?” Jimin shakes his head even more furiously, still pleading hysterically through the gag even as Chang leans over and pokes at his hand. He’s trembling so hard it’s a struggle to even focus on curling his fingers into a clenched fist. “Oh, that won’t do,” Chang says reproachfully, and Jimin starts crying as his fist is slowly peeled apart. Chang pulls at his pinky finger. “What about this one?”

He keeps plucking at Jimin’s fingers one by one, voice mocking as he describes how he’ll cut it off in the most painful manner possible till Jimin can’t even open his eyes from the sheer terror. He’d rather Chang just cut it off when he’s not expecting it; maybe it’ll somehow hurt less?

“You’re no fun,” Chang says in the end, and his hands leave Jimin’s body long enough for Jimin to crack open his eyelids, seeing Chang’s almost comical pout through the sheen of his tears. It’s ridiculous—a fully grown man sulking like a child who’s had their favourite toy taken off them.

Chang reaches over and Jimin flinches as his hands brush over Jimin’s neck but it’s just to remove the wad of fabric soaking up all the saliva in his mouth. Now would be Jimin’s chance to plead for mercy if he could speak through the dryness in his mouth and the lump of fear lodged in his throat but he can’t. He just lays there crying, almost relieved when Chang unzips his pants and pulls out his cock to straddle Jimin’s prone body.

He barely feels it when Chang rips into him again. All the pain and fear has melded together till Jimin can hardly separate one from the other and he’s existing in this weird state halfway between consciousness and unconscious, dangling like a pendulum between the two.

At some point, Chang finishes with a groan, his hot release dripping out of Jimin when he abruptly pulls out. It’s a disgusting feeling but all Jimin can think as he’s lying there is how much he prefers this to having his finger cut off. Then he feels disgusted with himself for even thinking an evil like this could be preferable to another evil.

Even though he’s finished, Chang doesn’t uncuff Jimin just yet, tucking himself back into his boxers before he suddenly leans over Jimin’s body, holding himself up with his elbows till they’re almost nose-to-nose. Jimin can’t even pull his head away and so he’s forced to breathe in the same air Chang breathes out, almost cross-eyed from trying to keep his eyes on Chang’s. The man doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He just levels his gaze with Jimin’s and stares at him, elbows boxing around Jimin’s head and keeping him from lying directly on top of Jimin’s naked body.

“You like this.” It’s not a question but Jimin feels something in himself lurch uncomfortably and he musters the courage to shake his head. Chang cocks his own head, hot breath blowing onto Jimin’s lips. “No?” Jimin swallows a whimper and shakes his head again, cracking his mouth open just enough to whisper a single word.

“N-no.”

“Why not?” Chang asks, and Jimin flinches, unsure how to answer, almost struck dumb with fear from their close proximity. “Answer me.” There are a thousand reasons Jimin could name but his panicked brain settles for the most basic, the most predominant of his entire time in Chang’s captivity.

“It hurts, ” he mumbles, ashamed as tears stinging hotly in the corners of his eyes. Chang looks disappointed, fingers curling in Jimin’s hair and tugging his head up a little further.

“I thought we’d gotten past that, huh?” He murmurs, suddenly dropping his weight off his elbows so he’s lying on top of Jimin, all the air being squished out of Jimin’s chest in one big swoosh. Chang’s eyes are barely two inches from Jimin’s and they scrutinize him with all the coldness of a snake —calculating, steely, vindictive pleasure in Jimin’s terror. Jimin can’t help but notice how Chang’s eyes have tiny flecks of golden brown around the edges and are framed by long lashes. On someone else, he might even find them attractive.

The thought flashes into his brain before he can stop it and immediately after Jimin is filled with a wave of such strong revulsion he almost blacks out for a moment. And Chang’s still there, still lying heavily on top of him, every point of their fronts pressed together, and he’s still watching Jimin like a hawk.

“It hurts?” Jimin manages a nod, hoping against all hope that Chang isn’t going to do something to hurt him just because he can. Chang stares down at him for another few seconds before he suddenly lowers his head, pressing their lips together, tongue flicking out to caress Jimin’s sealed lips. All it takes is a warning growl from Chang and Jimin forces his mouth to open, forces himself to respond to Chang’s kisses by kissing back. The slimy presence of Chang’s tongue licking at the roof of his mouth has Jimin squeezing his eyes shut just to make it somewhat bearable. Chang’s increased penchant for kissing isn’t new but it’s still as revolting as the first time he’d mashed their lips together and forced Jimin to respond.

“Does this hurt?” Chang asks after they’ve been kissing long enough to leave Jimin breathless, smirking as he pulls back. Jimin cracks his eyes open and tentatively shakes his head. It wouldn’t do to lie right to his captor’s face. Chang grins, swooping back down and pressing more kisses around Jimin’s mouth this time, dotting the edge of his lips, the side of his jaw, even the tip of his nose, almost like you would a boyfriend or girlfriend. This affection —it’s confusing, and Jimin’s brain doesn’t know how to handle it.

The kisses trail right down the side of Jimin’s neck till he’s squirming under Chang, the feeling of lips tickling his collarbones oppressive with the added weight of a body on top of him. But then Chang looks up, regarding Jimin almost thoughtfully. In one quick movement he suddenly gyrates his hips down hard, grinding against Jimin’s crotch, their dicks pressed together, separated only by the thin fabric of Chang’s boxers.

Jimin’s breath catches in his throat and Chang smirks again, grinding down again and again till his hips are moving against Jimin’s in a steady rhythm. And Jimin hates himself because the friction sends sparks of arousal shooting towards his previously flaccid cock, coaxing it to life with barely any effort. Chang grunts occasionally with the effort of his thrusts but there’s no missing the satisfied smile spreading over his face as Jimin’s arousal becomes obvious.

“Does this hurt?” He asks obnoxiously as he grinds down particularly forcefully, and Jimin can’t even answer, too preoccupied with trying to force his erection down, teeth digging into his lower lip to stifle the moans threatening to make their way out of his mouth. Chang laughs, slowing his movements to grind tiny, precise circles onto Jimin’s cock.

“I told you, you like this.”

Jimin shakes his head but it’s unconvincing through the haze of pleasure coiling in his stomach.

He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like—

He comes after only a few minutes, the arousal overtaking his veins in one sudden wave that leaves him panting and breathless, Chang rolling their hips together even as Jimin writhes in oversensitivity in the wake of his orgasm. Thankfully, Chang stops with a self-satisfied chuckle propping himself up on his elbows before pressing his lips down on Jimin’s slack mouth. He doesn’t seem to care when Jimin doesn’t respond, his limbs too drained from the fading flush of pleasure and the disgusting shame that accompanies it.

“You like this,” Chang murmurs against his lips, and Jimin doesn’t think he can deny it when his body is obviously saying otherwise.

He wakes with a gasp when the train conductor announces their arrival in Seoul, shivering with the burning remnants of his nightmare. It’s just after seven-forty-five when Jimin steps off the train and into the city where he’s lived and worked for the past few years. He knows where he should be going, where his feet want to take him, but he’s still half-trapped in the haze of sleep, heart still racing too uncomfortably to consider going to the apartment just yet. He doesn’t know if the others are there although he assumes from Taehyung’s last messages the younger had been planning on returning a number of weeks ago already. Yoongi’s probably back, and knowing Hoseok he won’t have been able to stay away from the lure of an empty dance studio for long. Knowing all of them, they’ll have come back as soon as they could.

Jimin’s utterly discomfited being back in Seoul. He wasn’t meant to come back; he wasn’t meant to return to this part of his life but he’s here now, not so much by choice but by circumstance because, really, where else was he meant to go?

Men can’t rape men. I will no longer call you my son.

Jimin walks till his feet are sore and he has no idea where he is. He successfully loses himself in the rabbit warren of Seoul, trudging through the back alleys and side streets and ignoring the stares of strangers at the sight of a young man in only a thin coat and a shoulder bag walking alone in the dark corners of the city. Still he carries on walking as his body gets cold enough to start trembling all over, his skin almost feeling like clay to the touch with how unfeeling it is from the onslaught of icy wind.

At least walking stops him from thinking. Jimin really, really doesn’t want to think.

He calls a taxi when even another step threatens to have him keeling over with exhaustion. The taxi driver eyes him somewhat warily but doesn’t question his frozen state, merely switching the heating onto ‘high’ as Jimin tells him the address he needs with a shaking voice.

It doesn’t take long before they’re pulling up outside the gated community where the apartment resides, the taxi driver suddenly much more interested in his passenger than he was before.

“You can get in here?” He asks Jimin, and Jimin nods uncomfortably.

“You can just, um, drop me off here,” he mumbles, quickly paying the fare and adding a generous tip to alleviate the driver’s disappointment at not being able to drive into the complex.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you in?” The driver asks, watching Jimin curiously, and Jimin is suddenly reminded of Chang, hurriedly grabbing at the door handle and slipping out into the cold before the driver can say anything else.

He fumbles with his ID card, ignoring the surprised looks of the security guards as he shows them who he is.

“You’re out a bit late tonight!” One of them says but Jimin just smiles thinly in response. The guards seem to get the hint of his mood and they let him in quickly, their eyes burning into Jimin’s back as he walks in.

It takes him almost half an hour to walk to the apartment, any remaining warmth from the taxi quickly evaporating till he’s shivering almost as hard as he was just twenty minutes earlier. But Jimin gets there eventually, climbing up the stairs instead of taking the elevator just so he warms up a little quicker. It’s only when he’s standing outside the door that he hesitates for the first time.

He did not think this through.

Behind the door are six men who have been with Jimin since before their debut, supported him when he would break down at the poor state of his singing skills, brought him home when he was almost fainting from exhaustion every night in the practice room, laughed with him when he was happy, cried with him when he was sad, and performed with him when he was still filled with passion and excitement for the stage.

But behind the same door are six men who have seen Jimin held against a wall and raped, who’ve watched him naked and bound and bleeding, beaten in front of them, seen him forced to hurt Namjoon, been hurt by him directly.

He doesn’t want to go in. Fuck, he really doesn’t want to face them but deep down he knows he has to. If it isn’t now then when will he ever?

He’s reaching for the door handle when another realisation hits him and he almost laughs out loud at how stupid it is.

He doesn’t even have a fucking key.

It’s awkward reaching up and pressing the doorbell, almost like he’s a stranger instead of someone who lives here. It leaves him waiting uncomfortably, shoulders pulling up towards his ears as the seconds tick by and the nervous churning in his stomach intensifies more and more until he’s almost nauseous.

He almost runs when the lock on the door clicks and it swings open revealing Yoongi trying to pull something out of his wallet and still not looking up. Jimin ends up waiting for a few long seconds in silence, suddenly overwhelmed with this weird feeling of nostalgia as he sees Yoongi still so unaware of his presence.

He looks okay. Is he okay? I'm not okay. How is he okay?

There’s the brief moment when Yoongi finally looks up and his whole face drops as if he’s seen a ghost, mouth sagging open in obvious surprise and hands falling limply at his sides. And Jimin just stands there, unsure how to act, how to even exist in the life of the old Park Jimin as Yoongi stares at him until finally the other man finds the words to acknowledge him.

“Jimin?”

Chapter Text

Yoongi’s jaw drops.

“Jimin?”   Jimin shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the tip of his nose flushed pink from the cold, eyes darting between Yoongi’s face and the floor. Yoongi is in a state of absolute shock. “You’re back?” Jimin’s lips press together and he shrugs.

“I—yeah, um,” he says, voice sounding much more husky than Yoongi remembers from the last time they spoke almost a month ago. Yoongi just can’t stop staring at him. Face sculpted by the dark shadows in the hollows of his eyes, the sockets looking almost bruised, cheekbones much more prominent than they were even when Yoongi had seen Jimin in the hospital.

“I didn’t know you were coming back yet,” he manages in the end, and Jimin gaze drops to his fingers before he looks up and a smile slides across his face.

“Well, I’m here now!” He exclaims with false brightness, made even more fake by the sadness ingrained in every facet of his face. They're interrupted by Jungkook's voice echoing down the corridor. 

“What’s taking you so long, hyung! I’m hungry enough to eat the t.v at this point!” His words are accompanied by the light sound of Taehyung’s laughter and it startles Yoongi out of his stupor long enough to register the fact he’s blocking the doorway and Jimin’s still out in the hallway.

“Sorry—you’re probably cold—um.” Yoongi steps aside, running his hands through his hair, still trying to process Jimin’s sudden appearance. Jimin just smiles thinly, stepping into the warmth of the apartment and peering down the hall leading to the living room.

“You were waiting for someone else?” He asks quietly, and Yoongi huffs a dry laugh.

“Jajangmyeon. I promised Taehyung and Jungkook.”

“Oh. That’s nice.” Jimin shucks off his shoes, leaving them tidily on the rack, unwinding the scarf from around his neck and placing it on one of the hooks with his coat. He’s wearing a woollen sweater underneath but he still shivers. Yoongi opens his mouth to say something but then Jimin looks up and Yoongi catches sight of a faint pink scar on his neck, the skin just a little darker than it should be, like a necklace around his throat. The realisation as to it's origin sucks all the air of out of Yoongi’s lungs and he looks away as quickly as he can, not wanting to stare. Obviously not quickly enough as Jimin’s hands fly up to his neck and he coughs awkwardly, quickly grabbing the scarf back down from the hook and winding it back around his neck. Yoongi kicks himself internally.

“Is everyone back?” Jimin asks, glancing down the hallway but making no move to walk further in. Yoongi nods.

“We’ve been back a few weeks ago now, but Hoseok, Jin, and Namjoon are all out—”

“Jimin?!” Both Jimin and Yoongi’s heads snap up as Taehyung comes hurtling down the corridor in a flailing whirlwind of arms and legs. Yoongi barely has a second to blink before Taehyung’s leaping at Jimin, wrapping him up in a rib-crushing hug. “You’re back, like, a month early!” He squeals, and Jimin staggers backwards, arms full of overjoyed Taehyung, face squished into the younger man’s shoulder. When Taehyung finally releases him, Jimin takes a step back, arms crossing protectively over his chest, looking uncomfortable underneath the smile plastered on his face.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. Taehyung and Yoongi both wait for him to elaborate but Jimin doesn’t even look at them, busy fiddling with the edge of his sweater. As quickly as Taehyung’s hyper energy had warmed the atmosphere, they’re plunged into an awkward, freezing silence.

Jungkook comes padding down the hallway only a few seconds later. “What’s taking so lo—” his face drops, “—Jimin? What are you doing here?” Yoongi winces at their maknae’s wording, knowing Jungkook doesn’t mean it the way it sounds but still cringing nonetheless. Maybe Jimin’s greeting smile dims a little, although if he’s hurt by Jungkook’s words, he does a good job of hiding it.

“How are you doing, Jungkookie?” The nickname slips tentatively into the air, familiar, oh-so-Jimin, and Yoongi can’t help but exhale gratefully as some of the tension in the air lifts. Jungkook shrugs, messing with his hair in that offhand, awkward teenage way he always has but there’s no mistaking the joy at seeing his hyung for the first time in so long.

“I missed you,” Jungkook grunts out, and Jimin’s face cracks into the first truly genuine smile Yoongi’s seen. In an odd way, it gives him hope.

Walking into the room he shares with Hoseok is an odd experience. It hasn’t really changed, Jimin’s things still in place exactly as they were the night they’d been taken. Hoseok’s sheets are rumpled, the blankets clearly thrown over the bed with little care. Jimin’s side of the room is untouched from the morning they’d left, even the random shoes scattered around the side of the desk, and the towel hanging over the back of the chair. It makes Jimin’s stomach swoop uncomfortably, a sudden wave of nostalgia making the edges of his vision sway.

The bedsheets smell musty and a bit like mothballs—it’s been more than two months since he slept here after all—and Jimin forces himself to change them out of habit more than anything else. The smoothness of crisp sheets against his skin is a welcome relief after the scratchy seat coverings on the train but there’s an uneasy feeling in his gut that doesn’t ease even when Jimin’s lying in bed with the lights off, tucked around his pillow as if it’ll somehow protect him from god-knows-what. Everything just feels so wrong. Jimin shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t taint their home with his presence.

He lies awake for a long time, the faint sounds of Taehyung, Jungkook, and Yoongi’s movie drifting through the closed door. It sparks a twinge of guilt as he remembers the way he’d basically run away from them barely two minutes after entering the apartment, excuses of exhaustion spilling from his lips even as he’d turned his back without a second glance.

He just… can’t.

Already the way Yoongi had looked at him, eyes catching on the scarring around his neck, Taehyung’s hyper energy, and in contrast, Jungkook’s overly cautious greeting as if Jimin was some fragile ornament balanced on the edge of a precarious shelf — it makes Jimin realise even more he shouldn’t be here. He’s disrupting; he’s making things worse.

Jimin fists his hands into his fresh sheets and bites down on the inside of his cheek, forcing his brain to empty. It’s still much earlier than he would normally go to sleep but he tries to lull his mind into a more relaxed state with every breath, pretending all the thoughts whizzing through his brain are being swept out the door. It still takes more than an hour before his eyelids start to feel heavier and the pleasant emptiness of sleep tickles at the edge of his consciousness, and even then, Jimin is uneasy.

He barely stops himself from flinching when the sound of the door opening pierces the silence, rousing Jimin from his dozing state as Hoseok’s familiar tread steps lightly over the wood. He can't have been asleep for long, and even with his back toward the door and his eyes squeezed shut, Jimin can feel the prickling heaviness of Hoseok’s gaze roving over him, stinging like acid rain on his skin. There’s a long moment where Hoseok seemingly just stands there, maybe checking if Jimin is awake, and Jimin catches himself holding his breath, frozen like a statue in his bed, unable to get himself to move. Maybe he’s putting off the inevitable; it’s not like he can avoid seeing them all again (it’s not like he wants to—does he?) and it’s a cowardly move to want to take advantage of just a few more hours of peace where one less person will look at him with so much pity, but he does it anyway, a stationary log in his bed, lungs aching from the effort of holding his breath.

Finally, Hoseok moves, and Jimin tracks his footsteps over to the other side of the room, hears a heavy sigh and the distinctive sound of joints popping and the mattress creaking as Hoseok sits down on the bed. He could say something, anything , but he doesn’t, and eventually Hoseok is settling in his own bed, breathing evening out, the soft sound barely able to be heard above the rushing of blood in Jimin’s ears. Still he lays there, unmoving, brain sparked back into action until the tangled mess of feelings inside of him has twisted together into a tight coil that presses sharply inside his chest.

You’re a coward.

Jimin wakes up when even the sun hasn’t emerged yet, sheets twisted around his legs and chest heaving as the last of Chang’s demons scatter in the face of consciousness. It’d been a nightmare but a weird one, steeped in vivid memory.

“Shhh, don’t cry,” Chang murmurs, fingers running through Jimin’s hair. “It’s okay.” Jimin just shakes in Chang’s arms, terrified sobs spilling from his mouth as easily as breathing. “Shhh,” Chang whispers, and Jimin forces his mouth shut, forces the terror back down his throat till he’s at least stopped the cries. He’s still waiting for Chang to beat him for his disobedience, and waiting only makes the fear worse. Jimin knows full well he should’ve stopped fighting weeks ago already, and punching Chang had been a futile act of anger that is sure to have consequences. So he waits.

But Chang doesn’t beat him. Instead, he pulls Jimin down on the bed and wraps him up in his arms so Jimin’s face is pressed against the man’s chest, forced to breathe in his thick scent. It takes only a few minutes for Chang’s breathing to become a steady rhythm, a tell-tale mark of having fallen asleep, and Jimin is still lying there, squished into Chang’s warm chest, arms wrapped around him like a vice, goosebumps prickling over his whole body from a combination of residual fear and cold.

Jimin had woken just as the Chang in his nightmare had shifted, the sharp jolt of fear forcing Jimin’s brain out of sleep and into wakefulness. It leaves a sickening concoction of guilt swirling in the pit of his belly, remembering how, for a just a few moments, Jimin had felt somewhat safe in Chang’s arms. Being held so closely and for it to not be a cruel foreplay to violence, it was a touch of human affection Jimin hadn’t even known he’d craved. But it still makes him feel sick to remember, enough that he can’t bring himself to go back to sleep and instead, he stumbles out of bed, padding over to the door after glancing to make sure Hoseok’s still form is still asleep.

It’s just before six o’clock in the morning, the only sign of the sun being a warm glow on the horizon. Jimin shuffles out of his room rather hesitantly, relieved when the living area is empty. He’s the only one awake so far it seems, and he takes advantage of it, making a cup of coffee and heading out to the balcony.

It’s freezing outside, the air biting sharply at the inside of Jimin’s nose and the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t bother going back inside to grab a jacket. At least the skies are clear, and Jimin settles down in one of the chairs they have out on the balcony, fingers wrapped around his mug and knees drawn up to his chest. He’s wearing a long pair of pyjamas but they do little to protect him from winter’s chill, and he can feel the wetness of ice melting on the seat. He can’t find it in himself to move.

How many times has he sat like this, gazing out over Seoul? Far too many times to count is the conclusion Jimin comes to in the end. Far too many times. And yet the sense of awe he feels is still very real, maybe because he hasn’t seen it for months. He sips his coffee and wonders how many more times he’ll be sitting here watching the sun rise over Seoul from this angle.

You have time.

Does he? Does he really?

Jimin doesn’t know how long he sits there for, the sun creeping up the sky and pushing through the early morning clouds, warming his face marginally more than the air. He jolts in surprise when a heavy weight is suddenly dropped on his shoulders, head snapping around as he registers the warmth of a blanket being tucked around him.

“Aren’t you cold?” Jin asks as he settles down on one of the other chairs, a matching blanket wrapped around his own shoulders. Jimin’s mouth opens but no sound comes out, mind still slightly disoriented at Jin’s sudden appearance.

“I didn’t hear you come out,” is the first thing he manages to actually say, and Jin smiles softly, eying Jimin with open curiosity in a way that somehow doesn’t feel intrusive.

“I saw you sitting out here so I thought I’d come join. Hope you don’t mind.” Jimin shakes his head, takes another sip of his now cold coffee, the bitter grounds at the bottom of the cup making their first appearance. Jin takes a sip of his own coffee, turning to look out over Seoul as well.

“How long have you been out here? You must be pretty cold.” It’s said casually but Jimin can hear the poorly-concealed concern in every nuance of the words. He shrugs, looks down at the bottom of his cup where the last mouthfuls of coffee still reside.

“Not sure,” he says. “A while.” Jin hums thoughtfully, eyes flicking back over to Jimin.

“I didn’t know you were coming back yet.” Jimin’s mouth sours and he looks away from Jin.

They don’t want him back. Of course they don’t want him back.

But Jin seems to know exactly what he’s thinking. “I missed you.” Jimin looks up then, catches the furrowing of Jin’s brows as he looks over Jimin.

“I missed you too,” he mumbles, and Jin grins easily, the sadness in the lines on his face disappearing just as quickly as it arrived. Jin has more lines now than he did a few weeks ago. He’s aged, maybe because of stress, and he looks exhausted. Jimin’s suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to give his eldest hyung a hug; knowing Jin he’s probably been looking after everyone else except himself. “How have you been, hyung?”

Jin’s smile fades a little and he looks out over Seoul before he replies, as if it’ll somehow give him an answer. “Oh, you know… we’re okay.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than anything.

“Hyun—”

“How are your parents?” Jin interrupts, clearing his throat and taking another gulp of coffee. Jimin matches him, tipping the dregs of his coffee into his mouth and letting it swirl over his teeth. He’ll have to swallow eventually —swallow and answer Jin’s innocent question as if it means nothing. He swallows.

“They’re alright.”

“Yeah?” Jin tilts his head. “I wouldn’t think your mother would’ve let you come back yet. She seemed pretty convinced you were going to be home for at least two or three months from what she told me.” Jimin swallows again, avoiding Jin’s eyes. That man is far too intelligent for his own good.

“They’re alright,” he repeats finally, setting down his empty cup and pulling the blanket further around his shoulders. The two of them fall into silence, looking out as the sun breaks properly through the morning mist and the city traffic begins to increase.

“They don’t know, do they?” Jin asks suddenly, and Jimin flinches. It takes barely a second for his heart rate to increase and he picks at his fingers to avoid Jin’s piercing gaze. “Jimin,” Jin murmurs, and it’s the cue for Jimin to stand up, abandoning the blanket as he grabs his empty mug and steps away from his hyung.

“I’m cold.”

“Jim—” Jimin quickly escapes the balcony, Jin’s knowing look suddenly oppressive. He knows he should tell Jin, knows he should let his parents know he’s safe, although they probably already assume he’s back in Seoul. He hasn't checked his phone, can't remember if it's even charged so his parents could contact him if they wanted. They don’t even know he tried to terminate his contract so what reason would he have to not come back to Seoul?

He walks through to the kitchen, glancing back to make sure Jin isn’t following. He doesn’t expect to turn the corner and bump straight into someone, and he jerks backwards, tripping slightly as his gaze shoots back to the front only to realise who it is.

The mug in his hand shatters on the floor with an ear-splitting crash.

“You’re going to give your dear leader a blowjob, and you’re not going to stop until he comes.”

Namjoon stares at him in a mirror image of obvious shock and Jimin can’t tear his gaze away from his leader, even as he stumbles away , feet crunching over broken ceramic. Even the pain of the shards slicing into his soles is not enough to quell the rising nausea in his gut.

“You heard me,” Chang snaps, “use that mouth of yours and get your leader off.”

Namjoon looks equally horrified, face much thinner than Jimin remembers, the stress lines much more pronounced. Jimin’s brain is going into overdrive, spitting out all these things he’s repressed, and fuck, he thought he’d gotten past some of the shame but it burns so fiercely inside of him he’s dry heaving with the force of it, the phantom weight of Namjoon’s cock on his tongue so incredibly real.

He slams into the wall on his way out, scrabbling in a mad panic as the shame overwhelms him, the only thing in Jimin’s mind the pained expression on Namjoon’s face and his own raw guilt crushing him under its weight.

“Go on,” he taunts, “do your dear leader a favour.”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Jimin’s sobbing like a child but it’s all he can do as he runs out of the kitchen, runs away from Namjoon like the fucking coward he is and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him and flicking the lock shut. He can hardly breathe as he sinks down onto the floor, back pressed against the door.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.” He can’t stop shaking, chest heaving with each shuddering sob that wracks his body, stomach still churning every time he thinks about why he's even locked up in here. 

Namjoon. Poor Namjoon.

You’re disgusting.

“I know!”

How could you do that to Namjoon? How could you—

Jimin slams his head back against the door and grapples with his hair, yanking at the greasy strands as the words swirl around his brain. He’s so stupid to think he could even look Namjoon in the eye after what Jimin has done to him.

You’re fucking delusional to think he’ll ever forgive you.

The tears are running thick and fast now, dripping off his chin and into his lap, and Jimin bites down on his lip to stifle the cries bubbling up in his throat.

Coward.

“Jimin?” Jin’s voice floats through the door and Jimin flinches at the sudden noise. “Jimin, please open the door.” Jimin doesn’t move. “Please. Just unlock it.”

But Jimin just curls up into a tighter ball on the ground and shoves his hands over his ears, swallowing harshly as bile burns in his throat.

“Jimin,” Jin pleads. “You can’t hide from Namjoon forever. I know how you’re feeling and I also know you’re both hurting but you have to talk about it.”

Jimin squeezes his hands even more firmly over his ears and tries to block out Jin’s voice. Jin doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything about how Jimin feels.

Ashamed. Disgusted. Guilty.

Afraid. He's so fucking afraid of how much Namjoon must hate him.

Its funny how time can fool a person into thinking wounds have healed but just one look at Namjoon and it had all come back to him, every fucking second of it in glaring detail, a vivid reminder of how fucked up he was.  It’s almost laughable to think Jimin and Namjoon could ever repair whatever this is. What was he thinking coming back to Seoul?

You weren’t thinking, the voice in his head reminds him. That’s called a knee jerk reaction.

“Jimin, please, just unlock the door.” There’s something in the way Jin is begging that makes Jimin uncomfortable. His Hyung is strong; who is this person pleading so desperately? Jimin scrubs at the tears on his cheeks and fights the urge to punch the wall.

“Jimin?” And holy shit, that’s Namjoon’s voice. “I’m so sorry. I wish—I wish I could do something to make this better—“

Why is Namjoon apologising? It’s my fault. It’s mine.

“Just, please come out and talk. I—I understand if you don’t want to talk to me but—“ Namjoon breaks off and Jimin is shocked to hear what sounds like a choked sob. It’s all turning to shit— a complicated, confusing mess of guilt and shame and Namjoon’s misplaced apologies because, really, it should be Jimin apologising and not Namjoon. Namjoon should be disgusted with Jimin, not apologetic.

In a sudden burst of desperation, Jimin forces himself to his feet, turning to the door and unlocking it in one swift motion. Jin must’ve been leaning against it because it swings open with plenty of force and Jin stumbles in, awkwardly off balance. But he’s not the person Jimin needs to talk to.

Namjoon stands just behind Jin, eyes red rimmed, glasses wonkily perched on his nose. And Jimin’s not going to lie, there’s a part of his brain that can’t help the way the sight of Namjoon has Chang’s face swimming to the forefront of his mind but Jimin would rather be kidnapped by Chang all over again than for Namjoon to feel in anyway responsible for what Jimin did to him.

“It’s not your fault,” he manages to say, still unable to meet Namjoon’s eyes because, who would he be to taint his leader with his filth anymore than he already has? “It’s me, it’s my fault.” He’s trying to get Namjoon to understand but there’s so much whizzing through his brain he’s not sure if the words coming out of his mouth are even the ones he’s trying to say. And maybe he’s said something wrong because Jin and Namjoon are both staring at him and it’s deathly silent.

See, there’s no way he’ll ever forgive you—

“What do you mean, it’s your fault?” Namjoon looks strangely aghast, and Jimin wipes furiously at the fresh tears spilling over his cheeks. “Jimin, it’s not your fault at all. It’s Chang’s fault for forcing you to do that and mine for fucking reacting.”

“ I’m the one that made you—made you come,” Jimin says, cheeks burning, sick to his stomach. “You can’t help how you reacted but I fucking tried.”

Both Jin and Namjoon look intensely uncomfortable, and Jimin feels like melting into the tiled floor of the bathroom till there’s just a puddle of embarrassment and guilt pooling by the door.

“Chang made you do it,” Namjoon mutters. “And I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

And before Jimin can even react, Namjoon’s stepping forward, brushing past Jin still caught in the doorway, and then Jimin’s being wrapped up in Namjoon’s arms and pulled into a bone crushing hug.

His face is squished into Namjoon’s shoulder and all he can smell is the fabric softener Jungkook always buys in bulk because their fans found out which ones they use and it keeps selling out. It’s a hug without any connotations and yet it feels like forgiveness even if Jimin doesn’t think he deserves it. But Namjoon’s always been like that, always so quick to forgive and forget, willing to sacrifice revenge in favour of peace.

Jimin can’t help but feel even filthier when he allows himself to hug Namjoon back.

“I’m so sorry, Hyung.”

You’re disgusting. How could you touch him?

When Namjoon finally pulls back, there are tears smudging his cheeks, glinting wetly under the light, and Jimin has to wipe at his own cheeks, equally tear stained. He still can’t look Namjoon in the face but really, is that so unexpected? He doesn’t know how long it’ll be before he ever looks at Namjoon without thinking of Chang, and the thought is so depressing Jimin can feel a knot forming in his throat. His thoughts are interrupted by Jin’s sudden exclamation.

“Your feet!”

All three of them automatically look down and Jimin suddenly becomes painfully aware, quite literally, of the consequences of stepping on broken pieces of ceramic. There are huge scarlet blood stains the floor around his feet, smeared everywhere from when Jimin had shifted, and more blood oozing around his heels. It stings more with every second he looks at it, and both Namjoon and Jin swear at the same.

“Fuck.”

Jin decides the cuts don’t warrant stitches although he spends a significant amount of time dabbing alcohol into the various puncture wounds. It stings like a bitch but Jimin grits his teeth and forces himself to endure it.

Even if Namjoon seems to have forgiven him, the pain of the antiseptic feels like a well deserved punishment.

By the time they’re finished and Jimin has an array of plasters stuck to his soles the house seems to be waking up. In a way it’s a relief to be released from having to face Namjoon for any longer; even now he knows Namjoon doesn’t blame him, he can’t help but feel his gut curdle in shame every time they make fleeting eye contact. And Jin keeps watching Jimin in that all-knowing way he has. In some ways Jimin is thankful for his injuries because they seem to provide a buffer stopping Jin from poking further into Jimin’s reasons for returning. How would he ever answer that?

“Why are you back?”

“Because my father thinks men can’t be raped.”

That doesn’t sound good.

“Because my father wants me to say it was consensual.”

It wasn’t.

“Because I need to tell Bang PD I’m leaving the band—“

“Jimin!” It’s Hoseok, walking into the kitchen with sleep rumpled hair, an easy grin spreading over his face although it fades rather quickly when he sees Jimin’s bandaged feet. “Wait, what happened?” Jin answers on Jimin’s behalf.

“I accidentally dropped a mug and Jimin stepped on to the shards without realising.” There’s silence but Hoseok doesn’t seem too suspicious and Jimin swallows down his original answer, thankful for Jin’s intervention. Hoseok frowns as he walks over to inspect what little damage is still visible. He pats Jimin’s shoulder rather tentatively before seemingly deciding to take the plunge and wrapping an affectionate arm around Jimin so he can pull him into a one armed hug even from where Jimin’s sitting on the kitchen counter.

“You’re back earlier than we thought,” he says, surprise evident in his tone.

“I think I’ve heard that from everyone now,” Jimin mutters, picking at the edge of his fingernail. He doesn’t care if he sounds bitter; it’s frustrating to feel like an outcast.

“Does the company know you’re back?” Another voice interrupts, and Jimin looks up to see Jungkook pulling a hoodie over his head, a sleepy Yoongi padding in just behind. “Last time I talked to Bang PD he said you wouldn’t be back for ages.”

“I can leave if that’s what you all want?” Jimin bites back sourly. If he had hackles they would be rising at the amount of times he’s been questioned about his return. There’s an awkward silence and Jimin carefully slides off the kitchen bench, wincing as the contact with the floor puts pressure on the fresh cuts, ignoring the way Jungkook’s eyes are round saucers in his face.

“Of course not, Jimin,” Jin murmurs, standing up from where he’d been kneeling on the floor with the first aid kit. “We’re just… surprised after everything—after everything we’ve been told.”

He looks so tired, so worried, that Jimin deflates, the anger inside of him disappearing almost instantly to be replaced with that familiar feeling of guilt. “Sorry,” he mumbles, gut twisting uncomfortably. Before the others even get a chance to respond Jimin clambers off the kitchen bench, wincing slightly as he puts pressure on his heel where the biggest cut is. “I’m going out for a walk,” he says, neck prickling at the pervasive silence in the room, even when there are six people all standing there. Jin frowns, and Hoseok and Namjoon both take a short step towards Jimin, almost as if they were going to stop him from leaving. Jimin fights the urge to flinch rather unsuccessfully, sees them both freeze and feels the guilt in his stomach curdle once more.

“Your feet—you shouldn’t be walking on them—”

“I’m going for a walk, hyung,” Jimin says carefully, avoiding their concerned eyes. And you can’t stop me, rings unsaid in the air.

They let him go.

Chapter Text

For all the guilt Namjoon’s forgiveness may have alleviated, Jimin is struggling. There’s an atmosphere in the apartment that’s hard to shake and impossible to ignore. Albeit Jimin was only here for a day before he came back into the apartment after his walk—the one they’d warned him not to go on—with his white shoes stained scarlet with blood after which he’d promptly had a screaming match with Jin that ended with the both of them in tears. And Jimin knows Jin isn’t trying to be oppressive and he knows Jin was only upset because he warned him and Jimin still didn’t listen and he got hurt because of it but something about feeling like a disappointment yet again has made him harsh with his words. He doesn’t know when to stop.  

So now the atmosphere is constantly charged, every word dripping into the air like acid, even if they’re only kind. Jimin hides in his room like a coward, tucked up in bed in the same clothes for days until one of the others wrestles him into the bathroom and leaves him in there with clean clothes and an already drawn bath. 

Pathetic. 

That’s what this whole thing is. Jimin’s not a baby; he’s an adult who is perfectly capable of looking after himself but it’s hard to find the energy when the walls feel like they’re caving in on him. And yeah, having the blankets held hostage until he bathes is humiliating but Jimin knows full well if he had it his own way he’d probably never emerge from his room again. 

Bang PD finds out Jimin is back only a few days later. He’s not sure how the man knows but he suspects Namjoon probably told him. It’s hard not to feel betrayed. He doesn’t want to talk to Bang PD, doesn’t want another set of eyes peeling him apart and forcing him to talk about himself. He ignores the texts asking Jimin to come and meet at the company offices and pulls the blankets over his head. Maybe if he ignores them for long enough, Bang PD will just give up. 

It turns out Bang PD is much more stubborn than Jimin had initially anticipated. The texts don’t stop and Jimin stops reading them in the end, throwing his phone across the room where it hits the wall with a loud crack. Hoseok happens to be coming in at that same moment and he jumps about three foot in the air, looking at the phone with obvious bewilderment before his gaze swivels questioningly to Jimin.

“Leave it,” Jimin mutters, rolling over and facing the wall instead. 

He sleeps a lot during the day only to lie awake all night—a choice he made after realising he only really seems to get nightmares and flashbacks in the middle of the night. If there’s a way of minimizing the number of times Chang’s face invades his brain, he’ll do anything.

The others bring him food and Jimin makes at least some effort to eat it, even if it totally disinterests him because at least it gets them to leave him alone. 

He’s just getting used to this pattern of self-imposed isolation when Namjoon comes in one morning, an unusually determined look on his face. “Bang PD is going to be here in thirty minutes, Jimin. You need to get up and go wash and put some fresh clothes on.” Jimin pulls the blanket far enough down to stare at Namjoon. 

“Why is he coming here?” he grunts, but he’s got an idea already. Even in its broken state, his phone buzzed at least twenty times against the wall before the battery died. Namjoon fixes Jimin with another look.

“You know why. He’s been texting you for days trying to set up a meeting.”

“I don’t want to talk to him,” Jimin mumbles, pulling the covers up so he doesn’t have to meet Namjoon’s eyes.

“Well, he’s going to be here,” there’s a pause, “in twenty-nine minutes. So, unless you want him to come and drag you out of bed himself, I’d suggest you get up.”

“Go tell him to fuck off,” Jimin mutters sourly. 

“Tell him yourself,” Namjoon retorts without any real bite before he turns around and leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind him. Jimin thinks he’s free but then the door opens again not even a second later, Namjoon’s heavy footsteps thudding over to the bed before the covers are suddenly ripped away and Jimin is left cowering grumpily in the middle of the mattress. “Twenty-eight!!” Namjoon calls out behind him as he leaves for the second time. 

He lies there shivering bitterly until there are only seven minutes until Bang PD is set to arrive. Then his pride wins out and he rushes to the bathroom, relieved when he sees a bath ready and waiting for him to dive into as well as a pair of jeans and one of Yoongi’s hoodies waiting near the sink. He doesn’t want to see Bang PD but he really doesn’t want his boss to see him in such a pathetic state. 

He makes it out of the bathroom two minutes late, butterflies churning in his stomach when he hears the murmur of voices in the living room, Bang PD’s tone easily recognizable next to Namjoon’s low murmur.

Oh, how he’d love to run straight out of here and not return.

“Jimin?” Namjoon calls, and Jimin feels himself shrivelling inside. “PD-nim is here.” Fighting the urge to just go straight back to bed, he walks out to the living room, feet still stinging slightly from the healing cuts and his heart sinking down towards his toes with every step. They’re standing there, both waiting for him, and Jimin manages to look Bang PD in the eye for barely half a second before his gut clenches and he looks away, skin burning with shame. 

(“You’re my message. Do you think your boss will like this too? With your face, I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”)

Perhaps Bang PD’s face has aged but his voice hasn’t changed when he speaks. “Jimin, thank you for coming out.” It’s still so kind, filled with that overt bashfulness the man has always carried about him, and Jimin feels like an absolute asshole for ignoring Bang PD for so long but he doesn’t know what to say and settles instead for staring at the floor. 

“You guys can talk in here. I’ll leave you to it and make sure the others don’t come in here,” Namjoon says when the silence becomes too stifling, and then he’s walking away, leaving Bang PD alone with Jimin. 

“How are you doing, Jimin? Come and sit down,” Bang PD says, sitting down on the couch and patting the cushion next to him. Jimin forces his own feet over to the couch and seats himself as well, shrugging slightly at the question. He’s not normally this rude—especially not towards his boss—but things have changed. Jimin really really doesn’t want to be here.

“I’m fine,” he manages in the end, fisting his fingers into his jeans and trying to get himself to breathe normally. It’s so incredibly hard when he knows exactly what Bang PD’s seen. 

“I’m sorry to come out here and invade your apartment when it’s clear you don’t wish to see me but I think it’s time we talk,” Bang PD says quietly, and Jimin nods ever so slightly in acknowledgement. “The boys have told me it’s been a quiet week for you,” Bang PD continues. “It doesn’t seem that fine to me. That’s not the Jimin I know, hm?” His tone is nowhere near an accusation but Jimin can’t help the resentment which curls bitterly in his chest.

“Well, I’m not exactly the Jimin I was before now, am I?” It comes out even more sarcastically than he’d wanted and he winces but it’s too late to take it back. Still, Bang PD doesn’t get angry.

“I sent you the number and email of the therapist the others are seeing. Have you had a look?” Jimin shakes his head, picking at a loose thread on the edge of the hoodie. 

“My phone—it’s, um,” he flushes, “broken.”

“Ah, that’s not good. Well, your mother phoned me and told me you were going bi-weekly in Busan so you can continue that here as well.”

“My mother phoned you?” Jimin’s head snaps up, cool dread sinking into his gut. 

“She did,” Bang PD affirms, head tilting as he eyes Jimin with gentle contemplation. “I’m sorry you had such a rough return to Seoul.”

“What did she tell you?” Jimin asks, not really wanting to know the answer. “Was she… angry?”

“Not with you,” Bang PD replies. “She did tell me what your father said.” His brow crinkles and Jimin feels his face heating up in humiliation. 

“That’s—how—what did she say exactly?” He has to know how much Bang PD knows but the sinking feeling in his stomach only increases as the man before him sighs, telltale discomfort written all over his face. 

“From what I’ve gathered, your father has some rather traditional views about what you underwent,” Bang PD hesitates, “and your mother said he has threatened to disown you if you choose to press charges. Do correct me if I’m wrong.” There’s absolute silence in the room but inside Jimin’s head, there is a ringing sound which only seems to increase with every passing second he’s sitting here on this couch. He doesn’t even realise when he’s started hyperventilating, every breath being forced out of his lungs before the previous one has been exhaled. 

“Jimin? Are you okay?” He can vaguely hear Bang PD’s calling out for him, voice full of concern, but it’s difficult to think or even respond when the side of him Bang PD should never have known about is being exposed—he’s managed to keep his dysfunctional family life under wraps, even from the others in the group, for years. The thought that this all crumbling to pieces makes him panic even more. 

Out of nowhere, something cold and wet hits him in the face and Jimin automatically takes a huge, shuddering gasp of air, forced back into reality. Namjoon stands in front of him, the spray bottle they use to water the plants held in one hand and an apologetic albeit alarmed expression on his face. It shocks Jimin enough to stop his ensuing panic attack in its tracks but he still finds himself flinching backwards, still not comfortable with someone appearing so close to him without his realisation. Namjoon must’ve heard Bang PD’s voice trying to get Jimin’s attentoin. 

“Are you alright, Jimin? What’s going on? What happened?” The second part of Namjoon’s questions are directed more at Bang PD than they are at Jimin, and in some ways he’s grateful he doesn’t have to answer. It lets him gather his bearings a little more, compose himself so he doesn’t do something as stupid as to break down again. 

Bang PD is watching Jimin with intense worry etched all over him and an air of overall guilt. 

“Just...some things I needed to tell him—a shock, you know.” 

“You can go, Namjoon,” Jimin manages to get out in the end, utterly embarrassed but not wanting Namjoon to hear anything more than he may already have. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s—it’s fine.” Jimin wipes at the water sprayed on his face, grimacing when his sleeve comes away soaked. Apparently, the spray bottle is much more powerful than probably even Namjoon had anticipated. Namjoon hesitates but eventually leaves, carefully setting the spray bottle onto the coffee table almost like a preemptive measure in case Jimin has another ‘episode’. 

And then it’s just Jimin and Bang PD yet again, the silence clunking into place with even more volatility than before. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know—I wouldn’t have spoken about it if I had known it was such a...triggering, um, topic.” Jimin could almost laugh at the way Bang PD’s tone has gotten even more hesitant than before. The man is clearly terrified of causing another such reaction with any of his words. 

“It’s okay,” Jimin mumbles. “I just wasn’t expecting it.” The flush of humiliation is still present, warming the back of his neck, burning behind his eyes. 

“Are you okay to continue?” Bang PD asks, and Jimin nods, even more embarrassed than before. 

“Yes, sorry, I’m—yeah, it’s okay.” He stumbles over the words, choosing to shut up in the end as he sits back against the cushions and avoids Bang PD’s eyes burning into the side of his head. 

“Okay, well, as you’re now aware, your mother did tell me what your father said and the circumstances behind your return to Seoul. However, I’m completely happy to keep that information between us; there’s no need to tell anyone else at this point although,” and here Bang PD hesitates again, hands twisting together in Jimin’s peripheral, “I would advise you to speak to the boys about it. Do they already know?” Jimin shakes his head, his own fingers caught in the fabric of his jeans until his knuckles are white with the strain. 

“They haven’t known for years,” he whispers in the end.

“Your strained relationship with your parents has been an ongoing issue, I’m gathering?” Bang PD asks quietly and Jimin pauses before nodding slightly. Bang PD seems to have heard the worst already; there doesn’t seem much point in being secretive about the rest. 

“My father never even wanted me to become an idol.” He huffs a bitter laugh. “He only let me come to Seoul initially because he was sure I would fail and come running straight back home with my tail in between my legs.”

“You’ve certainly proved him wrong,” Bang PD comments softly, and Jimin looks up at him, a wry smile pulling at his mouth.

“Have I?” he asks, and Bang PD looks surprised. 

“Don’t you think all the things you boys have been able to achieve is success in its own right? You’re certainly one of the biggest names in the industry right now.” 

“Maybe,” Jimin murmurs, gaze flicking down to the floor as he continues, “but at what cost?” There's an awkward pause.

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“It’s not—it’s been good,” Jimin says, struggling to get the words to make sense. “I’ve loved it for years and years, even when it got hard. I’m fine. ”

“Yet you’re willing to give it up?” Jimin’s head comes up at that, frustration bubbling deep in his gut.

“It’s not like that. I just—”

“I’m surprised, Jimin but I understand.” There’s no judgement on Bang PD’s face but in a way, it makes it worse. 

“No, you don’t,” Jimin snaps. “Why does everyone keep saying that? None of you actually understand!” He doesn’t mean to yell, curling in on himself when he realises how loud he’s being. Bang PD doesn’t even bat an eyelid.

“Help me understand, Jimin. Every hardship you’ve ever been through—your family troubles, injuries, almost not debuting—you’ve managed to pull through every single time. What makes this so different? Why can’t you do it now?” It’s such a tone deaf statement in the context of the problem that Jimin can’t even muster out a reply for the first few seconds, staring at Bang PD with betrayal curling nauseatingly in his gut. 

“Because—because all of those things, they’re—they’re incomparable! All of those things I had the ability to fix in some way, even if it meant running away from them and starting again! This—I can’t run away from this!” The words surge out of him, louder and louder until he’s actually yelling properly, glaring at Bang PD’s face with anger racing through his body like hot sparks of electricity in his veins. “I can’t fight this one! It’s—this is me now and I fucking hate it! I hate looking in the mirror and not even recognizing who I am anymore because I feel like absolute shit! How do you expect me to get up there on stage and sing and dance as if nothing even happened? I can’t live a fucking lie! Especially not for our fans—they-they don’t deserve lies after all the times they’ve stood by us!”

Bang PD doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just holds Jimin’s burning stare with an unreadable stare of his own. And then, finally, he lets out a huge breath as if he’s been holding it in this whole time and he seems to deflate. 

“I’m not trying to trivialize your feelings, Jimin. Believe me, that is quite possibly the last thing I would ever want to do. I just needed you to tell me honestly how you feel and, in my experience, people are most honest when they’re angry.” Jimin’s brow wrinkles, all of the immediate anger in his body leaving in one big rush to be replaced with confusion and then sudden understanding.

“You… you did that on purpose?” He asks and Bang PD nods.

“I feel like you deserve to be angry, you know. Even just for a little while. And as much as I can’t hope to understand how you’re feeling, I just want you to know it’s okay to not be fine and it’s more than okay to be angry.” He smiles gently. “I hope you won’t hold my tactics against me.” Jimin shakes his head, feeling oddly exhausted at the sudden shift in the tone of the conversation.

“I thought you—you sounded like—like my dad.” And therein lies the root of the pain. Not being believed by his own father; not having people actually take that hurt in his bones seriously; not feeling like there’s a way out of this whole mess that won’t damage him somehow and yet everyone just wants him to get better but no-one lets him to be angry. He needs to be angry—needs something other than sadness. It hurts. But here Bang PD sits telling him it’s okay to be angry and for the first time, Jimin feels like someone does understand just a little part of the hurt he’s feeling. 

“Jimin, I hope you know the things your father said to you—it’s certainly not what I believe and I hope not what you believe.” 

“I know,” Jimin whispers, a lump in his throat. He’s not sure when it got there but it doesn’t seem like it’s going to move and barely two seconds after he thinks that particular thought he’s embarrassed to feel the hot sting of tears behind his eyeballs. 

Like a dam of fire has broken, it burns with a vengeance as he cries and he ends up leaning forward, head in his hands, sobbing like a baby. And it feels better this time—not good but definitely better—to let it all out. Some of that hurt caused by his father loosening from where it’s built up in his heart. 

He needed this.

Bang PD just sits there quietly and lets Jimin cry and offers him a tissue when he’s done so he doesn’t look completely destroyed. 

“Sorry,” Jimin sniffs out as he scrubs uselessly at his hot cheeks but Bang PD just shakes his head. 

“Don’t apologize for having feelings,” he says. It makes Jimin laugh ruefully. 

“I have too many of those I think.”

“Never,” Bang PD says with a chuckle of his own. “Feelings write the best music anyway.”

He lets Jimin compose himself before he continues with all the things he needs to say, pushing more tissues into Jimin’s hands.

“Have you thought about whether or not you’ll press the charges that bastard is pleading not guilty for?” The question makes Jimin’s stomach churn but he forces himself to keep breathing. He doesn’t know what the right answer is.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles, avoiding Bang PD’s eyes, almost scared of what he might see in them. Just because he has condemned Jimin’s father’s words doesn’t mean he thinks Jimin should pursue the charges. 

“Can I tell you something?” Bang PD asks quietly, and Jimin nods at the tissues scrunched up in his fingers. “I want you to consider this as if the person isn’t you but is Jungkook instead. Or Taehyung, or Hoseok—any of the others. What would you have them do?” Bang PD is speaking with the type of calm conviction that used to terrify Jimin as a trainee. Now he can’t help but be sucked into Bang PD’s words as he continues, “I don’t want you to think about BigHit; I don’t want you to think about BTS; I want you to think about yourself . This doesn’t involve anyone else except you and if you want to drop the charges, I will support you, and if you want to make sure that bastard pays for what he did, then I will support you as well. It’s your decision, Jimin, but I want to remind you to extend yourself the same love you would give to the others if this had happened to them. You’re deserving of that kindness as well—” Bang PD’s voice suddenly breaks off into a harsh sniff and Jimin’s shocked to look up and see tears welling down his face. He’s never seen Bang PD cry and it’s unnerving in its rawness. 

“PD-nim…” Jimin hesitates before he extends a hand to his boss, patting the man’s shoulder as if he’s petting an injured dog. Bang PD manages a wet chuckle through his tears, adjusting his glasses to wipe off the condensation.

“You’ve got me crying now. That wasn’t the intention.” 

“Didn’t you say it’s good to have feelings?” Jimin replies, and Bang PD manages a watery smile.

“On a serious note, I do want you to think carefully about what I said. You don’t have to answer right away although I know the police are almost finished assembling their case.”

“Almost finished?” Jimin asks faintly, and Bang PD answers with a slight grimace.

“I got a call from the inspector today because they couldn’t get ahold of you”—Jimin feels his cheeks warm considerably—"and they need a verdict from you before the start of next week.”

“The news—regardless of whether—whether I p-press the charges—it’s going to be big,” Jimin murmurs, already imagining the media shit storm that is certain to occur the moment any news of their kidnapping is released. Bang PD sighs softly, mouth pinching.

“We’ve got a few ideas to try and keep it as low-profile as possible but it’s going to be a big story whatever happens. We’ve got statements to release to try and minimize the speculation and gossip that’s sure to arise.” Jimin nods carefully. BigHit has always been good at diffusing any sort of rumours and gossip. The problem here is going to be the ongoing court case—it’ll take months before their names aren’t constantly in the press.

“I have one last thing to ask you, Jimin, and I want complete honesty purely for the reason I need to know how we’re going to move forward with this.” Jimin swallows, hands tangling together on his lap as Bang PD continues, “If I gave you the opportunity right now to end your contract with BigHit Entertainment, would you take it?”

 There’s deafening silence between them and Jimin knows Bang PD needs an answer but it’s hard to organize the thoughts in his head into actual words.

“I—I’m—” he hesitates, trying to find the right way of saying it–”that time I phoned you, I was upset. I wasn’t really thinking properly except I couldn’t see a future on the stage—I still can’t. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just,” he has to remind himself to breathe properly, “I don’t know how I can. I don’t want to let the fans down but at the same time, this whole ordeal just makes me want to go and—go and hide under a rock somewhere and never come out.” There are tears threatening to come out again now but he won’t let them. Not yet. “And I’m sorry and I wish I could say I can go right back out there and be the same Jimin I was before but I’m not and I don’t think I ever will be. I just—I’m ashamed and embarrassed and whatever anyone tells me that I shouldn’t be, it doesn’t seem to stick in my head.” The tears have spilled over onto his cheeks and Jimin wipes at them irritatedly, eyes flicking up to see Bang PD watching him with so much concern it makes Jimin almost guilty. 

“Thank you for being so honest, Jimin,” Bang PD murmurs, and his voice is so kind and genuine, it makes Jimin cry even more. “I’m willing to terminate your contract right now if you so wish but I’d like you to reconsider. If it takes you ten years then it takes you ten years. I will not make you perform again if you don’t want to but I would hate to lose you because I know that deep in here,” he reaches over and taps Jimin’s chest, “is the same boy who turned up at the company all those years ago with dreams in your eyes that were bigger than the moon. And even if sometimes the moon gets covered by clouds, it'll always come back"

Chapter Text

Jimin shows Bang PD out to the door when they’re finished, and there’s a feeling that something in the air has shifted when it clicks shut behind him. Jimin wouldn’t call it a weight off his shoulders but at the very least it’s as if a tiny fraction of the weight is being shared by someone else. 

Namjoon is waiting for him when he walks back through to the living room.

“How did it go?” He asks carefully, watching Jimin with obvious concern. Jimin just shrugs, bunching the tissues in his hands and looking down at his feet. He still struggles to look Namjoon in the eyes.

“It was fine,” he says in the end and he means it. Namjoon looks relieved, maybe catching the honesty of Jimin’s words. 

“That’s good—that’s really good. Um, and I’m sorry about the...” he pauses and Jimin flicks a glance up to see Namjoon gesturing at the spray bottle on the coffee table. His cheeks warm and he rubs at his neck. 

“That’s—it was a good idea,” he mumbles. “How did you know I was—you know—” he clears his throat—"panicking?”

“Well, Bang PD was yelling your name quite, uh, loud.” 

“Oh.”

“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to come in and interrupt the two of you—”

“‘Oh, it’s fine.”

“—when you’re having conversations—”

“It’s fine, Namjoon,” Jimin says a bit louder and Namjoon shuts up immediately. “It stopped it from getting worse anyway so I don’t mind.”

“Are you sure?” Namjoon asks and Jimin tries not to get frustrated. 

“Yes, I’m sure.” It probably comes out more harshly than he intended but he can’t bring himself to care. “I’m going to the balcony for a bit,” he says, already walking off before Namjoon can say anything else. Thankfully, Namjoon doesn’t try and stop him. 

At least this time Jimin is dressed in more than pyjamas and the cold chill of the outside air is somewhat lessened by the thickness of his hoodie. Still, he ducks back inside and grabs one of the blankets from the couch, dragging it out behind him so he can curl up on one of the outside chairs without completely freezing.  He sits out on the balcony, staring out over the city, and for the first time since the police officers had visited him in Busan, Jimin lets himself consider his possibilities.

He could drop the charges and save himself the humiliation of having people know what happened to him but then Chang would probably be released in only a few years or he could decide to go ahead and press charges and not only would he lose his relationship with his parents (because as much as he believed his mum loved him, she was far too deeply caught in his father’s grasp) he also wouldn’t be surprised if the whole country would turn against him. After all, homosexuality is a sin, Jimin’s brain sneers at him. 

“I’m not gay,” he mutters into his sleeve. “I’m not gay.”

That’s not what people will think.

“I’m not gay,” he snaps, much louder than he’d intended, flinching when he realises and looking around just to make sure he’s actually alone. 

I’m not gay.

That’s not what people will think, though. 

Jimin fists his hands into his hair and pulls until the pain pushes the thoughts out of his brain. 

He’s not sure how long he sits out there, just knows that when he finally releases his hair his scalp is burning as if it’s been lit on fire. He’s almost grateful when his peace and quiet is disturbed by the sound of the door to the balcony opening behind him and he turns to see Jungkook padding out over the tile, hair sticking up all over the place as if he’s only just gotten up. Maybe he has—Jimin wouldn’t know. He’s carrying two steaming mugs carefully balanced in each hand. 

“Hi hyung, mind if I join you?” Jungkook sounds nervous and Jimin tries to smile as comfortingly as possible.

“Sure, I don’t mind.” Jungkook grins then, that familiar, boyish grin Jimin knows so well, and he places one of the mugs in front of Jimin.

“Peppermint tea,” he offers as a way of explanation, and Jimin murmurs his thanks as he reaches out and cups the hot mug in between his cold fingers. Seeing Jungkook out here reminds him how little he’s seen him all week. 

“How’re you doing, Kook-ah?” He asks, settling back in his chair and pulling the blanket tighter around his legs. Jungkook shrugs, flopping down in the chair next to Jimin. 

“Pretty good. Yoongi-hyung’s going to teach me how to play the piano later.” 

“How many years of asking did it take? Three? Four?” Jimin says, smiling when Jungkook scrunches his nose. 

“Don’t remind me. And he said he’ll only teach me so then I leave him alone afterwards.”

“He’s only kidding.” Jungkook smirks at that.

“I know, he loves me too much to kick me out of his studio permanently.” Jimin snorts.

“I wouldn’t be too sure, you know. Haven’t you been with him almost every day? I’m surprised you haven’t throttled each other yet.” Jungkook just shrugs, cheeks going pink, and Jimin knows not to push too much further. Jungkook’s always been obvious with his admiration of Yoongi—Jimin’s not about to embarrass him about it too much. They fall into silence and Jimin goes back to staring at the sky as Jungkook pulls out his phone. 

“Have you read that new webtoon yet?” Jimin raises an eyebrow.

“Jungkook, there’s like a million webtoons. What’s it called?” Jungkook chews the inside of his cheek.

“I know what it looks like...but I can’t remember its name,” Jungkook mumbles, rubbing at his forehead as if it’ll somehow make the memory clearer in his brain. The look on his face makes Jimin want to laugh and he has to bite his lip to stop the sound from bubbling out. Jungkook’s face suddenly brightens.

“I remember! It was this one about these two people who met….” he rambles on, mouth moving a mile a minute and Jimin just sits there and listens, soaking in the sound of Jungkook’s voice like he’s been starved. He has, in a way, and just hearing how enthusiastic Jungkook is about something so minor makes him realise how little he’s heard the younger man speak. Jungkook’s always been quiet but normally he’s all over Jimin, pulling him around the apartment and teasing him about his height; Jimin doesn’t think Jungkook’s teased him once since he’s been back. Then again, considering Jimin’s been moping in bed the whole week, he’s only got himself to blame for his isolation. 

He’s not even really listening to Jungkook anymore, just watching the range of emotions flickering over Jungkook’s face as he talks—enthusiasm, enjoyment— and Bang PD’s words suddenly pop into his head. 

“I want you to consider this as if the person isn’t you but is Jungkook instead. What would you have him do?” 

Jimin knows what he would tell Jungkook to do.

“Extend to yourself the same love you would give to the others if this had happened to them.”

“Hyung?” Jungkook’s voice suddenly breaks into his thoughts and Jimin is jerked back into the present, guilty when he sees Jungkook’s concerned face looking at him. 

“Sorry, Kook-ah, I drifted for a sec—tell me the story again?” He pretends not to notice the crinkle of worry that appears in between Jungkook’s eyebrows even when he starts talking about the webtoon again.  

“You’re deserving of that kindness as well.”

Hours later, Jimin finds himself alone again in his room, back flat on his bare mattress (Namjoon still hasn’t returned his blanket) staring at the ceiling as his hands fiddle with his broken phone—well, cracked. He’s not sure if it still works, almost disappointed a few minutes later when it’s charged enough for the screen to light up brilliant white with the Apple logo in the middle. There are no excuses now.

He knows what he needs to do but he’s terrified of actually doing it.

It takes only a few seconds to find the contact he needs and his fingers hover over the call button for almost ten seconds before he decides to text instead. He’ll give himself at least that much.

TO: Bang PD

I’ve decided to press the charges. Please, could you let the police inspector know as well? 

Jimin presses send before he can change his mind, half tempted to throw his phone across the room again but common sense winning out instead. His phone buzzes in his hand barely thirty seconds later.

FROM: Bang PD

Well done, Jimin. I will be there to support you every step of the way, as will the boys. Would you like to tell them yourself or shall I? And certainly, I will pass your decision over to the police immediately. I’m so glad you’ve decided to press charges. You deserve for him to be locked up for his crimes. 

Jimin hesitates, lower lip caught between his teeth as he types out a reply to Bang PD.

To: Bang PD

Thank you. I’ll tell the others myself.

Maybe it’s stupid but at least it feels a little easier when he can tell them on his own terms. 

Jimin lies there for hours, trying to figure out how to tell them, needing to tell them himself but unable to think of any way which won’t end in disaster. Deep down he’s scared. What if they hate him for it? What if they don’t want him to? It’s not something he’s talked about with any of them; he can’t remotely predict their reactions.

He ends up falling asleep sometime in the evening, dozing fitfully, half-waking up when the door opens at one point and Hoseok comes in, and falling back asleep the moment the other man leaves. Taehyung comes in to wake him up for dinner and Jimin almost jumps out of his skin when his hand gently taps his shoulder. He pretends not to notice the hurt look on Taehyung’s face when Jimin jerks backwards like he’s been burned. 

(He’s good at pretending not to see things these days)

The idea of food makes him sick so he politely refuses and rolls straight back over to sleep some more. He needs to sleep now if he doesn’t want to wake up with nightmares all night but maybe his whole sleep schedule is thrown off because of this morning or maybe he’s just had Chang on the brain all day because the next time Jimin wakes up he’s sweating with adrenaline, heart racing a million miles an hour. 

Chang has his hand on Jimin’s throat, pressing down every time he thrusts. It makes black spots appear behind Jimin’s eyes until it feels like there are ants constantly crawling over his vision. He’s trying not to fight the pressure too much—doesn’t want to make Chang angry—but it’s hard when his tongue feels like a piece of dead meat in his mouth, swollen from where he’s bitten it yet again, drool trickling down the side of his mouth as he struggles to breathe. 

“You like that?” Chang pants, pressing down even more, sweat dripping from his forehead onto Jimin’s face. It’s disgusting—Chang is disgusting—and Jimin ends up shutting his eyes, forcing himself not to panic even as his lungs burn and his mouth dries up. “You’re just a mucky pup, aren’t you,” Chang taunts, his free hand coming up to smear the spittle trickling down Jimin’s mouth back over his face. It’s sticky and disgusting and Jimin tries to focus on that sensation instead of the fear of suffocating. 

He knows he’s done the right thing when Chang suddenly lets go of his throat so he can at least breathe, although his fingers shift instead to Jimin’s mouth. He forces his fingers in, pulling Jimin’s bottom teeth down so his whole jaw has to open wider to accommodate for the pressure, and Jimin wonders how much strength it would take to rip the two halves of his jaw apart. 

He wakes up like that, the lower half of his face throbbing from where he’s clenched his teeth together in his sleep, completely disoriented by his surroundings for more than a few seconds before he remembers where he is. There’s the heavy weight of a blanket on him now and he turns over to see his duvet covering him. Namjoon must have brought it back while he was asleep. 

Hoseok is back as well, shoulders rising and falling with long steady breaths Jimin can barely hear from his side of the room. His phone tells him it’s almost two o’clock in the morning and he pads out of bed to grab a drink of water, checking carefully to see if any of the others are awake by seeing if there is any crack of light coming out from underneath their doors. It’s all dark. 

The kitchen is dark as well and Jimin feels almost like he’s intruding as he walks over to the sink to fill a glass, not bothering to switch on the light. Still, his brain is wide awake now, heart still coming down from the memories of Chang. It doesn’t really fit to call it a nightmare—Jimin doesn’t have nightmares, just flashbacks. He sits at the kitchen table for a while, staring at the phone in his hand. It hasn’t really sunken in what he’s doing. 

He’s pressing charges. Everyone will know. 

The thought makes him sick and he takes another shaky sip of water. And he still has to tell the others. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles to himself, pressing the cool glass against his forehead in the hope it’ll soothe the burning in his brain. It doesn’t, and in a moment of reckless courage, he swipes onto the group chat he has with the other members, hesitating for only half a second before he puts down his glass and starts typing. He knows they all know about Chang’s not-guilty plea. Simple and effective should be fine. 

TO: Bangtan Bros

I’ve decided to press charges

In much the same way as he did with Bang PD, he presses send before he can change his mind, gut swooping as the message icon reads ‘delivered’. He doesn’t expect any of the other members to be awake but suddenly the message goes from ‘delivered’ to ‘read’ and Jimin almost falls out of his chair. He fumbles at his screen, tapping on the message to see who it is.

Yoongi.

Barely a second later he hears the sound of doors opening and closing in the hallway. First what he assumes is Yoongi’s, then the soft tread of feet walking down to Jimin and Hoseok’s room where the door opens and closes before the feet make their way back up the hallway. He’s bracing himself, trying to get his shoulders to relax from where they’re pushed up by his shoulders. And still, the footsteps get closer and closer and closer until finally, a shadowy figure walks into the kitchen and Jimin can see Yoongi, phone clutched by his side with the screen still on, showing Jimin’s message. 

“Jimin?”

“Mm,” he hums, trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably. Yoongi stops then, a few feet from the table, and he’s staring at Jimin with something absolutely unreadable in his eyes. He sighs suddenly—a great big exhale as if he’s been holding it in forever—and he switches his phone off, still looking at Jimin with that unreadable expression.

“Jimin, can I—can I give you a hug?” Yoongi asks, and Jimin’s so surprised at the question it takes him a moment to even figure out how he feels about it. He thinks about it and he thinks about it some more and he doesn’t feel like running away so he nods, standing up and walking forward until he’s standing just in front of Yoongi. They stay like that for all of two seconds before Yoongi suddenly pulls him forward. 

Jimin has to fight the urge to back away as arms close around him and pull him close because this is Yoongi, not Chang, and maybe Yoongi notices his hesitation because he makes a move as if he’s going to back away. That’s all Jimin needs before he fists his hands into the back of Yoongi’s hoodie and stops him.

This is okay. This is good. This is Yoongi . 

Yoongi’s arms are tight around Jimin’s waist, one hand drifting near his shoulder blades and Jimin feels like this is all a dream because Yoongi is normally never so tactile. But then Yoongi’s leaning his head on Jimin’s shoulder and he’s whispering words into Jimin’s neck that make his chest warm.

“I’m so fucking proud of you.” Yoongi’s voice is rough like it hasn’t been used for a while. “So fucking proud,” Yoongi mumbles again, and Jimin lets out a big breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

“I was worried you all would be angry,” he whispers at the wall behind Yoongi, knuckles tightening in his hoodie. Yoongi pulls back a bit then.

“Why would we be angry? ” He looks absolutely baffled and Jimin shrugs, slightly embarrassed at the confession. “If you chose not to press charges I don’t think anyone could stop me from going to hunt that bastard down and killing him myself.” There’s something dark glittering in Yoongi’s eyes that has Jimin shivering and ducking forward again, the look on Yoongi’s face a little too real.

He believes him. He really does, and so he shoves his head back into Yoongi’s warmth and breathes in his scent with every inhale.

He likes this hug and he’s not exactly sure why because he can’t stand people touching him normally anymore but maybe it’s alright because it’s Yoongi. There’s something comforting about him; he makes Jimin feel safe. Yoongi doesn’t seem to mind and he rubs comforting circles into Jimin’s shoulders until his knees are weak and he’s close to falling asleep from the warm, repetitive pressure. 

“Sorry.” It slips out of him before he can catch it and Yoongi grunts into his shoulder, not ceasing with the circular motions. 

“What the fuck’re you saying sorry for,” he mumbles gruffly, no real bite to his words. Jimin just shrugs again (he’s getting good at that too).

“I’m just sorry for this whole… all this shit.” 

“It’s not your fault, Min,” Yoongi murmurs, and his chin digs sharply into Jimin’s shoulder as he hooks it into the muscle and pulls Jimin closer. Maybe he realized how much Jimin needed this. “Don’t apologize for that fucker’s actions.”

“Still…”

“It’s not your fault,” Yoongi whispers, and for the first time, Jimin wants to believe it.

Later, when he’s lying in bed again, eyes aching from the glow of his phone, Jimin texts his mum the same thing he’d texted Bang PD and the rest of the guys. She deserves to know his decision. And maybe he thinks about the second part of his text for more than half an hour before he sends it but he sends it anyway, watching the ‘delivered’ symbol pop up with a heavy heart. 

TO: Eomma <3

Eomma, I’m pressing charges. I’m sorry. 

I know Appa will be upset but you can tell him as well.

He knows when each of the others reads the group chat the next morning. Hoseok’s lying across the room from him when he suddenly sits up, squinting at Jimin in obvious shock. 

“You’re…?” He points at his phone and Jimin nods hesitantly, relieved when Hoseok stares at him for a moment longer before grinning suddenly. “Good. That’s so good, Jiminie.”

Jin is the next one who finds out and he comes into their room holding a plate with eggs and toast, tomato sauce squirted on the side of the plate with the words ‘you’re a star’. Jimin can’t help but smile when he sees it, and Jin looks like he wants to say something else but he just gives Jimin a cheesy wink and an exaggerated air kiss before he leaves. Even if Jimin doesn’t eat them, he’s glad for the gesture.

Later, Jimin’s fiddling around on his phone when Taehyung and Jungkook come in and sit on the end of his bed, looking even more conspiratorial than usual, and Jimin knows why they’re here. 

“I’m glad, Jiminie,” Taehyung says in the end, and Jungkook nods fervently. “Good for you”

Namjoon is the last one, texting Jimin a big smiley face and a ‘Hwaiting!’ emoji to match. Jimin sends him a sunshine in return.

It feels like some of the tension in the apartment has abated like everyone has breathed a sigh of relief they didn’t know they needed. Jimin’s not sure if he’s imagining it but the whole place seems lighter, and even if he knows the court case and ensuing media storm is going to be horrifying, at least he’s made his decision now. He’s in control of his decision. 

The only person he doesn’t hear from is his mother, although he can see she’s read it and occasionally he gets a notification that she’s typing. But nothing appears and he wonders whether that’s her choice or his father’s. Now, with a clear head, he thinks about what his decision means for his family. 

Because of this one decision, his father will disown him and he probably won’t see his mother often if his father has anything to do with it. He’s lost his family for the sake of justice. It hurts deep inside of Jimin but he’s always been good at pushing the pain down so he doesn’t have to feel it and he does that now, shoving it down so far in his heart he’s not sure it’ll ever properly emerge. 

Don’t think about it.

And more importantly: 

Don’t tell anyone about it.

He can’t. He can’t tell anyone because then it becomes real and Jimin’s not sure he can cope with the reality. 

Pretend it hasn’t happened.

(He’s good at pretending.)

Jimin spends the day drifting around, not doing much. He dozes off occasionally. He makes an appointment with the therapist. He even goes and has a bath of his own accord, and he sits in there for more than hour, mucking around with the bubbles and this dumb rubber duck Taehyung bought because it looked cool. 

He’s fresh out of the bath, laying on his bed in sweatpants and another oversized hoodie he stole out of Yoongi’s closet, when Hoseok suddenly comes in.

“Jimin? Your dad’s here.” Jimin stares at him.

“My… dad?” 

“Yeah.” Hoseok looks surprised. “You didn’t know he was coming?” Jimin swallows down the bile rising in his throat and shakes his head.

“No, he—he didn’t tell me.”

“Oh.” Hoseok’s forehead crinkles and Jimin can see the cogs turning. He panics. 

“It’s fine! He just loves surprises, you know.” He hops out of bed, trying not to let his unease show. Hoseok nods, still frowning slightly but looking much more understanding.

“That’s cool. Well, he’s waiting in the living room.”

“Thanks, hyung,” Jimin manages as he walks out of the room, dread dropping like a rock in his stomach as he hears the low rumble of his father’s voice. Why is he here? 

As Hoseok said, his father is standing in the living room, Namjoon and Jin both standing with him and chatting quietly. Jimin could almost believe his father’s happy smile except that last time he saw his father he was being told he was being disowned if he pressed charges.

And guess what I did, he thinks to himself, forcing his lips into a smile as he steps into the room.

He doesn’t miss the way his father’s eyes narrow when they land on Jimin although his easy expression remains the same. 

“Appa, what are you doing here?” Jimin asks, trying to sound calm but not succeeding very well. His father’s lips thin and Jimin is hyper aware of both Namjoon and Jin staring at them and so he forces himself to keep smiling even as his father gets closer. 

“Am I not allowed to surprise my son?”

You hate surprises, Jimin thinks.

Chapter Text

Jimin stares at his father. “I wasn’t expecting you.” His father laughs, jarring to Jimin’s already taut nerves.

“That wouldn’t be a surprise now, would it?” He adjusts his coat. “Now, why don’t you get dressed properly. I’m taking you out for dinner.”

“Dinner?” Jimin echoes faintly, and his father nods. 

“I’ll wait here unless you have better things to do?” There’s a dangerous glint in his eye which dares Jimin to refuse. 

“No...no of course not,” he manages, voice weak with a mixture of confusion and dread. 

Why is he here?

“Go on then,” his father says, and Jimin forces himself to turn around and walk back towards his room. He’s vaguely aware of footsteps walking quickly to catch up and Jin appears next to him a moment later, following him into his room without saying a word. He’s staring at Jimin with a strange look on his face and Jimin eyes him for a moment before he starts rummaging through his closet for a nice shirt and pants. 

“What do you want, hyung?” He asks when the silence in the room finally becomes too stifling, turning to see Jin’s arms crossed tightly over his chest, his lower lip caught between his teeth. 

“You don’t need to go if you don’t want to,” Jin says suddenly, and Jimin pauses unconsciously for half a second before his brain kicks him to keep moving. 

“Why do you say that?” He asks, keeping his voice as neutral as possible, supremely glad Jin can’t see his face. He knows it would give everything away.

“Just,” Jin hesitates, “you’re not exactly giving off the vibe of wanting to go.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” 

“Jimin, I’m serious. You don’t have to go. I’ll make an excuse for you.”

“Leave it, Jin.”

“I’m just—”

“ Leave it,” Jimin snaps. “Now can you please get out, I need to change.” He waits as Jin stands there silently, feeling his hyung's eyes burning into his back before he suddenly sighs, leaving the room moments later.

Jimin feels bad for snapping at Jin when the man is only looking out for him but he can’t have them know about his issues with his father. He just can’t.

Namjoon and Jin are both still in the living room when he comes back out, dressed in a nice shirt and a pair of black jeans. His father barely acknowledges him although he lands a heavy hand on Jimin’s shoulder that has him flinching without meaning to. He uses putting on his jacket as a chance to shrug the weight off, regretting it when it returns with even more pressure. Just as they’re about to step out of the apartment, Jin leans forward, murmuring quietly enough that only Jimin can hear.

“If you need to be picked up at any time, just phone me. I’ll be up.” Jimin just shoots him a look and doesn’t respond and before he knows it the apartment door is shut and they’re walking out to the elevator. 

His father doesn’t say anything as they’re walking down to the car but his hand stays on Jimin’s shoulder. It’s not comforting—it’s menacing, and Jimin bends down to check his shoelaces as another way to get it off. This time it doesn’t come back. 

They’re in the car before Jimin dares speak again. 

“Why are you here, Appa?” His father doesn’t answer right away, incredible tension in his arms as he grips the steering wheel and drives out of the parking space. 

“You know why,” he says finally, and Jimin physically feels his gut drop. It's not surprising but he can't think of a single reason his father would drive all the way to Seoul from Busan just to tell Jimin something he already knew.

"So, Eomma told you then,” he mumbles, watching as his father’s jaw clenches and his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. He doesn’t answer. 

They keep driving for a few minutes longer before Jimin suddenly has another thought, confused as they pull on to the highway leading out of Seoul.

“Where are we going?” 

“You’ll see.” 

“Appa…” there’s fear curling in Jimin’s gut like a snake just waiting to strike. 

“Don’t call me that,” his father snaps, and Jimin feels the strange urge to laugh.

“You were serious then.”

“I told you what I think,” his father hisses, “it shouldn’t come as a surprise.”

“Does Eomma know you’re here? Where are you taking me?” Jimin asks again, wishing he could take out his phone and text someone except it’s in his back pocket and he’s afraid of his father’s reaction.

“ Stop talking,” his father snarls, and Jimin flinches away from him without meaning to. He doesn’t recognize this man anymore; there’s something unfamiliar about the way his mouth is set in a ruthless line, even with the cruelty he’s spat at Jimin throughout his childhood. 

They drive for almost an hour and the fear in Jimin’s gut keeps growing and growing, all sorts of horrible outcomes filling his head. How far would his father be willing to go to save the so-called reputation of the family? He’s not even sure anymore. He’s forced to watch as the city lights of Seoul keep dwindling until they’re driving through the industrial sector, filled with huge factories and abandoned buildings, everything dark and shadowy in a way that has Jimin’s gut constantly twisting. He’d realised long ago they weren’t going out for dinner—shit, that should’ve been obvious from the start—but he can’t think of a single reason for them to be here of all places. 

“Get out,” his father growls when the car is parked, headlights left on to illuminate the side of an abandoned police station in front of them. Jimin can just make out the sign looming out of the darkness.

“Appa—”

“I told you not to call me that!”

“What’s happening? Why are we here?” Jimin’s basically frozen in his seat even as his father opens his own door and steps out. 

“Get out of the car!” His father yells, and Jimin feels his heart rate increase tenfold. In terms of self-preservation, disobeying his father doesn't seem like a good idea and, despite every bone in his body screaming at him not to, Jimin does as his father told him and gets out of the car. It’s freezing, the wind cutting through his jacket immediately, but it's not the real reason Jimin is shaking. Everywhere he can see there’s just darkness and huge old structures looking like something out of the war, and the brilliant glare of the car headlights makes the shadows of his father's face appear even deeper as he walks around the car towards Jimin.

“Take off your jacket,” he tells him when he’s closer, and Jimin stares at him.

“Wh—why?”

“Take. it. Off!” His father bellows suddenly, shoving Jimin backwards so he hits the side of the car with a solid thump that sends pain radiating up his back. There’s tension crackling in the air between them and Jimin is so shocked and terrified, he does as he’s told, not wanting to anger his father any more than he already has. 

And maybe, apart from getting in his car in the first place, this is his second mistake. 

Jimin is given absolutely no warning before a fist hits him square in the jaw and sends his whole head whipping back from the impact, smashing into the car with a force that leaves him dizzy. The pain is unreal, setting his skin on fire as his whole head throbs. And it’s not over. 

His father’s fist hits him again in the head, this time clocking his eye socket, and Jimin tries to put his arms up to protect himself but then he’s being kneed in the stomach and he goes down, all the air in his lungs disappearing. The blows rain down with feet and fists, smashing into any part of Jimin they can reach and he’s trying to fight back, trying to scream, trying to do something that will get the violent onslaught to stop. But he’s weak and thin from not eating much and months without proper exercise, hardly able to find the strength to curl up in a ball when his father’s boot hits him square in the gut with all the strength of a man who is not only much taller but also much stronger than Jimin. 

He’s helpless.

Helpless when his father reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a belt and starts whipping him with it, the leather lashing across his back and flaying it with stripes of white-hot agony, the buckle chewing into his skin. The whole time he’s still crying out for his father to stop, pleading for mercy, and yet his father won’t listen, foul words spilling from his mouth every time his arm comes down with the belt. Somewhere in Jimin’s brain, it shuts off his ability to properly understand it and he’s thankful in a way. It’s easier to focus on protecting himself when all the words are blending into one spewing tirade of hatred and disappointment.

He’s doesn’t know how long it goes on for. Maybe he blacked out for a bit, he’s not sure. But the sound of the tires crunching near his head, the low swoop of the headlights as they turn against the buildings—it’s all real and Jimin just manages to tilt his head to see his father’s car racing away, red lights blinking in his vision until they blur into one distant speck and disappear. 

(The gravel pressing into his cheek gives him something else to focus on because if Jimin really managed to come up with a coherent thought he would realise he's all alone.) 

There’s a trickling warmth making it’s way down his face, working with gravity to puddle next to his head and Jimin’s tongue flicks out, catches the metallic tang of blood. He’s bleeding from his forehead too—can feel it congealing against his skin. 

He still can’t find it in himself to move. Everything hurts. Somehow it’s worse than when he’d been whipped and raped by Chang; he knew Chang was a bad person. But to be beaten so brutally and with such cruelty by his own father—there's something so incomprehensible about it, Jimin can’t even begin to wrap his head around the whole thing even as he’s laying in his own blood-soaked gravel. 

It could be hours later when Jimin feels his phone buzz in his pocket and he could almost laugh. Even when he’s utterly broken, his phone still works. It takes him at least a minute to be able to lift his hand far enough to reach back and fish out his phone, the illuminated screen swimming in front of his eyes. Jin texted.

FROM: Jinnie-hyung

When are you coming back? Do you want me to pick you up?

Yes , Jimin thinks. He needs to be picked up . The dots in his brain take an age to connect before he realises he actually needs to text Jin in order for that to happen, and he drops the phone on the gravel next to him so he can rest his hand on the ground while he uses his fingers to type. 

TO: Jinnie-hyung

Yes

The phone buzzes barely two seconds later. 

FROM: Jinnie-hyung

Where are you? Did everything go okay with your dad?

Jimin tries to breathe as his muscles shift and another wave of pain races down his body. 

TO: Jinnie-hyung

Lcotatino

It’s all spelt wrong and Jimin hopes Jin will understand as he swipes to the home page and finds the tracking app all of them have installed on their phones. He turns it on, thankful he has enough data for it to work, and watches as the screen lights up with another text from Jin.

FROM: Jinnie-hyung

Why r u so far out, Jimin? Wtf happened? R u OK? Omw

TO: Jinnie-hyung

hury

He doesn’t remember much else except watching in complete numbness as his screen lights up again and again as Jin keeps texting, being too tired and sore to move his fingers the few centimetres it will take to open his phone. He drifts in and out of consciousness instead, the thought that Jin is driving to get him the only thing that stops him from completely letting go. Yet when he sees headlights racing towards him down the road—the only car to drive past in the minutes or hours he’s been lying here—he almost thinks it’s his father coming back to finish off the job. And that thought even crossing his mind scares him more than anything else that’s happened to him in this one night.

The only thing he can think is how it’s not his father who practically leaps out of the car and runs over to Jimin. It’s not his father with questions and cries tumbling out of his lips that Jimin wishes he could answer. 

It’s Jin who kneels by his side and cries for Jimin to please be okay.  It’s Jin who asks him where it hurts and Jimin tries to tell him but really he just wants to sleep and so he makes one feeble attempt to latch onto Jin’s sleeve before his back is on fire and he gives up. It’s Jin who lifts him up, murmuring apologies the entire time, and Jimin knows he doesn’t mean to but it hurts so much he can’t help the scream that’s torn out of his chest. 

It’s Jin who cares about Jimin lying all alone on the outskirts of Seoul when it should have been his father who cared. But it was his father who put him there in the first place. 

It’s only when he’s in the car, laid down carefully on the backseat with Jin’s sweater tucked under his head, that Jimin allows himself to actually cry. The sobs burst out of him until he’s blind and dizzy with them, chest heaving even though it hurts, eyes burning and cheeks stinging as the salt gets into all of the wounds, and still, Jimin cries.

He thought he would've run out of tears by now.

Chapter Text

Jin doesn’t think he’s ever driven so quickly in his life. He’d known something was wrong from the moment Jimin had stepped into the living room, a fake smile plastered all over his face. Jin had spotted it from a mile off and although he couldn’t understand the cause of the obvious tension between Jimin and his father, there’s not much he could do to dissuade Jimin from leaving. His gut was telling him not to let him go and it’s this thought which keeps racing through Jin’s mind as he gets closer and closer to where Jimin is. He should’ve done more.

He thinks he’s going to be sick with trepidation when the GPS on his phone tells him he’s within fifty metres, then twenty, then ten and there’s no sign of life anywhere. But finally, the headlights illuminate Jimin’s crumpled form splayed over the gravel parking lot and it’s all Jin can do not to jump out of the car right there and then at the sight of his precious Jimin lying unmoving on the ground. 

The next few minutes are a blur. He knows he’s saying stuff but he doesn’t even know what, words spilling from his lips as he rushes forward because Jimin’s not moving and Jin doesn’t think he could live with himself if he’s come too late. It’s almost worse when Jimin’s eyes open and they’re completely empty, hardly seeing what’s in front of him. Jin doesn’t even know if he should be moving Jimin because there’s blood everywhere on his face and he can see more blood seeping into his shirt from random gashes all along his back. 

It’s so fucking red. 

Jin thought to see Jimin after Chang was bad enough but there’s something even worse about finding him like this, abandoned in a car park on the outskirts of Seoul, bleeding and bruised and barely conscious. And Jin knows it’s Jimin’s father who is responsible for this but he pushes that knowledge to the far depths of his mind to deal with later because right now Jimin needs him to be present and focused. 

Jin doesn’t even realize when he started crying but there are tears dripping off the end of his nose and falling onto Jimin’s bloody forehead, and he rubs them gently away with shaking fingers as he tries to get some response out of him about where he’s most hurt. It’s obvious Jimin’s trying—his lips twitch and his fingers catch feebly on Jin’s sleeve—but no words come out and eventually he just sighs, arm flopping back onto the ground as his eyes drift shut again.

Something in Jin’s heart cracks when he’s lifting Jimin up and he sees the moment his face contorts in utter agony, eyes snapping open and a choked cry bursting out of him with the sort of rough power that only comes from true pain. Jin would do anything to never hear that sound again and he stumbles to the car, murmuring apologies which can do nothing for Jimin, both shocked at the lightness of the body in his arms and terrified as the lights inside the car reveal even more damage. The whole left side of Jimin’s face is painted purple with bruises—clearly, his father was right-handed—and the skin around his eye is almost black. There’s a cut oozing blood on his cheekbone (rings maybe?) and more blood shining wet and dark in his hair. And that’s just Jimin’s face. 

Jin tries to lay the boy on the backseat but Jimin babbles almost incoherently, grappling with Jin’s shoulders in a way that makes it impossible to put him down until finally, Jin realizes the worst of his injuries are on his back. He lays Jimin on his side, ripping off his sweater so there’s something soft for his head, ignoring the sticky red tinge of blood on his hands and trying not to let Jimin see how panicked he is. He feels so far out of his depth. 

This all feels like a nightmare, every minute blending into another minute of absolute horror and shock, and Jin wishes he’d taken up Namjoon’s offer to come and join him. He’d declined only because Namjoon already looked exhausted and it was close to twelve am when Jimin had first responded to his texts. He certainly never thought he’d walk into a scene like this. 

He sticks his phone into the holder and calls Sejin as he drives, checking over his shoulder every few minutes just to make sure Jimin hasn’t…he’s not sure what he’s expecting. All he knows is that Jimin is lying on the backseat, eyes shut and fingers limp where they dangle off the edge of the leather, and maybe that’s a tear trickling down his cheek but Jin’s not sure. Sejin picks up on the sixth ring, voice sounding very much like he just woke up but Jin can’t even find it in himself to feel remotely guilty.

 “Jin? What’s going on?” 

“Jimin—his dad came and took him out for dinner—no, not dinner—I don’t even know—”

“Jin,” Sejin interrupts, sounding much more awake. “Take a deep breath. Where is Jimin now?”

“He’s in my car but he’s bleeding and I think—I know— it’s his dad who did it, and he left him out in the middle of fucking nowhere and I don’t know what to do!” Jin’s crying by the end of it as well, almost hysterical with the need for someone to tell him it’s all going to be okay because right now, he’s not sure. 

“Shit, and you’re in the car now?” Sejin asks, obvious urgency in his voice. 

“Yes, it took me, like, an hour to get out to him and we’re only just on our way back now.” Jin can hear as Sejin swears again faintly in the background, almost as if he’s moved the phone away from his mouth but when his manager’s voice returns, it’s calm and steady.

“Okay, I need you to think really carefully about this, Jin. Do you think Jimin has life-threatening injuries?”

“I’m—”

“Think about it, Jin. Don’t just answer. It’s okay—it’s all going to be okay, but I need to know if we need to meet you with an ambulance so he can go to the hospital.” Jin swallows, trying to keep a clear head so he doesn’t drive off the road but also unable to fight the urge to keep looking back at Jimin. This time, when he does look, Jimin’s eyes are open but he doesn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular.

“I don’t...I don’t think it’s life-threatening,” Jin manages to reply in the end, “but he’s all bloody and bruised and I think he might be concussed.” Sejin exhales with what sounds like mild relief.

“That’s good, well, not good but—”

“I get it, I know,” Jin assures, looking back at Jimin once more. How could someone hurt him like this? Especially his father?

“We can’t take him to the hospital at such short notice without attracting far too much public attention but the Private A&E After Hours Clinic is open. I can send you the directions or do you know where it is?”

“I know where it is, just,” Jin has to swallow down the overwhelming tide of panic threatening to overwhelm him, “I’m scared, Sejin-hyung. I don’t know what to do—if he’s even going to be okay.”

“He’s going to be fine,” Sejin says, and he sounds convincing enough for Jin to feel at least minutely better. “All you need to focus on is getting to the clinic and we’ll sort the rest from there. Do the others know or do I need to ring Namjoon?”

“Namjoon knows I went to pick Jimin up but we had no idea about any of this. His dad said he was taking Jimin out to dinner and I didn’t hear anything from him for hours.” Jin tries to quell the bile rising in his throat. “I knew he didn’t want to go, hyung. It was written all over his face but I didn’t realize—I feel so fucking stupid for letting him go.”

“It’s not your fault, Jin. Don’t think about that, okay?” Sejin’s tone is firm but kind. “Call me if anything changes with his situation. Is he awake right now?” Jin checks.

“His eyes are open but I’m not sure if he’s really with it.”

“Okay, just try and keep him awake. I’ll phone Namjoon and let the rest of the boys and Bang PD know, and I’ll meet you there.” Sejin pauses suddenly, and when he speaks again his voice is much gentler. “You’re doing well, Jin. Just keep driving.”

Jin keeps those words on the tip of his tongue, repeating them with every minute that passes, every second of glancing back just to make sure Jimin is still awake. Just keep driving. He’s in a sort of haze now and he keeps talking to Jimin, all sorts of useless crap spilling from his mouth—reassuring Jimin everything is going to be okay because maybe that’s what Jin needs to hear. Jimin blinks at him sometimes, teardrops caught in his eyelashes, lips parted and crusted with blood. And Jin just keeps driving because that’s what he has to fucking do just to make things okay.

(What does okay even mean? Not life-threatening?)

Just keep driving. 

Jimin wants to sleep but Jin keeps looking over his shoulder, telling Jimin to stay awake for just a little longer. But he so wants to sleep he lets his eyes drift shut only for bony fingers to reach back and nudge his shoulder in a gentle but persistent manner. He catches words of Jin’s conversation with Sejin—they’re going to the After Hours Clinic apparently—and afterwards Jin keeps muttering on about driving even as he’s telling Jimin to stay awake.

It’s a big confusing mess and Jimin can’t tell which parts of him are aching and which parts of him have gone numb because his whole body feels like a block of concrete that’s been smashed into thousands of bits and thrown back together in a pile on the backseat of Jin’s car. Random things keep floating into his brain, bits and pieces of useless information that he can’t quite catch before they’re slipping away and he’s left in the dark, confused again.

His lips are cracked with dried blood and he tries to make them work, only succeeding when his tongue flicks out to wet them although he wants to vomit at the acrid, metallic taste. 

“Jin?” He asks in the end, but then the second part of his sentence disappears from his mind and Jin couldn’t even hear him anyway. “Jin,” he tries again, and this time Jin does hear him and Jimin feels the moment the car swerves slightly as his hyung’s head whips around to look at him. He’s been crying too it seems and his eyes are huge and glistening even as he puts on a smile Jimin knows to be fake.

“Jimin, everything’s going to be okay!” Jin tells him and Jimin wishes he could unscramble the words in his brain so he could come up with all the questions he needs answering but all he can supply is that one word that keeps echoing around his mind.  

The one word which means safety and saving and cold nights and gravel against his cheek as his phone buzzes on stone. It means someone cares but it also means someone didn’t and Jimin’s brain is filled with cotton wool and pain so he says it just to see if he can. 

“Jin.” Talking hurts.

“Yeah, Jimin, it’s Jin. It’s me,” Jin murmurs, and Jimin just stares at him, trying to unravel the threads keeping him from saying anything else. 

“Jin.”

“Jin,” is repeated right back to him. “It’s Jin. I’m sorry, Jimin.”

“Jin,” is the last thing Jimin whispers before the car goes over a bump and his wounds are pressed against the back of the car seat. It hurts.

It feels like hours since they started driving and yet it ends so quickly in a sudden onslaught of noise and hands, dizzying to the point Jimin can’t do anything but jerk away from all these unwelcome touches, trying to ignore the agonizing ripples of pain washing over him with every movement. 

“Jimin, it’s Sejin.” A voice cuts through the chaos and Jimin twists his head, forces his eyes to open properly as he sees his manager leaning into the car, bright lights behind him which make Jimin’s head pound. 

He passes out.

The next time he wakes he’s in someone’s arms, cradled against a broad chest, and they’re inside.

“Jin?” He mumbles, trying to get his bearings but his hyung isn’t anywhere in his line of vision; it’s Sejin carrying him down a corridor. “Jin?” He slurs again, rough voice unfamiliar even to his own ears. 

(Jin means safety)

“I’m here, Jiminie,” Jin’s voice murmurs out from somewhere near his head and Jimin twists again, trying to find him, oddly relieved when he spots his hyung walking just behind.

“Jin,” Jimin mumbles. “Jin.”

“I’m here.”

The doctor keeps asking Jimin questions and he tries to formulate proper answers but it’s hard.

“Who hurt you, Jimin?”

“...my appa,” he whispers, feeling dreadfully like he’s releasing some terribly dark secret into the world. A secret out of his control now but his head hurts too much to lie and he doesn’t think anyone would believe him if he did. The doctor asks Jimin other questions too, and his hands keep touching Jimin even though he doesn’t want them to. He’s too tired to tell the doctor to stop and so the hands keep going, poking, prodding, invading, and Jimin just lies there and stares at the ceiling with its huge glaring lights and pretends not to feel as his shirt is lifted and fingers roam under there too.

“You’ve got a mild concussion,” the doctor tells him, “which is why your head probably feels a bit all over the place.” 

“What sort of recovery process are we looking at then?” Sejin asks next to him and Jimin turns his head to look at his manager. 

“He seems to have avoided the worst somehow so at least two weeks without exercise or strenuous activity.” The doctor keeps looking at him but Jimin can’t focus on his face. He’s tired and overwhelmed and he’s not even sure what’s happening to him anymore.

“The injuries on Jimin’s back look consistent with having been hit with a belt. Is that right, Jimin?” Jimin licks his lips, tries to answer but ends up nodding instead. “Right, we’ll clean up the lacerations from the buckle but they’re pretty shallow so we won’t need to put stitches in them. I’ll also prescribe some cream for the welts and bruising.” The doctor frowns and Jimin doesn’t like the way it makes him look. 

“I am worried about the impact to his torso, particularly the soft tissue areas in the abdomen which holds important organs. It’s possible for there to be some deep trauma from a strong kick or punch and sometimes that only becomes apparent later on so it’s important to keep an eye out for any signs of complications. If the bruising, swelling, and tenderness become too intense that your pain medications aren’t making a difference, you need to go to the hospital, okay, Jimin?” Jimin tries to nod again, not quite sure if he succeeds. 

“Is there any pain medication he can get for that?” Sejin asks, and the doctor nods. 

“I’ll prescribe pain relief medication regardless because I’ve seen signs both Jimin’s 7th and 8th ribs are cracked.”

“Cracked?” Sejin sounds shocked but all Jimin can think is how the ceiling lights make his head swim. 

“Yes, it’s more common than you think, especially in cases of blunt force trauma. There’s not much we can do except advise the patient to not do anything strenuous and to avoid exercise for a few weeks. Try not to twist around too much or lift anything heavy and they should heal in about six weeks time.” The doctor clears his throat. “Finally, the cut on his cheekbone is rather deep so we’ll apply some local anaesthetic here in the clinic and I’ll pop in a couple of stitches. They can be taken out in about two weeks.”

“You’ll do that now?” Sejin asks, and Jimin watches the doctor nod. 

He feels oddly disconnected from his body, almost like this isn’t happening to him but rather to someone else, and maybe Sejin’s noticing because he looks at Jimin with confused concern written all over his face before he turns back to the doctor.

“Is it, uh, normal for people to be so...dopey, for lack of a better word, after such an event?” He’s speaking quietly, almost like he thinks by doing so Jimin won’t hear him but they’re only a foot apart. It’s inevitable. 

“Yes, it’s probably a combination of his concussion mixed with a significant amount of shock and adrenaline all getting pushed into his system at once. It’s like a chemical overdose for the brain.” And now the doctor and Sejin are both looking at Jimin and he hates the attention so he tries to ignore them. 

Jin. Where did Jin go? 

“Jin,” he mutters. 

“Jin’s waiting outside, remember?” Sejin explains and Jimin licks his lip. He can still taste blood.

“Why?”

“Only one person’s allowed in here with you, Jimin,” the doctor says, and Jimin glares at him, vaguely pleased in some strange way when the doctor looks uncomfortable.

“Jin,” he mumbles again, the word slipping over his tongue like silk over a jagged ridge. “Jin.”

Coming home, Jimin is high as a kite on a powerful cocktail of pain medication. It makes him sleepy and tactile, hardly aware of his surroundings as Sejin carries him into the apartment. It’s past three o’clock in the morning, probably much closer to four, and all Jin can think about is going to bed and crying into his pillow. But when he walks into the apartment and sees the other five all sitting in the living room, varying expressions of shock and worry on their faces, he knows he can’t go to bed just yet. There’s utter silence in the room as they all regard Jimin cradled in Sejin’s arms, still wearing his blood-stained shirt, his face a vibrant canvas of reddish-purple bruises and a couple of stitches contrasting sharply on his cheekbone. 

“He’s okay,” Sejin reassures but it does little to ease their expressions, and honestly, Jin doesn’t blame them. The silence continues even as Sejin brings Jimin through to his and Hoseok’s room, Jin following just behind. They lay him carefully on his stomach so his back won’t take the brunt of his weight, and Jin tucks the blankets around Jimin’s half-unconscious form. They’ll worry about clean clothes in the morning; he’s basically asleep already although his forehead remains continuously furrowed and his mouth pinches tight with some unknown tension. 

Jin ends up standing in the middle of the living room when Sejin leaves, staring down at his hands. There’s still blood under his fingernails—Jimin’s blood his brain reminds him—and there’s something so wrong about it that Jin can’t help but stare, unable to tear his eyes away. He barely notices when the others surround him until he’s suddenly wrapped up in a pair of arms, looking over his shoulder to see Taehyung clinging to his back. 

 Apparently, that is all it takes to release a dam of pent up emotions and Jin is embarrassed to feel that familiar burning sensation starting up behind his eyes, lower lip trembling before it all just ends up coming out in big, shaking sobs that wrack his body with ridiculous force. 

He just wants everything to be okay. 

Jimin wakes up in his own bed, mildly disoriented when he tries to remember how he got here. He can’t really recall, although he has a feeling it was Sejin. He lies there for a few minutes, not moving because the low buzz of pain running through his body reminds him moving will only make it worse. His mouth feels absolutely disgusting, dry and faintly metallic, probably from leftover blood. The events of last night suddenly drop on Jimin like a fifty-pound weight slamming into his chest. Flashes of driving, of being absolutely terrified. His father’s face as he’d screamed about Jimin bringing shame to the family, about being a dirty faggot— don’t think about it. He remembers Jin, remembers the pain as he was lifted off the gravel, remembers the doctors and the hands touching him everywhere. He remembers and he wishes he didn’t.

He remembers thinking he was going to die last night. For some reason that thought is what tips him over the edge and without any warning, there’s bile rushing up his throat and Jimin barely manages to wrench himself over to the side of the bed before he’s vomiting on the floor. 

It burns, mostly just stomach acid anyway, and Jimin coughs and splutters trying to breathe. The sudden movement has pulled at the wounds on his back (from the buckle, that he remembers) and Jimin can feel tears stinging, threatening to come out so he blinks sharply until the feeling disappears. Only a few seconds later and the door to the room is opening and Jimin tilts his head from where it’s hanging over the side of the bed to see Hoseok coming in, stopping abruptly when they make eye contact. Hoseok's eyes flick from Jimin's face to the vomit on the floor, expression turning almost comically horrified as he realises what he's seeing. 

“Shit." He’s rushing forward. “Are you okay? Here, I’ll help you lie down again.” His brow furrows. “Are you going to be sick again? I’ll grab you a bucket?” Jimin just shakes his head, resisting when Hoseok’s hands try and push him gently back onto the bed.

“Just, leave it. ‘S fine,” he mumbles. Don't touch me, please. “I’ll—I’ll clean it up in a second.” Hoseok looks even more horrified. 

“No, I’ll do that! You should rest.” He’s fluttering around the edge of the bed, obviously not sure of what to do with himself now that Jimin is refusing his help. “Hold on, I’ll get Jin. He has your pain meds—do you want more? I’ll go get him.” Before Jimin can even say anything, Hoseok is practically running out of the room, and Jimin can hear him calling for Jin. 

He just wants to hide but that can’t happen, not when Jin walks in a few minutes later, full of concern and sympathy. Jimin’s still slumped on the edge of his mattress, head dangling over the side, so he ends up just staring at the floor and letting them talk over his head. Hoseok is explaining what happened and then Jin is crouching next to Jimin’s head and there’s a hand carding gently through his hair. It actually feels sort of nice (Jin means safety) but it also reminds Jimin how much his head actually hurts.

“How’re you feeling, min?” Jin asks carefully, and Jimin tries to shrug but his back feels paralyzed with pain. 

“Hurts,” he mutters in the end. “Everything.”

“I’ve got pain meds for you but you’ll need to sit up so you can drink some water with it,” Jin murmurs, and his fingers are still running gently through Jimin’s hair, pushing it softly away from his forehead. “We’ll help you.” Jimin just manages a nod, wincing when the movement makes his head throb. 

Sitting up proves to be one of the most agonizing things Jimin has had to do, and although he grits his teeth until his jaw is aching, he can’t help the sounds that spill over his lips. It hurts, it fucking hurts. Still, it’s good to get some water in his mouth and at least the taste of blood is being washed away. Hoseok and Jin stay as he’s drinking the water and swallowing the pills, and when he’s finished, Jin is already wiping at the vomit with a towel. 

“Sorry,” Jimin manages, not sounding quite so hoarse now his throat has had some sort of liquid down it. 

“I don’t mind,” Jin replies, and he shoots Jimin a sad sort of smile that doesn’t really reach his eyes. “You need to have a bath to get rid of the blood as well.” Jin’s lips are pinched. “We didn’t want to undress you yesterday when you were so sleepy from the meds.” Jimin looks down at himself, realises he’s still wearing the shirt and pants from yesterday. His once white shirt is now covered in huge splatters of blood; it looks like something out of a horror film. 

“Oh. Thank you.” He means it too, not sure if he could deal with waking up half-naked and not having any recollection of it. That’s happened before and he’d rather not be reminded of it. Jin just smiles again and Hoseok seems to at least be trying from where he’s hovering in the background. Jimin feels bad for no apparent reason. 

“I’ll go run a bath. It’ll be twenty minutes so are you fine to stay here?” Jin asks, and Jimin nods, fiddling with his bottle of water. There are rips in the knees of his pants as well and he becomes vaguely aware of how his knees are stinging. Grazed, maybe? 

When it's time to get to the bathroom, standing up proves more difficult than Jimin had expected. Jin calls Jungkook over to help support him because his legs feel like jelly and there’s a weird ringing noise in his head which makes it hard to focus on balancing. He can’t get over how much his head hurts and he recalls the doctor saying something about a concussion. When they get to the bathroom, Jungkook and Jin deposit him gently on the closed seat of the toilet before Jungkook leaves, eyes huge with worry as he looks back at Jimin every few seconds. 

“Can you get undressed on your own?” Jin asks, and he’s watching Jimin carefully as if he’s worried he might lie. Jimin’s not actually sure so he tries lifting his arms to unbutton his shirt, only for his ribs to flare red hot with pain, punching the air out of his lungs. 

“No,” he grits out in the end, cheeks burning with frustration. 

“I can help you,” Jin offers and Jimin wants to refuse but realistically he knows he can’t do it on his own so he forces his pride down.

“Yes, please.” Jin approaches him the same way you’d approach a wild animal when you’re unsure of its reaction. He kneels on the ground in front of Jimin and his fingers are quick and gentle as they unbutton Jimin’s shirt. Jimin just looks at Jin’s eyelashes and tries not to flinch every time fingers touch his chest. 

Getting his shirt off isn’t too difficult. Jin tells him how the doctor took it off to disinfect the wounds on his back and Jimin pretends he remembers (he doesn’t) because at least it makes him feel a little less violated. 

“Pants too?” Jin asks, and Jimin nods after a minute, avoiding eye contact with the man in front of him. 

Don't be stupid. This is Jin. Jin means safety.

It’s not as bad as he thought it would be and Jin is nice enough to pretend not to notice the way Jimin’s breathing speeds up as the fabric bunches around his thighs and is pulled further down his legs. He’s left sitting on the closed toilet in only his underwear, shivering now that he’s almost fully naked, cheeks hot with embarrassment. 

“You can do…the rest?” Jin asks, and Jimin nods. There is no way someone else is taking off his underwear for him. Jin stands up, knees popping insanely loud. “Call out if you need any help, okay?” Jimin nods again. He won’t—they both know he won’t—but at least the offer is there.

Jin leaves and Jimin forces his legs to take his weight so he can get over to the door and lock it firmly behind his hyung. Only then does he allow himself a moment to catch his breath, leaning against the sink. He knows he’ll be bruised up but there’s a difference between feeling the pain and actually seeing a visual representation reflected back at him in the mirror. It’s shocking, there’s no doubt about that. He didn’t think it was possible for the whole side of his face to be so colourful—purple, red, black, blue. Even just looking at it makes Jimin’s head throb more. 

He can’t really see his back properly but the little glimpse he catches as he turns leaves his stomach rolling. Huge, purple and red stripes criss-cross all over his shoulders right down to the small of his back. There’s the odd gouge and cut peppering random parts of his skin from where the buckle had chewed up the skin, and even though they look clean, there’s still blood smeared over parts. 

Breathe, Jimin reminds himself. You’ve had worse.

The problem with bathing when you’ve got a concussion, cracked ribs, and welts all over your back is that you can’t really do much. It takes Jimin five minutes to figure out a way to get into the bath without passing out from the pain as the hot water stings and burns in his cuts and his ribs scream at being forced to crouch. He ends up half slipping, landing with a solid ‘thunk’ on his butt that sends water sloshing over the side of the bath and probably sounds far more dramatic than it actually was. Even if his ribs hurt, the water does a pretty good job of cushioning the fall. But once he’s in he strikes another problem. He can hardly lift his arms above elbow height so there’s no way he can wash his back or his hair. Even his face is currently off-limits. He keeps trying but eventually, he has to concede, angry tears of pain and frustration dripping into the bathtub until Jimin whacks his hand into it just to watch it splash over the edge once more.

He’s feeling destructive and helpless and there’s only one thing he can do.

“Jin?” He tries calling out but his voice barely gets above speaking volume. “Jin!” He tries again, louder this time, relieved when he hears footsteps on the other side of the door and Jin’s voice, muffled by the door.

“Everything okay, Jimin?” No, everything is not okay.

“I can’t—can you help?” Jimin tries to swallow down the mixture of emotions pounding in his chest. 

“Are you in the bath already?” Jin asks, and Jimin realises he locked the door behind his hyung before he got in.

“Yeah, but I—I locked the door.”

“That’s okay, I think we still have the key somewhere. Give me a minute.” Footsteps move away from the door and Jimin is left waiting in the warm water, wondering how much more he’ll have to endure before life gets better. Jin is back in a couple of minutes, and there’s a quiet knock on the door before it opens and Jin’s worried face pops into the bathroom.

“Are you okay?”

“I can’t lift my arms,” Jimin mumbles, wishing Jin would just come in and shut the door already. 

“Oh,” Jin looks anxious. “Do you want me to help wash your hair and stuff?” Jimin swallows, splashing with the water in front of him.

“Yes, please.”

It’s not as bad as he thought it would be. Jimin ends up facing his back towards Jin so he can keep at least some modesty and Jin kneels down next to the bath so he can help wash Jimin’s back and hair. The feeling of hands working the shampoo through his hair would almost be relaxing except the bubbles sting random cuts on his scalp and the other cuts as they wash down his back, and he’s hyper-aware of Jin’s presence out of his field of vision. Jin seems to realize how Jimin’s feeling so he murmurs on and on about random things, telling Jimin what each of the others is doing today and what the weather’s like. As he’s massaging the conditioner into Jimin’s scalp he talks about this recipe he wants to try—some type of Italian pasta dish—and Jimin focuses on that instead of the hands touching him. Maybe he wouldn’t mind it so much except he can hardly think straight because his head feels like it’s been stuffed full of cotton wool and the bright lights in the bathroom hurt his eyes. It’s like trying to swim through syrup, and Jimin is drowning.

Jin is extra careful as he washes Jimin’s back but it still hurts like anything. For some reason, Jimin finds that poking the dark splotchy bruises all down his legs stops him from focusing on the greater pain from his back and so he does that, clenching his jaw to keep any unwanted noises from escaping. 

“Turn your face a bit and I’ll wash off some of the blood,” Jin says, and Jimin turns his head as far to the side as possible, wincing at the feeling of the cloth on his skin even though Jin is nothing but gentle. “Sorry,” Jin murmurs but Jimin just shakes his head.

“It’s fine.”

When they’re finally done, Jin ruffles Jimin’s wet hair gently with one hand. 

“All done. Do you think you need help getting out of the bath?” Jimin hesitates then but gives in. 

“Um, yes, please.”

“I’ll shut my eyes and lift you, and then you can grab the towel, okay?” Jin says, and Jimin nods, trying not to flinch when Jin’s hands slip under his arms. “Three, two, one, up.” In one swift motion, Jimin is lifted up and out and he manages to snag the towel so he’s covered within a second of getting out of the bath, hoping his accelerated heartbeat isn't able to be felt by Jin's hands. “Are you decent?” Jin asks, and Jimin nods before realizing he still has his eyes shut, hands still supporting Jimin so he doesn’t slip.

“Yeah,” he replies, and Jin’s eyes open, the older man smiling when he makes eye contact with Jimin. 

“That’s much better,” he says, letting go of Jimin so he can stand on his own two feet. “How are your legs? Can you walk on your own?” Jimin tries a couple of steps before deciding he can. The bath at least has relieved him of a lot of stiffness, and washing away the dried blood on his back especially makes it easier to move without feeling like his skin his going to crack. 

“I’ll manage.” He keeps a tight grip on the towel around his waist before a sudden thought stops him in his tracks. “Getting dressed...I’m not sure…”

“I can help you, don’t worry,” Jin says, and Jimin sighs, relieved he doesn’t have to actually ask but frustrated at his own lack of independence.

“Thanks,” he mumbles as they make their way down the hallway into his room, and he means it.

Half an hour later he finds himself sitting on the bed, snug in his favourite shirt and sweatpants, Jin sitting next to him as he blow-dries Jimin’s hair. Jimin hadn’t asked for it but Jin had insisted, clucking on about how he wasn’t about to let Jimin catch a cold on top of everything else. It makes something warm in Jimin’s chest even if he wishes he could just go to bed. He’s basically falling asleep just like this. The pain medication had finally kicked in and it makes Jimin feel all sleepy and docile like he’s transported out of his body and he's floating near the ceiling, watching how his head threatens to drop every few seconds as Jin’s fingers run through his hair and the warm air from the blow dryer heats his scalp.

He just wants things to get better. 

Chapter Text

Like a recurring bad dream, the police come back to interview Jimin. It’s a much quicker process this time, and the assault charge is filed against Jimin’s father only hours later. They find him at home in Busan, and according to the police, he didn’t even blink when he opened the door. He’d expected them. 

Jimin isn’t sure how he feels about the whole situation. His concussion makes thinking hard anyway but there’s a part of him which seems to have shut down since his beating, blocking out anything more than a feeling of utter lethargy. That first day, he hardly moves, hardly eats, only drinks enough to stop himself from getting more of a headache. 

His mother calls within a few hours of his father’s arrest, crying into the phone even while Jimin just lies there, mind drifting away. She apologizes a thousand times over, each time more unintelligible through her tears, but when Jimin finally musters up the courage to ask whether this will change things between his parent’s relationship, she falls silent. 

“I’m—I’m not sure, honey. We’ve been together so long...I don’t know—he’s an old man, your father. He wasn’t thinking straight…” She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself more than anything so Jimin ignores the crushing weight descending on his chest and makes appropriate farewells, hanging up with a heart even heavier than before. He’s not sure what he expected, his mother’s words almost predictable. 

She never stood up to him before; why would she start now?

That night, Jimin lies awake for hours, eyes prickling with tears that never quite seem to fall. He’s not sure exactly why he’s crying—deep inside he knew he had lost his mother the last time he’d left Busan to come back to Seoul—but the tears still threaten to properly fall and so he blinks hard, hundreds of times, trying to get the feeling away until he finally falls asleep. 

The next morning Jimin wakes up with swollen eyes and a raging headache that has him almost vomiting over the side of his bed for the second time. Hoseok seems to realise Jimin’s state from a single glance and he leaves the room with his hair still sticking up, back in only a few minutes with a tall glass of water and some painkillers. They do little to help Jimin’s pounding head but he mumbles his thanks nonetheless and tries to look somewhat less dead just lying staring at the ceiling. 

Because Jimin’s life is apparently not allowed to go well, today also marks the day the official case against Chang and his co-conspirators will be filed. 

It’s the day my life falls to pieces, Jimin thinks to himself, a wry smile tugging at his lips. Not that there’s much life left to fall—Chang took it all already. 

Still, he doesn’t even dare turn on his phone, unsure when the media will hear about it, and honestly, not wanting to face it. The company had told him not to anyway. They would handle it, they said. It’ll all work out in the end. Jimin’s not sure he can really believe them, and with every passing second, the decision to press the rape charge seems more and more futile. 

Who’ll believe you? Who’ll even care? You’re just a whor—

“Shut up,” Jimin mutters to himself, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to switch his brain off so he can sleep and not have to deal with the world right now.

“Sorry,” Hoseok whispers from across the room, and Jimin’s eyes snap back open. He’d forgotten Hoseok was still there and when he turns to look at him, Hoseok’s face is pinched in confusion and guilt. 

“Oh—no—not you,” Jimin reassures, and Hoseok breathes a minute sigh of relief before he looks confused again. 

“Who...then?”

“Just—” the voices in my head, Jimin almost says before he catches himself. “Uh—no-one.” Imagine if he’d actually said it; they would’ve thought he was actually crazy. The idea is funny in a morbid kind of way and before Jimin can stop, he’s giggling aloud, trying not to because it hurts his back but also unable to stop them from bubbling out of his chest. Oh god, and now Hoseok really is looking at him like he’s crazy but Jimin can’t stop so he rolls over onto his side and stuffs his face into his pillow so at least the sound is a little offensive. Even with that, it’s at least another thirty seconds before they stop and the occasional hiccuping chuckle still manages to force its way out. 

There’s silence after and Jimin is almost scared to look over at Hoseok’s bed, the image of Hoseok’s shocked face still a little too clear in his head, but then he hears his voice, filled with warmth.

“It’s good to hear you laughing again.” There’s a pause and Jimin turns his head in his pillow, sees Hoseok flush as if he’s said something he shouldn’t. “Sorry, I know I shouldn’t have said any—”

“Nah, it’s good,” Jimin interrupts. And he’s telling the truth. 

He doesn’t even remember the last time he laughed. Hoseok just doesn’t have to know the reason why.

Predictably, Korea explodes at the news of the kidnapping and rape of one of their top boy groups. Yoongi watches it all unfold with a weird feeling of detachment, a hollow fragment of himself as the twitter hashtags start trending.

#WeLoveYouJimin

#Jimin

#BTS

#JusticeforBTS

#WeLoveYouBTS

#WEPURPLEYOU

#ARMY4JUSTICE

It should be comforting but it’s not. Instead, it’s salt rubbing into old wounds, irritating the scabs of every cut in Yoongi’s heart as if it was made yesterday. A necessary disinfectant but utterly excruciating. 

The atmosphere in the apartment is...odd. They don’t talk really, and they all pretend not to be looking at their phones but it’s an utterly transparent mask. Jungkook is the first one to crack under the onslaught of articles and videos about the whole thing, his phone flying across the floor, still open on the latest headlines. It comes to rest just under the couch and Yoongi watches it from his chair, caught in a weird stupor, too fixated on the glowing screen to notice Jungkook storm out, the door to his room slamming shut seconds later. His phone stays where it is, the screen lit up until finally, it goes to sleep. 

Yoongi wonders what he was reading but he’s too scared to look himself. He’ll stick to their twitter homepage, watching as the blue arrow at the top notifying ‘new tweets’ keeps counting higher and higher, never clicking to actually see what people are saying. Because he doesn’t want to, he tells himself. He doesn’t need to. But really, because he’s too afraid of what they might say, not about him but about Jimin. At the end of the day, it all comes back to Jimin.

He hasn’t even seen Jimin today, and it’s creeping closer to one pm. According to Hoseok, he’s just lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling or...laughing. Yoongi’s not sure how to feel about that either but if Jimin’s coping by laughing, who are they to stop him? 

“This is bullshit,” Taehyung snaps from his position on the beanbag. “They’re just sensationalizing the whole thing as if Jimin—as if we— are—are some sort of cliche drama to exploit.” His eyebrows knit together, fingers scrolling furiously on his phone. This caustic, aggressive Taehyung is new to Yoongi as well but he recognizes it for the costume it is; Taehyung's only trying to protect himself in whatever way he can so Yoongi doesn't say anything as he looks at Taehyung's heavy scowl reading through articles. They’ve all abandoned pretending they’re not reading what’s being written about them. 

There are three of them not in the living room: Jungkook, Namjoon, and Jimin. Yoongi’s honestly not sure where Namjoon went—maybe for a walk although it’s probably not the best idea given the current state of affairs.

It’s a short walk to Jungkook’s room, and Yoongi knocks quietly, waiting to enter until he hears a muffled ‘come in’. Jungkook is lying almost face down on his bed, head resting on one arm while he fiddles with a zipper on a soft toy next to him. Yoongi remembers that soft toy; Jimin had bought it for Jungkook when they’d visited Japan together—a cute wee bear wearing a little Disney backpack, the zipper of which Jungkook is currently yanking back and forth every few seconds.

Jungkook doesn’t look at Yoongi when he walks in but Yoongi doesn’t let it discourage him. Their youngest has never been particularly good at expressing his feelings so they’ve all learnt to listen to what he doesn’t say rather than what he actually does say. He hasn’t told Yoongi to get out which, in Jungkook-speak, means Yoongi is welcome. 

Jungkook still doesn’t react so Yoongi ends up walking over to the bed and sitting down next to Jungkook’s splayed form. They sit in silence until Jungkook suddenly heaves an aggrieved sigh and shoves the soft toy off the bed, turning his face into his pillow so only the back of his head is visible. 

“Make it all go away, hyung,” he mutters seemingly through a mouthful of fabric, and oh how that hurts Yoongi’s heart because, in reality, there’s nothing he wants to do more than to do what Jungkook asked.

“I wish I could,” he murmurs instead, reaching forward and running his fingers gently through Jungkook’s hair. It’s getting long and Jungkook huffs a little puff of air into the pillow which seems to release at least some of the tension in his shoulders so Yoongi continues, fingers playing with the strands and scratching gently at Jungkook’s scalp like you would a small child. “You don’t have to read all the news articles if they upset you, you know,” he says softly, fingers still busy with Jungkook’s hair. “Remember how Bang PD told us to stay away from it?” 

“You were reading them too,” Jungkook mutters defensively, but there’s no malice to his words. 

“No, I haven’t read any.”

“Really?” Jungkook’s head pops up, eyes regarding Yoongi with at least a little suspicion. “None at all? How come?” He looks puzzled and it reminds Yoongi of a puppy, cocking its head from side to side. Yoongi shrugs.

“Just didn’t want to.” 

“Oh.” Jungkook’s head buries itself into his pillow and Yoongi resumes his petting. He wrestles with the words inside of him until finally he just blurts out what he was really thinking. 

“I’m scared of what they’re saying. That’s—” he swallows “—that’s why I haven’t read anything.”

“Oh,” Jungkook says again, but this time it’s tinged with something sad. “It’s not all that bad,” he concedes, turning his head a little so he can look Yoongi in the eye but still get his head scratched. “I just...went searching.” Yoongi frowns, fingers pausing for a moment. 

“What do you mean?” Jungkook sighs, nibbling on his bottom lip, eyes flicking away from Yoongi’s. 

“Most of the articles and news stuff are pretty good, just, some of them—the conservative ones—they’re saying stuff.” 

“What do you mean stuff ?” Yoongi asks, but he thinks he already has an idea, further cemented by the way Jungkook’s face takes on a stony quality and his eyes darken.

“They’re saying it makes him gay and that it doesn’t count as rape . One of them said that because it was a—a man,” Jungkook swallows hard, “that he’ll ‘infect the rest of us with his homosexuality’ .” Jungkook spits the words out like they’re poisoning his mouth, cheeks flushed red, and Yoongi doesn’t even know how to reply to that and so they sit utterly frozen until Jungkook suddenly whines, elbowing Yoongi's leg.

“Ow, hyung. You’re pulling my hair.” Yoongi looks down to see his fingers clenched into Jungkook’s hair with a vice-grip, yanking painfully at the youngsters scalp.

“Oh—sorry.” He hastily untangles his fingers and snatches his hand back to himself. Jungkook just regards him miserably.

“I shouldn’t have told you.”

“That’s not it, Jungkook, don’t worry,” Yoongi murmurs, trying to smile but failing miserably. “I would’ve found out at some point anyway. You shouldn’t go searching for it though. If you’re searching for it, it means it’s not in the mainstream media.” Yet, the little voice in his head supplies unhelpfully, and Yoongi grimaces. “Don’t worry,” he repeats instead, and Jungkook shrugs a little nod. There’s silence for another minute, both of them staring without really looking.

“Have all your other friends been texting you too?” Jungkook asks, and Yoongi thinks back to the numerous texts that all came flying into his messenger over the past few hours. He hasn’t opened a single one.

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.” Jungkook sounds depressed. “I don’t want to talk about it with them, though.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Still.” Jungkook sighs. “I already had to make up a bunch of excuses why we basically went MIA for a month, and now they all know why and it’s just—I just want it all to go back to how it was before.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not the only one,” Yoongi mumbles not unkindly, plucking at a loose thread on his trousers. He knows the same song and dance Jungkook went through—they all did—and it’s not a nice feeling lying to everyone. They’d even had to fabricate a whole story on Jimin’s behalf since he wasn’t contacting anyone, something very unusual for his usually social character. They’d come up with a fake story about them all doing a tech detox and taking a bit of a break in general, and Taemin had passed it along to Jimin’s other friends as well, although not without some suspicion. 

That smokescreen has disappeared now. 

“Hyung?” Jungkook sounds so young, it makes Yoongi nostalgic.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think Jimin will let me in if I go to his room?” Yoongi stifles a wry smile at that. There’s no way Jimin would deny Jungkook anything; the boy’s heart is too big for his own good.

“I think he’ll let you in if you knock,” he reassures, pulling Jungkook’s shirt down where it’s riding up his back. “Why don’t you go see? He might like some company. Just—don’t tell him about anything you’ve read.”

“Okay,” Jungkook says, groaning dramatically as he gets up and his knees pop. Yoongi makes to follow him out of his room but then Jungkook stops suddenly enough for Yoongi to crash straight into his back with a startled grunt. He barely has time to blink before Jungkook’s suddenly pulling him forward into a hug, mumbling a quick thank you into Yoongi’s ear before he’s turning tail again, Yoongi released just as suddenly as he’d been captured. 

He watches quietly from the corridor as Jungkook knocks on the door of Jimin and Hoseok’s room, announcing his presence before he obviously hears some sort of assent and he’s turning the handle, disappearing inside with a last toothy smile at Yoongi. It makes something warm in his chest, seeing his dongsaeng handling himself so well, and Yoongi pads softly back to the living room where he’d left Jin, Taehyung, and Hoseok sprawled over the furniture, with an odd seed of hope planted in his chest. 

It’s only Taehyung and Hoseok now, and they both look up at Yoongi when he comes in.

“Where did Jin go?” Yoongi asks as he flops back down in his chair.

“Stress cooking,” Hoseok replies, nodding his head towards the kitchen where they can hear a rather eclectic cacophony of pots and pans being smashed together. 

“Sounds like he’s trying to play the drums,” Taehyung mutters, fixated on what he’s reading, although the corner of his mouth tilts up as they hear Jin drop something on the floor with an even louder smash. 

“Does it sound like he’s doing it on purpose, or is that just me?” Hoseok muses, squinting over to the kitchen door. 

“Wouldn’t surprise me, honestly,” Taehyung says, and there’s something in his tone that has Yoongi feeling like he’s missed something.

“What happened while I was gone?” Taehyung and Hoseok look at each other as if both wanting the other to explain until finally Hoseok sighs and relents.

“He read this article saying we were all going to be infected by Jimin because somehow him being, um, assaulted by a man makes him gay and now we’ll all be gay too.” Hoseok scoffs. “Honestly, the shit people can think of.”

“Jungkook read the same thing,” Yoongi says, and Hoseok and Taehyung wince in unison. 

“That was why he left his phone here?” Taehyung asks, and Yoongi nods. 

“I think so. He was pretty upset about it.”

“It doesn’t make any sense though,” Taehyung snarls, glaring at his own phone. “Even if you sleep with a guy once, it doesn’t make you gay, and even then, being gay isn’t an infectious disease. You’d think they’d be able to write something better than such a load of crap!” 

“That’s what they’re saying?” In unison, all of their heads snap towards the doorway and they’re met with the sight of Jimin, slim frame swimming in his largest hoodie and sweatpants, Jungkook just behind him with a horrified look on his face. “Is that what they’re saying?” Jimin asks again. “That I’ll infect you all?” There’s an edge to his voice now, and his whole face seems to have shuttered off, eyes eerily blank against the dark purple bruising on his cheek. 

None of them say a word, all too shocked to even speak, and to Yoongi’s shame, it’s Jungkook who speaks in the end.

“It was just...one article,” he mumbles, and they all jump when Jimin’s head turns to look at him so fast it’s a surprise he doesn’t get whiplash.

“You read it too?” He asks, and Jungkook hesitates but nods, staring at his feet like they hold all the answers in the world. There’s an awful, pregnant pause as they all remain frozen in place, until Jimin finally moves, hand coming up to run through his unruly hair as he moves away from them. 

“Well, I’d better get out of here before I infect you all.” 

It’s said with no spite, just that same eerily flat, dead tone, and before they can even begin to protest, Jimin has locked himself in the bathroom and they hear the sound of the taps running into the bathtub.

“Fuck,” Hoseok swears, dropping his head onto the floor with a solid thump that had to hurt. Yoongi is inclined to agree.

Chapter Text

The water scalds Jimin’s skin when he carefully lowers himself into the tub, suppressing a groan as his ribs scream in protest. There are tears welling in his eyes from already getting undressed on his own but he didn’t want Jin to help him this time and so he’d pushed past the immediate pain, squeezing his lips together so not a sound could emerge. 

He ends up shivering from the pain despite the heat of the water, and it takes more than a minute before he can even get his breathing back under control enough to lean back as gently as possible against the edge of the bath, resting his head against the wall. It all hurts—his body, his mind, and now his heart. 

You’ll infect them all with your gayness. 

“I’m not gay,” he whispers to himself. It’s like a broken record in his head, on the one side his brain telling him he must be gay now—

That’s not how it works, dumbass.

— on the other side, convincing himself he’s not. 

In a way that’s become a habit ever since their kidnapping, Jimin digs his fingers into whatever bruise he can reach and lets the pain distract him from the thoughts whizzing around his head. 

He soaks in the water until it’s lukewarm, skin still tingling from the initial burning heat, before he drains the tub and refills it with more hot water. He grabs a random loofah hanging from the hook on the wall, uncaring of whose it is, and gets to work scrubbing himself down. 

The more he scrubs at his skin, the more he keeps coming back to those words: infect, disease. 

You’re filthy.

Before he even properly realises he’s doing it he’s working the loofah so hard against his skin that it leaves behind broad sweeps of stinging skin. As he works his way up his legs he comes to his knees, gasping out as the loofah tears the scabs off his grazed knees and rubs raw against the open wounds, but still, he doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t stop his relentless cleaning until he’s scoured all over, something inside of him recoiling at the thought of being somehow infectious and preferring to scrub the disease out of himself even if realistically he knows it’s all bullshit. 

Is it though?

When he steps out of the bath, he’s a little shocked to see thin trickles of blood making their way down towards his ankles and he stares at them for a moment, watching as they form little puddles on the floor. Glancing down at his arms and chest, he can see the same thing has happened to some of the cuts and scrapes there too. There’s one cut on his bicep, probably from the belt buckle, which looks particularly dramatic, the blood mixing with the water as it runs down his arm and pools around his fingers. 

But amongst all the pain there is only one thing Jimin can really focus his mind on; the voices in his head have finally shut up. 

Hoseok should’ve seen it coming. He’s Jimin’s roommate—the only one who sees Jimin for more than a few minutes every day—and yet somehow, he managed to miss something incredibly important happening with his dongsaeng. They’re not even sure when it started, and Hoseok knows deep down he’s not solely to blame, but it’s hard not to feel like he’s failed Jimin in some way.

If only he’d known, maybe he could’ve saved him. 

That first week after the court case is filed is hell. Hoseok keeps track of the headlines because it feels somehow better to know what’s being said about them than to be left completely in the dark. They’re not as bad as he was expecting. Most report on the case with neutrality; others offer sympathetic thoughts, particularly towards the ‘alleged rape of one of the key singers in the band, Park Jimin’. Of course, in a conservative country like Korea, there will be inflammatory, vile, cruel things written as well, and Hoseok has to force himself not to read their poison over those first few days. It’s hard and he breaks a couple of times upon seeing a particularly abhorrent headline. 

They all echo a similar rhetoric—rape isn’t rape unless it’s between a man or a woman, Jimin was targeted because he was gay and if he wasn’t already, he is now, and the most damaging of all, that Jimin is somehow ‘infectious’. It’s ridiculous and Hoseok is aware only a tiny amount of people actually still think so but he can’t stand to even think of people writing such horrible things about Jimin when he knows it’s not true. 

ARMY has basically blown up the internet as well, and even mainstream media worldwide are publishing articles about it. There are theories as to how they were rescued, whether a ransom was ever paid, and if any of the other members were involved in any other sort of abuse. 

Only Jungkook and Namjo—don’t go there.

Hoseok forces that thought out of his brain as quickly as it appeared. He never ever wants to see that image of Namjoon and Jimin in his mind again, especially not after seeing how it nearly destroyed the two of them. There’s a sour taste in his mouth as he tries to redirect his brain somewhere else than the memory of Jimin, naked, on his knees in front of Namjoon. 

Don’t think about it.  

They all keep a close eye on Jimin, especially those first few days, and it seems like there isn’t much change in Jimin’s behaviour either before or after the case hit headlines. He’s a little more reclusive, although that doesn’t mean much considering he hardly left his room before either, and although he doesn’t really eat or drink all that much, Hoseok thinks it’s to be expected. Having the trial brought to the courts is one thing; having it thrown into the court of public opinion is another thing entirely. He’s not really expecting Jimin to feel great about it. 

He tries not to invade Jimin’s space too much and, looking back, that’s probably the first of many big mistakes Hoseok makes. The one thing he is thankful for is that Jimin doesn’t seem to be concerning himself much with what is being said, and after that first disastrous day when he walked into their conversation in the living room, the rest of them have made a blanket rule of not discussing anything they read. Most days Jimin spends in bed, not even on his phone, just lying there either asleep or staring at the wall.

(In hindsight, there’s no way Jimin would be able to sleep so much if he wasn’t awake at night.)

It should’ve worried Hoseok more than it did but honestly, he was just relieved Jimin wasn’t taking any part in anything online, whether it be good or bad. And that’s the thing, there’s so much good stuff being said as well—supportive tweets, emails, posts, articles, videos, reports—but it only takes one bad thing to make all of that other stuff seem worthless. 

Hoseok just wishes it didn’t have to be that way. He doesn’t understand why people feel the need to involve themselves in something they think is somehow sacrilegious.  

⇝

The first real sign they get of something going seriously wrong with Jimin happens to coincide with the day Jimin’s assault case against his father appears in court. Thankfully, it’s not an open trial and so the media are unaware of the charges, but somehow the bastard manages to get slapped with only a fine and six months probation. 

“It’s bullshit,” Yoongi fumes to them, pacing round and round the kitchen where they’re all gathered minus Jimin until Jin finally throws a spatula in his direction and tells him to shut up. 

Hoseok doesn’t understand it either but Jimin hardly seemed to bat an eyelid when he found out, just stared at the email from the police station before turning around and going straight to bed. That happened to also be the same day they realised Jimin had stopped eating.

It’s not like they’d all been completely unaware of Jimin’s poor eating habits but normally Jin managed to get him to eat at least something. They’d all put it down to his injuries and his concussion, and before that, to his general state of lethargy, until all of a sudden, it started to mean something more.

Hoseok’s not sure how to explain it but there seems to have been a shift; before, Jimin just seemed to forget to eat but would eat if Jin brought him something. But the day of the assault trial and the days after, Jin fired off a text to each of them asking if they’d seen Jimin eating anything that day, and when all of them answered in the negative, he officially cracked. 

“He’s not eating, Namjoon,” Jin hisses. “And he’s lying about it, saying he did. Do not tell me that’s healthy.” Namjoon looks helpless. 

“I’m not saying it’s healthy. I’m just saying it’s probably just an accident, what with all the turmoil at the moment.”

“When was the last time he had eating problems, Namjoon? Do you remember what it was like at the time? Why he started in the first place?” Hoseok watches Jin’s finger jab into Namjoon’s chest. “He wanted control then, trying to handle all the pressure. If there’s any time when he probably feels out of control, it’s now.”

“I’ll talk to management,” Namjoon mumbles, guilt flashing over his face, quick as anything. “I didn’t think about the last time.”

“I know you didn’t,” Jin snaps before he seems to catch himself. “Sorry, I’m just—it worries me.” Namjoon nods, grimacing and patting Jin’s arm awkwardly. It makes Hoseok want to cringe from his spot at the table. 

“We’ll get it sorted.”

‘Getting it sorted’ apparently means their managers coming to their apartment and sitting Jimin down to have a ‘serious discussion about his health’ in a group environment. Hoseok gets what they’re trying to do—in the old days they always said they sorted their problems out as a group—but in their current state it has a predictable outcome. 

“What’s going on, Jimin?” Sejin asks, and they all watch, equally uncomfortable, as Jimin regards Sejin first with indifference, then confusion, and briefly, mild irritation. The emotions flit across his face one after the other before Jimin seems to catch himself, a stone wall dropping down behind his eyes.

“Nothing.”

“You’re not eating,” Sejin says, and Jimin’s eyebrows twitch.

“Yes, I am.” There’s an uncomfortable pause and Hoseok suddenly finds the wall very interesting. Jin shifts next to him on the couch. 

“According to the others, you’re not,” their other manager, Hobeom, says quietly, and they all wince in unison as Jimin turns to look at them, accusation and betrayal clear to see.

“I am eating.”

“You’re not really,” Jin murmurs in the end. “You didn’t eat at all over the past two days and most days you don’t eat unless I bring you something.” Hoseok sees the moment Jimin’s face goes taut with some sort of suppressed emotion, hands clenching on the sleeves of his hoodie.

“Why do you care?” Jimin turns back to their managers as well. “Why do all of you care what I do? It’s my body; I can eat if I want to.” Sejin and Hobeom sigh in unison, worried frowns etched on both their faces.

“It’s not healthy, Jimin.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child!” Jimin explodes, voice harsh in the previously quiet room. “I can do what I want!”

“We’re not try—”

“And why do they all have to a part of this conversation as well?” Jimin spits, flinging one arm at the six of them settled on the couch and the floor. Hoseok is inclined to agree with that question, the feeling of wanting to bury himself in the couch cushions getting stronger with every passing second. 

“Because you’re a group, Jimin, and you're not looking after yourself,” Sejin explains. “You’re not eating.”

“Yes, I am!” Jimin yells, and his cheeks flush red, the contrast startling against the healing green bruises on his cheek. In a move that honestly doesn’t surprise anyone, he leaps to his feet and storms out of the room, slamming the door to their shared bedroom with a loud bang that has them all flinching. 

“Whoever came up with this idea is a fucking moron,” Yoongi snaps into the resulting silence, pushing himself off the floor and stalking away to his own room. “Seriously.”

There’s not much they can do about it after that. Bang PD apparently sent Jimin a text threatening to send him to a dietician if he doesn’t start eating properly and for the second time, Hoseok watches Jimin throw his phone at the wall. It’s not any less startling than the first time.

He is eating though, at least more than he was before, although he doesn’t even talk to the rest of them anymore. It gets to the point where Jimin will walk into a room and his eyes will see straight through them as if they’re not even there. He’ll mumble a good morning and a good night to Hoseok only because otherwise it would be too awkward, but he may as well have been talking to someone else, the frigid detachment the only thing Hoseok can hear. It hurts his heart, unable to understand how it all went wrong so quickly. 

And still the media are having their field day as the trial gets underway. Much of the evidence is not allowed to be released to the press anyway but it doesn’t stop the thousands of articles, all repeating the same thing, from being published. One small blessing in the whole shit storm is that they don’t need to actually go to court themselves; they’ve each written victim statements to be read out on their behalf.

⇝

It’s a jarring moment when the first photos of their kidnappers make their way into the press, and Hoseok knows the moment Jimin sees them as well because he promptly rushes out of the kitchen and vomits in the bathroom, his phone left open on the table with Chang’s face looking up at them. Hoseok takes the liberty of deleting the tab. 

He’s not the only one badly affected by the images and Hoseok ends up with a lapful of Jungkook only a few hours later, the youngsters face tear-streaked even as he denies it all. Hoseok knows he still gets nightmares about their ordeal; seeing photos of the man behind it all was obviously not a great development.

As the days pass and the trial continues, the level of tension in the apartment reaches a breaking point. It’s so bad Hoseok can’t even remember the last time it didn’t feel like a thunderstorm inside, everyone depressed and crumbling under a heavy blanket of anxiety. They’ve been in touch with their lawyers and there’s a ninety-nine percent chance their attackers will be convicted and charged with the most severe charges possible, so it’s not as if they should feel all that worried, but the longer the trial goes on, the more Hoseok thinks the world is so incredibly unfair.

Even once those men are in prison, probably for the rest of their lives, the seven of them here in the apartment aren’t just magically healed from their trauma. It’s not a fairytale—not by a longshot—where the villains are defeated and life goes back to normal. That’s not how real life works, and the way things are going at the moment, Hoseok can’t see it ever getting anywhere close to how it was. 

The BTS they were before their kidnapping seems like a distant memory. 

They’re all so angry now, even Hoseok, annoyed by the littlest things and with absolutely no tolerance for each other. Taehyung shows it most clearly and it hurts Hoseok to see his once calm, kind, compassionate dongsaeng turn into a young man filled with anger and aggression, unable to get rid of the sharp bite in his words.

But he understands.

He understands why Namjoon and Yoongi lock themselves up alone in their studios for hours on end, even when Hoseok himself can’t step foot inside his own studio without getting even more depressed.

He understands why Jungkook works out his anger with thousands of press-ups until he’s purple in the face, shirt sticking to his back with sweat.

He understands why Jin seems almost manic, constantly busy with a thousand things but not really busy with all that much because he’s always thinking of Jimin and blaming himself for Jimin’s descent.

He even understands Jimin’s behaviour, understands his self-imposed isolation in his bed because some part of Hoseok wishes he could do the same thing.

But he can’t. 

That discipline is part of his character and always has been, and so Hoseok pushes himself out of bed every day. He makes himself eat his three meals and drink a full bottle of water even if he just wants to ignore everything. He makes himself go to the gym or the dance studio, and once he’s there, he forces himself to be perfect. If he’s perfect, nothing can hurt him. 

If only you’d been around Jimin more, you might’ve noticed…

But he didn’t notice, not until it was too late, and it wasn’t even him who first saw it—it was Taehyung.

He should’ve seen it coming.

Taehyung’s normally a pretty heavy sleeper, the last one to get up in the morning, and the most difficult to wake up according to their managers. It’s unusual for him to find himself awake at three o’clock in the morning but he’d decided to drink a full bottle of water right before bed and eventually his full bladder had woken him up with the urgent need to relieve itself. 

He stumbles down the hallway to the bathroom, eyes hardly even open, and reaches out blindly for the door handle. He tries to pull the door open, almost braining himself as he moves forward when it doesn’t. 

“Who’s in there?” He calls out, blinking sleepily at the handle still grasped in his fingers. There’s silence on the other side and it’s unusual enough for Taehyung’s brain to start to properly wake up. “Are you nearly done?” He waits for a second longer and he’s almost getting concerned when there’s sudden audible movement on the other side of the door and he hears a reply.

“It—It’s Jimin.” A pause. “I’ll be out in a sec.” Taehyung steps back from the door, slightly relieved but unsure why. Still, there’s something...off...about the way Jimin was talking. He seemed tense—nervous even—the words just a bit too high, almost like he’s doing something he shouldn’t be. 

That doesn’t make sense, his brain deduces, and he tries to shrug it off but it stays there, festering at the forefront of his mind. It’s at least another two minutes before the door finally cracks open to reveal Jimin, face flushed and eyes flicking everywhere but Taehyung’s face, and the whole thing just seems so bizarre to Taehyung that, even with a full bladder, he knows something’s not right.

“How come you’re awake?” He asks before Jimin can slip past him back to his room. Jimin freezes, hands pulling at the sleeves of his thin pyjama shirt, shoulders hunched. He’s still not looking at Taehyung.

“I—I needed to use the bathroom.” Why does he look so nervous? 

“Is everything okay?” Taehyung asks, trying not to sound too suspicious but failing miserably. Jimin nods and tries to push past Taehyung with all the desperation of a cornered animal, and it all feels so wrong that Taehyung can’t just let it slide. 

“Wait a second,” he says, reaching out and grabbing Jimin’s arm to stop him running away. He’s not expecting for Jimin to yelp and yank his arm away, and they both freeze. “What…?” Taehyung’s eyes shoot down to Jimin’s arm. Jimin starts backing away again, but Taehyung won’t let him, eyes glued to Jimin’s wrist currently being cradled in the fingers of his other hand. 

“Just—go to the bathroom, Tae. I’m going to bed,” Jimin mumbles, trying again to push past Taehyung but Taehyung steps in front of him again.

“What happened to your arm? Why did you cry out?” He reaches forward, tries to catch hold of Jimin’s arm so he can look but Jimin suddenly shoves him back hard enough he stumbles into the wall.

“Nothing! Leave me alone!” He hisses, moving away from Taehyung, back to the room he shares with Hoseok.

“Is that blood?” 

“No, just stop!” Jimin snarls, but his eyes are huge in his face and Taehyung knows his own eyes aren’t playing tricks on him. There is blood seeping through Jimin’s pyjama sleeve, and it sends the most awful wave of icy cold shooting down his spine. 

“I’m waking up the hyungs,” he says, hardly able to get the words out because of the horrible sinking feeling in his chest.

“No! Why—you don’t have to wake them up—there’s nothing wrong!” Jimin’s voice cracks and he looks like he’s about to cry.

“Jimin, why is your arm bleeding?” 

“It’s not—just—leave me alone!” 

“Stop lying!” Taehyung doesn’t mean to yell and he winces when Jimin flinches back. Apparently that’s all it takes for the door next to him to suddenly swing open and Yoongi’s gravelly tone to enter the conversation.

“What the fuck is going on?” Both Taehyung and Jimin startle, and Yoongi seems to realise he’s interrupted something serious because his previously barely-cracked eyes suddenly open properly, hands coming up to rub at his face in the thick silence. “Does one of you want to explain to me why you’re yelling at each other at three o’clock in the morning?” Taehyung opens his mouth to answer but Jimin gets there first.

“Nothing. Taehyung’s interfering,” he says, lips pinching even as he slightly positions his arms behind himself. 

“Jimin’s bleeding,” Taehyung blurts out, and that seems to get Yoongi’s attention as his eyes snap towards Jimin. 

“Where? What happened?” Jimin glares at Taehyung but there’s clear panic written on every facet of his face and he presses himself back against the wall.

“Nowhere,” he replies at the same time Taehyung says, “his arm.” Yoongi’s eyes flick between the two of them before they come to rest on Jimin. There’s a sadness in the way he looks at Jimin but his voice is cool and collected.

“Show me your arm.” Jimin looks horrified.

“No, there’s nothing wrong! Just go back to bed both of you!” Yoongi shakes his head.

“I’m not going back to bed if Taehyung says you’re bleeding, Jimin. If you’re not then just show me and we’ll leave you alone.” He’s utterly calm but Jimin starts backing away from them, shaking his head, the panic getting clearer and clearer to see. 

“Stop it!” Another door opens just behind him and Jimin lurches to the side, fear in his eyes as Namjoon blearily sticks his head out, closely followed by Jin’s door opening as well.

“What’s going on?” They ask almost in unison, both going from sleepy to alert in the space of two seconds as they catch onto the atmosphere in the hallway. 

“I’m going to bed!” Jimin spits, and he turns around in a whirl, ready to disappear into his and Hoseok’s room but Namjoon puts out a hand to stop him and that seems to be the tipping point. All the tension and panic in Jimin’s body manifests itself into a full-on panic attack and he lashes out, clawing at Namjoon’s hand to get him to release his shoulder, stumbling backwards into the wall where he ends up sliding down to hit the floor. His chest is heaving, both hands cradled against his chest as he struggles to breathe and Taehyung can almost feel the desperate panic coursing through his body. 

Namjoon looks utterly bewildered and they’re all frozen in place in shock. As if things couldn’t get worse, both Hoseok and Jungkook have now emerged looking equally shocked, the hallway getting more and more cramped with every passing second. It takes Yoongi dropping to the floor next to Jimin, trying to get him to breathe properly, for them all to snap back into action. But Taehyung can’t do anything except stare at everything going on in front of him. 

It feels like his fault.

“Fuck, Jin, call Sejin,” Namjoon says. “Let’s try and get Jimin to calm down in the meantime.” He turns to Taehyung, the one closest to him. “How did this all start?” Taehyung swallows, tries to stop his voice from trembling as he looks at Jimin on the floor, wheezing and shuddering as Yoongi whispers to him. 

“He—I—I had to go to the bathroom a-and,” he swallows again, trying to collect himself, “and Jimin was in there and when he came out he looked... weird… ” Namjoon’s looking at him, perplexed.

“What do you mean weird?”

“He was all red like he’d been doing something bad.” It sounds dumb now. “And then he tried to just disappear but I thought something wasn’t right so I-I grabbed his arm and he—he cried out as if I’d hurt him.”

“Did you grab him too hard?”

“He’s b-bleeding, hyung,” Taehyung says, and now his voice really is trembling. “He’s bleeding through his sleeve but he won’t tell me why.”

“He’s bleeding?!” Namjoon looks flabbergasted, head snapping around to look back at Jimin. 

“Jimin, keep breathing. You’re okay,” Yoongi says. He’s not touching Jimin, just sitting close enough to him that Jimin can’t help but be forced to listen, and it seems to be working because Jimin’s breathing has at least regulated and although he still looks terrified, he’s not hyperventilating anymore. 

“Yoongi hyung, I just wanna go to bed,” Jimin whispers, and he’s looking at Yoongi with those big eyes, pleading Yoongi to just let him go. He can’t do it.

“I can’t let you, Jimin,” he murmurs. “Just tell hyung why you’re bleeding.” Jimin shakes his head, panic filling his eyes once more. 

“I’m not! I’m okay, hyung! Just—please—let me g-go.” Jimin’s crying, tears spilling over onto his cheeks, and Yoongi wishes he could believe him but the way Jimin’s shielding his arms against his chest doesn’t look normal. He just hopes it’s not what he thinks it is. 

“Sejin’s going to come, Jiminie. Just sit tight until then, okay?” 

“I don’t want to, hyung,” Jimin pleads. Yoongi chews his lip and makes a decision. 

“How about you just show me? The others can leave but we have to know why you’re bleeding,” he says, hopeful when Jimin hesitates. But his hopes are dashed as Jimin shakes his head, pulling away as the tears keeping trickling down his face. 

“There’s nothing wrong. Why don’t you believe me? I’m fine.” He’s so obviously not fine but Yoongi doesn’t think this is quite the appropriate time to tell Jimin this when it seems like he’s trying to convince himself more than anything. 

Any doubt about what Taehyung might have seen is completely eradicated when Jimin shifts and Yoongi catches sight of a dark splodge of something on the sleeve of his pyjama. It’s blood, clear as day, and the cementation of his suspicions has a heavy weight dropping in Yoongi’s stomach. There’s no denying it now. 

How did they miss this?

Chapter Text

Sejin arrives at their apartment barely twenty minutes after Jin first called him and by that time everyone is wide awake. Jimin is still slumped against the wall in the hallway, all the fight seemingly drained out of him although he won’t look up from his knees and he keeps his arms firmly pinned against his chest. Yoongi just sits next to him, trying to calm the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his head. The others have dispersed, Namjoon pulling Jungkook and Taehyung away to the kitchen and Hoseok and Jin following closely behind. It’s the best thing for now; they don’t want Jimin to feel more cornered than he does already.

So now it’s just Jimin and Yoongi, hardly more than a couple of inches apart but feeling like there are a million miles between them. They sit there in heavy silence until the sound of the doorbell cuts through the air. At the sound, Yoongi can almost feel the waves of panic start rolling off Jimin once more. 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs but Jimin is trembling, forehead dropping down to rest on his knees. 

Yoongi can hear Sejin’s low voice from their spot although he can’t understand what they’re saying, and he sees Jimin tense up as his voice gets closer and closer. Yoongi looks up just as Sejin enters the hallway, only able to offer him a grim smile which Sejin d. Sejin still looks remarkably calm and collected considering he’d almost certainly been called out of bed. 

“Jimin,” he says, walking towards the two of them. “Do you want to talk here or in the living room?” There’s no negative emotion in his voice but Jimin curls in further on himself and Yoongi can hear his breathing increase. He doesn’t answer, and Sejin waits a few seconds before walking further forward, crouching down in front of the pair of them. “Jimin,” he repeats lowly, and Jimin flinches. “Let’s go out to the living room.” There’s a pause before Jimin exhales, the breath shuddering through his body, but he nods ever so slightly. 

“Up you get,” Yoongi murmurs, not sure whether to actually help Jimin to his feet considering his reaction to Namjoon’s hand earlier. He’s slightly relieved when Jimin gets up on his own but as he walks behind Jimin as to the living room, his uncertainty returns. Does he stay or join the others in the kitchen?

“You stay, Yoongi,” Sejin tells him, conveniently noticing his dilemma, and Yoongi chews his thumbnail but nods as he follows Jimin into the living room. Sejin points Jimin towards the couch and Yoongi joins him there. 

Yoongi expects Sejin to take a seat in one of the chairs but instead, he pulls their sturdy coffee table forward and sits on the edge, essentially boxing Jimin in with their knees barely fifteen centimetres apart. It’s unclear whether it’s because he doesn’t want to sit too far away or whether he’s intentionally boxing Jimin into the corner of the couch so he can’t run away like he did last time he’d been forced to talk to their managers. Jimin doesn’t even react, knees pulled up to his chest as he looks down at his hands instead of at Sejin’s face. If he did look up he would’ve seen the kind anxiety embedded in every line of their managers face; no judgement, just compassion. 

“Now, Jimin. Why don’t you tell me what’s happening?” Sejin asks gently, leaning forward on his knees. Jimin sniffs, a lone tear dripping off the end of his nose into his lap.

“Nothing’s happening.” He sniffs again, still not looking up. “I just want to go to bed.” Sejin doesn’t relent, and Yoongi watches him squint at Jimin as he continues.

“What were you doing up at three o’clock in the morning? How about you start there?”

“Bathroom,” Jimin mumbles, and Sejin nods.

“Okay, and what were you doing in the bathroom?”

“Nothing,” Jimin mutters out before he chokes on a sob, shuddering breaths making his shoulders heave. Yoongi takes a risk and carefully puts one hand on Jimin’s back, gently rubbing soft circles into his shoulder blades. He’s ready to take his hand away at any sign of discomfort but Jimin doesn’t shrug him off so he continues, softly working out some of the tension in his muscles without hurting any of the healing scars from his father. 

“Why is Taehyung saying he saw blood on your sleeve?” The words drop into the air like lead into water. Jimin’s trembling again—Yoongi can feel the vibrations through his fingers—but he doesn’t answer, lips pressing together so hard they’re going white. “Did you hurt yourself, Jimin?” Sejin asks, and god, hearing those words aloud makes something crack in Yoongi’s heart. 

Please let this all be a misunderstanding.

It’s those words that seem to make something snap in Jimin and now the tears are coming thick and fast, enough of an answer in itself. Sejin looks pained, brows knitted together with a severity Yoongi isn’t familiar with.  

“We’re going to figure this out, Jimin. It’s okay,” he murmurs, hoping it’ll help, but it doesn’t seem to ease Jimin’s sobs in the slightest. He seems to be trying to stop at least, ribcage heaving desperately, but his attempts are failing miserably. Sejin continues, unrelenting.

“I need to see, Jimin. Can you show me your arms?” 

Oh god.

Yoongi’s not sure if he can deal with physically seeing the evidence of his dongsaengs pain mapped out on his arms; they don’t know how bad it really is but by Jimin’s reaction it’s not going to be pretty. It’s not like he’s unfamiliar with self-harm—god, all of them know of his own history with depression and mental illness; he’s written it into his songs more than once—but self-harm was something he’d ventured into for only a short period of his teenage years. And then again, that was himself, not anyone else. 

Not Jimin.

“Jimin, I need to see before this conversation can go any further,” Sejin probes gently, and Jimin looks up at that, turning briefly to Yoongi with desperate panic written all over his face. He looks so vulnerable. 

“Please, can’t we just—just forget about it?” he pleads, but there’s resignation in his voice. He knows it has to happen. Sejin just shakes his head ever so slightly. 

The silence clunks back into place and Yoongi waits with bated breath as Jimin stares down at his own arms. Finally, he exhales in one long breath, arms coming up to his chest for half a second almost like he’s praying before his shaking fingers reach for the end of the sleeve on his left arm. Yoongi has to force himself not to make a noise as Jimin carefully rolls back his sleeve, first on one arm, then the other. He hisses slightly under his breath as the fabric peels up from his skin and Yoongi can almost feel what Jimin’s feeling himself, his own arm aching in phantom sympathy pain.

Neat cuts extend halfway up his forearm, slightly more clumsy on his right arm than his left. There’s a mixture of light and deep, old and new. They’re shocking in their uniformity and their sheer number; each cut leaves only a tiny gap between the previous one, and on some of the obviously fresher ones, there’s blood seeping out, brilliant red against some of the unmarked patches of skin. 

It says so much to Yoongi about the state of Jimin’s mind. To put yourself through such a tremendous amount of physical pain—and he knows how much cutting hurts, particularly on the arms—means his mental anguish must have been incredibly substantial. The regularity of the lines, each almost the same length, even the ones which are more like scabs than fresh cuts, tells Yoongi exactly what Jimin needed every time he sliced himself open: control. 

A horrible thought occurs to him then. 

What if his eating problems were his first port of call but when he was forced to start eating properly, he needed something else and started cutting instead?

“Thank you, Jimin,” Sejin says, and Yoongi, startled out of his reverie, finds it remarkable how collected Sejin can be when faced with one of his charges seemingly regularly inflicting incredible pain upon himself. Jimin is quick to roll his sleeve back down, those tell-tale bloodstains now clear as day on the thin fabric. Oddly enough, showing Sejin and Yoongi seems to have calmed him down, and although there’s still a worrying amount of tension in his posture, his breathing is less constricted than before. 

He’s got nothing left to hide; all he can take now is our reactions, Yoongi reminds himself, recalling too easily the feeling when his mother first realised he was self-harming and depressed. 

“What did you use, Jimin?” Sejin asks, and Jimin swallows, fingers knitting together as he draws his legs closer to his chest.

“Razor blades. In the bathroom,” he whispers, sniffing harshly, eyes glued to his knees. 

“Okay,” Sejin says. “When we’re done talking, I want you to go with Yoongi and bring me all the razor blades you have. Are there more in your room?”

“No,” Jimin mumbles. “Because I share with Hoseok—I—I didn’t—not with him the room.”

“When did you start? Are we talking months or weeks?” 

“Not months,” Jimin mutters, fingers twisting and turning with every word. “Just—in the last two weeks with this.” Yoongi and Sejin both frown at him. What does this mean?

“What do you mean?” Sejin asks, and Jimin shrugs slightly. 

“Before I didn’t use razor blades but I would make myself hurt just—just so it would all stop.” 

“How?” Sejin presses and Jimin’s eyes flick up at the two of them. 

“Nothing bad but I would—um,” he swallows, “where I had bruises or—or cuts, just pressing on them was good.” He winces. “Well, not good but it—it did something.” There’s a brief silence and Jimin starts fidgeting uncomfortably with his sleeves, maybe regretting saying as much as he did. Sejin takes a breath, seemingly taking his time to get collected.

“I have to ask this, Jimin.” His lips pinch. “Are you...suicidal?” The word makes Yoongi’s stomach turn; how stupid, he hadn’t even considered that yet. His anxiety is not helped by the fact that Jimin takes a long time to answer.

“I’m not—I was, I think?” He gulps, adam's apple bobbing furiously. “But when I’m doing this, the feeling—it goes away?” He blinks at his fingers with weird detachment. “I don’t want to die but—but living doesn’t seem very fun at the moment.” There’s a bitter smile curling at the edges of his lips but the whole situation is so not funny Yoongi can see there’s no humour there. 

“I’m worried about you if I leave tonight,” Sejin says honestly, and Yoongi is inclined to agree. Jimin doesn’t seem to care, back to staring at his knees, something so empty about his gaze it has Yoongi shivering. 

“I’m not going to do anything,” he mumbles defensively, pulling his sleeves further down over his wrists. The bloodstains look black against the pale fabric. Sejin hesitates. 

“Forgive me, Jimin, if I don’t utterly believe you.” Jimin’s head snaps up and he starts to protest, albeit feebly, but Sejin holds up a hand. “I’m not saying you’d act on any...suicidal tendencies. I just don’t feel particularly comfortable about the state of your wrists right now.” Jimin shrinks down on himself, all the fight deflating from him in the space of only two seconds. Sejin continues, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“I’m going to phone Bang PD and tell him what’s going on and we'll decide from there what we're going to do.” He looks at Yoongi. “You go with Jimin, get all the sharp things in the bathroom including all of your boys’ razors, and the first aid kit and bring it out here.”

Yoongi stands up, back cracking, and Jimin pushes himself up a few seconds later. He looks utterly defeated and Sejin looks guilty as he pats them both carefully on the shoulder before excusing himself to phone Bang PD. Jimin leads the way to the bathroom looking like some little, forlorn bird. He stays quiet the whole way to the bathroom, and when he gets there he just stands in the middle looking lost, Yoongi waiting awkwardly for him to reveal wherever he’s been hiding his blades. He gives Jimin a minute to gather his thoughts before clearing his throat. 

“Do you want me to grab them from…?” Jimin startles and Yoongi wonders if perhaps he read the situation wrong. His silence was probably less of gathering his thoughts and more of him getting lost in his head. That scares Yoongi now. 

“It’s okay,” Jimin mumbles. “I’ll get them.”

“Okay,” Yoongi agrees, unsure what to do with himself until he remembers what Sejin said about grabbing all of their razors. It’s quick—they keep them all in the same place—and he doesn’t forget to grab the wee tin of replacement blades they keep in the medicine cabinet. Now that he comes to think of it, it’s looking emptier than it should. He’s slightly morbidly interested as to where Jimin managed to hide the extra blades if he wasn’t keeping them in his bedroom, watching as Jimin drops to his knees and reaches under the vanity. When his hand reemerges he’s holding a small white envelope, a lump of blutack in the middle. Yoongi tries to quell the churning of his stomach when he sees the telltale rust coloured stains on the edge of the paper. 

He waits for Jimin to stand up but Jimin just kneels there for a minute, looking down at the envelope in his hand before he suddenly looks up at Yoongi.

“You must think I’m crazy, huh.” It’s not a question, and Yoongi is startled both by Jimin’s words and the weariness in his voice. 

“Wh— no,” he replies. “You know I went through some similar shit when I was a teenager. You’ve heard my music.” He huffs a dry, humourless laugh. “What sort of hypocrite would I be if I thought you were crazy?” Jimin shrugs, looking back at the envelope in his hand. 

“I didn’t think about that.” He still doesn’t move, caught up in whatever thoughts were running through his head, and Yoongi makes a split-second decision, dropping to his knees so he can look Jimin in the eye. 

“You’re not crazy and—and I know I might not be the best example of things getting better considering my track record with depression but—but it’s possible. This isn’t—you don’t have to do this. You deserve so much better than to be hurting yourself like this.” Jimin looks at him and Yoongi holds his gaze unwaveringly, trying to get his point across. 

“I can’t help it, hyung,” he whispers, and his voice cracks, tears welling up in his eyes. “Just because you guys know doesn’t mean I can just magically stop.” He drops back so his butt hits the floor, coming to rest against the edge of the bath. “I don’t even know if I want to, hyung. It’s the only thing which makes it all stop.”

“Makes what stop, Jimin?” Yoongi asks, and Jimin flushes.

“You’re going to think I’m actually crazy,” he mutters.

“I know you’re not crazy, Jimin-ah. That’s not going to change,” Yoongi says softly. Jimin fiddles with his sleeves and avoids his eyes. There’s a long moment where he doesn’t speak but finally, he bites his lip and seems to make a decision.

“Sometimes,” he starts before huffing a wry laugh. “Actually, a lot of the time, the thoughts going through my head are—they’re horrible. And they keep going and going even at night. The only time it stops is when I’m,” he breaks off, gesturing at the envelope in his hand. “I know it’s fucked up, hyung,” he continues, blurting out the words without even looking at Yoongi as if he’s still afraid Yoongi is going to judge him. Yoongi just shakes his head, wondering how he managed to miss all of this shit going on with Jimin. 

You fucked up, Yoongi. You’re a terrible hyung. 

“Don’t worry, Jimin. You’re not crazy—I—I know what you mean,” he says, and he reaches out, grabs the envelope from Jimin’s hands without any resistance. “We’ll get you proper help and it’ll all get better.” 

“I’m not so sure, hyung,” Jimin murmurs, still staring down at his now empty hands. “I don’t think it can.”

Chapter Text

Jimin probably doesn’t find it as weird as he should, sitting in the BigHit company building before the sun has even begun to rise. He’s in one of the smallest meeting rooms, cradling a cup of black coffee in his hands, trying not to focus on the feeling of tight bandages around his cuts. As it turns out, Sejin’s first aid course finally had a purpose. 

But the bandages around his wrists do nothing to stop the thoughts running through Jimin’s head and he takes a long sip of his scalding coffee just so he can think of something other than what a useless fuck-up he is.

“He’ll be here in about two minutes,” Sejin says from across the table and Jimin feels goosebumps erupt on his skin. He sinks lower in his chair and pulls his hoodie further over his face, abandoning his coffee so he can wrap his arms around himself. 

Here it comes.

They hear Bang PD’s footsteps before they see him but as the door opens Jimin squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to vomit. This is his worst nightmare and he doesn’t want to look up and see the disappointment in the face of the very man who has supported Jimin since the first time he walked in the company doors so he sits there, slumped as low as possible in his seat, eyes squeezed shut until they burn with the effort. 

“Jimin,” Bang PD says gently.

Fuck, you’re such a failure.

“Sejin has told me what happened this morning, Jimin, but I wanted to hear it from you,” Bang PD says, chair springs squeaking as he sits down in the chair next to Jimin. Jimin manages to open his eyes and fixes his gaze on Bang PD’s feet just visible in his line of sight. 

There’s a part of him that would like to just be able to tell everything—just to get it off his chest—but a bigger part of him seizes up at the idea and he finds himself trapped, completely frozen in fear. 

“Jimin, talk to me,” Sejin murmurs softly, and Jimin forces himself to look up at his manager, trying to focus on Sejin’s face and not the burning presence of Bang PD next to him. “Just start from when you got out of bed, okay? Bang PD just wants to make sure we’ve got it all correct.” 

“I—I told you it all anyway,” he mumbles, but Sejin just shakes his head a fraction. 

“We need to hear it from your mouth, not mine.”

There’s an incredibly long silence, broken only by the heat pump in the corner whirring to life, warm air filling the room a second after. 

And Jimin thinks. 

He thinks about how to say all the words trapped in his throat—how to even begin properly—and he wonders what this means in the end. He’s got nowhere else to go, no-one else who will care for him if he’s kicked out of BTS. Because the members do care, Jimin knows that, and anything they’ve done has come from a place of love even if it hurts at the time. 

He thinks and he thinks and the only thing it does is make him realise something he really should’ve realised a long time ago.

He just really needs help.

It could’ve been minutes or hours by the time Jimin stops talking. Once one word left his mouth, it’s like the floodgates opened and he couldn’t stop. He only dares look at Bang PD once, right before he tells him about his panic attack in the hallway, and there’s a crushing realisation that all the emotion on Bang PD’s face isn’t disappointment—it’s concern. Concern and worry and care in such tremendous amounts Jimin can’t look at him again for fear of crying. He does cry in the end, tears slipping down his cheeks despite his best efforts to suppress them, and he wipes them away with his sleeve until Sejin pushes a box of tissues over the table. 

The entire time Jimin is talking, Bang PD doesn’t say a word. He sits there in complete silence, letting Jimin set the pace, the only sign of shock or surprise being a sharp inhale when Jimin shows him his bandaged arms. 

They sting again at the reminder.

Only when Jimin is finished does Bang PD finally speak.

“Thank you for opening up like this, Jimin,” he says and Jimin dares a quick glance at his boss, looking away just as quickly when he accidentally makes eye contact. “I’m sorry we didn’t know and that you felt like this was your only option,” he says, holding up a gentle hand when Jimin opens his mouth to protest. “I know you’re eternally selfless, Jimin, and you’ll try and change my mind about this but at the end of the day, we should’ve been more aware of your frame of mind.” Jimin’s mouth snaps shut and Bang PD continues.

“Sejin filled me in earlier as to the basics of the situation so I could at least begin to coordinate some sort of treatment for you but I think it has been incredibly valuable to hear it from your mouth. We’re going to get you better, Jimin, but to do that, I need to know if you want to get better as well. So I must ask you, are you willing to put in the work, as hard as it may be, to turn this whole situation around and get you the help you need?” The question hangs heavy in the air and Jimin takes in a shuddering breath, letting it exhale just to give himself some time to think. He’s not sure why; he already knows the answer.

“Yes.” 

Yoongi is woken up from his nap by the sound of soft knocking on his bedroom door and he manages a mumbled ‘come in’ before promptly knocking an empty mug from his bedside table onto the floor. It splits into two pieces with a loud crack and Yoongi curses, swinging his legs off the side of his bed so he can reach down and pick up the separate halves to put them on the nightstand. 

“Bad time, hyung?” Jimin’s soft voice murmurs around the edge of the doorframe and Yoongi almost knocks the pieces back on the floor out of surprise as he sees Jimin peeping in.

“No—not at all—fuck,” he manages, sucking his index finger as one of the sharp shards pierces the skin and a bead of red wells up on the tip. “Come in,” he continues, trying to hide his shock at Jimin coming to his room; Yoongi didn’t realise he was even back from whatever talks he had had at the company building let alone that he would be in any sort of mood to talk. 

Jimin still walks in somewhat hesitantly but there’s something different about him, an unexpected lightness to his step as he crosses the floor to perch on the end of Yoongi’s bed. There’s a smoothness to his brow Yoongi hasn’t seen in a long while and even if his body is still completely curled into itself like some protective shield, it seems more cosy than defensive. All these details Yoongi would not have expected considering the dark start to the day. 

“Everything okay, Jiminie?” Yoongi asks, not sure what to say to this changed Jimin. Jimin nods, fingers pulling the ends of his sleeves over his hands.

“I just wanted to tell you, um,” he hesitates, “I’m going to this programme thing in the Yongpyong mountains. They’re going to help me get better,” he says, and he looks up at Yoongi, eyes wide with something unfamiliar Yoongi doesn’t think he’s seen in those eyes for what feels like forever. 

It takes him a second to realise it’s hope. 

“Anyway, Jimin mumbles, pulling on his sleeves again. “I’m going in a few hours so I thought—thought I should tell you all and I wasn’t really sure where to start.” His eyes flicker back down to his lap and Yoongi forces himself out of his stupor. 

Jimin is going to get better. 

He’s up in a flash, lurching forward to pull Jimin into a hug. He realises too late he should’ve asked but Jimin’s initial tension eases within seconds of being caught up in Yoongi’s arms and Yoongi is relieved to feel slim arms wrapping around his waist. 

“Fuck, I’m so proud of you,” he manages, choked with the feeling rising up in his chest. Jimin’s head rests against his shoulder and all Yoongi can think is how the next time he gets to hug Jimin like this, it’ll hopefully be without the bulky bandages he can just feel pressing against his back. 

He hardly dares to hope but he can’t stop himself. 

⇝

Taehyung cries when Jimin leaves and even Jungkook discreetly wipes the tears off his cheeks until Jin pulls him into his chest where his tears can soak into his sweater. The rest of them endure with glossy eyes and bitten lips as they stand in the hallway of the apartment while Jimin gives them all a brief hug—even Namjoon albeit quickly—before he leaves.

Sejin is there with a car and he’ll ensure Jimin gets to this place in the mountains which is supposed to help him. It’s a therapy clinic, Jimin had explained to Yoongi earlier, and they’ll be able to deal with Jimin’s self-harm and eating problems so he can live in a way that lets him be happy. They’re also specialised in trauma therapy and they have a ‘no news’ policy to stop anything triggering from filtering into the clinic. Yoongi isn’t sure if that includes the results from the court trial. All he knows is that for three months Jimin will be away from the six of them and as much as it’s for a good reason, even thinking about it has his chest feeling somehow emptier than he thought was possible.

He’s not exactly sure why. 

Jimin spends the entire three hour car drive to the clinic staring out the window, trying to focus on the music coming through his headphones so he doesn’t succumb to the nervous butterflies flapping in his chest. He wants to go to the clinic—he really does—but the thought of being utterly alone in this strange place for twelve weeks without any contact with the outside world is terrifying. 

You’re such a weakling, needing ‘special treatment’ because you’re such a fuck-up.

The thought pops in uninvited and Jimin grits his teeth, determined not to fall prey to the negativity swirling at the edges of his brain. This is a good thing, he tells himself. 

Weakling—

“This is a good thing!” Jimin doesn’t even realise he’s spoken out loud until he catches Sejin peering at him curiously in his peripheral and he rushes to pull his headphones out.

“Everything okay?” Sejin asks quietly and Jimin nods, embarrassment heating his cheeks into two mini infernos.

“Yeah… sorry,” he mumbles, too awkward to just put his headphones back and pretend he didn’t just say that out loud but also not really in the mood for talking. The problem is solved for him when his phone suddenly lets out a resounding ‘ding’ and Jimin has an excuse to pick it up. He’s shocked to see a text from his mother.

My dear Jimin-ah,

I know things have been difficult between us but Mr Shihyuk has let me know you are seeking treatment at a clinic for the next ten weeks after some sort of incident? He hasn’t told me any details except that the clinic doesn’t allow outside contact but I hope you know how much I love you. Keep fighting, my son. I’m so proud of you.

Jimin’s not sure how to feel, the words in front of him suddenly blurring as an overwhelming feeling rises in his throat. He sniffs the feeling away and stuffs his headphones back in his ears, determined not to cry. Sejin looks over again but this time Jimin doesn’t do anything except fix his gaze out the window, focusing on the trees whizzing by rather than answering all the questions Sejin probably has. 

“I’m so proud of you.”

The first week without Jimin feels like some sort of weird dream. Taehyung keeps expecting to see Jimin around the apartment, walking out of his room or curled on the couch in the living room. Even if his presence in the apartment had been a quiet one over the past months, his absence is impossible to ignore. 

So Taehyung does what he does best which is finding other ways to fill the emptiness in his heart. He spends hours away with his friends or alone, anywhere as long as it doesn’t remind him of Jimin, and he tries to ignore the feeling that these twelve weeks—however important they are for Jimin—are somehow taking his best friend further away from him than he ever thought possible.

Taehyung’s quite aware he’s probably been the worst best friend over the past couple months. Even when Jimin was back with them, Taehyung had tried to connect but it felt like they were separated by thick, impenetrable glass, occupying the same space but constantly at odds with each other. He just didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to help Jimin when Taehyung hardly knows how to help himself. And it’s not that he didn’t want to help Jimin—of course he wants his best friend back—but after everything Jimin went through, it’s hard to go back to what they had. Taehyung’s trusted method for making someone feel better is to tackle them to the nearest soft surface and to not let them emerge from a cuddle until their worries were either fixed or temporarily abated. But with Jimin, how was that meant to work? And it’s not like Taehyung could exactly fix Jimin’s situation or even make it better, especially not now.

Every time he shuts his eyes he remembers Jimin’s furious desperation as he hid his arms behind his back, and the way he’d flinched as Taehyung had grabbed him.

Don’t think about it.

Taehyung’s sure he's not the only one feeling helpless, he knows that, but he’s so lost and alone, and some days he’s not sure they’ll ever get back the old Jimin at all. Even the bond within the group feels shattered, all of them living in one apartment yet so far away from each other.

Surrounding himself with other friends feels like a cheap trick, running away from his problems like an absolute coward, but for once in his life Taehyung can’t find it in himself to do anything else. He doesn’t know what else he can do.

8 days after Jimin left for the clinic, the court case finally reaches a conclusion. Park Chang is sentenced to a life sentence without the possibility for parole and the majority of the other men involved in the case will be locked away for at least twenty years. The news doesn’t fill Taehyung with joy like he thought it would. Instead, it still feels like not enough of a punishment and Taehyung hates that he feels that way. He’s never been a vengeful person, never prone to extreme rage and a need for revenge, but seeing Chang’s face plastered all over the news and knowing he will never have to deal with the broken shell of Jimin the man created, it makes Taehyung blind with fury. He takes out his frustrations on the wall, bruising his knuckles and putting a fist-sized hole in the plaster.

Somehow, it still doesn’t feel like enough. 

He talks it out with the therapist they’re all seeing, trying to explain the bubbling pit of anger constantly boiling in his stomach. She’s nice about it, non-judgemental when he tells her about the broken wall although she picks his brains afterwards. 

“Have you spoken with your hyungs about how they feel about it?” She asks and Taehyung shakes his head.

“We don’t talk as much as we used to but especially not about anything to do with—” he swallows, trying to quell the anger—" that man.” The therapist tilts her head, writing something down on her piece of paper.

“So you’ll talk about other things with them but nothing to do with the ordeal you all went through?” Taehyung nods and she frowns. “That’s sad, Taehyung. From what I understand, you were all incredibly close before. What do you think has changed?” Taehyung stares at her.

“What do you mean? Some of my best friends literally got assaulted. How is that—what do you mean, what do I think has changed?” He’s breathless with frustration and she seems to realise, putting out a hand and patting Taehyung’s arm sympathetically.

“Of course, Taehyung. My apologies for not wording that correctly. Such a traumatic experience does not come without long-lasting effects but I what I do wonder is what is stopping you and them from talking about it.” She readjusts the clipboard on her lap. “You told me a few weeks ago how you used to sort out any problems between the members by talking amongst the seven of you. Clearly, you used to be effective communicators but that seems to have been lost, doesn’t it?” Her voice is kind, not judging, and Taehyung nods begrudgingly. 

“I guess so.”

“Do you have any idea why?” She asks and Taehyung shakes his head.

“Not really.”

“Do you ever ask each other explicitly how you’re doing?” She regards him thoughtfully. “Often with traumatic experiences, people feel like they’ll come across as pushy if they’re constantly asking how someone is doing just as much as people feel like they’re oversharing when they talk about their feelings, but it doesn’t have to be a huge thing. Sometimes all it takes to re-establish a connection with someone is to find a moment to just check in with him—just having a discussion is enough. Does that make sense?” She asks and Taehyung nods slowly.

She’s right, he can count on one hand the number of times he’s actually asked any of the others how they’re really doing. Most of the time they’re all too busy dancing around the elephant in the room to actually realise how much they avoid any discussion on the topic.

“Without getting into the sexual component of the abuse suffered by some of your members, is it shameful for you to talk about what you all went through?” She asks and Taehyung thinks about it. Is it? He’s not really thought of it consciously as being a shameful thing but when he thinks about, by not talking about it, it implies that there’s something inappropriate about the whole thing. 

But it’s real life; it’s what we went through.

“I didn’t—I don’t think we consciously think of it that way but I guess it sort of is if...if no-one talks about it?” Taehyung says and the therapist nods.

“That’s important to realise. Can I be honest with you, Taehyung?” She asks and Taehyung nods. “I think a lot of your anger is actually just bottled up from weeks of not ever being able to talk with the others about how you feel, not just about the court case but about the whole experience itself. Spending time with people not associated with BTS—that’s a way of avoiding the problem and although it’s totally understandable,” she adds, “it won’t be helping. The other members, those are the ones who will know exactly how you feel, Taehyung, and it would be really helpful for you all to open those channels of communication like you used to. You don’t always have to talk about everything you’re feeling but at least the option is there. Does that sound good?”

“Yeah,” Taehyung says. He’s being honest too. As much as he knows it’ll be hard, breaking down those barriers between them all feels like the first step to actually getting better. 

“In order for this to work, you’re all going to need to be on board with this. Do you want me to talk to each of them when they come in or do you want to start that conversation instead?” She asks, smiling at him kindly. Taehyung thinks about it but he already knows.

“I’ll talk to them.”

He starts the conversation one evening by ordering a bunch of chicken and calling them all into the living room for dinner. It’s not often they’re all in the same room together at the same time but Taehyung picked a day when he knew they would all be here and he’s determined to make it work. 

“Don’t go to your room,” he tells Jungkook when the younger makes as if to head off with his plate of food. Jungkook stops and stares at him, cheek bulging cutely with chicken. 

“Why?” he asks through his mouthful.

“Just—I have something to talk about,” Taehyung says, relieved when Jungkook shrugs his shoulder after a second and goes to sit down on a chair. “The rest of you as well,” he says bravely, eyeing Yoongi who looks half a second away from disappearing into his room as well. 

“What do you want to talk about?” Namjoon asks, flopping heavily onto the couch with his own plate of chicken. 

“I’ll wait till you’re all sitting down,” Taehyung replies, grabbing his own plate of chicken and scooting back so he can rest on the beanbag. Eventually, they’re all sitting on the couch or on chairs, the only sound the chewing of hot chicken and the click of chopsticks. 

“Okay,” Taehyung starts, a sudden rush of nerves making him drop his chicken onto his plate. He leaves it there for now. “You know how I went to the therapist two days ago?” There are some vague nods and Taehyung continues. “Well, I was talking with her and we came to the realisation that none of us talk anymore.” 

“We’re talking now, aren’t we?” Hoseok asks, looking confused as he sucks on a chicken bone. Taehyung shakes his head.

“I don’t mean casual conversation, which we hardly do anymore to be honest,” he adds. “I mean actually talking about important stuff. Like how we feel.”

“Who says we want to talk about it?” Yoongi mumbles, chopsticks paused in mid-air, and there’s a murmur of agreement. Taehyung grits his teeth, determined not to let this conversation end without a good result.

“We used to talk about everything,” Taehyung reminds them. 

“Yeah, but that was before—you know” Jungkook cuts himself off, a frown marring his features as he stuffs another huge piece of chicken in his mouth. 

“See, this is the problem,” Taehyung says. “We used to talk about everything but now, when it matters most, we don’t.”

“I don’t see you exactly being a perfect example,” Yoongi mutters and Taehyung has to take a deep breath in order to not get annoyed. 

“I know, I’ve been a—a shitty person for the past couple of months and I’m sorry. I should’ve talked with you guys instead of running away from everything but—but that’s why I want it to change!” He gazes around at them, noting the way Jin and Namjoon are both regarding him thoughtfully and drawing on that for courage. “I don’t want us to become complete strangers. You’re basically my family and I don’t want Chang and the rest of them to be the reason we drift apart.” 

“So, start talking,” Yoongi snaps, unusually aggressive as he puts his plate down and crosses his arms. “It’s all good and well to say all this shit but, like I said, you’re not exactly practising what you preach.” Taehyung stares at him, increasingly frustrated, but before he can even say anything, Jin steps in, the voice of reason in what is becoming an increasingly tense exchange.

“Yoongi, give it a rest. Taehyung just acknowledged he’s not the best example but that doesn’t mean people can’t change.” Jin looks over at Taehyung. “I actually agree with Taehyung. We used to be so good at talking. Any problems any of us had were all solved with discussion and it meant we could look out for each other. We’re not doing that anymore.”

“Exactly,” Taehyung chimes in, irritation subsiding with Jin’s support. “It doesn’t mean you have to say stuff you don’t want to, I just want us to at least be able to look out for each other like we used to.” There’s silence following his words and Taehyung looks at each of them hopefully. Namjoon and Jin are both nodding and Hoseok looks relatively open to the idea. Only Jungkook and Yoongi are frowning albeit without voicing their disagreement. “Okay,” Taehyung says when the silence stretches on too long. The nerves in his stomach are back with a vengeance. “I’ll start.”

“What, now?” Hoseok asks, surprised, and Taehyung nods determinedly. 

“Why not?”

“Oh,” Hoseok says after a second, leaning back so he can lean on the armrest of the couch. “Okay.”

“I’m just going to say how I’m feeling at the moment,” Taehyung says, “and I’m not expecting all of you to do the same but I just think it’s a good way to start.” He swallows, gathering courage before deciding to just launch straight into it. “Honestly, I’m angry about the whole trial. I’m not sure why but I just hate the whole thing with a passion and even a life sentence doesn’t feel like long enough for what Chang did. I’m worried about Jimin even though he’s getting treatment and I’m also worried that when he comes back things still won’t be better.” He takes a breath. “I’m worried about our future as well but at the same time, it feels selfish to even think like that so I guess I’m feeling pretty guilty as well. On top of that, sometimes I don’t feel like doing anything but I know if I don’t then I’ll start thinking about everything too much so I make myself go and do stuff just so I don’t have to think about it.” He pauses, trying to think if there’s anything else he should add. He’s managed to avoid looking at the others while he was talking but a quick glance around shows five faces with far less judgement and irritation than he was expecting, even Yoongi. “That’s it,” Taehyung finishes awkwardly. 

There’s a silence, each of them waiting for someone else to say something before Jin finally sighs. 

“I guess I can go next.” He fiddles with his sleeves. “I’ve been feeling pretty lost, I think? Like, I’m not sure what to do now that everything’s changed and anything I do do feels like I’m somehow running away from the real issue.” He pauses and there’s a tension in the air as they wait for him to continue. “I feel like I’m failing at being a good hyung, especially with Jimin, and I can’t get over the idea that I could’ve done more to help him.” Jin chokes and Taehyung is shocked to see a tear falling onto his hyung’s lap. “Anyway,” Jin continues, clearing his throat. “I’m hopeful when Jimin comes back that everything will start working itself out but until then I’m just trying to find my feet a bit.” When he finishes he keeps staring at his sleeves, avoiding all of their gazes, and Taehyung gets the feeling Jin is probably a lot closer to an emotional breakdown than he thought.

Namjoon goes next, words careful and measured. “I’m pretty similar to Jin and Tae, just not really sure how to deal with everything. Working feels like the only thing I can do but,” he laughs wryly, “it’s not like I’m actually getting a lot done. I’m worried about Jimin too.” He grits his teeth, eyebrows scrunching painfully together. “Especially because I know I’m part of the reason he was so...affected, by everything.” There’s a deeper meaning to his words and Taehyung shivers as his brain takes him back to that moment when Jimin was forced—no, he’s not going to think about that. He can’t be the only one because Hoseok quickly fills the silence, clearing his throat yet still somehow sounding like there’s something stuck just underneath his Adam's apple. 

“I get what you mean, Joon. It feels like I’ve been trying to distract myself for months,” he mumbles, “and honestly everything feels so irrelevant and unimportant. Like, I was thinking the other day about those discussions we would have about making sure we’re letting fans know how much they mean to us and how thankful we are for their support.” He frowns. “I don’t want to be ungrateful but just the idea of going back to that life feels so unfathomable. They’ll never understand what it’s been like for all of us, especially you, Namjoon, and Jimin, and the idea of trying to go back to before—I hate it. I don’t want to be the ‘ray of sunshine’,” he snorts derisively, “when I don’t think I’ve ever felt more like a thundercloud than now. Fans, performances, music shows—it all feels like the biggest load of bullshit that I don’t even want to have to think about.” He takes a breath, hands running through his hair. “But at the same time, there’s a part of me that can’t even imagine not being part of BTS any more. You guys—like Tae said earlier—you’re my family, you really are, and I can’t just walk away from that. I don’t want to just leave that all behind.” 

Taehyung watches his hyung rub at his forehead, feeling oddly emotional at his words. It so perfectly describes how he feels as well, caught between two decisions and unsure of what to do. He looks to Jungkook next, waiting for their maknae to see what he has to say. Jungkook’s never been particularly enthusiastic when it comes to talking about his feelings but he’ll normally always try. Now, Taehyung is surprised to see Jungkook’s eyes glistening with tears, hurriedly wiped away with his sleeves. 

“Give me a sec,” he mumbles, bunny teeth catching on his lip as he gathers himself, and something about the tremor in his voice has Taehyung’s heart-clenching, desperately wanting to comfort his dongsaeng but also not wanting to interrupt him. 

“Sorry,” Jungkook mumbles eventually. He hesitates before his bottom lip wobbles and a fresh tear balances precariously on his eyelashes. “Fuck,” they hear him mutter and Taehyung’s almost ready to go over there when Jungkook finally gets it under control, clearing his throat several times before fixing his gaze on the floor, words sounding like they’re being forced out. “I’m doing okay but I get worried about all of you and Jimin, and—and sometimes I feel like I can’t do anything to help, like all I’m doing is just taking and taking and never giving back anything to any of you even though I want to.”

He pulls his sleeves over his hands, fidgeting in his seat. “I keep getting nightmares and flashbacks to everything that happened so I guess I’m not sleeping that well which doesn’t help with anything.” He clears his throat, eyebrows knitting together, eyes still fixated on the floor. “I just want everything to go back to how it used to be and I know that’s not possible but I hate being stuck in this weird space where it’s like there’s nothing to do except just exist.” He stops abruptly, seemingly running out of words if his furrowed brow is anything to go by. 

They all wait, looking to Yoongi to continue the conversation, but Yoongi looks anything but enthusiastic, arms folded defensively across his chest, knees brought up to meet them. Taehyung is still hopeful his hyung will join the conversation but as the silence stretches on and still Yoongi doesn’t do anything except focus his eyes on the floor, the chances seem much slimmer.

“Yoongi-ah,” Jin prompts eventually and Yoongi’s eyes flicker up to meet those of his only hyung.

“I said already I don’t want to talk about it.” His voice is tight with tension, belying his impassive expression. 

“Come on, hyung,” Taehyung pushes gently. “You don’t have to say much.” Yoongi’s eyes flick over to Taehyung, piercing through him with some sort of indescribable emotion.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Yoongi repeats, but he sounds unsure. 

Vulnerable. 

It’s not something Taehyung’s familiar with hearing in Yoongi’s tone and it disarms him. He doesn’t want to pressure Yoongi any more but then Jin is speaking, voice gentle like waves on a sandy shore. 

“How do you feel about Jimin going to that clinic?” He asks quietly and Taehyung doesn’t miss the way Yoongi’s eyes twitch, lips pinching together even as his brow softens. 

“It’s good. I’m proud of him.”

“Yeah?” Jin says and Taehyung remembers why Jin and Yoongi have shared a room for so long; Jin gets Yoongi. “It’s weird not to have him here though, isn’t it?” Yoongi nods, still looking unsure but with some of that rigid tension leaving his body. 

“I don’t like it,” he mumbles eventually. “But I know he needed to go.”

“It’s weird having his bed empty again,” Hoseok chimes in, fingers fiddling subconsciously with his hair. “But Yoongi’s right, he needed to go and all we can do is hope he can get the help he needs.”

“He will,” Namjoon says with a confidence Taehyung certainly wishes he had. “And Taehyung,” Namjoon adds, “this was a good idea. How can we ever expect Jimin to open up to us again if we can’t even communicate amongst the six of us?” 

“I like it when we talk,” Taehyung murmurs, “but only if this continues. I don’t want us tomorrow to go right back to barely talking anymore.”

“I’m sure we’ll all do our best, won’t we?” Jin says, eyes piercing as they sweep their little circle and Taehyung is relieved when there is a murmur of assent, the heavy weight in his heart lessening just a little.

Maybe, just maybe, they’ll all be okay.

Chapter Text

Yoongi lasts approximately a month before he does something completely unprecedented both for him and for those around him: he books a plane ticket to New Zealand.

It’s a spur of the moment decision, born at three o’clock in the morning from a moment of impulsivity (and depression). Yoongi doesn’t want to deal with the hollow feeling in his chest so he runs away from it like he always does, choosing New Zealand purely because it seems like the farthest place from Korea he could possibly go where he’ll hopefully be somewhat anonymous but there’s still some semblance of civilisation. He’s always wanted to go since his trainee days anyway when Namjoon used to tell great stories of his three months there studying. 

At least he’s got a good excuse now; it’s not like they’re doing much with Jimin gone. 

When he wakes up the next morning he almost forgets what he’s done until he opens his phone and finds the booking receipt still open, one ticket to New Zealand booked for the 27th, hardly two days from then. The reality sinks in and Yoongi groans, flopping back onto the bed as the weight of his decision crashes down on him. There’s a war playing out in his head and he knows how easily he could cancel the ticket but there’s a part of him that just wants to say, ‘fuck it’, and go. After all, what does he really have to lose? Long days in the studio doing nothing or long days in the apartment, doing nothing. Both have the same result: doing nothing. Just… existing. Maybe what Yoongi actually needs is just to leave, go someplace else for a change rather than continuing this monotonous pattern for the next three months. 

So he does exactly that.

It’s one thing to accept it for himself but another thing completely to try and explain his early morning madness to everyone else. He lets the company know first, sending a text to Bang PD saying he’s going on a trip leaving in two days and receiving a reply within a few minutes in the form of a phone call.

“Yoongi, what’s going on?” Bang PD thoroughly weary. It almost makes Yoongi feel bad. Almost.  

“I’m going on a trip,” Yoongi says, not even attempting to sound anything but blasé. 

“Yes, I got that part. Where are you going and why?” 

“New Zealand—”

“ New Zealand?” Bang PD interrupts incredulously and Yoongi finds himself unable to stop smirking, suddenly very glad they’re having this conversation over the phone so his face isn’t visible. He’s always been a sucker for a touch of rebellion.

“Yeah.”

“Yoongi,” Bang PD sounds worried, “what are you possibly going to do in New Zealand?” Yoongi thinks about it, suddenly much more secure in his decision to go in the first place.

“I’m going on holiday.”

“For how long?” Bang PD asks and Yoongi purses his lips. That is something he didn’t think about.

“I’m not sure. I haven’t booked the return ticket yet.”

“Are you serious?” Bang PD’s voice is loud enough Yoongi pulls the phone away from his ear. Okay, maybe that’s one detail he shouldn’t have mentioned. There’s a long pause and then Bang PD sighs.

“I’m worried about you, Yoongi. This isn’t like you.”

“No, it’s not,” Yoongi agrees mildly, unable to find it in himself to care. “I just thought it would be fun.”

“ Fun ,” Bang PD repeats. “Yoongi, forgive me for reacting like this but I’m not sure if you’re in the right state of mind to be making these sorts of serious decisions.”

“What is that meant to mean?” Yoongi snaps, suddenly thoroughly irritated. “We’ve kept ourselves holed up here for months now in a virtual swimming pool of depression. To me, it seems like a holiday somewhere far away from all the bullshit is probably the best thing I could be doing for myself and I’m sorry you’d rather I sit here for another three months doing nothing.” He pauses, forcing himself to swallow down the anger still bubbling in his stomach before he continues. “I’m not phoning you for permission but I thought you’d at least appreciate I let you know before I go,” Yoongi finishes, grip tightening on his phone. There’s a long silence and he almost checks to see whether Bang PD hung up on him—he honestly wouldn’t be surprised— when the man finally answers him. 

“I’m sorry, Yoongi. I didn’t mean to offend you—I’m just a little... worried. You have to admit this is rather uncharacteristic for you.” He pauses. “But thank you for letting me know—I do appreciate it. I would also appreciate it if you could book your return ticket before you leave.” Yoongi opens his mouth ready to argue before realising its pointless.

“Fine,” he says in the end, ready to hang up. But right before he’s about to hit the ‘end call’ button, Bang PD speaks again.

“One last thing, Yoongi.” His voice softens. “Enjoy yourself, okay? I’m glad you’re taking time to yourself.”

“Oh.” Yoongi is surprised. “Thanks… I will.”

This time, he does feel a little bad.

Yoongi just casually drops the bomb to the rest of them that evening when they’re eating dinner. 

“I’m going on holiday for a few weeks,” he says, taking a strategic bite of rice along with his soup so he has an excuse to look at his bowl. 

“What?” Jin says, clearly shocked. “Where are you going? Back to… Daegu?” He sounds disbelieving. Yoongi shakes his head. 

“New Zealand.” There’s a collective gasp.

“New Zealand!?” They say in almost perfect unison and Yoongi chances a glance upward. There are five identical expressions of almost aghast shock staring at him. 

“When did you decide this?” Namjoon asks, spoon clinking heavily in his bowl. “And why New Zealand?” 

“Well,” Yoongi starts, setting his own spoon down, “you used to say how much you liked it and I felt like leaving for a bit so I thought, why not New Zealand?” 

“First Jimin, now you,” Jungkook snaps suddenly. “Anyone else feel like disappearing too?” His face is set in an ugly frown and Yoongi flinches unconsciously.

“It’s not about disappearing,” he defends. “I just need a break.”

“A break from what?” Jungkook pushes his bowl away. “We’re not doing anything.”

“Exactly,” Yoongi says. “We’re just sitting here, bored out of our minds, and personally, I’m sick of it.” 

“In case you haven’t noticed, Jimin’s not here, and the media are just waiting for us to go out and do something stupid. It’s not about being bored ,” Jungkook snaps, teeth hooked on his lower lip as he speaks, betraying his nerves at speaking so rudely to his hyung. 

“Don’t speak to me like that,” Yoongi hisses, suddenly furious at the audacity of Jungkook to accuse him of not even noticing Jimin’s absence. “Of course I’ve fucking noticed. Doesn’t mean I want to be reminded of it every time I walk out and he’s not here.” His chest is heaving and he forces his jaw shut, effectively ending the conversation with one cold look in Jungkook’s direction. To his chagrin, the youngster looks at least somewhat apologetic.

“When are you leaving?” Jin asks, filling the silence.

“Tomorrow night at eight-thirty.”

“I’ll drive,” Jin says calmly, scooping another spoonful of soup into his mouth. 

“Oh, you don’t—”

“Did I stutter, Min Yoongi?” Jin asks, eying Yoongi. “It wasn’t a question.” Yoongi swallows the end of his sentence, flushing in embarrassment.

“Okay, um, thanks, hyung.”

“You’re welcome,” Jin replies smoothly, ladling more soup into Yoongi’s bowl. “Now eat. I’m not sure if they have good Korean food in New Zealand.”

Yoongi lands in New Zealand’s Christchurch airport utterly jet-lagged and without a single plan of what to do next. It’s ten-thirty in the morning and the moment he steps out of the airport doors, bags in tow, he’s hit with just how clear the air feels. It’s the beginning of Summer and compared to Korea, the air feels somehow that it’s travelling deeper in his lungs than he thought was possible. 

He stands out there for a moment, just breathing deep even if it’s still city air before he decides it’s time to actually figure out what he’s doing. Just to his left is a booth where you can hire a car so he heads that way somewhat confidently despite his limited English, coming away ten minutes later with the keys to a shiny little car, his for the next three weeks. That’s how long he’s got until he needs to be back here at Christchurch airport to catch his return flight to Korea. 

The only thing Yoongi had done to prepare for New Zealand was to bookmark one article about some of the best spots to visit in the South Island (the less populated Island out of the North and South). One of the places that had stood out to him was Lake Tekapo and he found himself entranced late last night by stunning images of turquoise water and fields of flowers. 

He makes it his destination and sets his phone to GPS mode, using it to find a supermarket so he can at least get some food before he starts the three-hour journey to the lake. It’s weird to be driving on the left, especially considering Yoongi hasn’t driven in months, and he’s struck by nerves as he navigates his way through the city, trying to read the English signs in order to find the supermarket. 

Yoongi wasn’t completely irresponsible and knowing he could be spotted by potential fans, he wears a face mask and a hat. He still attracts stares as he wanders the aisles, trying to figure out what to buy. He comes out with a bag of meat, rice, and some veggies, aiming next for the Asian supermarket he’d spotted just next door. He’s relieved when he walks in to immediately see his favourite Korean snacks displayed near the door, and when he walks out with another bag full of Korean food some of his nerves at being in this strange country alone start to abate. 

He can do this on his own.

The drive is stunning and Yoongi wonders why they’ve never come to New Zealand for a Bon Voyage season; it seems like the perfect place with it’s majestic and ever-changing scenery. The roads are surprisingly empty considering it’s the beginning of Summer, and there’s something awe-inspiring about the long stretch of clear road in front of him and the way it lets him marvel at the views outside the car. 

He stops randomly alongside the road at one point, snacking on Korean honey butter chips and letting himself breathe in his first real breath of New Zealand wilderness. It tastes like sunshine and fragrant flora, filling every nook and cranny of his lungs till he thinks he’ll never want to breathe anything else apart from this clean air. There are mountains in the distance, still faintly covered in snow despite the bright blue sky and sunny weather, and Yoongi marvels at the contrast. Even the sun feels hotter here, he decides. Sharper, somehow much more so than Korea despite the temperatures probably being about the same. 

Yoongi feels a world away from their stifling, depressing apartment in Seoul and even further away from the memories of trauma and terror which haunt him. Looking out over wild plains of long waving grasses and flowers with the mountains in the back and the sun blazing down over him, he feels like he’s masquerading in somebody else’s life. It doesn’t feel so bad.

⇝

By the time Yoongi actually makes it to the little town on the shores of Lake Tekapo, it’s about three o’clock in the afternoon. He’d made many stops along the way—some to take pictures, others just to explore the little scenic spots along the road—but nothing compares to the beauty of Lake Tekapo and the surrounding shore. 

Wild meadows of lupins wave softly in the summer breeze, stretching as far as the eye can see in stunning mixtures of purple, white, and pink. Their brilliant colours are reflected in the lake itself and the sight of the water has Yoongi parking his car at the first lake-facing car park he finds. The water is a brilliant blue, the same colour as the sky, and it’s surrounded by rolling grasslands and snow-capped mountains in the distance. 

Yoongi’s not sure why New Zealand doesn’t advertise Lake Tekapo more than they do because, honestly, no picture could do the scene in front of him any justice. He drags himself away from the shoreline only long enough to find a little motel, booking a single room in broken English with the help of a translating app and a lot of hand gestures. The lady who owns the motel is kind, her accent similar to the one which sometimes slipped through Namjoon’s English after he first came back from New Zealand years ago. She gives Yoongi a smile and a lollipop for seemingly no apparent reason, before showing him to the room. 

It’s simple—delightfully so—with a tiny kitchenette, a double bed, and a small table all crammed into one room. From the window, Yoongi can see the corner of the lake and he can’t help but stare at it even as the lady speaks to him about something unrelated. She seems to realise what he’s looking at because the next minute she’s pushing a little pamphlet into his hand with another smile, pointing at a map of the lake shown in clearer detail. 

“It’s beautiful,” she tells him. “You should go and explore.” Yoongi understands enough to be able to nod and agree. 

When he’s finally alone in his little room, he drags his suitcase in from the car, throwing it on the bed without much care, before grabbing his room key and heading back down to the lake. It’s only a short walk (barely two minutes) and Yoongi makes his way there with overwhelming emotion swirling in his chest. 

It’s pure, unbridled happiness, he realises, stumbling giddily over the pebbled shoreline until he can reach the water. He scoops a handful just to feel it’s crisp coolness before taking a few steps back and sitting on the ground. There’s something about this place—about New Zealand— which has invigorated something in Yoongi’s heart and he’s suddenly filled with so much appreciation for the world and its beauty. 

He can’t remember the last time he felt this way.

He takes photos all of that first afternoon and evening, sending the best ones to the group chat using the data voucher he purchased from the motel staff. Within a few minutes, he’s bombarded with reactions, even from Jungkook who had still been a little frigid upon Yoongi’s departure. They hadn’t really talked it out but Yoongi hadn’t missed the way Jungkook had hugged him with almost suffocating power as he was leaving. 

Dinner is instant noodles and a cup of freeze-dried coffee that tastes like shit but somehow becomes palatable when consumed on the edge of the lake. Some locals pass by as he’s sitting there and Yoongi pets their dog, apologizing to the owners when he doesn’t understand everything they’re saying. They’re incredibly friendly, especially considering they’re actually complete strangers, and quite happy to entertain his broken attempts at English.

“It’s all good, mate,” one of them says at some point, winking just like Jin would, and Yoongi can’t help but grin at the familiar gesture. 

He sleeps better that night than he has in months despite a lumpy mattress and the sound of the television from the people in the room next to his filtering through the wall. Suddenly, coming to New Zealand feels like the best decision Yoongi could have ever made. 

Four days later and Yoongi is ready to move on. The magic of the lake still captivates him but he also wants to see more, to keep travelling through the majestic landscapes while he still has time. He drives further down the South Island of New Zealand to Queenstown, staying there for a few days to explore before moving on to another lakeside destination—Te Anau. 

The magic of Lake Tekapo may have had him entranced in the first few days of his travels but in Te Anau Yoongi finds magic of a different sort and he goes by the name of Baek Dohyun. 

(Baek Dohyun prefers to be called by his English name, Oliver, and he speaks Korean with a slight kiwi accent).

Yoongi meets him for the first time when he goes to a little corner shop to restock his food stores, almost run over by a boy on a skateboard as he turns out of the shop with his arms full of bags. The boy skids to the side to try and avoid him and Yoongi gets such a shock he drops both his bags and stumbles back, cursing in Korean. The boy looks up at that, eyes scrunching cutely as he regards Yoongi with a curious grin.

“You’re Korean,” he says, in lightly accented Korean, and Yoongi assembles himself enough to be able to nod.

“You are too,” he manages to reply, and the boy shrugs a shoulder. 

“Sort of. My parents immigrated but I was born here.”

“You speak good Korean though,” Yoongi remarks as he tries to re-assemble his bags, looking up to see the boy grinning even more widely. He’s about Yoongi’s height, casually dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, and he flips his skateboard up against his leg with practised ease. 

“I speak it at home all the time. What’s your name?” The boy asks and Yoongi hesitates, unsure whether to use his real name with this boy who may or may not recognize it. 

“Min Yoongi,” he says eventually and the boy’s eyebrow twitches.

“Oh, I was right!” He says, seemingly to himself. “You’re famous,” he comments mildly and Yoongi cringes, ready to pick up his bags and flee. “Not too famous here though, I bet,” the boy continues, and Yoongi’s not sure whether to be offended or not. It’s true though—he can count on one hand the number of people who have recognized him so far. 

“Yeah, well, I prefer to keep it that way,” he mumbles, beginning to pick up his bags so he can start walking back to the little motel room he’d booked at the water’s edge. 

“I’m Baek Dohyun,” the boy says, darting forward and picking up one of the heavier bags, “but you can call me Oliver.” He shoulders the bag with a grunt. “I’ll carry this one for you. Where are you staying?” 

“Why Oliver?” Yoongi asks, suddenly unsure what to do with this eager young man who seems both completely unperturbed by his fame (a good thing) and also seems to know no social boundaries (maybe not such a good thing). Oliver just smiles, shrugging as he lets his skateboard hit the ground with a clatter.

“Only my parents call me Dohyun and everyone else has always called me Oliver. Now, where are you staying?” He must catch something wary in Yoongi’s expression as he asks because he rolls his eyes. “I’m not a creepy stalker fan, I just happen to know who you are. I won’t tell anyone. Don’t worry,” he assures, readjusting the bag on his shoulder with a grimace before looking back at Yoongi expectantly.

“Braemar Lodge Motel,” Yoongi replies as a way of answer. “And… are you sure you want to carry that? It’s heavy.” 

“Sure,” Oliver says. “I don’t think you could carry it anyway.” He pokes his tongue out playfully, giving his skateboard a nudge and hopping expertly on, skating a few metres before stopping and looking back at Yoongi. “Come on, then.”

“How old are you?” Yoongi asks as they make their way to his motel, Oliver skating slowly alongside him as Yoongi walks.

“21. How about you?”

“25,” Yoongi replies, watching as Oliver does a crazy wiggle on his board. “Do you go to university?”

“Yeah. I study architecture up in Wellington but it’s holidays,” Oliver says, eyes glittering mischievously as he looks over at Yoongi. “Are you on holiday by yourself or do you have the rest of your members smuggled away in your room?” Yoongi snorts.

“Just me. I’m not really into the whole kidnapping thing,” he says sarcastically before suddenly realising what he said. Oliver cocks his head to the side, watching Yoongi with a sharper gaze.

“I can imagine,” he says knowingly, and Yoongi realises Oliver might be more aware than he thought.

“You know…?” He asks wearily, and Oliver hesitates but nods, eyes a little rounder and less playful than before.

“I’ve seen the headlines.”

“Here?” Yoongi asks incredulously.

“Yup,” Oliver replies. “Not, like, huge- huge but some of the news channels covered it and my parents saw and told me.” He smiles softly. “My mum’s a big fan of you guys.”

“Oh,” Yoongi mumbles awkwardly, not sure what to say. Oliver seems to get it because he skates a little faster, attempting to flip his board in some sort of skilled manoeuvre that fails and has the board crashing on the pavement with a loud noise, enough to break the tension in the air. 

“How long are you staying in Te Anau for?” He asks, turning back to look at Yoongi as he runs his fingers haphazardly through his hair. 

“Not sure yet,” Yoongi says, shrugging as best he can with two heavy bags pulling on his fingers. “I’m on my own so I don’t really have to have a plan.”

“Well,” Oliver says, smirking suddenly. “If you’re bored, you’ve at least got one friend in this shithole you can hang out with.”

“A friend?” Yoongi asks, confused, and Oliver’s eyes widen as he pushes a finger into Yoongi’s chest. 

“Me, dumbass!” 

“Oh,” Yoongi says, feeling a bit stupid but also surprised at the confidence of this random stranger he met just ten minutes ago. Oliver doesn’t seem to care, skipping joyfully along with the plastic bag on his shoulder as he chases his skateboard down the sloping pavement.

As it turns out, Oliver is like a rather enjoyable leech, following Yoongi into his motel room like he owns the place. 

“Are you always like this with people?” Yoongi asks him at one point and Oliver looks over from where he’s munching on Yoongi’s freshly bought bag of chips. 

“Like what?”

“So…quick to make yourself comfortable.” Oliver shrugs,. 

“Do you mind?”

“No,” Yoongi replies after a second. And he finds it’s true. He likes the company of this confident twenty-one-year-old full of life and laughter, something refreshing about his easy nature and ready smile. 

“Well, then I guess there isn’t a problem,” Oliver says smugly, stuffing another handful of chips unashamedly into his mouth. Yoongi can’t do anything except agree. 

Oliver stays well into the evening and Yoongi finds himself enjoying speaking Korean again after more than a week without. They make their way down to the shore just before sunset with cups of this weird chocolate barley drink Oliver calls Milo. Apparently, he carries a tin of it around in his knapsack as a permanent fixture. 

“You drink this every morning?” Yoongi asks, taking a tentative sip, surprised to actually like it. Oliver nods, taking a huge gulp which he seemingly immediately regrets as he sprays the scalding liquid everywhere and whines mournfully at his burnt tongue. 

“Normally we use milk and not just hot water so it’s not that hot,” he explains, staring into the depths of his steaming mug with visible regret. It’s cute, the way his lips pout in disappointment. 

“Your mouth is meant to heal faster than any other part of your body,” Yoongi comments, lips twitching into a smile when Oliver sends him a withering stare.

“Because that’s such a comfort when my mouth feels like I swallowed Satan himself.”

“It should be!” Yoongi defends, grinning even as Oliver slides closer just to dig a sharp elbow into his ribs. 

“I better go,” Oliver says eventually, and Yoongi looks over from where he’s sprawled out on the grass staring at the stars. 

“What’s the time?” 

“Almost nine. I promised my mum I’d be back before nine-thirty,” Oliver explains, stretching thin arms above his head and exposing a flat stomach as his hoodie gets pulled up as well. Yoongi forces his eyes up to Oliver’s face and nods.

“Oh. Okay then.”

“I’ll come tomorrow?” Oliver asks and Yoongi raises an eyebrow.

“Are you asking or just letting me know?” Oliver matches his eyebrow with an eyebrow of his own.

“If that’s how you’re going to play then I’ll see you at ten tomorrow morning. Will you be up then?” 

“Sure,” Yoongi replies. “You can be my tour guide for the day.”

“Sure,” Oliver echoes, jumping up suddenly and grabbing his skateboard from in the grass. He waves at Yoongi as he shoulders his bag. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you,” Yoongi murmurs, and he watches Oliver’s slim frame speed away on his skateboard, illuminated by the light of the moon and a single streetlamp at the end of the narrow path.           

As promised, Oliver arrives at the door of Yoongi’s room at exactly ten o’clock the next morning, this time dressed in a stripy green and yellow t-shirt and faded blue jeans, both which look about ten times brighter next to Yoongi’s black sweater and track pants. 

“Are you going to a funeral?” Oliver questions sarcastically as he looks at Yoongi’s clothes. Yoongi doesn’t even bother replying, just cuffs Oliver’s head with a snort. 

“Good morning to you too. Now, as my tour guide, what do you have planned for today?” 

“Well, I figured you’re famous so you’re probably not on a completely broke tourist budget which means we can have a bit more fun than normal tourists probably would.” He grins. “How do you feel about caves?” Yoongi stares at him blankly.

“Um—”

“We’re going to the glowworm caves!” Oliver yells excitedly, enthusiasm radiating off of him despite it being before lunchtime. 

As Yoongi soon finds out, Oliver’s energy only seems to increase throughout the day, and as it turns out, he’s a pretty awesome tour guide as well. They visit glowworm caves, beautiful spots alongside the lake where Yoongi could take some more photos (half of which have Oliver’s face as a blur in the front every time he tried to photobomb without Yoongi noticing), and a local cafe with a blind but friendly dog outside the door. Oliver’s laughter is utterly infectious and the entire day makes Yoongi realise just how much he’s missed having a ‘normal’ friend—someone who isn’t involved in the industry, who doesn’t know everything about Yoongi and doesn’t treat him like he’s made out of glass.

(You can’t run away forever)

Similarly to the first evening, sunset finds Yoongi and Oliver back at the lakefront. This time, however, Yoongi actually cooked them both dinner in the little motel kitchenette and they bring their plates down to the grass by the water. When they’re both done, Oliver grabs his hoodie and lays it out like a pillow, patting it with his hand.

“Lie down here and I’ll teach you some of the constellations.”

“What makes you think I don’t know them already?” Yoongi grumbles, not seriously, as he rolls onto his back and lays his head onto half of the hoodie. Oliver just flicks his forehead and lies next to them, sides touching and head sharing the other half of the hoodie.

“You don’t strike me as the type,” he says primly.

“Excuse me?” Yoongi pretends to be affronted and Oliver laughs in his ear. 

“Shush. I’m your tour guide, remember? I’m going to give you a tour of the sky instead.” He settles down, head knocking lightly against Yoongi’s. From their close proximity, Yoongi can smell Oliver’s deodorant—fresh and clean like a warm summer morning. 

“Start with an easy one so I don’t have to strain my eyes,” he requests and Oliver huffs. 

“Fine. If you look up to your right, there’s one called the Southern Cross. It’s made up of that star”—he points— “and those ones directly above it that sort of make a cross shape.” 

“There’s so many,” Yoongi murmurs, awestruck at the beauty of the sky at night. Without the light and air pollution always blocking the sky in Seoul, it’s amazing to see the night sky literally peppered with trillions upon trillions of stars in unimaginable quantities. “There are so many sappy songs comparing eyes to stars and I always swore I’d never write one but, honestly, I’d write it about these ones.”

“You guys must write a lot of love songs,” Oliver remarks.

“Yeah, some,” Yoongi murmurs.

“Have you ever been in love?” Oliver asks and It has Yoongi’s heart suddenly skipping a beat as his brain automatically flashes a familiar face in front of his eyes.

What. The. Fuck.

“ Yoongi?” Oliver asks again, turning on his side so he’s leaning on an elbow, hovering on the edge off Yoongi’s vision. “Sorry, you don’t have to answer.” He sounds guilty, and honestly, it’s not that Yoongi’s even actively trying not to answer—he just physically can’t get the words out of his mouth, so shocked at the sudden realisation that he’s in love. And that’s not even the most shocking part. He’s in love with —

“Fuck. I’m in love,” is all Yoongi manages to choke out, trying to process the thought.

“Wait, you didn’t know?” Oliver questions, looking incredibly confused (and Yoongi doesn’t blame him). “How do you not know?”

“I guess…” Yoongi’s struggling to process and he ends up just staring blankly at the sky for a solid thirty seconds, Oliver thankfully not saying anything to interrupt. “How the fuck,” Yoongi murmurs in the end. It feels like he’s short-circuiting. “Somehow—don’t even ask how—but I didn’t realise that’s what I’ve been feeling and when you asked me, his face just popped straight into my brain—“ Yoongi stops short, stomach dropping as he realises his slip of the tongue.

“His?”

“Fuck, don’t worry,” Yoongi says, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead as he sits up so he can leave because this whole thing is turning out disastrously.

“You’re gay?” Oliver asks, eyes wide in his face as he stares at Yoongi. “Hey, don’t go!” He calls out as Yoongi scrambled to his feet. 

“I have to,” Yoongi says, heart beating like a drum in his chest. He’s revealed far too much about himself; he can’t afford any more slip-ups.

“I’m gay too,” Oliver mumbles and that stops Yoongi in his tracks, whipping around to see Oliver now also on his feet, looking every bit like a kicked puppy. 

“ You’re gay?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out so aggressively but Oliver just nods, bottom lip suddenly sticking out in a fierce pout. 

“Is that a problem?” He asks, and Yoongi can only stare before Oliver’s words suddenly catch up in his brain. 

“What—no, fuck no.” He forces his mouth to cooperate. “I’m gay too.” It feels weird to say it aloud but the look of relief and wonder on Oliver’s face is enough to make him want to say it again and again. “Not openly though,” he tacks on at the last second. “Well, only to people close to me. Korea’s still not good with anything LGBT.”

“You’re gay,” Oliver whispers again, mouth hanging open, and Yoongi steps forward, glancing around to make sure they’re still all alone under the night sky.

“Yeah—just—don’t say it so loud,” he whispers back, and Oliver’s jaw snaps shut as he hides his mouth behind his fingers in almost comical horror.

They stand there in complete silence, both processing this newfound information about each other. Yoongi’s not sure where to go from here but Oliver pulls himself together first, lying back down with his head on the hoodie once more, patting the grass next to him.

“Come on.”

“More constellations?” Yoongi asks dryly but he does as Oliver wishes.

I’m in love. I’m in love. I’m in love. I’m in love. I’m in love. I’m in love. 

“Nah, can’t remember that many anyway,” Oliver says with a snort. “Let’s just talk.”

‘“Okay,” Yoongi agrees. “Now you know all my dark secrets, how about you? Have you ever been in love?” 

Min Yoongi, you dumbass. How did you not realise something so important?

Oliver chuckles.

“Yup. Still in love actually but he doesn’t want me.” He moves suddenly, fumbling in his pocket before he pulls out his phone. When the screen turns on, he faces it towards Yoongi. It’s a picture of Oliver hugging another man on a random beach somewhere, arms tightly wrapped around each other. The other guy is attractive with blond hair and piercing blue eyes and they look happy together. 

“What happened?” Yoongi asks, and Oliver sighs like a lovesick puppy.

“He went off to a different university—didn’t want to be tied down to anyone.”

“Oh.” Yoongi crinkles his nose. “Seems like a dickhead to me.” 

“Yeah, but I can’t stop how I feel for him so... “ Oliver chuckles sadly. He stuffs his phone back in his pocket and Yoongi gets the feeling Oliver’s much more hurt than he’s letting on but Oliver doesn’t seem to dwell on it for long, bumping Yoongi with his elbow.

“So… this person you’re in love with. Do they love you back?”

“What?” The question catches Yoongi off guard. “Oh—no.” He swallows, chest suddenly filled with even more sadness. “He’s straight and—fuck, I didn’t even realise that’s what I was feeling. Like,” he hesitates, trying to figure out how to put it into words, “I know I care about him a lot and I always have, and like, I’m not dumb—he’s fucking attractive. But I just didn’t think—I shouldn’t be in love with him.”

I’m in love. I’m in love. I’m in love. I’m in love. I’m in love. I’m in love. I’m in love. I’m in love. 

“Have you asked him how he feels?” Oliver mumbles innocently and Yoongi huffs a wry laugh.

“Dude, I didn’t even realise my own feelings until about five minutes ago.”

“Oh, true.” Oliver laughs, much louder in the stillness of the night. “Do you think you will when you go back to Korea?”

“He’s straight, Oliver. And he’s… dealing with his own issues at the moment. He doesn’t need me wrecking it all.”

“How do you know he’s straight?”

“He’s literally had girlfriends,” Yoongi says but Oliver seems unperturbed. 

“Doesn’t mean anything. He could be bisexual.”

“Look—I know him and he’s straight. He also doesn’t love me and he most certainly doesn’t need someone else fucking with his head. He’s—he’s had enough of that over the past while,” Yoongi says, flustered and flailing. 

Why the fuck does it sound like he’s trying to convince himself.

“Well, aren’t we sad,” Oliver comments after a moment. “Both in love with people who don’t want us back and probably never will.” 

It’s like someone dropped a heavy stone on Yoongi’s chest.

“Don’t hold back,” Yoongi says sarcastically, sitting up a little so he can see Oliver’s face. There’s a smirk pulling at the boy’s lips and Yoongi huffs. “At least pretend you feel bad for me.”

“I do!” Oliver defends, dark eyes glittering as he grins up at Yoongi. 

“No, you don’t,” Yoongi replies, raising an eyebrow, and Oliver looks wounded.

“Well, you don’t feel bad for me either.”

“Who said that?” Yoongi asks, equally injured. “Of course I do. But I also reckon you can do better than that asshole.” His words have Oliver’s smiling slipping just a little before he seems to reel it back, grinning mischievously at Yoongi.

“Yeah, well, what are you going to do about it?” He challenges, cocking his head to the side and smirking at Yoongi. It has his previous words echoing through Yoongi’s head once more.

“Both in love with people who don’t want us back and probably never will.”

The next words out of his mouth are reckless, a knee-jerk reaction to the realisation that not only is Yoongi in love with someone but that they’re never going to be together. 

But I’m in love. What the fuck am I doing?

“Let me show you.”

⇝

If Yoongi thought he was the one initiating something, he was dead wrong. Oliver’s grin widens and he moves at the same time as Yoongi, pushing him back on the grass and straddling him, all in one quick movement. It has the air rushing out of Yoongi’s lungs and he grunts at the impact, staring up at Oliver’s face surrounded by stars, lit only by the moon and a couple of far off streetlamps.

“I thought I was the one meant to be showing you,” he murmurs, unable to stop his mouth corners lifting in amusement, and Oliver shrugs, tilting his head just a little.

“I like seeing you from this angle.” It’s not an answer so much as a question and Yoongi answers it by tugging Oliver down a little further, catching the back of his neck in a gentle grip that lets him guide the younger boy to his lips.

Oliver kisses just like his personality, all wild enthusiasm and surprising confidence. He tastes like spearmint gum and summer sunshine, and he doesn’t pull back until he’s gasping for air, chuckling even as his hips roll expertly against Yoongi’s. 

Why am I doing this? I’m in love! 

Yoongi pulls him straight back down, delighting in the weight of another and the slow lick of arousal curling in his belly. And when kissing isn’t enough for them anymore, he flips them around so this time it’s Oliver on his back, head lolling back with a blissful smile as Yoongi pulls both their shirts off and kisses delicate trails down Oliver’s lean abdomen to the fuzzy trail of hair just below his navel. It’s all warm skin and soft kisses and when his fingers finally peel Oliver’s jeans and underwear further down his legs, he wastes no time in swallowing him down to the hilt, relishing the gasping cry of pleasure which spills into the night air. 

The whole situation goes entirely against everything Yoongi’s media trained personality would consider appropriate behaviour but there’s something mesmerising about being in New Zealand, half-naked next to a lake with an attractive cock down his throat, Oliver’s fingers twisting and tugging in Yoongi’s unkempt hair and only the stars to watch them.

If Yoongi is momentarily distracted by a familiar face popping into his mind, Oliver never has to know.

I’m in love. I’m in love. I’m in love. I’m in love. I’m in love. I’m in love. I’m in love. I’m in love.

Chapter Text

Yoongi wakes up the next morning to the soft rustle of bedsheets and gentle movement next to him. It takes him a second to remember the previous night and when he does, the blissful state he’d managed to escape to yesterday has left only residual guilt and a sinking feeling in his gut. A quick look to his left reveals Oliver still half-asleep on the motel bed, stretching like a cat with his arms above his head, eyes happily closed to the world. And that has Yoongi’s brain fully awake, pushing him straight off a metaphorical cliff and into reality with startling speed. 

“‘Morning,” Oliver mumbles, rolling over as his eyes crack open half a centimetre, one arm slinging lazily over Yoongi’s chest. His fingers trace mindless little circles on Yoongi’s skin. “Did you sleep well?” 

“Yeah, you?” Yoongi murmurs. Oliver smiles like a Cheshire cat, eyes blinking sleepily upwards. 

“Best I’ve slept in a while.” The words have something wrenching painfully in Yoongi’s heart and the guilt he feels increases with every passing second.

You’re playing with him.

“I’m guessing you hadn’t fucked anyone in a while, eh?” Oliver continues, giggling huskily on the mattress next to him. 

“What?” Yoongi mumbles, half-distracted by the weird guilt in his heart and half by Oliver’s fingers still tapping soft patterns onto his chest. Oliver smirks.

“Just seemed like there was some pent-up frustration there,” he whispers cheekily, giggling again when Yoongi flicks him on the nose for his impertinence. “Well, if the pain in my ass is anything to go by,” he continues, and that has Yoongi’s brow furrowing as the words register.

“Wait, did I hurt you?” He asks, sitting up on his side so he can see Oliver’s face properly. Oliver doesn’t seem concerned however, fingers coming up to fiddle affectionately with Yoongi’s earring. 

“It’s okay, nothing I can’t handle.” 

“You shouldn’t have to handle—did I really hurt you?” Yoongi feels suddenly sick, worry coursing through his veins. But Oliver just huffs a laugh, eyes scrunching cutely. 

“Don’t worry so much. I would’ve told you if you hurt me last night.” He shrugs. “You’re not the only one who hasn’t seen much action for a while.”

“Oh.” Yoongi’s worry doesn’t completely disappear but the smile on Oliver’s face and his relaxed demeanour don’t seem like he’s at all resentful of the way things turned out last night. Which is to say, much more… active than Yoongi would have expected. Not that he’s going to complain. 

“How much longer are you in Te Anau for?” Oliver asks, thin arms pulling Yoongi back down so he’s lying on his back again and Oliver can nestle into his side. 

“I’m not sure,” Yoongi replies, playing absentmindedly with Oliver’s hair. It still feels weird to have the warmth of bare skin against his own after so many months without any sort of contact like it. “I don’t really have any plans for the rest of my time in New Zealand anyway.”

“Stay for a few more days?” Oliver murmurs, soft lips pressing against Yoongi’s ribs, and with such tactile persuasion, Yoongi can’t bring himself to do anything but agree. He feels Oliver’s mouth curve into a smile when he does. 

Maybe he could’ve left the guilt in his heart untouched but when Oliver’s fingers dance back underneath the sheets at his confirmation, Yoongi can’t keep it in. He pushes Oliver’s hand away, sitting up just to get some distance and feeling horrible when he sees Oliver’s face, shocked and hurt.

“Sorry, I’m just,” Yoongi sighs heavily, hands pushing through his hair, trying to get a grip on his thoughts. “Last night was amazing but—but I’m still—” his mouth struggles to form the words until eventually, he just forces them out. “I’m still in love with someone else and I don’t, I don’t want to play with your—I don’t know, I just don’t want to hurt you when I’m just going to leave in a couple of days.” He swallows. “Does that—does that make sense?” He looks up at Oliver’s face, slightly afraid to see what expression will look back at him. To his relief, Oliver’s hurt expression has mostly disappeared.

“Don’t worry about any of that,” he says, flopping back on the pillow. “This is just sex, right? It’s fun, it feels good, and if you think I’m somehow going to catch feelings for you in a few days then—well," he cocks an eyebrow, "that ain’t happening. I’ve got my own unrequited love to deal with.” Oliver smiles suddenly, full of warmth. “You can still be in love with your straight boy, whoever he is, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have some fun on the side, does it? You’re not in a relationship with him.” 

“You don’t mind...?” 

“You think I mind fucking around more than once with the same person?” Oliver asks and Yoongi winces slightly at the crude wording. 

“Well… yeah.”

“Good sex is good sex,” Oliver says with a grin. “And I happen to like you as a person which makes it even better. But no feelings.” He winks. “Love is messy enough so we’ll just stick to being friends who fuck, if you want to, of course?” 

The words hang between them for all of three seconds before Yoongi manages to push down the guilt in his chest. He gives his answer without words. 

To Jimin’s surprise, he doesn’t hate the clinic upon arrival as much as he thought he would. It’s fancy, made for people with money to spend, and so at least it’s exclusive in its clientele, no more than fourteen people in the clinic at one time. The whole atmosphere is calm and quiet and it feels somewhat like the whole building is wrapped in cotton wool. Still, the peaceful atmosphere does nothing to change the reason he’s there and the program he’s part of. 

When Jimin had first arrived they had taken away all his ordinary clothing, giving him a few sets of modern hanbok to wear instead. After Jimin’s initial surprise had subsided, he actually hadn’t minded too much. Both Taehyung and Jungkook had worn them a lot and they were surprisingly comfortable. They’re all a pale set of blue which he’s not a huge fan of; it’s a little unsettling to look around and see himself and the other thirteen people there all dressed exactly the same like something from a mental asylum in a horror movie.

You basically ARE in a mental asylum, dumbass.

Jimin tries not to focus on that. 

He shares a room with another guy named Chaeseok who doesn’t say a lot but has a smile like rainbows and the cutest teddy bear sitting on his bed. He’s been there a few weeks already and doesn’t hesitate in telling Jimin the reason for his admission into the clinic.

“I attempted suicide for the third time and my parents didn’t want to deal with the fallout so they sent me here.” The beaming smile that follows is discomfiting and Jimin struggles to find an appropriate response. He settles in the end for a quiet, “I’m sorry,” and Chaeseok shrugs lightly, smile still plastered on his face. “It’s okay. What about you?”

“Why am I here?” Jimin asks, caught off guard, and Chaeseok nods. Jimin swallows. “Oh. Um.” He tries to figure out how much he should say but before he’s even opened his mouth, Chaeseok is speaking again. 

“Aren’t you that guy from BTS who...?” Chaeseok trails off, eyebrows raised curiously. Jimin’s heart thunks down to his feet.  

“I—I,” his tongue feels thick in his mouth and the longer the words stay trapped in his throat, the harder it gets to breathe. 

“Hey, just breathe,” Chaeseok says, breaking through the tension with his worried voice. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—you don’t have to talk about it.” He reaches out an arm, probably to comfort Jimin but in Jimin’s anxiety he flinches away before he can catch himself. Chaeseok’s arm drops back by his side and Jimin manages to inhale at least one big lungful of oxygen, struggling to compose himself. 

Everyone knows about you.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps out in the end but Chaeseok just shakes his head. 

“Don’t apologize—I shouldn’t have said anything.” He rubs awkwardly at the back of his head, waiting quietly as Jimin pulls himself together. Eventually, he jams a thumb at the door. “Do you want a tour of the place?” Jimin nods his head without really thinking about it. 

“Sure.” Anything to chase away the reality that probably every person here knows what has happened to him. 

Aren't you the guy from BTS who...?  

⇝

As it turns out, Chaeseok, for all of his slightly eccentric demeanour, happens to be a nice person to hang out with. His smile is a permanent fixture on his face and even though Jimin knows it says nothing about what he might be feeling inside (it was his third suicide attempt that landed him in here after all) it beats the depressing atmosphere he was expecting to see here. 

He meets most of the other residents of the clinic, at least, the ones who aren’t in therapy sessions. Jimin doesn’t fly under the radar as much as he would’ve liked if some of their shocked expressions are anything to go by, but no-one says anything outright except one older, slightly senile woman who pats him on the head and tells him she’s heard his music on the radio. Jimin tries his best to smile at her even if thinking about their music feels like a lifetime ago. 

The staff at the clinic give him that first day to settle in, unpacking the few belongings he was allowed to bring in—some books, an iPod, and some air pods. Remembering the note about ‘no corded headphones’ he’d been told by Sejin when he was packing has Jimin’s stomach-churning incessantly. He won’t think too much about why that is.