Chapter Text
When Jimin’s grandmother first proposed he spend his summer at the farm back home in Daegu, he hadn’t really thought it to be a genuine offer. Hadn’t even considered it, actually. He’d smiled to placate her, responded, “That sounds nice, Halmeoni,” and promptly changed the subject, with full intentions of it never being brought back up again. That’s how his conversations normally went, at least, when prompted about Daegu-- it’s a topic that was simply off-limits.
There were a lot of topics that had become off-limits to Jimin over the years: his hometown, for starters, as well as his family life, his parents, his childhood, and basically anything else of the same genre. It’s not that he’d explicitly ask someone not to speak about it, or that he’d have any sort of vehement, negative reaction upon it being brought up. It’s just that Jimin was an expert at dancing around questions and changing the course of the conversation until people realized later on that he’d actually never answered a single thing they’d prompted. That’s how it was with Jimin, and so after a few conversations with him, people would simply learn to stop asking.
Most people would, that is. Except that Jimin’s grandmother, in a striking resemblance to Jimin himself, was unbreakably stubborn. So when she brought up Daegu again, a few days later, while on a call with Jimin in the few minutes he had in between business meetings, he wasn’t shaken. He’d blinked a few times, tilted his head against the receiver before politely responding, as he always did.
“I’m sure Daegu is beautiful this time of year. Places with foliage are nice in the fall months. Speaking of which, how is Halaboeji’s arthritis? I know it flares up when the weather changes.”
“He’s fine. He stretches his limbs and takes a walk around the lake every morning. You remember that lake, right? Your favorite one, the one you used to swim in every summer? You haven’t been here in so long, but surely you haven’t forgotten your lake.”
The problem, at least from Jimin’s perspective, was that Jimin and his grandmother were indisputably related. Physically, it was undeniable, both having presences so large despite their petite frames, slim waists with strong legs, and endearingly sharp eyes, always glimmering with a hint of a question, or possibly a secret, behind them. And when it came to their character? Simply put, it had always been obvious by whom Jimin was raised.
“Of course I remember the lake, Halmeoni. In fact, the next time you come up to Seoul I’ll show you one just like it! It’s actually in perfect condition right now to ice skate. I’ve spent so much time here lately, let me tell you about it…”
They did this dance of theirs often, passive aggressive slips nestled between deceivingly polite small talk. She missed him, like any grandmother would, and so she'd harp and nag and try to guilt him with marked sighs and stories of the past, like most grandmothers do. Jimin loves his grandmother, so of course he never minded her comments, bantering back for the sake of banter and decidedly showing his love to her in other ways: sending money for groceries and messaging selfies of him in sweaters she gifted him and keeping a spare bedroom in his apartment neat just in case she and his grandfather ever wanted to travel to the city. It’s just that as much as he loved his grandparents, he really, really hated Daegu, and until his grandmother brings it up for the fourth time one Wednesday afternoon, Jimin was convinced that nothing could ever draw him back.
“Jimin-ah, your grandfather wants to sell the farm.”
He splutters. “What the fuck?”
“Yah, watch your language.”
“Halmeoni, you can’t be serious.” Jimin really is not prepared to deal with this right now. He’d been in the middle of forming a proposal for Seoul Fashion Week, with pre-production beginning just after the holiday season, and a lot is riding on him as the new Spring/Summer cycle inches nearer. There’s been talk are in his department that he’s going to be offered a promotion come January pending his involvement with Fashion Week, one that would push him out of marketing and straight onto his corporation’s conceptual team, and dammit if that isn’t exactly what Jimin has been working his ass off for for the past 4 years.
He’d been roughly two pages into his final draft when his phone had gone off, and upon checking the caller ID he had planned on ignoring the call, just for an hour or two, while finishing his presentation. He quickly realized, though, that this would be his fifth phone call from his grandmother in 3 days, and while Jimin certainly loved his grandmother, he couldn’t think of many trivial reasons as to why he’d have to have a phone conversation with her more than once in a day. Suddenly the tinny sound of the ringtone became a lot more daunting, and before he could dawdle on the flooding images of his grandfather unconscious, or fallen with a broken hip, or unconscious with a broken hip and a flatlining heartbeat he picked up the phone.
“We can’t afford to take care of it like this anymore, Jiminie. Halabeoji is tired. I’m tired. We want to travel, see some places outside of where we’ve always been. We can’t do that with the animals all here.”
“Is that why you kept pestering me about visiting? One last hurrah before you ship it all off to the highest bidder?” He fires into the landline.
“Jimin,” His grandmother warns.
“What happened to the farm hand you hired? What’s his name-- Taeyong? Taesung? Can’t you just pay him to watch the animals?”
“ Taehyung is young, he’s in school, we couldn’t ask that of him.”
“Well, did you try? ”
“Jimin-ah,” she scolds, “It’s not his responsibility. It’s our family’s farm. He’s not a Park, he didn’t grow up here, you know we couldn’t.”
“The only thing I know is that you’re not selling the farm. You can’t,” He declares, on the verge of incredulous.
“I really don’t see how this is a big deal to you. Honestly, we thought you’d be relieved.”
“ Relieved?” He scoffs into the receiver. “Relieved that you’re selling my childhood home? How could you even think that?”
“Seeing as you haven’t stepped foot on the property since the day you left for Seoul,” she quips, “It didn’t seem like there was anything here you particularly missed.”
Jimin exhales, an attempt to clear out the frustration and the something oddly close to panic settling uneasily in his throat. “Well, you’re wrong. And you can’t sell the farm. You’re not selling the farm,” he urges, “Okay?”
His grandmother goes silent, and Jimin can imagine her running a hand through her hair the way she often does when she isn’t sure what to say next. He finds himself mimicking the gesture at his desk, a habit he picked up after years of living in the same space and never dropped.
“I’m not sure what you propose we do then, Jimin. I’m sorry this is upsetting to you, but Halabeoji and I have spent our lives here. We’re ready to move on.”
When she hangs up, Jimin isn’t able to do anything but stare at his office’s landline in front of him, listening to the dull ring of the disconnect tone. He slams the phone into its holder, but it doesn’t feel like enough, doesn’t didn’t satisfy the feeling in his chest, so he stands up from his seat and slams his hand down onto his desk as well, the sound of the impact loud enough to startle the worker in the office next to him. She looks up through the shared glass wall, eyes wide with alarm, and Jimin stares back for a beat, lips pulled into a frown until he simply shakes his head and slumps back into his desk.
He isn’t really sure why he feels so upset by the news. It’s not like his grandmother is wrong— he hasn’t gone back to Daegu, has never wanted to, had no intention to ever return. But something about the finality of it being gone , never seeing his bedroom, the orchard next to the shed out back, the water-well where his parents used to tease him about spending his punishment, makes Jimin’s heart pulse so fast he nearly loses his breath.
He leans his weight onto his hands, palms digging heavily into his sockets until he sees nothing but colorful flashes. He then heaves a sigh, and rather than thinking it over any longer he opens his laptop and goes back to work.
--
A few hours later, Jimin is pulled out of his work-trance by the distant sound of rumbling across the office-way, and a dim light coming from the community kitchen area. It’s around 7 o’clock, well after most of the office has gone home for the day. He didn’t expect anyone to still be at the office. He spends most of his nights here by himself, has become well acquainted with the custodial staff and night-rotation building workers after years of overtime.
Curious, he decides to take a quick break and head to the kitchen to see who’s still here with him. He cracks his back in his seat and let’s a small groan slip. His back is always stiff these days, he knows as a consequence of spending close to 10 hours a day, 6 days a week in a poorly-padded desk chair. He slips out of his office into the dim hallway and makes his way across the floor, rolling his neck as he walks to release any tension. The small pops echo off the empty hallways and he thinks in passing that he really needs to start taking care of his body again, do some yoga or something.
When Jimin reaches the kitchen entrance he finds a suited body, their small frame bent over and head stuck halfway inside the communal fridge, searching. He raps on the door frame lightly three times, just to alert the other of his presence. The small body startles, jerking unexpectedly at the sound and slamming their head into the roof of the fridge. They groan and immediately sink to the floor, clutching the back of their head, and Jimin stifles a laugh as he walks over to help.
“A little jumpy, Hyung?” He crouches down and pinches his office mate’s arm teasingly.
Min Yoongi swats his hand away. “Oh, fuck off Jimin.” They rub aggravatedly at the small lump growing on the crown of their head and slumps against the kitchen cabinets, defeated.
Jimin settles on the floor next to them. “What’re you still doing here so late?”
“Ah, just overloaded on some paperwork. Nothing special. You?”
“My proposal. The presentation is tomorrow. I don’t know, I think...I think I really nailed it this time.”
Yoongi nods. “Good for you. You deserve this promotion.”
He sighs half-heartedly. “Ah, everyone deserves it.”
Yoongi nudges Jimin’s shoulder with their own, eyebrows furrowed. “Don’t say that. The amount of shit you’ve done for this company… I’ve never been as dedicated as you are, and I’ve been here way longer. You really care. You deserve it.”
Jimin feels heat on his cheeks and is thankful for the shitty lighting. “Thanks.”
They shrug. “Just telling you the truth.” Yoongi shifts forward, rubbing once again over the spot on their head. “What time were you thinking of finishing?” They push themself off the floor, extending a hand to Jimin.
Jimin takes it and lets himself be hoisted up, brushing the dust off his slacks. “Whenever. I’m pretty much done, anyway. I’ve just been reading it over, making sure I haven’t missed anything.”
“Good. You gotta get away from the computer. Wanna walk home together?”
Jimin flashes a teasing smirk at his hyung, tapping fondly under their chin. “Aww, Yoongi-hyung, did you wait all this extra time here just for little old me?”
Yoongi groans. “You are obsessed with yourself.”
Jimin giggles, bending over onto himself, and he watches Yoongi exit the kitchen shaking their head. He quickly chases after them. “Yeah, paperwork my ass . You just couldn't wait to get some alone time with your favorite dongsaeng.”
“I never should have let you call me hyung,” Yoongi grumbles, shrugging Jimin off when he tries to rest his chin on the elder’s shoulder, much to Jimin's amusement. A second round of giggles ricochets throughout the office and the two quickly grab their bags to head out.
They make their way down the elevator, and headed out into the night, the brisk November air making Jimin pull his trench coat tighter over his waist. They walk home comfortably, making small talk but mostly in silence. When they reach Yoongi’s place, Jimin walks them up the stairs and waits with them for Yoongi’s husband to get the door.
“Park Jimin! How good to see you again!” Seokjin greets him jovially, despite the two having never met beyond a company dinner and some stories from Yoongi. Seokjin is kind like that, a nice warmth to him that softens Yoongi (and anyone else who had the pleasure of speaking with him) in the best way.
“You as well, Seokjin-ssi,” Jimin smiles naturally.
“Did you walk Yoongi all the way home?” He gawks exaggeratedly, a playful upturn to his lips.
Yoongi rolls their eyes as Jimin beams, batting his eyelashes. “I stayed late just for him.”
At this, Yoongi can’t help but scoff. “Bull shit. He didn’t even know I was there until he ambushed me in the kitchen.”
Seokjin clicks his tongue, chastising his partner. “So ungrateful, my Yoongi. Thank you for taking care of my partner so well, Jimin-ah. And next time you walk home together, make sure to let me know! You can stay for dinner!”
Yoongi grumbles something under their breath as they enter their home about not letting a demon into their safe space, and Jimin giggles as he parts, making his way down the stairs and waving as Seokjin closes the door behind the two of them.
And Jimin is left by himself. He puffs out an exhale and watches his breath cloud in front of him, visible in the cold air. He likes visiting Yoongi’s place, even if it’s often just for small moments like tonight. Yoongi and Seokjin, they’re happy together, have built a home together. Granted, he’s never been inside himself, but he can just tell , by the way Yoongi always has a home-cooked lunch, always makes sure to be home before 8, only stays late on nights they deem absolutely necessary. They don’t go home just for the sake of sleeping and showering. Their place isn’t just a vessel for storing their belongings. They’re happy there.
Jimin shoves his hands in his pockets and walks the two blocks to reach his apartment complex. It really isfucking cold. He makes his way up to the fourth floor, trudging up the stairs-- no elevator, which is a pain in the ass but a sacrifice he’d been willing to make for the low price of rent. When he reaches his door he makes his way inside, heading straight to his bedroom and dropping his keys onto his nightstand before flopping onto his bed. It’s quiet tonight, no wind hitting the windows or neighbors throwing dinners with friends. Somehow he feels lonelier without the reminder that other people existed.
He stares up at his ceiling, feeling the blood return to his toes. Laying back on his sheets, he has the thought that he should probably change, probably shouldn’t wear his outside clothes on his inside sheets. His mom used to always scold him for that. He would never remember to change, not when he was six, not when he was sixteen. His mom never forgot to remind him, though. Not once.
He pulls himself up, has a shower, and falls right into bed. He’s asleep within the hour.
--
His proposal goes well, he thinks. Not just well— perfectly, actually. It goes exactly as rehearsed. He remembers every detail, reads his script word for word, memorized like the back of his hand. The board asks the exact questions he’d wanted them to ask, laughs at all of the jokes he’d wanted them to laugh at, nods impressively at all the statistics he’d wanted them to be impressed with. He can’t have imagined it going any better.
And the board rejects his idea.
Jimin sits at his desk, staring at the email pulled up on his laptop screen.
We’ve reviewed the proposals for 2021-2022 Seoul Fashion Week. After
careful consideration and a long discussion between our board members, we
have decided to go with “ BREATHE,” conceptualized by Im Dohyun.
He’d read the email close to ten times at this point. It makes no sense. It makes absolutely zero fucking sense. Fashion week was supposed to be his, that promotion was supposed to be his . They loved his presentation, he knew they did. He’d been praised by three board-men after he finished. The chairman himself told him he was doing “very promising work.” He’d clapped his shoulder on his way out. They loved it.
Jimin is pissed , to say the least. He’s on his feet before he can really register where he was going. He knocks on the door of his destination three times, firm and concise, and when the door opens, the chairman looks at Jimin with not nearly enough faux surprise. Jimin feels like he had an answer before he’s even asked for one.
“Ah. Come in, Jimin.”
--
Yoongi finds Jimin in his office 20 minutes later frantically packing up his desk.
“Jimin?”
“Hi hyung.” Jimin has his head half-way into his desk drawer, desperately digging for something inside. There are papers scattered across the office, pencils and binders strewn throughout the floor.
Yoongi frowns and approaches the desk, surveying the mess. “Jimin, why does it look like you’re packing your things?”
Jimin grunts, hand still elbow deep inside the drawer. “Probably because I am.” He forces out a huff of breath, struggling to fit his shoulder inside the narrow opening, then suddenly tips his arm out of the drawer triumphantly. He finds what he was looking for— a small flip-pad, barely the size of his hand. He looks up at Yoongi, a manic look in his eyes. “My idea notebook.” He dangles it in his hand like a piece of meat. “Only filled with my most important contributions to this company. But hey, if they’re just gonna give everything away to whoever's got the biggest pockets, it might as well be worthless, right?” He lets out a bitter snicker and tosses the notebook into his bag, moving on to the next part of his office.
“What the fuck do you mean you’re packing your things?”
“I’m taking a break. Or I’m fired, I honestly don’t even know. By the way, did you know Dohyun’s father is one of the company’s largest donors? I found that out today.” Another laugh escapes his lips, sardonic and scornful and nothing like the Jimin Yoongi is used to. He picks a stapler off his desk and throws it towards his bag without looking.
“ Fired ?”
“They gave the promotion to Im Dohyun, Yoongi. His washed-up joke of a concept. Because his daddy’s rich. So I’m fucking out of here.”
Yoongi sighs, sorrow sitting so transparent on their face and Jimin can almost see red. “I heard. I’m so sorry. It's bullshit, you know it.”
“I don’t care. I told you, I’m taking a break. I haven’t taken a single day off in four years.” He makes a twisted noise that vaguely represents a chuckle. “Four years. Over a thousand days, literally tens of thousands of hours spent in this building. I didn’t take one day off in all that time, that’s how much I cared." His hands are beginning to tremble at his sides so he busies himself looking for anything else he could take with him, but finds that there’s nothing else around worth keeping. He’s never had much in Seoul.
He ends up picking up a spare eraser and pocketing it before snatching his work bag off his chair and exiting his office. Yoongi follows him out, taking care not to step on the residual mess Jimin leaves askew. Jimin makes a beeline for the stairs, not patient enough to wait for the elevator. "I just don't understand how this is happening to me. I dedicate my life to this, gave up everything for this, and it's all completely pointless." He thinks he can hear yhebeginnings of Yoongi responding to him, most likely attempting to comfort him, but Jimin isn’t listening. His chest is heaving, his heart pumping so much faster than his lungs can keep up with.
Once Jimin pushes his way out of the building and into the open air, the wind hits him like a brick to the face. The weather is nothing like last night’s, cold but manageable, still. Today, it is nearly storming, wind whipping through the trees and howling throughout the alley the two stand in.
"Fuck, Jimin, it's freezing, come on, put your jacket on." Yoongi reaches out to pull Jimin's coat over his shoulders, but Jimin pulls himself out of reach. His hearing is becoming cloudy. He can’t feel his fingertips and isn’t sure if it’s a byproduct of the cold or the buzzing in his head.
"You know what, actually-- this will be great. I have no job, so I can do whatever I want now." He laughs, the empty sound bouncing off the brick on either side of them and disappearing into the air. "I can go skating at that park I've been lying to my grandmother about. I can actually see my grandmother. Or I can try and meet someone, right? I can meet one other person, since the only fucking conversations I ever have are with my grandparents and the goddamn accounting department."
Yoongi grimaces. "I'll pretend not to be hurt by that. Jimin, are you okay?" Their eyebrows furrow and they’re still looking at Jimin with that same fucking mixture of worry and sadness and pity.
"Why are you asking me that? Aren't you listening to me? I mean, I should be relieved, for god's sake!" Jimin’s gesturing now, exasperated noises spilling out between sentences. "No, no, this is good for me, hyung. I've wasted four years of my life here already, at least now I won't make it five. You should be happy for me."
Yoongi just shakes their head, reaching again to pull Jimin's coat over his shoulders, and this time Jimin let’s him. His heartrate is beginning to slow a bit, thumping almost painfully against his neck and fucking hell it’s cold. The wind is absolutely unforgiving.
Yoongi thins their lips. "What are you going to do now? And I don't mean now that you've.." they pause for a moment, stringing out the syllables, "..gone on leave. I mean right now, tonight, what are you going to do?"
Jimin exhales, scratching a hand through his hair roughly, pushing his bangs back. "I'm gonna go home."
"Why don't you have dinner with Seokjin and I instead?"
Jimin shakes his head, still messing with his hair. "No, I mean home home. I'm gonna go to Daegu. Tonight. I'll take a bus, or a train or something."
Yoongi's eyebrows shoot up at the profession. Jimin feels a similar spark of surprise. He didn’t think he was going to say that. His body is moving a lot faster than his brain.
"Jimin, what?"
“I miss my grandma. And my grandfather. They miss me too, probably. I should go home.”
"Are you drunk?"
"Jesus, of course not." Jimin rolls his eyes, irritated at the suggestion.
Yoongi makes a face, a little bit confused, a little bit skeptical. “You haven’t mentioned Daegu a single day since the first time I asked you where you’re from.”
“Is it really that odd for me to want to see my grandparents in person?”
“No, it’s just… you’ve strongly given off the impression that you don’t like your hometown. Like, at all.”
Jimin isn’t really sure how to respond, seeing as Yoongi is right. He shrugs in lieu of an answer, eyes indignant.
“Jimin-ah, are you sure you're okay?”
"I’m fine. I just want to go home, okay? In fact, I need to leave right now to pack. I'll call you, hyung. Or text or something." He begins to walk away, turning around so that his hyung won’t ask any more questions, but Yoongi doesn’t go after him, just watches him exit the alleyway with a frown on their face.
Jimin is quick to make his way to his apartment, walking as fast as he possibly can with the wind fighting him. Once he gets inside he runs to his bedroom and throws some things into a duffel bag, a handful of clothes and a phone charger. He doesn’t stop to check what he’s taking with him, or to see if he’s missed anything, figuring he can just buy what he needs once he gets there.
He pauses once he finishes his poor excuse for 'packing', looking around his apartment to see if there is anything else he needs to check on. He doesn’t have any pets, so he doesn’t have to worry about getting a sitter. There isn’t anyone for him to contact to tell he is leaving, besides Yoongi. He doesn’t really have any friends in Seoul. He checks the fridge for anything that might go bad, and is only half surprised to find it bare save for a case of water and some bottles of soju. He almost laughs at the emptiness of it all. What a perfect metaphor. An empty fridge and an empty life.
Jimin pats his pockets, making sure he has his wallet, and abandons his apartment for the bus station.
--
The ride is about four hours long, and Jimin passes out for about three of them. He wakes up to the muffled sound of his stop being called out over the loudspeaker, and groggily makes his way off of the bus. It’s dark out now, but it much less windy than Seoul, surprisingly calm for a late-November night. He checks the time on his phone- 11:57 PM- and wonders if it’s too late for his grandparents to be awake. He guesses he won’t know until he gets there.
It isn’t a long way from the bus stop to the Park farm, and within a half hour Jimin is standing at the picket fence that gates in the property. His farm, he supposes. It’s hard to see the extent of it all at night, with there not being much artificial lighting this far out into the countryside. The stars are much brighter out here, though, vivid and brilliant, and he can make out enough to recognize where he is. The Park farm is small as far as farms go, but their property is expansive, acres and acres larger than anything he'd seen in Seoul. Looking out into the darkness makes his heart feel heavy. He opens the gate and plods towards the house.
He trudges through slightly overgrown grass until he reaches the porch. The paint is chipping, a bit worn from the years, and little weeds and vines sneak their way through cracks in the wood. It looks exactly how Jimin had remembered it. The familiarity leaves him extremely stricken.
Now that he’s here, actually in Daegu, with just a doorway between him and his childhood, he suddenly feels very out of his element. He knows he can probably just knock, but he can’t. He can’t.
He stands there for a moment, unmoving. He contemplates calling the house phone to announce his arrival, but doesn’t want to wake his grandparents if they are asleep, and he can’t really remember the last two digits. He supposes he can just go inside himself. He crouches down to the potted flower next to the screen door, feels around in the soil until he feels the spare key he knew would be there. He feels very weird about the fact that he was right, that five years later his home is exactly as he’d left it. Almost exactly how he left it. He picks the key up, brushes the dirt off, spins it a few times in his hands. That’s all he needs to enter. But still, something about it is off. This is his home, but he doesn’t feel like he’s supposed to be here at all.
Jimin puts the key back in the pot. He can’t go inside. Not yet. He checks Naver for nearby hotels, or motels, or literally anywhere to stay, but he’s in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and any location is way too far a walk for how tired Jimin is right now. The events of the day are catching up to him, and he’s fucking exhausted. With nowhere else to sleep, he goes to the next place he can think off: the greenhouse.
Jimin had spent a lot of his spare time in the greenhouse when he was a kid, reading, doing homework, napping while his parents tended to the greenery. It’s just behind the main house, and, to Jimin’s luck, contains a hammock. He pulls the lock on the door, hoping his grandfather still leaves it perpetually unlocked, that he hadn’t started bothering to memorize the combination after Jimin left. It clicks open, and Jimin nearly cries with relief. He sneaks inside, the change in temperature extremely welcome, and tucks himself into the hammock almost immediately. It’s dirty, soil and dust and spare petals littering the fabric, and it smells a bit of stale water, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He kicks off his shoes and falls right to sleep.