Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Decadentia: From Medieval Latin; Decadence. 1. A state of moral or artistic decay; decline; deterioration. 2. The quality of being luxuriously self-indulgent.

Everyone feared a third world war would blast the earth off its axis. The only nuclear devastation to ever exist had been so long ago that it was barely a single-day history lesson in schools across the globe. But some one-hundred-and-fifty odd years later, the major world powers deepened into enough disarray that over eleven billion people believed the planet was going to fling out of its orbit. All it would take was one push of a button.

Except the fighting nations somehow did one thing right. They each individually came to the humble understanding that no war was worth destroying all known life. Of course, they didn’t tell each other that. They told each other they’d flip open that glass case and jam a thumb on that red button if it came down to it. They threatened the launch of not just one, but dozens, hundreds, of bombs so deadly that they’d level an entire country. A continent. The radiation fallout would be worse than the actual explosions.

If just one nation fired their supply, it wouldn’t disrupt Earth’s path around the sun. If just one made the killing blow, just like the previous world war, then life would continue. But how could another nation in possession of equal weaponry not fire back if fired upon?

The waiting game played for years. The entire global population lived in a constant tremble, waiting to feel the ground further rattle their bones from foreign missiles piercing through the clouds like murderous comets.

But that day never came. World War III operated like any modern war, minus the nuclear power. It didn’t end with some definitive point like its predecessor. It fizzled out like carbonation, fierce and widespread at first, before slowly dissipating as nations pulled out or formed alliances. By the time every opposing side had enough allies, there wasn’t much to fight over anymore. In a global society, each nation needed each other. They could act all high and mighty, boasting arrogant nationalism, but that wasn’t reality. The technological revolution altered that forever. There would be no separated nations, even if they didn’t like each other.

It was why there would never be any actual nuclear war.

Still, cities were destroyed. People died. But the world kept spinning. Society moved on like it always did, and WWIII faded into history.

Society continued to technologically advance, turning what’s now known as New Seoul into a thriving metropolis perpetually lit in neon and bustling with its immensely overcrowded population. There are so many citizens that no one really notices the worst of them anymore. It’s too easy to ignore them, like a small stain on an already black shirt.

Park Jimin doesn’t think he’s the worst of them, but others might argue against that.

Society likes to think that human enlightenment is a forever evolving process, but Jimin knows that’s bullshit. Morality is constant. It just comes in different forms as time comes and goes.

Whatever benefits the individual is what’s considered morally right. World leaders wouldn’t pass laws if it didn’t benefit them. Feeding the hungry? Advocating for equal rights? As long as it’s within their budget and garners the majority support.

Jimin’s path in life, no matter how “evolved” human thinking has become, has never garnered the majority support.

At least, not publicly. He wouldn’t have his job if such a large amount of clientele didn’t come to his employer to ogle at him and transfer him monetary credits for it.

The truth is, plenty of people live a similar life to him. The difference is that they keep it secret as an after-work hobby or as a hidden internet browser. To Jimin, it’s how he survives in this brutal city.

The middle-class hasn’t existed for a very long time.

Yet, Jimin lives somewhere in between. Every time he deals with a customer that’s too handsy or has to watch security kick out an entitled drunk, Jimin reminds himself that it’s their tips that not only pay for his dinner, but the rare level of financial comfortability he’s lucky to live at. He remembers that he has no stable salary, that everything he pays for is out of pocket. If he doesn’t perform well, the lush life he lives outside his career could sweep out under him like a rug.

It’s why he’s an acclaimed performer in the sex work scene.

The Gilded Rose had already heard of him when he applied for a position five months ago. He didn’t even have to prove his abilities before he was being onboarded at the strip club. They asked him to dye his hair. He said he didn’t do that anymore. He managed to get away with keeping his natural black locks while his co-workers had varying shades from white to deep red, mostly somewhere in between.

But makeup is a must. Heavy blush, shadowed eyes, glossy lips. The outfits have to match the theme—soft and sensual, floral and fair. But it’s not like his outfits consist of much, anyway.

Jimin thinks that if he was the type of person who spent his own free time at a strip club, he’d frequent The Gilded Rose. The business does a damn good job at pretending it’s more glamorous than it actually is. The illuminated bar shines magenta along its wall of drink bottles, using its pretty display to hide the fact that each spirit is the cheaper version of its category. The black marble flooring and deeply dimmed interior prevent lingering eyes from catching dirt, dust, and any kind of fluid that may end up where it shouldn’t be. Leather furniture is easy to clean off, as opposed to fancier velvet or suede. The cramped dressing rooms are never seen by patrons lounging around the slew of stages.

When Jimin’s on the pole, he can forget what else is required of him during his shifts.

He never had official pole dance training. He had to pick it up the hard way, having been thrust into his first stripping job with no experience and poor stamina. But through the process, he learned that his DNA leans towards athleticism, and with time came the exposure of his in-born skill. That’s what his co-workers always say, anyway.

You’re a natural. How are you so balanced? You’re so slim but so strong!

On the pole, Jimin loses himself in the performance. It’s strength and sensuality rolled into one.  It’s where he can revel in the hungry eyes watching him but know that he can’t be touched. Customers can only stare and beg for his time once he’s done. They throw him fake credit bills distributed by the club, because even though money no longer has a physical form, nothing feels better than passing it from one hand to the other. And with the faux credits pooling the stage, so much that Jimin can’t even see the surface below the bills, Jimin can offer a genuine smile to his admirers.

But it transitions into falsity the moment he works the floor.

Tonight’s a standard night at The Gilded Rose. It’s a weekday, but after hours garners enough clientele to keep him busy his entire shift. He performs on the pole, snaking around it like sin personified before sleuthing along the stage’s edge to let customers slink bills into the thin straps of the tiny material holding him in. It’s hardly enough fabric, but that’s the point. His limbs tonight are coated in glitter, which he loves as a look but hates when it comes time to shower it off. He ignores that while he works, crawling around the stage like a cat, flipping back his silky hair and taking in the ravishing attention.

He collects his bills from his performance before handing them off to a staff, where they will be held until they’re readied to be counted and transferred into actual credit once his shift ends. Then he moves to the floor.

He never has to saddle up to someone. They come to him.

Tonight, the lucky first is a man likely in his forties. He has trails of wispy stubble and smells like onyx, the legalized recreational drug that puffs out black smoke when rolled. Its scent mimics wilted herbs dipped in oil.

Meaning, it smells like shit. Jimin can’t stand the stuff. But one of the many downsides to his line of work is that it ventures into other industries. Throughout his six years of being a stripper, many of his customers have come in high. Some clubs Jimin worked at in the past allowed customers to use on property, and it was never just the stinky yet harmless onyx.

“You’re stunning,” the Onyx Guy tells Jimin, slowly eyeing him head to toe. Entitlement drips down his tone, like his words are true only because they’re coming from his own lips. “You look so delicate, don’t you? But up there, you commanded the entire room.”

Jimin tilts his head downwards, gazing up at the taller man through his lashes. It’s too easy to act bashful. Men like this one don’t want him to agree. They want Jimin to play modestly, to pretend like he doesn’t know what he’s capable of. It makes them think that they see something in Jimin that he doesn’t. It makes them feel powerful and knowledgeable, like they’ve found a diamond in the rough. And when Jimin presents this innocent persona, the one that somehow knows exactly what these men want while being seemingly oblivious to his own charms, he captures them. He ends his shift with a wad of bills waiting to be transformed into legit credits.

“But not everyone here commands me,” Jimin replies in his gentle lilt, placing a small hand on the man’s arm in welcoming insinuation. “I’ve seen you here a few times. Why has it taken so long for you to find me, hm?”

A half-smirk tugs Onyx Guy’s mouth. He’s not hideous, but the last thing Jimin cares about is looks. From Jimin’s perspective, they mean nothing in a place like this.

“Do you not know how popular you are?” says the man, shuffling forward a step. He may be taller, but his narrow shoulders hardly appear intimidating.

Jimin raises his brows as if to say, Who, me?

Onyx Guy laughs before pulling out a stack of bills from his jacket pocket. He makes a show of licking his thumb before counting them. Jimin internally cringes in disgust at the amount of bacteria transferring between both him and the fake money, but he outwardly feigns interest at the count. Once done, the man holds out the stack.

“150 for an hour.”

Jimin slowly takes the bills, as though hesitant. His fingers brush the man’s, and it’s easy to fake a blush when it’s already painted on his cheeks with product. But what actual hesitant person would accept payment for something before hearing what it is? This man doesn’t recognize that. None of them ever do.

“How can I thank you for your generosity?” Jimin purrs, curling his palm around the man’s skinny forearm.

Onyx Guy bends his elbow, a silent request for Jimin to take it. He does, and the man leads him towards a black booth lining one of the room’s walls, the paired table far enough away from the cushions to easily permit enough space for two people. “Do a little dance for me, Angel.”

Angel. Jimin’s stage name came from the first club he worked at. The hiring manager took one look at him—eighteen, bare-faced, hair flat, and wearing a giant hoodie—and cooed, “My, don’t you look like an angel?” She meant like one of those European paintings of chubby baby angels, not some glorious, heavenly creature bathed in golden light, with luscious locks and sporting the body of a marble statue. But the name stuck, and it wasn’t because anyone other than that manager viewed Jimin the way she did.

Now, this middle-aged customer devours Jimin with a pompous gaze, tongue rolling over his teeth. He reclines back along the leather, patting his thigh with a silent request. Jimin saddles up over his legs, making a show of settling his ass atop of him. When Onyx Guy lifts a hand towards Jimin’s face, Jimin slips back his neck, releasing a small, shocked gasp.

“Oh, Mister, you know the rules,” Jimin pouts, taking the same hand between his own. He drapes it to the side, placing it atop the booth, before trailing his own fingers to the man’s wrist. “Let me do all the work,” Jimin whispers against his cheek. “Just sit back and relax.”

The man huffs the curl of a sneer, using his free hand to motion towards a nearby waitstaff. Jimin gradually begins to grind down on Onyx Guy’s lap, keeping the man’s impatient hands away by making sure they’re occupied below Jimin’s. The waitstaff arrives, a petite young woman in a white skin tight dress that dips quite low and ends quite short. The uniform marks her server role. In one hand is a circular tray carrying filled shot glasses.

Onyx Guy says to Jimin, “50 more for you to take a shot with me.”

Jimin toys with the man’s jacket hem. “Oh, I don’t drink much. Can I tell you a secret? You might think it’s silly.”

The man cocks his head, displaying his ear.

Jimin leans fully into him, pressing the bulk of his lower half into the man’s stomach. Lips near brushing his ear, Jimin whispers, “I’m a bit of a lightweight.” Then he giggles, boyish and honeyed. Customers say his laugh is so sweet that sugar weeps with envy.

“Are you, now?” the man chuckles, adjusting his position so Jimin’s weight can press down on his crotch. Jimin senses it immediately, taking the opportunity to oblige the man’s desire. But Jimin barely moves. He just hardly adds a bit of pressure, staring down at the man as though his only focus is the conversation at hand. If the man’s not an idiot, he’ll notice that Jimin’s doing it on purpose, but most customers come to the strip club because they are idiots. In that case, this man will think Jimin doesn’t even realize what he’s doing, that he’s simply a coy young man who doesn’t even understand how affecting his “unintentional” movements are. This usually turns the customers on.

“I get a bit childish when I drink,” Jimin confesses, slipping a hand from the man’s shoulder to his bicep. “A bit uncontrollable.”

“I’m sure you’re fun.” The man snaps at the waitstaff while she goes to leave, keeping her in place instead. “Angel, reach into my jacket and take out my money for me.”

Jimin does.

“Count out 100 and put the rest back.”

Jimin does.

“That’s yours for one shot. Just one. Come on, have some fun with me. I’ll keep you safe.”

Jimin pretends as if he’s fighting back a smile, as though he finds this man incredibly charming. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, barely lifting his hips before pushing them back down onto his target.

The man moans out an amused sound, saying, “Just one.”

Jimin meets his eyes, finally letting himself grin. “Okay, but only for you. You promise you won’t let me get too bad?”

“Of course, darling, of course. Come on, let me get your drink for you.” The waitstaff comes closer, lowering the tray for the man to take two glasses. As Jimin reaches for one, the man pulls his arm back, tsking. “Let me do it for you, Angel. Will you let me give it to you?”

Jimin bites down on his bottom lip, as if considering. Then he nods.

“Wonderful. Here, hold my shot for me.”

The moment Jimin takes it, Onyx Man rakes his free hand through Jimin’s hair, grabbing hold to jerk back his neck like a rope. The motion is so quick that Jimin can only gasp in response. With his face upturned towards the ceiling, the man murmurs, “You have to tilt back so you can drink. Come on, open up your mouth for me.”

In the precarious position, Jimin could do one of two things. He could swat the man’s arm away and hop off of him, ceasing the interaction and thus losing his credits for the time. That would likely anger the man, who’d then complain to management and perhaps never come back. Management would scold Jimin, perhaps even punish him by cutting his shifts short or not scheduling him at all for a few days, but then they’d move on, as if it never happened.

Or, Jimin could stay on Onyx Man’s lap with his rough fingers wrapped in his hair and let the man feed him the shot, even though customers aren’t supposed to touch the strippers unless given permission. But by taking the shot, Jimin would be giving permission.

You didn’t make all your money from pole dancing. You wouldn’t make good floor money if you didn’t permit customers to lay their hands on you at some point, even if that went against the rules.

So, Jimin opens his mouth and lets the man place the shot glass to his lips. The alcohol slips down his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing harshly while he swallows from his bent-back neck. A single drop of liquid slides down his chin. Onyx man brushes it away with a thumb.

“Good boy,” he says before taking his own shot from Jimin’s hand and knocking it back.

300 total for an hour, Jimin reminds himself.

Except when the hour’s up, the man offers one hundred more for another sixty minutes. If Jimin declines, he would just move on to someone else. At least Onyx Guy seems to only be interested in touching his hair and face and not the rest of him. He doesn’t do anything other than lean back and watch while Jimin gives him a lapdance. And a second. And a third. The rest of the time, the man orders three more shots for himself and rambles on about how much he hates his wife.

Meanwhile, the one shot Jimin took went down like water. He incorporates a few extra giggles to make it seem like it did anything at all, because he’s apparently a lightweight.

After finishing a tediously long story about the most recent argument Onyx Guy and his wife had, the man suddenly grumbles out a snort and says, “Like you would understand any of this shit.”

Because he doesn’t think Jimin is married? He’s not. Or because he figures Jimin won’t ever have a wife considering he works at a male-only club? He won’t.

Jimin slides comforting hands over the man’s chest. “Maybe not, but I can be a shoulder to cry on.”

“Who said anything about crying?” the man grumbles, as if the prospect of shedding a single tear is worse than abhorrent. “Only pussies cry.”

Jimin’s heard enough garbage in his life that ignorant comments go in one ear and out the other. “Oh, you’re a strong man, aren’t you?” He’s also mastered how to utilize sarcasm without it sounding sarcastic.

Onyx Guy squares his slight shoulders, clearing his throat. “That’s right.”

Yeah, Jimin thinks, that’s why you’re wasted at a strip club and yammering to me about how much you despise your valid wife. How strong. How noble.

Now that Jimin’s been on his lap for nearly two hours listening to him complain about his very boring life, Onyx Guy is as threatening to him as a piece of cardboard. Jimin says to him, “Well, my point is that you can always talk to me for as long as you desire. This place is a judgment free zone. All your secrets are safe and sound.” Jimin zips his lips and locks them with an imaginary key.

Onyx Guy pats Jimin’s head like a pet. Then something catches his eyes, and his entire expression twists. “Yah, what the fuck do you keep looking over here for?”

Jimin turns, following the man’s line of sight to land on a man some seats down. He’s dressed in an impeccable suit, his neat two-block-cut hair the color of chestnuts. Many men come to The Gilded Rose after a rough day at work, still decked in their business wear, but there’s always something a little off once they arrive—a few un-done buttons, disheveled bangs, one shoe’s laces pulled from its knot. But this man has no visible flaw. He’s been sitting in the same spot all night, which isn’t strange considering that so have Jimin and Onyx Guy. But the difference is that this loner keeps denying service. Jimin can’t help but have noticed during his two hours with his own personal customer. This other man is sitting close enough to where Jimin sees that he’s only had two drinks and nothing else. Each time a stripper offers themself, the man turns them away. He doesn’t even tip the stage performers.

But he’s been watching Jimin all night. Every time Jimin glances over, the man holds his stare, face blank and even looking bored.

Now, the other stranger just scoffs at Onyx Guy’s taunt, turning his attention elsewhere.

“I think he’s jealous,” Jimin offers, actually not thinking that at all.

“Really?” Onyx Guy snorts. “Why don’t you go give him a little show, then?”

“Are you sure? You still have ten minutes with me.”

“Make it part of the ten minutes. I like watching you. But, Angel, don’t give it to him as good as you give it to me.”

“Of course,” Jimin says, lingering his hands before slinking off of the man. God, his back hurts. He effortlessly turns a stretch into his stalk before he halts before the customer.

Sometimes it’s difficult to tell ages with the suits and dim ceiling lights. This man might be Jimin’s age or ten years older, but his self-assured seated position suggests he’s older. It’s not arrogant like Onyx Guy’s, but collected. Jimin makes the distinction by how he doesn’t have the instinctive urge to punch this other man in the face just from how he’s sitting. But looks can be deceiving. It’s why they don’t matter to Jimin. He’ll know for sure once this man opens his mouth.

“Are you patiently waiting for your turn?” Jimin flirts, leaning on one leg.

Chestnut Hair looks up at him, not even the corner of his mouth flinching. He doesn’t answer.

“I’ve seen you staring at me all night,” Jimin reveals, taking the empty seat beside him. Jimin turns inwards, brushing his knees against the man’s while placing a hand atop his thigh. “If you’re too shy, I can do all the talking. Or, we don’t have to talk at all. I can be whatever you want me to be.”

Chestnut Hair flicks his gaze to Jimin’s palm atop his leg before letting out a quiet chuckle. If Jimin’s not mistaken, it sounds impassively derisive rather than invitingly amused. The man tells him calmly yet firm, “No, thank you.”

Jimin doesn’t try to change his mind. He simply shrugs before returning to Onyx Guy, telling him, “He’s not interested.”

“Is he a retard? He’s gotta just have a voyeurism kink or something, then.”

After spewing dramatic compliments and gratitude towards Onyx Guy once their time is up, claiming that he’s the best guest Jimin’s had the pleasure of being with in a long while, Jimin takes his bills to hand off before heading to the restricted staff-only bathroom. He thoroughly washes his hands before doing his business, then he goes to clean his hands once more. As he’s shutting off the faucet, one of his co-strippers, Dosan, enters the room, dressed similarly except for the crossed band around his chest that dangles in costume jewels.

“Oh my God, Jimin, I saw that weirdo shut you down,” Dosan starts, turning into the urinal. “I tried earlier and he looked at me like I was an alien.”

“And he’s not tipping anyone.”

“Why the fuck is he here, then? God, I hate people like that, thinking they can only pay the entrance fare and then just watch everyone without having to tip, because they think that denying personal service gives them the right to shut their wallets.” Dosan finishes, adjusting back the bottom half of his outfit before taking Jimin’s place at the sink. As Jimin dries his hands under the blow dryer, Dosan adds, “I think he’s been watching you, too.”

“He has.”

“Then why would he say no when you went up to him?”

Jimin shrugs. “Beats me. Not like I wanna waste my time with him if he’s not gonna pay me, anyway. Has anyone complained?”

“I will if no one else does,” says Dosan, shutting off the water to dry his hands next. “What a bitch.”

As Jimin’s shift continues into the evening, he performs twice more on the pole between floor work, where he earns a few extra hundred from both fluttering stage bills and personal lap dances. His final show marks the end of his shift, gliding around the pole to paired music. He gives body rolls. He bends low to stick his ass in the air. He runs his hands along his bare torso. He blows kisses to customers hyping him from the first-row.

He’s so tired.

As he’s coming down from the stage to head towards the dressing room, someone blocks his path.

Chestnut Hair.

Before Jimin can open his mouth to say something smart, the man holds out a stack of bills. “For your talent tonight.”

Jimin lifts a single brow, not having to pretend to be surprised. Only when he takes the money and looks a bit closer does he realize the bills aren’t made up of ones, but one-hundreds. He doesn’t say a word to Chestnut Hair; the man’s already walking away. Jimin won’t chase him for an explanation, not when his shift is ending. All Jimin does is briefly count the bills, his heart rate pulsing as he totals 2,000.

It’s more than the rest he’s made all night combined.

He’s silent as he hands the money off. The staff does a double take at the bills, mumbling, “Damn,” before heading into the back office to gather Jimin’s entire shift total. Jimin’s already removed his makeup and changed into the clothes he arrived in when the shift manager enters the dressing room.

“Park Jimin,” he calls.

Three strippers waiting for their own totals before heading home for the night, including Dosan, turn their full attention towards Jimin. They probably think he’s in trouble. Based on the manager’s tone, Jimin can’t blame them.

Manager Lim strides up to him, but rather than begin a tangent, he claps Jimin encouragingly on the arm. “Great work tonight, son. I don’t know what you did, but whatever it was, keep doing it. 2,642 credits have been transferred to your account—after our percentage was taken out, of course. The rest of you—” Manager Lim narrows his bushy eyebrows at the other three, “—better shape the fuck up. Park hasn’t even been here half a year and look at the numbers he’s pulling. Wah, see? I knew hiring you was a smart move on my part.” He claps Jimin’s arm again, not registering his own strength while he grins at what he thinks is his own handy work. Jimin nearly fumbles against his locker. “Well done, son. Well done. Dosan, your total is 739. Sucheol, 631. Choseong, 676. All done being transferred. See you boys.”

The moment Manager Lim’s gone, Dosan scurries up to Jimin with wide eyes, tugging on his sleeve. “What did you do? What did I miss?”

“That guy who was by himself all night tipped him,” Sucheol says. His peach hair falls into his eyes as he stares down at his jacket to zip it shut. After snagging the zipper in place, he adds, “I hate that he only bothered to tip you , but I’m at least glad he tipped someone.”

“No fucking way,” Dosan hisses, roughly shaking Jimin’s sleeve in impressed disbelief.

“Yah, you’re gonna stretch out my clothes.” Jimin pulls his arm free, slipping it instead through his coat.

“What did he say? Did he even say anything?”

“Just, ‘for tonight’s talent.’ I guess he really was just an observer type. Who knows why he only cared to tip me.”

“Don’t pretend to be modest,” snorts Choseong, shutting his locker with a slam. His elongated eyes roll while he turns around, leaning against the locker with crossed arms.

“Why are you so uptight?” Dosan shoots at him.

“Because Choseong’s got a stick up his ass,” says Sucheol. “It’s why he likes topping, because he’d already got something penetrating him 24/7 from the back.”

“Shut the fuck up, Sucheol.”

“Am I wrong? I’m not wrong.”

“It’s not like I did anything for that guy to tip me,” Jimin tries to explain.

“No, but you don’t have to do much for anyone to tip you,” Choseong says in layered scorn.

“He’s just bitter that you get all the good customers,” Dosan loudly whispers, always the first to take Jimin’s side.

“If I hadn’t gotten tipped from that guy tonight,” says Jimin in defense, “my total would be around the same as all of you.”

“Yeah, but it’s not,” Choseong bites out, pushing off his locker and heading towards the shoe rack. He slips into his already tied sneakers and bristles out the back exit. The October night slips its chill into the room before the door shuts.

Dosan and Sucheol blink at Jimin.

“Do you guys hate me, too?” he asks.

“No!” Dosan exclaims while Sucheol shrugs out, “Kinda.”

Jimin’s at least grateful for Sucheol’s honesty.

The three of them exit the club together, entering into its side alley flush against the neighboring building. The sky above the narrow view displays a black sheet, starless from the city’s light pollution. Paces away, the slit revealing the main road behind the stationed security guard showcases passing transports, sleek in their rounded design. Jimin trails behind Dosan and Sucheol while they walk, the alley only wide enough for two to comfortably travel side-by-side.

Jimin doesn’t notice, at first. The security guard blocking him is as big as two average-sized men combined, and his one body covers most of the alley exit. But when he steps to the side to let Dosan and Sucheol through, Jimin stops in place.

“Excuse me,” Chestnut Hair says towards Jimin.

Jimin reels back as the security thrashes out an arm, blocking Chestnut Hair from stepping any further. He doesn’t even flinch, unlike Dosan, who startles at the sudden movement. He and Sucheol are halted a few steps beside Chestnut Hair on the sidewalk, staring at him in shock.

“Please, I’m not here to harm you like the typical trash who waste away inside your establishment,” the man tells Jimin, looking severely unimpressed at the situation. “I’d like to speak with you for a moment. We can stand between this brick of man, if you’d like, but I’d prefer to look who I speak to in the eyes.” He half-turns towards Dosan and Sucheol. “You both may leave.”

Dosan coughs while Sucheol drags him away. Dosan shoots Jimin insinuating looks as he’s pulled towards the metro station three blocks down. Dosan sees this as an opportunity. Jimin sees this as something to be wary about.

In response to Chestnut Hair’s request, Jimin steps one foot to the side, revealing enough of himself without sacrificing the bulk of the security guard’s muscled torso. It is this or nothing, and Chestnut Hair realizes that.

He sighs. “My name is Kim Seokjin, and I am the head of talent at Decedentia.” He reaches into his suit and pulls out a business card, holding it out between two fingers. Jimin hesitates before taking it, quickly pulling back his arm. The card is made of thick paper with a scrolling silver font that reflects the neon streetlights. Jimin doesn’t think he’s ever seen an actual business card. He isn’t sure anyone else still uses them. “One of my scouts referred you to me, so I came here tonight to see you for myself. Truthfully, I expected very little from a place like this, but you are a pleasant surprise. Strippers are either beneficial or damaging for what we look for in performers, but you’re different. You have fair potential. If you’re interested, call me on the card’s number within a week. If I don’t hear from you after that, I’ll assume your definite answer is a no.”

Jimin manages to keep his mouth from gaping like a fish. Kim Seokjin is no regular customer, but Jimin’s still not off of The Gilded Rose’s property. For the sake of his job and his safety, he continues his coquettish appeal. Fluttering his lashes, he asks sweetly, “And what is this business you work for, exactly? Another strip club?”

“Oh, no,” Seokjin replies, a hint of offense towards the assumption coating his tone. “No, we’re a luxury entertainment house. We don’t dare lower ourselves to associating with … well.” He fans a hand at The Gilded Rose.

Jimin was mistaken for thinking Kim Seokjin is anything other than arrogant.

“Why should I consider your offer?”

“Because the pay per hour can easily average out at more than what I personally gave you tonight, and not one viewer will be permitted to touch you.”

Jimin takes three seconds to find a response. “Right … you’re saying that you’re some big-shot scout who works at some too-good-to-be-true club where I’m paid my weight in money and no one gets to touch me?” He hums an airy laugh, crossing his arms. “If you wanted to kidnap me for sex-trafficing, you should’ve picked a more believeable story.”

“I can confidently assure you that I’m not lying, nor am I trying to sex-traffic you. You need only call that number on my card to see the proof. It’s your choice.”

“Do you have a website?”

“Not a public one. Use the phone number. Have a good night.” Seokjin presses out an emotionless smile towards the security guard before turning on his heel, heading opposite of the metro.

Even so, Jimin asks the security, “Can you walk me to the station?”

“Sorry, Jimin, they don’t pay me enough to do that. But I’ll yell if he comes back this way.”

Jimin pulls back his lips, nodding in understanding. He then practically runs to catch up to Dosan and Sucheol, passing further strip clubs, host clubs, and private room rentals.

The Gilded Rose is located in what once was a historically wealthy area, originally packed with lavish restaurants and high-end nightclubs. But with time and the war, New Seoul’s districts drew new lines.

The current district of Sinwon’s streets wind with the hilly earth, sitting below stacked buildings that look like a toddler jammed toy blocks on top of one another. New Seoul ran out of land decades ago, and the only way to build now is up. While places like the finance district and wealthy apartments tower into the sky with their sleek scrapers, lower businesses looking to build can only purchase head space, which permits them to construct atop preexisting buildings. Rather than own an entire building or a specific chunk of land, dwellers are only responsible for their floors. It’s why many buildings like The Gilded Rose and its neighbors have inconsistent levels. The window panes are different shapes. The exterior walls are different colors. Some are glass, while some are concrete. Though they may not grace the clouds, the buildings are still tall enough to feature skyways zigzagging above the roads so citizens don’t have to waste time going to the ground just to ascend back up. Jimin doubts The Gilded Rose is the original builder for its prime ground location. It likely bought out whichever business operated there previously.

Jimin descends the nearest metro’s escalator, entering the underground station of shining tile floors and clean white walls. Squared text filters across the plethora of screens dictating each train’s location and times.

New Seoul will pour money into its general infrastructure, like the mass-used underground train system, but will leave individual businesses like The Gilded Rose to fend for itself.

“What did he want?” Dosan questions, nearly on the tips of his toes.

Jimin scans the arrivals, instinctively landing his focus on the same spot his train ride home is always listed at. “Nothing, just was interested in me.” He jumps when Dosan smacks his arm, the hurt muffled from Jimin’s thick coat. “What was that for?”

“You didn’t go with him?” Dosan asks incredulously. His opinion of Jimin presently beside him in the metro rather than under Chestnut Hair in some private rental room shines clear in his judging gaze. His judgment is that Jimin’s idiotic.

Jimin lets out an unbothered sound, turning to face the newest arrival as it slows to a stop. The double glass walls separating the platform from the tracks opens its many doors, allowing a slew of people to trade places on the train. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“My point exactly! He gave you two grand, so why isn’t he dicking you down right now?”

“Some of us don’t like to bring work home, Dosan,” Sucheol drawls, glancing over his nails.

“It wouldn’t be home if it was down the street in a rented room . Jimin, Jimin, Jimin, please refer me. If he comes back to The Gilded Rose, introduce me as your very willing friend. But not too desperate, because I don’t think he’s into that. Like, I’m only interested because you won’t have him, except that’s a fucking lie, but we’ll play if off like that’s really how I feel so I can maintain being a pretentious yet desirable man.”

Jimin snickers despite his uncertainty about the business card sitting in his coat pocket. “I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“Boo, boring.” Dosan faces the next arriving train, telling the two of them, “I’ll see you losers tomorrow.”

“I don’t work tomorrow,” says Sucheol.

“Lucky bitch. Bye, Jimin!”

Jimin waves, continuing until Dosan’s train shoots out of the station.

It takes forty minutes for Jimin to arrive at his station, and then fifteen more of walking to arrive at his apartment building. Despite the metro’s haste speed, the distance and amount of stops allows Jimin to stuff in earbuds and listen through the latest album of a pop star that dropped four nights ago. Jimin didn’t have the chance to give it a listen, so he plays each synthy track during the metro ride home. The tunes continue when he gets off at his stop and ascends to the street, the roads wider and the buildings far less dilapidated. A woman in athletic wear walks her dog with a leashless smart collar. A handsome couple passes hand-in-hand, giggling over something only they know. Few transports glide the residential roads at this time of night, but the lower floor businesses still shine their jutted out digital name signs whether they’re closed for the evening or not.

The methodical train vibrations made Jimin sleepy, and it’s the thought of his warm bed waiting for him that propels him towards his apartment. He packs away his earbuds when he’s outside, pressing the pad of his thumb to the exterior door panel. It unlocks with a beep , automatically sliding into the wall to let him in. The minimal lobby is empty, only the robotic help screen lit at the front desk rather than the typical daytime employee. Jimin passes through the room, entering one of two elevators. Inside, he rests his head along the wall, but the elevator glides so seamlessly and so quickly up the building that before he knows it, he’s already stepping out onto his floor.

The apartment’s interior was remodeled five years ago, and Jimin moved in two years after that. He uses his fingerprint once more to enter his unit, switching on only half of the living room’s lights before shrugging out of his coat. What greets him is a space he believes is perfect for one person. There’s a small yet capable kitchen adjacent to the entryway, complete with an eating nook. Besides that is a large enough sitting area to comfortably hold two couches instead of one, with the outer wall made entirely of glass in order to see out to the street below. The only downside is that the unit isn’t high enough for a cityscape view; it faces the apartments across the street. When the sun goes down, Jimin typically shuts his curtains. Because he wasn’t home, they’re already closed. He has a clean bathroom. His bedroom is cozy. It’s taken a lot for Jimin to reach the point at which he lives in a cozy home. When he moved into this place, comfort had been so long forgotten to him that he hadn’t even remembered what it was like.

Being a stripper pays. Jimin will never apologize for it.

He glances at his coat draped over the kitchen counter, at its pocket and what he knows sits inside.

Then he heads into his bathroom to shower the night away. For now, all he can think of is sleep.

Chapter Text

It’s not as though Jimin expects Kim Seokjin to make another mysterious appearance at The Gilded Rose, but he’d be lying if he says that he doesn’t expectantly glance at the club’s entrance a few times during his next week of shifts. Every time Jimin scans the club’s main floor to find the same typical clientele—shabby men looking for an escape from their spouses and careers—he slumps a little.

He doesn’t know why. He hasn’t touched the business card that still sits heavy in his coat. Both his instincts and his thought-out rationality tell him it’s a scam. That’s not unlikely.

New Seoul has a police station every few miles, but with a city as large as this one, the cop-to-citizen ratio is far from fair. Detectives devoted to crushing drug rings and sex-trafficking are even fewer. Most prefer to ticket transport vehicles for illegal parking rather than dive deep into the city’s criminal circles. There are just too many people. There are too many nooks and crannies hidden within pockets of buildings. Despite public camera footage and trackers, illegal activity advances alongside tech. It gains from it as much as it loses.

In Jimin’s line of work, he has to always look over his shoulder. Being scouted may mean a legit opportunity, or it may mean he finds himself tied up in a transport to be sold.

But with Kim Seokjin, at least on the surface, nothing about him screams danger. Usually, there’s always something a little off. Like, the scout is too nice, or too forward, or too impatient. The scout is usually decked in designer wear only to have dirt under their fingernails. The scout has a friend, someone waiting on the side for a signal. But Kim Seokjin was alone. His outfit appeared legit, without a hair out of place. He was to the point, albeit a bit on his high horse, but he didn’t pressure Jimin to accept his offer. It genuinely seemed that he didn’t care if Jimin turned him down.

It’s for that reason that Jimin’s considering contacting him at all. But this is too risky of a decision to make on his own.

On his off day, a Monday, Jimin takes the metro two stops east and rings Kim Namjoon’s apartment. His closest friend is still in his day clothes when he opens the door. But his shirt is untucked. His dark hair is a bit disheveled from its otherwise neat styling. It looks like he was ten seconds away from putting on pajamas and heating up leftovers.

“You know, it’s so easy to just shoot me a text as a head’s up,” he says, releasing the heavy door to shuffle back into his apartment. “I might as well input your fingerprint so you can just let yourself in, seeing as you show up unannounced as often as you do.”

Jimin narrowly avoids the door before it crushes him like a pancake, letting it shut behind him. He slips out of his boots, saying, “I’ve been saying that for ages, asshole. Now you want to take my suggestion seriously?”

“I could have been preoccupied,” Namjoon says, removing his nylon jacket.

“With what? Your fist on your dick? Please, it’s not like I haven’t seen that before.”

Namjoon flushes like a tomato, the sight comedic atop his otherwise commanding facial features. He’s near sputtering when he exclaims, “That was one time! In high school! Ten years ago, Jimin. Ten years!”

Jimin quips a smirk, stepping out of the entranceway and into Namjoon’s living room. Jimin lets out a content sigh as he falls back along the couch, taking a pillow to hold to his chest. The apartment isn’t much different than Jimin’s. In fact, it’s a bit smaller. But whereas Jimin’s decorum is organized chaos, Namjoon’s is chaotic organization. It’s all wood, straight lines, and neutral colors, a blatant fight against the ultra-modern design of all things modular, glossy, and colorful.

“So, what’s up?” Namjoon asks. “Wait—let me get changed first. I need to sit down, don’t I?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because you only ever come here when something’s up, and you’re already using that pillow as a defense mechanism in the way it’s covering all of your vital organs.”

Jimin harmlessly pegs the pillow at Namjoon. It bounces off his broad chest and falls to the floor.

“Give me five minutes,” he says, stalking into his room.

Jimin taps his fingers impatiently on his arm while he waits. One of the many good things about Namjoon is that during the week, he’s always home by eight. Whether he gets home early from his personal rented office space where he handles his author career or decides to spend his flexible afternoons running errands, his scheduled life consistently finds him back home around the same time each night.

Jimin flickers his focus around the living room, catching vintage knick knacks on the shelves below the television. Today, Namjoon’s set the sleeping TV screen to display a matte gif of clouds swirling through a mountain range.

Despite him and Jimin attending the same high school, their paths can’t have veered more differently. Namjoon’s known stability his entire life. He’s had a loving family consisting of a sweet sister and two working parents with more than decent salaries, an easy ride to university where he excelled and graduated with honors, and a busy yet relaxed career as a non-fiction author that might not sell tens of millions but provides him more than enough to comfortably live as a single young man.

Yet, despite the differences in their come-ups, he and Jimin have ended up living in similar apartments. When comparing their journeys here, Jimin isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. There are aspects of Namjoon’s life he envies, more so his supportive family unit than his intellectual job. But when Jimin has a rough shift with overbearing hands and repulsive comments, he wonders if he would be happier drafting a novel about living in the now. Before Namjoon wrote his own work, he worked out of a publicity firm repping other writers, contacting media and booking venues.

“It was more fun than it sounds,” Namjoon always says about his time as a publicist. 

But when Jimin envisions himself in a prim suit at a workstation, editing press announcements and delegating team tasks, he shudders in distaste. Maybe if Jimin ever had the chance to try a normal life, he’d think differently, but from his childhood until now, he’s never known what that feels like.

The moment Namjoon returns from his bedroom wearing gray lounge pants and a tee, Jimin points towards the pillow on the ground. Namjoon rolls his eyes before bending to pick it up, handing it back to Jimin.

Jimin wraps his arms back around the pillow, adjusting to better see Namjoon settle at the end of the couch. In Jimin’s memory, Namjoon is a lanky teenager with a face as round as his thick bowl cut, with limbs too long and too tall for his brain to keep up with. That Namjoon would faint at his present self, filled out from an unyielding exercise routine, polished with his slim proportions and spruce demeanor. But the Namjoon today still occasionally knocks over a water glass. He sometimes misplaces his mobile, only for it to be in his hand the entire time.

Now, he slips out the device, and before Jimin can complain about the distraction, Namjoon explains, “Food. I’m starving. I went shopping but forgot to get any dinner while I was out. Are noodles okay?”

After placing an order for two servings of black bean noodles, Namjoon reclines back, shooting Jimin a readied look. “Okay. What’s up?”

Jimin tells him everything that happened with Kim Seokjin. Another good thing about Namjoon is that he's an impeccable listener, and even better at giving advice. His secure life is why he’s able to micromanage Jimin’s with rationality, and Jimin encourages it. It’s foolish of Jimin not to respect Namjoon’s safe lifestyle and therefore safe opinions.

While he explains, Namjoon doesn’t say a word. His expressions slightly shift at each new section of the story, from halving his crescent moon eyes to pursing his full lips. He gets up to collect the food from their deliverer once it arrives, handing Jimin his portion before digging into his own. He slurps the gooey noodles while he listens, having eaten more than Jimin by the time Jimin’s entirely caught him up.

“What should I do?” asks Jimin.

Namjoon swallows his current bite, letting his chopsticks rest at the edge of his bowl. “Well, you don’t seem turned off by this Kim Seokjin’s offer.”

“How could I? It sounds like a fairytale, which is why I’m asking you to use your university-educated brain to determine whether it’s real or not.”

“I’m not smarter than you just because I went to university.”

“I saw your assignments,” Jimin says with a shudder. “I’d rather gouge out my eyes than attempt what you suffered through.”

“Jimin,” Namjoon chides, like a parent to an adored child, “You make more money than I do, and I burned through my family’s savings to attend university. But while I was studying like a nerd in the library for all hours of the night, you were busting your ass to make a name for yourself. And you have, considering this apparently high-end club wants to scout you. It takes intelligence to get to where you are. I never could do what you do.”

Jimin huffs out a breath of objection, but it lacks conviction. In reality, he bites back a shy smile, the kind that stretches his mouth naturally. Rarely does it make an appearance during a shift without being forced, but with Namjoon, it comes too easily. He buries his heated face into his noodles.

“Look,” continues Namjoon, “could this be a scam? Absolutely. You should definitely take caution, and I’m glad that you are. But the worst that could happen is that you contact Seokjin and discover that it is a scam.”

“No, the worst that could happen is that I contact him and he abducts me.”

“Then don’t be stupid enough to get abducted.”

Jimin clicks his tongue at the comment, holding back his argument that no one ever intends to get taken against their will. But Jimin understands Namjoon’s meaning, and Jimin doesn’t have to assure him that he’s not that careless. He knows Namjoon knows that. It’s why Namjoon is able to compliment him for his career path at all. If Namjoon ever believed Jimin to be making a dangerous decision, he’d tell him, and Jimin would listen.

It’s why Jimin debates calling Seokjin over the next two days, cutting close to the end of the week-long time frame the man gave him. He sits on Namjoon’s thoughts, figuring that it doesn’t hurt to check the opportunity out. Jimin doesn’t have to meet Kim Seokjin alone in some cornered-off, rundown alley. Seokjin only asked Jimin to call him, so that’s what Jimin does.

It’s sometime before seven, the autumn evening coating the air outside Jimin’s living room window in setting gold. He fixes his attention out the glass onto a building’s reflective surface when he makes the call. The dial rings twice before it’s picked up across the line.

“Hello. Head of Talent of Decadentia, Kim Seokjin speaking.”

“Um, hi. It’s Angel from The Gilded Rose.”

There’s a slight pause. Jimin wonders if Seokjin already forgot their meeting nearly a week ago. But it must flood back to him, because he replies surely, “Ah, yes. Angel. I’m glad you called. Do you have an answer for my proposition?”

Jimin runs his tongue over his lips, stepping closer to his window. “I’m not accepting your offer, but I’d like some more information. Proof.”

“Of course. Will you be busy the remainder of the evening?”

“No,” Jimin says warily, straightening his shoulders.

“Perfect. You may come to Decadentia where I can further explain the offer in my office. I prefer face-to-face meetings, and you’ll be able to see that my employer is quite real. If you’ll tell me your address, I can send a transport to pick you up in a half hour.”

Jimin scoffs into his mobile, turning to rest his back along his window. “Do you think I’m stupid? I’m not telling you where I live and then getting in some transport you send over so I can get kidnapped.”

Seokjin sounds nothing but patient when he states, “Again, I am not kidnapping you.”

“How can I know that?”

“You may bring along a friend to our informational meeting if you’re worried.”

“So you can kidnap the both of us?”

“If I were kidnapping you—which I’m not—I wouldn’t be interested in any friend you bring.” He hones his voice enough to sharpen the hairs on Jimin’s neck when he says, “I’m interested in you . Either take the transport, or take a cab. The metro. Walk. I really don’t care. As long as you arrive around 7:45.”

Jimin focuses down at his feet, crossing one ankle over the other. “If I come on my own, can I still bring a friend?”

“Sure, though try to bring one that’s not an imbecile. I will text you Decedentia’s location once I end the call. Do try to arrive on time. See you soon.”

Seokjin hangs up before Jimin can say another word, and less than a minute later, a notification pops up with the entertainment house’s address. Clicking on the map, Jimin sees that it’s located in an affluent district a few blocks off the main intersections. The streetview presents a narrow yet clean road, surrounded by neatly stacked buildings that make the lopsided ones like The Gilded Rose look like child’s play. Whereas The Gilded Rose boasts a large neon red flower to advertise itself to passerby, Decadentia has no exterior signage. There is no paired business name with the online address either, just the street number and its four floors. Jimin types in Decadentia to his browser’s search bar, but nothing comes up other than the word’s etymology. Latin. Decadence. Luxury. Self-indulgence. Artistic deterioration.

Well, it sure sounds like the name of a strip club. But Seokjin sounded adamant about it not being one.

Jimin calls Namjoon next. “Be a dear and please come with me to check out this club as backup in case they want to chop me up and sell me like transport parts.”

As it’s east, Jimin takes the metro to Namjoon’s local stop and waits on the platform for him. Once Namjoon arrives, they ride the train together to the station closest to Decadentia's address. It spits them out about a ten minute walk from their destination, and Jimin feels particularly underdressed. Businessmen and -women stalk the streets in the latest professional wear, far fancier than anything Namjoon even owns. Those not coming from work are decked in impeccably tailored outfits, cinched at all the right places and purposefully baggy in all the others. Unlike the plastic straps and spray-painted chains that the youth mimic in the poorer districts, the ones worn here are real. They glisten under the illuminated street signs, accessorizing ruffled skirts below black leather bustiers and midnight blue sleeves. Others wear psychedelic coats of purple and silver with platform boots. The fashion is vivid and elaborate, a sea of shining color. Places like The Gilded Rose can afford to pretend its strippers are just as luxurious, but strip away the costumes and there is no comparison.

As Jimin and Namjoon escape the main roads towards Decadentia’s apparent address, the streets tighten and pedestrians lessen. The buildings are so tall that they feel like impenetrable walls. Jimin follows his mobile’s directions, stopping when it claims that they have arrived. Jimin recognizes the sight before him from the location’s internet search. He ends his route and tucks away his device, trailing towards the building’s entrance.

Like nearly every building, this one is shared. Its ground floor consists of a lobby open to the public. But when Jimin and Namjoon head for the elevator bank, Jimin realizes that it’s only accessible through a password. A quick glance at the stair doors reveals the same. Jimin presses down his mouth, turning on his heel towards the front desk. The young woman behind it resembles an elf with her pin-straight hair tucked behind her ears. She provides a polite smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“This is Decadentia, right?” Jimin asks.

She doesn’t even blink, just maintains her still expression. “How can I help you?”

Barely frowning at her lack of a proper answer, Jimin says, “I’m here to meet Kim Seokjin. I spoke to him on the phone earlier.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“What?” Jimin puzzles, furrowing his brows. “No, he just sent me this address and told me to come.”

“No appointment,” says the woman with her pasted smile, “no entry.”

Jimin shoots a strange look at Namjoon, who simply shrugs. Jimin then reaches into his coat, saying, “Here, I have his business card.” He pulls it out, displaying it for the woman to see.

She flicks her eyes to the card, only to repeat, “No appointment, no entry.”

Right as Jimin is about to press her to contact Seokjin for confirmation, one of three elevator doors slide open to reveal the man of the discussion. Looking just as refined as he had at The Gilded Rose, Seokjin’s dress shoes clack along the granite tile as he strides up to them.

“Maeri, I forgot to inform you of our guests today. Time got away from me in the last hour or so.” He turns to Jimin and Namjoon, saying, “I apologize for the shrewdness, but it’s necessary. You must be the moral support,” he tells Namjoon. “I’m Kim Seokjin, head of talent.”

“Hi, I’m Kim Namjoon, head of making sure you don’t murder my friend.”

“Delighted,” replies Seokjin, ignoring everything but the given name. “Jimin-ssi, Namjoon-ssi, if you’ll follow me.”

As Seokjin goes for the elevator, seamlessly pressing a numbered code into the wall panel, Jimin trails back and hisses at Namjoon, “I never told him my name.”

Namjoon shrugs, pressing into his side to whisper, “You said he dropped you 2K the other night. I’m sure it took less than that in bribes to get your real name from a disloyal staff.”

Jimin assumes Namjoon is right. He also tucks away a self-reminder to harass his co-workers during his next shift to find out who outed him. As a sex worker, his stage name is not only what maintains his persona. It’s not just so his neighbor doesn’t discover the real reason why he so often can afford to splurge on designer shoes here and there. Jimin’s true identity in the wrong hands threatens his safety, and he’s done a damn good job at preserving that for the past six years.

They ride the elevator to the 53rd floor, the second to tallest story of the building. The doors open up to reveal a handful of people inside a wide lounge and work area that spans across the whole floor, the entire exterior wall made of one-way glass to view the city beyond. The ground is glossy cream granite, the furniture even more vintage than Namjoon’s. But whereas his personal style is quaint and natural, this floor’s decorum is ornate and lavish. It’s clearly an office space, but it’s the most dramatically designed one Jimin has ever seen. On either side of the elevator are two halls that file deeper into the building. Seokjin takes them down the right one, passing strung up abstract geometric artwork between each door. They enter a room near the end, finding a spacious personal office large enough for its own tiny sitting area before the main desk along the far wall. It’s simpler here compared to the outside decoration, like how Seokjin’s dress is simpler in comparison to the wealthy citizens who stroll the streets below.

Seokjin takes a seat at one of the two low sofas that face each other in the center of the room. He fans a hand at the one opposite of him, which Jimin and Namjoon lower themselves down on.

“Would either of you like a drink?” he asks, motioning towards the coffee table and its tray of what’s likely alcohol.

“No, thank you,” Jimin answers.

“It’s not poisoned.” When none of them reply, Seokjin leans back and says, “Suit yourself. Jimin-ssi, thank you for accepting my offer to come chat with me.”

“I just came to find out what the hell this place is.” And from all he’s seen, it’s just an office. He guesses the bulk of his answers lie on the remaining three floors.

“I understand,” says Seokjin, unperturbed. “You should always research and weigh your options when making a decision. I’m glad you aren’t so trusting—it means you’re not so naive.”

Jimin’s tiring of the polite chatter. “What is this place?”

“A luxury entertainment house.”

“Yeah, you said that before. But what does that mean?”

Seokjin is looking at him as though he’s as exciting as a paper bag. Jimin isn’t used to it. It’s never Jimin’s goal to be vain, but working in an industry that consistently fawns over him makes him unintentionally expect the same treatment when he’s off the pole as much as when he’s on it. He knows that’s not realistic, that when he’s dressed from head-to-toe in a beanie with a makeupless face, no one looks at him twice. He’s even had people compare his natural soft features to that of a child’s, no matter how sharp the rest of him is.

Meanwhile, the desire for him when he’s done up doesn’t just come from stripping.

Three years ago, Jimin began posting neck-down photos of himself onto NSFW forums. When those began to gain traction, he started getting offers to provide more indecent pictures for credits. Videos came next. Eventually, Jimin trashed the concept of sending private clips and pics and traded it for posting his content on his very own paywall-blocked site (his face always hidden, of course). The subscribers pooled in. So did the credits. And the comments he receives up until now are nothing short of worship.

So, Seokjin knowing who he really is but not giving a single fuck makes Jimin shift in his seat.

“We offer prime entertainment to our guests,” Seokjin explains about Decadentia, “so they can shamelessly enjoy a pleasurable evening of the artistry and beauty of the human body. There are no poles here, but there is a stage. Sometimes, we have solo acts, and sometimes, we have pairs and groups. Those in the audience pay for club membership, and they can also choose to sponsor anyone in our proud pool of talent. Our performers are of the highest class, and they are treated as such. We provide them housing and a salary, but sponsorships tend to take care of much else. But performers with sponsors are not obligated in any way, shape, or form to return their thanks to their sponsors. Sponsors only ask that they continue to perform well for them. I’ve scouted you, Jimin-ssi, because I believe you’d be a fine fit here.”

Jimin has to slowly comprehend everything he’s just heard. In order to give himself some more time, he repeats, “A fine fit.”

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“Many strippers are talented,” Seokjin shares, crossing a leg over the other, “but many strippers are tainted. They’re tasteless, arrogant, and trashy. Their talent is not what we at Decadentia present to our guests.”

Seokjin’s words wrap up Jimin’s disbelief at the nature of the business. Jimin feels his fists clench defensively in his lap. “You ever think why so many people who choose to strip are the way you’re so insultingly describing them? That they don’t have any other choice? Or maybe they like it, and you’re just condemning their choice of sex work because it doesn’t match with your oh-so-perfect club?”

Seokjin blinks. “I am condemning their choice of sex work. It’s crude and mediocre.”

Jimin almost laughs. Almost. “Bashing my line of work is a great way of convincing me to stay here another thirty seconds.”

“Feel free to walk out whenever you’d like,” says Seokjin with a wave of his hand. “I won’t waste my time if you don’t want to listen. Don’t bother to threaten me with it, because I don’t care.”

Jimin believes him. He remains still in his seat beside Namjoon, waiting for Seokjin to continue.

Seeing that Jimin will not leave, Seokjin says, “My point, Jimin-ssi, is that you have the kind of potential we’re looking for. You’re not tainted—in terms of your craft, I mean. Who knows about anything else, but we can work through that. Your movements on stage are more so of a pure dancer versus someone who twerks into a man’s unwashed face for some spare credits. Your facial expressions are lovely, not lewd. There’s a natural beauty to you, something that you can only be born with. It can’t be taught. And your looks are exquisite. You’re sharp where it matters, and soft everywhere else. You have attractive proportions. Now, could you successfully put on a show? That’s another story. But I believe with the right training, you could. And the right motivation.”

He’s describing Jimin as a potential asset, like he’s a business plan. It’s as though Seokjin sees him as a robot rather than a human, just something made of parts that can get the job done and turn a profit. In one way, Jimin feels offended. In another, he feels relieved. He doesn’t remember the last time someone spoke about him so impressively without the attached objectification and desire. There’s no double meaning behind Seokjin’s words, no personal input.

“This …” Jimin trails, “this sounds crazy.”

“We are a one of a kind business.”

“No, like, this is actually crazy. This has to be a prank. Where are the cameras? Is there one there? Over there?”

“There are no cameras,” Seokjin says.

“Namjoon, do you see any cameras?”

“Um, no,” Namjoon says, though he doesn’t try very hard to look.

Before Jimin can shove at his friend, Seokjin cuts in, “I’d like you to accompany me to a show tonight, Jimin-ssi.”

Jimin maintains a semblance of curious cool. “A show? Here?”

“Yes, here. Your friend may come along, too. See a show and be your own judge of it all. I’m sure things will make a lot more sense once you see it with your own eyes. Tonight’s show is at 8:30, with dinner served beforehand. If you’d like to eat, we must head down now before the kitchen closes.”

“We already ate,” answers Jimin, not wanting to yield so easily just from a food offer.

“I didn’t,” Namjoon so unhelpfully comments. Jimin elbows him in the ribs.

“Then you are free to sip on one of our premium cocktails or try a small plate,” Seokjin gears towards Jimin. “We also offer an array of desserts. Come on, you two may follow me.”

As unsure as Jimin is about this entire experience, he can’t deny that he’s curious to see the rest of the business’s floors. Based on one entirely dedicated to offices—compared to the single, closet seized one inside The Gilded Rose—he assumes that Decadentia’s output is large enough to require its impressive backend workspace.

Seokjin leads them into the elevator, where he pushes the button for the floor directly below them. Though the total ride is shorter than ten heartbeats, Jimin feels like elevator music would have lessened the awkward silence amongst the three of them.

They step out into a lounge area similar to that of the offices above, but the difference here is that it’s clearly not for answering emails. And if he thought the floor above was fancily furnished, this area spits in his face.

Plush couches and chairs crowd around low tables, the lights dim enough to provide an atmospheric glow without sacrificing sight. Along the floor’s windowed-wall is an expansive bar with a towering assortment of refreshments, backlit in honey gold. Patrons recline throughout the room, dressed thrice as glamorous as those walking on the outside streets. They hold drinks in careful hands and nibble on decorated plates of steaming dishes. It’s like a cocktail lounge for the elitist of the elite. Jimin’s sure the chopsticks are even sterling silver. Eyeing the space, Jimin is reminded of vintage theater interiors. Not for movies, but for shows displaying dances, plays, and music. 

Seokjin doesn’t linger. He steers them right. Instead of two halls that dive further into the building like upstairs, there’s only a horizontal wall with spaced apart doors. With a quick glance behind him, Jimin sees that this wall expands along the other side of the elevator. The guests don’t pay any attention to Seokjin as they trail alongside it, but passing staff members bow their heads to him in acknowledgment. Seokjin returns the gesture.

Reaching the right far end of the room, Jimin sees that there is, in fact, a hall parallel to the floor’s massive windows, but it’s short, narrow, and only consists of a few more doors. Seokjin stops before one and motions towards it with an arm.

“After you,” he tells Jimin and Namjoon.

Expecting the worst, Jimin cautiously turns the door handle.

It’s not the worst. It’s a suite. It reminds Jimin of a sports venue suite, though much smaller and far more exquisite in design. Complete with a mini bar, standing tables, and a curled booth at the end, Jimin only momentarily registers each feature before his feet take him towards the end of the intimate room. He realizes that he’s in a second-floor single suite among a perimeter of suites, because beyond the curled booth, the suite’s vantage point overlooks a ballroom of sorts.

The geometric golden ceiling is high enough above even him to accommodate a massive crystal chandelier hanging from its center. It dimly illuminates the organized set-up below, packed with chattering patrons who dine and drink atop rosewood tables. Scarlet red and low-backed U-shaped booths spot the sleek black and white diamond floor, some small enough for two people with others large enough for six. More line each wall below the suites. Each party faces Jimin’s left, the star of the space being a dark wooden stage. It extends before a backdrop of draped curtains, which are lush yet delicate. It’s a small enough stage to appear intimate, but not so small that it couldn’t easily hold a choir.

The art deco hall drips in luxury and class. If Jimin felt underdressed outside … Well, he’s at least glad he’s in a private suite and not down on the main floor below so he can stick out like a sore thumb.

“What is this place?” Namjoon echoes, just as taken aback from Jimin’s side.

“Do the two of you have short-term memory loss?” Seokjin asks genuinely, picking up a tablet from the bar that Jimin must have skipped over. He comes over to where they stand, taking a seat on the ledge’s booth and holding out the tablet. “You may order any food and drink service from here. Normally, there’s a server in each suite to assist, but we’re not in here as typical guests.”

Namjoon takes the tablet, plopping down to skim through the loaded menu. Jimin just keeps staring over the balcony. He almost falls over it when he spots an infamously conservative assemblyman among the guests, sitting with two women young enough to be his granddaughters. Jimin is quite sure the man has a wife who’s conveniently nowhere to be found. They’re high school sweethearts, too.

“Ah, Assemblyman Goo Dongchul,” Seokjin says, following Jimin’s line of sight. “He’s a VIP member.”

Jimin says, “He advocates for segregating schools based on birth sex assignment and that science should be banned from the public education system—science. Like, all science.”

Seokjin shrugs.

Tearing his attention away from Goo Dongchul flicking a finger under one of his female companion’s chins, Jimin asks Seokjin, “What’s a VIP member?”

“Decedentia is a member-only club. Of course, those wishing to experience it as a first-time guest are more than welcome, but they are not allowed any further shows unless they join as a member. Memberships have monthly rates, and there are three tiers: Friend, Partner, and VIP. The higher the tier, the more expensive, but you earn the most benefits.”

Namjoon offers the ordering tablet to Jimin, done with inputting his own. Jimin wasn’t lying when he said he’d already eaten, but now that he’s here, he could go for a drink. Or two. Scrolling through the options, he asks Seokjin, “Like what?”

“The amount of shows you can attend per month, complimentary food and drink, reserved seating, and sponsorship access. VIPs have first pick when it comes to sponsoring our performers. VIPs also are the only ones permitted to join a special social hour with all of the performers of the night. Unfortunately, I can’t bring the two of you into tonight’s, but I’m sure you can imagine what that’s like.”

Jimin can’t, not when he still has no clue what type of performance this business puts on.

He orders a cocktail, something mildly strong and mildly sweet, before giving the tablet back to Seokjin.

“You’re not expecting us to pay for this, are you?” Jimin asks, fully ready to cancel his order. The prices had been displayed on the screen, and he could buy each ingredient himself to make his own drink for the cost of the menu’s version.

“No,” Seokjin confirms. “It’s on the house as part of our meeting.”

Taking advantage of that, Jimin further questions, “What’s a sponsorship?”

If Seokjin is irritated by Jimin being clueless about what the head of talent considers part of his day-by-day, he doesn’t show it. “It’s exactly what it sounds like. Members can sponsor a performer by financially supporting them, and in return, the sponsored performer is socially obligated to follow through with any of their requests. You’re a cammer—think of it like obliging a subscriber who sends in a big tip.”

Jimin tries to mask his surprise at Seokjin knowing he cams, considering Jimin has yet to ever meet someone who’s discovered he has two jobs instead of one. His online subscribers have never seen his face. They don’t know who he is or what he gets up to in his spare time. No customer from The Gilded Rose has put two and two together if they happened to also catch his camming content, but Jimin doubts any of them have at all. Though he uses the name Angel for both income streams, the name is far from unheard of. He’s one of many.

Then there’s the plethora of self-indulging content on the internet, so much that not one person could dig through even a percent of it during their lifetime. It’s so orderly structured, so niche, that only the national revenue system could know the details of his dual employment.

Or a talented hacker.

But he doesn’t think Seokjin is that computer savvy. Then again, Jimin knows nothing about the man besides the halo of superiority that he wears like an extension of his suit.

“What kind of requests are we talking about?” Jimin asks, already formulating an idea in his mind.

Seokjin waves a casual hand as he lists off, “Performance requests, such as performing with a certain partner, a certain kink, a certain outfit; then there are off-property requests, which are typically similar to dates. None of these are guaranteed to the sponsor; it’s completely a performer’s choice to accept and thus follow through with anything their sponsor desires. We do not force our acts to perform off-stage. However, I can’t say it’s not unexpected of them. It’s in their best interests. A sponsor serves no purpose if they receive nothing in return for their gifts. If a performer keeps denying a sponsor’s wishes, then the sponsor will likely cease all support, which benefits no one.”

“So,” Jimin summarizes, “if a performer wants a paycheck, they basically have to kiss up to the crowd and do whatever their sponsor wants.”

Seokjin exhales a curt breath. “No, Jimin-ssi. First off, our performers are paid a salary, one that offers them the chance to live quite comfortably without any sponsors. However, that is still not enough for most when more is so easily offered, so they often accept sponsors who wish to support them further. We run a very organized operation here, and that includes full protection for all of our staff. A large part of that is a no-touching policy that is strictly abided by unless the performer allows it. As I said, nothing is forced off-stage.”

“Like sleeping with your sponsor.”

“Precisely.”

“But it’s expected.”

Seokjin’s expression remains smooth, but his brief hesitation is enough to confirm Jimin’s assumption. Besides, Seokjin is the one who said it earlier. “Physical intimacy between performers and sponsors is not uncommon,” he continues, “but we do not advertise to our members that they will definitely receive that if they choose to sponsor. To elaborate on performers not being forced to perform off-stage, they still carry their Decadentia persona with them when they are not in this building. That is something we expect them to uphold when interacting with sponsors outside. In addition, we also expect our members to keep to our strict no-touch policy—unless a performer allows it, of course. And, again, that is not uncommon. But if it’s reported that a sponsor—and any member, for that fact—moves on one of our staff in a non-consenting, sexual manner, either on-property or off-, that member is banned. Forever. There are no exceptions.”

Jimin can’t say he’s unimpressed with the tailend of Seokjin’s explanation, or about the general idea of sponsorships. But he can’t help but think back to his years as a stripper, how all of his employers also have no touching policies, only for them to be worthless words. Jimin can’t survive off of sole stage money. He depends on lapdances and private shows in backrooms. He figures it’s not so different for the staff at Decadentia.

Then again, a salary would be nice.

A server enters their suite with a golden cart to deliver Namjoon’s dinner and Jimin’s drink. She wears a collared black bustier dress and low heels, her hair pinned up into a ponytail. With held-high shoulders, she wheels the cart towards their booth, stopping behind them. Before serving their orders, she pours three glasses of water from a pitcher. Delicately, she sets down elegant squared coasters atop their table that lines the ledge’s banister before topping them with the waters.

“I have a Winter Snap,” she then announces, holding out Jimin’s short glass of swirling dark purple liquid, topped with a speared blackberry and blueberry. He motions that it’s his, and she whips out a second coaster to carefully set it upon.

“I have the steamed sesame hanwoo dumplings, kimchi mac, and mapo tofu ramen.”

Namjoon excitedly raises his hand, and the server begins placing down his massive order. Beyond the three steaming dishes, the meals also come with banchan and rice. Jimin nearly gapes at him.

“What?” he shrugs, already picking up his chopsticks. “I’m hungry, and it’s free.”

Though no one asks, the server provides extra plates, bowls, silverware, and linen napkins. Once the spread is finished, she turns to Seokjin and says, “Would you like the usual, sir?”

He twists his mouth, like he hasn’t intended to order anything. But he relents, waving a hand. “Sure, go ahead.”

Rather than head back to wherever the kitchen is, the server travels to the in-suite bar and begins concocting a drink.

“Jimin, have some,” Namjoon urges, taking one of the small plates and setting it in front of him. Before Jimin can protest, Namjoon begins crowding the dish with two of everything. He even scoops out a good portion of the ramen with its tofu chunks and ground beef into a bowl. It doesn’t take long for Jimin to get that Namjoon ordered a lot on purpose.

With a sigh, Jimin grabs a pair of the ridiculous silver chopsticks and slides a plump dumpling in between. He dips it into its paired sesame sauce before placing it whole into his mouth.

He hates that he has to hold back a moan at the taste. The prime beef within is cooked to perfection, rolled up thick around sweet potato noodles and green onion.

Seokjin doesn’t wear a haughty face at Jimin’s culinary submission, but he watches him eat the dumpling, and for some reason, the lack of expression while he does it displays the same sentiment.

Jimin puts excessive focus into trying the kimchi mac next. He also has to refrain from another inappropriate noise.

After the server delivers Seokjin’s drink, which looks like whiskey, she bows low and departs.

Holding his tiny bowl under his chin, Jimin gently slurps the most boujee ramen he’s ever eaten while he more attentively watches the scene below. Various genders and ages deck the floor, every table occupied. Some parties are only made of one, while others are groups regally laughing over their late dinner. Jimin doesn’t think he’ll see anyone as shocking as the assemblyman, but his assumption is proved false when he spots a beloved celebrity. She’s an actress in her fifties, famously unmarried but owns floors upon floors of one of the tallest buildings in New Seoul where she lives with her ten adopted children and five dogs. Tonight, the kids must be home. She’s here with three others, perhaps friends or business partners. By the way she comfortably lounges along the velvet booth, this isn’t her first time.

“Can you imagine who else comes here?” Namjoon mutters to him, catching his line of sight.

“No,” Jimin admits. He expects stressed businessmen and businesswomen to let the edge off at a strip club every so often, but seeing well-known individuals attend a glamorized version of one is an interesting sight. 

Perhaps the specific clientele are unexpected, but overall, it doesn’t surprise Jimin. The famous and wealthy are no different than the rest when it comes to desire. In some ways, their access to all forms of ecstasy makes them worse off. It doesn’t become an escape for them, but an easily accessible lifestyle.

Jimin’s been in this industry too long to judge them for it. To him, it’s not just a lifestyle, but a method of not ending up living in a Box in the southernmost district, away from the hustle and bustle along the Han River. Boxes can barely even be called rooms.

Rather than coating the streets, the government set up housing programs for the homeless decades ago, back when buildings began their continuous rise into the clouds. The program advocated for the human right to shelter, but it was no more than a cover for shoving the homeless population away from affluent neighborhoods and cleaning the roads of any traces of the lower class.

The dedicated buildings are at the very southern edge of what still constitutes as New Seoul, stacked haphazardly and packed with tiny rooms called Boxes, named as such due to their small size. They can barely house a bed. They definitely can’t house a second piece of furniture, like a desk or dresser. Dozens of residents share a single bathroom. Multiple floors share a single kitchen. Enough taxes go into keeping the buildings running, but not enough to keep them clean. Jimin’s seen enough media on the dirty living conditions within, of the crime that plagues each floor. He doesn’t know where he’d be if he didn’t have his career. Living in a Box is the worst case scenario, but it’s not so difficult to spiral down into one.

Jimin’s career is a method of survival. He knows he’ll always have an audience, even as he ages. There’s a market for everything.

When most of the food is eaten up, including Jimin’s cocktail (it was really fucking good), he notices the downstairs’ servers begin to dissipate. The lights dim, including each and every bulb in the glamorous chandelier. The soft music that’s been filtering from hidden speakers louden just a bit more, the instrumental tune shifting to something enticing yet easy on the ears. As though telepathic, the guests shift towards the stage at the same time, honing their focus on whoever is coming on first.

For some reason, Jimin’s heart begins to pound. He’s not sure whether it’s anticipation or nerves. Maybe it’s a mixture of both.

“Not gonna lie,” whispers Namjoon, leaning into Jimin’s side, “I’m kinda scared right now.”

“I also might shit my pants.”

Namjoon snorts into a fist before eyeing Seokjin. The Head of Talent doesn’t seem to have heard them, but he lifts an eyebrow either way. Pay attention, the gesture reads.

Jimin clears his throat, watching the stage.

He thinks a platform is going to rise from the stage floor. Maybe smoke will ebb from the sidelines and fill the room in suspenseful shades of gray. But nothing like that happens. In fact, when a single young man steps out from behind the elegant curtains, Jimin thinks it’s rather anticlimactic. For one, he’s fully clothed.

At some point during dinner, stagehands had inconspicuously arranged a tufted upholstered bench atop the stage, complete with a small white chest at its side. With a spotlight shining down on him, the young man gracefully steps around the settee.

It’s an understatement to call him gorgeous. Thick, dark hair curls over his brow, sitting above large eyes that offer both innocence and vice at once. Above his strong jaw, he wipes the pad of two fingers over his lips as though he’s brushing away a crumb, but all it does is bring attention to his sly smirk. 

He must have had alterations done, like an extension of his eye corners or filling in his cheeks; his face is too structured to be natural. But Jimin’s uncertain. The young man’s features are also effortless. If he has gotten alterations, they were flawlessly executed.

He wears a perfectly fitted suit, its black blazer cropped above his trouser waistband to accentuate the width of his shoulders and the indent of his waist. Diamonds drip down the jacket hem like the outline of a corset, reflecting like stars under the white spotlight. His pants stretch just enough over his thighs as he sits on the edge of the bench, spreading his legs to lean forward on the heels of hands planted in between. Slowly, he scans the audience.

Jimin hasn’t even realized the music has stopped.

The man’s lips curl up, as if knowing Jimin and the rest of the crowd have only just now noticed the lack of instrumental. Like he knows how transfixed they were on him just walking around a fucking piece of furniture to sit his ass down.

He lifts a hand and waits a suspenseful second before snapping his fingers. The gesture is commanding. Mischief gleams in his eyes as he swings a leg over the bench and reclines back along it, head resting on its armrest. The idling music starts back up again.

“What the fuck is going on,” Jimin utters rhetorically.

Namjoon still answers, “Beats me.”

The tall curtains spanning floor to ceiling suddenly pull apart, revealing a massive screen behind it. The screen takes up the entire wall. It’s ideally brightened, not too much in the warm atmosphere, but enough to view the slow, swirling shapes like a brush running through paint frame the center closeup of the performer. His ethereal beauty is even more ridiculous in 8K.

Things start to make more sense once the man on stage begins to undress. He takes his sweet time doing so, the cameras on him providing cinematic shots for the big screen. It’s all part of the allure, Jimin learns. But what’s so stumping about it is how respectively sensual it all is. So far, there’s nothing wholly carnal about it.

Customers at The Gilded Rose, or any of Jimin’s past employers, look upon him like animals submitting to their fleshy instincts. Strippers strut around in the teeniest bit of fabric to cover the most important bits, but there’s little to leave to the imagination. Jimin must give into a customer’s blatant eagerness, playing the part of a dirty little thing to take advantage of.

With this man tantalizingly undressing on Decadentia’s stage, Jimin forces himself to look away, if only to look at the audience instead. He tries to find it, that greedy gaze that every customer at the strip club has ever landed on him. He shifts from the assemblyman and his two female companions to tables of people he doesn’t recognize. He skims the eye-level suites across the room.

Jimin comes up empty handed. Not one person is looking at the current performer like that.

Instead, Jimin strangely thinks he sees something like veneration.

“Far from the likes of The Gilded Rose, isn’t it?” Seokjin speaks quietly from the end of the booth.

Jimin snaps his head to him, finding pity amongst the pride. But before Jimin can judge too harshly, he understands that Seokjin’s pride in this moment is for Decadentia itself, not his own previous claims being proven true to a former disbeliever.

“There’s still stripping,” Jimin replies, unable to help it. Seokjin just quirks the barest of a smile, returning to watch the show.

“What’s his name?” asks Jimin, referring to the performer.

“BB.”

“That’s his stage name?”

“Yes. Those are crucial.”

Jimin glances back to the spotlighted man—BB—as he arches back along the bench, running slow hands down his now bare torso to tease the tip of his trousers. His fingers are like a pianist’s, long and slender. Right as he goes to unzip, the screen towering over his head flashes in red while the spotlight vanishes. It paints the room like blood. STOP reads across the color.

BB freezes. The audience offers small chuckles of surprised amusement.

Jimin can only watch, just as frozen as BB, as new words form. LUBE. FINGERS. CHEST.

The red returns to the previous screen, a close-up bordered by artsy graphics, as does the soft spotlight.

They’re commands, Jimin understands.

BB rises to his feet, padding over to the white chest. He never turns his back to the audience. Crouching down, he opens up the chest and pulls out a plain container that must contain lubricant. He returns to his spot on the bench, each step precise as if planned in advance. His every movement is with purpose, nothing uncertain or unstable. Back along the bench he goes, just as gracefully, where he makes a show of squeezing out two small dollops of lube onto his nipples. He flinches like it’s cold. Maybe it is. After setting the lube down, he gathers anticipation by first placing his fingertips on his ribs. He acts as though he’s hesitant to climb higher, to complete the command given. Each breath raises his diaphragm into the air, his flat stomach sinking in. Slowly, torturously, he finally flicks his thumbs over his slick nipples.

He caves at the touch, releasing a low moan.

Jimin’s been so carried away with the visual of it all that he only now realizes there’s a mic hidden somewhere. It picks up not only the moan, but every little breath BB lets out.

The performer plays away at his chest, his grown arousal straining below his tight trousers. His sensitivity pulls little noises out of him, his body ever so writhing from his own work.

Jimin has seen false acts of pleasure. He himself has to act like every unwanted touch at the strip club gets his dick hard. But with BB, there’s no over-dramatization. Even if he is performing, his reactions are as real as they get. Maybe he’s not one to naturally vocalize or shift around, and maybe he’s putting it on for the crowd. But the point, Jimin thinks, is that it appears as genuine as it can get. BB’s a phenomenal actor.

A performer.

STOP, the red screen says again. BB whimpers, ceasing his pinching. Jimin figures the area must be sore by now, that the bulk in his underwear must be throbbing.

“Is every show like this?” Jimin whispers to Seokjin, feeling like anything louder would reach across the room. “With the on-screen commands?”

“No,” he supplies. “This is just what one of BB’s sponsors requested he do today. The slideshow of commands come from his sponsor. There’s a plethora of what can be done on stage.”

Jimin cringes a bit when he questions, “Like, anything?”

“No, not anything. We only permit kinks up to a certain point. No one here wants to see our performers eat each other’s shit, Jimin-ssi.”

Namjoon, listening in, practically chokes beside him.

“Good to know,” Jimin says, meaning it. Engaging in scat play is most definitely the last thing he’d ever want to do. He feels nauseous just thinking about it.

Jimin continues watching BB follow his screened commands. BB eventually removes his pants to reveal a beautiful black lacework underwear that’s entirely for looks—seeing as it circles his thighs and hips without covering his cock or ass. Both sides are revealed to the audience, the back pert and the front a considerable size. BB is forbidden from touching his length. He’s yet to even trail a single finger around its head.

He can’t hide his frustration at it.

But that’s the point. The crowd is sucked into watching him struggle not to touch himself. Instead, he’s told to take a vibrator from the box of goods and use it only on his chest.

What absolute fucking torture, Jimin thinks.

And how fucking hot.

It’s not like Jimin has a say in how his own body reacts to sexual situations. Sometimes, while working at The Gilded Rose, Jimin finds himself turned on when he doesn’t want to be. It’s impossible for his blood not to rush down his naval and pool between his legs when he’s surrounded by stimulation for hours. Then there are days when he’s so out of it, when he’s only going through the motions, that he easily goes an entire shift flat. The atmosphere can appear unpleasant to him at times. It can be stifling enough to keep him down and uninterested.

Now, at Decadentia, he’s glad he’s already leaning into his booth’s table to better watch the show at hand. The surface covers his current erection bulging below his clothes. He wonders if Namjoon feels the same. What about Seokjin? The man works here, but not even he’s a robot made out of wires. Like Jimin working at the strip club, Seokjin must have instances in which he reacts without wanting to.

Just how many audience members are aching down below? They don’t show it. They just continue looking at the only one who can show it.

As BB both works and restrains, he’s a perfect picture of artful eroticism. Jimin feels shy watching him. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt this way when it came to sex, not when he spends most of his week wrapped up in it. He figures he’s been numbed to it all, at least until right here, right now. Now, his breaths are weakening like BB’s. He keeps a leg tightly crossed over the other as BB cries out and lifts his hips, his cock leaking precome onto his smooth stomach. Jimin doesn’t realize he’s grinding down his jaw until BB opens up his own, releasing a breathless stream of sounds as white splatters over him like webs.

He really just did that—came from his own solo nipple stimulation.

The hall claps. They applaud him.

BB is still coming down from his orgasm, chest rising and falling while he stares up at the ceiling. But a blissful smile stretches his mouth.

The spotlight suddenly vanishes and the screen goes black. The chandelier dims to nothing. Murmurs fill the darkened room, but not in concern. This must be part of it. While the crowd discusses the show they just witnessed, BB must be exiting his completed spectacle.

Jimin’s guess is proved correct when the lights slowly dim back to their low, comfortable level to reveal an emptied stage. Not only is BB gone, but so are the chest and bench. The screen between the pulled back curtains suddenly displays a digital clock ticking down from ten minutes. In response, a handful of audience members stretch from their chairs, others walking towards a set of doors that point towards a bathroom.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Seokjin announces, pushing up to his feet. “This is an intermission; there are two more acts. But I think you’ve seen what you must. Come on. I’ll guide you two out.” He tilts his head for Jimin and Namjoon to follow before going for the suite’s door, not checking to see if they’re behind him.

Jimin and Namjoon side glance each other.

“You can go first,” Jimin says.

Namjoon blinks at him. He, too, is still pressed along the booth’s table. “Oh. No, no, you can. I’m just your bodyguard. Go ahead.”

Jimin might make a dirty joke and laugh was he not so flabbergasted by this entire fucking business. With a curt sigh, Jimin slides out of the other end of the booth, hastily stalking after Seokjin and hoping his dick deflates within the next thirty seconds.

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

Standing behind Seokjin and beside Namjoon in the elevator, Jimin tries to comprehend what he just witnessed.

“It’s exhibitionism,” he announces, voicing his rampant thoughts. “And voyeurism. Maybe more so the latter considering the ones on stage are working for a paycheck while those in the audience are kicking back with wine and snacks.”

“Yes,” is all Seokjin says towards the shut elevator doors. They open on the ground level, where the same elvish-looking receptionist from before still sits behind the front desk. She nods in acknowledgment towards Seokjin before he halts on his heels. Jimin nearly barrels into him.

“Do you have any more questions for me, Jimin-ssi?” he asks, turning to face him.

“I have a million.”

“That’s too many, I’m afraid, but I’m sure most of them can be answered if you decide to accept my job offer.”

Jimin’s slammed with the reality of why he’s at Decadentia in the first place. He’s not one of the wealthy viewers coming here after a rough day of delegating an entire corporation or rather fishing on a yacht along the coastline. He’s here to get a taste of what a performer like BB does for a stable salary and sugar daddy—excuse him—sponsorship funds.

Picturing himself on stage in BB’s place, getting off in front of a live audience who can see his face, who knows him even if his true name remains a mystery …

Uncertainty drains down his chest like tree sap.

“I can give you one more week to make a final decision,” Seokjin tells him, reading him like an open book. “You have my number.” He flashes his stare to Namjoon and then back to Jimin, adding, “Today’s experience was a privilege, one that only survives through loyal discretion. I’d hate for my hospitality to be returned with big mouths.”

“We won’t tell anyone about this place,” Jimin quickly assures. When Namjoon doesn’t instantly agree, Jimin elbows him, receiving a yelp.

“Ow—! Of course, we won’t say anything. God, can you imagine me discussing my interesting evening out over morning meetings with my agent? Yeah, don’t worry, I’m not saying a word.”

Seokjin presses out a thin smile. “Wonderful. Jimin-ssi, again, call if you’re interested. Have a good night.” He nods his head before departing back towards the elevator, walking away as though he just got out of a mediocre movie instead of a public masturbation.

Back out on the street, Jimin checks his mobile and is surprised at the time. He’s been here almost an hour and a half. BB’s performance must have been twenty or so minutes.

“Holy fuck, that was insane,” comes Namjoon’s voice from beside him. They make their way back towards the metro, the night time air a bit brisk between the buildings.

“I know,” Jimin mumbles in agreement, brushing his fingers through his bangs.

“No, I mean, that was probably the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Jimin drops his arm, doing a double take. “What?”

Namjoon’s walking with a slight bounce, exhilaration in each step. “It felt like I stepped back in time a few hundred years into some hidden sex club in Paris.”

“And why do you sound like you enjoyed that?”

Namjoon shoots him a frown. “Why do you sound like you didn’t?”

Jimin doesn’t miss the insinuation that he should have found Decadentia heaven on earth considering his career path. 

“I thought that place would be right up your alley,” adds Namjoon.

“It’s just …” Jimin trails, blowing out a confused sigh. He shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “I don’t know. That performer, BB—everyone can see him.”

“So? Everyone at the strip club sees you. They especially see you when you cam.”

“There’s a reason why stripteases are called a tease, Namjoon. And with camming, no one sees my face. What went on back there … come on,” he scoffs. “It was kind of creepy.”

“How?” asks Namjoon. “Based on what Kim Seokjin said about the process, it seems like the performers are really taken care of. How is that place any more creepier than you being taken advantage of by stripping? At least at Decadentia, you’re being worshiped like some god instead of a shiny new toy to use and abuse.”

Jimin wants to continue his opposition, but he can’t. He thinks that maybe he’s so reluctant to accept Decadentia because it’s exactly what Namjoon is describing it as—something he’s never been lucky enough to experience himself. How can it be so simple? How can a business like Decadentia exist? It baffles him. It intrigues him. It creeps him out because he’s never thought that sex workers could be viewed so wholesomely.

It’s a contradiction.

Back in that performance hall, the audience watched and applauded BB like he was a genuine piece of art. No one objectified him with hungry eyes or by getting off at their tables. He commanded their entire attention, and with it, their respect.

In actuality, Jimin finds the entire thing rather amazing.

It’s unconventional, that’s for sure, but it’s the type of environment that sex workers would probably give up an arm and a leg to be a part of. The business provides audience members to engage with sex in its purest form by solely being a witness to a live demonstration of its beauty. And if the performers are really taken care of as well as Seokjin explained, then it’s true that they can’t be used the way Jimin’s used each week.

Maybe Decadentia isn’t so bad.

But after freshly stepping off its property, Jimin’s still too shocked to consider the job offer so rationally. It sheepishly twists his gut. Jimin’s not used to feeling so bashful, and it’s blinding him.

Chapter Text

“Dino Face is into you,” Dosan croons, twirling around Jimin in the employee dressing room. He crooks an elbow atop a locker that isn’t his, resting his freshly powdered face in his palm while he offers Jimin a flirty smile.

Both he and Jimin recently finished the first stage routines of their shifts. Peppered in sweat from the movement and lights, they’ve disappeared from the club floor for a few minutes to towel away the evidence of a successful show.

Jimin inspects himself in the strung up mirror on his interior locker door, applying a fresh coat of lip gloss. “Who’s that again?”

“Is a dinosaur face not explanatory enough? He was sitting on the left near the back wall and eyeing you like an ice cream cone.”

Jimin shrugs. He knows who Dosan is talking about. The middle-aged man had his focus locked onto Jimin the entire performance, his rough jaw quirking the barest of a haughty grin. He looked like any other self-serving customer.

It’s not like it’s rare for customers to turn their eyes towards Jimin. He knows he pulls people in like magnets with the bedroom eyes they claim he dons. It’s not so special to him when someone in the crowd gives their undivided attention. If they didn’t, Jimin wouldn’t have a job.

“Are you telling me to let him lick me up?” Jimin asks Dosan, screwing closed the cap of his lip gloss.

“Yeah, or I’ll take your place.”

Jimin hums a giggle, stashing away the gloss and shutting his locker. He opens an arm towards Dosan, who gets the silent request and slips his own through Jimin’s.

“No way I’m letting you take my special admirer,” Jimin tells him as they head for the club’s floor. “You think he’s loaded?”

“He’s dressed like it.”

Dosan’s right. Entering the darkened club highlighted in shades of pink, Jimin spots Dino Face only a few paces away, leaning against the end of the bar. It’s a far separation from where he lounged before. His clothes aren’t over the top, but Jimin recognizes designer logos printed onto his jacket in curling initials. He sees the famous straps on the man’s shoes that reveal a high-end brand.

Of course Jimin will placate this man’s interest. Perhaps the guy will tip enough so Jimin’s earnings tonight can get him a pair of those shoes for himself.

Jimin winks at Dosan before the two go their separate ways, Dosan playing hard to get by strutting past a man who clearly means to introduce himself before Dosan brushes by, leaving the interested onlooker in the dust. The man scrambles after Dosan’s lithe frame.

Jimin tears his gaze away from the amusing sight before landing on Dino Face, properly named for his harsher features. He sports monolid eyes, high cheekbones, and a high hairline. Jimin pegs him at fifty, max, but he’s yet to let age clutter his skin with overt lines and piled fat. The man is likely proud of how groomed he still appears. He probably thinks people like Jimin find it attractive.

Jimin finds none of his customers attractive.

Jimin downturns his chin and glances at the stranger, feigning modesty. He’s never seen this man before. Granted, not everyone who shows up at The Gilded Rose is a regular, but a good amount of them are.

Like Gochujang, named because the first time Jimin gave him a lapdance, Jimin had to suffer through the man’s chili paste-scented breath. The poor memory of a man strides over to Jimin now, expectation in his gait.

Regulars think they’re owed everything.

“Angel, baby,” Gochujang coos, lifting a hand as though to skim Jimin’s bare arm, but he doesn’t. At least he knows how to keep his hands to himself. “I came here last night, but you weren’t working.”

Dino Face watches their interaction carefully. He takes the short glass of whatever alcohol he’s ordered to sip at, small eyes focused over the rim.

“Are you telling me you still don’t know when I work?” Jimin teases, placing a hand of mock disappointment over his heart. Tonight, he wears a white harness that circles his ribs and crosses in an X over his sternum. His fingers hook invitingly onto the material.

Gochujang clicks his tongue, stepping one foot closer. It’s a claim for Dino Face to see. “Aye, that’s not fair. Your schedule always changes.”

“But I never work Wednesdays,” Jimin grins. He naturally shifts some distance between him and Gochujang, half-turning towards Dino Face. It’s an invitation, a show that Jimin’s not set on going along with Gochujang. Dino Face isn’t daft. He downs his final sip of alcohol, pressing away from the bar. His full height is tall, even taller than Namjoon. He towers over Gochujang, who only reaches Jimin’s brow.

The moment Dino Face arrives, Gochujang rustles and pulls two bills out of his pockets. “100 to come with me, Angel. Maybe you’ll get some more the longer the night goes on.”

Dino Face almost snorts. He pulls out his own bills. “300 for thirty minutes in a champagne room.”

Well, that’s a no-brainer. Jimin toodles goodbye to a gaping Gochujang before strutting towards the back hall where there’s a slew of private rooms for personal shows. He doesn’t check to see if Dino Face is following.

A few of the rooms are already occupied, as shown by the red light on the sleek door panels. Despite the color, the doors don’t lock. Bouncers stand on either end of the hall, ready to sprint into action if anything gets out of hand. One scream and they’ll come barging into an unlocked room.

With five months at The Gilded Rose, Jimin luckily has yet to witness a bouncer needing to come to the rescue. He can’t say the same for previous employers. But, why scream when you can suck it up and get paid?

That’s what Jimin tries to believe, anyways. He’s not the best at it.

Jimin catches Dino Face on his tail when he turns towards an unoccupied room, its panel lit in green. With a turn of the knob, Jimin enters the intimate room. One wall holds a high-backed loveseat bordered by two drink tables, red light beams over the seat washing it with the color. It faces a circular platform and pole meant for one, flush up against a wall coated in faux roses. Jimin goes for the pole, toying with his bottom lip as Dino Face takes a seat across from him.

“You were watching me earlier,” Jimin begins, slinking a hand over the cold metal. “It had me giggling backstage.”

It’s not a lie. But how Jimin says it, like it gives him butterflies—that’s dishonest.

“Is that so?” Dino Face says, not exactly amused, but not uninterested. His curved brows are lofty, but his tone is difficult to read. Jimin doesn’t like that. Ambiguous customers are dangerous customers. Jimin can’t predict what they’re willing to do.

“Yes,” Jimin answers, leaning back along the pole, his hands behind him. “And now you bring me here, so sure of yourself. You taking me away out there? That was impressive.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

Jimin’s used to masking his expression to customers, but not even he can help the slight flinch of his mouth at the unexpected words.

“You don’t strike me as the easy type,” the man continues casually, resting against his seat back like it’s his own couch in his own living room. “Yet you flatter me before I even flatter you. Aren’t you supposed to wait a bit so you don’t reveal to me how desperate you are for my money?”

Outside of these walls, Jimin prefers it when people are straightforward. He plays enough games during his shifts that he can’t stand it from anyone else. But at work, flirty little games are what keeps him safe—the scripted words, the playing along, the equal understanding of what Jimin being a stripper means without ever actually saying it.

Breaking the fourth wall of Jimin’s improv play can make it lose control beyond his power.

Like right now.

“Your eyes have been flattering me ever since I stepped out on that stage,” Jimin seamlessly replies. “You don’t need to compliment me with your tongue when your body language says enough. But shouldn’t you flatter me with some compliments anyways to try and receive service for less than your starting offer? If anyone’s desperate for anything, it’s the one who took me to this room.”

Jimin’s heart thumps against his bones. He hopes he hasn’t misread the nature of the conversation. Some like it when he fights back, whereas others prefer him to fawn at their feet. He can’t tell which one Dino Face wants.

But then Dino Face chuckles. “Touché,” he says.

Jimin silently sighs in relief. “Any special requests? I’m quite flexible around the pole. Time is ticking.”

The man pats his thigh. “I don’t care for pole dancing.”

Like a cat, Jimin prowls over to the man. Jimin goes to bend low over him, to whisper something enticing into his ear, but he’s disrupted when the man snatches his elbow and tugs him onto his lap.

Jimin flusters a demure act to hide his unease. “Oh, Mister, come now, you know this is only meant for your eyes.” He tries to climb off, but Dino Face digs his meaty hands into Jimin’s waist, rendering him stuck.

“Spare me,” the man chortles, close enough for Jimin to see the individual pores of his nose. “I’ve been to enough of these shitholes to know what coming back to a room like this means. Don’t tell me you don’t, unless you’re fresh bait. But based on the way you moved out there, I doubt it. You know exactly what being in here with me means. Don’t try to play like you don’t.”

“I’m afraid this isn’t that type of place,” Jimin quips, “but I promise I can still make it—”

“It’s not?” he cuts off airily, like he knows the answer to his own question. “My cousin tells me the opposite. He boasts to me about this pink paradise whenever he’s lucky enough to get even two minutes of my time. He’s been obsessed with besting me since we were kids. I admit,” Dino Face sighs, glancing around the red-hued room, “his place looks successful, but it means nothing if his strippers don’t do their fucking jobs and strip .”

Jimin’s clenching down so hard on his jaw he fears his teeth will crack. Slowly, cautiously, he asks, “Who’s your cousin?”

“Lim Chahwan,” says the man, brows flicking up in amusement at the recognition flashing across Jimin’s irises. “The name rings a bell?”

Lim Chahwan. Manager Lim. Jimin’s boss. The boss of The Gilded Rose in its entirety. Shit.

It’s like Jimin can physically feel the blood draining from his face, like it’s spilling down his neck and a thick towel is sopping it all up.

“Now you get it?” Dino Face tells him, resting the back of his head along the loveseat to stare at Jimin down his nose. He brushes his thumbs over Jimin’s bare waist. Jimin forces himself not to jerk at the touch. “I’m guessing you work at this dump because it’s all you can get. You’re a pretty one. I’d hate to tell my worshiping cousin how poor you are at your job.”

Jimin’s built a considerable reputation as a stripper. He doesn’t stay at a place for too long, but it’s not from the fear of being fired. It’s not his boss’ cousin giving him a bad review that worries him.

Manager Lim is obsessed with status. He prides himself on The Gilded Rose being one of the more popular strip clubs, not just in Sinwon, but in all of New Seoul. Beyond status, Lim is a people person. Jimin doesn’t mean that in a warm-hearted, altruistic way. Lim likes having friends, and he has many. He likes impressing those friends with his success.

If it’s true that he views this man, his cousin, as someone worthy of impressing, then he won’t just take his cousin’s bad review to heart—he could put Jimin on a blacklist. By word-of-mouth, he could spread to other club owners not to hire Jimin, that Jimin wouldn’t perform for a family member and that he embarrassed the entire business. That Jimin, on the basis of wanting to follow modest rules that no one really expects him to follow, polluted what should have been an obvious obligation to a paying customer of significant importance.

Camming isn’t enough to get by, he thinks. It’s not. The camming industry is too saturated with competition. If he can’t strip, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He doesn’t have a higher education degree. He has no one, no one, to help him financially. Namjoon would, but Jimin would never accept it, not unless he was on the streets living in a gutter. Jimin has no other skills, no way in to anything else. He has no family. After growing up well and then losing it all, to becoming a stripper to gain some of it again, he can’t go back. He can’t.

But he’s shaking. He closes his fists to hide it. If the man catches any wind of his nerves, he’ll only treat Jimin harsher. Being genuinely submissive in this line of work invites danger.

So, Jimin exhales a long breath and relaxes. He unclenches his fists and slinks an arm around Dino Face’s neck, his other hand tugging on his jacket lapel. “There’s no need to tattletale,” Jimin says sweetly. “I’d have responded better had I been told we had a special guest today. We do like to treat our special guests.”

The man scoffs a laugh. “You’re either vapid or a quick thinker. Either way, I’m glad you get it now.”

“Mmhm,” Jimin hums, nodding. “Let me continue my dance for you. Just relax and let me do all the work.”

“Oh, no, I’m not much of an observer. I prefer mutual involvement.”

Jimin screams in his head, Then go to a full-service club, you fucker!

“Don’t worry, Angel.” He removes a hand, sliding it under his jacket. “I pay handsomely for my demands.” He pulls out more faux credit bills. It’s another 300. Jmin thinks about how Seokjin gave him 2,000 for just going through the motions of his shift. He bites out a pathetic laugh at the sight before he can stop himself. 

The man’s gaze flickers in irritation.

Jimin quickly saves himself, cooing, “Oh, you must really like me, huh?”

The man buys it. “You’re not the most stunning I’ve ever seen,” he admits, scanning over Jimin’s frame, “but you have enough charms about you. Like these lips of yours.” He runs a finger over them, smearing the gloss. “People pay for lips like these, injecting them with stuffing. But you’re lucky. I can tell when it’s real.”

Jimin just hums a shy sound, hoping the man doesn’t notice how frail it comes out.

“And these thighs …” Dino Fance runs both hands over his bare legs before gripping them, digging in his shorn nails. “The rest of you is on the slimmer side, but these are glorious. They’re why you have this.” He dips his palms under Jimin’s ass to clutch at, lifting him so he’s planted on top of the man’s hands.

Jimin’s throat is closing up. With a haste swallow, he breathes, “You’re a sweet talker, I see.”

The man tilts his head in consideration. “Sometimes, if the person deserves it.” With a slight pull, he brings Jimin closer onto his lap. “What will it be, Angel? Will I continue to sweet talk you?”

It’s a blatant threat. If Jimin complies, he’s perhaps not only sweet talked, but will leave this room without any blotting bruises. Those who like it rough leave traces. When it’s too much, it can’t be covered in makeup, and that will mean he’ll have to sit out shifts until he’s healed. It’s never happened to Jimin while at The Gilded Rose, but he’s seen it. If Jimin doesn’t comply …

He has to find a way to take control of the situation. To make it seem like this man is leading when, in fact, he’s not. The discomfort will be lesser this way.

“I hope so,” Jimin whispers into his ear, curling his fingers into the man’s cropped hair. “I like being praised.”

“Let’s hope you’re worthy of my praise.”

“Oh, I know I am.”

Jimin forces his breath to remain steady, to not give in to the fear bubbling in his stomach. He can’t panic. He can’t display any disturbance.

Dino Face releases Jimin from his hold, and for a split second, Jimin thinks the man’s been teasing him this entire time. He thinks that this man just wanted to get a rise out of him, to play with his cousin’s staff as a test.

But Jimin’s train of thought is corrected when the man orders, “Take off those pretty shorts and get on your knees for me, Angel.”

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

Jimin’s not enough of an amateur to run to the toilet and vomit out his dinner once he leaves the champagne room. But he has to tightly hold the straps of his harness to keep his hands from shaking any more. He hasn’t had to submit to a customer in a long time. He almost forgot what it was like. At least this time, it was only his mouth that had to suffer through it, as well as the mortification of having to have his throat fucked into while being utterly naked so the man could relish in his indencency.

Jimin hates that he has four more hours of his shift.

He heads for the staff-only bathroom, not for the toilet, but for the sink. He pumps two globs of soap onto his hands before roughly washing his skin up past his wrists. He washes his hands again. With the soap drained away, he lets the sink water pool in his cupped palms before bringing it to his mouth to gargle. He spits. He does it again. He figures he should start bringing a toothbrush with him to work. He doesn’t know why he stopped.

That’s a lie. He knows why.

He’s let himself get too comfortable.

After work, he’s supposed to grab drinks with a former co-worker from a past strip club, but he cancels it. Rough night, is all he gives as an excuse. His friend gets it.

Jimin hugs himself on the metro ride home. He can’t bring himself to plug in earbuds and listen to any music.

When he gets to his apartment, he washes himself three times in the shower and spends fifteen minutes just standing under the hot water once the suds have long swirled down the drain. It’s a notification noise from his mobile that snaps him out of it, and he shuts off the water. Toweling himself dry, he pads over to where he left his device on the sink surface. Expecting maybe a text from the friend he canceled on, he instead sees his next shift schedule for the following week.

He stares at the notification until the screen goes dark.

When it does, he unlocks his mobile, navigating to his recent call log. He eyes Kim Seokjin’s name.

Then he sees the time and realizes it’s half-past three in the morning.

Jimin clicks off his device, removing the towel wrapped about him to dress and go to bed. He has to work again tomorrow.

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

Jimin waits five more days. He spends each one thinking it through in thorough detail. This isn’t a decision to make on a whim because of one bad night.

He weighs the pros and cons, even going so far as to write out a fucking list on his mobile while he’s on the metro. Some poor elderly lady sits next to him while he does so, and while she’s innocently glancing around, she inadvertently lands on Jimin’s screen.

Pro: I get loads of money from sponsors who worship me for being a beautiful, sexual being.

Con: I probably have to fuck the sponsors for them to give me their money.

The lady bristles and turns away.

Jimin doesn’t go to Namjoon with this, because there isn’t much Namjoon could say to sway him. This is the type of decision that only Jimin can make for himself, the type that will entirely change his life, and no matter what Namjoon thinks about it, the only one the choice will be affecting is Jimin. He has to ultimately choose and go with what he picks as the best path for himself.

He calls Seokjin the day of the deadline.

“Park Jimin,” Seokjin drawls when he picks up.

“What, no fancy title as a greeting?” says Jimin, referring to the only ever call they’ve had. Jimin sits at the desk in his room, eyes focusing on nothing in particular as he hones his senses to his ears. His mobile sits directly before him, its sound on speaker.

Seokjin doesn’t quip back a retort, but only says, “Do you have a decision for me?”

Jimin toys with his fingers in his lap, his forearms pressing into his desk’s edge. “Yes. I … I’m interested.”

“Splendid,” Seokjin replies, like he’s splendid over a cup of daily coffee—content, but expected. “We can schedule a time for you to come down to Decadentia where we can begin the onboarding process.”

“Onboarding?”

“You’re calling to accept my offer to work here as a performer, are you not?”

Jimin’s quiet. Now that he’s speaking with Seokjin after mulling it over all week, the thought of taking that next step to make it official locks up his vocal chords. In this instant, every pro flies out the window—he’d ended up making more pros than cons when he wrote his list. But he’s finding it difficult to recall them now.

“Jimin-ssi,” says Seokjin pointedly over the line. “You showcased your interest last time we met. This call, however, is either to accept my offer or to decline it. If you accept, I’ll electronically send you an employment contract, which you’ll need to sign before we can onboard you. If you come across anything in the contract you cannot accept, then you don’t have to sign it, and we never have to see each other again. Or, you could decline my offer right now so we don’t waste each other’s time any further. Which is it going to be?”

It might be off-putting in some ways, but Jimin appreciates Seokjin’s inability to bullshit him.

With a deep inhale and following exhale, Jimin answers, “I accept.”

“Wonderful.” Seokjin slightly sounds like he means it this time.  “I’m very happy to hear that. If you could text me your email right now, I can send over the relevant documents. When you sign and send them back, also include your availability from this week into next, and I’ll get back to you on a date and time for you to come to Decedentia.”

With stiff hands, Jimin reaches for his phone. “All right.” Still on the call, he opens his messenger and texts his email address to Seokjin. “What’s that for, me coming to the club? Is there training? Or house rules, or something?”

“You’ll see in the contract what’s expected of you, including initial training. But the first day for you will just be a verbal explanation of all of that, including a more detailed tour of the building, introductions, et cetera. From there we’ll work on a schedule for you. Sounds good?”

“Yeah,” Jimin says. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Oh, and Jimin-ssi,” Seokjin says. “Please read the contract carefully. Read it twice, if you have to. We run a very smooth yet specific operation, and everyone must be on the same page. All of us at Decedentia have a very respectful and, dare I say, friendly relationship with one another. That’s maintained through order with enough wiggle room to make everyone happy. Like I said, if there’s even one thing you cannot accept, then I suggest you decline my offer. Understood?”

Jimin nods despite Seokjin not being able to see him. “Yes, I get it.”

“Good. I’ve just emailed you the relevant documents. Once you sign them, the program they’re in will immediately show me you have, so no need to worry about sending anything back beyond your availability. I look forward to working with you. Have a good day.”

Seokjin ends the call, and Jimin immediately opens up his inbox. On seeing the lengthy contract, he forgets his mobile and wakes up his monitor, the large screen sleek and wide enough for him to better view the documents.

Jimin doesn’t read the contract twice; he reads it four times. His vision is a blur of fuzzy lines from the small, detailed text, and it’s detailed, all right.

He almost passes out when he reads what his salary will be, including the slew of benefits, such as various insurances and retirement savings. Seokjin was right when he said it’s enough for performers to live comfortably without any sponsors. Jimin can’t even begin to imagine how pampered the performers are with the additional support. It must make them just as wealthy as the members paying to watch them. If Jimin earns himself sponsorships, he won’t just be able to no longer worry about paying his monthly rent—he could move into one of those penthouses in the clouds. Rumor has it that with homes so high, residents don’t even need to come to the ground to run their errands. Businesses geared towards the wealthy sit somewhere halfway in the air, connected by skywalks.

But without any sponsors, Jimin must live in a dormitory. The contract delves into his initial living situation, which requires him to remain at a dorm provided by Decadentia, where he will share a room with another. The reasoning states safety and convenience. Only a sponsor providing him a new home permits him to live elsewhere. Jimin finds the logic in that, even if he’s reluctant to trade his solo lifestyle for a roommate.

Beyond needing to initial his name beside the housing agreement, Jimin must sign the obvious—that he accepts to partake in sexual activity. What’s relieving to him is that there is a non-exhaustive checklist he must fill in on what he is absolutely okay and not okay with partaking in. Additionally, there’s a large blank box for him to elaborate and add any comments on options that are not presented. He can even specify who he will perform with—men, women, both, non-binary, et cetera. However, there’s a small list of definites he must agree to. If he doesn’t, then this contract is void. It includes basic requirements, such as being fully naked and performing with more than one person at a time.

Jimin carefully goes over this section. A disclaimer assures him that if he changes his mind on anything, it can always be edited, but for right now, he wants to be sure.

He must train for three months before he’s evaluated and then allowed to begin performing. If he’s not considered satisfactory during his final evaluation, he will be cut, and that will be that. If he passes his training evaluation and becomes an official performer, he will first only be permitted to perform in pairs or groups. Solo work is for the experienced.

He reads through the training details, learning that there are an array of components. There’s modern dance lessons to stretch his body and acquire graceful movement. There are sex studies taught from a philosophical perspective in order to think thoughtfully about his position and understand just what Decadentia stands for. There are physical sex lessons in which he will learn to perform on stage.

Jimin fully gets why Seokjin is offended by comparing Decadentia to a typical strip club. Jimin’s never experienced anything like this. He’s never heard of anything like this.

Despite the clear benefits, Jimin finds his cursor blinking over the blank final signature line.

Up until now, he’s been a sex worker who’s hardly ever had to have any actual sex. Beyond the misery of his first full-service club, he’s been lucky enough to only ever deal with creeps like Dino Face once in a blue moon. As a stripper, he’s mostly only done just that—strip. As a cammer, he’s only pleasured himself.

But at Decadentia, he’ll be in front of a live audience. It’s not necessarily the act of performing sex that keeps him still in his desk chair, but the thought that if he does this, all of him will be on display. He’ll be unable to hide a thing.

His lashes flutter closed as he remembers watching BB.

The crowd engaged as though they watched a theater performance, not some raunchy porn video. Jimin tries to pick out shame or degradation in the show, to find anything that might make him decline this job offer, but he can’t. BB was a star.

But can Jimin be a star like him? Will Jimin even be good enough? Seokjin thinks so just from seeing him one night at The Gilded Rose, but that isn’t even the type of work that Jimin will be doing if he signs this contract. Why does Seokjin believe he’s a sure fit? Jimin knows Seokjin explained his reasoning, but it’s made up of hopeful assumptions.

Still, Seokjin doesn’t seem like a man who misjudges. The most Jimin can do is try.

He signs the final line on the contract.

The worst that can happen is that he completes his training only to fail the final evaluation. If that’s the case, he can just return to stripping and camming. No harm done. And, at least spending three months on Decadentia’s payroll will set him up for a handful of following months if he spends his money right.

Jimin lastly fills out the direct deposit form before sending Seokjin his availability for his onboarding meeting at Decadentia’s office.

The next day, Jimin quits The Gilded Rose.

Chapter Text

YOU FUCKING TRAITOR

Jimin snickers at the text from Dosan, even if he feels a slight pang hidden in the humor.

YOU COULDN’T EVEN SAY GOODBYE?!?!??!?!?!?

Jimin sends back, we can go out whenever you want. you can buy me a goodbye dinner

a goodbye dinner on MY credit when you weren’t even here 6 months? yeah fucking right. what club got you to move?

Jimin wants to tell him. Dosan is the only co-worker from The Gilded Rose who welcomed him. He’s the only one who joked with him, who had his back, and who wasn’t envious, hateful, or petty. But Jimin can’t tell Dosan a thing about his new employer. Decadentia operates silently. Though it’s a perfectly legal business, it’s an if-you-know-you-know type of business. When Jimin was reading over the contract, he realized he was a lucky bastard to be able to bring Namjoon along as moral support.

Seokjin must have really wanted him.

I’m doing something a little different from stripping, Jimin texts Dosan. I can’t really tell you. I’m sorry.

ugh whatever. I’m used to people being all secretive in this industry

for what it’s worth, dosasn, you were my favorite

I like you too, loser. I hope whatever you’re doing works out

me too

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

Despite the early November chill, Jimin’s palms are damp with nervous sweat.

He meets Seokjin in Decadentia’s shared building lobby. He wonders if the structure’s fellow patrons are aware of the top floor business. A duo passes Jimin while he waits in the lobby’s sitting area, not sparing him even a glance as they pass out the front door into the early afternoon sun. He drums his fingers on his thigh (as well as swipes them along his pants), watching the elevator bank and guessing which one Seokjin will stroll out of.

He exits the farthest one to the right.

Hopping up, Jimin heads over to him with a low nod as a greeting. No matter their past meetings, Jimin now works with Seokjin, and the man has been nothing but helpful towards him. Jimin feels a newfound sense of respect towards the head of talent, and he hopes Seokjin can recognize it.

“Ready for the tour?” Seokjin asks, calling back the elevator.

Jimin nods. “Yes. Will you be showing me every nook and cranny?”

“Close to it.”

They ride up to the first floor that’s considered part of Decadentia, which is one Jimin never got to walk through on his initial visit. It holds the main floor of the showroom hall. Exiting the elevator, the pair of them walk out into a space similar to that of the suite floor above them—lavish sitting areas, a bar, deep colors with golden accents.

“Members can converse here before or after a show,” Seokjin shares, slowly treading through the room with Jimin on his heels. “Think of it as the main lobby, whereas the one upstairs is for suite-holders only. Through here is where the magic happens, as you know.” Seokjin pushes open a pair of polished wooden doors, both of their shoes softly clacking on the diamond-patterned ground while they enter. It’s strange to see the grand room empty with all of its lights on, like a monitor with its hard drive opened up. Rather than some dimmed oasis transporting patrons away from the outside world’s intensity, the current vacant space feels like a museum. Jimin is careful not to touch anything.

“Seating is reserved,” Seokjin explains. “It’s based on member tiers. So, VIPs get the first few rows, with the rest descending.”

“When did this place open, anyways?” wonders Jimin, skimming over the red seats and dark tables.

“25 years or so ago?”

The age strikes Jimin. That’s older than him.

“Did you think we’d be older?” asks Seokjin, catching his reaction.

“Younger, actually.” Decadentia being a quarter of a century old but managing to stay under the radar, even in the sex work industry, is impressive. “How long have you been working here?”

“A few years, but my uncle had this position before I did, so I practically grew up at this place. He retired early in his life, giving Ruby quite the recommendation on my behalf that I take over his spot despite being so young. I know it was because I witnessed my uncle successfully complete his job that she hired me, not because of his raving review of me.”

Ruby. The name was listed in Jimin’s work contract as his superior, but there was no other information. He assumes it’s a stage name, so he asks, “Is Ruby some head performer or something?”

Seokjin just barely smiles in amusement, as if the thought of this Ruby performing on stage is utterly hysterical. “No, Ruby is the founder and owner of Decadentia. You’ll meet her today after our tour.”

Perhaps Ruby is foreign-born with a name like that.

Seokjin next leads Jimin to the far end of the room’s perimeter, reaching a modern black door beside the stage. EMPLOYEES ONLY is tacked on its front in white, with a side panel requiring a fingerprint to access.

“We’ll set up your prints before you leave,” says Seokjin, pressing down his own thumb to the door’s panel. It slides open into a slit in the wall, displaying a short hallway painted the color of emeralds. “Right here, behind the stage, is the dressing room.” It’s a quality dressing room, Jimin thinks, with neat clothing racks, a lounge area, and large mirrors outlined in bright white light when flicked on. Table surfaces and carts carry hair and makeup products, with drawers hiding further necessities. But, it’s still just a dressing room. There’s only so much to be done here.

Back out in the hall, Seokjin steers him away from the stage and through stainless steel swinging doors to enter the kitchen. It’s massive, Jimin thinks, scanning over the multiple giant stovetops, various kinds of ovens, friers, and sinks. One corner is made up of towering racks of food supplies beside a walk-in refrigerator, with another seemingly just a section to prepare ingredients. Jimin’s worked at strip clubs before that had kitchens, and though they were kept clean enough to pass inspections, none of them were as polished as this one. 

It’s empty at two in the afternoon. Jimin can only guess the chefs arrive closer to the start of business hours.

Back out into the green hall, there’s one more door worth showing Jimin, and it leads into what seems to be a cocktail lounge the size of a large classroom. With low ceilings, dark colored walls, and long windows along one side that scenically view the distant mountains, the space creates an intimate ambiance that must flourish once the sun goes down.

“This is where the VIP social hour takes place after the final show each night,” Seokjin explains, halting in the center of the room. “Performers will spend time with their sponsors here and have a drink or two. It’s also a good way for potential sponsors to chat with anyone they’re interested in on-property and for the performer themselves to stake out if the sponsor would be a good fit for them. It’s very TV-15 back here, don’t worry. And the drinks are part of the VIP members’ monthly fee, which takes into consideration paying for anything the performers decide to sip on while in here. Speaking of which, the kitchen prepares staff-only meals and keeps them in the only fridge that’s with the freezers, so not the walk-in. You’re permitted to take up to two per day, as well as any snacks on the adjacent shelf. But, there’s really no reason for you to be here long enough to ever take two meals. But it’s there, if you desire it.”

Jimin subconsciously pouts as he listens, taking in the information. Despite what he now knows to be how Decadentia operates, the VIP lounge seems an awful lot like the mechanisms of a strip club’s floor. But what sets it apart, he remembers, is that Jimin genuinely has all the say when it comes to indulging guests. He keeps that in mind as Seokjin brings him out the back hall, through the showroom, and up to the third floor. Seokjin shares that there isn’t much else to see on the second floor that Jimin hasn’t already, beyond a back door for employees that leads down to the kitchen.

Seokjin briefly describes the third floor as they circle around each hall. He names who’s who of each office and their position, as well as points out the storage room.

“The performers call this the boring floor,” Seokjin says with something similar to an eyeroll. “Yes, we may be sitting up here behind the scenes handling the business’ finances or, in my case, our roster of talent, but someone has to do it. Besides, I’m hardly ever bored.”

Arriving on the fourth floor, which also happens to be the highest in the entire building, the elevator doors don’t open up to a layout mimicking the rest of the business. Instead, Jimin and Seokjin step out into a horizontal hallway. It’s wide enough to house decorative chairs and benches along either side of the walls. Jimin passes them as Seokjin guides him right, reaching a door to lead him through.

“This is the performer lounge,” Seokjin explains.

It’s as large as four offices, with the space styled elegantly like every other aspect of Decadentia, but it’s by far the most comfortable. Plush, forest green couches atop a checkered rug form a nook before a massive television, with gaming consoles and accessories stacked neatly on shelves beside it. There’s a black granite counter topped with an expensive looking coffee machine beside an array of flavors and syrups. Built into the counter is a transparent minifridge to hold milk and creamer. A basket of snacks deck the opposite end. Two desktop monitors sit atop a table pressed against a navy wall, while two more tables grace the center of one end of the room. There are glass-lined shelves with knick knacks and books. In an odd way, the area looks like a luxurious playroom.

And it’s not empty.

Two male occupants stand before the coffee machine, the whiff of grounded beans permeating the air from where one of the men brews a cup. His black hair is as straight as silk, and it falls into his eyes as he slumps towards his steaming mug. His getup of loungewear is not so different from the man beside him, who’s taller yet a bit less broad. The taller one has both sets of his thin, long fingers clutched around one of the first’s, as though he was in the middle of teasing or simply showing affection towards him for something only they’re privy to.

But when they hear the new arrivals, the second lets the other man’s hand fall from his own, twisting his face to catch who’s come.

Jimin slows behind Seokjin, realizing the taller of the two men is BB, the performer he watched with his own eyes give a solo show on Decadentia’s showroom stage.

“Oh—you two are here early,” says Seokjin, halting a few paces in. Jimin nearly slams into him, too entranced at recognizing one of the performers.

“We had nothing better to do,” BB answers brightly, eyeing Jimin with friendly curiosity. It’s peculiar to see him wearing what looks like pajama shorts and a casual button-up effortlessly opened at the collar, with a makeupless face that’s somehow even more stunning up close. Jimin just barely quints. Maybe BB is wearing concealer. There’s no way his skin is this flawless.

But beyond his appearance, his amiable aura is what strikes Jimin as the most surprising. There’s no trace of the sultry persona Jimin’s seen otherwise. In place of it is something warm, something even childlike. BB’s near bouncing on his toes, like he can’t wait to learn who Jimin is.

“He’s being modest,” says the man beside him, dragging his mug away from the coffee machine’s dispenser. Nodding towards Seokjin, he continues, “BB knew you were showing around the new trainee today and just had to meet him before anyone else did.” The man lifts the mug to his pink lips, a slightly intimidating gaze from his cat eyes leveling over the rim towards Jimin. “I’m Soonsu.” Pure.

If BB’s a beaming sunray, then Soonso’s a calm cloud in how he rests against the counter and sips his bitter coffee. He doesn’t bother to add anything to sweeten it up.

Jimin thinks maybe it was ridiculous of him to have thought that he’d meet the performers lounging around the building in scantily clad costumes with an air of importance hazing around their heads like halos. From looks alone, BB and Soonsu seem rather … normal.

Before Jimin can introduce himself, BB huffs out an impatient breath before stalking up to wrap Jimin in a friendly hug. “Oh, it’s so amazing to meet you!” Pulling away with a boxy smile, he holds out a hand. “I’m BB. It stands for Baby Bear, but everyone just calls me BB.”

Jimin takes his hand, momentarily forgetting his own name as he rather rambles, “You—I saw you perform. When Seokjin first showed me around, I mean, before I was hired.”

“Oh, is that so?” BB drawls happily, playfully tugging Jimin a bit closer with their locked handshake. “And how was I?”

“You were stunning,” Jimin tells him honestly, thinking back to the spectacle BB was. “Um, seeing you perform actually made me understand the appeal of this place.”

“Aw, how wonderful, then!” He seems to genuinely think so. He also seems to have no reservations when it comes to talking about himself so openly. Then again, working here, Jimin would hope so. He releases Jimin’s hand, adding, “Hearing that makes me so glad. You hear that, Seokjin? I bring in the clientele and the staff. What’s your name, lovely?”

Realizing BB is directing himself back towards Jimin, Jimin answers, “Oh, right. I’m Angel.”

“Are you really an angel?” BB muses, pressing a thoughtful finger to his temple. “You look like one. Sound like one, too, with that soft voice of yours.”

“Unless his name’s purposefully contradicting,” adds in Soonsu, still sipping from his mug.

Jimin offers in an attempt at being playful, “How about both?”

“Ooh, I like you,” BB commends with a grin, harmlessly slapping Jimin on the arm in delight.

“Good,” Seokjin interrupts, “because I was going to ask you to mentor him, anyways. Angel, as you can see, you all call each other by your stage names. Only Ruby, our trainer Misook, and I know of your real identities. If you’d like to disclose your identity outside of this building, feel free, but once you do, we cannot protect you from any following consequences. Additionally, the performers don’t really utilize honorifics with one another—kids these days use it less and less, anyways—but Angel, for your own knowledge, you and BB are the same age, which is one reason why I’m making him your mentor. Also, he gets a kick out of this sort of thing.”

BB shoots Seokjin an offended look. He even puts his fists on his hips, the sight rather endearing. “Hey, a kick? That’s not what I’d call it. That makes it sound mean, like I’m going to torture Angel with my seniority. I’m just a proud social butterfly, that’s all.”

Soonsu says to Jimin like a warning, “I hope you like hugs.”

Well, for one, BB’s already given Jimin one of those, and Jimin didn’t mind it.

BB twists around to kick out at Soonsu’s ankles. Soonsu side-steps, making a wary face as his coffee sloshes in his mug.

“Anyways,” Seokjin transitions, unbothered, “Angel, you can get to know BB more once you officially begin your training. For now, let’s continue on.”

Upon hearing their intention to depart, BB faces back towards the two of them, but his cheery expression is focused on Jimin. “Oh, bye-bye, Angel!” He waves sweetly with both hands. “It was so nice to meet you. I’m looking forward to getting to know you more!”

“See you,” Soonso adds with a soft smile.

Jimin lifts an arm in a wave with much less energy than BB’s, but it’s just as sincere. Witnessing BB off-stage as someone far less intimidating than what Jimin saw in the showroom—it relieves Jimin of something he can’t quite put his finger on.

“They seem nice,” Jimin lamely yet genuinely offers once he and Seokjin are back out in the hall.

“Yes, they are. From my experience, all of the staff generally is, not just the performers.”

Jimin’s tempted to make a snarky remark about Seokjin’s brash way of speaking, but that’s not exactly the opposite of being nice. He likes Seokjin. The man is honest, but not as pretentious as Jimin originally thought from his first-impression. Just a little.

“In general, this floor is for everything related to the performers,” Seokjin continues. “Here, we have our dance studio.” The room is a standard size for its purpose, with shining wooden floors that reflect in the massive wall-mirror.

“Through this door, we have our classroom.” It’s across the hall, a space that looks more so like a chic conference room rather than a school learning space. There’s a large wall monitor overlooking two lengthy oval tables, with neatly arranged supplies on a back shelving unit. It’s sparingly decorated in accents matching the rest of the building's art deco aesthetic, but overall, it’s quite plain. Perhaps it’s to keep attention on whatever lessons happen here.

“And down this hall, we have multiple intimacy training rooms, each one meant for a different purpose—for pairs, groups, solos; for first-time trainees to going over new acts with our existing performers. Here, this one’s for pairs, so it’s a bit larger. You’ll notice that there’s an attached bathroom in the corner, as well as any necessities you may require” —Jimin catches a storage space with unassuming drawers, but they’re labeled, with one, for example, stating TOYS — “and a two-way mirrored space for any trainers to watch and instruct without you having to see them—and for you to see your own work.” Jimin scans the bedroom-sized room, roaming from the varying pieces of furniture that might be used in a performance to the tiny, interior sitting space meant for any viewers. There are no windows, but various overhead lights that Jimin thinks may be able to dim or even change colors. It’d make sense if they’re for practicing an on-stage show.

“How many trainers are there?” asks Jimin. “You mentioned a Misook earlier.”

“Yes, Ran Misook,” confirms Seokjin with a single nod, “she’s specifically our intimacy trainer, but she doubles as the overarching trainer. She and I partner in our philosophy lessons, which is what you’ll first start on. I don’t handle what goes on in these rooms,” he says, glancing about the space, “but I do preside over check-ins and your final evaluation. The dance studio is led by Lee Dogoon, a wonderfully talented man. He only deals with the dance aspect, not really having anything to do with any sexual considerations, but he will also be on the panel for your final evaluation. It’s just us three. But, as the president, Ruby can always voice her opinion about your work and make recommendations. She’s always right,” Seokjin points out. “I don’t mean that in a we must heed her commands because she’s our boss kind of way; she created this entire business, so we heed her requests because she knows what she’s talking about.”

Jimin nods, following Seokjin out of the intimacy room while he mentally takes in all of the new information filling his head. It’s not complicated, but it’s a lot.

No one trained him to be a stripper. At his audition, it was strictly that—an audition. He either passed, or he didn’t, but he did. It was miraculous, really, considering his audition was his first time ever pole dancing. He remembers the sweat on his hands and worrying if he’d slip and fall because of it. He remembers stretching for twenty minutes each morning and night the week before, getting his body ready to perform without a scratch. He remembers the intense gazes from his first club’s boss, the woman flippant with how she scoffed a laugh at those she found worthless. Jimin feared she’d do the same to him, would laugh at his inexperience and call out his physical flaws. She did it to the person who went before him.

But when Jimin stripped down to his undergarments for her to scan, she only narrowed her gaze. He strutted across the main room’s stage. He danced for an entire song. When it came time to use the pole for a short routine he memorized from watching a video—not even having practiced on an actual pole beforehand, considering he was a high schooler who had no way of finding one to utilize—she only nodded with an eh. “I can tell you’ve never done this before,” she said once he was done, and Jimin tensed in preparation for her scrutiny. “We just gotta keep you off the poles for a little until you’re ready. We’ve got a shared place to practice, but you better learn the pole as well as you dance without one if you expect to stay here.” That was her way of saying he passed.

Beyond practicing pole dancing on his own for a few weeks, there was no lengthy onboarding. The most he did was sign a work contract. On his first day, he was thrown into the lion’s den, where he spent the entire shift mimicking what his co-workers did. It wasn’t as hard as he thought. Jimin’s self-aware enough to know that charm comes easily to him, meaning it’s just as easy to fake it. He gave puppy eyes and played hard to get—but not too hard. It was just enough flirting before he did exactly what the customer wanted. He watched how the others slid around and grinded on customers’ laps, so Jimin did the same. One of his earliest co-workers was stunned when Jimin told him he had never danced before—not officially, anyways. Jimin went to nightclubs in high school where he let loose, but that was the bulk of it. The rest of his knowledge was intuition and the internet.

“But you’re just so … good,” said his co-worker.

“Vivid vocabulary, but thank you.”

“I mean, what else do you want me to say? That you’re like some graceful swan up there? That you make this fucking dumpyard look like some high-class gentlemen’s club with trained, exotic dancers?”

“No, but you said it. Thanks.”

“Seriously, Jimin. Keeping Angel as your stage name was the right move. You dance like God Himself.”

Jimin has never pictured God—or any lowercase g god, for that matter—as a dancer, but he understood the sentiment. What is any god, anyway? They’re all-powerful and all-knowing. In relation to dance, the compliment was one of high regard.

Jimin doesn’t know where the natural talent comes from. If someone compliments his movements now, he can attribute it to years in the making. But back then, he was just lucky to be someone whose body was preconfigured with the ability.

A few people over the years have told him he could be a legitimate dancer. Not even an exotic one, but someone who choreographs classes at a studio or performs in competitions. Someone who plays in theater productions or takes part in national teams. Maybe, Jimin has always thought, but how difficult would that be? Stripping is easy. It’s ridiculously difficult to handle, but it’s easy to keep. It pays sinfully well for the disproportionate hours. Jimin’s good at it, whereas he’s never danced danced before. He always replies to such comments with these excuses, usually receiving an agreeable shrug in return. Because he’s sure many of his co-workers over the years had outside interests or things they had potential in, but there’s a reason why they turned to stripping, instead. No one fought Jimin on his decision.

Jimin snaps out of thoughts as Seokjin stops before a door at the very end of the floor’s hall. An engraved sign level with Jimin’s nose dictates the room as Ruby’s. Seokjin knocks twice, and an unreadable, “Come in,” muffles from the other side.

Jimin swallows the recently formed lump in his throat. He follows Seokjin inside.

It’s double—no, nearly triple the size of Seokjin’s office, with elegant bookshelves lining one wall and a television screen meant to look like a painting planted before a swanky sitting space. It’s all brown leather and walnut surfaces, with pops of salmon pink and planted greenery. The focal point of the interior is the elevated platform pushed to the very back of the room, topped with a grand desk delicately rounded at its corners that sits before a windowed-wall. Fluttering white curtains drape the sides, allowing the sun to reflect off of the white paneled walls. Ruby sits effortlessly at her desk in a grand desk chair, its leather back higher than her head. She’s a striking woman, ageless in the sense that she could be anywhere between thirty-five and sixty-five. Intimidation drips off of her like the ruby earrings dangling from her ears. She wears the latest designer business wear, all sharp lines and monochrome colors. Her silky hair looks like a wig, but Jimin knows it’s just the result of the best treatment the city offers.

“Ruby,” Seokjin says, stopping a few paces before the elevated platform of her desk. Jimin’s momentarily startled at the lack of any added honorific. He knows Seokjin mentioned none being frequented among the performers, but not even to the owner of this entire business? The nation’s modernized enough that most don’t use the signs of respect anymore, but job titles are typically still used for convenience. For Seokjin to use Ruby’s name … “This is Park Jimin, otherwise known as Angel.” He doesn’t add anything else, making Jimin guess that Ruby’s already privy to any other information about Jimin’s recent hiring.

She looks Jimin over, no expression on her face to reveal her internal thoughts. He wonders if he should be speaking, if he should say something like, It’s an honor to meet you or I’m excited to work with you. But Seokjin didn’t motion towards Jimin when he introduced him, and Ruby’s not saying a word, so perhaps Jimin’s just meant to stay still and look pretty—

“Remove your clothes for me,” Ruby says.

Jimin probably should do as he’s told, but the command is so sudden that he chirps out, “Excuse me?”

The barest of muscles amusedly feather the corner of her painted red lips. “Only to your undergarments, child.”

Jimin side glances at Seokjin, who seems unperturbed. Jimin figures he should be, too. This isn’t anything out of the ordinary for him. 

So, he slips off his boots and then his pants. Next comes his oversized jacket and sweater. Taking advantage of the man beside him, Jimin plops his clothes into Seokjin’s unexpected arms. The man has no choice but to take them, and his startled reaction is the most emotion Jimin thinks he’s ever seen the man give. Jimin would laugh if he wasn’t standing near naked in front of the CEO’s awaiting eyes.

She slowly scans his bare skin from head to toe, just hardly cocking her head. “Turn around for me.” Her attention is overwhelming, but it’s all mechanical, like she’s overlooking a piece of machinery versus an emotive human body. When Jimin refaces her, he sees zero desire and zero judgment.

“Yes, he’s apt,” she decides conversationally. “Train him well, Seokjin.” She focuses towards the dual monitors positioned at one corner of her desk, ending their short meeting with the attention switch.

“Yes, I will,” replies Seokjin with a bow. He then holds out Jimin’s clothes, not waiting for Jimin to take them before he drops the pile. Jimin scrambles to catch them before they hit the floor while Seokjin calls, “Come along, Jimin.”

Jimin rushes to get dressed, bowing low to Ruby before stalking after Seokjin.

With a huff and a tangle of his fingers through his hair, Jimin comments once out of the office, “She’s the scariest woman I’ve ever seen.”

“Yes, she does seem so, doesn’t she?”

“I’m guessing she’s actually a ball of sunshine under all of that severity?”

“No, she’s like that all of the time. But you’ll find that her blunt character is mellow rather than severe. She cares deeply for Decadentia, meaning she cares for each of us, whether it’s an office staff like me or a performer like you.”

The two of them descend a floor to congregate in Seokjin’s office, ending the building tour. Seokjin spends the next half hour describing in clearer detail certain aspects of Jimin’s work contract, as well as answers any further questions Jimin has. He clicks around his desktop to draft a training schedule for Jimin, getting Jimin’s approval before it’s made official.

“Operating hours are Wednesday to Sunday from 4 p.m. to 2 a.m.,” Seokjin states, “but your training days will begin at 10 a.m. sharp. It will probably be less hours than you expect, because no one wants to go over the moral philosophy of sexual pleasure for five hours straight. No, the lessons will be two hours max. You’ll begin in the classroom, like I said, and then move onto the dance studio. It will be a few weeks before you begin any intimacy training. We want you to settle in and fully understand our values before you jump into performance practice.”

He continues with information about Jimin’s move into the dorms. A small mover truck will arrive at Jimin’s current residence in three days, with the only things Jimin being able to bring with him being necessities and small personal items. Anything else should be stowed away at a storage facility, sold, or thrown out, as the dorms are fully furnished. Decadentia will take over Jimin’s apartment lease and sell the place for him as part of their relocation terms, unless Jimin wishes to keep it despite not living there. It’s up to him, Seokjin says.

“The dorm is currently occupied with seven other performers, which works out in the sense that you will be sharing a room. The remainder of our cast all reside in sponsored homes. Your current to-do is to pack your things and be ready. You’ll be notified, likely tomorrow, on when specifically you can expect the mover truck to arrive. You’ll begin training the very next day.

“This sums up our meeting,” Seokjin finishes. “Any more questions for me?”

Jimin just says, “Um, yeah, how am I supposed to get rid of all of my furniture in three days?”

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

Three days later, the mover truck arrives around 10:15 in the morning. Jimin’s in the middle of eating leftover garlic beef and rice takeout from the prior evening as his breakfast, having tossed out his entire fridge and packed away any pantry items good enough to take with him, when the movers message his mobile of their arrival.

“Shit,” he mumbles, hastily swallowing a mouthful of his meal and realizing the movers are going to walk into a garlic-infested apartment. They’re fifteen minutes early, and Jimin planned to finish his food before taking out the trash. He has only a few bites left, so he nearly swallows them whole after messaging his reply that he’ll let the lobby know to allow them upstairs. He dumps his containers in the proper bags before quickly tying each one up. Lugging the garbage to his door, he halts to call the lobby from his built-in security system. Then, shuffling on some slippers, he makes the trek to the trash room down the hall before shuffling back to his unit to thank himself for placing his container of cleaning supplies on top of the rest of his packed things. He slips out an air freshener and sprays a substantial amount of the floral mist into the air. Then he reaches into his personal bag and pops a mint into his mouth the moment his doorbell rings.

It’s a pretty seamless process. Considering there’s no furniture to take with them, it’s just a bunch of tedious elevator journeys with boxes from Jimin’s unit to the street and back up again. The movers have a cart, but Jimin learned while packing that he has a lot more things than he thought. Jimin tries to assist them, but the movers don’t have it. They all but force him to take a seat in the back row of the trailer transport to wait, which they keep running for him so he can stay warm from the brisk autumn air. They even encourage him to mess around on the dashboard screen and play any music he likes, but Jimin politely turns down the offer. He just watches them out the window as they come and go, occasionally scrolling through his mobile to waste time.

The dorm is just under a mile from Decadentia. In a towering building on the opposite side of the main intersections, the exterior looks like any other in the affluent district; made of glass, flashing signs advertising its shared business units, skywalks dozens and dozens of stories up. Seokjin sent him information about accessing the building and what he can expect, but he never mentioned the young man who skips out of the building’s main entrance when Jimin’s barely gotten out of the transport and calls, “Angel! Babe!”

Jimin glances around, thinking maybe the man’s animated voice is meant for different ears, but it seems to not be the case.

“Yes, you, pretty boy,” he says, crossing the sidewalk to halt at the curb beside the truck. His permed hair is tousled over his forehead, with round eyeglasses over his puppy eyes. Despite Jimin’s feet being planted on the pavement and this new man a step up, they’re practically eye level. “You are Angel, right?” he asks, a slip of doubt furrowing his brows. They’re dyed to match his honey-colored hair.

“Yes,” answers Jimin.

“Yay, I’m so glad I’m not harassing a stranger. I’m Kkuli.” He shines a blinding smile, like someone meant to be on the cover of a school textbook. “Seokjin said you’d be coming around now, and here you are! You’re my new roomie—it’s two to a room, and now there’s eight of us! Finally, we’re an even number. Are you superstitious?” he suddenly asks quite seriously, leaning in conspiratorially. “Odd numbers make me feel uneasy.”

Jimin rapidly blinks at Kkuli’s quick rapport. “Um. Not really.”

“Then you’re blessed with a more stable mind than I. Here, let me help you.” Kkuli goes to take a box from the back of the transport, only for the movers to practically shoo him away. Kkuli looks particularly offended, his round face likely one second away from exploding in just how he feels about the dismissal.

“Could you show us the way up?” Jimin asks, pacifying the scene.

Kkuli forgets his irritation in an instant, throwing back on that picture perfect smile. It’s as pure as freshly fallen snow, and Jimin can only wonder how old the young man is. Jimin thinks younger than himself. “Yeah, absolutely!”

The movers load a handful of Jimin’s things onto their cart, following both Jimin and Kkuli inside as the latter leads them through the modern lobby and towards the elevators. Piling into one, Kkuli snaps his head towards Jimin quick enough for his eyeglasses to slip down his nose.

“Where are you coming from?” he asks, pushing up his glasses with a knuckle.

Jimin says, “Oh, Posong Dis—”

“Not your old home, silly. What did you do before Decadentia?”

Jimin suddenly feels the weight of the movers’ presence in the confined elevator. It’s not that he’s ashamed of his line of work, but he has some semblance of common courtesy. Still, he figures these movers are from the on-call business Decadentia uses when moving in new hires, just like they are with Jimin now. They must know what Decadentia gets up to.

“I stripped,” Jimin admits.

Kkuli’s face blooms like a flower, as if Jimin’s previous employment is water to his petals of interest. “No shit! You were really a stripper?” 

“Is that rare, or something?”

“Oh, no, Jinju was a stripper,” explains Kkuli, though Jimin has no clue who Jinju is. “Apple did it, too, but only for a few months, I think. Did you like it?”

The elevator arrives to their floor—45—and Jimin walks out a step behind Kkuli to follow him towards wherever their destination is.

“Enough to do it for six years,” Jimin answers, looking around the wide white hall lined with considerably spaced apart units.

“You have to teach me how to pole dance,” says Kkuli, turning on his heel to all but skip backwards while he guides his entourage down the hall. “Jinju refuses because she’s a bitch, saying I can just take a class on my own if I want to do it so badly. Whatever. Now I have you!” He twists around to stop before a door that looks no different from the rest—white, reflective, wide. He places his finger against the scanner for the lock to open with a beep. “Jinju!” he yells, pushing himself inside. “We have another stripper!”

As expected from the high-end building, the performers’ dorm is nothing but modish. It opens up into a comfortably-sized living space, with a sitting room large enough to hold eight on its suede L-shaped sofa beside a kitchen equipped with the latest appliances. A beefy young man sits smack dab in the center of the sofa, taking up an entire cushion to watch some reality TV show, while two women sit at the quartz island counter. They both sip from what looks to be iced matcha, but whereas one wears lounge pants and a long tee, the other is decked in a matching pajama set styled with a puppy pattern. Her black hair falls far past her chest in two loose braids over either shoulder.

Jimin instantly thinks she’s a middle-schooler, but that can’t be right.

She hops up from her barstool, and as she stops right before Kkuli, Jimin sees she’s indeed a grown woman, just a very petite and youthful looking one. He wonders about her age. Seokjin never mentioned the age range of the performers, but the employment contract did have Jimin confirm that he was a legal adult. With her round face and button nose, she must be the minimum.

“I know it’s difficult for you,” mumbles the other woman still hunched over the island, her platinum blonde hair a curtain over one side of her sharp jaw, “but could you please not scream before noon?”

“You had an off day yesterday,” Kkuli shoots at her. “I don’t know why you’re so cranky. Oh, you two can just drop off his things in that second door down the hall—right, that one,” he instructs the movers. “Angel, this is Jinju” —Puppy Pajamas— “Hyesong” —Cranky Blonde— “and Chan.” Buff Guy. “The others—Apple, Chaeri, and Nuri—are still getting their beauty sleep, I suspect. Sluts, this is Angel, the newest addition to our team.”

Jimin lowers his head respectfully, usually one for attention but suddenly feeling modest as the newcomer to an established home. He hasn’t lived with anyone since the orphanage, back when he was squished in one room with eleven other boys all stacked in bunk beds. There was no floor space to hold anything else, just the plain sleeping arrangements all covered in the same steel gray sheets. There was no living room, but just a common area for the entire building with one television for dozens of boys to fight over. It makes no sense, he used to think. TVs cost as much as one lunch out, yet the orphanage only had the one.

“Media rots the mind,” the head of the orphanage would answer in response to complaints. The borrowable tablets were childproofed, only carrying what she deemed as acceptable ebooks and learning programs. Jimin remembers when a kid a few years older than him named Wooyang cracked the password to remove the locked settings. At seventeen years old, he was eating out the twenty-two-year-old Yoonja in the buildings’ supply closets every other day when she came to work as part of her degree’s volunteer requirements. She told Wooyang the password after lying to the head that her own personal device accidentally latched onto the orphanage’s local system, which screwed around with her important university files. Wooyang used the fresh internet freedom to watch livestreams of holographic porn programs. Jimin was thirteen at the time, and he was roped into crowding around with the other boys in their room to giggle at the videos at three in the morning.

Jimin hadn’t known people could make a career out of sex until then. Sure, he knew the videos were of animated holograms, but someone had to animate them. Someone had to provide the voiceovers. And Wooyang made it clear that those holo shows were not the only choices in that genre of entertainment.

Wooyang got caught, of course. He was an idiot who left his browser running in the background, and when a fellow boy from a different room borrowed the tablet, he found himself discovering a very interesting tab.

“Angel!” Jinju exclaims with delight, snapping him back to his new home. She reminds him of a ladybug. “How fitting. You’re drop-dead gorgeous, has anyone ever told you that?”

Plenty, he thinks. He’s received even more extravagant compliments from strip club customers, but they were all out of objectification. A handful had sounded genuine, sure, but the sweet words were all ingredients in a blender that turned to muddy brown when combined.

But hearing compliments from his new co-workers somehow felt different. These felt genuine. They didn’t appear empty or laced in superficiality.

“I’ve heard it once or twice,” Jimin replies.

“He is cute, isn’t he?” Kkuli agrees with a nod. But then he flamboyantly throws out his arms to say, “But not cuter than me!”

“You’re tragic,” Hyesong mutters into her matcha.

Kkuli blows her a kiss despite her ignoring gaze. “Chan! Get your ass up and say hi to Angel.”

The big guy on the couch hastily climbs to his feet, offering a ninety degree bow without stepping one foot forward. His hair is closely cropped to his head, with a square jaw that has Jimin wondering if the man has a grandfather or something from the western side of the world. “Hi,” he speaks, his voice unsurprisingly deep.

Kkuli blinks behind his glasses before turning to Jimin. “Don’t let looks deceive you. Chan’s a teddy bear.”

Chan shrugs before plopping back down to continue watching his reality TV.

From a door near the same direction, a man with tousled auburn hair stretches out of a bedroom, lanky everywhere except the muscles of his thighs straining against his track pants. Jimin instantly thinks of a soccer player. “What’s all this fucking noise before noon?” he grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Who else?” sighs Hyesong.

Ignoring her, Kkuli fans Jimin like he’s a shiny new toy. “Nuri, this is Angel.”

Nuri nods with a yawn, glancing over Jimin in acknowledgment. “Right, the trainee. Dope. We could use another guy here. Now it’s even.”

“Am I the only trainee?” Jimin asks no one in particular, realizing that he’s yet to hear anything about any other new hires.

“Mhm!” Jinju hums, pressing up on her toes while she does so. She only reaches Jimin’s chest. “You’re the baby.” How ironic that she’s the one saying so, he thinks, with her young image.

“How often do you have trainees?”

“The last one was Apple,” explains Hyesong, spinning halfway around on her stool. She’s rather striking, with thin eyes reminiscent of shimmering blades, yet her tone is nothing but relaxed. “But she completed her training four months ago.”

“Decadentia doesn’t hire unless there’s a vacancy,” Nuri adds in, padding into the kitchen to rip off a single banana from a cluster on the island’s fruit bowl.

“Which was Horu,” says Kkuli from Jimin’s side, “who left two months ago because he eloped with one of his sponsors to Paris. Like, that’s great. Super happy for him. But, also, fuck him for leaving after giving us only a two-day notice. Anyways, we’ve been looking for his replacement since, and that’s you!”

“How was your audition?” Jinju questions with bug eyes.

Jimin says, “I didn’t audition.”

“You didn’t audition?” gapes Kkuli, the room silencing like a knife has snapped each and every sound wave. Only the TV’s chatter fills the void. Jimin finds each set of eyes staring at him with similar shock.

He answers slowly, “No? Seokjin came to the strip club one night—I had no idea who he was—and he silently watched me during my shift and then gave me his business card as I was leaving. Now, I’m here.”

Kkuli shakes his hands back and forth while streaming out, “Whoa, wait, wait, wait. When was this?”

“About a month ago. A little less.”

They all glance at each other, telepathically sharing a kernel of knowledge Jimin isn’t knowledgable about.

“What is it?” he asks hesitantly.

“Seokjin is very, very particular,” Hyesong states pointedly, finishing the last sip of her drink. The loud slurp somehow is easily heard over the rambling of the television.

“Translated,” assists Nuri after a thick swallow of his banana, “you must be a fucking star.”

Rather than revel in the information, a layer of humble awkwardness coats Jimin’s words when he asks, “Did you all audition?”

“Everyone in this dorm did,” says Jinju.

Jimin is speechless.

Leaning his hip across the island, Nuri asks, “Did you meet the Red Queen?”

At Jimin’s confusion, Hyesong explains, “He means Ruby.”

“She’s not evil,” Jinju adds.

“Oh. Well, good,” answers Jimin. “Yes, I met her when Seokjin gave me the building tour.”

A sly smile grows on Kkuli’s lips when he leans in and conspiratorially asks, “What about Jeongguk?”

“Who?”

“Ruby’s scrumptious son, Jeon Jeongguk.”

Jimin shakes his head, the name unfamiliar. “She was alone.”

“Jeongguk doesn’t live there, Kkuli,” says Nuri with a point of his nearly finished banana, the peel hanging over his hand. “Also, stop calling him scrumptious. You know he’s hands off.”

“So?” Kkuli quips with a dramatic lift of one shoulder. “That means I can’t appreciate him?”

“He’s hot, sure,” says Hyesong matter-of-factly, “but a weirdo.”

“How is he weird? Because he’s standoffish? Chan’s standoffish, and we love him.”

As if on cue, everyone turns their head to stare at the silent man lounging on the couch. With the sudden attention, he simply blinks at them, looking much like the teddy bear Kkuli claims he actually is.

“A word of advice, Angel,” Hyesong starts, standing from her barstool. “Stay away from Jeon Jeongguk.” She trails around the island, heading for the sink with her emptied glass in her hands. “He’s like any typical chaebol son who thinks he’s too good for any of us, yet reaps in the benefits we bring him and his mother.”

Jinju pouts towards her. “When has he ever said anything mean to us?”

“Never,” Hyesong replies simply, rinsing her glass, “because he doesn’t talk to us, and that’s because he doesn’t see us as human beings.”

Kkuli heavily rolls his eyes. “That’s bullshit, Hyesong, he’s just shy.”

“And dreamy,” Jinju sighs, clutching her hands before her as she twists back and forth in her own daydream.

Hyesong snorts a unamused laugh, drying and placing away her glass.

“Jinju, you don’t even like men,” Nuri mentions, tossing his banana peel down the incinerator shoot. Jimin blanks at the feature for a moment, thinking how his previous apartment didn’t even have a built-in shoot. He had to toss his garbage the old fashioned way.

“So?” Jinju refutes with small hands on her tiny waist. “I called Angel drop-dead gorgeous when he walked in. That doesn’t mean I wanna sleep with him.”

The two remaining residents trail out of a room down the hall from the kitchen, one dressed in a wraparound white skirt and a matching iridescent top, with the other as casual as the rest of the barely awake household.

“Wow, we’re having a party in here,” says the first one, straight silver hair poking out of a slicked back ponytail. Red blush circles the center of her cheeks. “Is this the trainee?”

“Look at you,” Nuri chuckles, “acting all high and mighty because you’re not the baby anymore.”

“This is Angel,” Kkuli announces once more. “Angel, this is Apple and Chaeri. Apple, he was a stripper for six years, so he has you and Jinju beat. And he was personally scouted by Seokjin—no, he did not audition. Crazy, I know. Isn’t he a pretty one? I can’t wait to work with him—wait, Angel. What’s your preference?”

Jimin faces away from Apple and Chaeri, repeating, “My preference?”

“Like, if you’re women only, or men, or both, or something else.”

“Oh. I’m gay, so men.”

“Oh my God, me too!” Kkuli squeals, taking Jimin’s hands to swing around like they’re long-lost friends. “We were destined to be roomies. But Chaerie is straight and teams with girls, not just men, so your sexuality doesn’t really matter. Of course, it matters , that’s not what I mean. But you’ll just be working with men, then? You officially chose that?”

Jimin nods, recalling how he specified it on his employment contract. He doesn’t know if growing up in an all boys orphanage is what swayed him to one side. He can’t remember feeling attracted to anyone before then, not even in the innocent way elementary school children have crushes on one another. Then when he decided to enter the sex work industry, he only ever applied to all-male clubs mostly only frequented by male customers. He can probably have sex with a woman if he tries. He isn’t against it. But he doesn’t think he can ever fall in love with one, and that’s what makes all the difference.

Not like Jimin thinks he’ll ever fall in love with anyone, anyways. How could he in this line of work?

“Sweet, just like me!” Kkuli continues. “Well, and like Tara, Aeji, BB, and Soonsu—they don’t live here. They all have sponsored homes. You know all about sponsors, right?”

When Jimin heard he’d be living with performers who’ve yet to have sponsors provide them with a separate home, he figured at least BB wouldn’t be at the dorm. Now Jimin knows that includes Soonsu, too. After watching BB perform, it was obvious the stunning man has sponsors, enough to live elsewhere.

“Yes,” Jimin replies with a nod. “Seokjin explained that to me.”

“We’re the losers who don’t have sponsored homes,” Nuri mutters.

“Yet,” Jinju says with a raised finger.

“Nuri’s been here the longest,” Hyesong states, resting back along the sink with crossed arms, her platinum hair pulled over one shoulder, “so maybe not.”

“Yah, watch it,” he shoots at her. “You know it’s because I turn down those offers.”

“I don’t know why,” says Chaeri from Apple’s side.

“Because I don’t wanna be tied down to a sponsor that much. I like fucking you guys; I don’t wanna be fucking some sponsor.”

“Well, that’s not required,” mentions Apple.

“No, you ex-baby, but it’s expected, and I have zero interest in going down on some fifty-year-old.”

“They’re not all middle-aged,” Jinju says.

“Most of them.”

Kkuli says, “BB and Soonsu’s main sponsor is around our age. Soonsu is even older than him by a year.”

“And Suvi’s is younger than her,” says Jinju.

“Suvi is a decade older than you, that’s why,” Nuri tells her.

“Kwen’s is in his mid-thirties,”  Kkuli states, finding himself beside Jinju to make a winning team. “We can keep proving you wrong, Nuri, it’s fun. Not everyone attracts senior citizens.”

Nuri mimics Kkuli’s words before continuing, “Whatever, you get my point, which is that I don’t want to unofficially owe sex to a sponsor just so I can live in a high-rise. Besides, I like having roommates.”

Hyesong juts her leg out to nudge his foot. “You’re really not sick of us? Aw, how sweet.”

Nuri side-glances her. “Maybe you.”

She grins.

“Seokjin told me that sponsors can only request performances and social hour time,” Jimin tries, despite knowing full well the truth of their reality. He even said so to Seokjin like Nuri is explaining now.

“Oh, no, Angel,” Kkuli coos, his brows downturned tenderly, “if a sponsor pays for you to live in a penthouse, you better be sucking their dick. I mean that both figuratively and literally.”

Hyesong agrees, “It’s an unspoken agreement.”

“Which is what I don’t want,” Nuri confirms again.

“But don’t let that scare you off from accepting a house offer, Angel,” Kkuli continues. “All of our sponsors are super caring and abide by Decadentia’s rules. They’ll be banned otherwise. It’s completely your choice whether you go along with what a sponsor wants outside Deca’s walls. But for now, you’ll be with us during your training, and we can only wait and see once you begin. No one gets a sponsored house off the bat. You have to make an impression first on stage, and then in lower sponsorships. Only someone who truly falls in love with you will offer a house.”

“Well, Angel didn’t even have to audition,” Hyesong says, “so maybe he’ll be up and out of here faster than we think.”

Chapter Text

Jimin wakes up to the smell of sizzling meat and chili pepper. Cracking open his eyes, the white ceiling comes into view, then his body under his navy comforter, his desk against the opposite wall beside the bedroom door, the walk-in closet with its door left open, and Kkuli’s much more eccentric side of the room empty of its resident. It’s like a rainbow threw up on it, with a peach-patterned bedspread, various plushies, faux greenery wrapped around his desk and dangling above his bed, and maximalist posters and postcards pasted on his wall of cartoons, cute patterns, and random typography. Really, Jimin finds it cute. So much of modern interior design is intense and robotic. Kkuli’s personalization is a breath of fresh air. It reminds him of hyper arcades known for their vast array of various reality-bending games, including older machines, with the rooms typically decorated in swirls of colors and youthful decorum.

Jimin’s yet to unpack much of his things. It’s only been a few days at the dorm, and he still has his clothes haphazardly folded in his suitcase beyond what he’s dug out to wear the past couple of changes. Boxes sit at the foot of his bed and on his desk. The space is large enough to hang a curtain down the center and make it two small rooms, but Jimin’s slew of personal items litter his area enough for it to be noticeable.

He’s been busy.

The initial move-in day, he was thrown question after question about his past work experience, how he got into the sex work industry, what he’s interested in doing at Decadentia, et cetera. The day after that, Kkuli and Jinju dragged him out shopping to buy him a welcome gift, one that Jimin tried saying he didn’t need, but who is he to turn down a present? It’s rude not to when the gifter is adamant about it, so Jimin succumbed to their consideration and ended up with a gorgeous silver bracelet that goes well with practically everything. They also took care of his dinner that night.

Today, it’s his first day of training, and saying he’s nervous is an understatement. His stomach swirls as he remembers his schedule, but he forces himself to transition it into hunger as the scent of food wafts under the bedroom door frame. He reaches for his mobile to check the time, seeing he has plenty until he has to leave, so he heaves himself up and runs his hands through his mussed hair a few times before exiting towards the kitchen.

Coming out of the hall, he follows the savory smell to the kitchen. He finds Kkuli, Jinju, Apple, Chaeri, and Chan circled around the island, adjusting an expansive array of plated dishes that coat the surface. The group starts at his arrival, Jinju encouragingly waving him over.

“Happy first day at Deca!” she greets, fanning her hands over the breakfast assortment. There’s soybean stew, bite-sized rolled omelets, chopped up fruit, kimchi, and rice. Everything is neatly and prettily plated, with a large jug of a faded yellow liquid stashed with ice and chunks of fruit in the table’s center.

“Did you guys cook this?” Jimin asks, his feet unconsciously slowing as he gazes at the morning spread.

“As opposed to ordering it?” says Kkuli, grabbing an empty glass from beside the food and filling it just below the brim with what looks like citrus fruit punch. He holds out the glass to Jimin, who hurries over to take it with both hands. “Of course we cooked it, babe. It’s to wish you good luck at Deca!”

Jimin feels instant heaviness moisten his eyes. He blinks back the abrupt gratefulness, not wanting his roommates to get the wrong idea. He’s known them all for a few days. He shouldn’t be crying over their simple gesture of kindness.

But it’s Monday, their off day, and nine in the morning, for that matter. The five of them were absent from the dorm last night while at Decadentia, and Jimin only knew they returned when he stirred, half-asleep, when Kkuli snuck into his own bed.

The rest of the dorm is still asleep, Jimin figures, and he can’t blame them. But for five of the seven inhabitants to wake up and cook him breakfast … Jimin can’t recall the last time anyone did anything so out of the way for him.

He settles into one of the barstools and accepts the plates and utensils given to him, thanking his roommates and commenting how delicious everything looks. They offer him delighted expressions while he takes his own portions before they dig into their own.

None of them join him on the walk to Decadentia. He doesn’t expect that much. The business is closed to the public, but for Jimin, it’s opened for the start of his training. He has no idea what to expect. Over breakfast, Apple shared that it’s a very thorough but rewarding experience. As the latest performer to join the ranks, the memory of the three-month process is fresh enough in her mind to provide a credible opinion.

“The training really helps make you feel open and comfortable,” she explained. “It turns insecurities into confidence and shows you that there’s no shame in being vulnerable. I know you were a stripper, Angel, but if you viewed anything about sex as the opposite of pure, your mind will change during training. That’s the goal.”

During his onboarding tour, Seokjin inputted Jimin’s fingerprints into the building’s security system and told him each password. Jimin seamlessly enters the code combination to the lobby’s elevator panel to call it down for him. While he waits, he skims the room, landing on the receptionist he remembers to be called Maeri. She doesn’t remove her laser focus from her monitor, whether she feels him from across the room or not. Jimin clears his throat. She doesn’t even blink.

Softly sighing, he turns away as the elevator doors slide open.

On the short ride up, he thinks how he wasn’t told where to go beyond the top floor. He supposes he can always visit Seokjin’s office if he’s lost, hoping that the head of talent considers to be someone to lean on as Jimin adjusts into his new job.

The doors ping open, and Jimin’s directional concern vanishes as he finds Seokjin waiting for him. He’s not alone. Beside him is a petite woman perhaps a few years older, dressed professionally with a blunt brown bob short at the nape of her neck but its front pieces dusting her shoulders. Unlike her sharp haircut, her face is heart-shaped and freckled.

“Good morning, Jimin-ssi,” Seokjin greets. Jimin instantly flicks his eyes to the female companion at the sound of his own name. Seokjin catches his worry and huffs the barest of smiles. “Not to worry,” he reminds him. “Misook is fully aware of your identity.”

“Ran Misook,” the woman introduces in a feathery voice, nodding her head just as gently. Jimin follows, making sure to bow lower than her. “I’m the intimacy trainer here, as well as work alongside Seokjin in our philosophy lessons. He’s told me all about your hiring and work history. Come along, we can head to the classroom.”

With a nod of her head, she leads towards the meeting-like room Jimin toured previously. She encourages him to sit down at the end near the smartboard, so he takes a seat beside the head of one of the two tables. Both Seokjin and Misook settle across from him, no electronics resting on the table to suggest a presentation. Perhaps it’s already loaded onto the smartboard and only needs to be powered on. But neither of Jimin’s instructors go to present a slideshow.

Misook folds her hands atop the table. “You may be wondering why you’re sitting in a classroom instead of being instructed on sex positions,” she begins, straight to the point.

Jimin can’t deny that.

“Before you can learn anything about physicality,” she explains, “you must first understand the mentality behind Decadentia’s purpose and this job. And before we can do that, Seokjin and I must understand your current thought process. You were a stripper.”

It’s not a question, and though both Misook and Seokjin know for a fact Jimin worked as a stripper before, he still answers, “Yes, I was.”

“To what degree?”

He knows what she means without having to ask for clarification. There are different types of strip clubs, just like there are different types of host clubs, exotic dancer bars, or cammers. Within each strip club, there are then various levels of stripping. It’s up to what the club demands.

“Beyond a year at a full-service club when I first started,” Jimin shares, “I’ve mostly worked at places less intense.”

He remembers when he realized his first employer was a full-service club. It was the end of his first shift, a grueling and terrifying seven hours where he’d spent the entire time trying to imitate his far more experienced co-workers. He couldn’t pole dance yet—his boss wouldn’t let him, not until he’d gotten better at it from the training he had to do on his own personal time after hours. Not like he had a busy schedule, otherwise. But during that first shift, he spent the majority of it tucked into some man’s side flirting and giggling before he moved on to someone else. He remembers holding back his shock that night at learning that some men really just wanted him to fawn over their stories and tip a shot glass down their throat for them, resulting in him earning five times more for the company than the stocking job he worked at a convenience store while in high school.

The paid hours added up, making Jimin think that it was a shame it had taken so long for him to reach eighteen years old.

The club floor was mild that night, at least compared to what Jimin would learn was considered mild for a full-service club. He was so caught up in his first day on the job that he was too anxious to dip backstage. He only ever left the floor once to use the toilet. It wasn’t until he checked the digital clock at the bar, marking the end of his shift, did he finally head backstage.

He knew of the private rooms in the back meant for various customer experiences, but he’d never thought that any of the customers would have backstage access. He thought the room was off limits, a haven for the strippers to change, take a break, and either enter or leave the building through its back door.

When his shift started, the space had only been made up of employees. Now, as he walked into the room with the intent to collect his earnings and clock out for the night, he stilled when he found a few of the strippers engaged with customers on the makeup chairs, on the small sitting area in one room’s corner, and against a length of wall beside storage shelves. One was on his knees blowing a chubby and stout man who reclined back along the couch. Another stripper was stark naked and grinding atop a fully-clothed customer who lapped at his neck. A different stripper had his tiny shorts pulled down his thighs, a greasy man likely in his sixties pumping his cock with a thick hand.

“You gonna collect or not?” one of the shift managers yapped at him from the open office door, disrupting Jimin’s horrified stupor. Despite the erotic sight and breathy moaning, the woman didn’t even glance up from her monitor. She chewed obnoxiously on a piece of gum, working away at navigating the club’s percent from Jimin’s earrings that day before depositing his take. Jimin stood frozen in her office while he waited. He guessed he must have stayed too long, for his manager scanned him after a while and said, “What the hell are you still doing here? You’re done for the day.”

Jimin kept his head down as he gathered his things. He didn’t dare change in front of the customers currently satisfying their desires. Fortunately, there was never much to change out of. Jimin slipped his clothes over his costume shorts, not bothering to remove his makeup. The remover was beside the old man still giving a handy.

For a while, Jimin thought all strip clubs operated like his first employer. It’s why he remained there for so long. He didn’t know, otherwise, and it wasn’t like he made many friends out of his co-workers.

Witnessing his co-workers engage intimately with customers was one thing. Jimin knew he’d have to follow at some point.

So, he did. It wasn’t backstage with an audience—he never did that. But he used the private rooms when he had to. He almost always got out of having to interact with customers privately, always due to his charming persuasion skills. But there were instances in which he couldn’t say no, when he didn’t know he could say no, like the first time a customer requested a private lap dance in a VIP room. The offered credits was a ridiculous amount, enough for Jimin to momentarily forget just how personal a private meeting could become. He was naive enough back then to forget something like that.

After entering the room, the man revealed that he didn’t just want a lap dance. As the customer, he got what he wanted.

At the time, Jimin remembers rationalizing that it wasn’t so bad because he wasn’t a virgin. At least I knew what to expect, he told himself. At least I didn’t go into that inexperienced. At least the man was decent enough to use a condom and the lube the club prepares in each room.

Years later, Jimin can only laugh about it. But it’s not a fond laugh. It’s not a funny one.

That night was the reason why Jimin got the fuck out of that club and made sure to only ever work at places where he wouldn’t be fucked by strangers. Depending on how one defines being fucked, it worked out.

“Less intense how?” Misook asks now, bringing Jimin back to the present.

“The most sexual it ever got after that was pretending to get off—clothed, I had shorts on—in front of a customer so they could get off themselves. Of course, I didn’t get off, but I guess I was a good enough actor. And, you know, nude stripteases and pole dancing in private rooms. But not at my last employer, who I was with for about half a year. The Gilded Rose is actually pretty tame.”

For the most part, Jimin thinks, as an image of Manager Lim’s cousin flashing through his head.

“And you cammed,” Misook continues, just as forward as Seokjin but somehow softer. She appears genuinely interested in digging deep into Jimin’s history in order to adjust him to Decadentia. It shows in her attentive posture and kind eyes. “Could you elaborate on the type of camming you did?”

“I’d just get off from toys,” Jimin says. “But I never showed my face. Just my body. I kept my head out-of-frame or was turned around, or I blurred myself.”

“So,” Misook concludes, “you’re quite inexperienced.”

Jimin just barely reels back his neck at the statement. He instantly recalls BB’s performance of stripping nude and getting himself off. Granted, Jimin was told he’d have to work his way to a solo performance, but how is that any different than what Jimin’s been doing the past six years? Decadentia’s stage may be under a grand chandelier with voyeurs only, but there are far more similarities than differences when it comes to Jimin’s former jobs compared to his new one.

“But Seokjin hired you,” Misook says with a warm smile, “and he’s never hired wrong.”

Seokjin doesn’t even blink at the acknowledgement.

“I’m excited to work with you, Jimin,” Misook goes on. “It’s important we understand where you’re coming from so we have a basis of what you already know and what you need to learn. Before we begin, I want to clearly express that there is zero judgment here. We are not here to criticize your past, your body, or your thoughts. Everyone views this line of work different, and we respect every perspective. That means taking it seriously and not downplaying anything, such as never assuming that someone thinks of sex as ‘no big deal.’ It is a big deal, but not because it’s indecent. I will be honest with you about everything, and I’d ask that you do the same. If you have questions, ask them. If you’re uncomfortable, let us know. If you’re confused, say it. If you’re interested in something, tell us. We get to cater your future performances to what you like, but until then, we have to first learn what you like. And I don’t mean sex—if you didn’t like sex, you wouldn’t be here. There’s a lot of intricacy and nuance within that, and it starts with our perspective. That’s why we’re in the classroom. Let me ask you something: when you hear the word sex, what first comes to mind?”

No matter how much he learns about the business, Jimin doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to how Decadentia operates.

“I don’t know,” he replies honestly, racking his brain for whatever pops to the surface first. “Being erotic. Dirty. But pleasing. I guess that’s why it’s considered a sin.”

“Do you consider it a sin?”

“No.”

“What about it being erotic and dirty?”

“I mean, I guess. Isn’t it?”

Misook levels him thoughtfully. “What if I told you that sex was pure? That, at its core, it’s a gift to humankind to interact with each other purely without shame and insecurity?”

Jimin would say she’s not incorrect, but she’s not exactly right, either. It’s not that simple. He figures he’s about to learn that it can be.

“But that can only happen when we’ve learned to let go of our preconceived notions of what sex is,” Misook explains. “It’s self-pleasing, sure, but what if we viewed it as being self less? Rather than doing it for the sole purpose of getting something out of it for ourselves, what if we did it for a partner? An audience? I mean, that’s what love is, right? When two people genuinely, wholly love each other, their sexual intimacy is a two-way street. It’s not just taking, but giving. It’s a beautiful joining of souls finding bliss in one another, but also equally giving it. When you give to someone, you feel good in return. When you share your heart with someone, you feel their heart right back.”

Jimin narrows his brows. “I understand,” he begins slowly, “but no one here is in love, unless I’m expected to fall in love with my co-workers.”

She laughs like a breeze ruffling tree leaves. “No, no, of course not. You’re expected to view sex in the same way without having to be in love. Your love, in this case, is the beauty of human nature. You don’t need to have a sole person to call your own in order to offer the world a wholesome act of sexual action. Our acts put on a show for our members that explores the human experience. We remove all boundaries to showcase the art of life itself. Think of it as a new Renaissance.”

Renaissance in and of itself already means new, he notes. But that’s the point, isn’t it?

Seokjin takes over by sharing a brief history on Decadentia, something that has Jimin subconsciously leaning forward in his seat. He learns that its owner Ruby, who does have a Korean name but is known only to the staff as the jewel, was an exotic dancer as a young woman. She quickly moved up the ranks of her employer to become second only to the owner. With a father who shunned her for the occupation, Ruby’s mother left her all of her assets when she passed. Ruby took the funds and her background experience to start Decadentia with the intention to create a new form of sexual entertainment. She had networking from her past position, but she built Decedentia from the ground-up on her own.

“She wanted Decadentia to be refined,” Seokjin says.

“That’s amazing,” Jimin commends, feeling a flush of inspiration from the woman’s dedication to her business. He thinks back to his brief meeting with her, witnessing her calm assurance within her lavish office. The confidence must come from the present status of her business in comparison to what must have been a difficult start. Or perhaps her in-born confidence is what permitted her to build Decadentia in the first place. Jimin remembers that she must have been raising her son throughout all of this, as well. Seokjin mentioned growing up at Deca. Did Jeon Jeongguk grow up at the club, too? How does that impact a child?

“Our mission is to provide our members with premiere, intimate entertainment that showcases the beauty of humanity,” Seokjin goes on, “while providing our performers with a humane outlet for them to sexually express themselves for compensation. Our values are integrity, accountability, honesty, trust—I’m sure you read the details in your employment contract. Despite our devotion to our paying members, we are first and foremost a staff-forward organization. Ruby makes sure of that.”

“Sure,” Misook adds in with an agreeing nod, “it’s in our best interests to care well for you so you can bring in profit, but if that was our sole motivation, we wouldn’t be living out our values. It’d be ironic to treat our performers inhumane when our business prides itself on being in touch with the art of being human.”

Who would Jimin be if he’d found employment at Decadentia back when he was eighteen? He knows it’s pointless to wonder, but he can’t help himself, not when he knows Decadentia has been smoothly operating for twenty-five years.

The three of them break for lunch, traveling down to the kitchen to divulge in the prepared dosiraks meant for the staff to eat at will. Jimin doesn’t expect the boxed meals to be as extravagant as the dishes served to paying guests, but once the food is heated up and steaming before him, he realizes that its contents are the same quality as what he ate with Namjoon in the showroom’s suite. The only difference is the presentation, but the cut of meat is just as delicious and the side dishes just as fresh.

They eat on one of the many empty tables in the showroom, the space spotless despite a business day the previous night. Jimin assumes cleaning staff takes over the moment the room is vacated by its last guest.

Just as they’re finishing up their meals, the grand polished doors at the far end of the room push open. BB walks through, and unlike his casual wear when Jimin formally met him in the artist lounge, today he’s decked in white leather boots below an iridescent purple coat tapered at the waist. He tugs down his hood to ruffle his dark hair as he enters, using the same hand to wave vividly at Jimin.

“Right on time,” Seokjin announces, folding a napkin over his finished box. “Angel, as BB is your mentor, I’d like you to spend some time with him today so you two can get to know each other and so you, specifically, can get more comfortable here.”

“Hanging around with just us two might be a bit intimidating, I suspect,” Misook mentions with a slip of a smile.

“Ask BB any questions you may have,” continues Seokjin right as the other performer reaches them, stopping beside Jimin, “whether it be about when he first began working here, how he likes it, if he has any advice—things like that.” Jimin nods, thinking Seokjin is finished, until the man catches Jimin’s intent to stand and adds, “And, Angel, you’re not obligated to tell BB anything about yourself that you don’t wish to, but I’ll strongly say that it’s easier to work alongside others here when they know your history. Performing with a stranger doesn’t do well for anyone. Keep that in mind.”

Jimin nods once more. Sex can be empty, but no one would deny that it’s not gotten across better when heightened through emotion and mutual understanding. Though Jimin doesn’t see himself racing to spill his secrets to anyone at Decadentia, he gets the logic in Seokjin’s advice.

“Come on, lovely,” BB sings, taking Jimin’s arm while he stands to loop it through his elbow. “I hope you’re not stuffed. Let’s go grab a coffee. You like coffee?”

“Of course I like coffee.”

“Perfect, because I hate it. Toodles.” BB wiggles his long fingers towards Seokjin and Misook before leading Jimin away back through the showroom’s main doors.

They stroll to a coffee shop two streets away that somehow manages to look like a palace garden on the inside despite its tucked away location on the 21st floor of its building. Jimin skims the digital menu over the bar before ordering the seasonal spiced maple latte, while BB decides on an iced berry tea. He additionally orders them a thick slide of sesame loaf cake to share. The two of them settle in curved white chairs at one of the many tables, not having to wait long before a robotic server drops off their order on a sleek tray.

“Why, thank you,” BB deeply tells the wheeled robot, even though the machine is simply a box of wires. Still, the machine has enough built-in intelligence to respond, “You’re welcome,” before wheeling back towards the bar for its next order.

“Helpers are so cute,” BB says, removing their drinks and the loaf slice from the tray. “But I don’t think I could have one live with me. I don’t mind listening in on my conversations, but I just know there are little cameras in that thing watching me. People have taken the robots apart to disprove it, yeah, yeah, but I don’t buy it. They’re probably working for the manufacturer to convince us that there are no lenses in the Helpers. Do you have a Helper?”

“No,” says Jimin, casually eyeing the machine as it makes its rounds. “I’ve only seen them at stores and restaurants.”

“Which makes total sense, but not in my home. Nuh-uh.” BB takes his tea’s metal straw in two fingers while he bends his head to sip. He wiggles in his seat at its apparent delicious taste, his mouth breaking into that famous boxy smile of his.

Jimin lifts his own latte to his mouth, the steam warming his cheeks. The drink is unfairly good, a perfect mix of strong espresso with just the right amount of flavored sweetness. He imagines he’ll be coming back to this place again. Setting down his cup, he asks, “You’re okay with strangers at Deca watching you in-person but not the maybe chance of some Helper employee secretly streaming you on your couch or cooking dinner?”

BB chuckles at this, the sound rich in his lower tone. “The difference is consent. Plus, I wouldn’t even want Deca members to see what I look like when I wake up in the morning. My hair is like this.” He rakes his fingers through his hair and lifts the wavy strands so they fan around his head like loose spikes. They fall beautifully when he releases them. Jimin finds it hard to believe someone like BB looks anything less than effortlessly handsome even after a long night’s sleep.

“Have some of this with me,” BB prompts, gesturing to the sesame loaf. They both pick up their provided forks, digging out their own chunks of the cake swirled with black and dusted in seeds. The bread is still warm when Jimin bites into it, moist and strong with flavor. He meets BB’s eyes, and the two of them nod severely in approval.

“Yeah, this is it,” BB mumbles thickly, swallowing. He instantly goes for a second taste.

Jimin’s hot latte pairs well with the cake despite the differing ingredients. He’s lowering his cup from his lips when BB says through munching cheeks, “I’m Taehyung, by the way. Kim Taehyung.”

Jimin’s hands linger around his cup at the sudden admittance. He didn’t think Seokjin advising that Jimin getting comfortable with his fellow performers meant sharing their identities, at least not right away. He doesn’t see the harm in someone like BB—Taehyung—knowing his real name, but it catches him off guard that BB revealed his own so suddenly. If anything, Taehyung should be the one reluctant to reveal his name to an unknown newbie. But perhaps Taehyung’s position at Deca doesn’t have him worrying if people beyond the staff catch wind of who he is. Jimin reminds himself that Deca’s performers are protected and cared for, something Jimin has never been assured of no matter his former employers’ promises. Jimin’s past co-workers at strip clubs knew who he was, but that was only because the clubs weren’t so secretive among the staff. Here, at Deca, Jimin has a choice.

“I’m Park Jimin,” he tells Taehyung anyway.

“Park Jimin,” he repeats, the name sounding as sweet on his tongue as the coffee and cake. He points his fork towards Jimin, saying, “Like Angel, it suits you. Jimin. It’s a pretty name.”

Jimin has never thought so deeply about his given name. He thinks he’s heard Angel more in the past few years than the title his mother named him. Angel’s always had a meaning and identity. But Jimin? When paired with his mother’s family name, the three syllables refer to wisdom reaching heaven. Angels happening to reside in heaven is a coincidence, but Jimin’s never considered himself to be wise. Smart? To a degree, but intelligence doesn’t equate to wisdom. He’s definitely never considered his name to be pretty.

Kim Taehyung is exactly what his name looks like, but he hardly acts as intimidating.

“Thank you,” Jimin tells him earnestly.

“So, where do you want to begin?” Taehyung asks, toying with his drink’s straw. “We can start with you or with me, whichever you prefer.”

“Like, our histories?”

“Mm, like our career journeys and anything else you wish to know about me or share yourself. You’ll quickly find, Jimin-ah, that I thoroughly enjoy making friends, and that requires lots of talking.”

Jimin finds himself further relaxing at the informal use of his name from Taehyung, the added ending something that no one really bothers to use anymore. Seokjin using ssi was already a pleasant surprise, but Taehyung taking it a step further by utilizing terminology that used to be frequented by only close family or friends stirs something warm in Jimin’s chest.

“Well, then,” Jimin says, leaning back in his chair while curling up a corner of his mouth, “go ahead and tell me all about you. How did you end up at Decadentia?”

Taehyung is thrilled to be given the go ahead, though Jimin suspects he’d be just as happy to hear about Jimin’s life story first. He folds his arms atop the table, pressing into its edge. His purple coat is laced with sheens of blue and pink, and the colors all but flicker under the cafe’s bright ceiling lights.

“When I was a kid,” Taehyung begins, as enthusiastic as any great storyteller, “I dreamed of becoming an actor. I always loved movies, shows, internet videos, you name it. I loved the idea that actors can play pretend and become entirely different people. They get to dress up and turn into whoever they want to be, with the final product something that’s created with such detail that, for a moment, you believe that the actor has truly stepped into whatever world has been crafted for them. But it wasn’t just the dramatics of taking on characters—it was the knowledge that acting is done in front of a camera for an audience. If I just loved acting, I could get my fun from playing make believe in my bedroom. No, I wanted people to see me. I wanted to perform for an audience so they could not just witness my own passion and joy, but receive joy in return.

“My parents were always very supportive, and they took me to auditions all throughout my childhood. I was in a few advertisements—Play Pad, that child-proofed learning tablet; the cereal Berry Beans; the clothing brand DongJuAhn.”

“No way, really?” Jimin gapes, each of those brands being big-name businesses.

“Really.”

“I’m going to look you up the moment I leave here, you know that, right?”

Taehyung hums a laugh, throwing forward a shy hand. “Don’t cringe too much when you do. I was a baby back then.”

“No promises.”

“Even though I was young, I knew I didn’t want to do ads forever,” he continues, picking up his fork to cut out another piece of the sesame loaf. “I wanted to be a star, you know? But no matter how good I was, someone was always better. The film and TV industry is tough. There are too many talented individuals and not enough roles to go around. I was consistently told by casting agents and directors that I had the looks and the skills, yet I couldn’t land any roles. I snagged a few low-rate gigs, but nothing major. Those experiences were still amazing, don’t get me wrong. They were so fun and taught me so much about being on sets and what it’s like to really act in something other than an ad or short video.

“Around that time—I was nineteen at this point, by the way—an adult film company reached out to me in interest. I was initially hesitant, because that was definitely not a route I had ever considered going down, but I’m not one to turn down an opportunity. I met with them and heard them out, then did research of my own, and I ultimately decided to take up their offer.”

“Just like that?” Jimin questions, impressed in his surprise. “That’s a pretty different path than what you intended.”

“Mm,” Taehyung agrees, finally taking a bite of the loaf from his fork. “But I’ve never been opposed to sex work. It’s a massive industry with its own charms. Besides, I’ve always liked an audience, and the sex work industry has quite a devoted one.”

That’s one way of putting it, Jimin thinks. He’s not sure which company picked Taehyung up, and he won’t ask him, but there are plenty of ethical entertainment companies out there, especially when their film stars are celebrities in their own right. Stripping in a club is far from the meticulous work of shooting a movie with a team and a script, but the biggest difference is that Jimin’s never worked at a club that treats its performers as elevated stars.

“I worked in the film industry for about a year,” Taehyung says, “meaning I only did a few movies. They were made rather quickly. It’s a fast-paced job. But, through the network chain that naturally exists in that type of work, I managed to hear about Deca and how it was holding its annual auditions. It’s very difficult to learn about Deca’s auditions. It’s a miracle I somehow got wind of it at all. I’m sure the place would be swarmed if it publicly announced any open positions. But, I’d heard of it, and I auditioned.”

“Were you looking for something different than being in films?” Jimin asked. “You wanted to be in front of a camera for so long.”

“True, but I learned that audiences don’t have to be behind a screen. I found that performing in front of a live crowd is double the satisfaction for me. Thinking of that is what led me to audition, and once I learned of all the perks we get … well, it was a done deal.”

Jimin sips his drink, half empty now from while Taehyung spoke. “So, if you were nineteen when you became a filmstar, then joined Deca, you’ve been at Deca for …?”

“Three years.”

Jimin whistles low. “Wow. Three years? Don’t take this the wrong way, but do you ever worry that members might get used to you? People are fickle. They tire of us easily.”

Taehyung exhales a sympathetic smile, falling back in his chair. “I worried about that at first,” he admits, “when I was a new baby learning everything like you are now, but our members are different. Some of them do come and go, yes, but most are loyal, especially our sponsors. We’re more to them than just some stage actors to fantasize about. They become true fans. Friends, too.”

Jimin thinks to the conversation he had with his roommates when he moved into the dorms, of Nuri, Kkuli, and Jinju in particular discussing the topic of sponsors. They mentioned BB having one alongside Soonsu.

“If your sponsors stopped paying you,” Jimin says, “would you still be their friend?”

“No,” Taehyung tells him, zero hesitation in his answer. It’s highlighted even more after Taehyung’s self-proclamation of liking to make friends. “There’s always that boundary. Having a sponsor is a complicated relationship, but the thing is, the sponsors know that. They know we aren’t their actual partners, that we don’t actually belong to them. Many of them are married, so it’s not like they don’t have someone for themselves in that sense. And I can’t wallow in the morality of these sponsors being married if it’s the case where their significant other is unaware of their outside activities,” Taehyung explains with a shrug. “I’m just doing my job, and it’s the members who are choosing to provide my paycheck.”

Half of the customers Jimin stripped for wore wedding rings. It’s never been any of his business.

“How many sponsors do you have?” Jimin asks. He quickly adds, “If you don’t mind telling me.”

“Not at all!” Taehyung exclaims, like he’s offended that Jimin would ever concern himself over the curiosity. “That’s why I’m here. So, currently? Five. I cap it at five.”

“Currently?”

“Yes, I’m not counting those who tip me one time to make a single request. Active sponsors are ones who are presently supporting me, whether it's tipping me consistently every week or buying me something from my wishlist every week. If I didn’t put a maximum number, I’d have more sponsors than I could handle. My free time isn’t indefinite. Plus, I have Hoba to prioritize.”

“Hoba?”

Taehyung lets out a dreamy sigh at the name. “My handsome primary sponsor, Jung Hoseok. He provides my house—well, my and Soonsu’s house. We share an apartment. Hoba adores the both of us, so he just had to have us a packaged set. I can’t complain—I love Soonsu, my little dumpling.”

Jimin bites back an automatic laugh at the endearment. He only met Soonsu once, but he remembers enough of his pale face to consider that the cat-eyed man could, in fact, resemble a dumpling.

“So, your primary sponsor is the one who pays for your house,” Jimin figures.

“Typically, yes. They’re also the sponsor you spend the most time with. They have a bigger claim on you than the others. Of course,” Taehyung says, sitting up for his drink, “you’re in complete control of how you go about your sponsors. That’s what’s so wonderful about Deca’s system. You can choose how many sponsors you want, accept who you want, and make your own terms with those you do expect. Of course, there are unsaid expectations. But there should be. If you accept a sponsor, it’d be poor taste not to oblige them with their wants if they’re supporting you. And if you keep denying sponsors, it reflects badly on Deca. Past performers have been let go because of petty conduct with sponsors. But don’t worry too much about that. As a baby, Jimin, you’re not expected to rush into dealing with sponsors the moment you debut.”

It’s strange to be sitting with Taehyung at a public location discussing their line of work inside a normal cafe. The majority of the people around them would likely balk if they listened in. However, most people are drawn to sex, whether in support or opposition, and Jimin knows that the majorty of the people who’d balk would still fall prey to their curiosity if they happened to find themselves inside Decadentia’s showroom. Still, Jimin isn’t one to advertise his profession. But he doesn’t think Taehyung cares all that much.

“Are you and Jung Hoseok … close?”

“Very,” Taehyung replies, the evidence of truth in his tender tone. “I adore him. I’ve told him if we met under other circumstances, I’d have completely fallen in love with him.”

The answer throws Jimin off guard. “Are you not now, then?”

Something melancholy yet definite lines Taehyung’s features. “I love him, yes, but not romantically. It’s like how I love Soonsu as my co-worker, as my partner with Hoba, and as my friend. I love Hoba in the context of who he is to me. Hoba …” Taehyung breathes out long, eyes falling to the table surface. “He cares for us deeply, but he knows what this is. Like I explained earlier, Deca members wouldn’t be members if they expected anything other than what they’re paying for. Not all of them can handle themselves, and the moment they showcase dangerous attachment, the sponsorship ends. If they fight it, they can’t sponsor anyone. If they act out any further, they’re banned from Deca. Hoba doesn’t cross the line, and neither do I.”

“How do you do it?” Jimin puzzles. “Isn’t it hard? To deny your heart?”

The way Taehyung speaks of Jung Hoseok sounds like a fairy tale come true, but the reality of their relationship is anything but. Taehyung’s resolve is admirable but dumbfounding. Jimin isn’t sure he could ever allow himself to fall so entirely for a person while keeping them at a distance. It’s a good thing he doesn’t consider anyone called a customer, subscriber, or audience member a potential love interest. He does not plan to ever get so close to a sponsor, no matter how much they spoil him.

“I’m not denying my heart if I’m acting with my brain,” Taehyung says. “I can’t let myself go that route. That’s another reason why a performer would leave Deca, because they fall for a sponsor. It compromises their job. How can they fairly work if they have personal feelings for a member? Your spot needed filling because of the person who last held it.”

“Kkuli told me about that. Haru, right?”

Taehyung lifts a half-grin. “Close. Horu. He and his sponsor fell in love, which we all saw coming, if I’m gonna be honest. He resigned before Deca could let him go. The couple moved to Paris, where they married and stayed. It was very romantic, the whole thing. I totally would have gone to their wedding if they’d had one, but they just got some judge to do it. Who goes to Paris and doesn’t have some fairytale wedding with an Eiffel Tower backdrop? What a waste.”

Jimin lifts his fork and toys with the sesame loaf, asking, “Is something like that common? Not Paris, but the leaving to be with a sponsor.”

Taehyung raises his iced tea to his lips to sip once before answering. “Not really. We all tend to keep ourselves in check. We like this job. But, as you can tell, there’s an end point for some people, and that’s okay. Deca doesn’t depart badly with anyone, unless they, I don’t know, tried to defame the business or steal from it or something. If you end up staying here permanently, but then decide you want to move on in a year, you can quit with no hard feelings.”

Jimin nods in recollection, murmuring, “Right. I read about that in the contract. Well, you’ve been here for three years. How much longer do you see yourself staying here?”

Taehyung twists his mouth with sudden thought, like he’s never considered it before. “Honestly? I don’t know. If you didn’t already notice, the oldest performer is in their early thirties, so there’s not really any longevity. Maybe I’ll stay until my face wrinkles, or maybe I’ll leave because I decide I want to trade the late nights and body maintenance for lazy days and a beer belly. But I still enjoy performing at Deca, so for now, I’m staying. Also, somehow, my sex drive is still impressively stable, so there’s that.”

Jimin snorts a laugh. “Yeah, that could become a concern if that changed.”

Taehyung boasts a wide grin, pressing into the table to say, “Good thing I like exhibitionism.” He falls back against his chair, crossing the sleeves of his extravagant coat. “What about you, Angel? How’d you end up here? I already heard that you stripped, and that you didn’t even audition. That’s impressive.”

Jimin circles a pad of his finger over the outline of his cup. “Did Seokjin tell you that?”

“Kkuli.” When Jimin snickers, Taehyung tells him, “You’ll quickly learn that Kkuli is our resident gossiper.”

“I’m already learning,” chuckles Jimin.

As their laughs settle, Taehyung waits expectantly for Jimin to begin. Jimin pulls back his hand, resting both in his lap as he gathers a starting point. He realizes he feels no qualms about sharing his past with Taehyung. He doesn’t divulge his family drama, but Taehyung thoughtfully listens as he tells him how his stripping career unfolded to bring Jimin to Deca now. The longer they chat, the looser Jimin unwinds, and by the time they bid each other goodbye, Jimin determines that Kim Taehyung could easily become one of his newest, closest friends.

Chapter Text

Jimin lies in his bed, eyes adjusted to his new bedroom. A slip of the wide window is exposed between the nearly shut curtains, hazing the space in a slice of illuminated blue from the cityscape beyond. He tilts his neck as Kkuli enters the room from the hall, his curly hair damp. The scent of soap wafts through the air as Jimin’s roommate pads over to his bed, sliding under his covers before grabbing for his charging mobile. It’s well past three in the morning by the time he’s finished his shower after his night at Deca. If Jimin had training tomorrow, he’d be fast asleep by now, but as his first week has come to a close, he’s been given the weekend off.

“Pssst.”

Jimin turns his head. “Yeah?”

“Oh, shit,” Kkuli yelps just above a whisper, “you’re awake. I didn’t know. Did I wake you?”

“No, I’ve been awake. I just shut off my mobile before you came back.”

“Anything exciting?” asks Kkuli, his own device waiting in his hands.

“Just Slab,” Jimin answers, referring to the all-encompassing social media platform used by practically every human being on Earth.

Kkuli sucks in a dramatic breath, focusing on his mobile. “Oh my God, how have I not added you already? What’s your user?”

Jimin hesitates. His user doesn’t spell out his name, but it does include his initials. There are only so many Korean family names that start with the jamo bieup, making it likely easy for Kkuli to guess. But there are surely a vast amount of syllables that could combine to make Jimin’s given name, and his family name of Park isn’t exactly rare.

“It’s angel-dot-p-j-m.”

“PJM?” repeats Kkuli, speaking the alphabet versions of the jamo. “Ooh, would you absolutely despise me if I tried guessing your name?”

“I wouldn’t despise you, but—”

“Bae Jumyung.”

Jimin snorts a smile at the attempt. “Bae? That’s your first choice?”

“Baek Jungman.”

Jimin laughs.

“Maybe it’s more international?” Kkuil muses. “More and more people have fusion names, you know. We’re an international society. James. Jumaru. Jiaming. Jamar. Have I said it yet?”

Jimin’s still chuckling, realizing that his name is rather obvious. It uses common morphemes. Either Kkuli is clueless, or he has an idea of what it could be and is purposefully avoiding it for Jimin’s sake. “I will neither confirm nor deny,” Jimin tells him.

Though it hasn’t been long, Jimin’s first impressions of his seven dorm mates isn’t just positive. That would be an insulting understatement. When he first learned he’d be living with those he was expected to partake in performances with, he worried there would be competition between them. Not every strip club co-worker of his was like that, but there were more bitter Choseongs than sweet Dosans.

Though Jimin has yet to grace the stage himself, strains can begin from just being a new face. If anyone’s being insincere in their kindness towards him, he can’t tell. One thing Jimin’s learned over the years in this industry is when someone’s wearing a mask. So far, not one individual at Deca seems to don one. He doubts the other performers he’s yet to personally meet are much different.

He hasn’t been to watch a show since his training began, but he sees how his roommates interact within their dorm. They encourage each other. They compliment each other. They hype each other up. Perhaps the reason why the relationships between them all differs so vastly from a strip club is because they’re not simply working beside each other, but with each other. In the near future, Jimin will have to sexually engage with some of these people. It would be horrific if any of them didn’t get along.

Beyond friendly chatter, there’s respect, even with how they live. For the sake of order, they have a chore chart that they update every week, such as trash duty and team grocery shopping. If someone has a late show, they must enter as quietly as possible, but Jimin’s already realized that Chaeri’s pretty bad at that. Kkuli says the screw in her brain that deals with sound is loose.

Kkuli is one to talk when all he does is talk. But Jimin likes him. The kid—he’s three years younger than Jimin—is nothing but warm-hearted, albeit a bit of a drama queen. And he’s a gossip machine, as Taehyung so obviously pointed out the other day. Kkuli often rambles across the room to him about who did what, what happened there, how this happened when. But none of it’s with ill intent. There’s a fine line, and Kkuli never crosses it.

Now, he makes a defeated noise at Jimin’s response about his potential names, mumbling Jimin’s user while he seemingly types it into Slab. “Jeez, you barely post anything.”

“What can I?” Jimin tucks his chin into his blanket. “I never exactly wanted customers from the strip club finding my Slab profile to stalk me online.”

“What’s the worst they could do?” Kkuli points out. “See that you have a life outside the club where you occasionally go out to eat and look just as nice in a full outfit?’

Jimin lets out a dismissive sound, but he doesn’t argue otherwise.

“There,” says Kkuil with a wiggle of his device. “Just added you. Add me back.”

Jimin blinks when he notices Kkuli staring expectantly at him. “Right now?”

“Yes!”

Jimin reaches for his forgotten mobile, unlocking the notification on his screen stating that honeyyyboy26 has added him. He completes the mutual add, and Kkuli grins conspiratorially, “Now we can send each other funny posts. I follow everyone else at Deca, too, so you can go through my following list and add them.”

Jimin takes up the knowledge and does just that. He skims through each of his co-workers’ pages, noticing that each of their users either relate to their stage name or is something else entirely. None of them reveal their true names beyond initials. Jimin smiles to himself at seeing Taehyung’s user now that he knows his mentor’s name. babybearkth. Jimin doesn’t have to guess what kth stands for.

Most of his co-workers’ accounts display posts about their luxurious lives, all available to them from their Deca earnings. Taehyung’s showcases mostly images of just him, posing at a restaurant, at a park, on the street. Some of them include Soonsu or other performers. His written posts are nothing but simple comments about current thoughts, like how he recommends a recent movie that was just released or how stunning the sunrise was one morning. Nothing is political. Nothing is damaging. Seokjin never mentioned keeping up the image on social media, but Jimin suspects that anyone with a brain knows to keep their publicly published life free of anything that can bite them in the ass from an employer.

Jimin notices that Kkuli follows not just performers, but other Deca staff, from the chefs to Misook. Seokjin has a Slab profile, but he hasn’t posted in two years. That’s hardly surprising. Jimin adds him anyway. Ruby doesn’t have one—to his knowledge, anyway. Jimin figures the businesswoman likely does, as it’s practically impossible not to keep up with the world otherwise. But her son, Jeongguk, has an account. jjk901. Jimin clicks on the man’s profile from Kkuli’s following list, only to be greeted with a locked page displaying nothing but Jeongguk’s user, profile picture, header, and bio. Curious, Jimin searches through Kkuli’s own following. Jeongguk doesn’t follow him back.

“What?” Kkuli asks.

Jimin realizes he must have scoffed. “Jeon Jeongguk doesn’t follow you?”

Kkuli shuffles in his bed, huffing loudly. “No, and I am very offended by it. He sits on his high horse and follows all of the staff beside the performers. But it’s fine.” It doesn’t sound like it’s fine. “At least he lets me follow him. Not like he posts much, anyways. He’s worse than you.”

Jimin lingers on Jeongguk’s private profile. His header is of the sky, either dusk or dawn, Jimin can’t tell. The profile image is a black and white silhouette of him, making it so no matter how much Jimin zooms in, he can’t see any details of Jeongguk’s face.

“He’s an elusive guy, isn’t he?” Jimin murmurs, clicking out of Slab before shutting off his mobile. He slides down his pillows, twisting onto his side towards Kkuli. His roommate is still toying around his device, likely scrolling through his own Slab.

“Have you seen him at Deca yet?”

“Once,” Jimin answers. “From a distance, anyways.”

“Was he standing up?”

“Um, yes?”

Kkuli throws him an enthralled look, just visible in the dimmed blue of the otherwise darkened room. He looks even younger without his glasses. “Aren’t his body proportions divine?”

Jimin exhales an amused breath, saying, “He was wearing a coat.”

Kkuli bristles. “That’s annoying. Well, you’ll be seeing more of him, so watch out for when he’s not wearing a coat, because he’s one to look at. But I have a bet with Jinju that his penis is the size of a peanut.”

Jimin coughs as his own spit slinks down the wrong pipe.

“Look,” Kkuli defends, “he’s too hot not to have any flaws.”

Jimin drops his jaw. “What about all of us, then?”

Without a moment to think, Kkuli lists, “I’m irritating, Jinju’s short, Chan’s reclusive, Hyesong’s uptight—I don’t know you long enough to know what your weakness is, but I’ll definitely tell you when I find it.”

Jimin blows out a breath that ruffles his black bangs. “Wow, thanks.”

“You’d think any of us would have caught the eye of Jeongguk,” Kkuli goes on, forgetting his mobile as he twists in his own bed to rattle on like a teenager, “but it’s never happened. Who knows, maybe he’s asexual or thinks we’re all disgusting whores. Maybe both. But my point is that no one’s seen any chunk of his hunky ass besides his head, hands, and ankles. Oh, and sometimes his collarbone area, if we’re lucky. He’s always suited up like he has somewhere important to be when the guy doesn't even work.”

Frowning with curiosity, Jimin questions, “He doesn’t?”

“Nope, he just mooches off of mommy’s money, which is totally fine. I’d do the same if I was in his shoes. But if I was also in his shoes,” Kkuli says with a mischievous glimmer in his eyes, “I’d take advantage of my mom’s business and get it on with one of her easy employees. He could totally pull the I’m the son of Ruby, do what I say card, but he doesn’t. It’s actually kind of impressive. I respect him for it. But come on,” Kkuli groans, “he’s gotta be hiding something, and my bet is that he actually has a tiny dick. But I really hope that’s not true.”

“Are you discriminatory towards tiny dicks?”

“Are you saying you have a tiny dick?”

“No spoilers,” Jimin coos. “You’ll have to wait and see. And don’t avoid the question. I never pegged you as someone with genital prejudice.”

Kkuli lets out a boyish laugh, pressing his head forward past his covers to say, “I don’t, but preferences aren’t illegal, are they?”

“So, you prefer monster cocks?”

“I want to be split in half, Angel.”

Jimin erupts into laughter, envisioning the sight in his head. “That seems painful. You’re smaller than me. Do you only bottom?”

“I’m a switch.”

Jimin gasps. “No.”

Kkuli proudly flips non-existent locks of hair. “Yes. If I’m not being pegged, I want to watch a giant dick bounce on top of me.”

“Props to you.”

“Thank you. And you? My instant guess was that you only bottom, but now that I know you a little more, I could picture you topping.”

Jimin lifts a brow. “Oh? Is it because of my charming personality?”

“It’s cute you think charming is the word I’d use.”

Jimin giggles, admitting, “I prefer bottoming, but I can switch if the other person doesn’t top at all.”

“Good to know,” Kkuli grins across the room. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I can’t wait to work with you.”

To anyone outside the industry, it would sound strange. I can’t wait to have sex with you, is the double meaning. But Jimin feels tenderness swirl in his stomach at Kkuli’s welcoming reception. It’s not grotesque, but appreciative. No stripper ever told him they looked forward to working the poles with him. Any customers that voiced their excitement for him was nothing but degrading and possessive.

Kkuli and Jimin are parallel lines. Kkuli’s anticipation doesn’t bend Jimin lower. Rather than numbers, what sits between them is mutual respect positioned for the purpose of their jobs, not personal desires.

Jimin feels no attraction for Kkuli, but he earnestly tells him, “Me too.”

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

Much of Jimin’s early training requires him only to be a good listener. Whether it’s direct lessons from Seokjin and Misook or mentorship hangouts with Taehyung, Jimin’s initial adjustment into Deca is information overload. He unironically asked one day if he should be taking notes. Seokjin wasn’t impressed, even though Jimin meant it. The unsaid answer was no.

He didn’t think the lessons would be as detailed as they are. Jimin’s never been to a university-level class, but he assumes that his sex philosophy lessons are taught similarly to any official philosophy course. It sure as hell feels like it. Misook and Seokjin have started utilizing the smartboard after that first day, so now each lesson includes appropriately put together slides.

It sounds dreary, but in reality, Jimin’s fascinated by it. It’s not like he ever had sex education beyond labeling diagrams in middle school, and despite his years as a stripper, he’s never thought so deeply about his occupation beyond its surface level.

Seokjin and Misook teach him about being open to vulnerability, reveling in the attention from the audience, and viewing his sexual stage acts as exploring and appreciating human existence. They consistently state that the human body is art. Its capability of pleasure serves no purpose other than just that—pleasure. If procreation is taken out of the equation, then what’s the reason for the act to feel satisfaction from sex? Surely humans could procreate without it needing to feel good. It could hurt each and every time. It could feel like nothing, like how indifferently brushing someone’s arm on the street feels like nothing. If pleasure is solely meant for encouraging procreation, then why do same-sex engagements feel just as good?

Pleasure is a bonus, Seokjin and Misook teach. It’s a gift. But many people dehumanize it by turning it into something it’s not. They tell him that it’s only considered a sin because humans choose to latch that definition onto it.

“We as humans, decide what’s right and wrong,” Seokjin explains to him, standing beside the smartboard with a human anatomy graphic more representative of a painting than a doctor’s cheatsheet. “Unless there’s a universal morality that’s set in stone by space and time, or a higher power, but we’re not here to convince you to change your universal beliefs. But we do want you to be more perceptive to why sex isn’t so wrong as history claims it to be.

“Throughout time, civilizations have chosen what’s acceptable or not. Until Japanese colonization and western intervention, Koreans had very strict rules about hair, for example. You wore it up if you were married, or covered with a certain hat depending on your job and status. But now, we cut our hair, and color it, and style it however we want with no regard to social status and occupation. This was unheard of for thousands of years, until it suddenly wasn’t. Ancient societies like the Greeks got drunk on wine and had orgies in the name of their gods. That was accepted in their land, until modernization said it wasn’t.

“Here at Decadentia,” continues Seokjin with such authority that he could claim he’s a ten-foot bear and Jimin would consider believing him, “sexual appreciation is not just accepted, but thoroughly encouraged for the best possible experiences for our staff and members. Of course, we do have limits. We do not deal with minors, not even when playing pretend. We do not deal with extreme kinks that would discomfort the average person who comes to our shows. We don’t just want you to perform for a paycheck, Jimin-ssi, we want you to genuinely enjoy your job. That requires fully immersing yourself into your performance.”

Jimin began the week pin straight in his chair, but today he’s draped an elbow over the conference table, resting his cheek in his palm as his chair is turned towards the smartboard and its two presenters. He asks, “I have a question.”

Seokjin flicks his perfect brows in acknowledgement for him to go ahead.

“What if I can’t finish?” With camming, he just scraps the video. He can’t exactly scrap a live show if he’s unable to perform.

“In that case,” answers Seokjin, unfazed by the question, “for the sake of the show, you must fake it. Unfortunately, there’s a time limit to your act, and the audience expects a completion. But I can assure you that as long as you finish your training well and immerse yourself once you get on that stage, you should be able to get into a healthy mindset in order to orgasm.”

Jimin doesn’t know why, but hearing a stony-faced man like Kim Seokjin say the word orgasm threatens Jimin to snicker like a little kid. He manages to contain himself, internally chiding his own immaturity.

“But,” adds Seokjin, a shade gentler, “we understand. Sometimes, you might simply be tired and not in the mood. But that’s also why you only perform a max of three times per week, so you can give your body proper rest and be able to mentally prepare for your next go so you’re able to physically respond. Also.” Seokjin narrows his chin at Jimin, the gesture commanding enough to make Jimin subconsciously straighten up. “It would be redundant to have performers who have a poor sex drive. Have I made a mistake here?”

Jimin shakes his hands in dismissal, hastily answering, “What? No. No, you haven’t. I’m peachy.”

“Good. I’ve yet to mistakenly hire, and I don’t plan to break my streak.”

Chapter Text

It’s during Jimin’s second week at Decadentia when Seokjin informs him that he will begin watching Deca’s shows. Jimin can receive only so many verbal lessons, but it needs to be applied. That starts with thoroughly observing his co-workers perform.

“For your convenience,” Seokjin tells him, “you must only attend the first show of an evening, unless you’d rather stay here well past midnight to catch the final one on the roster. Either way, you’ll have to do that at least once. You’ll be attending a VIP social hour with BB to observe how they operate. Don’t worry too much about attending a social hour as a trainee—BB is sure to tell anyone who asks that you’re there to learn, not oblige any flirty VIPs.”

Before the awaited night where he’ll likely catch Taehyung saddling up to his five sponsors, Jimin spends three separate evenings in the showroom as an audience member. He sits at a smaller table beside the right wall’s row of velvet booths. He’s placed close enough to the stage to be taking up a VIP seat.

“You’re really giving up a VIP spot so I can sit close enough to see the sweat glistening off someone’s ass?” Jimin asked Seokjin when he was told the location of his reserved spot.

“You sat in a suite the first time you attended a show,” Seokjin reminded him. “If anything, this is a downgrade for you. Remember, Jimin-ssi, you’re worth more to us than a VIP.”

Tonight, at the tailend of his second week and moving into the third, his eyes are laser focused on the stage. He doesn't pay much attention to the large screen displaying the action with more detail, but of the three performers currently presenting a show themselves. Jimin’s not in the first row, but he’s hardly far enough away not to place the majority of his attention on the real deal rather than the digital projection.

I'm in an elegant showroom watching a live threesome next to the richest motherfuckers in the country as they sip on wine. When he thinks of it so plainly, it sounds insane. But while he watches, he can only think of his lessons from Seokjin and Misook. He doesn’t look upon the three performers—Apple, Chaeri, and a man named Kita who Jimin has only briefly met—with any reservations. Not anymore. With it being his third show of the week and fourth overall, he’s quickly gotten used to witnessing the sexual performances.

He realizes what originally threw him off the most wasn't the acts overall, but Deca's humane practices—as humane as they can be, anyway. Witnessing stage performances in a setting in which they’re being paid handsomely and observed respectfully is different from Jimin catching a stripper sucking off some lewd customer in a back room. Here, he gets it. Watching the current threesome occurring right before his eyes to a focused crowd is still unbelievable to him, but not in the same way he considered it to be unbelievable when he first entered Deca’s walls.

He studies their positions, sounds, and expressions. It’s not cheap porn. The three of them move as if they’re in love with each other. What Seokjin and Misook said about that makes sense now. It shows in the way Apple—the centerpoint of the performance—arches while Kita thrusts torturously slowly into her, with her fingers interlocked in Chaeri’s who all but sits on Apple’s face. Kita traces shapes across Apple’s stomach, tender and sweet. Chaeri lifts one of Apple’s hands to her lips to whisper a kiss onto her knuckles. The trio only joined as one a few minutes ago. Before then, they spent a fair amount of time leading up to full nudity, teasing one another with their gorgeous costumes of pale chiffon, which thus teased the audience. Jimin studied that too, the lingering gazes and alluring comments towards one another. He noted how they carefully undressed each other, skimming hair raised on arms and gently toying with the fabric as it was discarded. The show Jimin went to two nights ago was rather intense, displaying a male pair in which one edged the other with cloth the entire performance until the final minute when the submitter was finally permitted to come. This one, however, with Apple, Chaeri, and Kita, is far less dominance-inspired. Jimin remembers Seokjin mentioning how the ancient Greeks had orgies. Jimin thinks it must have been something like this.

Jimin hopes he can look this pretty while on stage.

So far, he’s noticed that each performer at Deca has their own intricacies that set them apart from everyone else. Anyone with an exhibitionism kink or even just enough confidence could have sex on stage, but not anyone can entice an audience and keep them coming back like how Deca’s roster of performers does. It would get boring if each show was just the same standard actions with the same typical give-and-take.

The threesome finishes—literally—and their exit is hidden by darkened lights and stagehands removing any evidence of their presence. The audience claps. Conversation begins. The trio was the final act of the night, the last of three. With no more to go, some of the audience isn’t so quick to stand from their seats when the glittering chandelier dims back up beside the rest of the room’s fixtures. Meanwhile, others make their way towards the double exit doors.

Jimin glances up at the suites. Well, one in particular.

It’s where Jeon Jeongguk always sits. Jimin’s heard from co-worker chatter that the suite is unofficially his, and even if he’s not attending a show, the suite remains empty no matter how many VIPs are available to occupy it.

Jeongguk is here tonight. Out of the shows Jimin’s been to the past week, this is the first one Jeongguk has attended alongside him. Ruby’s son currently still lounges at the tabled booth along his suite’s banister, decked in black and downing the last drops of his drink. No one sits with him.

With the distance, Jimin can only make out his most prominent features, from his sharp jaw to his large eyes.

Large eyes that suddenly reach across the room to meet Jimin’s.

Jimin looks away. It’s not like staring at Jeongguk is a crime, but he averts himself for the same reason why he might avert directly staring down Ruby, his boss.

Jimin waits a moment. When he sneaks a glance back at the suite, Jeongguk is nowhere to be seen.

Jimin sighs, scanning the floor of the showroom. He wonders if Taehyung will come and get him or if he’s meant to stroll on over to the VIP lounge himself. His question is answered when he spots Taehyung come over from the side door adjacent to the stage. Though Taehyung didn’t perform tonight, he’s dressed as though he had, wearing an asymmetrical blazer hanging on with only one button closed at its center. His tan skin is smooth below the material, leading up to his face where silver makeup shimmers across his lids. Jeweled rings decorate the fingers that reach out for Jimin to take.

“What are you still doing sitting out here all by yourself?” Taehyung greets with friendly affection in his eyes. Once Jimin’s standing, Taehyung doesn’t drop his hand, but pulls him along towards the VIP lounge.

“Just stick by my side,” he tells Jimin while they pass through the back door, entering the emerald green-painted hall. “No one’s going to even know you’re a performer—you did a smart job dressing more modest tonight.”

“Unlike you.”

Taehyung beams back a grin. “Oh, Angel, this is modest for me.”

Instead of the VIP lounge, Taehyung takes him into the dressing room. The first acts of the night have long-dressed after returning from their vulnerable presentations under the stage lights. Their outfits are exquisite, even if they’re a bit costumey in order to display their titles as performers. But unlike the skimpy costumes Jimin wore at strip clubs, these outfits are glamorous ensembles that wouldn’t exactly be appropriate to don elsewhere. Not because they showcase skin—some of them do, like Taehyung’s single blazer, or even more so, whereas others are covered completely—but because there’s hardly any other event in which someone would be fit to wear such stunning garments. Not a nightclub—not fancy enough to. Not a wedding—not bold enough to. And forget their hair and makeup.

A few of them cheerily greet Taehyung, who does the same back. They offer waves to Jimin, but it’s with a layer of formality. His instinct is to be guarded, but he has to remind himself the lessened ease in comparison to Taehyung is not because they view Jimin as a threat, but because they simply don’t know him well enough yet.

“Why are we here?” Jimin asks Taehyung.

“Because we wait for the VIPs to fill the lounge first. They’re here for us, not the other way around, so we’re to be fashionably late.” Taehyung’s attention lands on someone, and he rushes away with open arms. Jimin follows with his line of sight to catch Apple stand from her spot on the room’s corner sofa, accepting the supportive hug. “Oh, Apple, you were amazing! I was watching from back here—are you okay? You too, Chaeri and Kita?”

The other two rise from their spots beside Apple. Jimin realizes that before Taehyung went over, the three of them were tucked close on the couch cushions, murmuring to one another. They’ve yet to dress into anything like the rest, still wearing whatever they shrugged on after returning from the stage. Taehyung motions Jimin over, and the trio utter hellos before Apple starts.

She nods furtively in response to Taehyung’s concern. “Yes, I’m perfectly okay. Thank you, BB.” Chaeri and Kita add similar sentiments. Apple says, “But these two got me through it. They always do. I think we’ve become quite the group, haven’t we?”

“Your delicacy with one another is so beautiful to watch,” Taehyung compliments. “No wonder you three have been getting requests lately to perform together. Who knows, Apple and Chaeri, you both might get house offers soon.”

Chaeri throws a dismissive hand forward while Apple brightens with hope. Kita nudges Chaeri, commenting, “Stop doubting yourself, Chae. Keep getting it on with me and you’ll eventually get the leftover sponsors.”

Chaeri’s jaw drops in faux anger before she swats at him, earning shared laughter from the others. Collecting herself, she nods to Jimin and asks, “I saw you in the audience. How’s your observation going? Is it weird to see your roommates fucking each other?”

“It’s … new,” Jimin supplies truthfully, receiving knowing smiles from what must be memories of when they all first joined Deca and went through the training process, “but I’m getting used to it. Observing is definitely helping me understand it more and study all of you. You all were amazing tonight, really. Like BB said, it was beautiful.” Beautiful in a way Jimin’s never really considered until now.

They thank him before excusing themselves to change for the social hour.

“Usually, only the performers of the night attend the social hour,” Taehyung begins to explain, using up some time while they wait. “But that’s just because the others don’t wanna drag themselves here if they’re not scheduled. But there’s no rule that says we can’t come if we weren’t on stage tonight, so ta-da, here I am with you. Soonsu’s here, as well. He’ll be joining us. I told Hoba that I’d be bringing you tonight, so Hoba wanted to come if I was going to be here. And if I’m here with Hoba, then Soonsu might as well be here too. Soonsu was in the performer lounge upstairs last I checked.” BB slips out his mobile, likely messaging him to come down. “Were you told about the drink situation in the lounge?”

“Yes. They’re free for us?”

Taehyung grins mischievously. “That they are. Don’t worry yourself over ever getting tipsy in there—it’s welcomed.”

“Just tipsy?” Jimin asks.

“You can get drunk if you want,” answers Taehyung, “but I don’t recommend it. As much status as you and I have here, it’s never smart to let your guard down in this line of work. I’m sure you know that.”

Jimin does. “Has anything ever happened here to encourage your advice?”

“Not while I’ve been here, to my knowledge. But just in case. You never know, Angel. Sometimes, it’s not someone grabbing you while you’re intoxicated and too weak to fight, but the way someone looks at you. It’s their assumption that you’re an easy target even when you're sober, that you’re a certain type of person who they can treat a certain way if they desire to sponsor you. They assume possession because they're paying to be here.”

“But if that happens,” Jimin says, “we can just deny the sponsorship.”

Taehyung sighs, placing a warm hand on Jimin’s sleeve. “Yes, but some sponsorships have benefits that outweigh the negatives. It’s your choice. What we consider to be the best choice for us is subjective.”

Does that happen here often, Jimin wonders? Do some performers accept sponsorships from members they don’t particularly like, just to receive whatever the sponsor offers to provide them? If a sponsor is cold, or commanding, or forceful—do some performers choose to deal with it?

Soonsu eventually joins them, looking sharp in glittering black and red. He’s almost exactly Jimin’s height, if not barely taller, but there’s something delicate about him that Jimin doesn’t have. Taehyung smacks Soonsu’s cheek in a platonic kiss when he arrives, and the latter hardly reacts beyond the slight crinkle of his eyes.

“Oh, Angel,” Taehyung begins with a snap, remembering something, “because I’m your mentor and spend quite a lot of time with you, and as I live with Soonsu, he has something to tell you.”

“Min Yoongi,” says Soonsu, holding out a hand. Jimin realizes it’s to shake. He takes Soonsu’s palm in his own. “My name’s Min Yoongi. You don’t need to tell me your name, but I don’t mind if you know mine. Most of the others do.”

Jimin softens, shaking Yoongi’s hand with surety as he tells him, “I’m Park Jimin.”

The three of them head over to the VIP lounge, as the rest of the room begins to file out in unspoken agreement that it’s reached an appropriate time. Jimin sticks close to Taehyung’s side, Yoongi on the other, and they enter the intimate bar to find it filled with patrons. The paying members turn their attention to the new arrivals, applauding the performers who went tonight. Jimin’s co-workers fan out, going for their awaiting guests.

Taehyung and Yoongi bring him to a young man who looks to be in his mid-twenties. He’s sprawled out in the center of a tufted leather couch, arms stretched out along its back while a drink is left on the low table before his shins. His black hair is combed off his face above what could be office apparel, but designer, of course. He sits like he’s been relaxedly waiting, but he doesn’t so much as shift as he’s approached by the three newcomers. But a corner of his mouth curls upwards.

Taehyung motions for Jimin to take the armchair beside the couch before he and Yoongi curl up on either side of the man. He can only be Jung Hoseok, their prime sponsor.

He adjusts his arms to wrap around Taehyung and Yoongi’s shoulders, a clear declaration to anyone watching that they’re his.

“Hoba, darling,” Taehyung coos to him, “this is our newest recruit, Angel. Angel, this is Jung Hoseok.”

Hoseok slides his piercing gaze to Jimin, offering a polite yet charming smile. “Ah, yes, Angel. A pleasure. I’ve heard all about you.”

“BB won’t shut up about you,” Yoongi mentions to Jimin.

“How can I not? Hoba, I told you he’s here tonight to study, remember?”

“Of course, my baby, of course,” Hoba lulls, softly toying with the back of Taehyung’s loose curls.

“Seokjin has him observing the showroom every other night,” continues Taehyung, “but today’s his first time experiencing a social hour. Be a good example for him, will you?”

“Are you suggesting I’m at some point not a good example?” Hoseok replies with a chuckle.

Taehyung gasps, hastily shaking his head, as though offended that Hoseok could ever say such a thing about himself. Yoongi exhales an amused breath at the sight.

“Don’t worry,” Hoseok tells Taehyung, leaning his head alluringly towards him. “I promise not to scare him off.” He gets close enough that if he spoke again, he’d brush Taehyung’s mouth with his own. But he doesn’t. He just spits a close-lipped smile before pulling back, turning his attention towards Jimin. “Well, Angel. What do you think so far? As you can see, it’s rather pretentious back here.”

“Are you including yourself?” Yoongi asks, the words flirtatious but his tone hardly as emotive.

Hoseok easily replies, “Of course, my love.”

Taehyung giggles at their banter, curling deeper into Hoseok’s side. This time, Hoseok does kiss him, except it’s on his throat.

“I think it’s tantalizing back here,” Jimin answers Hoseok’s question, deciding to relax into his chair. He crosses a thigh over his knee. Here, he’s not Jimin masking as Angel with Taehyung as BB. No, here they are only Angel and BB. Jimin needs to start acting like it.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” muses Hoseok. “BB, are you treating him well?”

“Of course!”

“Angel? Is he?”

“Yes,” Jimin responds with utter truth. “BB’s been nothing but kind and helpful.”

“Good, good. I’d expect nothing less. Is the training process long?” He glances between Taehyung and Yoongi, adding, “You know, you two, I don’t think you’ve ever delved into the details of what it was like when you both trained here. I only know how you ended up here, not the process afterwards.”

“Training is about three months,” Yoongi explains to him. “There’s not much to say other than that it’s intense, but very enlightening. Angel, this is your second or third week here, right?”

“Somewhere in between,” Jimin says.

“How would you describe it, Mr. Trainee?” Hoseok questions with an inviting grin. “Would you also call it intense but enlightening?”

Rather than instantly agree, a part of him wonders if it’s a trick question. Maybe this is a test. Does Taehyung report Jimin’s progress to Seokjin and Misook? To Ruby? Jimin’s never considered it until now, but it makes rational sense that Taehyung would. What if his answer to Hoseok’s question right now ends up in Taehyung’s notes later to be passed on to review? But Jimin remembers how Apple said the same as the latest hire before him. Yoongi’s take isn’t any different than hers, and Jimin can’t deny it.

“I can’t exactly disagree,” Jimin answers, lifting a corner of his lips in casual certainty. “Training here is unlike anything I’ve ever done before, but I’m learning a lot because of it. If it was too much for me, I wouldn’t be here.”

“What an impressive mentality,” Hoseok compliments.

Taehyung nods in agreement, telling Jimin, “I’m so excited for you to really begin training after the boring lectures.”

“Those are just as important, BB,” Yoongi scolds.

“I know, I know, but they’re boring. Intimacy classes are so much more fun,” he says with a grin.

Hoseok pinches his cheek. “You’re such a rascal.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Why has no server come over to us yet?” Yoongi suddenly comments, glancing longingly towards the bar. 

“I’ll get you something,” Hoseok instantly tells him, pulling away his arms from the two performers snuggled in his sides in preparation to hop up. “What would you like? BB? Angel?”

Jimin watches in astonishment at how Hoseok, who up until now has appeared to be such a sure and commanding man, so quickly transforms. All it took was for Yoongi to offhandedly mention drinks. Yoongi didn’t even ask for one, but just wondered about it.

And here Hoseok is, now taking drink orders from all three of them before strolling over to the bar. Jimin scoffs to himself at the sight. He was deeply mistaken about Taehyung and Yoongi belonging to Jung Hoseok.

Jung Hoseok is theirs.

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

The next day, Jimin’s back at Deca for the last of his lectured lessons. He admittedly had a difficult time getting up that morning despite not needing to be at the business until ten, but social hour lasted until almost two in the morning. If he was coming home as a performer who didn’t need to be anywhere the next day, he could have blissfully slept in. He’s gotten used to sleeping well since starting at Deca, so the one off-night has thrown him off just a smidge. He didn’t bother with any effort in his look today. He enjoys dressing well, but not this morning.

Now, at noon, he’s glad to be done with today’s lesson. Having to pay attention to Seokjin and Misook’s teaching has brought back some semblance of life into him. The only thing missing is sustenance. He woke up with just enough time to wash his face, brush his teeth, and slide on clothes, foregoing any sort of breakfast.

His stomach currently grumbles as he enters the empty kitchen, going for the single fridge along the wall of freezers to select a dosirak for himself. He scans the options through the clear door, reading the elegant stickers pasted on each transparent lid to know which meat is which. He ignores the vegan option, weighing if he wants beef or pork. He ultimately decides on beef, opening the fridge door to reach inside for his lunch. He hastily pulls it out, turning on his heel while thinking that he has to wait for it to heat up before he can dig in, which is so irritating—

He rams into a hard body. Startled, the dosirak slips out of his hands and falls flat to the floor with a smack.

“Oh—!” Jimin yelps, instantly crouching to pick up his meal. Thankfully, the hard plastic securing the food inside keeps any from spilling out. “I’m so sorry, I …”

He trails off when he glances up to catch who he’s clumsily disrupted. The young man towers over his crouched frame, veined hands resting in snug trouser pockets. The glistening watch on his wrist catches a glare from the bright ceiling lights. His relaxed stance brushes back the lapels of his sweeping black coat, layered by a thin, sheer scarf wrapped around his throat like a choker. He’s dressed with the ease of a man who frequents a full ensemble, who’d rather be caught dead than underdressed. A few purposeful strands of inky dark hair escape from his neatly combed back head, softly bending over his left brow.

Jimin swallows, slowly rising with his dosirak clutched in front of him. Jeon Jeongguk’s large yet piercing eyes follow the movement. With how round they are below his sharp brows, Jimin can only compare them to black holes, sucking him in without any hope of escape.

Now standing, Jimin breaks eye contact and steps back a respectful distance. Out of his peripheral vision, he sees Jeongguk staring so intensely at him that Jimin feels like he’s propped up on stage, not simply fumbling around the kitchen in his sweatpants.

Jimin’s never had the chance to view Jeongguk up close, not until now. Just from the single glance he stole as he rose from the floor, it’s enough to witness how Jeongguk’s strong features combine to create a classic face. It’s textbook. Even now, not even gazing directly at him, Jimin catches the young man’s slender hands as he pulls them out of his pockets. They’re the kind of hands that painters who appreciate anatomy vividly brush onto a canvas. 

But Jimin doesn’t linger on the man’s blessed genetics.

“I apologize,” Jimin begins, putting on his Good Boy voice. He’s not sure how to act around Jeongguk. The young man’s not a staff member. Because of Kkuli’s love of dishing all about Deca, Jimin knows that Jeongguk is two years younger than him. But Jeongguk is still the owner’s son, no matter his age. That title is enough to warrant a heightened level of respect from Jimin’s position as an employee.

“You’re new.” Jeongguk says it like it’s an obvious statement, but Jimin catches a hint of curiosity in his tone. His voice is lower than Jimin would have thought, but then again, Jeongguk is speaking lowly. With its casual drawl, it at least meets Jimin’s expectations of assuming authority. “What’s your name?”

Jimin’s sure Jeongguk can find out his real identity with a single request to his mother, or even Seokjin. Despite that, Jimin answers with his head still bowed, “Angel. I’m Angel.”

“Angel … ” repeats Jeongguk, slowly enunciating the syllables as if the word is foreign on his tongue. Even if he is Ruby’s son, it seems like he’s catching wind of Jimin’s existence for the first time. Or maybe he was informed when Jimin was hired and just hasn’t bothered to look into him. Jimin can’t presume to know whatever unofficial position Jeongguk holds at Decadentia. He’s heard enough from his fellow performers that Jeongguk doesn’t care much for them, anyway.

Jeongguk slowly yet emotionlessly scans Jimin from head to toe. It’s a reflection of his mother. “Angel’s a good name for you,” he decides. A sudden vibration comes from his pocket. He slips out his mobile, glancing at the screen. “Excuse me,” he says, before strolling towards the exit.

Jimin doesn’t exhale his current breath until he sees the door shut behind Jeongguk with a whip of black.

From just one interaction, Jimin gets why his co-workers have differing opinions about Jeon Jeongguk, from his attraction to his strangeness to his pretension. Jimin sees the truth in all of it.

Chapter Text

Before Jimin begins his intimacy lessons, the next step in his training is dance.

He’s most excited about this.

When he initially found out that he’d learn modern dance basics, his first thought was that it’s a bit of a reach. Is it so necessary to partake in legit dance lessons when he won’t be performing any sort of dancing while at Deca? It would make more sense for strip clubs to require dance training when their slew of staff actually presents a form of it, albeit around a pole centerpiece.

Jimin learned how to work the pole during his first stripping job, but his teachings had been more so about how to not fall flat on his ass rather than the artistry that comes with the form. It was why his co-workers at the time commented so highly on his natural skills, because none of them had learned how to dance, but only how to physically swing around the pole. Somehow, Jimin just knew what to do with himself beyond that. He understood to purposefully extend his limbs or how to match a song’s rhythm on his own.

Three weeks into his training at Decadentia, Jimin has a better understanding of why the business requires its performers to take dance lessons, if only the most basic kind. From the shows he’s observed, each and every act has a certain base point of grace and fluidity that surely could only have come from their time in the dance studio.

Jimin currently stands in Deca's studio, positioned before the dance instructor Lee Dogoon. The man seems to be two decades older than him, but he’s as fit as someone who’s never missed a day of dancing in his life. His back is to the mirror, and they’ve barely said more to each other beside introductory greetings.

“Now, Jimin,” Dogoon starts, clapping his hands together, “other than pole dancing while working as a stripper, do you have any other prior experience dancing?”

Jimin thinks back. “My middle school talent show?”

Dogoon chuckles. It’s a hearty sound. “That’s sweet, but I think we can cross that one out. I'm asking in order to get a good starting point with you. Decadentia performers are not training to become professional dancers—not by a long shot—but learning the basics of modern dance assists greatly in learning how to beautifully move and display the body with grace and agility. Before we begin, we’ll go through some stretching to loosen our limbs. Daena, play Playlist 3.”

At the instruction, a monitor atop the counter space along the room’s back wall starts to feed out hype music from speakers hanging in each ceiling corner. Dogoon turns towards the mirror and steps to the side, starting simple stretches for Jimin to follow. They go for three songs, completing motions such as rolling their necks to seeing how far they can straddle. Dogoon blows an impressed whistle at Jimin’s near perfect attempt.

“You must keep up with that, huh?” Dogoon shouts over the thumping music.

Jimin shakes his head. “Not really. I’ve always been flexible.” He wasn’t born with the ability to fold himself in half, but it’d never been a struggle for him to touch his toes. When he began pole dancing, he realized that he had a higher starting point than the average person.

“That’s a good asset,” Dogoon tells him before finishing up their final stretch. He goes to the monitor to manually pause the current track, returning to his position beside Jimin. Through the mirror, Dogoon tells him, “Right, now that we’re all noodle-y, I’m going to show you some simple moves, and I want you to copy them. This isn't a choreography or anything, just standalone movements. You got it?”

Jimin nods, shaking out his hands in readiness.

They run through a handful of movements. It’s rather uneventful. Jimin thinks he looks silly mimicking the random positions Dogoon presents to him.

But Dogoon doesn’t think so. He places his hands on his hips after a few, saying, “Well, I’ll be damned. You have quite the natural potential, don’t you?”

Jimin self-consciously swipes his bangs out of his eyes. “I do?”

“Absolutely. Most people wave out their arm like this” —Dogoon wiggles out his right arm like an awkward worm— “putting their focus into their hand. Their hand guides the direction, which makes the movement stiff and broken. But you extend your arm from your shoulder to your fingertips, pushing the movement out from you like a ripple. Plenty of people can learn how to do it, but to do it so casually do it like you? Without previous training?” Dogoon shakes his head in disbelief, wagging a finger at Jimin. “You’re good, kid.”

Jimin can’t help the shy smile that finds its way to his mouth.

“In this studio,” Dogoon explains, “I don’t want you to view dance through a sexual lens. You’ll see that when you go through your intimacy training with Misook, you’ll be asked to view sex in part through a dancer’s lens—the attention to detail, the emotion. But here, I don’t want you to do the flipside. I want you to see dance as just dance, as simply moving the body artfully without any other intention. Sex has many purposes, most of which is not just to have sex. But dance’s purpose is to dance.

“With that said, again, you’re not training to become a dancer, so don’t worry yourself about having the right amount of flexibility or memorizing choreography. We teach modern to you all because it’s interpretive, versatile, and is one of the dance forms with fewest rules. We just want you to grab the basics so you can apply it to your true purpose here. Understand? Any questions? No? Great. Let’s really begin.”

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

Jimin stands before the reflective side of a two-way mirror. He stares at himself in the glass, wondering if Misook can see his nerves flickering under his skin. He feels hollowed like a shell.

Today’s his first intimacy class.

Misook sits in the small, closed-off room on the other side of the mirror. Her calm voice seeps into the main training room space from hidden speakers, as crystal clear as though she was a foot in front of him. But in reality, all that surrounds him in the small room is a single couch and shelving unit, as well as the corner door that leads to a stocked bathroom. 

“I know it’s a cliché, but pretend that I can’t see you,” she says. “You’re alone in this room. It’s as though I’m instructing you through a mobile call. Or, perhaps you can think about it in reference to when you cammed. Think as if I’m watching you but can’t see your face—that I don’t really know who you are. Whatever will convince you that there’s no judgment or shame, because there isn’t, especially from me.”

Jimin nods, honing in on her voice rather than envisioning her full frame sitting behind the mirrored wall. He pictures sound waves floating through the air, not facial expressions or body language.

“Please undress,” she instructs.

He waits a few silent seconds for her to elaborate, but she does not. So, Jimin huffs out a breath and kicks off his shoes before removing his jacket, shirt, and pants. Stripping in front of strangers is far from foreign to him. Once only left in his underwear, he asks, “Do I have to remove my socks, too?”

A gentle laugh comes from the speakers. “No, but I ask that you also take off your undergarments.”

His hesitance must shine on his face. She adds, “You can take as long as you’d like until you’re comfortable, but I will say that it’s rather pointless to fall victim to modesty when you’re this far into your training.”

He knows she’s right. He knows she’s an objective observer with no ill-intent. But her full attention will still be on him, with her very purpose to provide instruction and thus constructive criticism—no matter how constructive, it’s still an acknowledgement of short-comings. Jimin should be used to the opinions of his body, especially from employers. Every time he switched strip clubs, he had to display himself in front of his potential new boss for acceptance. In front of Misook, it isn’t so different. But familiarity doesn’t always correlate to comfortability.

Still, Jimin decides that Misook isn’t at all like his past bosses. He steps out of his underwear and tosses it with the rest of his discarded clothes. He stares at himself, thinking it really is just him who can see the details of his naked body. He sees the slightness of his shoulders, the thin indents on his torso highlighting his abdominals, the deep-set V of his hips, the stronger muscles of his thighs, his smaller sock-covered feet. In another situation, the single accessory might add to his allure, but right now, it almost seems silly.

“When you look at yourself in the mirror,” Misook begins, her tone as soft as a nighttime storyteller, “what runs through your mind?”

He scans himself, answering, “When I worked as a stripper.”

“Good thoughts or bad?”

He shrugs. “Halfway between bad and neutral.”

“Were you ever taken advantage of?” There’s no warning with her questions. This one doesn’t bother Jimin, but the directness catches him off guard.

“Every night,” he admits casually, fidgeting with his hands at his sides. He’s unsure what to do with them. “That’s what a stripper is—for our bodies to be taken advantage of by paying eyes.”

“By people who only view you as a sexual object,” she confirms quietly. There’s no pity from her, but he hears the care.

He lowers his eyes to stare at a piece of the floor through the mirror. “Yeah.”

“Members here will view you sexually,” she continues, “but they will not see you as an object. You’ll be a painting come to life; someone to admire for your beauty, not to objectify for your sensuality. What else comes to mind when you look at yourself?”

He centers in on his sternum, unable to focus on his own face for too long. It’s a universal experience, he thinks—you live as yourself yet can never view yourself from the outside looking in beyond reflections and cameras. It makes it a strange sensation to witness what you actually look like in the flesh. A few minutes in a bathroom mirror is one thing, but staring for too long in the mirror doesn’t create narcissism, Jimin believes, but loathing.

“My looks,” he answers.

“What about them?”

He takes one wrist in his hand, circling over the bone to keep busy. “Everyone compliments how I look,” he says, “but I don’t agree.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t.”

“Were you always complimented on your looks?” Misook questions.

“No,” he admits, thinking back. His mother called him precious and adorable, but that hardly counts. “Not until high school.”

“What changed?”

He recalls the reasoning for why his first boss ever called him Angel in the first place. “I guess it was because I lost my baby fat. I had chubby cheeks for a while growing up. And … I mean, I started stripping back then.” Girls and boys at his high school suddenly found him attractive once he hit his late-teens, until they found out he lived at an orphanage. Not even a pretty face made up for his lack of family and funds. But as Angel, strip club customers had no idea what his background was. They didn’t care. All they saw was his pretty face and nothing more. That was good enough for them.

“Did compliments back then make you feel good?” asks Misook.

“Yes.”

“What about now?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you believe them?”

Jimin tilts his head in the mirror, watching the mimicked response in the glass. He scans over his black hair, flat and heavy from doing nothing to it this morning. It tangles into his eyes with the movement. He forces a middle part with two pinkies while answering, “Because other people might think I look good, but I know they’re wrong. It’s like how someone can think a movie is the best movie they’ve ever seen, only for me to know that their favorite movie is shit. Other people’s opinions don’t matter, only my own.”

“Then why don’t you have a positive opinion about your own looks?”

“Because I don’t,” he answers matter-of-factly. “Do I need a specific reason?”

“It would help,” says Misook.

Jimin shrugs, his nerves from earlier transitioning into something antsy. “God, I don’t know, my fingers are thick, and I’m not tall, and my forearms are kind of thin. My forehead’s larger than most, and I have this stupid crooked tooth. I have to kill myself in order to maintain a six pack, so I don’t, meaning I’m left with this super faded excuse for one, and it’s the fact that I know I could have a better looking one but don’t that really annoys me.”

Misook doesn’t instantly answer, and he doesn’t know if it’s so she can sit on his clearly insecure response or so he can.

“I’m not going to tell you everything you said about yourself is wrong,” she starts, still just as gentle as she has been, “because you wouldn’t believe me. Also, because none of it is wrong. You didn’t point out any flaws, Jimin. You just stated unchangeable facts about you. That’s you. This is you. You’re stuck with yourself, and if you can’t find a way to at least accept the body you were born with, then how could you expect anyone else to?”

“I mean,” Jimin mutters, “surgery these days is pretty indistinguishable from reality.”

Misook pauses, and Jimin lets himself envision her face behind the mirror if only to see a deadpan reaction.

“Kidding,” he adds.

“But people do accept you,” she continues seamlessly, “because they do find you beautiful. Maybe instead of knocking others’ opinions you think you know to be wrong, ask yourself why they think so highly of you in the first place. What do they see in you that you don’t? Maybe you’re the wrong one, Jimin. Maybe you’re the one who’s hating on an incredible movie because you refuse to see its value.”

He can only blink at himself in the mirror. He expected some form of body commentary, not a therapy session. It impresses him, but it otherwise makes him go blank in the head. Misook’s points are not arguable, at least not to him, and it leaves him grappling for words.

“You can’t dislike everything about yourself,” she goes on. “What are some things about your looks that you do like?”

He exhales a long breath, skimming his features even though he already has an immediate reply. “My eyes. I mean, sometimes, I really hate them, but I’ve always loved them. And my lips. They’re big, I know, but I like that. And I like my proportions. Is that last one weird to say?”

“Not at all,” she assures him. “Why do you feel the need to offset what you like about yourself with side-comments?”

He shifts on his feet. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t you?”

“I guess …” he trails, hesitant in admitting what he knows to be true. But he thinks back to his own movie example and what Misook had to say to it. Mumbling, he answers, “I can’t praise myself, because even I don’t believe my own compliments to myself are true.”

“So, other people’s compliments are wrong because you know they’re wrong,” she summarizes from his perspective, “and your own compliments to yourself are wrong because you know they are.”

He straightens his neck, saying pointedly, “No—I just said I like three things about myself.”

“Then say them confidently,” she urges. “You like your eyes. Why?”

He stares at the reflection of them. “Because they’re nice. They … I don’t fucking know, they’re puffy sometimes but they still look good like that. And my entire face changes with one glance. I can manipulate my expressions well because of it.”

“And your lips?”

“They fit my mouth well. Like, they don’t disappear when I smile. And they fill out my face.”

“And your proportions? What’s so great about that?”

“I’m not super tall, but I’m not short, but I know I have long legs. I know they look good in tight pants, especially when I tuck in a shirt. And I can easily wear oversized things. Even though my shoulders are pretty small, I don’t wanna be bulky, anyways. I mean, I feel like I have a decently attractive frame.”

“And your fingers?” continues Misook.

He flexes one palm before himself. “I said I didn’t like my fingers.”

“But why would someone else like them?”

He can’t agree with with anyone would, but he still says, “Maybe because they’re cute?”

“Do you think your fingers are cute?”

He glazes over his right hand, turning it over. “I mean, I guess. Sure.”

“How about your arms? You said they’re more thin, but you also said you didn’t want to be bulky.”

Jimin huffs, “Yeah, well—I mean, my arms do kinda fit my body proportions. I don’t know, I feel like they could be a bit more built.”

“Then go to the gym,” says Misook, as though doing so is as easy as breathing.

“I’m too lazy to go more than I already do.”

“Then stop complaining about something you can easily change,” she tells him, as certain as night and day. “Either you want stronger arms or to skip out on lifting weights. You can’t have both. Clearly, passing up on heavier exercise is more important to you, so why do you care about your arm size? Shouldn’t you be relieved to not have to spend time doing something you clearly don’t want to do?”

Jimin narrows his gaze at the mirror, picturing it piercing into Misook’s own behind the wall. “You know,” he says, crossing his arms, “I didn’t think this was going to be a therapy session.”

“You thought I was going to toss you a dildo and say, ‘Get at it’?”

The comment pulls an unexpected laugh from him. “Pretty much. Can I put my pants on?”

“Yes, of course.”

Jimin takes a moment to redress before he settles down on the room’s single couch. It still faces the mirror, and Jimin watches himself recline back on its cushion and cross one knee over the other. Just then, the mirrored room’s interior door opens, and Misook comes out to stand in Jimin’s view of his own reflection. The longer pieces of her inverted bob are tucked behind her ears, enunciating her apple cheeks.

“Do you understand my motive?” she asks conclusively.

“To boost my self-awareness?” he guesses.

“And your self-esteem,” she agrees. “Self-love is crucial to this position, but I don’t mean that to mean conceit. Much of the sex work industry tears people down, but Deca wants to build you up. We want your purpose for displaying yourself to be in self-actualization, not self-hatred.” She pauses, offering him a small, close-lipped smile. “Did you know I studied psychology with a focus in sex therapy?”

Without a flicker of reaction and in the most monotone voice Jimin can muster, he responds, “Wow, I’m shocked.”

She laughs, walking over to lower herself on the opposite end of the couch. She sits primly on the edge, saying to him, “I’m telling you this because I hope it presents me as credible to you. I’m here to help you, Jimin—to really help you—not just train you on the best face to make when you orgasm.”

He lifts his brows. “Will that actually be part of the training?”

“Yes,” she answers with a blank face. “We pay close attention to detail.” Then she softens, slight humor in her eyes. “This is all for today. I don’t want to overwhelm you. But I’d like to leave you with a thought before you go, which is why are you here? Don’t answer now—I want you to tell me next time. And you can be entirely honest if it’s something like money. Whatever your answer is, it will guide the next steps in your training. Think about it, Jimin.”

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

“You know I’ve never been one to judge,” says Namjoon from his spot on his living room couch, a pillow in his lap and his body partially turned in towards Jimin on the adjacent cushion.

“You do break many stereotypes,” Jimin agrees, reaching for the iced drink he’d gotten on the way to Namjoon’s. After updating Namjoon on everything since the last time they spoke, the drink is now more melted ice than anything. Jimin’s kept up with texting and calling his closest friend since joining Decadentia, but after beginning intimacy training, Jimin needed to speak with him in the flesh to maintain some sanity.

“Well,” Namjoon replies, setting down his own finished drink, courtesy of Jimin, “I might start judging now.”

Jimin snickers, nudging his leg with his own. “Have I finally lost you?”

Namjoon hastily shakes his head, holding out two placating hands. “No, no, everything you’re telling me is weirdly amazing. I’m judging it well, is what I mean.” He tilts his neck in thought, admitting, “Now that you’re no longer a stripper, I gotta say I hated that you were a stripper.”

Jimin laughs before taking a long sip of his watered down drink, nodding in understanding of the sentiment. Namjoon’s never been one to act self-righteous when it comes to Jimin’s career choices, but it’s undeniable that there are better job positions in the sex work industry than others. His friend’s view on it comes from a place of love and therefore protection.

“I handled myself fine,” Jimin tells him assuringly, placing down his plastic cup.

“Doesn’t mean I like that you had to handle yourself at all.”

Jimin puts his palms to his cheeks, feigning shyness. “Oh my God, Namjoon, stop.”

Namjoon rolls his eyes before smiling. “Yah, seriously, Jimin, this new job of yours is like something out of a novel. Can I steal your life for my next book?”

“Ooh, are you finally gonna write a sexy novel with romance and intrigue?”

“That doesn’t sound like your life.”

Jimin harmlessly pokes his thigh. “So you have to make some shit up. That’s writing, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” he says with a curt nod. “But I’m kidding, Jimin. I’m not writing any fiction in the near future. Besides,” he sighs defeatedly, sinking further into his seat, “this current work-in-progress of mine is taking me forever. My editor hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you.”

WIthout a word, Namjoon slips out his mobile from his pants pocket, tapping around on its screen for a moment before holding it out for Jimin to see. Leaning in, Jimin reads an email that very clearly states that Namjoon’s editor does, in fact, hate him.

Jimin bursts out laughing, grabbing the device to cradle to his chest in disbelief before reading the message over again.

“It’s not funny,” Namjoon mumbles. “I’m really taking too long.”

Jimin grins at the email’s signoff of a heart, which lessens the impact of the written hatred. He hands back the device. “Then just write faster.”

Shifting to put the mobile back where it came from, Namjoon answers, “I’m busy these days.”

“With something other than writing? Like what?”

“It’s just the in-between stuff, you know?”

“Not really,” Jimin shrugs, cozying up into the couch. He grabs for a lonely throw pillow, copying Namjoon. “My days are set and scheduled. Beside my nerves eating me alive starting with these intimacy classes, it feels nice right now to be training. You know, like learning and receiving versus working and giving. For the time being, anyway.”

Slight concern frowns Namjoon’s tanned face. “Is it really that bad for you to be so nervous?”

“That’s the thing—it’s not bad nerves. I’m excited, Joon, which is weird, because when have I ever been excited about work? I mean, camming was okay, but the strip club? God, I used to count down the hours during my shifts.”

“I can only hope you enjoy performing at Decadentia when that time comes.”

“Me too,” Jimin says with a heavy exhale, but his hope for his new employer far outweighs any concerns. Deca has done him right so far. He believes it will continue. For once, he looks forward to tomorrow.

Chapter Text

“So, what’s your answer?”

Jimin’s not asked to strip down today. Instead, he and Misook recline on the intimacy room’s couch, the same small room she held their last lesson in. Jimin’s only had two days to mull over her ending question from their previous meeting, but he didn’t need the 48 hours to come up with a response.

“It is money,” he admits, “but that’s only a surface level answer, isn’t it? It’s really security. Safety.” Two things he never had while stripping. Employer protection at strip clubs had a limit, and while it usually covered most worries, Jimin can’t help but still look over his shoulder when he finds himself on a deserted street. He refrains from taking narrow stairways solo. If he’s in Sinwon, he never puts in earbuds at night if by himself. He needs all his senses. Though, he hasn’t been to Sinwon since he left The Gilded Rose. Decadentia and his dorm are in Yonan, a district he’s quickly gotten used to enough to feel safe sleeping on the sidewalk if he’s dared to.

“Do you feel like working here makes you financially secure?” Misook asks him.

“Right now, yes.” Forget once he starts performing; he’s being paid to train, and even his training direct deposits are enough to cry over. 

“And do you feel safe here?”

“So far.” Deca boasts about its respectful clientele, but who knows if there will one day be a rotten fruit in its bag of apples?

“That’s good,” Misook tells him warmly, looking pleased with his answers. “The goal is that you eventually feel sure of both. Moving onto today, we’re going to talk about sexual stimulation.”

The remainder of their lesson is conversation. They keep to the couch, with Jimin waiting for the moment in which he’s asked to remove his clothes and present something sexual, but it never comes. Misook begins by asking him to describe the best orgasm he’s ever had. How long did it take? What brought it on? Who guided him to it? Jimin replies that the best he can remember was from his own doing, not a partner, but Misook doesn’t find anything wrong with that.

“That’s more common than you think,” she assures him. “You know yourself the best.”

“Yeah,” he says, exhaling a modest upcurl of his lips, “I actually haven’t had as much sex with a partner as someone might think a stripper and cammer would have.”

While having such a sexual career, he’s not exactly interested in the act when it’s not making him money. He’s had crude customers or commenters assume he’s a sex fiend because he makes a living out of the activity. But in reality, his job is what turns him off from it. Spending long hours at the strip club with entitled men doesn’t exactly get him in the mood to labor away elsewhere all to get a quick fix. He can do it himself, better than anyone else ever could.

But having a partner is different. Humans aren’t made to be alone, and when Jimin’s craving that shared interaction, he’s never had trouble finding a willing body.

“Explain to me what you like during sex,” Misook questions, as concentrated as a science professor. “What you perform here is catered towards your preferences. What particularly stimulates you?”

Jimin runs his tongue over his teeth while he thinks, shifting his gaze about the room. “Hm. I like … sensuality,” he decides. “A slow-build. Non-genital stimulation—at first, anyways. Because by the time the touching does reach its eventual target, I’m already a melted mess. It would take a really disgusting person to not make me finish if they take their time to do all that.”

“Would you say it’s the anticipation?”

“Yeah, that’s a big part of it. Just the process of getting ready, the teasing, the work that goes into it. Most people I’ve been with just want it done as soon as possible, to reach their desire like this.” Jimin snaps his fingers. “When topping, that’s pretty easy. But if you’re bottoming, you need more time if you’re gonna finish untouched.”

Misook nods, satisfaction lining her expression. “Well, then you’re sure to like it here, Jimin, because effort and anticipation are exactly the kind of things that Decadentia showcases on stage. It would be a rather quick show for our audience members if an act finished their routine in five minutes.”

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

His next intimacy lesson is void of much conversation. It’s the type of lesson Jimin’s been waiting for—he can’t say in excitement, but he can certainly say it hasn’t been with dread. It’s the lesson that the past month has been leading up to, a conglomeration of his verbal teachings, mentorship discussions, and dance lessons. It’s the day in the smallest intimacy room in which Jimin’s standing before the two-way mirror, Misook on the other side, with instructions from her to pleasure himself until he finishes.

He has to masturbate.

He should feel at ease, he thinks. It’s hardly different from camming. But here, Misook isn’t some stranger behind a screen that Jimin doesn’t know. She’s not a username worshiping Jimin, or a username badmouthing him that he can easily block. She’s hidden from his sight, but like his nerves from their first day in this room, he knows exactly where she’s sitting and that she can see him.

All of him. His face isn’t blurred. It’s not out-of-frame. It will be the first time he’s ever presented himself in such a vulnerable way to someone who isn’t interested in fucking him back. It’s a strange sensation. It’s not discomfort or fear, he realizes, but the fact that he’s come to respect Misook. Their thoughtful discussions about Deca and his position within it, her objectivity towards and acceptance of him—what if he’s gone through this entire month only to end up not meeting her expectations?

“If you can’t do this in front of me,” says her voice through the room’s speakers, “you’ll never be able to do it on stage before an audience.”

He thinks it’d be easier to do this in front of an unknown crowd than her.

“Think about everything we’ve talked about until now,” she gently urges. “Go to that place in your head that stimulates you. Within these four walls, you can do whatever you’d like to get there. You know where the toys and other materials are on the shelves. By the way,” she adds, “everything in here is thoroughly disinfected after each use, even the floor, if that’s a concern of yours.”

It hasn’t ever been at the forefront of Jimin’s mind. He’s assumed until now that Decadentia takes cleanliness seriously. But hearing it confirmed is nice to know.

“Can I not have anything else?” he wonders, nothing particular in his mind.

“Like what? Porn?” Misook’s voice asks. Jimin’s silence is enough to confirm that porn was an option. “When you perform,” she explains, “you’ll have lights in your eyes, music in your ears, and a sea of people watching you. Yet you’ll need to focus on what you yourself are feeling. It takes a lot of concentration. You can’t get lost in what’s happening around you, and you won’t have any aids other than yourself and your partner or partners. You need to be able to get ready on your own.”

“I thought I won’t even be doing a solo act first,” he points out.

“You won’t, not until you’ve done enough pair and group acts to stand on your own.”

He glances around the empty room. “Then why are we starting now with just … me?”

“Would you rather I bring in someone else?” she asks calmly, but still stern enough for Jimin to know that she would if he wanted it. It’s clear that she’d prefer he begin solo. “BB’s your mentor—do you want me to call him so you two can have sex right now? Before you’ve even gotten comfortable on your own in front of me?”

Recognizing the situation, he quickly answers, “No. No, I’m fine on my own.”

There’s a brief pause, perhaps so he can let his purpose for being here sink in even further.

“You understand, Jimin?” she asks rhetorically. He nods. “I’ll be sitting here, silent and out of sight, just observing and taking notes. You may start whenever you wish. You can close your eyes, or you can face the side. I ask that you don’t turn fully around so I can properly evaluate your reactions. If it makes you feel more comfortable, think of my educational background and what my perspective of you is. Trust me,” she says with a polite laugh, “I won’t be back here enjoying myself to your own pleasure. Like always, this is strictly professional.”

Jimin logically knows all of this, but he can’t help only being able to take it in bit-by-bit. It’s been a month at Deca, and he’s still amazed at its existence. To think that he’s really here, that his career has so vastly shifted—sometimes, he wonders if it’s too good to be true. That one day, he’ll wake up from this dream and remember he has a shift at the strip club to make.

Jimin shuffles over to the shelf of toys. He decides he’ll pretend that he’s camming. Like Misook said the other day, there’s functionally not much of a difference. When he first began camming, it felt awkward to him, but once he learned how to lose himself in it once accepting and then ignoring the camera, he was fine. If he can do that once, he can do this now. Instead of a camera, it’s Misook. Jimin can do it.

Opening up a container of neatly arranged toys, he asks, “How long can it take?”

“As long as you need.”

Because if Jimin is going to properly touch himself, it’s going to take preparation. He could go the easy route and give himself a handjob, but he figures that isn’t the level of intimacy that Decadentia is looking for. Anyone with a dick can flick their wrist up and down a few times, but Misook confirmed herself that Deca likes the chase.

So, Jimin gathers lube, a fresh hand towel, a plug, and a dildo with a suctioned end.

He’s not ready to face Misook head-on, even if he can’t see her. Instead of facing the mirror, he turns sideways to view the wall. With a deep breath, he starts to undress.

Sitting on his knees atop the floor, he goes through the motions of what he always did when he cammed. He feels along himself with his palms, leaving chills in his wake as he gently turns innocent pieces of his skin into egregious zones. Imagined images and sounds float through his mind, ones he often goes to when he has nothing around him in person to go off of. He skims his thumbs over his nipples. He slides down his waist to his hips, curving his fingertips over his thighs. After lubing up his fingers and the plug, he lifts to gently tease his hole before relaxing enough to push it in, allowing his body to become accustomed to the stretch.

He breathes out a shaky sigh. He hasn’t done this since starting at Deca. Not even for the camera, but just for himself. By sharing a room with Kkuli, he hasn’t exactly been tempted to touch himself under his covers, and when he’s been in the shower, the thought has never crossed his mind. He’s been overloaded with thoughts of training, so much that he ironically hasn’t had the desire to find any sort of quick release.

He knew he’d be doing this today, so he cleaned himself well enough for his own sake of preventing any surprising embarrassment, but anything else? He’s tight around the plug.

While he waits, he focuses on his cock, delicately playing around with it enough to maintain its half-erection. With the thought of pretending that he’s camming, he acts out his typical show. He flutters his eyes shut. He writhes. He bites back quiet moans. He continues to feel along his own neck, his chest, his stomach.

There comes a point when he’s there, and he imagines that he’s sitting before a camera that’s filming a sensual video to be posted for his paying subscribers so they can fawn over him. The thought of these supporters choosing to pay him for his service because they themselves are attracted to him, because they find him talented, because he’s exactly what they need to get off themselves—it’s an ego booster. It’s why, at the end of the day, it always made Jimin finish his show. Strip club attention was one thing, but camming attention is something Jimin always liked better.

Jimin removes the plug, inhaling as sudden cool air flows in instead. He carefully positions himself over the lubed up dildo suctioned to the floor, and with slow precision, he begins to gently sink down.

He hisses, his body unaccustomed to the feeling after four weeks absent of it. He has to hover for a moment, just the tip pushing in. But then he lowers down centimeter by centimeter, grinding his teeth as it slowly fills him. Blowing out quick breaths, he adjusts as the entire thing sits inside of him.

People are watching, he imagines. They’ve been waiting for this part.

With a whispered whine, he slowly brings his ass up and down. Each time, he goes a little farther. Each time, he goes a little faster. He gasps when the tip of the toy pierces that wall inside of him. There. Right there. Stretched, relaxed, comfortable—he finds a rhythm. It edges along his growing pleasure. He ignores the straining on his leg muscles from the awkward position, the feeling of his pleasure overtaking anything else in his body. With one hand braced on the floor and another grasping as his heavy cock, he cycles through visions in his head.

What will it be like when he finally gets to perform in front of Deca’s audience? How erotically beautiful will it be? It must be more than Jimin can even imagine. Stripping is elementary compared to this, even camming. Doing this in front of a live crowd that will see all of him for who he is and appreciate it, who will respect him, who will find him beautiful, who will likely go home and fuck their own toys or partners with the thought of him running rampant through their heads—

Jimin whimpers as his orgasm strikes. He bends forward, unintentionally slipping off the toy as he silently shakes, shuddering open and closed, his cock spilling into the hand towel he just barely brought over in time. Deep breaths exhale from his lungs while his body instantly begins to calm, the explosion of feeling dissipating as quickly as it occurred.

He glances to the bottom corner of the mirror. He realizes he isn’t thinking about Misook watching him.

But now he remembers. He flushes so hard he thinks he’ll go dizzy.

“Thank you, Jimin,” comes her voice, interrupting the awkward silence he thinks only he finds awkward. “You may use the attached bathroom to wash up and dress, and then we’ll discuss your work.”

Work. It really is only that to her. She definitely doesn’t sound like she’s also blushing.

But Jimin still is. He clears his throat, gathering himself and his clothes before heading for the bathroom.

Despite the warmth on his cheeks, he feels that today isn’t so bad. And when Misook goes over his work with nothing but tender compliments and further instruction, he thinks that he’ll be more than okay for his next intimacy class.

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

As December whirls the start of the final month of the year, Jimin’s only just begun the core component of his intimacy classes.

Performing with a partner. Or two.

In theory, his handful of initial weeks at Deca have prepared him enough for this. It isn’t like Jimin is a virgin, either. With his recently acquired background knowledge on Deca’s values and viewpoint, his honed skills on graceful movement and fluidity, and his assimilation with solo training from Misook, he’s logically more than ready to begin pairing up with his co-workers.

But that’s the key with anxiety—it’s illogical.

And perfectly normal, he reminds himself. He supposes it’d be weird of him not to feel any sense of nerves with the introduction of partners into his sexual lessons. He wonders if any of the other performers are so used to it that the concept of it all has become as easy as working the checkout counter at a convenience store. It certainly appears so, which in a way, assists in numbing some of Jimin’s lingering anticipation.

He’s not so much as concerned with the act of performing sex then he is with what his fellow performers will think of his skills—or, lack-therefore of. He admires these people, and the last thing he wants is to embarrass himself by not living up to their expectations. Such assumptions were instantly made the moment word spread that he never even auditioned for his spot at Deca.

Taehyung, a former actor himself, advises him to think of it like he’s shooting a movie.

“The focus is on the technicality of your movements and the emotion you’re putting on for the audience. The intimacy training is just like a rehearsal. There may not be a script, but there’s a plot, and there’s definitely direction.”

Apparently, the performers Jimin practices with are those who’ve volunteered to assist with training him. In a way, it’s nice to know that his first partner—a veteran at Deca named Kwen who sports a narrow face and close-cropped hair—chose to offer himself up like a test drive. After formal introductions, despite Jimin having seen him around Deca, Kwen proudly states that he’s always willing to help new recruits. At thirty-two, he’s the oldest male performer at Deca, but by looking at him, Jimin realizes that age truly is just a number. It’s not that Kwen looks younger than the years on him, he just looks handsomely matured like a jar of plum wine displayed on a living room shelf.

With his amiable smile and firm handshake, Kwen seems like the type who gets more out of helping others than what those in his company receive. No matter the reason, whether it’s out of his pure heart or because his self-esteem depends on acts of altruism, Jimin is glad his first round of intimacy training sans just himself is with someone keen to assist. That, and the guy is far too into this job to be anything but business.

Jimin feels like Kwen isn’t even looking him in the eye when they undress and get to it. His focus is on guiding Misook’s instructions, on placing their limbs in the proper positions and following through with their given story.

Each performance has a purpose.

Acts don’t just hop on stage with an idea and improvise their way through it. Misook explains that performances prepare thoroughly for each show to make sure each one is fleshed out without a hitch. This includes the obvious, such as each individual reaching orgasm, but also things such as going over sponsor requests and implementing those requests where they fit best. There’s more planning than a member in the audience likely imagines as they kick back with a drink on their crimson showroom cushions. Jimin’s yet to see any sense of uncertainty on stage, nor any obvious mistakes, and that’s due to the degree of intended detail put into each and every act.

It takes so much mental consideration out of Jimin that his initial anxieties end up being forgotten, but it also means he can’t fully let go into a performance—not yet, anyway. He doesn’t expect this from himself after his first day with a partner. He’d be an arrogant fool if he was that sure of himself.

Before he and Kwen even get into it, Misook has them go through a rather intense intimacy workshop in which they verbally ask each other for consent, accept said touches, and follow with a plethora of physical exercises. It starts fairly innocent, such as with long-lasting hugs and holding each other’s waists. But eventually, they’re taking off each other’s clothes. The leading up—this is what keeps Jimin on his toes. But once they pass through it, he’s so focused on the technicality of it all that he gets why Kwen is also so obviously professional.

There’s really no room for taking any of this personally, not unless someone’s the type to distract themselves with daydreams. To Jimin’s knowledge, none of the performers are sexually or romantically involved outside of Deca, a feat he originally saw as highly impressive but now understands to be more likely. At the end of the day, this really is just a job, and Deca doesn’t appear to hire anyone with a weak sense of judgment.

Jimin’s sure that with time, he’ll ease into these lessons and eventually reach a point in which he can both purposefully yet emotionally present himself on stage. If Deca members wanted to watch vapid robots fuck each other, they could buy two Helpers and configure them. Jimin’s sure someone’s done that already and posted it on the internet somewhere. But members want the intellectual, purified version of eros; an ideal, sensual concept of human beauty and relationships. For now, Jimin’s learning the steps, but to debut, he’ll have to walk them as though he’s done so a million times.

Taehyung pops into his head when thinking about all of this. The man is a natural. Not to say that everyone else at Deca isn’t, but if Jimin was an audience member, BB would be his favorite.

Everyone at Deca enjoys having sex. That’s a given. But Taehyung performs with such genuine enjoyment for the art within it all that besides feeling aroused while watching him, viewers feel happy because he’s happy. It’s infectious, the kind of reaction only a select few can pull off.

Beyond practicing with Kwen, Taehyung is one of the other volunteers to offer himself up to Jimin. Jimin can’t help the shyness that creeps over him during their first time in the intimacy room together. Taehyung is stunning. Taehyung is his mentor. Taehyung is admirable and beautiful and that much so intimidating despite his tender heart. Jimin respects him, as well as considers him a good friend beyond their mentorship. But Taehyung only lightly laughs at his awkward stiffness, affectionately pinching his cheek with the words, “It’s no big deal.”

After that, Jimin’s hesitance melts away like sparkling snowflakes that have fallen on warm, outstretched palms. For the remainder of his training, it doesn’t return.

TWO MONTHS LATER

“You’ll do fine,” says Taehyung, planting both hands on Jimin’s shoulders. His hold is gentle, on par with his voice and boxy smile. It encourages Jimin, reminding him that he has someone cheering for him. “Okay? I’ve seen you. This isn’t really an evaluation. It’s just you doing what you’ve always done, right?”

Jimin nods, taking deep breaths into his lungs and out again. He grips at Taehyung’s wrists, as if his mentor’s energy will flow from his skin into Jimin’s own.

“I fumbled during my evaluation,” Taehyung admits, and Jimin shoots him an unconvinced look. “I’m serious! It was during the short answer questions. Don’t ask me why they have us recite their mission statement and values like a book report. I even knew they’d ask, and I was still so nervous that I forgot how to form sentences.”

Jimin can’t imagine Taehyung being anything other than wholeheartedly sure, but hearing that his experienced mentor even slipped up during his own end-of-training evaluation loosens some of the tightened muscles around Jimin’s neck. He laughs before tilting his head back and forth, stretching the tensity out.

“Angel?”

Past Taehyung’s shoulder, Seokjin sticks half of his body out of the showroom’s main double doors. He bows his chin, the gesture displaying that he and the rest of Jimin’s judges are ready to begin.

“You’ll do fine,” Taehyung repeats, giving Jimin one last encouraging squeeze before stepping to the side. “I’ll be waiting out here.”

Jimin offers him a grateful smile. Then he stalks towards Seokjin.

Jimin doesn’t have to be told where to go. Once inside the showroom, he goes down the end of the floor, climbing the stage’s side staircase to stand dead center under the positioned spotlights.

The showroom’s grand chandelier glitters from the high ceiling like it always does, but the otherwise evenly spaced light fixtures are lit just a tad more than they are during dinner. It’s enough to clearly see his judge’s faces from each of their tables on the diamond-patterned floor, all spaced along the first row. There’s Ruby in the middle, as prim and intimidating as always with a red jeweled necklace around her throat and her glossy hair flowing about her focused face. To her left, Seokjin takes his seat between Misook and Dogoon, somehow sitting pole straight without looking stiff.

But, to Ruby’s right, there’s a fifth person at his own table.

Jeongguk is dashingly decked in all black, something Jimin’s come to learn is as normal as the moon in the night sky. His sharp gaze bores Jimin down, even though he's yet to even start.

Is Jeongguk supposed to be here? No one ever said anything about him being here.

“Good morning, Jimin,” Ruby starts, forcing Jimin’s curious attention away from her son. “Have you slept well? Eaten?”

Jimin politely bows and responds with little white lies rather than say no, he was too nervous to sleep, and no, he was too in his thoughts to eat. Good thing it’s only 10 a.m. now. Jimin plans to stuff his face afterwards whether he passes or fails today. The only difference will be if it’s in celebration or disappointment.

“Good, good,” Ruby answers, believing his automatic pleasantries. “How’s your condition today? It’s nerve wracking, I know, but all three of your trainers have told me nothing but positive things. This evaluation shouldn’t be any harder than what you’ve already gone through. Think of it like a summary rather than a test—we want to see where you are and come to a conclusion, not grade you for being right or wrong.”

Her words settle Jimin’s rolling stomach, but not entirely, all due to the unexpected person at her right.

“Today I have my son here with me to observe this evaluation,” she explains, catching Jimin’s line of sight. “Don’t worry about what he thinks, Angel. He’s not a judge. But I like him to occasionally witness evaluations as a learning opportunity. Additionally, it gives the trainees a little surprising bump in the road. How well will you get around it? Let’s find out, shall we?”

She waves a hand, initiating the start of the evaluation.

Seokjin, Misook, and Dogoon ask and command various things from him. It starts off like a lesson, with Jimin answering questions about Decadentia’s business properties and ethical values. He’d studied these enough for today, and though he was never the best at memorizing school teachings solely for the sake of recalling them for an exam, he manages to remember everything he needs to know about Deca now. Maybe it’s easier because Jimin actually wants this. Maybe it’s because the end of the road isn’t some random degree to put towards an uncertain career, but a life of financial security and safety doing what Jimin knows he’s good at.

Jimin follows with a dance performance. Dogoon’s smile reveals Jimin’s done well. Misook asks him to perform a solo show, and this is what clenches Jimin’s nerves the most. He’s only ever performed in front of her and with training partners. He figures it’ll be easier to strip and have sex in front of paying strangers rather than the panel before him right now. He finds that he cares what these five individuals think of him. He wants them to accept him, to praise him, and to recognize his efforts. As much as Deca boasts acceptance about the human body, Jimin still can’t maintain the mindset that this job can be done effortlessly. It’s a big ask. It’s a big deal. But usually things that matter the most are what are heaviest, and Jimin wants to carry this weight. He wants to be strong enough to, and by now, he thinks that he is.

Jimin performs. He does everything he knows he should, plus some.

He’s a panting mess when he’s done. He’s told to take the robe left for him, and he slowly pulls it on, no longer quick to hide when he’s just shared himself for all to see.

“Good work, Jimin,” Ruby says, utterly unfazed. “You may use the back dressing room to gather yourself and relax, and we’ll discuss your result. We’ll call for you when we’re finished and let you know.”

Jimin bows his head before vacating.

He waits for twenty minutes. He wrestles with the thought that the longer it takes, the more someone wants to keep him, but also the more that someone else is unsure. But, eventually, he’s called back out on stage, and he finds himself standing right where he was not too long ago.

It’s impossible to tell from Ruby’s face, but Dogoon’s cheery expression is what gives it away.

“Congratulations,” Ruby says, and though she’s a lot calmer than the excited Dogoon, the slightly raised corner of her mouth displays sincerity. “You’ve successfully passed your training evaluation and are now a fulltime performer at Decadentia—if you want to be, that is. You still have to accept the offer.”

Jimin’s nodding before he can even think. “Yes, yes, of course! Yes, thank you.”

Ruby exhales a somewhat larger smile, or at least as big as one Jimin might ever see her wear. He glances about his trainers, meeting their proud faces with his own gratitude. Caught in the moment, he lands on Jeongguk, who’s expressionless. Jimin wonders what Jeongguk’s verdict would be if he had any say. He’s nothing but suave indifference now, making it impossible to tell his opinion on Jimin’s passing.

Should I even care for his opinion if he’s not actually an employee? Jimin shakes it off.

When he exits the showroom, Taehyung is waiting for him like he said. He stands from where he’d been sitting on a loveseat, his brows raised in anticipation.

“Well?”

Jimin flounces over, curling on a smirk. “You have a new co-worker.”

Taehyung gasps with thrill, pulling Jimin into a warm hug. Jimin smiles into his shoulder, telling himself that he refuses to get used to the supportive embraces. If he becomes too adjusted to them, the supportive hugs won’t make him as happy each time. He wants to indefinitely experience this friendly feeling.

“I knew it,” says Taehyung. “I knew you’d pass. Come on, follow me upstairs.”

Jimin questions why as he’s pulled into the elevator, but Taehyung does nothing but gesture a zipped-shut mouth. However, based on Taehyung’s sparkling eyes, Jimin has a fair guess of what his mentor is up to.

Taehyung brings him to the artist lounge. The moment Jimin opens the door, pops of confetti are raining down and joyous cheers of congratulations! are shouted into the air. As many staff members that can fit into this room have squeezed themselves inside, now beaming at Jimin’s arrival. His face heats at the attention, but it’s the most comforting warmth he thinks he’s ever known. Kkuli bounds over with Jinju in tow, nearly tackling him in more hugs and picking confetti out of his hair. They steer Jimin towards the room’s centerpiece, which so happens to be a decadent cake spiraling with pretty script and decked with sugary flowers too detailed to look edible (Kkuli assures him they are).

Jimin doesn’t want to cry on a happy day, so he reigns in the moisture that gathers in his eyes. But Taehyung comes over and swipes at his dry cheeks anyway. That alone is what threatens the grateful tears to spill.

“Welcome to Decadentia!” someone yells as the first piece of cake is sliced.

Yes, Jimin thinks. Welcome indeed.

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

Before he can officially debut, Jimin has a long list of tasks he must get done to go hand-in-hand with revealing himself to the world of Decadentia. He feels like a celebrity with the amount of promotional content he has to pose for, film for, and answer. The only difference is, rather than millions of fans engaging with him through a screen, it’s the few hundred Deca members. Still, everything is done with dedicated detail as though it were the same.

First, there’s the introduction shoot for his online profile on Deca’s website. Each performer has their own page, loaded with professionally shot pictures, Q&A videos, written interviews, quick shorts in collaboration with other performers, and more. Beyond the content, his page serves as a blog where he can update any viewers with posts. It’s also where his public wishlist will reside for any potential sponsors to follow through with. There’s then a tipping portal for direct credit donations, as well as a request form when it comes to Jimin on-stage.

But before any of that can be set up, the page needs visuals.

Jimin’s done a variety of racy things in his life, but a photoshoot is not one of them. It’s embarrassing, he thinks, making face to a camera rather than a person while wearing practically nothing, but once enough flashes go off and he stops to check how the pictures are turning out on the monitor, Jimin falls into the shoot like it’s his one hundredth time doing one. The staff consistently praise him for his work, and it’s hardly done just for formalities. They constantly adjust his hair and makeup so nothing is out of place. They let him select the outfits he’s comfortable wearing from their provided selection. They ask for his input on the shots and which ones he’s not okay with keeping. He’s directed, but not forced. The process is collaborative, with the goal in mind to make him look as stunning as possible without him having to lose any sense of dignity.

He could get used to this, he thinks.

Once he’s taken far more photos than necessary across two different concepts, he keeps one of the outfits on to film an introductory video where he’s asked various questions off-screen. They’re personal without prodding, just enough to give a sense to members who he is. Examples include this or that questions, favorites, his thoughts on joining Deca and what he hopes to experience here in the future.

“Can you tell I’m nervous?” he asks Seokjin once he finishes, the head of talent presiding over the entire shoot.

“A bit,” Seokjin admits, “but it comes across as anticipation rather than nerves. Viewers will find it endearing.”

Deca has an in-team house of stylists and makeup artists who handle the nightly acts. They’re the same team who worked the photoshoot, and they work with Jimin, Seokjin, and Misook to tie in the visual components of his debut to the on–stage action. Beyond stage appearances, there’s the VIP social hour, where the performers dress divinely. Jimin isn’t expected to show up at Deca with his own outfit bought with his own money if he attends a social hour during a working night. Everything is provided in excess. Jimin wonders how deep Deca’s operating revenue pool is. Based on the estimated net worth of the club’s clientele, it must be a number Jimin can’t even comprehend.

Good for Deca, he thinks. Good for its performers. Good for him.

Jimin runs through his first slew of performances with Misook and his upcoming partners. They must rehearse. It is a show, after all. There’s a slew of things to think about. Facial expressions, angles, positioning, sounds, tone of voice. Each performance has a theme. Each one has a story. The technicality of it all alleviates some of Jimin’s anticipation for his official debut, but when that night finally comes, he feels all fizzy like soda.

“We’re going to do amazing,” Kkuli says.

Jimin had the honor of choosing who he wants to debut with—assuming his selection agreed to it. He sat on it for a while, unsure if it’d be better to perform with someone he’s yet to get close to or the opposite. He eventually decided on Kkuli for two reasons. One, Kkuli is extremely non-threatening. Two, Kkuli desperately wants to share the honor.

“This is my way of finally getting in your pants,” he joked during their first rehearsal. Jimin harmlessly bopped his head. “No, but, really, you know I like you, right, Angel?”

Jimin likes Kkuli, too. There isn’t anyone at Deca he doesn’t like. Hearing similar sentiment from his co-worker—his friend—warms his heart. There’s no ulterior motive behind it. Being so intimate with his co-workers while maintaining a friendly level of respect is something he wasn’t sure about when he first started. He never said it out loud, but the thought was always there. Now, after all this time, Jimin’s confident in the long run.

It helps him stay confident when he and Kkuli go up on stage for the first time. The lights are bright and the showroom drips in honeyed attention, but they do it. The crowd applauds in enjoyment amongst the approval. Backstage, Kkuli wraps Jimin in a hug void of anything they’d just done before that crowd, and the rest of the staff cheers for him.

Is this what being alive truly feels like? He always used to live to survive, but he thinks this is living. Having a career in which he’s not fighting for his life every shift, but one in which he’s surrounded by supportive individuals who value him—it’s almost sad amongst the happiness that this is the first time in his twenty-five years that he’s ever felt this. Now that his go at the stage is complete, he fully understands why everyone at Deca is so devoted to their job. With this environment, how could you not be?

Before he knows it, the rest of the acts fly through the night, and Jimin’s newly dressed into something sultry and stunning for the VIP social hour. With Kkuli as his base, the pair and the rest of the evening’s performers traipse into the cocktail bar. Members are turned towards the entrance, awaiting for the arrivals. Jimin knows they’re especially waiting for him. He strikes a pleasantly surprised face at seeing Ruby in the center of the room, decked in a regal scarlet dress and sending him a warm smile. She doesn’t have to say anything; Jimin instantly goes up to stand at her side.

“Beloved guests,” she begins once everyone’s settled, “I’d like to formally introduce all of you to our newest addition to Decadentia. This is Angel. He’s a brilliant young man, as I’m sure you’ve now seen. Please treat him well.” Ruby takes Jimin’s hands and gently squeezes them, saying low enough for only him to hear, “Good job, Jimin.”

He blushes gratefully before she sees herself off.

Like how it was when he stripped, Jimin doesn’t have to flounce over to anyone. They come to him. If the club wasn’t so elegant, Jimin would call the line of people waiting to personally meet him a bombardment. But he’s used to the attention. It’s where he thrives.

He passes through the conversational hour with breezing colors, tastefully talking with hints of kind flirtation with everyone who comes to speak with him, both men and women alike. No one touches him. No one eyes him hungrily like predators. They genuinely compliment his work like he’s an actual performing star—because he is, isn’t he? This is what Deca is. Within these walls, he’s the newest celebrity, and these patrons are potential fans. They’re admirers. They appreciate people and art, and that’s everything Deca is. For the first time in Jimin’s life, he sees a light at the end of the tunnel. Stripping and camming were only momentary sparks still trapped in the dark. But this? Jimin finally feels okay. He really feels okay.

Chapter Text

The set surrounding Jimin and Chan is a beautiful and immersive backdrop meant to look like a mystical meadow. They’re reclined on a velvet settee decorated in pale chiffon atop a ground of faux grass and circling flowers. There’s even a cherry blossom tree awash in the pink buds off-center from them as they work. With gems around Jimin’s eyes and glitter on his chest that sparkles in the hazy stage lights, he acts as a bewitching fairy who has entrapped Chan in his spell.

With the concept, the pair of them are performing tonight with a play on power dynamics. Jimin’s much smaller than Chan, but Jimin’s the one in charge. Chan does his part well, acting as though he’s enchanted and therefore entirely submissive, doing whatever Jimin says as Jimin rides him. In an obvious way, there’s dubious consent at work in the point of view of the characters they’re playing, but the two of them are actors. The audience knows this.

From Jimin’s position atop of Chan, he has an ideal view of the showroom. In fact, it only takes one glance upwards to catch Jeongguk watching them from his suite. The man is focused, almost intrigued, but undeniably intimidating.

Jimin’s not a fan of the uncertainty.

What kind of influence does Jeongguk truly have at Decadentia? This is a question that Jimin can’t seem to answer. No one can.

Once Jimin and Chan are finished, along with the rest of the night’s acts, they attend the daily VIP social hour afterwards. There’s a slight pause in his gait when he enters to find Jeongguk already there.

It’s been two weeks since Jimin’s debut, and he’s yet to see Jeongguk attend even one night in the exclusive cocktail lounge. By the looks of pleasant surprise from the other performers and guests, Jimin confirms that they don’t typically catch him here either.

Ignoring him, Jimin starts off his hour like he usually does. He waits for someone to come to him, which they always do, and he accepts a drink from the first lucky member. The current member chatting him up is a man in his thirties with a basic yet handsome face who’s explaining how he used to love fairytales as a child. It’s clear he’s attempting to relate his own experiences to Jimin’s performance, but it’s a bit of a reach. Jimin just humors him, giggling at the most ideal spaces between sentences and incorporating cheeky comments. As Jimin listens, he curiously notices the few surrounding members standing nearby, constantly sliding their gazes over to him. They’re waiting for their turn.

Jimin softly smirks to himself at the popularity.

As there’s a shift of members when the current guy with Jimin moves on to speak to Chan, Jimin sneaks a look at Jeongguk. He’s standing near the bar, a short glass of alcohol in one hand while he cordially engages with two VIPs. One of them says something that makes Jeongguk laugh.

Odd. The laugh looks genuine.

Jimin’s attention is reluctantly pulled away when a new woman approaches him in search of conversation. She’s kind, although a bit cliché. He answers all of her prodding questions without giving away too much. As of right now, it’s Jimin’s job to continue meeting the VIPs and allow them to get to know him as Deca’s newest performer. Hopefully, after seeing more of him, they’ll want to sponsor him.

Halfway through their conversation, Jimin feels the hairs raise on the back of his neck, and he doesn’t have to remove his focus from the woman to know who’s looking at him. He sees enough through his peripheral vision.

But Jimin’s stomach jumps when Jeongguk actually waltzes over. What does he want? What could he possibly say to Jimin right—

“Good evening, Misa,” he greets with a slick smile to the woman across from Jimin, “you look stunning tonight. How’s your sister, Akira? I saw her latest collection in Wearable Tokyo. Gorgeous pieces, might I add.”

Jimin just stares in shock as Misa rambles on about her designer sister while Jeongguk attentively listens. Every so many words, he idly sips from his glass he’s brought over, resting it atop the table between Jimin and Misa. Jimin can only stand there, doing the same with his own drink, only to quickly become disappointed when it empties. While he’s internally coming up with a fullproof plan to get his next conversation partner to buy him a second drink, he catches his name being spoken.

“ . . . Angel is so pretty. How did you ever find this one, huh? I’ve been loving his performances.”

“We only allow beautiful things here at Decadentia,” Jeongguk answers, bowing his chin towards Misa to add, “just like our guests.”

She flushes as red as her painted lips, shyly giggling behind a raised hand.

Oh, you're good, thinks Jimin. Jeongguk is more than good. He’s practically an expert in this game in the way his compliment sounded as natural as the sun and sky.

“No, but really, Angel,” Misa continues, “I look forward to watching you some more. You’re quite a talent, so I’m sure you’ll have admirers in no time who can’t wait to pamper you—if they haven’t already started, that is.”

Jimin offers a grateful expression. “And can I look forward to you being one of them?”

She gasps in delight before commenting to Jeongguk, “He’s a little charmer. Tell you what, Angel—keep performing like you did tonight and you can expect my interest to peek.”

“Well, now I definitely have the motivation,” Jimin grins. “But I’ll let you know that tonight was just an appetizer. I can’t deliver the best of the best up front, now can I? It would ruin the surprise.”

“And what surprise is that?”

Jimin keeps silent, just slightly adjusting his facial features into something alluringly vague.

Misa laughs, telling him, “I have to wait to see your full potential then, it seems?”

“I’d call it more like gradually discovering,” says Jimin. “It keeps you on your toes.”

“I’m anticipating it.” A faded light suddenly beams through the fabric of Misa’s purse perched on the edge of their standing table. It’s clearly a mobile. “Oh, if you’ll excuse me,” she tells the pair of them, nodding off before leaving.

Jimin runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth as he waits for Jeongguk to leave as well. If Jeongguk wasn’t here, another VIP would have already jumped at the chance for their turn with Jimin. But they keep away. Jeongguk seems unconcerned about this as he knocks back the final sip of his drink. Does he even realize he's keeping them away? Maybe he doesn't care. Maybe he thinks it's in his right as Deca's heir.

“You’re assimilating well,” he tells Jimin.

Jimin blinks. “Thank you.”

Jeongguk gives him a side-glance. “It was an observation, not a compliment.” He leaves his empty glass on the table before strolling off and exiting the room entirely. Jimin’s speechless. Is Jeongguk an asshole or just blunt?

Jimin doesn’t have the time to remain curious when another VIP member takes their shot at the sudden vacancy.

 .｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

“Hey, have you noticed that Jeongguk’s been attending every show you perform at”

Jimin slows the trajectory of his spoon while Taehyung continues with his own. Sitting criss-cross next to him on one of the couches in Deca’s artist lounge, the room is empty besides the two of them. With both of them scheduled to perform later tonight, Taehyung messaged Jimin saying he had a surprise for him if Jimin arrived at Deca a bit early. With nothing better to do three hours before he has to go on, Jimin walked over to Deca in the winter afternoon weather to find Taehyung waiting for him in the lounge with two half-pints of ice cream.

“What’s the occasion?” Jimin asked, happily taking his portion.

“Does there need to be an occasion to eat ice cream?”

Now having already gobbled down a considerable amount of each of their flavors, Jimin lowers his arm at Taehyung’s comment.

“What? No.” Jimin waves his spoon in opposition, dropping it in his container before reaching to set it on the adjacent side table. “Doesn’t he just come to whichever shows he wants? Like, randomly?”

“When he wants, yes,” agrees Taehyung slowly, “but I think he’s been coming to see you.”

Jimin shoots him a pleasantly amused face, because the thought at hand is absolutely ridiculous. “What makes you think that?”

Taehyung swallows a particularly thick wad of his ice cream, appearing like a young boy despite his otherwise handsome face. “Because when I catch him here whenever I’m here, he’s only paying attention to you. And he looks at you in a way I’ve never seen him look at any of us before.”

“Like I’m his muse, or like I’m his personal pornstar?”

“I don’t mean romantically or sexually,” Taehyung explains, shaking his head. “It’s like … it’s like he’s studying you under a microscope, but what he’s searching for, I don’t know.”

Jimin squints, quickly considering. “It’s probably because I’ve just debuted. I told you he was at my evaluation. Maybe he’s judging my performances so he can run to his mother and tell her how terrible I am. Or, plot twist, how amazing.”

Taehyung nudges Jimin’s knee with his wrist. “Hey, you are amazing, don’t even joke about that. But that’s not it. He’s never been so … what’s the word? Attentive?”

Jimin shrugs, because he otherwise is beginning to feel an internal swirl of confusion and slight worry. “I guess I’m just that enchanting. Wah, I’ve done what none of you could, gaining the envious attention of Jeon Jeongguk.”

Taehyung laughs, deep and full. “If I had a gold star, I’d stick it on your forehead.”

“I take imaginary ones.”

Taehyung mimics the movement, raising his hand to Jimin’s forehead to stick on the fake prize. He jabs his finger a bit too hard across Jimin’s face, resulting in Jimin mumbling a giggly, “Ow.”

Taehyung just coos, taking the back of Jimin’s head to bring him close and harmlessly kiss the painful spot. Jimin rubs at his skin afterwards before reaching again for his ice cream.

He doesn’t take it, because as soon as he outstretches his arm, Jeongguk enters the room.

Taehyung comically smacks a disbelieving hand to his mouth.

Jeongguk gives him a confused glance but doesn't linger. Instead, he focuses on Jimin.

“Angel,” he starts, not coming more than two feet into the lounge. Decked in a more casual ensemble that still outshines Taehyung and Jimin’s lazy pre-shift clothes, he looks more the part of a performer than the two of them at the moment. The silly irony quickly comes and goes through Jimin’s mind as Jeongguk continues, “I’d like a private word.”

Jimin meets Taehyung’s eyes, but his mentor only blinks back at him.

“Okay …” Jimin tells Jeongguk, shooting Taehyung one last look before following Jeongguk out of the room.

Jimin keeps a wary distance between them, racking his brain for what Jeongguk could possibly have to talk to him about. Maybe Jimin’s half-joking comments to Taehyung about Jeongguk watching him for the purpose of reporting back to his mother isn’t so far off. In some way, Jeongguk has sway, and perhaps he really is bringing Jimin into the empty office they enter to break the news that Jimin isn’t performing up to expectation.

Or, maybe it’s something else. This setting is hardly formal.

Jimin’s suspicious. Of what, he can’t say, but he doesn’t like that Jeongguk has taken him to a closed off room at Deca when they’ve barely spoken before now, much less alone.

Jimin keeps by the door while Jeongguk goes for the front of the office, leaning back against the desk’s edge while he crosses an ankle over the other. Jimin isn’t even sure whose room this is. He didn’t check the nameplate before entering.

“I understand you’re uncertain about why I asked to speak with you,” Jeongguk starts, “but you don’t need to stand so close to the door.”

Jimin drops his hand from the knob, but he’ll be damned if he traipses any further from safe, shallow waters into the deep end. Jeongguk’s casual air of arrogance swirling above his dashing head strikes Jimin like a shark knowing it’s successfully entrapped its prey. Now, it must only wait.

“I don’t know you,” Jimin tells him honestly. He keeps himself still to not alert Jeongguk of his interior nerves, but also to hopefully maintain a good enough level of respect. The entire staff at Decadentia is nothing but civil and considerate, but Jeongguk isn’t an employee. He’s the only non-employee who waltzes around the building like it’s a second home.

Jimin’s instincts can’t just fade from a few months of proper treatment from his new employer. Jeongguk’s the only one Jimin can’t read.

“You’ve been here for nearly four months,” Jeongguk points out, including Jimin’s training time.

“And I’ve only spoken to you twice,” Jimin says, referring to their brief interaction when Jimin dropped his lunch at Jeongguk’s feet and last week during that VIP social hour. Jimin’s training evaluation hardly counts. “I don’t know you. Besides, your reputation isn’t exactly stellar.”

Jeongguk lifts a perfectly groomed brow. “Oh? And what’s my reputation?”

Jimin doesn’t immediately answer. Jeongguk asks like he’s entirely aware of the playful gossip whispered behind hands about what he does in his spare time, or what he looks like below his all-black outfits, or if he’s better at fucking than all of Deca’s performers combined. There’s only gossip because no one knows the answers to any of those questions, and Jimin is hardly one to make assumptions when he’s been here the shortest amount of time. He truly doesn’t know Jeongguk, meaning he doesn’t know how Jeongguk will react if Jimin outs anyone for their mischievous comments. He hardly wishes to get anyone in trouble.

But Jeongguk waits for an answer like he’ll sit here until he gets one.

“Creepy,” Jimin admits, thinking he’ll take the blame if Jeongguk asks whoever said such a thing. “Unapproachable.”

“Now, the unapproachable I get,” Jeongguk muses, placing the length of his pointer against his jaw, “but creepy? I’d prefer mysterious. That’s a much more attractive descriptor, isn’t it?”

“From my perspective, I can’t exactly agree.”

Jeongguk flickers his gaze to Jimin’s stoney stance beside the door, like he can foretell Jimin’s quick escape from one twist of the knob. Something amusing glimmers behind his eyes. “You can relax. I’m the owner’s son. Why would I taint that for a forced one-and-done minute with an amateur? I’m not going to pounce.”

Jimin’s too shocked to do much else other than repeat, “An amateur?”

Jeongguk lazily lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “You’ve just barely debuted here.”

Perhaps, Jimin thinks, but he went through three months of detailed training to do so. Jeongguk knows that. And, Jimin was personally offered a position by Seokjin, something he came to learn isn’t so common. Beyond Decadentia, Jimin’s spent his entire adult life in the sex work industry.

An amateur? It can’t even be insulting when the perspective is only confusing.

“And, let me guess,” Jeongguk continues airily, “you used to be a stripper?”

Guess? Jeongguk must know even less of Jimin than Jimin knows of him. But, Jimin figures, why would he? Pieces of the infamous gossip claim Jeongguk doesn’t look twice at performers. Does he really just stroll about Decadentia’s floors to take advantage of having a place to waste time and catch a show? Do he and his mother not chat about the business’s latest happenings over dinner?

Rather than confirm Jeongguk’s guess, Jimin asks, “How can you tell?” He doesn’t like how Jeongguk asked it, like it’s the reason why Jimin could be dubbed an amateur.

“By the way you move,” Jeongguk answers easily. Jimin self-consciously turns in his shoulders. “You have a dancer’s body, but you’ve seemed to only ever use it for pole dancing to please slimy men who don’t deserve you. And you were just a stripper, weren’t you? The farthest you likely ever went with a customer was probably feeling him finish in his pants during a lapdance, right? Why would I waste my time with someone as inexperienced as you? You’d have nothing to offer me. Besides, if you work here, you must know the rules, and hopefully understand at this point that you’re very protected. No one can touch you, not even Ruby’s son. You don’t have to worry about me, sweetheart.”

Jimin’s immediate reaction is a slew of silent curse words towards the man before him. How patronizing, he thinks, for Jeongguk to judge him so harshly with such pretentious detail. It’s ridiculous enough that Jimin forces himself to bite back a laugh. It’s true that he’s only just debuted at Decadentia, and he refuses to fuck that up by verbally sparring with the owner’s son. But fuck, if Jimin isn’t rightfully offended.

His time as a stripper was hardly that of an amateur. It required so much maturity and self-awareness, as well as thought and strategy. Maybe Jimin did only strip the majority of the time, but Jeongguk’s blissfully unaware of the self-serving bastards who trapped Jimin into doing more. And now, at Decadentia, Jimin’s gone through a vigorous training where he’s had to partake in elaborate sexual activity in order to do the same on stage. Yet, Jeongguk somehow is under the impression that Jimin wouldn’t be capable enough for him. What a snobbish asshole.

“If that’s how you feel,” Jimin replies cooly, “then why even talk to me?”

Jeongguk’s stare is unflinching. “Because I’m interested in you.”

“But you just said I have nothing to—”

“Not to fuck you,” Jeongguk corrects simply, focusing on adjusting the cuff of his shirt-sleeve. “Are you normally so egocentric? I’d like to sponsor you.”

Jimin can’t even be angry at the falsely-made personality trait. He practically gapes to say, “M-me? You want to sponsor me?”

“Yes, I think I just said that.”

Jimin slowly shakes his head, fully turning away from the door to face Jeongguk, though he still doesn’t step any closer. “But … but you just practically insulted me—”

“Did I? I didn’t mean anything I said personally. It’s factual. You’re an ex-stripper,” he lists. “You’re new. My time growing up at Deca has made me quite particular when it comes to pleasure, and I don’t personally believe that you could offer me anything. Nor would I ever touch anyone without their consent,” he adds firmly. He says it confidently enough to rattle Jimin’s uncertainty, but Jimin can’t be so quick to believe him. “Feel free to correct me if I’m getting any of this wrong.”

Jimin’s mind is all over the place. He’s still reeling from Jeongguk’s haughty description of him that apparently is just “factual” while trying to come to terms with it also seeming to be Jeongguk’s genuine intention. Meanwhile, there’s the situation of Jeongguk saying he wishes to sponsor him.

“Why would you want to sponsor me, then?” he asks, because it makes as much sense as Jimin’s mother coming back from the dead.

“If you have to ask that question,” Jeongguk says, “then you’re not ready to hear the answer.”

Jeongguk said he wanted to be considered mysterious. His attempt is proving fruitful.

Why would he want to be Jimin’s sponsor if he doesn’t think Jimin could engage with him the way he’d like? Though never explicitly stated, sponsorships thriving off of physical intimacy is the norm. What could the point of this sponsorship be if not for that?

“Who else do you sponsor?” Jimin asks, thinking maybe he missed out on hearing about that. But as he quickly flips through his bedtime conversation memories with the all-knowing Kkuli,  Jeongguk answers him before he can make his own conclusion.

“No one. I’m not a customer. But I’d like to sponsor you.”

Jimin lamely questions again, “Why?”

Jeongguk might be annoyed if he was quick to anger, but all that dances across his artfully carved face is relaxed mirth. “I thought we already went over this,” he says. “Pack up whatever you have at the dorms. I’ll have a new place for you to move into by the end of the week. Do you want a Han River view?”

“What?” Jimin almost hiccups. “Um, sure?”

“Perfect. I’ll make a note of that.” He pushes off the desk, and Jimin instantly squares his shoulders as Jeongguk approaches. “I have to go. I’ll let you know about your new apartment within the week.” Jimin steps to the side, immediately thinking his self-preservation up until now has been in vain if Jeongguk suddenly decides to back him into the room’s corner. But Jeongguk just quips the smallest of smirks and says, “Have a nice day, Angel,” before vacating the room.

Jimin blinks before resting against the wall. He puts a weak hand to his heart.

What the fuck just happened? And how am I going to tell my roommates?

Chapter Text

Jimin’s mobile silently rings. He freezes as he stares at the name highlighting the screen.

He knows he should answer it, but something in him keeps him still in disbelief. Across from him at the kitchen table, Hyesong catches the lock screen and arches an eyebrow at Jimin in a silent question of Are you going to answer it?

The silenced ring eventually comes to an end, instantly replacing itself with a missed call notification. But before the screen can even darken, it rings again.

Slowly, Jimin reaches to finally take it, but before he can, a single hand reaches over his shoulder and snatches the device.

“Why hellooo, this is the ever sweet Kkuli speaking!”

Jimin shoots daggers at Kkuli, hopping up to chase him around the table. Hyesong scoots in her chair to stay out of their way. Kkuli somehow manages to maintain a stable voice while he narrowly avoids Jimin’s outstretched arms, slinking into the kitchen to use the island counter as a blockade. Jimin glares hard enough that if he had powers, he’d be shooting laser beams into Kkuli’s forehead.

“Yes, this is Angel’s mobile,” Kkuli is saying. He sticks his tongue out at Jimin. “Oh, he’s right here. He didn’t answer? Hm, that’s strange, his mobile’s been sitting right in front of him all morning.”

“Kkuli, give me the damn mobile,” Jimin grumbles.

Kkuli ignores him, using a free finger to twirl a tawny curl on his head. “I guess,” he sighs into the device. He juts it out across the island, and Jimin hastily takes it to put to his ear.

“I apologize for my roommate’s immaturity,” Jimin starts, making sure to direct his words towards Kkuli across the island. Jimin then turns around, resting the small of his back against the counter.

“Yes, what a surprise it was to hear his voice instead of yours,” says Jeongguk across the line, his tone as calm and calculated as ever. He’s not even physically present, yet his voice is enough to send shivers down Jimin’s spine. “Are you ready to move into your new residence?”

Jeongguk messaged him earlier in the week to provide his number and announce exactly when Jimin would be transferring into his new apartment. Jimin scuffs a foot across the floor while he answers, “Yes. You’re coming to pick me up, right?”

“Right. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Jimin shoots up straight, startling Kkuli, who’d tiptoed over to knock his ear to the other end of Jimin’s mobile to listen in. “Ten minutes?”

“I told you lunch time.”

“It’s barely after eleven.”

“Is lunch time not an ambiguous expanse of time ranging anywhere from around eleven to perhaps two?”

“I’d argue a start time of noon.”

“Well, it’s fifteen past eleven, and I’ll be arriving at your dorm in nine minutes. I’ll see you soon, Angel.” He hangs up.

Jimin sprints to his room, staring at his unzipped backpack and its contents sprawled on his bed. He knows his toiletries in the bathroom still need to be packed. Jimin begins with what’s in front of him, shoving his personal tablet inside with miscellaneous items—chargers, chapstick, socks that wouldn’t fit in his suitcase. He almost trips over one of his packed boxes at the corner of his bed while he rushes towards the bathroom, slipping inside a transparent container the products that he used that morning—face wash, moisturizer, his toothbrush. He does a quick scan of the bathroom, making sure he’s not leaving anything behind before rushing back to his room. He checks under the bed before skimming his belongings. Kkuli’s come in to sit on the edge of his own bed, his legs stretched out before him and his arms crossed.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving already,” he pouts, watching Jimin scramble around. “You just barely debuted.”

Jimin slings him a grin. “Jealous?”

“Absolutely! You ridiculous, wonderful asshole! I can’t believe out of anyone, it’s Jeon Jeongguk. I still can't believe it. You told me days ago but my brain is still spiraling. I want to ring your neck and simultaneously make out with you."

"Save that for the stage, please."

"What spell did you bewitch him with?" continues Kkuli, jumping up to switch positions from his bed to Jimin's. "Ooh, no—did you drug him? Is there some hypnotic pill on the black market that gets people to do your bidding? Where did you get it? How can I get one?”

Jimin frees himself from Kkuli's grip on his arm to zip his backpack. Working at the struggling zipper, he says, “I told you, I didn’t do a thing to him. I’m just as lost as you are. Maybe he’ll tell me today why he’s interested in me.”

“I want to be the first one to know when he does,” Kkuli states with a pointed finger. “And let me know when he’s gone so I can tour your new place.”

Jimin finally shuts his backpack. He huffs a pleased breath, running his hands through his hair. “Sure. I will when—”

The dorm’s doorbell chimes through the apartment. Jimin meets Kkuli’s eyes for a silent second before his roommate is skipping for the entryway, Jimin on his heels. They pass Hyesong, still at the kitchen table. Chan’s come out of his room, and he’s plopped like a rock in his typical spot on the couch to watch another episode of his long list of reality shows. He stares as Kkuli beats Jimin to the door, swinging it open to reveal Jeongguk standing before two movers. Jimin recognizes them as the same ones from when he moved into the dorm.

“Good morning,” Jeongguk greets, like it’s only good because he’s the one saying it is. He’s dressed impeccably, as always, and in primarily black, as always. Jimin consciously put in effort today himself, knowing he’d be doing something other than lounging around the dorm, but it doesn’t compare.

“Good morning to you!” Kkuli beams, grinning like a kid at a carnival.

“Hi,” is all Jimin can say. He blames his breathlessness from chasing Kkuli out of their room.

“Well?” Jeongguk asks expectantly.

Jimin’s not sure what he’s meant to answer. “Oh, um. I’m all packed. All of my things are in my room.”

Jeongguk gives a single nod towards the movers, and they wordlessly brush past Jimin and Kkuli into the dorm. They must remember moving Jimin in, because they don’t have any trouble finding where his room is located.

“You don’t need to stay in the hall,” Kkuli urges, sidestepping and tossing out a welcoming arm into the entryway. “Come in, come in!”

Jeongguk offers a kind smile, but it reminds Jimin of the type that would lure a child into a shadowed alley. “I wouldn’t want to intrude. Angel, you may come with me. The movers will gather all of your things.”

“Right,” Jimin gets out, turning to Kkuli. He knew this was coming, but having it play out stirs something melancholy in Jimin’s chest. He’s only lived with his dorm mates for a few months, but they welcomed him so graciously. He knows he can see them whenever he wishes, whether it’s at Deca or coming back here to hang out, but he realizes he’ll miss the company.

He recalls the uncertainty he initially had when he learned he’d need to live in a dorm once Deca hired him. It’s silly now, he thinks, that he once preferred living alone. He supposes it made sense to think so when his orphanage had twelve to a room. He valued his solo living after never having it. But now that he’s experienced what it’s like to spend every moment surrounded by others, particularly those he’s friends with, he’s not sure if he’ll like having his own place as much as he used to. 

He throws his arms around Kkuli, hugging him close. “You’re so annoying, you know that?” Jimin tells him.

“I told you it was my flaw,” Kkuli mumbles into his ear. “And I’ve found yours.”

Jimin pulls away, his question lining his expression.

“You’re too shameless.”

Jimin grins. That’s hardly a flaw in his eyes.

Hyesong waves to him a wide goodbye. Even Chan’s gotten up, but he doesn’t hug Jimin. He just bows a full ninety degrees, looking like a block action figure with his pounds of muscle.

“Tell the others bye for me,” Jimin requests of the three.

“You’re just moving houses, not countries,” Hyesong quips, but a soft smile lifts her mouth. “You’ll see them at Deca, yeah?”

Jimin nods. Kkuli squeezes his arm, silent well wishes in the gesture.

“This is incredibly heartwarming,” Jeongguk interrupts, all eyes flicking to his dark frame in the doorway, “but we must get going, Angel.”

Jimin nods, going to the shoe closet for the single pair he kept out to wear today. After slipping into his boots, he waves with both hands to his co-workers, his fingers poking out of the extended sleeves of his sweater. When he finally faces Jeongguk, the man isn’t exactly smiling at him, but his expression is far from cruel. He steps to the side, the silent movement one permitting Jimin to leave first. So, Jimin squares his shoulders and walks out of the dorm.

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

The ride isn’t as long as Jimin thinks it will be. It makes sense that he wouldn’t be moving far, as being located in close proximity to Deca makes it convenient. But it is farther than the dorms. Jimin figures he’ll take the metro on days he’s too lazy to walk or when the weather’s acting up.

The high rise is like any other—modern, laboriously tall—except it’s pale yellow like a sunbeam. It’s clumped with a few identical looking buildings all connected with skywalks, revealing that the cluster must all be owned by the same builder. Every unit is paired with a considerably wide balcony, each one jutting out of the buildings’ sides to hang over empty air.

The lobby of the particular high rise they enter is as grand as a hotel. For a split second, Jimin wonders if they’ve mistakenly come to one. Unlike Deca’s decorum spanning centuries back in time, this complex’s interior is awash in the latest modern design. White and silver panel the walls, with modular furniture accented in holographic colors. Dangling light orbs descend from the arching ceiling in mismatched heights.

Following Jeongguk, the movers trailing them with a cart of Jimin’s things, they pass the gleaming front desk where its two employees bow their heads low. Jeongguk leads them around a corner to immediately greet the elevator bank. Like most private buildings, a passcode is required, and he seamlessly enters whatever it is.

While waiting for one of the three elevators to arrive, Jimin scans a digital screen on the wall between a pair of the doors. It flashes from a building event ad to list each floor location for complex amenities, including its five pools, five gyms, three movie theaters, five restaurant rows, four grocery stores, three game rooms, four floors of just clothing boutiques—holy hell. No one has to ever leave this place.

They ride to the 87th floor. Jeongguk stops before unit 8707. He presses his finger to the door’s digital knob, unlocking the unit. Rather than stalk right in, he steps to the side and motions towards the entrance. Jimin can’t differentiate if it’s sincere or haughty. “After you.”

Jimin takes a breath, turning the slim knob and entering his new home.

He doesn’t get further than a few steps. He was expecting something lavish, but nothing could have prepared him for how grandiose the apartment is.

No, not just an apartment. A penthouse. It’s a penthouse, with floor-to-ceiling windows stretching 20 feet tall that overlook the Han River, just as Jeongguk said. The wide open space is wrapped in dark floors and walls, and splashed with cool colors of pinks and blues. Glass and rounded furniture accent the design. The living room sinks into the ground, outlined in glowing bars of light to illuminate the refined yet cozy furniture within. The screen on the wall is like a theater screen rather than a personal television. Directly beside the entrance way holds the kitchen, with soapstone countertops and more cooking space than Jimin could ever need. With a lower ceiling, it sits intimately below the upstairs loft, the staircase to which is along the adjacent wall, made with individual glass steps lit up in neon. The main floor holds plenty of purposeful empty space with enough wall hangings and surface decorum to maintain that sweet spot between too little and too much.

“Is it to your liking?”

Jimin slowly turns as he pads further into the penthouse, gazing up at the loft to try and see what it holds. Behind its balcony railing, he catches a small hall leading somewhere, with the majority of the open upstairs space seemingly his entire bedroom.

Jimin is so overwhelmed that he takes too long to answer Jeongguk’s question.

“My apologies,” Jeongguk begins. The movers brush past him, dropping off the first batch of Jimin’s things before leaving to gather the rest. “I should have inquired about your interior design preferences before furnishing the place.”

That snaps Jimin away from ogling the decor. “No, that’s not—this is fine. This is more than fine. It’s just … a lot.”

He thought his mid-sized apartment paid for by stripping and camming tips was high-quality. In many ways, it was. But this? This penthouse is elite.

When Jimin was in high school, he used to dream of a place to call his own, somewhere with a big bed in his own bedroom void of any others. He envisioned all of the cute ways he’d decorate it, from the bath towels to his nightstand knick knacks. When he signed the lease for his first apartment, it was a dream come true for him. He remembers his first night after moving in, when all he had was a suitcase of clothes and a single bin full of everything else he owned. There wasn’t much room for things at an orphanage. Whatever you could fit in your single assigned drawer and on and under your bed was all you got.

Jimin had delivered to him a mattress, four pillows, and a sheet set that same day. He didn’t get a comforter set yet—he didn’t know which one he wanted, and he wasn’t going to rush the decision. So, that night, he sprawled on his new queen-sized mattress on the floor with nothing but sheets, unable to sleep in excitement knowing he was to spend the next day filling up his new home.

Looking at this penthouse now, Jimin can’t believe how far he’s come.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t materialistic.

As a little boy, he was always taken care of. Even if his dad wasn’t around, his dad always sent his mom more money than they knew what to do with. Jimin was too young to know what was a lot or what wasn’t enough. He just knew that wearing the latest style trends was normal. Never being told no when he asked for something was normal. Eating out at high-end restaurants multiple times a week was normal. For him, at least.

But then his mom died. Then his dad never showed up again. And the money stopped being transferred into his mother’s bank account, now closed with her death. Jimin’s maternal grandparents didn’t have the funds for Jimin to live as he had been up until that point, and he realized their comfortable yet strictly budgeted living was more on track of what was normal. It wasn’t until they died and Jimin was sent to the orphanage did he understand that even his grandparents had lived easier than the rest.

His stripping and camming earnings gave him a taste of what it was like when his mom was still alive. It brought him out of the misery he faced at the orphanage, where he had nothing to his name but the clothes on his back. He could suddenly dress up like he used to. He could blow credits at an arcade like he used to. He could delight in fun nights out with Namjoon and not have to buy the cheapest meal on the menu.

Jimin’s not a hoarder or a glutton, but he appreciates things. He doesn’t see anything wrong with having things. And he really likes pretty things.

This penthouse is pretty.

After the life he’s lived, it’s just a lot to take in. Jeongguk doesn’t know him well enough to understand that.

“I don’t think you get how this works,” he tells Jimin, stepping past the entryway to settle beside the kitchen. Jimin’s stepped into the sunken living room, running a hand over the soft sofas. “As your sponsor, I’m more than happy to give you everything you want, including your taste in furniture.”

Jimin plops down on the cushions, testing its bounciness. “As long as I give you whatever you want?”

“See?” Jeongguk says. “You do get it.”

Jimin pushes up to stand before he trails around the low coffee table. “And what is it you want, Mr. Sponsor?”

“To sponsor you,” Jeongguk replies simply, adjusting his watch on his wrist. “So, it’d be a waste for you to not take advantage of my generosity. If you hate the couch, tell me that you hate the couch.”

Jimin climbs out onto the main floor, the stone somehow warm below his feet. Heated, most likely. “I don’t hate the couch.”

“For anything else you don’t hate,” Jeongguk tells him, holding his gaze as Jimin nears, “I can provide them all for you.”

“And in return,” Jimin asks, “what is it you want as my sponsor?”

“For you to stay at Decadentia by doing your job well.”

Jimin holds back a frustrated twist of his mouth at the lack of a clear answer. Instead, he reaches Jeongguk, wondering if the man will step away. But Jeongguk stays firmly planted as Jimin steps before him, closer than he’s ever been before. The only other time they’ve been so close is when Jimin clumsily bumped into him in Deca’s kitchen, but even then, Jimin moved away the moment he righted himself. Not now. Now, Jimin practically purrs to him, “But what does that mean for you?” while slowly circling Jeongguk like a cat.

This is what Jimin’s supposed to do as a performer representing Deca. No matter what Jeongguk said about not sponsoring Jimin with the intent to sleep with him, Jimin still has an identity to maintain. So, Jimin turns down his chin, glancing up at Jeongguk with their few inch height difference as Jimin returns before him. It’s the look Jimin’s best at, the one he’s always done. It’s the very look that best encapsulates the innocent angel he’s named for, only for it to be obvious that he can go from wings to horns like the flip of a switch if he so wants to. The duality is his speciality. Strip club customers relished in it, enjoying his puckish personality thinly veiled with a timid demeanor. Even if Jimin puts it on, it comes naturally to him. He’s a performer, after all. He wouldn’t be one if acting was difficult for him.

“It means,” Jeongguk starts quietly, amusement dancing in his eyes at Jimin’s current circling, “that I’ll call for you if I wish, but that’s not right now, sweetheart.”

The message is loud and clear. Jimin twirls away to mask the embarrassment warming his cheeks.

“This place is for your safety and privacy,” Jeongguk continues as Jimin goes for the massive windows, staring out at the wide balcony adorned in outdoor furniture and potted plants. “It’s for you to find solace away from Decadentia. I will not bother you here, you can be assured of that.”

Jimin frowns, twisting around right as he reaches the glass. “Wait. Really? I figured this would be the most ideal place for us to meet.” But if Jeongguk really has no interest in him sexually …

“It’s for you and you only,” Jeongguk confirms.

Jimin levels him, unconvinced. “It’s in your name. Your prints have access.”

“Of course it’s in my name. I’m paying for it. And you can easily reset the door. In fact, you should do so and add your own prints the moment I leave today. And add a passcode as backup. Don’t choose anything obvious like your birthday.”

Jimin curtly huffs, using his pinky to swipe away a lock of hair. “I’m not that stupid.”

“Good,” Jeongguk says. “I hope for your sake that you aren’t.”

Jimin subconsciously tenses at Jeongguk’s sudden seriousness. He’s unsure what to make of the man’s ending comment. In a way, it sounds similar to a threat, but the hard sincerity lining Jeongguk’s expression evidences something else.

“Why are you doing this for me?” Jimin asks. Jeongguk can sponsor him without buying him a luxurious penthouse. It’s not a requirement from a sponsor. It’s why Jimin’s short-lived former roommates have sponsors while still living in the dorms.

Jeongguk lifts a cocky brow. “Who said it was for you? I’m the one sponsoring you. Maybe I just want to protect what’s mine.”

The haughty response nearly pulls a scoff from Jimin. “Yet you say this place is strictly for me.”

“It is. I won’t come inside unless you allow me to.”

Jimin strolls over to the kitchen, standing on the opposite side of the dark counter where he bends to rest his elbows against, placing his cheeks in his palms. “Can I be honest?”

“I’d prefer you be.”

“I don’t get you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Shouldn’t I?” asks Jimin genuinely. “To please you?”

“I said working well at Decadentia is all you must do.”

“Which I don’t get.”

“You should get that doing your job well means not questioning the reasoning behind your sponsor.”

Jimin pushes himself up. “Yet you prefer I be honest. I can’t do that if I’m told to keep my mouth shut. So, which is it?”

Jeongguk barely tilts his head, like he’s considering the best way to respond. Whatever products are in his hair keep not one strand out of place, even from gravity. “I don’t wish to silence you,” he decides. “But I ask … no, I’ll play this card once. What’s something I want?” he says. “I want you not to question my motives with you. Curiosity is fine, but sometimes it’s best kept quiet. Do you understand?”

Jimin can ask questions about Deca. He can ask about Jeongguk. He just can’t ask why Jeongguk is choosing to sponsor him. The refusal to explain in detail only strengthens Jimin's desire to know, but there’s not much he can do other than nod in understanding. He comprehends Jeongguk’s command. He just doesn’t understand the reasoning behind it.

“Good,” Jeongguk tells him. “I’ll leave you to settle in. You can call or text me with anything you may need. But for now, I’ll see myself out.”

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

The small upstairs hall reveals itself not to be a hall at all, but a doorless walk-in closet. It contains built-in shelves and drawers, with the wall at its end a three-sided mirror so Jimin can check each angle. There’s even a vanity section with a plush stool below the counter surface. Tucked beside the entrance is a stacked washer and dryer unit, something Jimin initially finds bizarre before realizing it’s genius planning. He won’t have to trudge his dirty clothes down the stairs.

He thought his bathroom would be down this hall, but now knowing it’s his closet, he traipses to the other end of the loft to push open the two double doors at its end. They open into a massive bathroom made to look like a cavernous spa. The only thing missing is stalactites hanging from the ceiling. The room is complete with a tub the size of a jacuzzi in addition to the glass shower large enough to comfortably fit three. Soaps and various other products are neatly arranged for Jimin to use. He feels one of the hanging soft towels between his fingers.

Departing the bathroom, he sits on the edge of his king sized bed. He doesn’t sink into it like it’s sand, but it’s hardly too firm for comfort. The loft is similarly designed like the downstairs, with matching colors and craftsmanship. Jimin’s surprised there’s no Helper robot anywhere. Maybe the boxed machinery is tucked into a kitchen cabinet waiting to be brought out and turned on. Jimin’s sure Jeongguk would order one and have it arrive within the hour if Jimin asked him for it, but Jimin doesn’t have the need for the mechanical assistant.

The movers finished bringing in his things not that long ago. All he has to do is unpack.

Instead, Jimin falls back on his bed, feeling the quality thickness of the comforter below him. It’s probably filled with down. He resists the urge to call Namjoon. His friend would answer, but Jimin doesn’t want to disturb him if he’s on a writing roll or in a meeting with his agent. So, Jimin settles for texting instead. He slides out his mobile from his pocket, swiping open the camera feature to film a short video of the loft and floor below from over the railing.

this is fucking insane, Jimin sends him.

Namjoon doesn’t instantly answer, proving he definitely was on full steam ahead. But when he does some time later when Jimin’s eventually gone to unpack, he replies, is that Jeon’s place?!?!

IT’S MINE

bro, Namjoon writes.

I KNOW, he shoots back.

do me a favor: before you settle, check the place for mics and cameras 

he can see me naked at work, why would he bug this place

because at work you're naked for everyone, but at your new apartment you're naked for no one, aka only him

okay, dad

I'm serious

yeah, yeah, I will, don't worry

Jimin mentally chides himself for not thinking to check for bugs on his own. It should have been his first priority. At one of his past employers, a patron had used a champagne room only to bug it before he left. It took two weeks before the minuscule tech was found during a deep clean. The perpetrator only received a fine for it. Jimin's heard stories from fellow sex workers of meeting up with customers only to discover that they've attempted to secretly record their appointment, or how they've found themselves on sketchy websites from obviously bugged videos. No one even tries to officially get those videos taken down. It never works.

Jimin looks around his new apartment. He recalls Jeongguk's swaggering sophistication. It seems unlikely that someone like Jeongguk would bug this place. Not only has he claimed sexual disinterest in Jimin, but the act of secretly watching him through tiny cameras seems below him. Jimin bets if he mentioned it, Jeongguk would only laugh.

But Jimin isn't an idiot. Better safe than sorry.

Remembering all of his knowledge of bugs from years of hearing about it, he thoroughly checks each nick and cranny of the penthouse. The only places he can't check are the vents and light bulbs on the towering living room ceiling, but he supposes if can't reach them, than neither can anyone else.

He's worked up a light sweat from all the crawling and peeking by the time he's done. Certain that Jeon Jeongguk is not secretly watching him from some pinky-nail-sized camera sewn into the bathroom towels, Jimin tosses a sweet-smelling soap ball into the luxurious tub before settling into the warm, bubbly water.

Having kept his hands dry, he grabs his mobile and finally texts Kkuli.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Jimin wakes to the sound of his doorbell ringing.

He ignores it, snuggling into his satin pillows. It’s likely a neighbor with welcome snacks, or maybe it’s the building staff for something he’s too half asleep to worry about. Whoever it is can come back later.

But the bell rings a second time. And a third. On the fourth, it’s his mobile chiming, not the door. He groans, palming for his device on the nightstand to check the caller.

He sits up. What’s appropriate for him to do within his sponsorship? Should he be bowing to Jeongguk’s feet, or is it acceptable to keep him waiting as Jimin takes a minute to brush his teeth and splash his face with water?

Scanning his room as he thinks, he lands on a panel adjacent to the closet entrance. It’s the same color as the wall, blending in seamlessly, but now that Jimin’s noticed it, he can’t unsee it. He heaves himself up, rolling around his neck in a stretch while he walks over. He only needs to stare at the device in close proximity for it to light up, revealing a security screen. Jimin navigates to the front door communicator, the screen suddenly displaying an awaiting Jeongguk. Jimin pauses to take in Jeongguk’s less formal attire, more street style but still somehow imposing, and still black. Behind him are three others, all of whom stand beside lengthy clothing racks.

Jeongguk’s attention flicks to the camera. Jimin startles at the movement. Can Jeongguk see him in return? Jimin doesn’t remember a screen outside of his door when he entered yesterday.

Jimin presses the microphone button, awkwardly transmitting, “I’ll be right out.”

Beyond washing away the night’s accumulated oil on his skin and ridding himself of sleepy breath, he ruffles his hair into some semblance of control before slipping on a large shirt over his boxers. If Jeongguk openly desired him, Jimin might be more of an imp and open the door shirtless, but according to his sponsor, those aren’t Jeongguk’s intentions. So, on goes the shirt.

Jimin shouldn’t care. He should be relieved. But after spending months settling within himself that he’d be giving in to sponsors in return for their benefits, he can’t help but feel slightly irritated that Jeongguk doesn’t wish to enjoy Jimin in the way other sponsors do with their performers. Is Jimin really not good enough for him? Then again, Jeongguk’s not one to care for any Deca performer. Perhaps just this amount of attention from him is legendary enough. But Jimin hasn’t been part of Deca long enough to find it as thrilling as the other performers do. To him, it’s just peculiar.

Jimin carefully glides down the stairs in his house slippers. When he opens the door, Jeongguk offers a polite smile.

“Good morning, Angel. Or should I say afternoon? It’s just past twelve. May we come in?”

Jimin steps to the side, forgetting he can deny the man entry. But what reason does he have to do so? He’s curious.

The three others accompanying Jeongguk follow him through the door, instantly rolling the racks into the open living space behind the sofa. Jimin missed it from the security camera, but beyond various articles of clothing, each rack holds a bottom shelf of shoes. The three strangers display the racks in a neat line, adjusting the dangling pieces so that they’re evenly spaced apart.

“What is all this?” Jimin asks Jeongguk.

The man has gone to casually inspect the garments, as if making sure each one is correctly present. He takes a sleeve between two fingers, feeling the fabric. “Your new wardrobe,” he says. “Well, options for you to choose from. If you don’t like any of it, I’ll take them away and bring more.”

Is this a bribe? Or is Jeongguk just dressing up his new doll?

Either way, Jimin’s not going to deny beautiful clothes. He strolls over, scanning the racks. They’re all designer-made. Jimin knows whether the pieces have famous logos or not. None of the pieces are overly extravagant like what a performer would wear at Deca’s social hour. They easily pass for daily wear, but it’s still clear that their quality is high-end, from the tight stitching of the jackets to the perfect pant seams.

“Are you dressing me up to take me out?” Jimin half-jokes, admiring the selection.

“Yes.”

Jimin doesn’t expect such a straightforward answer. He shoots Jeongguk a curious glance before touching some of the material as though it will crumble between his fingers.

Jimin managed to procure a handful of designer items from his income streams, but even those were low-tier. The pieces before Jimin now are top of the line, double if not triple in price to what Jimin was lucky to snag every couple of months beforehand. Previously, treating himself to a high-end pair of pants was an occasional reward. Now, he suspects he’ll have enough to become bored.

Mischief on his tongue, he says, “What if I actually hate all of these?”

“Then I’ll bring more.”

Jimin curls up a bratty smile. “Should I test that theory?”

“You can,” Jeongguk answers, absolutely unaffected, “but if you don’t select anything within the next hour, we’re leaving either way.”

Jimin sighs, scanning his choices. A few pieces aren’t his style, but overall, the selection is stunning.

At first, the stripping and camming money spoiled him. When he began in the industry, he’d worked so laboriously just to survive, that when he finally earned enough disposable income, he went a little wild. The first two years, he dropped wads of credits on clothes he didn’t even like, only buying them because he’d seen them advertised as the latest trendy collections. He bleached and dyed his hair pink, because that’s what all the cool kids did. He used the most luxurious of self-care products even when ones sold at convenience stores worked just as well. He took cab transports everywhere instead of the metro. He ate at the most boujee of restaurants.

After splurging on his life for those two years, he eventually settled, and he narrowed down what he actually enjoyed versus what he could do and have just because he’d now acquired the credits for it. His hair went back to its natural black. He only bought clothes and accessories when he genuinely wanted something. He kept to the same line of skin and hair care rather than collect each new release. He ate street cart snacks when he felt like it, but would also go out with Namjoon for a fancy dinner when they felt like it. He didn’t live so extreme anymore. Besides, he may have been earning thousands of credits per week stripping and camming, but it was still hardly enough for him to be considered as well off as someone like Jeon Jeongguk.

This penthouse proves it. It's an affluence Jimin’s never seen.

Scanning the new clothes, Jimin considers the late winter weather. He selects a warm layer to hide below a red sweater that fits at the waist. Just from the look of it, Jimin knows it will match the waistline of the black pants he chooses next. He completes the look with ankle boots that will give him some extra height. For a moment, he thinks he’ll be taller than Jeongguk in them, until he glances down at Jeongguk’s own platform shoes.

Jeongguk must guess Jimin’s thoughts. A sly smirk ghosts his lips.

Jimin says, “I need to shower before we go out.”

“Go ahead.”

“You’ll just wait here?”

“I don’t mind,” Jeongguk muses, glancing about the open room. Now past noon, the sun hangs high outside the expansive windows. It brightens the space in a way Jimin’s not used to, not with the buildings in New Seoul being so tall and cramped that only the highest of floors ever receive full sunlight. Jimin’s penthouse is now one of those locations.

The sunrays illuminate Jeongguk’s face, showcasing his features as clearest as Jimin has ever seen them. His brows are elegantly groomed. His lips are painted in a thin layer of gloss. Jimin notices he has a few moles. In the light, his typically dark eyes gleam chocolate brown.

“Your living room is quite comfortable to wait in,” he continues, those big eyes shaping into the barest jest. “I did furnish it, after all.”

Jimin stalks off with his chosen outfit before rolling his eyes where Jeongguk can’t see. He makes sure to lock his bathroom door behind him.

Unlike when he woke, Jimin takes his sweet time getting ready for the day. He avoids washing his hair—it doesn’t need it, but he lathers his body with one of the glamorous provided soaps until no suds remains. He goes through his skincare routine before applying minimal makeup, just enough to encentuate his eyes and smooth over any minor imperfections. While dotting the tiniest bits of concealer over needed areas, he thinks about Jeongguk’s perception of him from earlier.

Does seeing Jimin after a long night’s sleep ruin the fantasy? Even if Jeongguk has no current interest in receiving any sexual favors from him, does Jeongguk even consider Jimin attractive? It doesn’t even have to be subjective. Not that Jimin craves the acceptance of his physicality from him to go on living, but he can’t help but wonder with the job he has. Jimin knows for a fact that attraction plays into each sponsorship. The only reason why there are any sponsors at all is because they sexually admire a performer. Whether it’s as much as wanting a personal fuck in return or just wanting to spoil a performer due to infatuation with their work, there’s always some level of desire.

What does Jeongguk desire from Jimin?

After dressing, Jimin returns downstairs to find Jeongguk lounging on one of the two sofas, a leg crossed over the other. He lifts his head from his mobile at Jimin’s arrival.

Jimin fans a hand over himself, even doing a little spin. He knows Jeongguk sees the sarcasm in it. But instead of quipping a smart response, Jeongguk just acceptably nods.

“I’ll leave the clothes here,” he says. Jimin notices that the three who tagged along have left. “You can sort through them later and keep whichever ones you like. I’ll have someone come tomorrow before your shift to collect the racks, so make sure you’re here two hours before. If you desire any other specific clothes, you can let me know.”

“Not add them to my wishlist?” Jimin asks, skipping to the clothes to look them over again.

“I’m your only sponsor,” Jeongguk tells him from the sofa. “We don’t need to use the wishlist. You can let me know directly.”

Jimin snorts a laugh, half-turning to drawl, “Oh, I see. Do you believe you’ll be the only one to take interest in me, meaning I can just come to you with my wants rather than list them on my Deca profile wishlist? Considering how quickly you snatched me up, I’m sure I can snag another sponsor in no time.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he replies, standing gracefully from his seat. He adjusts the belt cinching his waist, and Jimin is suddenly brought back to when Kkuli went off about Jeongguk’s heavenly proportions all those months ago. “But no else is permitted to sponsor you.”

Jimin’s focus on Jeongguk’s sculpted frame fizzles out like a dying candle wick. “What do you mean?”

“I cut you off,” Jeongguk says, with as much ease as if speaking about the weather. “It’s just me, and only me.”

Something angry bubbles under Jimin’s skin. The entire point of Decadentia is its employee-forward values. The assurance of choice is one of the major factors that lead to Jimin even accepting the offered role. Hearing Jeongguk throw it all out the window with such nonchalance is insulting.

“What?” Jimin mumbles, trying to keep calm. He needs to remember his place, even if his blood is threatening to boil over. “Who gave you the right to do that?”

“My mother.”

“But … but I wasn’t told that couldn’t happen.”

“Because it never has,” Jeongguk explains with a shrug, slipping his hands in his pants pockets. “But being Ruby’s son has its perks.”

Jimin clenches his fists at his sides, hiding them behind the clothing. “I can deny sponsorships, can’t I?”

“Sure you can,” Jeongguk says, though his smooth tone evidences his lack of belief that Jimin will, “but do you really think that’s in your best interest? You’re someone who’s just debuted and has received an immediate sponsorship from the owner’s son, only to then turn it down? And for what? You are in a coveted situation, Angel.” Jeongguk meets his eyes. Jimin’s surprised to find that they aren’t demanding. “I thought you said you weren’t stupid.”

It’s more like a warning. For what, Jimin doesn’t know.

But he does know Jeongguk is right. Jimin’s stuck between two hard surfaces incapable of molding to let him go. He can’t turn Jeongguk down. It would be idotic. In reality, Jimin should not just be relieved that this is how things are turning out for him, but he should be jumping for joy. Not only is his primary sponsor someone who doesn’t wish to dick him down, but Jeongguk’s now stopping anyone else from sponsoring him for that exact purpose. He’s a mega rich young man providing Jimin with whatever material things he wants, while only requesting that Jimin works well at his job. It’s a stupidly good deal. But it’s for that reason why Jimin’s so confused. It shouldn’t be this easy. It’s never been so easy for Jimin. Now he suddenly has a white knight in shining armor?

“Are we on the same page?” Jeongguk asks.

Jimin comes to terms with his reality. He nods once.

“Wonderful.” Jeongguk steps up out of the living room, heading for the door. “Come on, then. Have you ever had French food? And I don’t just mean crepes and croissants.”

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

Jimin thrums his fingers on the floral tabletop, scanning the lush interior of the casually elegant cafe Jeongguk has brought him to. It’s a cute spot for lunch, colored in mint green and lavender. The pair of them sit on its extended balcony, a few stories up from the streets below. Minuscule heaters warm the late winter air, even when a faint breeze ruffles Jimin’s hair.

“You bring all of your dates here?” Jimin muses.

“Is that what this is?” Jeongguk doesn’t bother to look up from his mobile where he’s scanning the digital menu. “A date?”

Jimin huffs, his comment having backfired. “No.”

A small smirk curls Jeongguk’s mouth. “We order from here.” He cocks the device in his palm. “Are you going to pull up the menu yourself, or would you like to look at mine?”

Jimin whips out his own mobile before Jeongguk can say any more, scanning the small code at the table’s center to connect to the restaurant’s ordering page. Overlooking the options, he reads out to Jeongguk what he’d like before clicking off his mobile. Jeongguk only arches a brow.

“Aren’t you paying?” Jimin assumes, placing down an elbow to rest his cheek in his palm. “Better order.”

Jeongguk blinks at him before returning to his screen. After a moment, he tucks his device away. “All ordered.”

“Good.” Jimin stares at him for a moment before narrowing his gaze, leaning into the table’s edge. “You said yesterday that a little curiosity is fine. How much curiosity from me is allowed? Because I have a lot of questions.”

“I’ve noticed.” Everything seems to amuse Jeongguk. His face is perpetually brushed with relaxed mirth. With a single shrug of his shoulder, he adds, “Go ahead.”

“Are you gay?”

“You’re quite the bold one, aren’t you?”

“Is that what you like the most about me?” presses Jimin, hoping he receives some array of satisfactory answers.

“I don’t want to define who I like.”

“Let me rephrase, then,” Jimin states, sitting up. He waits with an intentional pause before pointedly asking, “Are you attracted to the idea of partaking in romantic and/or sexual relations with only men?”

Jeongguk cocks his head, just barely. “Not only men.”

A server arrives with their drinks at that very moment, dropping off Jimin’s blueberry iced tea garnished prettily with a spear of the fruit, and Jeongguk’s own chilled order of something darker. Perhaps apricot. Maybe ginger.

“So, you’re at least bi,” Jimin comments once the server leaves.

Jeongguk doesn’t answer. He just lifts his glass to his lips, the motion blocking all but his gaze over the rim. Something knowing glimmers within.

Jimin languidly takes his spear of blueberries, slipping off one with his teeth. “Are you physically attracted to me?” he asks between chewing.

“If I was so easily turned on by the family-business, you wouldn’t have been my first sponsorship.”

“So, you are, then.”

Jeongguk softly scoffs, as if offended by the assumption. “No, I’m not.”

Jimin frowns. “Well, that’s rude.” He drops his emptied plastic spear onto the table before pettily flicking it across the surface. Before it can zoom into Jeongguk’s lap, the man drops a hand over it with impressive reflexes.

“How is that rude?” he wonders, just barely pushing forward in his chair. Despite a table separating them, Jimin feels a phantom pressure along his body in tune with Jeongguk’s slight lean in. “Would you prefer I faint at the sight of you? Take you into your new home and strip you down, shove you onto the bed, and take you from the back like the pretty little thing you are?”

Jimin hears the verbal irony in Jeongguk’s tone, but still.

Jimin timidly grabs his tea, burying his face into the glass. “That’s rude,” he mutters under his breath, taking a long, slow sip. 

Jeongguk reclines back in his chair, knowing he hit his mark. “My point exactly, because I have no interest in doing that, in treating you like that.” He speaks loftily, but transparently. It makes Jimin set down his glass. “To make you feel better,” continues Jeongguk, “I’ll admit that you’re objectively attractive. Lovely, even.”

Jimin turns his head, pretending to skim the skyscraper scenery. The last thing he wants is Jeongguk fixating on his blush. How annoying. It’s the bare minimum of what could be considered a compliment. Jimin’s heard better.

“Then again,” Jeongguk notes airily, “you wouldn’t be at Deca if you weren’t.”

Jimin’s warm cheeks drain back to normal. The low bar becomes non-existent.

Of course, as an employee who works alongside other drop-dead gorgeous performers, Jimin’s external beauty is far from special to Jeon Jeongguk.

“And me?” asks Jeongguk conversationally.

Jimin wrinkles his nose. “And you, what?”

“Do you find me physically attractive?”

Jimin snorts, making a show of eyeing Jeongguk from his hair to the table’s edge. Ticking his head in a more-or-less motion, Jimin tells him, “Eh. Objectively.”

Despite this answer, Jimin’s self-aware about his affliction for pretty things. Jeon Jeongguk is a handsome shade on the pretty color wheel. But like it’s always been for Jimin, when it comes to human beings, looks are the last thing that matters. Demons lurk behind charming smiles, and heavenly spirits can exist in unexpected faces.

“I’ve read your employee profile,” Jeongguk suddenly announces. “You put ‘not available’ for your parents’ occupations.”

Jimin runs a finger around the rim of his glass. “Wasn’t that bit of info in the onboarding docs optional?”

“Of course, and you opted not to respond.”

“What do you mean? I responded with ‘not available.’”

Jeongguk doesn’t balk at the banter. “Is it because your parents have occupations you’d rather not reveal to your employer?”

Jimin outwardly remains unconcerned when he replies, “It’s because my parents are dead.”

Having no parents was his ticket to the orphanage, but there were enough sob stories to go around that his own wasn’t all too special. In fact, his own experiences were often called the higher end of the stick.

At least you didn’t grow up in a Box with drug-addict parents. At least your mom who died from cancer loved you before she went instead of abandoning you for a dead-beat partner. At least your dad sent you money during your childhood so you could experience some sense of normalcy. At least you had grandparents who cared for you.

At least. Jimin learned he shouldn’t complain about his pain when he didn’t have it as poorly as his roommates. So, he kept it to himself. He still does. It’s not like there’s reason to brag about it to anyone.

He’s unsure why he reveals the state of his parents so plainly to Jeongguk. Maybe it’s to make a point, but for what, Jimin doesn’t know. Maybe he doesn’t care what Jeongguk thinks, but he should. Maybe he thinks Jeongguk won’t care.

“Is that how you got into stripping?” Jeongguk asks. Behind his collected aura, hints of genuine interest peak through.

Jimin supposes it doesn’t hurt to appease him a little as Jimin’s sponsor. “For the money, yes,” Jimin admits, “but not because I was a crybaby seeking attention to fill some parentless void.”

“You said it, not me. In that case, you must be self-aware that it’s partially true.”

“It’s not.”

“Then are you that emotionless?” Jeongguk sucks in a thoughtful breath. “I don’t think so. You’re rather reactive.”

“Are you trying to psychoanalyze me?”

“I’m trying to get to know you.”

The arrival of their lunch disrupts their conversation—breadcrumb crusted stuffed squid with herbs; buttered bread lathered in a black onion spread, ham, and egg; peaches and goat cheese spread over tartine; juicy, roasted beef paired with soft vegetables. The smell of thyme circles the air as the dishes are carefully placed around the table.

When the server leaves, there’s still a lull. Jimin ignores it by going for one of the tartines with his fingers, taking a crunchy bite of the creamy yet sweet layers.

Jeongguk forks a piece of beef, feeding it into his mouth with the delicacy of a prince. Once he swallows, he asks, “How did your parents die?”

Jimin continues eating despite the invasive question. But for some reason, he’s not upset by it. That still doesn’t mean he wishes to delve into the details. Even if Jeongguk is now his sponsor, why should Jimin tell him his entire life story? Like what Jimin said to him when Jeongguk first announced his plan to sponsor Jimin a week ago—Jimin doesn’t know him. He’d never tell a strip club customer his family history. Even if Jeongguk wishes Jimin to be honest with him, even if he said he wants to get to know him, surely it makes more sense for Jimin in his job role to maintain a mystery.

He hasn’t even told Taehyung, his close mentor, about his family, and he likes Taehyung.

Rather than reply with a hasty excuse that he doesn’t want to talk about it, Jimin decides to spin a story. 

“My mom was hit in the head with a coffee machine when someone on their balcony accidentally knocked it out the window.” He waits a moment to observe Jeongguk’s reaction. Will he laugh in disbelief? Call Jimin out for the lie?

He does neither. Jeongguk keeps his stoic expression fixed, probably in case to not wrongly assume if Jimin’s wacky tale happens to be true. Smart of him, Jimin thinks.

“You know,” Jimin continues with a casual wave of his hand, “it was sitting on some table as tall as the open window—it was an interior balcony—and apparently there was an altercation between the renter and her boyfriend. They rammed into the table, knocked over the machine, and with how high it was, the momentum wasn’t kind to my mom who was passing by on the street. It’s one of those rare but tragic death stories. People think I’m joking when they hear about it, which makes me feel like shit, because what happened is actually insane, and that much sadder. I got so frustrated with it that I took down her obituary and everything else related to it online, because I didn’t want people to know. I don’t really like talking about it,” he sighs, feigning melancholic flashbacks. “I can’t drink coffee because of it—PTSD, you know.”

Jimin refrains from bursting into laughter at Jeongguk’s attempt to remain judgeless. The man looks like a stiff streetlamp.

“And … your father?” Jeongguk croaks, clearing his throat.

“My dad is basically dead.”

Jeongguk levels back to his standard composure. “Basically?”

Jimin focuses on stabbing his fork into one of the small, stuffed squids. “He might as well be. He left for a 21-year-old Russian girl he met online and moved there to marry her. I haven’t seen him since.”

Another lie, though it’s a partial one. Jimin really hasn’t seen his dad in years.

“And when was that?” asks Jeongguk.

“A month after my mom died. I was nine.”

His mother’s diagnosis might have been sudden, but her decline was not. After learning of the plague within her, Jimin walked on eggshells around her until she passed, just waiting for the day it would take her.

No matter how advanced medicine had become, cancerous mutations were still unbeatable if discovered too late. The disease had already spread its vile reach too far. No surgery or chemo could cease the inevitable. Rather than suffer to put off an untimely and inevitable death, Jimin’s mother chose to spend her limited days in full energy at Jimin’s side. Jimin was too young to understand the mechanics of that decision. If he’d been older, he would have fought her on it. He would have begged her to do whatever she could to stick around just a little longer. Perhaps it’s selfish of him to think that, but children are born selfish. Babies cry the moment they enter the world, scared, cold, in discomfort from that first breath of oxygen into their own lungs. They cry for instant ease, and parents are supposed to give them that. Jimin doesn’t think it’s wrong of him to have wanted his mother to have chosen to fight.

She was all he had.

Her death may have been expected, but it hurt just as much as if it hadn’t.

Jimin saw his father more times in the following month than he did the entire year. He was at the hospital. He was at the funeral. He watched over Jimin for four weeks, taking Jimin with him in car rides to various places but rarely letting him tag along inside wherever they went. It was for work, Jimin knew, but his father’s occupation had always been a mystery. His mother never talked about it, but only ever said he’s a powerful man who can’t visit often because of it. It was meant to be a comforting excuse as to why Park Kangdae only came home once a month, if lucky.

He’s off supporting you and me, Jimin. You like all of the cute things in your room, right? It’s because of your dad that you can have these things. He cares about us very much, and it hurts him having to stay away.

Jimin believed those words until he was old enough to recognize that his father only hurt having to stay away from his mother, not his son. It wasn’t Jimin that Park Kangdae longed to see, but his young and beautiful wife. It was never said, but Jimin suspects that he was an accident. Why else would his father not even look at him when he came to visit with goodies meant only for his mom? When he’d order Jimin into his room before taking his mom into their bedroom so they could make up for lost time?

When his mom died, Kangdae kept Jimin for a month. Then, Jimin’s maternal grandparents showed up at his childhood home instead.

Jimin slept there alone at night after his mom passed—his father didn’t sweep Jimin off to wherever he lived or bother to move in, but just came to drag Jimin along with him here and there. It wasn’t exactly father and son bonding when Kangdae hardly spoke to him those four weeks. But one weekend morning, the apartment bell chimed. Kangdae never rang, never needing to. He always let himself in. But Kangdae had food and necessities delivered to Jimin’s doorstep when his mother was no longer there to buy the items herself, so Jimin opened the door assuming it was his next batch of meals. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with his maternal grandparents, a wrinkly couple who Jimin didn’t mind but wasn’t exactly close to.

They weren’t taking over from Kangdae because they’d pushed for it—Kangdae had relented all guardian duties to them. So, Jimin went with his grandparents, and that was that.

He never saw his father again.

“My dad was a one-night stand who I’ve never met,” Jeongguk says, bringing Jimin back to the present. His tone is spoken with as much careful indifference as Jimin’s.

“Are we comparing sob stories?” Jimin asks, taking his drink to sip. The delicious sweetness distracts him from sinking too deep into his bitter memories. As does Jeongguk’s sudden personal revelation.

“Oh, no,” Jeongguk assures. “If we were, you’d definitely win. I don’t care much about not having a father. My mom wasn’t even dating him, nor knew him beyond my conception. He was never in my life, so I’ve never known anything else.” He goes for a potato chunk, his utensil easily spearing into its soft skin. “My mother is amazing, and I love her to bits. I grew up well provided for.”

I grew up well provided for. That’s one way to put it. Being raised in an adult entertainment business constantly surrounded by sex can’t exactly be the most beneficial environment to grow up in. Even if the concept of sex on its own isn’t inherently wrong, there’s a reason why all societies throughout time have deemed it inappropriate for children to interact with it until they’re considered an adult. The period in which one is considered an adult is debatable, and there have definitely been faults determining it, but the point is that human beings are not mentally capable of understanding and processing certain aspects of life until they’ve lived enough of it themselves.

“You’ve never searched for your father?” Jeongguk asks Jimin.

“No,” he replies instantly, finding the prospect ridiculous. “Why would I? Have you looked for yours?”

“That’s different,” Jeongguk argues, folding his linen napkin to rest his fork. “You were acquainted with yours. I wasn’t.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Jimin’s honest with what he says next, because it fits well enough with what he’s explained already. Providing a silly story about his mother is one thing, but when it comes to his father, Jimin doesn’t care to protect the truth of the man’s absence. Park Kangdae doesn’t deserve it.

“He’d drop by once a month, if lucky,” says Jimin, “and only to see my mom, not me. After he left, he stopped wiring the money that he’d been giving my mom when she was alive. It was like her dying meant I was dead, too. Why would I ever try to find the bastard? I don’t even have the energy to yell at him for it all. It was so long ago. I’ve moved on.”

Jeongguk is watching him as pensively as someone trying to solve a riddle. The stern attention causes Jimin to concentrate on eating his portion of their shared lunch instead of meeting Jeongguk’s hard gaze across the table.

“Can you really move on from that?” Jeongguk asks.

Jimin swallows his current bite, thinking it over. “You’re right that I’m not emotionless,” he says, “but I at least know how to accept the past and keep going. Even if I’m crawling, I’m not staying where I was. I’ll never go back.”

Jeongguk’s careful stare is either because he’s impressed or because he thinks Jimin’s words are bullshit. Either way, he doesn’t comment any further, returning back to his meal without any more questions. Jimin has no intention to continue the topic himself. For a few painfully awkward minutes, they finish eating in silence among the cafe’s low murmuring and faded street sounds from below.

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

“Will you drop me off, or am I expected to take the metro home?” Jimin asks once they’ve left the cafe.

Jeongguk shoots him a glance. “Today’s activities aren’t limited to lunch.”

Before Jimin can question what that means, Jeongguk turns on his heel and starts down the sidewalk. Jimin refuses to chase after him, so he follows until their paces eventually match. They don’t walk far; it’s less than ten minutes. Jeongguk leads him into a new building, riding up the public elevator to stop off on a wide floor spotted in various shop entrances. Jimin does a double take when Jeongguk heads for a pet store.

Inside the small business, shelves and shelves are stacked as neatly as possible despite the inventory two units away from knocking down a wall into the store’s neighbor. A young female staff member wearing a paw-shaped pin on her chest stands behind a checkout counter. She brightly welcomes them into the cramped shop.

Jeongguk kindly nods his head towards her while they enter, greeting back, “Hello, Soori. Doing well today?”

Jimin keeps himself from gaping at the friendly exchange.

“Of course!” Soori answers with an enthusiastic smile. “And you, Mr. Jeon?”

“Better now that I’m here,” he effortlessly replies. Soori flushes pink.

“W-well, let me know if you need anything,” she stammers, rapidly twisting to fumble with goods on the shelf behind her.

Jeongguk chuckles at the sheepish reaction before waving at a passing dog beside its owner, the pair heading to check out with Soori. Jimin can only tenderly look at the animal for two seconds before he trails after Jeongguk.

The aisles are single-file, forcing Jimin to keep behind Jeongguk while he pointedly goes for a particular section of the shop. It’s obvious he frequents this place.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting me a dog,” Jimin asks from behind him.

“You’re tagging along with me today,” Jeongguk replies, his voice floating back as he walks, “but contrary to popular belief, not everything is about you.”

Jimin has the sudden urge to kick him in the calf, but he miraculously represses it.

Jeongguk comes to a halt, quick enough that Jimin nearly barrels right into him. Jeongguk turns around, close enough in the narrow aisle that Jimin’s too stunned to put any space between them.

“No, Angel,” Jeongguk tells him with that constant smirk that’s just barely there, “I’m not getting you a dog. But I could.”

“No, thanks.”

“You don’t like dogs?”

“I love dogs,” Jimin admits. “I love all kinds of animals. I just don’t think I could take care of one with my particular lifestyle, like with the late nights.”

Jeongguk nods in understanding, twisting towards a row of shelves to scan its display of various dog food. “That’s funny to hear, because I have a dog.”

Jimin’s brows shoot up. “You do?”

“No, we’re just in a pet store to browse the kibble for ourselves as a midnight snack.”

Jimin tries to hide a glare, but it proves difficult. 

“I have a jindo named Woojoo,” continues Jeongguk. Outer Space; universe.

Why is it so surprising that Jeongguk has a dog? The nation’s population is obsessed with dogs. There’s a pet supplies store and groomer on practically every street. But while Jimin loves animals, he’s never owned one himself. He’s always figured he can’t properly care for it. It’s never been an issue of affording one—not once he started stripping—but surely the strange hours would have disrupted his life. Sometimes, Jimin worked during the day. Sometimes, all night. More often than not, it was a weird in-between. With no consistent schedule, how was any animal meant to have one itself? Jimin can always find a bathroom. A dog must wait until he’s given one.

Namjoon always said to just get a cat.

“You look like me owning a dog defies reality,” Jeongguk says.

Jimin frowns, leaning back against the opposite shelving unit as Jeongguk selects a carryable-sized bag of kibble. Its bold labeling advertises all-natural, organic ingredients, because of course Jeongguk would care about that.

“I didn’t peg you as someone who’d have a pet.”

“I mean,” Jeongguk says, “I am sponsoring you.”

A scoff escapes past Jimin’s lips. Will he eventually be scolded for it? He shouldn’t be scoffing so much in response to his sponsor. He should probably be flirting and kissing Jeongguk’s ass.

But Jeongguk has yet to voice any opinions on how he wants Jimin to interact with him. Jimin has no idea of what kind of responses Jeongguk prefers, not even through a guess. If Jeongguk only wishes for it, then Jimin will follow through. That’s his job. But, for as long as Jeongguk doesn’t specify any preferences when it comes to Jimin’s attitude, then Jimin will assume that his sponsor doesn’t care if Jimin doesn’t grovel at his toes.

“Are you secretly a furry?” Jimin wonders.

“Having a dog makes me a furry?” Jeongguk starts down the aisle. Jimin trails behind. “Well, then, we’re going to have to break it to billions of people across the world that they have an unbeknownst fetish.”

They enter a treat aisle, where Jeongguk picks up a small box of goodies to hold in his free hand.

“I can carry it,” Jimin offers, only to bite back his tongue too late. He shouldn’t be lifting a finger when he’s with his sponsor, even if Jeongguk’s already lifting a heavy load with the kibble. Jimin’s the one meant to be pampered. But the offer slipped out.

“It’s all right,” Jeongguk replies, unconcerned.

Next, they travel to one of two toy aisles.

“Which one should I get?” Jeongguk asks, halting before an array of medium-sized chew toys ranging from plushies to rough ropes.

“I don’t know,” Jimin answers honestly. “I don’t know anything about your dog.”

“She’s playful, loving, and likes to chew.”

“Then any chew toy should work, right? Woojoo’s a girl?” Jimin scans the toy options, landing on a pale pink knotted option perfect for both fetch and endless chewing. “How about this pretty one, here? Unless you’re so obnoxiously high and mighty from Deca’s moral philosophy that you won’t even force gender norms onto your pet.”

Jeongguk frowns. “That sounds redundant. This one looks fine.” He selects Jimin’s pick.

Jeongguk pays for his items (Unlike Jimin, Soori looks like she’d gladly grovel at Jeongguk’s feet if he asked her) and while they descend the building’s elevator, Jeongguk asks, “Would you like to meet Woojoo?”

“You’re not going to lure me in with a cute dog to trap me in your secret sex dungeon, are you?”

Jeongguk exhales what might be considered a laugh. Exiting out of the elevator, he says, “I still don’t think you understand. Sponsorships are consensual. Yes, I’ve made it so I’m your only one, but that’s the extent of my power. I swear to you I will not do anything to you that you don’t want.” He halts, turning towards Jimin a few feet shy of the lobby’s glass doors. With certainty in his stare, he says, “I will not touch you, Angel.”

Someone from the street pushes open the entrance doors, allowing a crisp breeze to flutter through the room. It raises the thin hairs on the back of Jimin’s neck.

“What if you accidentally bump into me?” Jimin replies, walking past him to enter the busy outdoors. Transports line the roads in traffic. Flashing advertisements display the latest Helper upgrades. A nearby food cart beams a hologram of its offerings above its roof, the virtual signage faded in the afternoon light. “Could I sue you?” wonders Jimin.

“Bump into me,” replies Jeongguk knowingly, falling into step beside Jimin, “like you did to me in Deca’s kitchen?”

Jimin side-glances him. “You remember that?”

“Why wouldn’t I? You were like a scared puppy.”

“Ahhh, I get it.” Jimin snaps his fingers like he’s just solved the world’s trickiest puzzle. “You’re interested in me because you likened my caught off guard face to a baby animal. Not a furry?” He feigns suspicion. He even crosses his arms for dramatic effect. “I don’t know, Mr. Sponsor, you’re not convincing me.”

“Call me Jeongguk.”

“Really? Not My Lord? Or Master?”

“My name will do. You can attach -ssi, if that’s more comfortable, even though the old formality of it makes me cringe.”

“Says the man who talks like he’s a professor.”

“I alternate depending on whom I’m speaking with,” he points out.

“Then should I be flattered or insulted?”

Jeongguk slings him a grin. “Both.”

Jimin grumbles something incomprehensible under his breath.

“If I accidentally bump into you,” Jeongguk continues, “then the most I can ask for is your leniency, which includes you refraining from any smartass comments.”

Jimin gives him a sugary sweet smile. “That might be difficult.”

“Try your best,” Jeongguk replies, nodding in support. “We’re almost at my house. Will you be coming up to meet Woojoo?”

Jimin hesitates, realizing their location isn’t too far from Jimin’s own home, or Deca, for that matter. It would be tedious to walk, but it’s a simple metro ride. Jimin didn’t pay much attention to the chauffeured ride to lunch, too concentrated on the fact that he was sitting directly beside Jeon Jeongguk in a vehicle. But now that Jeongguk’s mentioned their proximity to his own home, the reality of Jeongguk’s invitation strengthens.

Jimin nods, and Jeongguk leads the way.

His home is also a penthouse. It looks just as pretentiously masculine as Jimin would have thought, similar to Jimin’s in layout but somehow darker and sharper. Rather than accents of pale yellows and blues, there are grays and deep reds. The floor plan is a bit larger than Jimin’s, with two upstairs rooms versus an open loft. Though Jimin doesn’t linger on the towering balcony once passing through the entrance and into the living room. In a dedicated spot diagonal from the back of the main couch, there’s a roofed dog house made of transparent walls. Inside stands a medium-sized black dog, its ears perked and tail wagging.

Jimin doesn’t know much about dog breeds, but jindos are Korean natives. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a full-on black one. It could be for the same reason why many people prefer not to purchase black cats, because of the stigma of bad luck that surrounds them.

Jimin thinks that’s a load of bullshit. Jeongguk’s black dog seems adorable.

“Woojoo, Apa’s got you a present,” Jeongguk coos, dropping off his recent purchase onto the open kitchen counter before heading for his pet. He bends to unlock the house’s door, and Woojoo happily escapes to strain up her neck to receive the tender pets Jeongguk offers her. But, her greeting is brief. With one glance at the penthouse’s new face, Woojoo skids up to Jimin across the black marble floor. She incessantly sniffs him while circling around his calves, her tail going berserk in excitement. Jimin crouches down to reciprocate the love, absolutely helpless at the sight of her.

Woojoo is beautiful with her clean and neat coat. She smells like flowers. Either she recently had a grooming, or Jeongguk frequently takes delicate care of her. She revels in Jimin’s attention, shoving her snout further into his hands to collect as many pets as she can.

“Why, hello there,” Jimin sings to her. “You’re cute, aren’t you?”

He glances up to catch Jeongguk watching them, something almost like a smile on his face.

“She’s gorgeous,” Jimin tells him, pushing himself to his feet.

“Yes,” Jeongguk agrees. He brushes past towards the bag of goods, calling, “Jooie, come. Come .” Woojoo instantly listens, abandoning Jimin for her master. Jeongguk snaps a point towards the ground, and she sits, her spine as straight as it allows. Jeongguk rips the tag from the new toy, gently holding the knot to Woojoo’s nose so she can first sniff it. Then, he tosses it in the air. Jimin bites back a gasp when Woojoo jumps as high as Jeongguk’s chest to snatch the toy in her jaw. She follows by padding over to a splayed out bed beside her house and settles atop of it, curiously inspecting the new toy with her teeth. Jeongguk endearingly watches her.

Jimin knows so little about Jeon Jeongguk. Perhaps it’s pointless to make assumptions about him based on his mother and gossip. The only reason the gossip exists in the first place is because the performers don’t know him. Even if he doesn’t ever open up to Jimin like they’re best friends, Jimin’s sure he’ll discover new things about him through their sponsorship, things that none of the other performers could ever find out on their own. Do any of them know Jeongguk has a dog? Well, Jimin does. He likes that he knows.

“I don’t want a dog,” Jimin announces, referring to their conversation at the pet store, “but I wouldn’t mind seeing Woojoo every now and then.”

As if on cue, Woojoo props up and waddles over with her toy, dropping it at Jimin’s feet. He takes the thing and tosses it, and Woojoo’s nails rev up on the floor before she shoots off.

“I think she’d like that,” says Jeongguk.

“If you bring her over to my place,” Jimin says, watching as Woojoo runs past him to give Jeongguk a turn as throwing her toy, “I might give you a cookie.”

“Do you bake?” he wonders, playfully wrestling the knot out of her clamped jaw.

“It’s a figure of speech,” Jimin deadpans.

“I know.” Jeongguk flashes a grin before tossing the toy, beaming at Woojoo while she zooms after it.

Maybe Jeongguk gets off from his own roguery. Maybe he chose to sponsor Jimin because he knows Jimin’s an easy target to harass with it. Either way, it appears that Jimin can’t do much against it. For now, he's stuck at Jeongguk's side, but he wonders if that's such a bad thing.

Chapter Text

Jeongguk swirls the honey-colored whiskey in his glass, watching as the liquid spirals into a mini whirlpool. The haste chaos mirrors his mind.

With a sudden halt of his wrist, the alcohol ceases to a stop. Control.

He sips the smokey drink, the strength a pleasant scorch down his throat.

“He opens up more easily than I thought,” he says to Seokjin after swallowing. They sit in the latter’s refined office at Decadentia, their drink source a centerpiece between them on the coffee table. Jeongguk has a leg crossed over the other, one arm draped on his seat back. He sinks into the couch, allowing himself to relax from all sorts of sophistication despite the drink in his hand and the elegant clothes on his skin. Seokjin’s seen every bad day and every bad angle. There’s no reason for Jeongguk to do anything other than sprawl out when it’s just the two of them.

“One lunch and he already told me how his mother died,” he continues, referring to his afternoon with Park Jimin the previous day. “Except he made the entire thing up with this ridiculous coffee machine incident.”

Seokjin briefly hesitates, the only evidence that he also finds this to be bizarre. “Do I even want to know the details?”

“No, just know that it was a ludicrous story, but he played a very good part in making it sound believable.”

“And his father?”

Just the mention of the man flashes spots of red in Jeongguk’s vision. “Apparently, they’re estranged because the man left for Russia for some barely legal girl when Jimin was nine, and Dear Ol’ Dad is as good as dead to him.”

“Let me guess,” Seokjin sighs, bringing his own glass of whiskey to his lips, “you don’t believe that either.”

“He presented an award-winning performance,” Jeongguk admits with a wave of his drink, “I can’t deny that. But he talked some more about his father—just general feelings about him leaving—and I can’t tell if those were lies, too. If they are, he should be at a movie studio filming the next global blockbuster hit, not here.”

Jimin’s tale about his mother’s death was clearly false. The dead giveaway wasn’t the silly details of how a machine pummeled tens of stories to wallop her head. It was when Jimin began talking about his father. His attitude was too casual when he explained how his mother died, but the moment he began speaking about his father, something diverged. The only certain truth about his mother is that she’s dead, ignoring the how, but Jimin’s comments over his father are lined in more murky truths than blatant lies.

Considering that Jeongguk knows that Park Kangdae is still based in New Seoul, he guesses that Jimin’s truths are scattered in the follow-up feelings he expressed about the man.

But maybe that was the point. Maybe Jimin’s a good enough actor to the point that he knows how to pretend to just not be, all in order to persuade Jeongguk into thinking Jimin’s truly estranged from his father.

“If you’re unsure,” Seokjin says, “then how are you planning to get him to tell you what you’re looking for?”

Jeongguk swallows his last gulp of whiskey, uncrossing his leg to reach forward so he can pour himself another glass. “I’m working on it.”

Seokjin warily watches him fill his cup with a second round. “This is futile, Jeongguk.”

“Ever a pessimist.”

“A realist.”

“That’s what all pessimists say.”

“He's not here for you to stay stuck in the past,” Seokjin mentions pointedly. “I hired him so you could get over it.”

Jeongguk leans back in his seat, resting the crook of his neck atop the couch’s back edge. Staring up at the patterned ceiling, he muses, “I think he’d be insulted to know he’s only here because you somehow thought that would work.”

"It was an opportunistic coincidence,” Seokjin corrects. “You know this. He’s really here for the same reason why any other Deca performer is here—their talent.”

Jeongguk gazes down his nose at Seokjin. “Plus some.”

“His talent,” Seokjin wonders, “or the coincidence of his identity?”

Jeongguk ponders for a moment. “Both,” he decides.

I don’t even have the energy to yell at him for it all. It was so long ago. I’ve moved on.

Can you really move on from that?

Jeongguk doesn’t believe it, but if Jimin is telling the truth about how his mother died, then even if it’s bizarre, it’s a tragic accident. And if he’s telling the truth about how his father ran off with a young woman, then it’s a tragic abandonment by a man who chose to leave.

But Jeongguk’s brother was murdered.

Technically. In the legal sense, it can't be considered murder. It was a death caused by a crossfire, but the crossfire never would have happened if Park Kangdae hadn’t taken Jeongguk and Jeongsik in the first place. The kidnapping was premeditated with the intended threat of causing harm if Kangdae wasn’t given what he wanted. Creating a situation like that to then result in the crossfire that killed Jeongguk’s older brother counts enough to be called a murder is Jeongguk's book.

Move on? Get over it? Jeongsik wasn’t randomly hit on the head by some obnoxious object. He didn’t move away. He was killed.

“You know,” Jeongguk continues before Seokjin can start, “I admire you.”

Seokjin squints at him, clearly wondering where this is going.

“You’re a brilliant head of talent,” says Jeongguk. “You have a keen eye and sharp tongue. Other than my mother, you’re someone I greatly respect—maybe the most.” Jeongguk exhales a short laugh, shaking his head atop the couch back. “But you bringing Park Jimin here was the stupidest decision you’ve ever made.”

Kim Seokjin is Jeongguk’s only true friend. They both know it. Jeongguk’s known him his entire life, making their five-year age gap nothing but irrelevant numbers. Seokjin used to tag along to Deca with his uncle, the former occupier of Seokjin’s job position, and he’d play with Jeongguk and Jeongsik throughout the building like it was a playground.

But, there were limits. The three of them weren’t ever permitted in the following places: the intimacy training rooms, the performers’ dressing room, the VIP social hour lounge, and the showroom and second floor suites during business hours. But, they could play tag in the showroom after taking lunch from the kitchen. They pretended to be teachers in the philosophy classroom. They blasted tunes in the dance studio while they fell on their asses trying to do cartwheels. They watched movies and drifted asleep beside each other in Ruby’s office while she worked.

As children, they didn’t truly understand what Decadentia was until Seokjin started middle school. As the oldest, he was told first, as minimally and appropriately as one could inform a 12-year-old. Of course, he was also told not to tell Jeongguk and Jeongsik. Of course, he did anyway. Seokjin may be a properly intelligent man now, but he was once a kid, too.

Jeongguk wasn’t a loner outside of Deca. He had his own sets of friends growing up in school, but they never delved deeper than a certain level. He couldn’t exactly share with his friends about the family business. It wasn’t because he was ashamed or embarrassed, but because Deca has always been an exclusive club. Those fortunate enough to be let in on Deca’s existence are that much more likely to want to join as a paying member if they know they’re only one of a select few to be experiencing such a club. Deca would lose aspects of its charm if the average high schooler knew of it like it was a common restaurant or shop.

His classmates always knew Jeongguk was wealthy, as proven by his outfits and outings, but if anyone ever asked where his family success came from, he’d say that his mother just invested well into a handful of people and got lucky.

It’s not exactly a lie. Deca’s performers are an investment.

Because the circle of people Jeongguk could talk to about his life was very limited, no friends of his stayed, not in the way that dictates true friendship to him, anyway.

But Seokjin’s always been there.

“Get over the past?” Jeongguk says to him now, lifting his head if only to take a sip of his burning alcohol. “I’ve tried.”

“No, you haven’t. You’ve ignored it.”

“Exactly,” Jeongguk agrees. “I’ve ignored it only for it to amount to nothing.”

Seokjin has also always had patience for him. The only evidence of his exasperation is when he takes just too long to respond, almost as if he’s in utter disbelief.

“Getting over the past isn’t ignorance,” Seokjin says. “You have to face it.”

“Which is what I’m doing right now.”

“No.” Seokjin shakes his head, placing his glass on the coffee table. He doesn’t recline back once the drink is safely set down, but firmly stays where he can focus more closely on Jeongguk. “Facing it means accepting that it happened and letting go. You’re facing it to get revenge.”

“Oh, I’ve accepted that it happened.” Jeongguk twists around on the couch cushions, laying back his head on one armrest while he crosses his ankles over the other. He matches Seokjin’s drink by dropping his own on the table, except his second glass is emptied further than Seokjin’s first. “If I didn’t, I’d be in denial. I’ve had years for it to settle within me, and now I have the chance to find the vile man who killed my brother.”

Seokjin stares at him. Jeongguk stares at the wall.

“Yet,” starts Seokjin smoothly, “it appears as though Jimin has no intention to tell you anything about his father.”

Jeongguk holds up a finger. “Keyword: appears.”

“What if Jimin truly doesn’t know where his father is?” Seokjin suggests, shooting up his brows in a challenge. “What if he just doesn’t feel comfortable diving into his personal life as a new performer in a new sponsorship, and he’s bullshitting you for a reason unrelated to all of this?”

“Well,” Jeongguk replies, crossing his arms over his chest, “then he’s not entirely useless to me.”

“Are you referring to the basic purpose of your sponsorship?”

Jeongguk snaps his neck around, meeting Seokjin’s eyes. “What?” The basic purpose of any sponsorship is a mutually beneficial relationship, with 99% of cases referring to sex in exchange for credits and presents. Seokjin doesn’t have to explicitly say it. They both know it’s what he means.

“No,” Jeongguk assures him, absolutely and unequivocally definite in his response. “I have no intention of pursuing him like any regular sponsor. He’s Park’s son.” How could Seokjin ever think Jeongguk would ever be interested in something like that? How could Jeongguk view Jimin with any sort of personal desire or grow any sort of attachment when the man’s father is the reason why Jeongguk’s brother is dead?

“But if he truly knows nothing about his father,” Jeongguk adds, thoughts running through his mind, “maybe he could play bait.”

Seokjin turns down his chin at him in disapproval. “If he truly knows nothing, then he’s an innocent young man that you sound like you’re willing to put in harm’s way just to get to his father.”

“Yeah, well,” Jeongguk mumbles, “then Park will know how it feels.”

“I don’t like this, Jeongguk.”

“You don’t have to.”

“And I especially don’t like you like this.”

“You’re all I have, Seokjin.” He means to say it lightly, but it comes out like an oxymoron, both weak with desperation and strong with sincerity. Seokjin doesn’t have to be a fan of Jeongguk’s state of mind and his plans, but he has to stay by his side. He must. Jeongguk doesn’t know what he’d do if Seokjin ever left, whether by his own decision or not.

I need you. The unsaid sentence floats through the air between them, as unseen yet as knowing as the wind. 

“I know,” Seokjin quietly replies. He reaches for his forgotten whiskey. “Fuck, I know.” He downs a considerable gulp.

“Let’s just hope that for Park Jimin’s sake, I can get him to tell me what I want, and that he doesn’t have to get involved beyond that.”

“Why would he tell you anything if he does happen to be in cahoots with his father?”

“He probably wouldn’t,” Jeongguk mutters, “but somehow, I’ll find out. I have to, Seokjin. I have to.” He spaces out at a spot on the ceiling, trying to recall the exact smile his brother used to wear. “You know, I remember less and less of Jeongsik these days, but I remember that night so vividly. I still see it in my nightmares every now and then. I remember the funeral. I remember how hard it was for Mom that following year. I remember all of those things more than my brother himself. You probably remember him better than I do. You’re five years older than me, as it is, and you were closer to him back then.”

Seokjin’s silent for a moment. The only sound is their own breathing and the placement of Seokjin’s drink on the table after he finishes his final sip. “Let’s say you find Park,” Seokjin eventually says, leaning back in his seat. “What’s the plan? To kill him? Is it your goal to become a murderer?”

Jeongguk side-eyes him. “No, but—”

“Or maybe not kill him, but physically hurt him in some way. Could you really do that, Jeongguk? Scar his face or chop off a finger?”

“Jin, I just—”

“Or maybe be proper and get the police to raid him?” Seokjin’s standard self-restraint is slowly unraveling with the sharpness of his tone. Jeongguk’s jaw tightens at it. “They’d need a warrant for that, but let’s say you manage to pull enough evidence to get one. The problem is, the police would need to give a shit about this country’s drug rings, and we all know they don’t. If they did, you would have gotten justice for your brother a long time ago.”

“What the fuck do you want me to tell you?” Jeongguk protests.

“Your plan!” exclaims Seokjin, his outburst a flooding dam of disapproval and worry. “You have no idea what you’re doing! If you go on like this, you’re gonna end up just like Jeongsik!”

“You’re kind, sir,” Jeongsik said, not straining against his zip-ties like Jeongguk had been. Jeongsik sat as tall as allowed from his criss-crossed position on the floor, his younger brother beside him. Jeongguk’s wrists burned behind his back from frantically pulling at the tightened plastic out of panic.

“Stop or you’ll hurt yourself,” Jeongsik had ordered him. The two goons who’d pulled the black bags off their heads wordlessly kept watch at the door, not bothering to silence Jeongsik. They only watched with nasty expressions while the elder child played his role as the older sibling. Jeongsik had always been steadier than Jeongguk, both in excitement and anger. While Jeongguk was told by adults that he wore his heart on his sleeve, they’d tell Jeongsik that he wore his behind polished armor.

Jeongsik spoke to Park Kangdae now with that same gentility. Even at only nine, he’d always been respectful and refined. He was Jeongguk’s number one role model. It didn’t matter that Park had told them he was taking them for a fun ride in his sleek transport only for his men to tie them up and throw them in this foreign room. It didn’t matter if Jeongsik was scared. Jeongguk would never be able to tell. Kangdae and his men surely couldn’t either.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, boy,” Kangdae answered. “I’m polite, not kind.” He sat relaxedly across from the two children on a curved armchair. A silvery tube graced his lips, and he slowly inhaled whatever was inside before blowing out an elegant stream of black smoke.

“Mom tells me to be polite,” said Jeongsik. “Isn’t it similar? You’re a polite man. Why are my brother and I tied up? Can you let us go? Mom will be upset if she finds out.”

Kangdae exhaled another cloud of onyx, leaning his head forward to reply, “That’s the idea.”

Jeongguk lets out a collected breath, mirroring how he’d know Jeongsik would react to Seokjin’s case.

“As of right now,” he says placatingly, “I know nothing about where Park is. I was told his drug ring is still well and alive, but maybe our intel about him being the one still directly operating it is wrong. Maybe he’s actually flouncing around with some foreign woman half his age. Or maybe, Park Jimin is working alongside his father, and the two of them are trying to play some sick little prank because he knows exactly who I am.”

Seokjin scoffs, “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s probably unlikely,” Jeongguk agrees, “but for some reason, Park’s son ended up here, and all I know is that it’s stirring up a lot of terrible fucking memories.”

Seokjin doesn’t shift at the remark, but the gentle glint under his lashes displays enough for Jeongguk to know that Seokjin is far from indifferent about it.

“I thought …” trails Jeongguk, keeping his voice steady despite its growing threat to waver, “I never thought I’d be able to do something about Jeongsik ever since Park went off the radar. But Jimin’s given me the hope that I can, at least, I don’t know, find his father to scream in his face what witnessing my older brother die in front of me did. I was only seven.”

Seokjin is quiet for a moment, already having calmed down from his previous comments. Once fully returned to his usual composure, he says, “You really believe seeing Park again will help you move on.”

“Something like that.”

“You’re still a child, you know.”

“Thanks, asshole.”

“I know I’m not Jeongsik,” Seokjin adds, earning a focused glance from Jeongguk, “I don’t want to be. But to me, you’ve always been like my little brother. Jeongsik was my friend, but he’s been gone a long time. Not you, Jeongguk. Just … be careful.”

Jeongguk softens at the confession, a string of words that aren’t typically uttered but ones he knows in his heart nonetheless. Hearing them spoken aloud only pulls stronger. “I will.”

“You’re smart, Jeongguk. I know you are.” Seokjin sighs, reaching to pour himself a fresh glass of whiskey. “But you’re really still just a kid.”

Chapter Text

Jimin doesn’t hear from Jeongguk for five days. He doesn’t even see him at Deca. It’s not like Jimin wants Jeongguk to show up unannounced at his door to drag him off God knows where, but the longer Jeongguk is MIA, the more anxiety builds up inside of Jimin over when Jeongguk is going to pop up out of nowhere like a jump scare.

Jimin’s at Deca during the fourth night of Jeongguk’s absence, preparing to perform an act with Kkuli. One of Kkuli’s own sponsors requested that he perform with Jimin wearing hand-selected outfits. Apparently, the man has a thing for lingerie. Jimin doesn’t care. He currently has a robe wrapped around his frilly ensemble while he waits backstage with Kkuli to go on next. Among them are Taehyung and Yoongi, set to go on as act number three.

Jimin and Kkuli sit beside each other in front of the bulbed makeup mirrors. Deca’s makeup artists and stylists have already completed their tasks, leaving their finished products lounging in their chairs while the first performance of the night continues in the showroom. Hyesong’s solo run is being broadcast on the walled screen beside the door, but no one’s watching her. Instead, Jimin’s spent the past few minutes replaying his current sponsorship situation to his co-workers.

“You’re telling me that Jeongguk wants nothing to do with you?” Kkuli asks in disbelief. He’s turned halfway in his chair, back straight and eyes wider without his glasses. Cornflower blue contacts color his irises instead. His robe is loosely tied around his middle.

“Not nothing,” Yoongi points out from his spot on the corner couch, his mobile in his hands. He doesn’t look up from the device while he continues, “Jeongguk’s choosing to sponsor Angel, no matter how unconventionally.”

“Um, yeah, but he made it so he’s the only one sponsoring him,” argues Kkuli, “to then skip out on fully appreciating this lovely man right here? That seems like a big, fat waste.”

Jimin feigns modesty, giggling to himself when Kkuli mimics the expression in response.

“There are some people out there who genuinely just like someone to spoil,” Taehyung pitches in from behind Kkuli, having come over from Yoongi. “No strings attached.” Taehyung ruffles Kkuli’s curly hair before slipping between him and Jimin, lifting to sit himself on the edge of the makeup counter. He’s already done up for his own performance, wearing shiny leather pants that cling to his dangling legs.

“That sounds fake,” Kkuli scoffs. “ Every sponsor here wants something more than that, even if it’s barely Rated 15. Angel, Jeongguk really doesn’t want anything? Not even a goodbye kiss on the cheek?”

Jimin snorts, overlooking his minimally makeup dusted face in the mirror. “Nope. He was pretty clear.”

“I thought him sponsoring you meant I was finally gonna learn his dirty secrets, but all I’m getting is that he’s boring.”

“Trust me,” assures Jimin, thinking back to the surprises Jeongguk has already unraveled about himself in a few days, from his sarcasm to his pet dog, “he’s not boring.”

Through the mirror, Jimin catches Yoongi say towards Kkuli, “Jeon Jeongguk needs to be engaged sexually for you to find him interesting?”

“Oh, don’t act all high and mighty. I have sex for a fucking living, so I’m only naturally curious.”

“So do I, but I don’t give a shit about Jeongguk’s sex life.”

“That’s because you have your own hot sponsor to obsess over,” Kkuli mentions, “whereas my little handful aren’t loyal because they come and go. Jeez, can one of them snatch me up already?” Kkuli huffs out a breath, slumping into his chair. “It’s brutal out here, Soonsu, my God.”

Taehyung nudges his leg with his foot, saying tenderly, “You’re a dream, Kkuli. The right one will come for you when the time’s right.”

“If I could give you Jeongguk,” Jimin adds, “I would.”

Kkuli lolls his head towards him. “Would you beg him for me?”

“Oh, no, sorry, I don’t beg.”

Kkuli pouts as Taehyung grins in laughter. Applause suddenly sounds from both the broadcast and the muffled main stage, reigning in the end of Hyesong’s act. Jimin shoots a glance at Kkuli, and the two push up out of their seats for their turn.

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

Set on speaker atop Jimin’s bathroom sink, his mobile rings an outbound call. Waiting for Jeongguk to answer, he leans over the counter, finishing up his morning skincare routine.

Before gathering the energy to roll out of bed, he spent the previous hour wrapped in his blankets scrolling through Slab and other useless but entertaining internet content. He slept in after his late night at Deca, having attended the VIP social like he has to each time he performs, before coming home to shower and then crawl into bed and let sleep take him.

During the sixty minutes in the cocktail lounge, Jimin couldn’t help but steal glances at Taehyung and Yoongi with Jung Hoseok. He watched them cuddle on a sofa for the entire room to see. He watched them tip back drinks and share laughter. He even watched as both Taehyung and Yoongi chatted with other sponsors of theirs, all while Hoseok carefully observed the conversations but kept his distance. Aren’t he and Jeongguk meant to do the same?

Jimin spent the rest of the night meeting members who had yet to introduce themselves to him. It was never ending. He suspects that it will take a few more socials for him to get through everyone that wishes to meet Deca’s brand new star. Some of the VIPs simply want to say hello and get a feel of his personality in five minutes, whereas one man last night kept Jimin talking for half of the allotted time. Jimin made a mental note to not encourage discussion with that particular member in the future for the sake of being bored to death.

He’s been making mental notes of everyone he’s met. Is it going above and beyond, he wonders, when none of them are even permitted to sponsor him? The most Jimin can do with these people off-stage is have friendly chats with them during the social hour.

Jimin’s call connects.

“Good morning, Angel.”

Jimin can’t believe it’s not already past noon. He glances at his mobile screen, checking that there’s still ten minutes to go. He scoffs at himself. “I have a wishlist for today.”

“Do you, now?” Jeongguk says.

If Jeongguk isn’t going to see him for five days, then Jimin’s going to use his off-day to contact him on his own.

Jimin had an epiphany last night while watching the other performers and their sponsors: Jeongguk is the one sponsoring Jimin, meaning it’s his job to provide him with whatever Jimin wants. Besides the little detail of Jeongguk cutting Jimin off from any other interested Deca members, Jimin’s in total control of their sponsorship. If Jimin wants something, he only has to ask.

Or, not even ask.

“If I want something,” Jimin wonders, fluffing up his black hair with his hands, “are you obligated to drop whatever you’re doing and see to my desires?”

“That’s not entirely realistic,” says Jeongguk, which earns an eye roll from Jimin, “but lucky for you, I’ve only recently been made available. What would you like, Angel?”

“I want to go shopping.”

“For clothes, I’m assuming?”

Jimin grins even though Jeongguk can’t see it. “You assume right.”

“You can send me links of whatever you’d like and I can—”

“Oh, but that’s boring,” Jimin chides, picking up his phone and padding out of the bathroom. He heads for his closet across the floor, saying, “Shouldn’t I be getting my use out of you? And vice versa—I’m pretty enough for you to show off at your side, I think.” He flicks on his closet lights, skimming the array of options from Jeongguk’s previous outfit drop-off. “I want to go shopping at Grand Center. Pick me up in an hour? Unless you’re close by and can make it in 30 minutes—that’s preferred.”

Rather than a witty remark, Jeongguk only says, “I’ll be there soon,” before hanging up.

Jimin frowns, realizing that’s hardly fair in order for him to know how fast he needs to work to finish getting ready in time.

After spending too long picking out an outfit, it’s not long enough to be stumbling out the door once Jeongguk arrives to pick him up. Jimin doesn’t even invite Jeongguk inside, but puckishly waves his fingers in place of a hello before strolling past him out the door. Jimin hears his unit automatically lock behind him before the soft stomps of Jeongguk’s boots follow.

“How’s Woojoo doing?” Jimin asks once they’re in the elevator, leaning on one leg and glancing over his nails.

“She’s doing,” Jeongguk answers, focusing straight ahead at the closed metallic doors. “She’s a dog.”

Jimin turns his neck towards him, hardly impressed with his reply. “Well, I won’t ask how you’re doing, then.”

“Why?” he asks, humor glinting in his deep eyes when he meets Jimin’s. The look is mildly irritating, like a scratch you can’t quite itch. “Do you look down on me like you would a dog?”

Jimin offers a sweet smile dripping in irony. “That’s an insult to dogs.” The elevator pings open, and Jimin stalks out before realizing Jeongguk has pressed the button for the underground garage instead of the lobby. Before Jimin can backtrack, Jeongguk brushes past him, a clear destination in mind. Jimin follows, assuming Jeongguk drove here on his own versus utilizing an ordered transport.

But rather than stop at one of the hundreds of transports on this floor alone, Jeongguk heads for the parking spaces devoted to cycle transports. Jimin halts a few paces away as he watches Jeongguk reach a black bike, its shiny coat of paint reflecting the fluorescent ceiling lights. Its sleek body is long, its wheels rimless and wide, and the machine is balanced enough to stand on its own without a kickstand. Sitting on its curved seat is a helmet that’s safely attached to the cycle through a metal cord. Jeongguk goes to unlock it.

“I’m not getting on that death trap,” Jimin announces, his feet firmly planted in place ten feet away.

“It’s barely more of a death trap than a standard transport,” Jeongguk tells him, lifting up the cycle’s seat to pull out a second helmet from the compartment below.

“So, you admit it’s more dangerous?”

“It’s fine, Angel. Come on.”

Jimin bristles, crossing his arms. “No, thanks.”

Jeongguk only shrugs, running a hand through his hair before adjusting one of the helmets over his head. “Suit yourself. I can order you a transport if you’re so picky.”

“What about you?”

“I’m not scared of my cycle,” he replies, the open front of his helmet showcasing his amused half-smile, “but thank you for your concern. I can just meet you there.” He presses a button on the side of the helmet, and its front panels automatically slide shut, tinted dark enough to hide his face.

“It’s not being scared,” Jimin calls, staying put while Jeongguk swings a leg over the bike, “it’s being on the smarter side of evolution!”

Jeongguk ignores him. He waves a hand over the small control panel between the handlebars, the screen illuminating in response. With a press of his thumb, he brings the cycle to life. It hums no sound, but violet light suddenly strikes across the bike’s exterior, stretching along its side and circling the wheels. Hidden fixtures below the machine haze the ground in a purple glow, outlining the perimeter of the bike.

“You’re dead serious, aren’t you,” Jimin mumbles.

Jeongguk half-twists on his seat, silently holding out his second helmet.

With a defeated sound, Jimin throws himself forward on his feet, snatching the helmet out of Jeongguk’s hand with enough sass to prove just how much he doesn’t want to be doing this. He shoves the thing over his head, shutting its firm cover to match Jeongguk’s hidden face. Jimin fully believes Jeongguk will order a transport just for him to ride alone if he doesn’t come along on this thing. Whatever. Jimin’s not enough of a baby to not suck it up and deal with one ride. 

He climbs over the seat behind Jeongguk, glad that there’s at least a small, raised back for Jimin’s ass to press into versus nothing at all. 

After resting his feet on the bike’s footrests, he frowns when Jeongguk doesn’t do anything for a moment long enough for Jimin to ask, “Why aren’t we going?”

“Because you aren’t holding onto anything.”

Jimin glances on either side of himself, noticing that there are slight indents beside his hips seemingly meant for backseat riders to slip their palms into. Jimin tests it out to make sure he’s right, nodding in approval when his fingers even bend around an interior bar to assist in keeping him secured.

“You can hold onto me, you know,” Jeongguk tells him.

Jimin pointedly keeps his hands where they are.

Jeongguk just settles in his seat at the refusal, bending forward to grip onto each handlebar.

The point of view is one Jimin’s never seen before with anyone. He can’t help but slide his gaze down Jeongguk’s broadened shoulders before traveling down to his narrowed waist. It’s impossible for Jimin’s front not to be touching him, or for Jimin’s bent knees to not be aligned with his.

Jimin’s grip on the cycle tightens as Jeongguk starts, slowly but surely driving out of his parking spot before heading for the garage’s exit.

Jimin hasn’t explored the parking garage since moving in. He’s had no reason to. But like any garage in the city, it has a cycle-only entrance and exit ramp made for the cycle-only highways that curve around New Seoul’s buildings like a roaring river. Built at least five stories above the ground, the special roads are meant for the smaller vehicles to avoid typical transport traffic below. Its main purpose is efficiency, but to Jimin, it’s nothing but an excuse to drive fast and recklessly. There are different lanes for different speeds, which somehow maintains a record of infrequent accidents, but Jimin would always rather be stuck in an idling transport at a traffic light instead of flying down the cycleway. Or, even better, he just takes the metro. 

When Jeongguk enters the garage’s cycle-ramp, Jimin clutches so hard at the bike he’s sure his knuckles have gone white. They spiral up, up, and up, eventually breaking into blinding daylight only masked by Jimin’s tinted helmet to place them on a direct merging lane onto the cycleway.

Jeongguk picks up speed, and Jimin yelps as his heart gets caught in his throat.

Fuck this. He slings his arms around Jeongguk’s middle, latching onto him like a monkey as they seamlessly fly down the right lane. Jeongguk must think this gives him permission to go faster, because he merges left. Cold winter wind whips at Jimin’s limbs, and he nearly chokes when he mistakenly glances at the blurring road whipping below their feet. He’s about to scream through his helmet at Jeongguk to slow down before he catches the digital number on the cycle’s center console screen. Jeongguk’s well within the speed limit range for this particular lane based on the overhead flashing signs they swoop under. But it feels so fucking fast. It must just be so apparent to Jimin without any doors or a roof to keep him in.

He’s holding Jeongguk tight enough that if they’re thrown off the bike, they’ll go together. For a moment, Jimin considers loosening his hold just a smidge—Jeongguk’s rib cage is pushing into his forearms. But the thought evaporates when the cycleway abruptly cuts through a section of buildings like a squiggly line. He stays locked around his driver.

Despite the insanity of it all, Jimin keeps his eyes open the entire ride. For one, he thinks it’s even worse not to see where he’s going when the cycle is zipping down the roads so ridiculously fast. But it’s sort of beautiful, he decides. He’s seen plenty of New Seoul from the ground and plenty of it from stories up, but he’s never moved so quickly through it like a character in a video game. Shining blue whips past him as they shoot past skyscrapers. Flashing advertisement screens and holograms paint the glass sea is changing images of color. Sprouted trees planted on balconies dot the air in random slices of green.

Jimin doesn’t even realize they’ve arrived at Grand Center until the cycle begins to noticeably slow as it approaches the correct exit ramp.

Ten floors up, Grand Center is one of the city’s main shopping centers. Its seven rising floors are connected between two buildings by its centerpiece garden atrium that hangs above the street below. Jimin stares at the massive domed structure with its glass walls before his view is cut off while Jeongguk drives them into the shopping center’s concrete garage. The entire nine stories sitting below the center’s first floor is entirely dedicated to parking for the shops and surrounding public area. The cycleway immediately connects to one of the cycle-only parking floors, and Jeongguk has to drive around for a minute before finding an empty spot.

He pulls in, sitting up straight and turning off the bike. He goes to raise his arms to remove his helmet, but he suddenly stops to say, “You can let go of me now.”

Jimin hastily slips his arms away, swinging himself off the cycle before shucking off his helmet. He does it quickly enough to beat Jeongguk to it. Clearing his throat, Jimin uses a hand to ruffle his hair. His other holds up the helmet to use its reflection to adjust his bangs. He hands it back to Jeongguk when done, and Jeongguk locks their helmets to the bike before they head for the center’s entrance.

“Admit it,” Jeongguk says from beside him.

“Admit what?”

“That it wasn’t so bad.”

“I thought you wanted me to be honest with you,” Jimin answers, beating him to the elevator. Once inside, Jimin says, “Surprisingly, I don’t feel like I’m gonna vomit up my lungs after that, so we’re getting food first.”

Jeongguk cocks a brow at him. “Did you not eat yet today?”

“I did,” he says, “but I’m not stuffed, and the best way to try on clothes is when you’re bloated. That way, you’ll know what works best even when you feel your worst.”

The atrium is mostly food, so Jimin steers them towards a snack cafe where they order a handful of shareables. Even if the shopping center boasts designer stores, its dining options range from five-star eateries to cheap-as-dirt food carts. The snack cafe’s menu is as classic as it comes—tteokbokki, fishcake, kimbap, cheesy corn dogs, et cetera. Their order is ready-made, and Jimin gestures for Jeongguk to take it like a waiter while Jimin leads them to an empty table beside the edge of one of the curved, windowed walls.

They sit surrounded by delicately planted greenery and flowers, spaced around the tables with pretty precision. Two tables away, some kid is flying a toy drone around his mother’s head. A couple scoops up spoons of towering ice cream. Beyond the thick windows, the main road below showcases an eight-lane intersection awash in jumbo screens and towering businesses. Pedestrians stalk the streets in all directions, with transports slowly gliding through the midday traffic.

Jimin excitedly pokes one of the provided wooden sticks into a gooey rice cake before plopping it into his mouth.

“Was tteokbokki your favorite snack as a kid?” Jeongguk asks, taking a bite of his own.

“Isn’t it everyone’s?”

“Yes, but I wonder if you were boring enough not to have a more interesting favorite.”

Jimin deadpans before answering, “Hotteok. I could eat one everyday.”

“You like sweets?”

“To a degree. I like warm, muted sweets,” Jimin elaborates, picking up his chopsticks to select a loaded piece of beef kimbap. “I don’t care much for candy. Why? Are you taking notes to surprise me with dessert-related gifts?”

Jeongguk swallows his current bite of food, answering, “I could, if you’d like.”

“What would you like, Mr. Sponsor?” Jimin presses, thinking that maybe if he keeps pushing for an answer, Jeongguk will one day get tired enough to flat out reveal it to him.

Jeongguk only smirks. “For you to not call me Mr. Sponsor.”

“What about Mystery Man?” Jimin wonders, resting an elbow on the table’s surface, his chopsticks in hand. “Starry Eyes?”

Jeongguk gives him a curious look at that.

“What? I think they’re pretty accurate nicknames.”

“Does my real name offend you? You seem reluctant to use it.”

“No,” says Jimin, picking up another kimbap, “but considering you call me by my fake one, I might as well have one for you. Do you even know my real name? Because despite our little sponsorship situation, you seem pretty indifferent about—”

“Of course I know your name, Jimin.”

Jimin blinks at the direct acknowledgement, letting the use of his name permeate.

“Yeah, never mind.” He shudders, popping the kimbap in his mouth. “Keep calling me Angel.”

Jeongguk just breathes out a stupidly cocky smile, poking a piece of tteokbokki. “What’s the origin of Angel, anyway?”

Jimin swallows, raising his palms to his cheeks to make a flower pose. “Can’t you tell?” he asks, insinuating with his widened eyes that he looks identical to an innocent heavenly being.

Jeongguk barely even squints at him. “Am I meant to be looking at something?”

“You know,” Jimin sighs, dropping the act, “for all of your comments about me not knowing how this sponsorship works, you seem to be the one who doesn’t know how to be a sponsor.”

“I said I wouldn’t fall at your feet.”

“Right, yes, and I appreciate that, but as a performer, I also would appreciate some acknowledgement here and there.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything for a moment. It’s long enough for Jimin to eat two more pieces of the spicy rice cake. It’s enough for Jeongguk’s expression to even out. He eventually replies rather seriously, “You most certainly live up to the beauty of your name, Angel.”

Jimin shoots him a skeptical glance.

“But is such beauty really only the reason for the stage name?”

Jimin slides away his gaze, dropping his chopsticks for a moment to sit back. “Yeah,” he admits, “pretty much, but not in the way you so nicely stated. My first boss meant it like I was a child, but everyone else meant it the other way.” Jimin shrugs, picking back up his utensils. “The other way stuck.”

Jeongguk doesn’t reply, and there’s a short lull as they both finish up the remainder of their afternoon snack. Jimin chooses to finish before Jeongguk, mindlessly twirling his chopsticks between his fingers as Jeongguk continues with the final pieces of food.

“You’re staring at me,” Jeongguk starts after a moment, not looking up from his attention towards the last rice cake as he brings it to his mouth.

“I’m contemplating whether asking you where you’ve been the past few days is too much curiosity.”

Jeongguk swipes at his hands, leaning back in his chair as he swallows. “Have you missed me?”

“Hardly,” Jimin scoffs. “I was waiting to go shopping.”

Jeongguk lifts a shoulder in a single shrug. “I was busy with school.”

Jimin’s chopsticks drop to the table, rolling in different directions. “School?”

“Yes, it’s a magical place where you’re taught various subjects—”

“Are you still getting your undergrad?” Jimin interrupts, incredulous. Jeongguk is twenty-three, which wouldn’t make it strange for him to not be complete with his university education if he has a dual degree or even is taking his time for whatever personal reasons—

“My masters,” says Jeongguk.

Jimin’s rendered speechless. “What? In what ?”

“Entrepreneurial business administration. I’ll be taking over Decadentia someday. It would be beneficial if I knew what I was doing,” he mentions deliberately. Jimin makes a face at him, relaxing back in his own chair while Jeongguk continues, “My mother can only teach me so much on her own. I’d rather a professor properly explain balance sheets than her. She’s a self-starter genius, but when it comes down to finance semantics, she’s not the best instructor.”

Jimin takes in this new information, thinking about the gossip he’s heard from his co-workers about whatever Jeongguk gets up to in his spare time. “You’re crazy,” Jimin tells him, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I’d have to disagree.”

“Everyone at Deca thinks you’re a bum—a sexy, cryptic bum.”

“Including you?”

“Well, I did.”

“Wait—so you no longer think I’m sexy?”

“Can you be serious for two seconds?” Jimin blows out a curt sigh, pushing up in his seat. “You’re really studying to get your masters? For when you take Ruby’s place as the big boss one day when she, what, retires?”

“Mm. I don’t know when that day will come, but it will at some point, and in the meantime, I can help her run Deca once I’ve gotten my degree. But she won’t let me anywhere near a staff position until I’ve graduated. Those are the rules.”

Jimin processes this, summarizing, “So, you not working anywhere else, and you spending your free time at Deca just hanging around …”

“My job right now is being a full-time student,” he explains, “and beyond being at Deca because it’s the family business I’ve grown up in, I’m there to keep track of and study its business operations. I don’t watch the shows to satisfy some sexual desire, but to make sure everything is running smoothly. Also, my mother values my opinions, even if I don’t have any official say just yet.”

Hence Jeongguk’s presence at Jimin’s training evaluation.

“If you’re planning to work at Deca one day,” Jimin asks, “then why are you so distant from the performers?”

“Because I’m not a staff member,” he supplies simply. “I have no right to get close to them when I’m not contractually signed onto the business. Obviously, I’d never do anything discomforting to them, but staying away gives them that extra peace of mind. Besides, if I did interact with them, what would I say? I have no right to discuss their work with them as a non-staff member, and surely it’d feel uncomfortable for them as their boss’s son. And, as someone who will lead the business one day, I shouldn’t view any of them as friends. It should always be professional.”

“That’s why you’ve never sponsored anyone.”

“Correct. Though I’m at Deca much of the time, I’m not a member, and I’ll one day be staff. I’m in no position to engage with the performers in such a way, nor do I want to.”

Jimin narrows his chin at him. “But you’re with me.”

Firmly holding his stare, Jeongguk says, “Yes.”

Jimin wants badly to ask why, especially now that he’s learned all of this new information about Jeon Jeongguk, but the man stays explicit in staying silent about this one unknown. Jimin was told not to ask about it. It’s the only thing he can’t know. Jimin figures now, with the way Jeongguk’s still staring so deliberately at him, that Jimin will never get the answer he’s looking for.

“So,” Jimin asks instead, “you don’t think we’re all slimy sluts?”

Jeongguk almost laughs. “Would that make sense? Even if I didn’t plan to take over Deca after my mother, I’m at the business a fair amount. If I truly thought so poorly of you and the rest of our talent, I wouldn’t bother to come to Deca at all—I wouldn’t care to. So, to answer your question, no.”

“You can’t exactly blame the performers for thinking the opposite,” Jimin tells him. With the way Jeongguk so charmingly speaks to the rest of the staff and the club’s members, only to majorly avoid the performers with what appears to be a haughty crown on his head, it makes sense why Deca’s talent has such a wide array of whispered opinions about him.

“How can I blame people for their own lack of logic?” Jeongguk replies with the very arrogance Jimin’s referring to. “We’re all born with different strengths.”

“So, you rather think we’re stupid for our assumptions about you.”

“No one stupid could ever work at Deca, Angel. Besides, I enjoy the elusivity,” he half-grins. “It’s entertaining.”

“You could just tell them the truth,” Jimin says. “Or have someone else do it, like Seokjin. I even could. They’d do a 180 if they knew the truth.”

Jeongguk shrugs, gathering their trash onto the tray it came on. “Tell them if you want, but I never did for the sake of maintaining that boundary. If they know, they might get too comfortable and begin treating me like a staff member. I personally find that inappropriate.”

Jimin’s first thought during this conversation was that he couldn’t wait to run and tell Kkuli. The lively young man would probably faint if he knew the truth about Jeongguk’s lifestyle. But at Jeongguk’s answer now, Jimin deeply reconsiders. It’s partially because Jeongguk’s his sponsor, and thus Jimin figures he owes him some ounce of respect. Jeongguk is also his boss’s son, adding another automatic layer. But mostly, Jimin figures keeping this secret for him is just the decent thing to do.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Jimin says softly.

Jeongguk’s hands briefly waver from where they finish stacking their trash. “Thank you,” he answers, just as gentle, almost like he’s surprised that Jimin would even offer him the courtesy. He then restarts as quickly as he stopped, taking the tray in both hands while he pushes back his chair. “Shall we go shopping now?”

While they browse designer store after designer store, Jimin has the urge to splurge on all of the glorious pieces of clothing now suddenly available to him. He used to only be able to window shop for the most part, having to thoughtfully select particular items when he delegated enough spending credits to drop on a new, expensive outfit. But now, the knowledge that Jeongguk is filthy rich enough to probably buy this enter shopping center puts a bounce in Jimin’s step.

Where does he start? What clothes does he decide on? It’s unrealistic to purchase whatever catches his eye. There aren’t enough days in the year to wear what he could choose. So, he decides he’ll only buy ten or less items today, including anything as minuscule as a pair of socks.

He happily plays dress up and forces Jeongguk to be his judge.

“Get what you like,” Jeongguk tells him as Jimin all but shoves him on a settee inside the center of a store’s dressing room, Jimin then flouncing away behind the closest individual changing space.

“It’s no fun if you don’t pitch in your thoughts,” Jimin calls back as he slips off his current shirt to put on one of the many items he’s hung on the metal rack beside the body-length mirror. “You might dress like every day is a funeral, but you dress well enough for me to trust you on fashion advice, otherwise. But don’t get me wrong; I love a full black ensemble as much as the next guy.”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer, but Jimin knows him enough at this point to envision the roll of his eyes. Jimin smiles to himself at the image, adjusting the fitted shirt around his ribs. He bites the inside of his cheek as he grazes his outerwear selections, deciding on a cropped jacket the color of lilacs. Once his arms are through the sleeves, he reveals himself to his sole audience member with a dramatic pull of the dressing stall’s curtain, fanning a hand over his current ensemble.

“Well?” Jimin implores. “Very spring, right?”

“Spring’s not for another two weeks,” Jeongguk says.

“Actually, more like a week and a half. Also, you’re terrible. You think this jacket goes well with this shirt?” Jimin selects a pale green option from the rack, holding it across his chest by its hanger. “Or maybe this one? The purple one is prettier, but I think green looks better on me. Thoughts?”

Jeongguk pokes his tongue around the inside of his mouth like he’s just going to quip another smartass response, but to Jimin’s pleasant surprise, he nods towards the green option. “Try it on.”

Jimin shrugs out of his current jacket, replacing it with the second. Holding out his arms, he waits for the verdict.

“You’re right,” Jeongguk tells him, eyeing the green jacket. Then he shrugs. “Just get both.”

“That doesn’t help me. I only want one.”

“Then get the purple. You said it’s prettier.”

“But I also said green looks better.”

“Are you dressing to impress someone or to wear clothes you like?”

“Who says I can’t do both?” Jimin spins around, disappearing back behind the curtain to change into the next shirt on the rack. As he goes to hang up the two jackets, he separates them by what he’s going to buy and what he’ll hand back to a store associate to put back on display.

Looks like the green is staying put.

As the afternoon goes on, they hop from store to store, where Jimin selects a handful of choices to try on in some and only loftily browses through others. Jeongguk showcases no evidence of boredom or irritation as time passes by, but just sticks by Jimin’s side with his stamped on aura of confident nonchalance. From the outside looking in, Jimin wonders if surrounding shoppers glance over the pair of them and subconsciously assume they’re just two friends on a shopping spree, or if it’s obvious that Jeongguk is someone who’s glad to be spoiling his special partner. As Jimin flicks through racks, Jeongguk is carrying his bagged purchases.

Jimin hasn’t informed Jeongguk of his ten-piece decision, so Jeongguk remains unaware of Jimin’s shopping completion for the day as they enter a dressier store despite there already being ten items neatly packed in Jimin’s bags.

“Okay,” Jimin says to him. “Your turn.”

Jeongguk only arches a brow. “Excuse me?”

“You need some color in your life.” Jimin starts for the immediate right section of the shop, heading for the first rack he sees of modern yet elegant outerwear and shirts.

Jeongguk follows to halt opposite of him, a display table of particular selections in between. “I do own clothing other than black, you know.”

“Oh, do you?” Jimin doesn’t glance up as he tugs on a diamond-patterned blazer, pulling half of it out to get a better look at it. “Let me guess: slate gray?”

“Charcoal, actually. We’re here for you, Angel.”

“Exactly,” Jimin says, moving on to a new rack, Jeongguk following him down the side of the store, “and I want you to buy something for yourself that isn’t black so you can wear it the next time we’re together. How about this: when’s your birthday?”

“Not anytime soon.”

“Boo, but that’s not why I’m asking.”

It’s obvious Jeongguk knows he’s not getting out of this., “It’s September 1st.”

“September, September …” Jimin thinks, trying to recall the month, “ … sapphire? Is your birthstone sapphire?”

“Yes.”

Jimin snaps a finger gun at him. “You can get something in sapphire, that way it has a pretentious meaning, so it will fit right at home with the rest of your pretentious closet.”

Jeongguk sets down Jimin’s bag on the next tabled display, like he already knows he’ll be needing to wait while Jimin searches. “You really want this?”

Jimin shoots him a mischievous grin. “I really do.”

Jeongguk waves a dismissive hand. “Fine. Pick out something for me, then.”

Jimin grabs every sapphire blue colored article of clothing he can find, a fair amount more over the top than he would even wear. He doesn’t plan to choose anything from the excessive choices, but it’s extremely entertaining when he makes Jeongguk try it all on. Jeongguk isn’t exactly as pleased when he steps out from his dressing room stall in a blindingly blue coat made of glossy vinyl, paired with matching pants fit snug around his muscled thighs. Jimin nearly chokes on his own laughter at the sight, snapping a picture on his mobile before Jeongguk can snatch the device out of his hands. Jeongguk glares before stomping back into his stall and shutting the door with a loud lock of the handle.

After Jimin’s had his bit of fun, there’s only one piece left he managed to find that isn’t part of a gag. He knew it was the one the moment he laid eyes on it.

Jeongguk steps out of his dressing room now with it on, and Jimin instantly knows they’ll be heading for checkout after Jeongguk changes back out of it. It’s a black blazer with nods to old hanboks in the way the wraparound belt around his waist fastens one lapel to the other in a traditional knot. It’s a stunning cut and fit, but that’s not even what initially drew Jimin’s attention. There are embedded sapphires sewn into the ends of each sleeve, slowly climbing up the forearm to disappear just past the elbows. They’re like scattered stars. They additionally don the waist belt to match. On Jeongguk, it could use a bit of tailoring, but otherwise, it’s a stunning piece.

“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” Jimin fawns, hopping up from his waiting spot to skip over and better admire the blazer. “What do you think? It’s mostly black, which you like, but has just enough of this beautiful blue to make it pop.”

Jeongguk watches Jimin finger one of the sleeves. “It’s beautiful,” he agrees.

“You’re getting it.” A sudden thought pops into Jimin’s head, and he widens his eyes in excitement. “Oh my God, wait, it would look amazing with a necklace. Can we get one?”

Jeongguk doesn’t instantly answer. His searching gaze is full, flickering across Jimin’s face. He’s hardly as thrilled as Jimin, but he also doesn’t appear to be unhappy at the thought. In fact, he seems considerably delighted to be spending his day like this. Who knew Jeon Jeongguk would be a decent shopping companion?

“Sure,” Jeongguk replies, quirking a half-smile. “Why not?”

Chapter Text

Jimin leans on one leg as he rests his side along the edge of the standing cocktail table. With his left forearm bent over the smooth surface, his other hand toys with his cocktail glass, bringing the drink to his lips to sip at the sweetened liquid. The taste matches the perpetual smile on his face as he humors the current VIP member taking her turn at talking to him this evening after the night’s final show. She’s only the second, but the first guy didn’t want much beyond to take a moment to personally praise Jimin for his work earlier. This woman now—she’s introduced herself as Go Soohae—has begun their conversation with similar sentiment, gushing over his threesome performance with dramatic adjectives to really hone in just how much she admired the show. She’s likely in her late thirties, confidently wearing a flamboyant fuchsia getup that matches her stained lips.

“There’s something special about you,” she’s saying, wagging a manicured finger at him.

Jimin slightly downturns his chin towards her, coyly asking, “And what’s that?”

She pulls back her hand, going for her own thin cocktail glass. With a flirty flash of her eyes parallel to Jimin’s own, she replies, “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Jimin hums in mock surprise at her inability to provide an answer, earning him a chuckle from her in return. As she takes a moment to sip her alcohol, Jimin casually glances about the busy room. Nuri’s got his elbows knocked back along the polished bar, his head lolled towards a woman at least fifty sitting on the adjacent stool. Jimin holds back a snort, knowing the member isn’t exactly Nuri’s type. Jinju’s giggling in an intimate corner as she shares a small plate of ornately plated dumplings with a younger sponsor, the man feeding a piece of their snack into her opened mouth. Tara, a performer Jimin’s only briefly spoken to since starting at Deca, is lounging regally at a low table with three others, all women, and all gazing at her while she speaks as if she invented the Korean language itself.

Jeongguk is nowhere to be seen.

“It’s so unfair you’re taken,” Go Soohae says, pulling back Jimin’s attention. If Jimin’s not mistaken, she has scooted closer around their small standing table while Jimin was preoccupied. Rather than diagonal, she’s practically beside him, the only thing keeping her from planting herself directly at his hip being the rounded curve of their table. She places a hand beside his that’s wrapped around his short glass, close enough for Jimin to feel her phantom presence even if their skin doesn’t come into contact. The move is telling. She’s not here to offer up verbal compliments for the sake of doing so.

“You’re just mesmerizing,” she continues, looking up at him under her lashes. “Adorable, too. What is so special about you that makes you unavailable?”

Jimin lifts a leisure shrug, though he knows his eyes are glimmering back at hers. “You just mentioned a few reasons yourself.”

“Yes, I did, didn’t I?” she laughs quietly, leaning her head forward just a bit more. If she wasn’t a head shorter than him, he’d have backed away already. “I guess I mean—well, you’ve been unavailable for official support ever since your debut. I find that strange.” She sucks in a pensive breath, tilting her head. “And by Ruby’s son, nonetheless?”

Jimin’s tone and body language remain perfectly practiced when he answers, “Strange? How so?”

“Well, as a VIP, part of our membership means that we’re promised first pick of the talent,” she claims, “yet none of us had the chance to even meet you yet before you were off the market.”

Off the market, like Jimin’s a fish having been ripped from an ice bucket before the early morning shoppers have even arrived at the docks to make their purchase.

“Am I that in demand?” Jimin grins, sipping a thick swallow of his drink down his throat. He sets his half-empty glass back atop the table but doesn’t let his hand linger beside Soohae’s, instead hooking his thumb into the belt loop of his fitted trousers. “If I could clone myself for you,” he assures her, “I’d do it as soon as I could. Unfortunately for our gracious VIPs, Jeon Jeongguk was the first person to request to sponsor me, and as unfair as it might be, his status as Ruby’s son does give him the pick of the lot, plus some. I agree with you—it is strange, but can I tell you something?” Jimin bends towards her, scandalously whispering beside her temple, “I’m Jeongguk’s first ever sponsorship.” He pulls back, languidly running a hand through his hair, adding, “That’s why it’s strange, because no one’s ever seen him sponsor anyone before. I’m sorry if this disappoints you.”

Soohae’s staring carefully at him, a thin smile on her mouth and a sharpness in her black-lined eyes. She’s like a cat when she replies, “Yes, it’s quite disappointing. It must be for you, as well. You’re so new, so pure—” She slides her focus over his body, down the sparkling, transparent material of his shirt that does little to hide what’s underneath, to his low-heeled Chelsea boots and back up again. “Did they even tell you that you’re the sole individual who can accept or reject a sponsorship offer? I’d hate to find out you were forced into such an arrangement before getting to experience an actual paying member of Deca.”

“I’m grateful for your concern, but you don’t need to worry. Deca takes very good care of us. I consciously accepted Jeongguk’s sponsorship.” Kind of, but Jimin isn’t stupid enough to blabber to members about the reality of his situation. He knows it could reflect badly on the business if anyone knew the details of how Jimin was more so told that Jeongguk would sponsor him, but it’s technically true that Jimin wasn’t forced into it. “Besides, maybe anyone who’s saddened about missing out on snatching me up should have taken their shot the first three weeks I was still free.”

Soohae raises her brows. “Were you somehow free before you officially debuted? Because I was there your first night, and afterwards, when I went to your online profile out of curiosity to learn more about this pretty new asset Deca had introduced, I was unable to so much as even look at your wishlist. No pages other than your initial profile would open, and it remains like that until this day.”

Jimin forces his gaze to stay half-lidded, for his lips to remain lightly curled. But inside, the unexpected kernel of information from Soohae about the truth of his sponsorship availability stuns him enough to whoosh the blood in his chest like ocean wind. Jeongguk took three weeks after Jimin’s first performance to pull him aside and tell him that he wanted to sponsor him. Jimin assumed that in those three weeks, he’d been perfectly open for takers. It wasn’t uncommon for newbies to take a bit to adjust, and thus for sponsors to wait before displaying financial interest. The lack of any at the time hadn’t worried Jimin one bit. But now that he knows he was closed off from the get-go, it means that Jeongguk was also interested from the get-go.

Jimin’s not upset at not having known, nor is he even slightly annoyed. But Jimin’s curiosity of Jeongguk’s purpose with him only grows stronger each day.

Soohae’s current revelation doesn’t help.

“Speaking of the man,” she continues, twisting her neck to skim the room, “where is your sponsor? Shouldn’t he be showing off his lovely performer on his arm?”

That’s a good question. Jeongguk usually pops in during the social hours that Jimin attends, just enough to showcase that the pair of them truly are a linked duo.

Through Jimin’s time at Deca (mostly via Kkuli), he’s learned that Jeongguk doesn’t always linger around the VIP lounge when he attends a night’s show. Sometimes he comes and amiably chats with the VIPs, but most of the time he exits his second floor box and disappears to who knows where. It makes sense—why would Jeongguk spend every single evening here when he has his own life outside of Deca, and when he’s not even a member interested in any of the performers for himself? Even now, when he attends with Jimin, he spends more time making the rounds to members than at Jimin’s side. Jimin now knows why after hearing about Jeongguk’s dedication to the business as a future operator. But when he’s not here, leaving Jimin to flounce around for an hour on his own, Jimin’s met with people like Soohae.

Jimin can’t interact with her or any others with the hope to gain their sponsorship. The most he can do is talk to them with the purpose of fulfilling his role as a performer of Deca welcoming its VIP members to a luxurious night of drinks and discussion following a sensual show.

But to some of them, like Soohae, that isn’t what they’re looking for.

“We don’t have leashes wrapped around each other,” Jimin tells her, “but maybe the fact that he trusts me here on my own means we should.” He giggles, selling it. “Who knows. Maybe I’ll still somehow get swept away by a beautiful woman like yourself.”

Soohae smiles at him, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She smoothly steps one foot closer to him, like a lioness stalking a gazelle. Even if separated by something like meadow grass, all it would take is one pounce to capture her target.

“In the confines of Deca, I would never condone such behavior,” she starts quietly, taking another step. Jimin keeps still along the table’s edge, even as the distance is limited enough for her to lift onto her toes and fall into his arms if she wanted. “But outside, elsewhere, Go Soohae is just an executive of a skincare company who wastes away in a lonely office. She’s animated yet boring enough that her co-workers could never even guess what interests her after hours. And you’re someone with a name other than Angel, someone I’d never dare ask to be told what that name might be, but even if you never say it, the separate identity still exists. That man isn’t bound by Deca’s rules, just like COO Go isn’t.”

Does she think he’s so easy because he’s the newest performer to join the ranks? That with a seductive curl of her tongue, she can persuade him to abandon his loyalty to his employer all to likely just sleep with her? Thinking about it so shallowly is hilarious, but rather than view it for how pathetic it is, Jimin has sudden flashbacks of the strip club.

Was it his softer face so often described as cute? Was it his skinnier build? His higher-toned voice? Something always convinced his former customers that he was a pushover. It wasn’t until he denied them enough times that they’d flip their attraction towards him into vile contempt before moving on.

Every stripper at the club flirted. They all batted their lashes and gave into requests as long as they were reasonable. Soohae has a point—what makes Jimin so special?

And why does this version of attention twist his stomach with unease?

“You flatter me,” he tells Soohae, “but the direction of this conversation is turning inappropriate.”

“Please,” she huffs with a quiet laugh. “You’re fully capable of pursuing other ventures beyond these walls, and mentioning the option to you is hardly inappropriate. Now, if I overstepped and did something like this” —she lifts a hand up towards his head, softly curling a lock of his hair around a finger— “then that would be inappropriate.” She lingers her focus down his face, continuing, “Or if I slipped my hand around the back of your neck like this—”

An arm suddenly strikes between the two of them. It practically appears out of thin air, snatching Soohae’s wrist in its firm grasp. She snaps her head towards the new arrival, frozen solid with her long-nailed fingers bent like weeds where they’re ensnared.

“Are you enjoying my performer, Go Soohae?” Jeongguk asks, as collected as stone. His tone is as smooth as one, his stance as strong as one. He releases his grip the moment Soohae attempts to pull out of it, allowing her to pace backward while he shifts to stand beside Jimin. With the slip of his hands into his pockets, Jeongguk carries enough ease to display a cocky certainty of the situation. It paints a corrected picture—Soohae displaced to the opposite end of the cocktail table, and Jeongguk next to the man he hosts a sponsorship with.

Jimin doesn’t intend to stare, but it’s hard not to when Jeongguk looks like this.

He’s wearing the sapphire-studded jacket Jimin picked out for him, now tailored to seamlessly fit around his torso, from his staunch shoulders to the neat knot accentuating his waist. Peeking out below its lapels is a silk blouse a few shades of darker black, cut with a deep enough V to showcase the delicate silver chain with its small yet poignant blue jewel that drips just below his clavicle. Jimin lingers on the barest brush of Jeongguk’s highest ribs texturizing the skin surrounding the necklace, a sight Jimin knows to be rare outside those who work hard at their body’s figure. Jimin doesn’t think he’s ever considered the top tips of someone’s rib cage to be worth noting, not until now.

“We were just talking,” Soohae cooly answers Jeongguk, as though she hasn’t just invaded Jimin’s personal space to not so secretly propose that they go fuck each other sometime after work.

“I didn’t know talking required touching a performer who you don’t sponsor,” says Jeongguk easily.

Soohae offers an apologetic smile. It’s warm enough that if Jimin had only recently joined the conversation, he’d believe her. “I meant no disrespect,” she says.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Jeongguk tells her, elegantly taking Jimin’s cocktail glass and peeking at its contents. “You’ve been a welcomed VIP for over a year now” —he swirls the drink, raising it to his lips— “and you’ve been nothing but a lovely guest to have. It’d be a shame if one silly conversation ruined that for you.”

Irritation flashes across her face as Jeongguk languidly swallows the liquor—Jimin’s liquor—though she remains upright. “Yes, it would,” she bites out, “wouldn’t it?”

“What do you think, Angel?” Jeongguk prompts, gently nudging Jimin with his glass-held wrist. “Wouldn’t it be a shame?”

Standing there with both sets of eyes on him, Jimin realizes that Soohae’s fate is entirely in his hands. With one word, one complaint, he could have Soohae kicked out of Deca. It doesn’t just have to be for tonight, but forever. Any non-consensual touch is a merit for banning a member, and as the performer whose ruling this applies to, his claim is all it takes to see it through.

He meets Soohae’s stare, finding her jaw feather as she waits for his verdict.

She’s worried.

Like lightning, sudden power flows through Jimin’s veins. It’s a feeling he’s not used to. For a second, he’s tempted to release it. How satisfying must it feel to personally get rid of someone who has expressed to him their desire in an unwanted fashion? After years of having to pacify, to play along, or to keep silent, the knowledge that he can now remove a rule breaker with a single snap of his fingers threatens to blow up his head like a balloon.

However, it’s because Decadentia is so elegant that he caps his newfound power. Strip clubs were often messy, but making a mess within Deca seems ill-fitting.

“I think Soohae was just a little overexcited,” he says carefully, watching the woman hold on to his every word. Granting leniency can be just as powerful as implementing punishment. “Do you know if she often gets over-excited?”

“I don’t know of any particular instances,” Jeongguk answers, holding out Jimin’s cocktail towards him to take back, “but all it takes is one moment in which her … excitement for you is not mutually returned. Is that what’s happened here, Angel?”

Jimin takes his drink, lifting a knowing smirk at Soohae, one that sends a final time that her status as a paying VIP will always come second to his as a performer. He’s being paid to be here; she has to pay to be here. Her fault is thinking that this fact elevates her at some height higher than him.

“No,” Jimin tells Jeongguk, seeing Soohae’s shoulders slightly fall in silent relief. “No, we were just talking.”

There’s no need to make a scene, not when it’s apparent Soohae has rather quickly remembered her place. Jimin’s not letting the situation go, but putting it on an indefinite hold. Unless Soohae’s an idiot, Jimin doesn’t think she’ll make her recent mistake again.

Jimin barely tilts his chin down at her, saying with casual sincerity, “It’s been wonderful speaking with you, and I thank you for your kind words about my performance tonight. Now that my sponsor is here, I think it’s best that I go with him so he can show me off, like you mentioned. Have a nice night.”

Without having to say it, Jeongguk gracefully holds open an arm, and Jimin plays his part by setting down his drink glass and taking it. His sponsor steers him off, leaving a defeated Soohae behind.

Jeongguk doesn’t wait until they’re even five feet away before murmuring for only Jimin to hear, “It’d be better for you if we made more of a show of our sponsorship.”

Jimin holds a picturesque expression on his face as Jeongguk leads him to a tiny table offset by two plush armchairs. People stare as they cut through the room, the pair of them moving like a hot knife through butter.

“You want me to start making out with you?” Jimin replies through his teeth, halting when Jeongguk stops them before one of the empty chairs.

Despite the sudden confidence he felt during the save from Go Soohae, the thought of the situation with her as a whole rattles Jimin’s bones. He thought he was free of such attention once joining Deca, but maybe he was a fool for thinking everyone here would be something out of a fairytale. Nothing’s perfect. This realization that should have been obvious from the start turns Jimin’s mood sour with the flip of a switch.

“It doesn’t need to go that far,” Jeongguk replies, lowering himself into his seat. He cocks his head when Jimin does nothing but stare down at him, following by lifting his hand to bend his fingers twice in a come here motion.

Jimin scoffs to himself. Then he pauses.

Jeongguk is dead serious.

Well, good thing Jimin’s skilled at putting on a show.

Like what he’s done at strip clubs, like what he’s seen other performers do in this very lounge, Jimin reclines into Jeongguk’s lap. With Jeongguk’s thighs spread open, Jimin plants himself in between, delicately throwing his legs over the chair’s armrest. He curves in towards Jeongguk’s torso, allowing the man to snake an arm around his waist to keep him steady. Jeongguk’s other hand comes to rest on Jimin’s knee, making it so either side of him is claimed.

The room is dim, but with sitting so close, Jimin can see every detail of Jeongguk’s face. The background noise is filled with chatter and music, but it slowly muffles in Jimin’s ears as though he’s dived underwater.

He doesn’t have to be projected outside of his body to know what the sight of him atop Jeongguk’s lap looks like. It’s a clear statement. As a recently debuted performer off limits for any other member to engage with beyond observation and conversation, Jimin has been for eyes only. But the lack of him visually paired enough with his sponsor has resulted in members like Go Soohae thinking they can pull her earlier attempts.

Now, slinked around someone for every VIP to see, Jimin’s first physical interaction viewed off-stage is not with just any ol’ member.

Jimin’s called for, and if anyone had doubts before, they’ll know it now.

“The members all know that you’re my sole sponsor,” Jimin says to Jeongguk, quiet in the close proximity, his head turned down towards him, “but they don’t seem to care.”

Jeongguk averts his attention, glancing around the room instead. He’s likely meeting the focus of any on-lookers, silently making his claim even further. Or maybe he’s making note of who’s noticing their sudden position, catching who seems envious.

“Because we haven’t been acting like it publicly,” he replies matter-of-factly.

“And whose decision was that?”

Jeongguk flickers his eyes to Jimin’s. They’re larger up close, and that much more bewitching. “If you don’t mind now, I suggest we play along for a while.”

“Of course I don’t mind,” Jimin mumbles with slight irritation. “That’s what I was trained to do.”

When Jeongguk doesn’t instantly reply, Jimin suddenly notices just how stiff the man is around his body. From his tensed shoulders to his tightened thighs, the only thing relaxed is his perfected expression. Anyone looking over would first beeline for his face, and he knows it. Jimin blocks the rest of his stiffened frame. No one would ever tell, otherwise.

Jimin pushes a thumb into the space between Jeongguk’s neck and shoulder, feeling the stricken muscle. “Do you mind?”

Jeongguk automatically tilts his head away at the touch. Jimin pulls back his hand.

“You know my intentions,” Jeongguk tells him.

“No, I really don’t.”

Instead of loosening up, Jeongguk’s jaw is next to strain. “You know I don’t wish to have a physical relationship with you.”

Frankly, Jimin’s tired of hearing this repetitive explanation. Being clothed and slung over him in a chair is far from immodest physicality. “I know you admitted that I’m objectively attractive,” Jimin starts, a sudden edge quickly sharpening his words, “but subjectively, do I disgust you, or something? Because I don’t have to be sitting on your lap—”

Jimin goes to stand, but before he can even swing one foot over and off the chair, Jeongguk’s arm hooks further around his waist, his hand on Jimin’s leg curling deeper between his kneecaps. Jimin snaps his head at him, their faces only inches apart.

“Just keep this up the rest of the evening,” Jeongguk murmurs, lifting a sly smile for a VIP who slowly trails by the pair of them to catch, the man lingering to likely eavesdrop on their conversation. “Just for show. At least one night like this should do the trick. They’re all watching.”

Jimin carefully peeks where he can, seeing the attention sliding over them in casual acknowledgement—but it lingers. No one would ever stare so intently at them. The room is a conglomeration of the richest individuals in the city, experienced in sophistication. They’re hardly gawkers pulled off the street. But their gazes keep coming back. For this audience, Jimin and Jeongguk command the lounge like the north star in a sea of black.

“Fine,” Jimin whispers against him, settling further into his lap, “but you have to relax if you want to convince everyone that we’re infatuated little lovebirds.”

Jeongguk awkwardly clears his throat, proving just how unrelaxed he is when he answers, “I’m relaxed.”

“No, you’re not.” To boost their performance, Jimin lifts an arm to enticingly slip around Jeongguk’s neck. He places his free hand beside the one Jeongguk has on his knee. The slightest of hitches in Jeongguk’s breath is the only sign that he feels the adjusted contact. “You have to at least pretend you find me desirable when I do this.”

Something softens in Jeongguk, enough for his shoulders to press slightly back into his chair’s high spine. The movement causes Jimin to just barely lean closer, his own position at the mercy of Jeongguk’s shifting.

Both of Jeongguk’s grips loosen around Jimin, but he’s not stupid enough to pull away when they have an audience. “You are,” he tells Jimin.

It’s like their current dispositions have swapped places. Jimin’s the taut one now when he says, “But not to you.”

“I’m not blind, Angel.”

Jimin feels incredulous enough to almost laugh. Instead, he just bites out below his breath, “You make no fucking sense.”

“What would you like me to say?” Jeongguk asks, keeping quiet despite his own frustration bubbling between the words. “I don’t need to know exactly what Go Soohae said to you to guess why she was two seconds away from feeling you up for the entire room to see. You really want me to speak like any other member? To say that I’m attracted to you? That I want to sleep with you? Are you that desperate for my attention?”

Jimin’s jaw hardens. “My job is to perform. It’s to give to sponsors in return for them to give to me. It’s to be desirable. I trained for a specific purpose, only to debut and have you throw it all out the window.” Jimin heaves a curt breath, twisting his neck away to look anywhere else, albeit unfocused. “Having an official sponsor is different from someone like Soohae. Excuse me if I’d like to do my job well. Isn’t that what you want? For me to do my job?”

There’s a heavy silence between them, thick enough that not even a sword could slash through it. Instead, the surrounding discussions and sensual tunes floating through the room grow louder as Jimin hones his attention to them. They blur together, roaring in his ears—

“You’re attractive, Angel,” Jeongguk says softly. “Everyone here is.”

Jimin rolls his eyes at the poor admittance. “Wow, thanks, lumping me in with everyone else makes me feel super special.”

“You do do your job well,” Jeongguk continues, ignoring the terse reply. “When you’re on stage, you have a natural grace to you. Each and every movement, every sound, every expression—it’s art personified. I’ve said before that you’re lovely—I meant it. No other performer here at Deca has your ability to captivate the audience with the delicate harmony you bring to the stage.”

Jimin’s chest mellows out like steam curling over morning flowers, but he keeps still despite the authenticity flooding Jeongguk’s gentle tone. “I’m assuming you’re telling me this objectively as the heir to Deca?”

“Yes,” Jeongguk confirms, but he slightly leans his head forward, pointedly adding, “but I’m also saying it personally, from just me to you.”

Jimin swallows a lump in his throat he hasn’t realized had lodged itself there. Earnestly, he utters, “Thank you.”

Jeongguk holds his stare for a moment, absorbing him like spilled ink on thin paper. Then he relaxes, tracing a circle over Jimin’s pant-leg with a finger to please the continuous onlookers. “My mother’s gotten complaints about you being unavailable, you know.”

Jimin arches his brow. “Really?”

“You’re more than desirable, Angel. You’re our newest star. Give it a few more months and you’ll be giving BB a run for his money.”

With a doubtful click of his tongue, feeling himself lighten further as the mention of his adoring co-worker, Jimin says, “I don’t think anyone can surpass BB. He’s so great. I can’t stand him.”

Jeongguk chuckles, “He’s your mentor.”

“Yes, and I can’t stand him. But, really,” Jimin rather admits, lifting a hand to toy with the single strand of hair delicately fallen over Jeongguk’s brow, “I like him so much. I like almost everyone at Deca.”

Rougery curling up his lips, Jeongguk says, “Almost everyone?”

“Yeah,” Jimin sighs, pouting and feigning playful annoyance, “there’s this really elusive guy named Jeon Jeongguk who’s super arrogant and won’t worship me despite making it so he’s my only sponsor.”

“What I said just a moment ago wasn’t enough for you? And you have the audacity to call me arrogant?”

“Anyone who unironically uses the word audacity is automatically more arrogant.”

Jeongguk breaks out into a handsome grin. “You’re an imp.”

“Yes,” Jimin agrees, glancing dreamily towards the bar, “and I’m also still annoyingly sober.”

Jeongguk waves over a passing server with two fingers, the young woman instantly ceasing her walk to take their orders. Jeongguk orders something strong. Jimin chooses an espresso martini.

When the server leaves them, Jeongguk curiously asks, “You like espresso martinis?”

“I could drown in them.”

“They are good, aren’t they?”

“Mm, a top tier cocktail.”

Jeongguk tilts his head, something amusing flickering over him as Jimin takes the sapphire pendant draped below Jeongguk’s neck, admiring it over a finger. It really is a gorgeous necklace.

“It’s just odd,” Jeongguk says.

“Hm? What is?”

“Well,” Jeongguk mentions, “espresso is a form of coffee.”

“Yes?”

“And I distinctly remember you saying you have coffee-related PTSD.”

Jimin drops the necklace. Shit. Shit shit shit—

“I did say coffee,” Jimin confirms loftily, brushing away his bangs to give his hand something else to do. “Not espresso. There’s a difference.”

“Is that so?”

Jimin refrains a response, glancing around the lounge instead.

“You don’t have to tell me things about yourself that you don’t want to,” Jeongguk suddenly says, low under his breath. Any smug smirk is wiped clean off his face. “I’d rather you say nothing than lie.”

They sit in silence until their drinks arrive. Jimin has the urge to smack the back of his hand across his order when the server lowers her tray for them to take their glasses. But he controls himself, gracefully taking the drink’s stem between his fingers to rest in his palm. He doesn’t immediately taste the dark liquid, but rather stares into its depths until his vision goes fuzzy.

Everything fizzes out—the surrounding chatter, the golden glow of the light fixtures, members strolling past or reclining on nearby chairs.

“My mother died of breast cancer.” Jimin takes a slow, deep sip of his drink.

There’s a respectful pause before Jeongguk replies, “That must have been hard for you.”

Jimin looks at him, surprised that he didn’t say sorry. Though it’s rare that Jimin shares with others how his mom died, all people do when they are told is apologize. Their sorrys are spoken with good intentions, but it’s a passive response, one Jimin’s never liked.

“Yeah,” he whispers, “yeah, it was. We were really close. My dad … he didn’t leave for some Russian girl,” he admits with a sigh, “but he did leave. I really don’t know where he is, and he really might as well be dead. But like I said—I’ve moved on. I hardly ever saw the man. I definitely don’t know him. But my mom—” He releases a shaky breath, going for his drink again. “She was my everything. But I was so young. I can’t even remember her voice. It’s strange. I have videos of us, and I recognize her voice the moment she speaks in one, but on my own, I can’t recall the sound.”

Jeongguk swallows, fixating on their laps. “My older brother was shot and killed before my eyes.”

Jimin keeps from gaping in pure shock.

He decides right here and now that he’ll never prejudge someone again. From Jeongguk’s polite boundaries to his hidden school career, to now revealing to Jimin something so deep and personal to parallel Jimin’s own reasoning for not wanting to shout from the rooftops the reality of his parents’ absence—this proves once and for all that Jimin knows nothing about Jeon Jeongguk.

Or at least, Jimin knew nothing.

“I was seven,” Jeongguk adds.

“I’m sor—” Jimin bites back his tongue, internally cursing himself for falling prey to what he detests himself. “I can’t imagine.”

“I can’t even picture his face,” Jeongguk goes on softly, “not unless I look at photos. But when I do … I remember him as my older brother, but he only lived until he was nine. When I look at pictures, he’s a child, and now I’m vastly older than him.”

Jimin pauses, remembering something. “Wait. I thought you said your father was a one night stand?”

“He was. Jeongsik is my half-brother. Different dads.”

Jimin gently nods, understanding. “You two were close?”

“He was my everything.” A sad smile ghosts his mouth as he says, “I wanted to be just like him. He was always so mature, especially for a kid, and I thought he was so cool because of it. He was just so sure of himself. He always knew what to do, no matter the situation. And he was smart. But he was still a kid, like me, and we’d have so much fun playing together. We’d get into trouble, too. Seokjin was our third partner in crime, but he was older, so he really acted like a big brother to the both of us.”

“You’re that close to Seokjin?” Jimin had no idea. He’s seen them talking to one another at Deca, but he never would have guessed that they were more than acquaintances. It makes sense now that he thinks about it. Aspects of Seokjin’s personality shines through in Jeongguk now that Jimin can recognize it. And based on what Jeongguk’s shared of his brother, it appears that Jeongguk’s taken pieces of him, too.

“Mm,” Jeongguk hums in response, clear admiration in his lightened tone. “He’s a very dear friend of mine. Perhaps my only one. Not to say I’m pathetically alone outside of Deca, but I’ve known Seokjin all my life. He’s constant. He’s been through it all with me.”

Jimin finds that he feels relieved, as though he somehow was otherwise worried. “It’s good that you have him at your side.”

Jeongguk glances at him as though he holds the same unexpected concern. “Who do you have at your side?”

Jimin faintly smiles to himself as he envisions Namjoon in their old high school uniform with his bowl cut and then skinny legs. He remembers how Namjoon was the nerd that everyone still liked, who everyone still considered part of the cool crowd. Jimin’s never been afraid to make friends, but he wasn’t sure if Namjoon would reciprocate. Some kids lost interest when they found out Jimin lived at an orphanage. But Namjoon just found it interesting without so much as a drop of insensitivity. He wanted to visit the orphanage with Jimin, so Jimin brought him. Namjoon’s parents welcomed Jimin with home cooked meals whenever he came over, and they happily paid for him when they went out.

“It’s not charity,” Namjoon told him one day when Jimin felt like he was taking advantage of their giving hearts. “It’s because you’re my friend, and as long as you’re under our roof, my parents will take responsibility for you.”

The only push back Jimin received from Namjoon was when Jimin first told him he was thinking of starting stripping, but even then, his concern lay in safety and mental health. There was no blatant judgment or disapproval. It’s not like Jimin thought Namjoon would reveal himself to secretly be a backward traditionalist when Jimin told him, but the more respect you have for someone, the more you care what they think.

“I have a friend I’ve known since high school,” Jimin tells Jeongguk. “For me, he hasn’t been there since the beginning, but he knows everything. He’s my closest friend.”

“Nothing more?” Jeongguk wonders.

Jimin furrows his brows in slight hilarity at the insinuation. “What? No, no,” he laughs, “not at all. Besides, anything more isn’t exactly realistic for someone like me.”

“Are you referring to casual relationships or serious ones?”

Jimin shrugs. “Both.”

“Then are you saying that you’re celibate beyond these walls?”

Jimin lightly taps Jeongguk’s shoulder in jest, answering, “Not exactly. But I think getting into too many details with you would ruin the fantasy.”

Knocking his head back against his seat, alluringly staring up at Jimin over the length of his nose, Jeongguk says, “And what fantasy would that be? You and I keep going in circles, Angel. Feel free to be honest with me. I’m here to listen.”

How many times must Jeongguk say it? He’s right—the two of them are turning into something like a gif, their images and words on constant repeat. Jeongguk’s done nothing so far to prove that he has some ulterior motive beyond spending quality time with his sponsored performer, someone he keeps telling that he has no interest in beyond this. Jeongguk has shared his complimentary opinions of Jimin’s visuals and work. It must be true that he doesn’t hold any unrealistic expectations.

Unless Jeongguk is a pathological liar—but Jimin doesn’t think so. Instead, Jimin thinks he can share more with Jeongguk than he assumed, and more than that, Jeongguk wants to hear it.

“Okay,” Jimin settles, “I’ll tell you if you tell me: do you have any special romances outside of here?”

Jeongguk doesn’t even flinch. “Nope.”

“Have you?”

“No.”

Jimin squints. “Are you celibate?”

The slight upcurl of Jeongguk’s lips swirls something warm in Jimin’s stomach. “Hardly,” he tells him, “but I am particular.”

Jimin exhales after getting the answers he wanted, looking about the room. “Particular for no strings attached, it seems.”

“Deca is an exclusive business,” Jeongguk explains simply. “I can’t exactly share with just anyone my family’s legacy, and getting too close with an outsider means I’ll have to at some point reveal my personal life.”

Jimin frowns at him. “You wouldn’t even tell someone you get really close with? What if you fall in love?”

Jeongguk focuses on the drink in his hand, motioning in a silent ask for Jimin to place it on the adjacent table before them. Jimin does so, listening as Jeongguk answers softly, “Well, that would be different, but I’ve yet to experience anything even close to that.”

Scanning him over, Jimin assures him, “Eh, you’re still young.”

“As are you,” replies Jeongguk, far more serious than Jimin’s own levity on the topic. “You won’t be at Deca forever. What you consider unrealistic perhaps won’t always be.”

“That’s assuming I have any interest in pursuing a serious relationship.”

Jeongguk nods in understanding. “It’s not for everyone.”

“Right,” Jimin agrees, only to add in a dramatic whisper, “but to be honest, I’m a hopeless romantic deep down.”

Jeongguk gives him a brief look of surprise.

“Funny, isn’t it? Maybe it’s because I’ve never experienced it that I want it so badly. Someday, I hope.” Jimin searches Jeongguk’s eyes, thinking back to his claim of particularity. “You don’t seem like you’d share the same sentiment.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You can barely touch me,” Jimin replies in amusement, nodding towards Jeongguk’s emptied hand on the armrest, “and I consider myself fairly harmless. How the hell are you going to pursue someone you actually like without freezing up?”

Rather than scoff and ignore him, rather than stay still and reply with a breezy answer, Jeongguk suddenly leans up straight from his relaxed position close enough for Jimin’s eyes to cross. He tucks Jimin’s waist tighter into his arm, pulling him flush against his chest. “I’m more capable than you think, sweetheart,” Jeongguk murmurs, his hot breath scented in smokey alcohol heating Jimin’s face, his free hand raising to tuck Jimin’s hair behind an ear.

Jimin freezes, his heart hammering below his sternum. He doesn’t know where his daze comes from or why it’s so strong, but it’s enough to last a few poignant seconds. Once Jimin gathers himself, he huffs, painlessly swatting Jeongguk away. “You’re cheesy, that’s what you are.”

Jeongguk just grins, slipping back against the seat.

“By the way,” Jimin adds, “nice outfit.”

Starting from this point on, Jimin likes to think that they’ve wordlessly settled on a truce, even though they’ve never exactly fought over anything. From the personal conversations to the banter, he can admit it—he enjoys being in Jeongguk’s company. Like he told Kkuli not too long ago, Jeongguk is far from boring, but it isn’t as basic as not just being some dull guy.

Jeongguk is charming. He’s really fucking charming. But most importantly, he’s sort of, kind of … nice. He’s actually considerate. With each unraveled layer, Jimin is only finding more reasons to like his sponsor. He can only hope Jeongguk feels the same in return.

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

The server rests the edge of her circular tray atop the corner of the table, fanning out various appetizers for Jimin, Taehyung, and Yoongi to snack on alongside their cocktails. Already given small plates and silverware, the server leaves them to their intimate nook along the bar’s hexagon-paneled wall.

Jimin lifts up from his cushion-backed chair to grab his chopsticks, tongue in cheek as he decides what to try first. There’s gooey honey chicken bites dusted in scallions, freshly seared ahi tuna drizzled in yuzu sauce, red pepper coated pork belly, and an assortment of pickled veggies.

Jimin goes for the pork.

On his day off from Deca, he asked Namjoon out as his emotional support friend (and only friend beyond Deca, really). But Namjoon apologized, claiming he’s too busy with his own work on a Monday. While the rest of the city spends the dreaded day beginning their week, it’s Jimin’s day of rest, and he’s already been at Deca long enough to forget that.

But it’s not like he didn’t have unconventional scheduling as a stripper, either. Some might be surprised to learn how busy a Monday night could get at the strip club. Then again, it makes sense, in a way, when you think about it. Tedious workdays create exhausted people looking for an escape.

Seeing as Namjoon’s too much of a wonderfully successful author writing away to the point of his brain turning to jelly, Jimin’s second option was Taehyung. And Taehyung asked if he could bring Yoongi.

The trio circle their shared snacks at the cocktail bar they’ve come to for the evening, Jimin more so facing the paired set as they face him right back.

But he’s hardly the third wheel.

“Oh!” Taehyung suddenly gasps, enough for Jimin to practically see the man’s memories flashing above his wavy hair like headlights. “I forgot—Jimin, look at what Hoba got us.” He throws down his chopsticks to thrust out his hand, displaying a thin yet pretty ring on his right ring finger. With his free arm, he grabs Yoongi’s wrist to showcase an identical piece of jewelry.

Jimin tosses the two of them a knowing look. “I think you have them on the wrong hands.”

“Please,” Taehyung says, releasing Yoongi to pick up his utensil. “They aren’t declarations of love.”

“Might as well be,” says Yoongi, casually reaching for his whiskey.

“Okay,” Taehyung concedes much too quickly, which pulls a laugh from Jimin, “they kind of are, but the point is, aren’t they pretty?” He thumbs his ring, stars in his eyes. “Hoba has one, too, so they all match. He surprised them to us after a super exhausting round like a cherry on top.”

Taehyung’s joy radiates off of him like sunrays, except when they hit Jimin, they only seem to drown him in unbearable discomfort. He tries masking it with a soft smile as he sips his drink, wondering on his own why he cares enough to be bothered. His fusion cocktail is infused with flavors, but it slips tastelessly down his throat as he thinks. What Taehyung and Yoongi have with Hoseok is interesting enough compared to other Deca sponsorships. Jimin shouldn’t feel so left out, not when his own situation is enviable.

Yet transparent tendrils of envy slink up Jimin’s arms at hearing the genuine happiness rolling off Taehyung’s tongue. It’s possible to feel joy for another while also wanting it for yourself.

“You know, Jimin,” says Taehyung, gentle enough to almost snap Jimin’s focus up from his glass, ”as much as all of our lives deal with sex, the act isn’t necessary in a relationship.”

Taehyung’s a damn good mentor, even if he technically isn’t Jimin’s anymore, not when Jimin’s no longer a trainee. But leave it to Taehyung to notice shifts in the air, even in the lively chatter of a dimmed cocktail bar distracting enough on its own.

“I know,” Jimin answers pointedly.

Taehyung’s stare lingers. Jimin can feel it like a hot rod. “Good,” he says. “I hope you also know that having a genuine connection with someone from the heart, whether it’s as simple as a friendship to a deep romance—that’s what makes the world go round. The three of us” —Taehyung motions a long finger in a circle around them— “we’re co-workers, but our friendship isn’t rooted in us performing together on stage. At least, I hope you two think so.”

“Of course, Taehyung,” Yoongi murmurs softly, hints of emotion tugging on his tone. He reaches under the table, and Jimin doesn’t need to see it to know he’s taken Taehyung’s hand.

Taehyung offers him a grateful expression before cautiously glancing at Jimin, waiting for his response.

“You’re right.” Jimin nods, though more so to himself. “Yeah, you’re right, I know.”

There’s a long pause, one with too much weight on Jimin’s shoulders, so he shrugs them once before taking a slice of yuzu-coated tuna.

“Are you okay, Jimin?” Taehyung asks. “How’s your sponsorship going?”

Chewing, swallowing, Jimin answers with an uncertain flick of his wrist, “It’s … going.”

“Is Jeongguk being an ass?” asks Yoongi.

“No, no, it’s not that.” Jimin’s chopsticks halt above their destination for a second slice of fish. He painlessly nibbles the inside of his cheek in thought. “Actually,” he says, resuming his utensil, “he and I get along.”

Narrowing his gaze in curiosity, Taehyung wonders, “You just get along?”

“Remember how you told me if you’d met Hoseok in different circumstances, you’d have fallen in love with him?”

“Oh, no, baby, have you fallen in love?”

“No,” Jimin hums, swallowing, “that’s not it. I just feel like if Jeongguk and I had met elsewhere, we might be friends.” Staring at the spread of food but with hazy vision, he adds, “Really close friends, even.”

Yoongi tells him, “There’s nothing holding you back from being friends now.”

Jimin meets his eyes, everything unsaid but so easily known right there when he answers, “Isn’t there?”

It’s Taehyung who said during Jimin’s training days that there’s always a line. Taehyung and Yoongi have mastered the art of maintaining it despite it looking as though they otherwise haven’t. The pair of rings on their fingers proves that. Whether the jewelry refers to a promise or just something for the three of them, including Hoseok, to share, Jimin has no doubt that any of them expect something from one another that they can’t give under the title of a sponsorship. And they know that, but they beautifully accept that.

The trio is a pristine example of what an ideal sponsorship is. Hoseok isn’t simply some lonely, rich bastard spoiling a pair of sex workers so they have the excuse to go down on him; the three of them genuinely enjoy one another, yet they still follow through with the expectations of their realities.

Taehyung and Yoongi, despite their close working proximity, are still co-workers. They’re friends. Unless they’re secretly in love outside of Deca, Jimin sees nothing but two gentlemen who respect one another, like one another, and work well with each other. Their job is to respond to Jung Hoseok, a VIP member at Decadentia.

Was it always so natural, Jimin wonders, or did they put it on in the beginning before both coming to feel for Hoseok? No matter how it came to be, the end result will remain the same. As long as Taehyung and Yoongi are performers at Deca, Hoseok will always be just their sponsor.

And yet …

“That depends on you and him.” Yoongi circles his whiskey glass, the thin layer of liquid neatly following the movement within. “What are you to him?”

“That’s the thing,” Jimin sighs, slumping back in his chair. “I still don’t know. I feel like the only thing that makes sense is that he wants the company.”

“So, a friend?” Taehyung offers, poking a piece of chicken.

“I guess? We talk like that’s what he wants, but at the end of the day, I can’t help thinking that there’s something else there that he isn’t telling me. I know there is with how straight-forward he is about not revealing his actual reasoning for sponsoring me. It’s just weird. Isn’t it weird?”

“It’s weird,” Yoongi agrees, even if he doesn’t sound so convicted.

Taehyung glances between the two of them, carefully saying, “I’d call it unconventional. That doesn’t mean it’s wrong, Jimin.”

“I know. I don’t see it as wrong.”

“Do you want more from him? Is that why you’re still so strung up about it?”

More. What would that even mean between him and Jeongguk? Is that what Jimin wants? He feels as though his entire situation is one conflicting mess doused in self-moral ambiguity. To be or not to be with Jeongguk in the way in which Jimin was hired—the question isn’t whether it’s ethically sound or not, but whether it’s right for Jimin individually. For Jeongguk, too. Perhaps for him, Jeongguk is smart enough to already know this answer, thus his respectful distance. Jeongguk did say he hoped Jimin was smart for his own sake.

But in some ways, intelligence is subjective.

Jimin huffs out a smile, leaning back. “It’s not him,” he decides to say. “I trained for a certain experience, and as the newest addition for Deca, you can’t blame me for being confused about how it’s turning out. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not upset about it. In fact, it’s a great way for me to ease into the business. But how long is this meant to last?”

“However Jeongguk wants it to,” Yoongi replies, ever so helpful.

“Right,” mutters Jimin, “and who knows how long that will be.”

Fuck it. Jimin adores Taehyung and really admires Yoongi, but he can’t deny he doesn’t feel a spark of envy when he sees the matching rings on their fingers. Whether a sponsorship is raunchy sex or just adorable signs of affection, it’s at least something. They have something . It’s their job, sure, but it’s also more than that. How can it not be?

Jimin and Jeongguk are ….

What?

Will Jeongguk keep him around as his pretty side thing at Deca and his fun buddy at home once Jeongguk graduates with his masters? Will it be before that when he eventually tires of Jimin?

“Well, you never know,” Taehyung says with a glimmer of hope. “Maybe Jeongguk’s interest in you will grow, and he’ll end up asking for more. You capture audiences, Jimin. I don’t think even Jeon Jeongguk will be able to fight your pull.”

Jimin likes his current arrangement with Jeongguk despite the confusion surrounding it like a thickened cloud. He enjoys the maybe path to friendship they’re on. But at the end of the day, they’re only together because Jimin’s being paid to stick by Jeongguk’s side. That’s the key.

Being paid to deliver such normal interactions, from shopping to discussing childhood tales, all centered on maintaining physical boundaries with mostly respectful conversation—it’s a foreign concept to Jimin. Is this why he feels so off about Jeongguk not wanting him?

The line separating them feels blurred these days, and Jimin fears that the more they get to know one another, the more complicated that line will become. It can’t ever vanish, not as long as they have the title of a sponsorship lording over them, but it might turn invisible. It can hide in plain sight. What then?

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

Tonight’s performance is with Kwen. It’s always easy with Kwen, because it’s always work for him. It’s not like the rest of Deca’s talent doesn’t treat their performances like just a job, but Jimin’s noticed that Kwen’s the leader of such strict professionalism. From being Jimin’s first partner during his training to working alongside him now, Kwen still doesn’t talk much, either. His few conversations are far from disinterested, but he’d rather get to it than waste time discussing celebrity gossip, world affairs, or whatever current drama is occurring among the VIP members’ personal lives.

Kwen makes it easy to fall into the performance, because Jimin knows that with him, the most feedback he’ll get once they’ve returned backstage is an approving nod and maybe a clap on the shoulder. There are hardly any expectations because the assumption is that the two of them will do well no matter what. Kwen’s not one to crack a joke or haggle Jimin with praise or opposite criticism. For that, it makes Jimin innocently nag him for compliments, giggling when Kwen simply states the most objective summary of their go. But Jimin doesn’t push too much. He likes the insouciant responses from Kwen, even if he acts otherwise.

Performing with him tonight, it’s how it’s always been with him—they’re acting beautifully, but Jimin knows with 110 percent certainty that under the curling facial expressions and rolling hips, Kwen’s just ticking a box off his daily to-do list. As he thrusts into Jimin, he’s probably thinking about what he’s going to eat as a late dinner when he gets home.

And Jimin is staring up at Jeongguk’s second floor box.

Jimin isn’t like Kwen.

They’re halfway through their act, and Jimin’s so far stared at Jeongguk through most of it. Jimin’s at the perfect angle on his back to make it seem like he’s gazing up at Kwen when, in reality, he’s focused just past Kwen’s temple to meet eyes with the overhead onlooker.

But for the past several minutes, Jeongguk has been glancing away.

Now, he stands up from his balcony seat, disappearing within his suite. He doesn’t return. Even later, at the VIP social hour, Jeongguk doesn’t appear. In terms of showcasing their sponsorship to the rest of the members, this no longer matters. After that one evening in which Jimin spent the latter majority on Jeongguk’s lap, no Deca member has overstepped since. It’s all friendly conversation dipped with a charming layer of flirtation, but nothing more. They don’t chat with him for too long. The VIPs know who Jimin belongs to now if they didn’t before, and they don’t even dare bother to comment on it. They mostly ramble about their own lives when they speak with Jimin over a drink in the cocktail lounge. Jimin doesn’t mind the shift, even if it’s not what he expected when training for this job.

One thing Decadentia assured him as an employee was protection, and based on the trajectory of his time here so far, Jeon Jeongguk is giving him more protection than Jimin could have ever bargained for.

So why does he still feel unsatisfied?

Chapter Text

Jeongguk knocks back the final sip of red wine down his throat, resting the emptied glass on the coffee table. He poured himself the drink the moment his mother held up a silent hand when he entered her office, the signal a quiet command not to interrupt. He should have brought the bottle from its rack across the room to his spot on one of the plush pink armchairs. He could easily have another glass, even if it would begin to buzz his head. A pinch of dulled senses doesn’t hurt, not when there’s nothing imperative to focus on at the moment. After his morning class at school, his schedule is clear the remainder of the day.

Well, there is whatever his mother’s called him here to speak with him about, but she’s been busy typing away on her dual monitor.

A sudden lack of clicking keys drags Jeongguk’s attention from his mobile to his mother where she sits atop the lifted surface behind her desk. Bright afternoon sunshine shadows her from the massive windows at her back while she pushes back her chair, heels clacking along the floor to take a spot on the loveseat diagonal of Jeongguk. Despite it only being the two of them, mother and son, she’s still the picturesque example of class and grace as she tucks her knees sideways for the sake of her skirt, her head high and shoulders square. Jeongguk can’t help but slightly adjust his lazing position, though he otherwise remains kicked back in his chair.

Unlike his own comfortability as her son, everyone else in Ruby’s presence is intimidated by her. But it’s like being intimidated by a mountain or the ocean. They’re massive objects that demand reverence, all whilst being strong and beautiful. Mountains are sturdy. Oceans are embracing. But both are dangerous if engaged with wrong.

Jeongguk knows this. He witnesses it. But he just can’t wholly see his mother in the same light as everyone else. He’s born with that privilege.

Ruby chose her nickname for many reasons, most of which have to do with safety. Only those who need to know her full name do, but it isn’t like her birth name is vastly different from the jewel-inspired moniker. Jeongguk’s always known her as Jeon Ryuji, the kind woman behind the intense boss of Decadentia. Jeongguk doesn’t deal in Deca’s business—yet, anyways—so his name has never been hidden from the public. Him being in school is another reason it’s out there. He supposes his mother could have faked his identity before he enrolled in school as a child, but maybe she didn’t see the point of it back then. And maybe now, with Deca’s current status of success, there’s even less of a reason. It’s never been a concern of Jeongguk’s. Even for his mother, continuing to use the name Ruby is more so for show than anything. It’s badass, Jeongguk will admit. His mother nearly always has the jewel on her, whether it’s on a necklace or decorum on her heels.

Jeongsik was more like their mother. Ryuji never knew the man who gave half of his DNA to Jeongguk well enough to speak on how much he resembles the stranger’s personality. At least with Jeongsik, Ryuji was with his father for two years before they split. The last time Jeongguk saw the man was when he showed up at Jeongsik’s funeral. Rather than come to pay his respects, he screamed at Ryuji in blame.

“I’m hosting a dinner next week for a handful of new potential investors,” says Ryuji now, folding her hands in her lap. “I’m thinking of bringing three performers to showcase.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Tara and BB are my instant picks. They’re seasoned and have been to investor dinners before. For the third, I’m thinking of bringing Angel.”

Jeongguk forces himself not to react like this is anything out of the ordinary. Still, in a non-personal way, it is.

“Really?” says Jeongguk. “He’s fairly new.”

It’s been three months since Jimin has debuted, making it a total of six months he’s been at Decadentia when including his training. The analysis of his competence depends on the context of his job, so for a Deca performer, he’s still a newbie in the eyes of both the staff and members. But that’s hardly something to attach a negative connotation to. His newness means he’s fresh. Interesting. Enviable.

But to the members, he’s off-limits beyond watching admiringly from a distance.

During that particular VIP social hour over a month ago in which Jimin admitted that his mother died of breast cancer, as well as when he repeated his nonexistent relationship with his father, Jeongguk recognized the honesty in Jimin’s shaky tone. He saw the sadness in his eyes. What drove it home was when Jeongguk shared his own tragedy with Jimin. Mentioning that Jeongsik was shot and killed—the shock on Jimin’s face wasn’t something even his acting talents as a popular Deca performer could make up.

Jeongguk has his clear answer: Jimin truly doesn’t know where his father is. Even more than that, it seems as though Jimin doesn’t even know who his father is—who he really is, anyway, besides a deadbeat and disappeared dad.

Since that conversation, Jeongguk has been stuck in a weird limbo. There’s no further information to pull out of Jimin through their charming banter, yet the pleasant conversations have continued. Their sponsorship originally crafted to discover where Park Kangdae has been hiding out all these years has now hit a dead end. But rather than cut it off like the useless stem of a fruit, Jeongguk has let it grow.

He doesn’t know how or why he’s doing it. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Jimin is Kangdae’s son, but Jimin doesn’t know anything about Kangdae. From what Jeongguk’s gathered, Jimin perhaps only shares the man’s confidence. But when Jimin comes over to Jeongguk’s apartment to play with Woojoo, handling her with such gentle adoration and laughing so wide that his eyes turn to crescent moons, there is nothing of the drug kingpin in him, nothing that Jeongguk remembers of the man, anyway.

Jeongguk tells Jimin about his classes. Jimin tells him about his latest obsession with some brainless reality show Chan got him hooked on. Jeongguk takes him out to dinner. Jimin brings him freshly bought pastries when he comes over. Jeongguk attends every show Jimin performs at. Jimin always looks at him while doing it. Recently, it’s been more.

This unconventional and unintended sponsorship makes up all of Jeongguk’s time. When he’s taking notes in his early morning class, he wonders if Jimin’s the type to hug a pillow to sleep or sprawl out across his mattress. When Jeongguk’s at Deca on a day Jimin happens not to be working, he wonders if the other performers secretly envy Jimin’s natural skills, no matter how much they genuinely like him.

For three months, Jimin has been an official performer, and for most of it, he’s been with Jeongguk. There’s no definite ending in sight, and Jeongguk isn’t sure what to do when that time eventually comes.

“He’s the newest,” Ryuji corrects.

Seokjin hasn’t hired anyone since Jimin, mainly because Deca doesn’t need to. There are no spots to fill and no reason to add any more at the moment.

“But he’s adapted very quickly,” continues Ryuji, “and I’m so-far impressed with his acclimation here. I’d like to show potential investors that our most recently debuted assets are as special as our veterans. It proves our credibility.”

Every couple of months, a handful of investors with overflowing bank accounts catch Ryuji’s attention. Like any business with the intention to indefinitely expand in profits, there’s never a reason to turn down potential stockholders. Some quietly invest in Deca, whereas others offer big enough investments to encourage formal meetings with Ryuji herself to confirm them. It’s not just to score their support, but to make sure these individuals are fit for Deca. Just like how investors won’t just hand their money to any company, Deca won’t just accept money from anyone.

“Are these investors as well-versed as current members,” Jeongguk asks, “or do they still need to learn how Deca operates?” As in, are they mature and understanding people who are a-okay with Deca’s refinement and rules, or are they simply thick wallets that Ryuji wants to open and spend despite their lack of class?

They might just be rich assholes. Despite the intent to maintain a certain kind of investor, Ryuji isn’t unknown to make exceptions for character when the benefits exceed the costs.

“This dinner is for them to learn,” she answers.

Jeongguk waits a second, not wanting to sound too eager. “May I come along?”

She looks as though she knows he is, anyway. “I was going to ask you to. Despite what I said about Angel, I’d like you to inform him beforehand about it, as well as showcase the details of your sponsorship with him to the investors as an example.”

An example. How ironic.

Ryuji knows nothing about the details of their sponsorship. If anything, she assumes that her son has finally fallen for a performer, whether it’s in simple interest or a deeper lust. She has no qualms about it for as long as Jeongguk is not officially working at Deca. But he’s the one who unofficially made it a rule for himself to keep away from the performers this entire time, not her.

When he requested he sponsor Jimin and only Jimin, she told him that he can only do so because he doesn’t work at Deca. The moment he starts after graduating, he won’t ever be able to do this again. But that’s hardly an issue. Jeongguk’s set to graduate in a year. Surely this thing with Jimin will likely be over by then.

“When is the dinner?” asks Jeongguk.

“Next Tuesday evening at Farrow. They have a brand new private dining room designed by this Japanese architect known for harmonious elegance, and I’ve been dying to host a dinner there. Our side will meet up at the restaurant before any of the investors arrive, which is meant to be at seven. Will you surely be coming so I can make sure there’s a seat for you?”

“Are you definitely bringing Jimin?”

Jeongguk instantly shuts his jaw, mentally cursing himself for slipping up by using Jimin’s real name. It doesn’t have to mean anything, but he doesn’t want his mother to get too carried away in thinking that Jeongguk has some special relationship with Jimin. Ryuji is completely in the dark about Jeongguk looking for Park Kangdae. There’s an acceptable line for Jeongguk to play along with in regard to Jimin, but not more. 

Ryuji is the type of person who mourned deeply that first year following Jeongsik’s death, only to pick back up where she’d left off, as if her grief was a timer that had run out.

It’s one thing for Jeongguk to be upset by a brother’s death, but Ryuji lost a child. Her ability to push forward so quickly afterwards when Jeongguk has been having nightmares over it for years is both impressive and concerning. To Jeongguk, it mostly feels unfair.

“Yes, I think I will,” she says, answering Jeongguk’s question with a knowing glint in her round eyes, “but it only makes sense if you come to be at his side.”

He effortlessly feigns a casual shrug of his shoulder. “I’ll go.”

She smiles. “Great. I’ll officially inform Angel myself, and then you can fill him in on the details later. Make sure he’s dressed appropriately for the occasion.”

“Short shorts and nothing else but a tie, got it.”

Ryuji ignores his sarcasm, knowing his silly response confirms his comprehension. “I have to get back to work. Will you be staying?”

“Are you telling Angel about this today?” He might stay if Ryuji calls Jimin over. It’s only one in the afternoon, and Jimin, to Jeongguk’s knowledge, has yet to arrive at the building, but he does have a shift tonight.

“I’ll let him know in person during his next scheduled work day,” she says, the answer not unexpected. “His first ever solo performance is tonight. I don’t want to distract him with new information. Why?” She lifts a flawless brow, the same shade of deep brown as her hair. “Are you so quick to meet with him now?”

“No,” Jeongguk says. “Just curious.”

She narrows her gaze at him like any mother who knows more than a child would like her to. “Good, then you can go study.”

“I don’t have anything pressing at the moment,” he argues.

“Nothing pressing while earning a masters? There’s always something you can be doing. Shoo.” She waves away her hands towards him, standing up herself to head back to her desk. “Go find something to do. And don’t just skip on down to Seokjin’s office. I’ll message him to check.”

Jeongguk slumps. “You’re no fun.”

“Fun is a luxury,” she quips back with a smile, both joking and not. “You can have it once you’ve done your daily dose of school work. Oh, and be sure to finish it by tonight so you can come back and relax while watching Angel’s performance. You will be watching it, won’t you? It’s the most anticipated act in a while—I’ve had too many annoyed VIPs ask me to squeeze them in despite them not being quick enough to get a spot on the floor themselves. It’s been a bit of a headache, if I’m being honest.”

Jeongguk pushes himself up in his seat, reaching for his emptied wine glass to take back to the kitchens. He hopes his mother catches the movement more than his face. “Of course I’ll be here. I’m his sponsor, aren’t I? I wouldn’t miss it.”

Later that night, Jeongguk’s in his typical suite, a finished plate of dinner forgotten on the side of the balcony table as he watches the illuminated stage. He’s sat through the first two acts, unable to pay them much attention in anticipation for the final performance of the night. It’s usually like this. When performers are ready to present their first solo performance, they’re saved for the end. It builds excitement.

Throughout the floor, the members lucky enough to score a spot in the showroom tonight sit tall in their seats. Rather than casually enjoying the night’s entertainment, they’re on the edge as though awaiting for their favorite musical artist. The devotion is similar to such a thing, except when you’ve watched an adoring person engage in such intimate matters beforehand, there’s a deeper sense of loyalty.

The members don’t know that Jimin used to be a cammer. In a way, solo performances are what’s most natural to him. When he finally presents himself on his own for the first time, it looks as close to perfect as a performance can be. Internally, it must be nothing to him, ignoring the addition of a live audience. More than anything else Jimin’s had to do while at Deca, this is his element. It shows.

He teases himself. He edges himself. He utilizes the beauty of his stage outfit, slowly undressing piece by piece and only after he’s done enough with the articles still on. He makes the prettiest of sounds at the most ideal moments. Various expressions flicker over his face depending on what he does to himself, whether it’s torture or pleasure. Sometimes, it’s both, which is very much so the point. There’s not much to accompany him on stage. There are no requests from Jeongguk as his sponsor. The set is minimal. The entire focus of tonight is meant for Jimin and Jimin only, to witness his pure beauty without any assistance. If a performer can bewitch the audience with just their own body, then they can do anything if given even one addition to increase their charm. Even though Jimin passed his evaluation and has been working for three months, it’s this performance that can make or break him moving forward.

Of course, Jimin does well. He does more than well.

Jeongguk forces himself to hold his stare when Jimin ultimately meets his eyes from the stage. This time, Jeongguk expects it. He’s prepared for it.

Still. Jeongguk doesn’t meet Jimin backstage afterwards. He doesn’t attend the VIP social hour with him. Jimin is more than capable of handling his own. At this point, Jeongguk doesn’t need to force it in patrons’ heads that Jimin is his, even if Jimin did as well as he did tonight. Jeongguk envisions the near worship Jimin will be met with when he steps into that cocktail lounge, the blatant praise and desire. Jimin has earned it, but Jeongguk doesn’t want to see it.

Because when it comes to this, Jeongguk can’t handle his own. It’s why he doesn’t go to the social hour that night, even though he should.

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

“Why do you opt to get chauffeured when you have a big, bad cycle?” Jimin asks from across the backseat of the transport.

Jeongguk points a faint finger to his own head. “Can’t exactly show up to certain occasions with helmet hair. Besides, it’s a bit chilly tonight after yesterday’s rain.”

Jimin glances down at his own outfit, an elegant arrangement that displays just enough skin to make onlookers question if it’s too much or too little. It’s a clear designation of his position at Deca, which is exactly the point for the investor dinner tonight.

“Are you saying you care if I'm cold or not?” Jimin feigns an overly adorable face of gratitude, tucking down his chin. “Aw, who knew you could be such a sweetheart?”

“Aren’t you the designated sweetheart, sweetheart?”

Jimin clicks his tongue in response, snapping away his neck to stare out the window. Jeongguk grins.

The transport drops them off at Farrow, an opulent steakhouse styled in light bamboo and matte stone. Jeongguk has been here a few times for similar appearances, and he isn’t opposed to his mother’s choice of the business for tonight’s meeting. Its menu is particularly delicious. Seokjin almost tagged along just for the free steak Ryuji will be paying for, but the head of talent ultimately decided not to for the sake of his free time. He’s not needed at such a meeting, though Ryuji makes sure to let Seokjin know he’s always welcome to come and voice his opinions.

It’s ten minutes before the investors are meant to arrive. The host leads them to the restaurant’s private dining room, an intimate space with a lengthy dining table under plain, dropped lights and traditional Japanese paintings on the walls. Ryuji is already at the head, the seats beside her empty. BB and Tara sit spaced apart along the table, the sight not unfamiliar. Ryuji prefers members to be immersed with the talent, to not separate them as though one is more or less than the other.

But Jeongguk and Jimin sit next to each other. There’s a difference when it comes to them.

“Cutting it a bit close, are we?” Ryuji mentions while they settle, more so chiding with motherly love than with genuine irritation.

Jeongguk just smiles at her. “I’d call this right on time.”

The table seats ten, and once all of the investors arrive, all of the chairs are filled. It’s a packed table, soon overflowing with drinks and small plates as Ryuji puts off any formal discussions in order to first lighten the atmosphere. They chat about their business ventures and families. Ryuji knows each and every one of their spouses’ and childrens’ names, because she wouldn’t dare host a get-together without knowing those details. They tell stories and complain and chuckle. It’s tedious. Jeongguk hates this part of the business, kissing up to potential money bags for their coin. Unfortunately, Jeongguk is good at it. He’s been to enough of these to be so. But usually, the wannabe investors are proper material. Tonight, they’re more obnoxious than usual. In the industry Deca plays in, it’s bound to happen every now and then.

Jeongguk warned Jimin in advance that these people aren’t current members of Decadentia, meaning that they might not follow the rules of performer protection that Jimin is so used to, primarily the more common sense rule of human decency.

“I’m used to dealing with assholes,” Jimin told him.

“Present company excluded, I hope.”

“Eh. You’re more of a smug bastard than an asshole.”

“I mean, I technically am a bastard.”

Once the table has been satisfied with enough precursor bites and wine, their orders are placed, and Ryuji begins her discussion of the real reason why they’re all there. She more deeply introduces the three present performers, even though everyone at the table shared quick greetings at each investor’s arrival. Ryuji does not disclose how Jimin, BB, and Tara ended up at Deca, nor where they worked before. She does not elaborate on their personal lives. She only provides high praise of their work and even gives short but sweet anecdotes of some of their best moments. For Jimin, Ryuji mentions his first solo performance, calling it one for the books.

While she transitions into explaining with more detail about how Deca operates overall, their meals are served, and Jeongguk notices the businessman opposite of Jimin. He’s been the most annoying one out of the bunch, the first to turn any of their lively conversations into a dreary puddle with his consistently pessimistic outlook. But he gets away with it through his suave way of phrasing his words and the luxurious suit on his back. He’s likely around forty-five at most, working as some tip top executive at a tech company that provides the AI software which runs in most vehicles, from transports to cross-country express trains that take riders from New Seoul to Busan in an hour. Clearly, his line of work must mean he’s an intelligent man, but as he slides his gross gaze over Jimin, Jeongguk is reminded of a slimy toad.

Ryuji asks the guests to share their thoughts on the information she’s given them about Deca. The froggy man—his name is Tak Chinmae—waits his turn. The slight sneer on his mouth posing as a patient smile proves he has his fair share of opinions bouncing around in his head. Jeongguk can only hope at least one of them hits Chinmae so hard that he has to excuse himself from their dinner, but Jeongguk doesn’t think he’s so lucky.

“Mr. Tak?” Ryuji encourages when his time comes.

Tak adjusts himself in his seat, as though having momentarily forgotten that he’s next. Jeongguk sees right through it.

“I think your performers are fascinating,” he begins, not having to say much for Jeongguk to already despise his haughty tone of voice. It’s how he says it like his own statement is the final say of the matter. “It’s interesting to hear about how they train and the amount of work that goes into preparing them for the stage. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of any other business going to such great lengths.”

“Decadentia is one-of-a-kind,” Ryuji agrees.

“Yes. Well, that’s one way of putting it.” Tak flicks his attention to Tara and BB on either side of him, the pair dressed similarly to Jimin in both elaborate yet refined getups. “It’s good to see how particular you are in selecting your talent,” he gears towards Ryuji. “These two look enough of the part. Very traditionally attractive, aren’t they? But this one … what’s this one’s name, again?”

“Angel,” Ryuji provides, not missing a beat.

Tak gazes over Jimin again, but it’s not in lust. “Right, Angel. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone who looks quite like him.”

There’s a chorus of agreement from the other potential investors, but whereas their comments are done in positive interest, Tak’s take on the subject appears to be headed down a different path.

“He’s a little boyish, isn’t he?” he states.

Hardly, Jeongguk instantly thinks. Jimin’s all sharp bones and enticing gazes, with a strong chin and masculine mouth. He might also be soft, sometimes leaning more towards that cute side when he’s not putting on a persona, but he’s really a blend of things. How could someone define him so surely with just a first greeting?

“Do your performers engage with any cosmetic surgeries?” Tak asks Ryuji.

“If they do,” she replies easily, “then that’s their own business. I know it’s quite common to adjust certain features or other parts of the body, but we at Decadentia don’t require or ask it of our performers. The only thing they must do is dress the part.”

“Oh, no, don’t get me wrong,” Tak tells her with a shake of his hand, “I’m not opposed to cosmetic help. In fact, I think it’s a wonderful thing for people who need it. As someone well versed in the tech industry, I see such things through a computerized lens. Getting a few tweaks here and there play into the whole, greatly bettering the final product. With that said,” he looks at Jimin once more, “this one—Angel—has plenty of potential, like a Helper that’s yet to be updated with the latest software.”

Jeongguk doesn’t realize he’s grinding his teeth until he unclenches them to speak. “And what possible potential are you referring to?”

Ryuji slides her son a careful look, unseen by the rest of the table.

“Oh, you know,” Tak says, casually cutting through his nearly rare piece of steak, “simple things. Fat reduction in the cheeks and aegyo sals, double eyelid surgery—they’re little corrections, but they’d make all the difference.”

Jimin sits silent and still beside Jeongguk. He’s doing a good job at keeping his mouth shut, something Jeongguk instructed him to do beforehand. It took a few tries before Jeongguk got it through Jimin’s head that he’s only to speak to these people if spoken to himself. But Jeongguk doesn’t follow the same rules.

“Are you suggesting he’s not good enough for your standards?” Jeongguk replies.

“I mean, he’s cute, sure,” says Tak, tilting his head in consideration, “but he’s not as obviously attractive as these two. Come on,” Tak goads, “don’t you agree?”

Leveling his gaze towards him, Jeongguk says firmly, “No, I can’t say that I do.”

Something amusing flashes across Tak’s face, but he maintains his airy aura. “Well, everyone has their preferences, am I right?” He looks back and forth from BB and Tara as though they’d agree with him. The two only keep as silent as Jimin. “Some boys would even fuck a horse if given the opportunity.”

Jimin suddenly grips Jeongguk’s hand under the table, and for a split second, he thinks it’s for Jimin’s sake. It isn’t until Jeongguk recognizes his own pulsing chest does he understand it’s for his.

He feels intensely irritated by Tak’s unsavory comments and demeanor. Jeongguk would defend any of the other Deca performers if the words were towards them, but with Jimin, the insults might as well also be directed towards Jeongguk. He’s Jimin’s sponsor, and no matter Jimin’s familial identity, the two of them are paired together. In the fair reality of Deca’s operations, Jimin doesn’t literally belong to Jeongguk or vice versa, but in this moment among Tak Chinmae’s slimy comments, Jeongguk feels a sudden sense of possession. Jeongguk doesn’t like it when what’s his is spoken down to.

He isn’t immature enough to explode in a setting like this, but he might eventually say something stupid if Tak keeps it up. He knows his mother well enough to know she wouldn’t punish him too much for it, albeit scold him later.

She proves this when she says far more collectedly than how Jeongguk feels, “Mr. Tak, I appreciate your attention to detail, but we do not make or expect our performers to ever alter themselves beyond outfits, hair, and makeup, as I previously mentioned. We also do not suggest what we may personally view as shortcomings. All of our performers have their own charms that make them attractive to our members, from their physical looks, to their personalities, and to their performance skills. I’d appreciate it if you were not so careless with your words towards my performers. If you haven’t already, you’ll learn that Decadentia is a place of artistry and respect. We have no tolerance for anything otherwise.”

Tak blinks at her, clearly surprised at her defense. But he swiftly snaps out of it, clearing his throat. They all move on.

Jimin slowly removes his hand from Jeongguk’s. In the minute or two in which Jimin’s warm palm covered his, it felt so natural that Jeongguk now greatly notices its absence as the restaurant’s cool inside air brushes atop his skin. In a way he can’t explain, the lack of another securely covering the back of his hand feels less right than nothing at all. But Jeongguk won’t dare take Jimin’s hand back. He keeps still. He knows better.

The table finishes their dinner, ending the evening each with a small dessert ranging from whipped lavender cream dusted in edible gold to spongy cake doused in aged plum wine. It’s a shame Jeongguk can’t relish in the tasty sweetness, not when the topic of sponsorships reappears and Jeongguk and Jimin are put in the spotlight.

Tak chuckles under his breath, muttering something that Jeongguk just barely manages to catch. Well, that explains it, is what he says.

Jeongguk gently sets down his silverware. “Excuse me?” he asks Tak, unintentionally gathering the attention of the entire table. “I’m afraid I didn’t exactly hear what you said.”

The tension is thicker than the desserts.

“Your defense for this one makes more sense now,” Tak answers, nodding with arrogant humor towards Jimin. “Beats me why you’re so devoted. I guess the rest of him looks good enough for you under those clothes, right?” Tak eyes Jimin from his head to the table’s edge, pursing his bottom lip in thought. “Or maybe you only like him because he’s the submissive type who cries a lot when he’s getting fu—”

“Watch your fucking mouth.”

BB gasps. Someone else drops a spoon onto their plate with a rattle.

Tak just scoffs, hardly intimidated. He says to Ryuji, “Your son’s a little disrespectful to his elders, isn’t he?”

Jeongguk rolls his eyes, unable to keep the polite charade anymore. He thinks it’s the first time he’s broken it at one of these dinners, but he hardly gives a shit. “Seriously? What year are we living in?”

“Jeon Jeongguk,” Ryuji warns, with enough command in her voice for him to snap his jaw shut, albeit reluctantly.

Tak smirks, clearly taking her scolding as her positioning herself on his side.

“I apologize for my son’s outbursts,” Ryuji starts, ever the composed leader. It makes sense why Tak thinks she’s in agreement with him, at least over the way in which Jeongguk has spoken. In that sense, Tak isn’t wrong. Ryuji isn’t one for quick flare-ups. Jeongguk will likely be further chastised later away from the ears of the investors.

“Mr. Tak,” continues Ryuji, and Tak raises his shoulders like a proud hill, “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no bother, it’s—”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to rescind my offer to do business with you.”

“What?” Tak widens his eyes like a cartoon character.

Jeongguk fails to hide his satisfied smirk.

“You’ve proven tonight that you do not possess the qualities that Decadentia values in an investor,” Ryuji tells him, “or even as a regular member. As this meeting is no longer relevant for you, I ask that you leave.”

Tak huffs out an incredulous noise, glancing around the table for help. No one offers any. “Is this a joke?” he asks.

“No, it’s not,” says Ryuji. “Your meal is paid for, so you only need to go.”

Tak sputters like a fish out of water before throwing down his napkin and shoving back his chair with a screech. He glares daggers towards Jimin before shifting the ugly look to Jeongguk.

“Little bitch,” he spits at him, not staying to see any reactions.

Once he’s gone, Ryuji just sighs, elegantly slipping her spoon into her dessert. “Well, that was eventful, wasn’t it?”

The remaining guests express instant agreement, and though it’s not officially a test, they’d be passing if it were. Only then does Ryuji drop her utensil and sincerely say to Jimin, “Angel, I’m so, so sorry for this. I knew Tak Chinmae was a bit of a loose cannon, but I never expected him to be so crude. I’d understand if you wished to leave dinner now. We’re right about finished, anyway. Jeongguk can take you home. I’m sure our other guests would understand, right?” They nod without a problem. Even if any of them didn’t see a need for Jimin to leave yet, Ryuji’s too genuinely kind while also being commanding enough that it’s almost impossible not to go along with whatever she says.

Almost. Tak Chinmae is an example of someone who doesn’t.

Jimin shakes his head, saying softly, “Thank you, but I’m okay. Besides, didn’t someone mention getting one more round of drinks after dessert? I wouldn’t dare miss that. But if you don’t mind, I will excuse myself to use the restroom.”

Ruby smiles warmly at him. “Of course.”

Jimin bows his head before gently pushing back from his chair and exiting the private room. Jeongguk has a sudden strike of fear that Tak is still on the premises waiting to jump either of them in retaliation. As Ryuji continues conversation with the rest of the table, Jeongguk silently excuses himself as well.

He expects to find Jimin outwardly upset. Wouldn’t anyone be over such a pathetic situation? But when he enters the men’s room, all Jeongguk finds is Jimin calmly washing his hands.

Jeongguk halts behind him, stepped to the side enough for Jimin to see him clearly through the sink’s mirror.

“I’m sorry for that shitshow,” Jeongguk tells him. He figured tonight wouldn’t go as smoothly as other investor dinners, but Jeongguk never would have guessed they’d experience someone as poor as Tak.

Jimin shakes his head. “I’m used to it. That was tame compared to hate comments on my old camming videos or what some unhappy customers spat to me in the strip club.”

Jeongguk isn’t an insensitive idiot, but he’s so used to Deca that the thought of anyone acting so obviously disgusting is a foreign concept to him. How did Jimin deal with it?

“Are you okay?” Jeongguk wonders.

Jimin turns to the hand dryer, the machine quiet as it runs. “Yeah. I mean, it sucks, but I don’t really take people like that seriously. Now, if someone like Misook said that to me, I’d be in a fetal position bawling my eyes out.”

Jeongguk is still too annoyed by Tak to smile, but Jimin’s levity at least removes some of the tension from Jeongguk’s muscles.

Hands dried, Jimin faces him. “Thanks for …” He hesitates. “Just thanks.”

“Yeah,” Jeongguk nearly whispers, not intending to sound so quiet. He clears his throat. “Of course.”

There’s a slight pause between the two of them, until—

“Watch your fucking mouth,” Jimin mimics in a playful tone, grinning up a storm. He crosses his arms, flicking up his brows at Jeongguk. “That was kinda hot.”

Somehow, Jeongguk laughs. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah,” he answers, nodding severely. “I don’t condone violence, but a good verbal argument gets me going.”

“Should I put in a formal request for you to perform something like that on stage, then?”

“I’ll do it if you do a voiceover.”

“Hard pass.”

“Ooh, or you could interact with me from the audience. You know, make it immersive.”

“Not gonna happen.”

They trail out of the bathroom, smiling like fools, before returning to their places in the dining room. The table does order one final round of after-dinner drinks, with the evening ending on a promising note from the investors who each say they’ll let Ryuji know by the end of the week their decisions of continuing with Deca. Jeongguk has enough experience to know they found Ryuji’s handling of tonight impressive, even if any of them foster distaste for Jeongguk’s reaction. Oh, well. Good thing he’s not a current staff member yet who needs to hold himself up to his mother’s standards.

Jeongguk slips away with Jimin as everyone goes through goodbyes, not wanting to stay long enough to get reprimanded by his mother. Outside on the curb, Jeongguk’s about to order a transport to take them home when Jimin stops him.

“Hey,” he says. “We look too good to go home.”

Jeongguk lifts a brow. “Are you proposing we go get smashed?”

“Look at you, reading my mind.” Jimin raises up and down on his toes. “You up for a bit of fun?”

Jeongguk just barely cocks his head in consideration.

“I could demand it, you know,” Jimin mumbles mischievously. “Make it an official wish. But I think I only want to go out tonight if the person I’m with wants to go out with me.”

Perhaps tonight with Tak got to Jimin more than he’s letting on. Perhaps this is what he needs.

Jeongguk curls a half-grin. “What do you have in mind?”

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

Jeongguk isn’t a partier. Those at Deca make the mistake of assuming he’s a wild child out on the streets because he frequents a private suite at a private club. What gossipers fail to realize is that his appearances at Deca are hardly for pleasure, and it’s not exactly easy to view the luxurious establishment as a place of personal pleasure when it’s nothing more than the family business to him. Occasionally being turned on against his will by a particularly horny performance hardly equates to enjoying a raucous night on the dance floor of a strobing nightclub.

Yet here he is in such a place, with blinding lights flashing so hastily that they’d cause certain injury for one suffering from epilepsy. Even the deaf would clamp their ears from the rattling bass of the techno tunes thumping through the surround-sound speakers. The dance floor is a swirling screen hypnotic enough to entrance someone sober, much less someone smashed. The burnt herbal scent of onyx coats the air, mixed with some floral air freshener the club must be filtering from the ceiling in an attempt to mask the bitterness of the recreational drug.

Jeongguk is blissfully tipsy enough to let his partying reservations slide. It’s just the proper amount to go with the flow of the crowded bodies and sensory overload. There’s no need to get drunk, not like Jimin. Jeongguk prefers to always keep his wits about him. He doesn’t think he’s ever been fully intoxicated to the point of uncontrollable judgment, a rolling stomach, and memory loss. A dull thrum in his head and warmth flowing through his veins is all he ever wants, and that’s exactly what he’s achieved after a few shots. In this environment, he doesn’t wish to wait for it to sink in after languidly sipping on a handful of cocktails. Such drinks are for relaxing restaurants and bars. Here, all it takes is a few quick gulps of heavy liquor to receive the desired effect.

Jimin took double the amount of shots. He dared himself, and Jeongguk didn’t stop him.

It’s not like Jeongguk’s ever sat awake in bed at night, twiddling his thumbs and wondering what kind of person Jimin turns into when drunk. But even with no particular preconceived notion, he still finds it slightly surprising that Jimin’s maturity turns into that of an elementary school student.

The man must think he’s soaring through plush clouds during sunset on a rainbow road, with cool wind in his hair and no worries in his mind. He wears a perpetual smile, all teeth and lifted cheeks. His skin is flushed from the alcohol, but perhaps a sliver of it is from the dancing and surrounding body heat. He’s run his hands enough times through his hair that it’s become disheveled from it’s originally neat hairdo styled for dinner, any holding product long brushed out from his fingers. Gone is his careful sensuality perfected for the stage, left only with natural charm and youthful energy. Like this, he’s cute.

Despite everything, Jeongguk can at least recognize that. Only someone heartless wouldn’t find someone like Jimin endearing in this situation.

Tak Chinmae is an idiot. How could he possibly think so negatively about Jimin? Even if he doesn’t know Jimin’s personality, from a surface level perspective, how could he not consider Jimin to at least be objectively attractive? It baffles Jeongguk. Some people are born beautiful, magnetic to every force. Jimin is one of those people.

With the music pounding through Jeongguk’s eardrums and the hectic room a kaleidoscope of colors, he has to read Jimin’s lips to get a sense of what he’s saying. Jeongguk says, “What?” enough times for Jimin to just throw himself onto Jeongguk, gripping at his arms and pressing his lips to his ear to scream, “Do you like me?”

Jeongguk knocks back his head in humor, getting a glimpse of the wavy light bars decorating the black ceiling in neon. “Of course,” he yells back, the current song beating in tune with his heart. “I sponsor you, don’t I?”

It’s so very hot in here. And loud. Normally, Jeongguk would hate it enough to snap, to stomp out into the cool night air and take a breath before strolling on home. But his mind is muddled, and all he can focus on is how one sleeve of Jimin’s layered blouse has been perpetually slipped off his shoulder since arriving on the dancefloor, displaying most of his bicep and his delicate collar bone peeking under the strap of his shirt.

Jeongguk’s seen enough naked bodies to numb him to the visual. Perhaps that’s why teasing slips of skin appear more alluring.

“Nuh-uh, no, no.” Jimin attempts to shake his head, but it rather just rolls around like a basketball. He leans into Jeongguk’s side, his cologne some tantalizing mix of dark fruit and cedar, as he cups his palms to Jeongguk’s ear. “Do you like me?” he repeats. “Do you like me? You do, right?”

He drops his heavy hands onto Jeongguk’s shoulder, the pair sliding down his arm as though it takes too much to hold them up. Swaying on his feet, Jimin momentarily lets the music sweep him back up as a new track fades in while the former ends. He sighs in pure ecstasy, raising his arms above his head as he somehow both sloppily yet gracefully moves along to the beat. Even incoherent, he’s a sight to behold.

“You’re very drunk,” Jeongguk stupidly tells him.

Jimin grins so wide that his eyes disappear. “I know.”

He takes Jeongguk’s wrists, swinging their arms back and forth like a swing set while he laughs, ridiculously giddy. He’s currently a bubble that can’t be popped; gliding, sparkling, a focal point to admire. Still giggling, he twirls below Jeongguk’s as though performing a silly ballroom dance. Then he pulls himself flush against Jeongguk, wringing his arms around his neck.

“I like you,” Jimin says into his hair. Another laugh escapes him while he drops his forehead to Jeongguk’s shoulder.

Shit, Jeongguk thinks.

However.

Isn’t this the point? His careful intentions are being followed through the way he’s wanted. A drunken confession is a truthful confession. Even if Jimin’s admittance is nothing more than simple attraction or platonic friendship, it’s still a positive response. It’s been built without Jeongguk having to sleep with him or shower him with overt praise. By only talking with him, getting to know him, taking him out—the two of them have arrived to whatever they’re at now, a sure difference from the hesitant newbie Jeongguk first met in Deca’s kitchen months ago. This man before him now loaded with drink isn’t Angel.

He’s only Park Jimin.

Jeongguk didn’t even go out with him tonight with the plan of hearing such a revelation. It’s just a bonus to the freeing levity of Jimin by his side in the booming nightclub. After that irritating dinner, Jeongguk was just going to head home and take a long bath, but he felt no desire to decline Jimin’s extended suggestion. Despite his initial thoughts about Jimin being Park Kangdae’s son, Jeongguk hasn’t hated their time together.

He’s more than just not hated it. Beyond the shared name and physical features, Jimin reminds Jeongguk nothing of his father. He’s not cruel. He’s not arrogant. He’s definitely not perfect, but Jeongguk can’t help but admit that he looks forward to when he and Jimin—

All thoughts vanish from his head when Jimin kisses him.

Jeongguk instantly jerks his neck away, the reflex uncontrollable. His lips are tingling as Jimin just pouts and shoves at his chest in light annoyance, almost even disappointment. Then he’s grinning again, like a kiss between two people such as them is something sweet and funny.

“What a baby,” Jimin teases.

“You’re drunk,” Jeongguk says once more.

“I know, I know! ” Jimin tosses Jeongguk’s arms away like trash. “God, if you don’t wanna have fun with me, then I’ll go find someone else—”

Jeongguk hastily reaches out to grip Jimin’s wrist before he gets lost in the crowd. Jeongguk wouldn’t let anyone as incoherent as Jimin wander off, but the added thought of Jimin dancing atop another fills Jeongguk with the same irritation he felt with Tak.

“Stay with me,” Jeongguk orders.

“Then stop being so lame.” Jimin waddles back over, slipping both hands through his own hair once more. The locks are brushed back to reveal the entirety of his face, from his sharpened eyes lightened from colored contacts to the natural pink of his lips. “Why do you keep staring at me? Is there something in my teeth?” He fishes his tongue around the inside of his mouth. Jeongguk just huffs a half-grin.

“No,” Jeongguk says, wondering if he’s too tipsy for this or not tipsy enough. “That’s not it.”

“Ooh, is it because I look good?” Jimin wiggles like a spongy fish cake on a stick. Jeongguk rolls his eyes at the constant need for an answer to this particular question. “Come on, I look good, right? Just admit it already.”

“You always look good.”

“Mm, I don’t believe you,” Jimin sings. “It’s not real! None of it is real!” He laughs, utterly amused, and Jeongguk realizes he’s not nearly as buzzed as he thought when all he feels is something slightly unsettling seeping through him.

“Everyone says I look good,” Jimin continues, his delighted expression poorly matching the meaning of his words. “They all say, wah, Angel, you’re gorgeous! So why … what does that even mean? Because it’s a lie. Maybe not to them, but to me. Yes. Yes, to me it’s just … ridiculousness. Is that a word? You went to university. You’re smart. That’s not a word, right?”

Jeongguk lets Jimin hang on him as Jimin tries to dance. “It can be,” Jeongguk tells him. “If I understand you, it can be.”

Jimin makes a cheerful sound, pleased with that answer. He goes to ramble some more, but it’s overtaken with the noise. Has the music gotten louder, or is Jeongguk’s head just spinning that much? He’s playing games with himself trying to determine how out of it he is, some moments clearer than others.

The clearest is the phantom sensation of Jimin’s mouth on his.

Jeongguk goes along with Jimin’s antics for a bit longer, letting him enjoy the night under the influence with a less-intoxicated guardian. Once Jimin begins to noticeably slow and Jeongguk starts to feel the slightest bit of coherence returning to him, enough to lose patience for the sardine-like packed floor, Jeongguk has to all but drag Jimin out.

Who knew Jimin is such a whiner.

Then again, on stage at Deca, the sounds of pleasure Angel make sound similar. Jeongguk just never put two-and-two together that Jimin’s drunken complaints would be a likewise frequency.

Jeongguk orders a transport to take them to Jimin’s apartment, and Jimin mumbles the entire ride just how annoyed he is that he’s heading home rather than dancing until the sun comes up. Meanwhile, he’s simultaneously on the verge of passing out to dreamland through his slurred speech. It’s a trip to get him through the lobby and to the elevator. Jeongguk’s glad there’s hardly any passerby during the late hour, but he does shoot an apologetic glance to an older businessman who strides past them out the elevator as Jimin loudly vocalizes his interest for the man’s outfit. Once at Jimin’s door, he refuses to press his finger to the knob’s panel. Jeongguk has to force Jimin’s hand to the pad so it can open and they can tumble inside.

There’s no way Jimin’s getting up the loft staircase. Maybe Jimin knows it, too, because he teeters to the sunken living room where he sprawls out on the longer sofa, one arm draped off the edge and his face tilted towards the high ceiling. He’s quietly giggling about something Jeongguk isn’t privy to while Jeongguk takes the second sofa’s throw blanket and drapes it over Jimin. Dropping it below his chin, Jimin’s hanging hand suddenly snatches Jeongguk’s wrist before he can pull away.

“Who knew you could be a gentleman,” Jimin slurs, his eyes barely even open.

“You make it sound like I haven’t been one until now.” Jeongguk gently detaches himself from him, backing up to the other couch to rest for a moment. He plops down on the edge, blowing out a tired breath.

“Mm, I’m kidding.” Jimin rolls onto his side, bunching his blanket closer to him. A yawn stretches his mouth before he says, “You’re nothing like I thought.”

“And is that a good thing?”

“Nooo,” he enunciates, shaking his head, “but also, yes.”

“Both?”

Jimin makes a silly sound, somewhere between a hum and a laugh. “You were like a puzzle,” he attempts to explain, though it appears as though it’s taking extra mental strength to coherently form the words, “and I think … all of the pieces. I have them now, maybe. But the picture isn’t there. I can’t put them together. Not entirely, anyway. It’s sooo annoying. You really frustrate me sometimes, you know?”

Jimin thinks he has all of the pieces? He’s wrong. He’s missing the most important ones, but Jeongguk has no intention to give them to him. It’s no wonder Jimin can’t finish the final image.

“But then …” Jimin continues, his voice slipping closer to sleep with each softening sentence, “sometimes, you do things that really make me like you. Like tonight. All of tonight. You … just you.”

His eyes are fully shut now. Jeongguk can see the gentle rise and fall of his chest below the blanket. Jimin doesn’t speak again, and Jeongguk isn’t sure for how many minutes he stays seated on that second sofa just staring at him. He only leaves when he realizes that if he remains any longer, he’ll fall asleep himself. With the last bout of energy he can muster, he forces himself to stand. Before he leaves, he carefully nestles a throw pillow under Jimin’s head before shutting off the entrance light and heading home.

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

Jeongguk checks his email before clicking off his mobile and going to sleep. It’s a daily habit, part of his nighttime routine before he departs from the world for a few hours. The dimmed brightness of the device’s screen is the only light source in his room, his body turned sideways under his covers as one hand scrolls through his inbox.

An encrypted priority message grabs his attention. It’s from a sender he doesn’t recognize, the address a jumble of random letters and numbers. Jeongguk would normally delete such a message, nine times out of ten the email being spam or a phishing attempt, but the subject line is what urges him to open the email.

PKD.

Park Kangdae. It’s the only thing that pops into his head.

Jeongguk sits up in bed, bowing over his phone and he clicks the message. He’s greeted with a password protected page, the email within unable to be viewed unless he inputs the required code. But there’s a password hint.

JJS BDAY + DD.

Jeon Jeongsik. It has to be. BDAY is obvious, and DD … death date? That makes sense, doesn’t it? Jeongguk inputs both dates in full, but the password doesn’t work. He then enters just the days, but no success. Squinting at the plus sign, Jeongguk adds the individual days, entering the summed number, but surely that’s too short. Right, it doesn’t work. But the plus nags at him. Frowning, Jeongguk types out the sum using letters.

The message unlocks.

382 Donghangji Road, F18 #1805

0512, 9 p.m.

PKD

Jeongguk doesn’t realize he’s shaking until the screen goes blurry with movement. He stares at the email for a moment while he wills his breathing to keep steady, then he copies and pastes the address into his map application. The building is a standard location of various floors with various businesses and purposes, with floor 18 being quite a publicly listed rental space. Each unit is advertised as multipurpose rooms made for work meetings, get-togethers, and more, with different ones decorated for their appropriate uses. There’s not much digging to do; the floor is owned by a seemingly normal businessman who owns a few more similar spaces across the city. On the surface, it appears that unit 1805 is just a standard rental room. There are even photos of it on the business’ website, showcasing a modern parlor of sorts.

May 12th, 8 p.m. That’s in two days.

PKD. Jeongguk can’t be sure, but he has a strong feeling that the email is from the man himself. There’s no other logical sender. Park must somehow know that Jeongguk is searching for him, albeit terribly. He’s tried speaking with past and present Deca customers who were around when Kangdae was, questioning them on anything they might know about Kangdae now. It’s been nothing but dead ends. All Jeongguk has achieved is getting close enough to his son for Jimin to confess positive feelings towards him, but what use does that have when Jimin doesn’t know a thing about his father to tell? That was the original goal, to pull out a location from Jimin about Kangdae’s whereabouts, but all of that went out the window when it became clear that Jimin’s been kept in the dark about his father his entire life.

But the reason why Jeongguk has bothered to keep it going is for something like this.

If his guess is right, this address and date point him to where Kangdae will be in two days. It has to. If not, then it’s at least related.

Maybe Kangdae is keeping tabs on his son. Why else would he send this email to Jeongguk? Perhaps he’s amused by the situation. Maybe he wants to apologize for what happened all those years ago to Jeongsik.

Jeongguk scoffs at himself. Yeah, right.

Ignoring how late it is, Jeongguk calls Seokjin.

“What?” he answers, grumbling.

“Were you sleeping?”

“Kind of.”

“Cool, well, now you’re not. Jin, listen—I’ve just received a very, very strange email.”

There’s a pause. “Are you going to elaborate?”

“I was looking through my inbox, and I got this email. The sender’s address is a bunch of gibberish, so I was going to delete it, but the subject line has the initials P-K-D. You want to guess what I think that means?”

“ … You’re not serious.”

“I’m very serious. So, I opened the email, and it was locked with a password, but the provided hint had something to do with Jeongsik. So, I eventually got the password right, only to open the message and have it show an address, date, and the initials P-K-D again. Seokjin. I think it’s from him. It’s about him.”

“Did you look up the address?”

“Am I an amateur? Of course. It’s a public rental space, nothing suspicious, which I assume is the point. You can easily rent rooms online, meaning I’m sure it’s even easier to omit personal information. Sounds like the perfect place to host a meeting you don’t want to bring attention to.”

Jeongguk can envision Seokjin rubbing his temple when he replies, “Jeongguk, look. I know you’re not going to listen to me, but I don’t think going is the best idea.”

“It’s far from the best idea,” Jeongguk agrees, “but I can’t ignore it. It’s being handed to me on a silver platter.”

“Exactly, except I have the feeling that you’ll be the one slaughtered to be served on it if you go.”

“So dramatic.”

“Jeongguk, this isn’t a joke,” Seokjin snaps. “This is dangerous. If it’s really Park Kangdae’s location, from Kangdae, why would he request to meet with you? What could he possibly tell you or want from you?”

“I don’t know, and that’s why I have to go.”

“Do you still think Jimin isn’t actually in contact with his father?”

“Yes,” Jeongguk says, recalling Jimin’s flushed red cheeks raised in a dreamy smile at the club earlier, “but if I’m mistaken, then I can ask Kangdae about it when I meet with him. Besides, this is what I’ve been waiting for, to finally confront Kangdae after all this time. I think it’s better that he’s contacted me instead of me finding him, not only because he’s now made it far easier for me, but because Kangdae is a professional man, Jin. I might have been young, but I remember that much. He was always so collected and prim. You must remember that, too. He walked through Deca’s halls like he owned it even before he proposed a business partnership with my mother.”

There’s a deep sigh across the line.

“I didn’t have to even tell you I got this email,” Jeongguk mentions.

“Don’t be an ass.”

“I’m going, Seokjin. I’m telling you in case something does actually happen to me. I’ll text you the address for reference.”

“Turn on your mobile’s tracking and send it to me in case you’re kidnapped to be killed and discarded in some dumpster somewhere.”

“Thanks for the visual.”

“Hey, maybe I can scare you into not going.”

“Not a chance,” Jeongguk tells him. That wouldn’t work, anyway. Jeongguk’s fear of Kangdae is one of the factors that pushes him onwards.

Chapter Text

It’s impossible to guess what kinds of dealings happen beyond these walls. Jeongguk trails down the narrow hallway of the rentable business, passing room after room with nothing but a door and a number flickering over the side panels. The room numbers reflect across in the glass windows of the floor, the hall flush against the outside world. After dark, Jeongguk catches the non-stop traveling lights of transports stories upon stories below.

Floor 18. Room number 1805. He doesn’t have to pass many of the slate gray doors to reach his destination. Beyond the clearly lit numbers, the two men standing guard outside make it clear he’s in the right place.

But Jeongguk halts three doors down.

He was fine at his penthouse when he dressed for tonight. He was fine in the ride over. Even entering the building’s lobby and ascending the elevator, he was fine. But now, nearly there, he feels the nerves flood him with the instantaneous arrival of an unexpected tsunami. He thought he could do this when he slipped into his sleek jacket he wears, nothing on his mind other than putting one arm through one sleeve after the other. He thought he’d be okay as he watched out the window of his ordered transport, observing the daily city traffic. He’s been waiting for this, he thinks. How many times has he had internal conversations with himself, one side pretending to be Kangdae while the other is the righteous Jeon Jeongguk finally setting things straight? He’s imagined what it’d be like to face Park Kangdae, to face the reason for his brother’s death.

But he hesitates here, three doors away.

Maybe this is a trap. Maybe he should leave. Maybe it’s better to never face him. Maybe Jeongguk should accept that Kangdae can never and will never get what he deserves.

Maybe Jeongguk doesn’t even deserve this.

No, he thinks. Fuck his nerves. This is bigger than a sudden spark of stage fright.

Jeongguk stalks up to the two guard dogs, both men dressed in somewhat affluent yet casual street clothes. Their shirts are baggy, likely to hide the hidden weapons below the fabric. Atop both of their faces are hologlasses, the transparent, curved devices over their eyes like a wraparound digital screen. Only they can view the contents on their end, leaving Jeongguk with nothing but a grainy blue view of the outer side. Behind the blue, the two men eye Jeongguk with daring curiosity while he halts before them, more so confused by his appearance than threatened.

Should he feel relieved at that or insulted?

“Are you lost, kid?” says one, his comment sort of hilarious when he can’t be more than a few years older than Jeongguk.

“I’m here to see Park Kangdae.”

The two men side-glance each other.

“And who are you?” says the other, lazily sneering like Jeongguk is some scraggly little boy who doesn’t get the memo—their version of some memo, anyways. Jeongguk, on the other hand, is fully prepared to walk through this door. He might be awash with sudden nerves, but his resolve has barely shifted. It’s already sunk deep into the seabed.

“Someone with an appointment,” Jeongguk answers.

The second guy snorts. “Yah, I don’t know who you think you are, but you’ve got the wrong place and time.”

Jeongguk lifts a brow before reaching for his mobile. The first guy instantly snatches his arm in a deathly tight grip, holding Jeongguk in place before he’s even halfway towards his pocket.

“Watch where you’re reaching,” he seethes between his teeth.

“I can’t even get my mobile?” Jeongguk rolls his eyes. “I have an email.”

“What email?”

“Well,” says Jeongguk with over-the-top sweetness, “you can’t exactly see it if I can’t move my arm.”

The first guy narrows his already thin eyes at him before shooting a look at his partner. The other one mulls it over for a second before nodding, and the first unceremoniously tosses Jeongguk’s arm away.

“Thank you,” Jeongguk says, far too kind for it to sound kind at all.

“Pull out anything other than a mobile,” the first spits, “and you’ll be without a hand before you can even scream.”

Jeongguk is human—this threat flushes a bolt of fear through his blood. But, considering he genuinely is only taking out his mobile, it’s not difficult to keep his cool in front of these real life thugs.

How many people have they pulled through with their promise? How many people have they inflicted even more upon? Jeongguk can’t imagine it.

He slips out his device, unlocking it to open his email. He holds it up for the two goons to read.

“I don’t know shit about this,” says the first.

“Me either,” says the second. He frowns at Jeongguk. “If you’re some pathetic distraction while friends of yours try to pull anything, you can wave a white flag now.”

“Do I look that suspicious?” Jeongguk wonders more so to himself than them, scanning over his own outfit. “I tried to dress up for old Kangdae’s sake.”

The two men are unimpressed.

“Just tell your boss Jeon Jeongguk is here to see him,” he says, dropping the impudence. That should be enough, he thinks. Even some drug lord like Kangdae must remember the family of the child he got killed. Kangdae was considerably interested in Deca at the time. He must recognize Jeongguk’s name.

The second watchman keeps Jeongguk in his sight while he bangs a fist twice on the door behind him. Rather than another goon open it up, the man speaks to someone who’s connected to his hologlasses.

“What’s Boss doing?” the man says. There’s a pause as he listens. “So he ain’t leaving yet? … Tell him there’s this kid named Jeon Jeongguk out here looking for him … I don’t know, he has some email with this location … Nah, I saw the sender, it was gibberish … Really? … Got it.” The man squares his jaw towards Jeongguk before silently stepping to the side, the other guard following suit. The latter half-turns to punch in the door’s code, swaying out a hand in faux-welcome when it unlocks.

Before he can even walk more than one step over the threshold, another goon is stopping Jeongguk to run a detector over every inch of him. The woman only gruffs to announce her completion, letting Jeongguk pass.

The rental room is a standard meeting-like space, with modern furniture colored in whites, silvers, and blues. Everything about it screams corporate, making its current occupants an ironic renter. There’s a lengthy table at the opposite end, but that’s not where Park sits. He’s relaxed in the sitting space off to the side, his back to the door on a sharply-shaped sofa. For a second, Jeongguk figures the man must be a fool, but then he realizes that someone as wanted as Kangdae would only ever sit in such a precarious position if he was absolutely positive that there was no harm in doing so. Across from him sits a man prim and straight in his seat, his focus upon the tablet propped up on his lap. Based on his dark dress, he must be a nerdier version of Park’s henchmen. There are four more posted about the room, including the woman who scanned him for banned possessions. They eye Jeongguk while he approaches the sitting space.

“Jeon Jeongguk,” Kangdae says, not even turning back his head to accompany his greeting. He lifts one hand from the armrest, curling a finger. “Come, come. Take a seat.”

It’s like Jeongguk is a pet being given a command.

He trails over, his footsteps the only sound in the room other than the tiny taps from the man typing away on his tablet. The man doesn’t acknowledge him as Jeongguk lowers himself into the armchair between the two men.

Kangdae looks exactly the same. Jeongguk may have been young, but he’ll never forget the irritated snarl the kingpin wore when that wasted bullet pierced through Jeongsik. It’s the same round cheeks, the same small yet fierce eyes. On the surface, his features appear warm. Without tying themselves to an expression, they look out of place above the luxurious gradient suit Kangdae sports. He’s almost childlike.

He greatly resembles Jimin.

Except Kangdae wears an insulting guise from the get-go. One flicker of his facial muscles, and his true nature reveals itself.

For some reason, seeing the physical similarities between Jimin and his father only annoys Jeongguk. He clenches his jaw.

“Look at you,” Kangdae begins, scanning him like he’s a product on a shelf, “all grown up. What a surprise that you’ve come here. I almost didn’t believe it was you, not until I checked through the hologlasses. Ruby must be proud to have raised such a good-looking young man. She’s always valued beauty, hasn’t she?”

Jeongguk came here hoping to mask his inner demons despite the turmoil from the man he’s finally in the presence of, but it’s out of confusion, not anger or hurt, does he slip. “Surprise? You invited me here.”

Kangdae doesn’t dare display his own confusion. Rather, he lifts an amused brow. “Is that so? Well, then would you mind refreshing me on this apparent invitation?”

No wonder the henchmen weren’t expecting him. Whoever sent Jeongguk the email of Kangdae’s location tonight—it wasn’t from Kangdae. That means whoever it was knew Jeongguk was searching for Park. Not only that, but they knew where and when Kangdae would be, and for some reason, they sent this information to Jeongguk with the purpose of … helping him? Setting him up?

Jeongguk makes note of each lackey in the room. He knew coming here that it’d be pointless to bring any material defenses, assuming he'd be checked at the door. But now realizing his source is an unknown with unknown intentions, it makes his lack of any sort of weapon put him at an even higher disadvantage.

“It doesn’t matter,” he answers Kangdae smoothly. “What matters is that I’m here.”

Kangdae just hardly tilts his head at him, the action the personification of condescending. It reminds Jeongguk of a crane. “Interesting. I wonder what you could possibly gain from seeking me out now.”

“It’s after years of searching,” Jeongguk admits through his teeth. The more he sits here, the less he can stomach it. But he has to.

“I’m flattered you consider me so worthy of your time,” Kangdae says, curving a haughty half-grin. “When my guard told me your name, it took a moment to recall you, that fidgety little son of Ruby running around her lavish entertainment club. But, like I said, you’ve grown up well. Are you a performer at your mother’s club now? Or just living a separate life thanks to its affluent profits?”

Is it an insult or a compliment to first be assumed a performer? There’s no shame in the work, but guessing that Jeongguk, as the son of Decadentia’s owner, would become just another staff on display—it must be a taunt.

“I’m not here to discuss my business affairs,” Jeongguk replies, matching Kangdae’s pretentious tone of speech. “You wonder why I’m here. I wonder why you even have to ask.”

“If you’re interested in making a particular purchase, Bowon, here, can handle any transactions—”

“I don’t want your fucking drugs. Do you remember my brother?”

Kangdae halts his words, but his assured face remains. He keeps silent, waiting for Jeongguk to continue.

“Sometimes,” Jeongguk says quietly, “I think about what he’d look like. There are plenty of photos from when he was alive, so of course he’d just be an older version of himself, but what features would he grow into more than others? My mom tells me I grew into my nose. Jeongsik had eyes like mine. Would they be just as big now? Maybe it’s good he’s not around for us to find out. At least this way, his eyes never have to gray. They get to keep that childhood innocence.”

Jeongguk sharply levels Kangdae. “Do you remember his eyes? How he kept so calm and spoke so respectfully to you, even when kidnapped and contained? How he screamed in agony when he was shot, his blood pooling out of the tiny wound like a faucet? Maybe not, huh? You escaped the scene rather quickly.”

Kangdae waits, allowing Jeongguk the chance to say more. When he doesn’t, Kangdae replies calmly, “It was a pity, I admit.”

Jeongguk hardens like drying glue. “It was a tragedy."

“I’ve watched children die in far more brutal ways than your brother,” says Kangdae. “Forgive me if I’m not weeping over his tragic memory.”

“It must mean nothing to you. You’ve never had an immediate family member die.”

Something harsh yet brief flashes across Kangdae. “You’re wrong, boy. Do not speak on things you know nothing about.”

“Are you referring to your wife?”

Bulls-eye. It’s Kangdae’s turn to slip.

“Shit, I know you had a kid, but you were married, Boss?” questions the goon closest to where they sit, this one somehow looking young and old all at once. The contradiction is likely from the lengthy scar running from his left eyebrow down his cheekbone. With today’s medicine, it must have been considerably deep to leave such a mark. The man has been invested in their conversation, more so than the other three guards. His arrogant stance reveals it's out of twisted entertainment versus stoic defense for his boss.

“No,” Kangdae firmly answers.

“That’s not what I heard,” Jeongguk says, finding ease enter his own voice at Kangdae’s unease. He even crosses an ankle over his knee. “If I recall correctly, you had a wife who died of breast cancer sixteen years ago.”

“Really?” snorts the scarred guard. “I thought you just dined and dash, Boss, I didn’t know you—”

“Shut your mouth if you want to keep your tongue,” Kangdae snaps. The guard bristles, clearing his throat before adjusting his position.

Kangdae looks at Jeongguk, embers flaring in his irises. “Where, exactly, have you heard this claim?”

Jeongguk picks at a piece of lint on his pants. “From your son.”

Unlike the mention of his passed wife, Kangdae doesn’t offer any reaction at the mention of Jimin. “Is that so?”

“Mm,” nods Jeongguk. “Park Jimin? Probably your height, full lips, a mole right here on his forehead? Well,” Jeongguk mentions, “I suspect you wouldn’t know what he looks like nowadays, having left him so young. He initially spun some story about you running away with a young Russian girl, probably because he had no interest in discussing the reality of his family drama. Of course, I knew he was lying, because I knew you wouldn’t have left your drug ring. However,” he points out with a lift of a finger, “I didn’t know Jimin was lying just to refrain from rehashing old news and not to keep secret wherever you’d gone, because I realized he genuinely has not just no idea where you are, but no idea what you are. He doesn’t even know you’re a drug kingpin, much less a child murderer.”

This has been the point of it all, why Jeongguk has bothered to maintain his closeness to Jimin despite him not knowing shit about his father. Right here, right now, it’s all coming full circle. Jeongguk forces himself to ignore the deeper complexities of his grown relationship with Jimin. It can’t matter here. It can’t distract him from what he’s been trying to accomplish this entire time.

“And have you shared with my dear son the truth of my career?” Kangdae asks, his tone suddenly unreadable.

“Not yet,” Jeongguk replies, not needing to emphasize the yet to bring attention to it.

Kangdae smirks. Jeongguk isn’t sure how to read that, so he smirks right back.

“Then are you here to threaten me with it?” the man asks. “Because revealing to my son the nature of my occupation is hardly a concern of mine.”

“Is that why you abandoned him? Because you care so little?” Jeongguk sucks in a thoughtful breath, cocking his head. “Yet, he has no clue of who his father really is. Maybe you left him so as not to drag him into your pathetic life.”

The way they’re staring at each other reminds Jeongguk of the spark before a flame. Their words are jibes encouraging a draw of something darker, something harder, just waiting for the excuse to fire.

“You know what’s fascinating, Jeon Jeongguk?” starts Kangdae. “You appear to have come to me with stale resentment, bringing forth conversation of my long-forgotten son as if I’d care to hear anything about whatever he gets up to these days. I don’t know what your relationship is with him, but clearly it’s of notable importance to you with how passionately you’re speaking about him.”

Kangdae’s earned himself a point, and he knows it, because Jeongguk stills two seconds too long. Bringing attention to Jeongguk having any positive opinion towards Jimin is the last thing he ever wanted Kangdae to recognize. It helps no one. It could ruin everything.

“My passion is not towards him,” Jeongguk attempts to assure, “but you.”

“I’ll have to decline your regard.”

“Jimin’s a performer at Deca,” Jeongguk explains casually, “a good one. Before us, he was a stripper and a camboy, which he started doing in high school. Young, wasn’t he? But it paid off, because now he’s living in glitz and glam at Deca.”

The straight-faced Kangdae from moments ago shifts. A point for Jeongguk, it seems. It also seems as though Park Kangdae genuinely has no idea what’s happened to his son, and hearing that he’s ended up as a performer at Decadentia after a likewise sex-focused career isn’t what Kangdae expected. Maybe it’s not what he ever wanted, and want refers to care. Worry, even. If not personal concern, then maybe Kangdae is just shocked he was never informed of what Jimin’s gotten up to. Perhaps being in the know matters, even if he claims otherwise.

Perhaps it only matters when it comes to his son.

“Then are you here to inform me of his success?” Kangdae asks, his voice as perfectly masked as ever. “It sounds like he’s living well.”

“He is,” Jeongguk agrees, “especially because I’m his sole sponsor. You do remember how my family’s club operates, don’t you?”

Kangdae’s slight smirk remains, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m still aware. So you have taken a liking to my son, is what I’m hearing?”

Jeongguk chuckles. He knows he sounds like an asshole when he does it. “I thought you were smarter than this, Mr. Park. You managed to elude me and the authorities for years, but you can’t correctly analyze why I’m here today? Then again, I did end up finding you, in the end.

“I didn’t know Jimin was joining Deca until our head of talent informed me of his hiring. Imagined how shocked I was to hear that Park Kangdae’s son was a stripper coming to work at my family’s business, not some puffed up heir running around with you selling drugs to disadvantageous people to live off the profits.”

“On the contrary, my buyers range across all income levels.”

“When Jimin joined Deca,” Jeongguk continues, keeping at bay his disgust towards the man before him, “I figured it was with a double purpose. Maybe you were pulling some sick joke. But I already told you he has no clue where and who you are, which leaves me with the upperhand.”

It’s Kangdae’s turn to laugh. The sound most definitely does not mimic his son’s. There’s no life to it. No delight. “Your definition of having an upperhand must mean something different from mine, seeing as you’re providing well for him as his sponsor.”

“He’s talented and beautiful,” Jeongguk admits with the guise of an objective viewer. “And blissfully unaware of you, thus also placing him in the dark in regard to how you and I are acquainted.”

Kangdae’s patience for the conversation at hand hastily dwindles. “You’re going in circles, boy. I told you, I do not care if he knows—”

“I don’t plan to tell him. That’s not why I’m here.” Jeongguk sits up straight in his chair, uncrossing his leg from the other. “You still don’t get it? I came to speak with you today for two reasons: First, you’re the reason my brother is dead, something you’ve clearly forgotten. Two, your son works at my family business, is right under my thumb, and would have no reason to suspect I’d have any interest in using him to get to you. Spilling to him the secret of your identity is not the threat you’ve mistakenly assumed that I’m here for today.”

Park laughs once more, the sound uglier each time. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that. But you’re a tease.”

“I can assure you that I’m not.”

“I commend you for your heart, but those of us in this world who’ve lived a little bit longer than you understand that it’s pointless to waste time over petty revenge. It’s natural to feel emotions of anger and loss, which may never go away, but acting on them? A smart man knows when not to. A fool doesn’t know he even has a choice.”

“So, you’re not concerned at all about your son,” Jeongguk gathers, narrowing his gaze, “because you’re calling my bluff? Not because you’re actually worried about any harm coming to him?”

Kangdae shrugs a shoulder. “Even if I was concerned about my son facing harm, I still don’t need to, because I am calling your bluff.”

“You really don’t care what happens to him?” Jeongguk asks, his suave levity draining out of him. “He told me you may not have paid much attention to him as a kid, but it was clear you loved his mother. He’s her son, as much as he is yours. How would she feel knowing you’ve left him to the streets all these years? To sell himself to abusive fuckers at clubs?”

“Apparently, he’s living a good life these days because of it.”

“It took a long time for him to reach this point,” grounds Jeongguk. “I’m sure his mother would be ashamed if she were alive—”

Fury flares from Kangdae. “Do not mention her again. You know nothing about it.”

Clicking his tongue, Jeongguk says, “Well. Looks like you still care about her, at least. Some of that must transfer to her son—to yours.”

“He was a mistake,” Kangdae says, “one that you won’t do anything towards. I find your confidence admirable, Jeongguk, if not even endearing the way a child is endearing. Because of it, I’ll let you leave today in one piece. It’d be a waste to send you back scratched up. I’m sure that would only further your distaste towards me.”

Almost insulted that Kangdae would lower Jeongguk’s hatred for him to something as simple as distaste, like him not liking a certain candy or color, Jeongguk balks, “My distaste?”

“I am sorry about your brother, by the way,” says Kangdae, returning to his surety, knowing that despite everything Jeongguk’s told him tonight, Kangdae is leading the score. “It was an unfortunate mishap, one that really ruined my plans for utilizing Decadentia’s customer base. If your mother hadn’t been so stubborn, then I wouldn't have had to use such violent measures.” He sighs, as though this mishap is as disappointing as a broken mug fresh out of the box. “Alas, your brother’s death is what screwed up my attempt, so I am sorry for my own sake, if not yours.”

What’s the sickest of all is that he sounds sincere. He regrets missing out on a business opportunity, not a child dying. Jeongsik being killed got in the way of potential profits, and that’s the worst of all.

How heartless can a person be? Jeongguk thought he knew, but facing Kangdae after all of these years proves he never did. It twists his stomach like thorny vines.

He was foolish for thinking he could face Kangdae and get a desired response, for thinking he’d be able to handle speaking with him at all. He came in here wearing a mask of confidence, and it’s been ripped off his face and slashed into pieces. He’s left vulnerable to the bright meeting room, all of its enemy occupants staring him down with the prior knowledge that he never had a chance in the first place. The man with the scar is grinning below his hologlasses, as if watching a thrilling comedy.

“Fuck you,” Jeongguk rasps towards Kangdae, the cheap words the only thing that come to mind.

Kangdae just scoffs. “Your immaturity only adds further evidence to your bluff. Chaeyeon,” he motions towards the woman at the door, “escort Jeongguk out. Our conversation is over.”

Chapter Text

Is it because Jimin drunkenly kissed him? Jimin hasn’t heard from Jeongguk in nearly a week.

This wouldn’t bother Jimin if he saw Jeongguk at Deca, but Jeongguk doesn’t make any appearances at the club. When Jimin asks around if he’s missed him—maybe Jeongguk was there and only left before Jimin arrived—everyone says they haven’t seen him either.

“Aren’t the two of you little lovebirds?” Hyesong says one day when Jimin visits his old yet short-lived dorm.

“Do we come across that sweet?” he wonders. “I thought we looked more intimidating than that. Hm. I’m gonna have to tell him we have to amp up our asshole-ery.”

“Everyone knows what happened at that investor dinner, Angel.”

Jeongguk’s defense for Jimin that night spread like wildfire. Hyesong doesn’t need to state it so clearly for him to know it’s all anyone among the staff at Deca is talking about. It’s why they’re all also talking about how Jimin’s been asking around for him. Jimin didn’t mean for that to happen, for people to assume and put two-and-two together that Jeongguk is likely avoiding him. They’re guessing it’s because of what happened at the restaurant. Jimin thinks it’s because of what happened at the nightclub. No one knows about that.

Jimin’s not a forgetful drunk. It’s both a blessing and a curse.

Giving Jeongguk space is okay. Jimin gets that. But he’s not exactly the most patient person. How long is too long? When does providing someone enough time to think about something turn into enough time for them to brush it over? Jimin doesn’t want that.

Jimin didn’t mean to kiss him, but he doesn’t regret it. He doesn’t think Jeongguk regrets snapping at that rich dickhead over dinner either.

That could have ended disastrously.

Jimin’s not sure how those events usually go, but he suspects they don’t often include the son of Decadentia’s owner cursing out a potential investor in front of other potential investors who are there to learn what Decadentia is all about. From the guests’ perspectives, Jeongguk’s interaction with Tak Chinmae is enough of a reason to skip out on Deca. If Jimin had been in their shoes, he would have obviously found Tak an obnoxious loser, but that doesn’t matter—how Deca carries itself in response to a loser is what matters. Some people would find Jeongguk’s quick defense admirable. Others would find it immature. With wealthy businessmen and -women, it’s usually the latter.

But, to Jimin’s knowledge, the rest of the possible investors were not turned off by Jeongguk’s actions that night.

Does Jeongguk think Jimin is? Maybe he thinks he went too far. Maybe it’s not even Jimin’s response he’s mulling over, but his own actions. Maybe he regrets it not because he defended Jimin, but because he defended him emotionally. If he hadn’t spoken up, would Ruby have sat there and only expressed apologies to Jimin once dinner was over, letting Tak spew his bullshit? Or would Ruby have eventually come to a much calmer defense for him after Tak had been given the space to say all he wanted? Either way, Ruby handled the situation the way anyone in her respected position should have. Jimin would understand if she'd waited, or even if she’d said nothing only to quietly express her distaste towards Tak after dinner away from an audience.

But Jeongguk spoke out. Does that make him childish or brave? To Ruby, likely the former. That’s probably one of the reasons why she doesn’t allow him to officially work at Deca until he’s completed his masters, until he’s a bit older.

Jimin’s unsure what side he should be on. All he knows is that he can’t wait anymore.

He wants to apologize to Jeongguk in person.

Not for that dinner. Jimin is grateful for what Jeongguk did.

He’s grateful that Jeongguk has maintained Deca’s policy of no touching until consented, at least when it matters, only for Jimin to get wasted and smack a fat kiss on his mouth while hanging all over him like a toddler in need of supervision. Jimin is mortified over it.

Each time he’s been to Deca the past week searching for Jeongguk, it’s been to apologize for that. He doesn’t want Jeongguk to think of him as a hypocrite. But Jeongguk is M.I.A., and he won’t answer any of Jimin’s calls and texts. Jimin doesn’t want to overdo it by overbearingly contacting him, so he doesn’t message more than a handful of times.

But Jeongguk hasn’t been so distant since they began their sponsorship. Ever since, he’s always replied to Jimin at some point. Nothing is ever left in the air. Even if he doesn’t show up at Deca during a night Jimin’s working, it’s gotten to the point in which Jeongguk lets him know in advance when he won’t be there.

But now …

Jimin can’t take it. He goes to Jeongguk’s apartment.

He doesn’t even know if Jeongguk will be home, but he has no way of figuring that out. He knows when Jeongguk has classes, so Jimin doesn’t bother showing up in the morning. It’s an off-day at Deca, but based on Jeongguk’s lack of presence at the building the past week, Jimin doesn’t think Jeongguk will be there today to hang with mommy or Seokjin. But Jeongguk could be out doing who knows what. He could be studying on his university’s campus. He could be running errands.

Well, if Jeongguk’s out, then Jimin will just have to wait until he gets back.

He’s fully prepared to do so when he rings Jeongguk’s doorbell. Jeongguk doesn't immediately answer. But after waiting an awkward amount of seconds, he eventually opens the door.

He’s still dressed from what he likely wore to class that morning, or maybe he already went out to do some essential shopping and hasn’t changed out of his day clothes yet. Maybe he has plans to go somewhere. Either way, Jimin thinks Jeongguk already being presentable is one thing that’s already out of the way.

“Hey,” Jimin starts, teetering back and forth on his toes. He notices Woojoo in her crate far past Jeongguk’s shoulder. The dog instantly poises her neck at seeing him.

Jeongguk isn’t awkward. If anything, he seems casually defeated, like he’s been waiting for Jimin to come. “Hey,” he sighs in return.

“You’ve been neglecting your sponsorship,” says Jimin. If Jeongguk isn’t going to be awkward about this, then Jimin refuses to be so.

Sounding tired, Jeongguk replies, “Are there any pressing wants at the top of your list that you can’t go a few days without?” There’s something missing in his tone. There’s no humor. No flame. No life. Jimin doesn’t like that.

“Yeah, actually,” Jimin answers, crossing his arms. “I need my scheduled worship from you to sustain my ego.”

He finds that it’s easier than he thought it would be to keep up his sassy little persona even if Jeongguk isn’t reciprocating it. Perhaps it’s because Jeongguk isn’t matching it that makes Jimin able to put it on, like he's doing it for Jeongguk’s sake.

Except Jeongguk doesn’t latch onto the bait by replying with a witty remark.

“I’ve been busy,” is all he says. He’s not stiff, just empty, like all of his energy has been sucked out of him by a vacuum.

Jimin thinks a stiff Jeongguk would be better. At least that version can be thawed. What do you do with someone who’s already broken?

This can’t be from one kiss. No way.

“Are you busy today?” Jimin asks.

Jeongguk seems like he’s going to say yes, but he must think better of it. He presses down his mouth, barely shaking his head.

“Cool,” says Jimin cheerily, packing on the pizazz for the both of them, “then we’re going out. Come on, get your things. Do you need help putting your shoes on? I’m great at tying shoelaces.”

“Impressive,” Jeongguk deadpans. “You should advertise that talent in your Deca profile.”

Jimin grins at Jeongguk’s response, even if the sarcasm isn’t carrying as much effort as it usually is. This little bit of wit is enough to show that Jeongguk is not entirely down in the dumps from whatever has trashed him there.

A few minutes later, the two of them are descending down Jeongguk’s apartment complex. He mentions his cycle, but Jimin shakes his head, saying, “Today, we’re going to live like how I did before I started working at Deca. Scary, I know, but it had its charms.”

“Less affluent individuals ride cycles,” Jeongguk points out.

“True, but we’re committing. We’re taking the metro.”

“I don’t even own a metro pass.”

“How scandalous. Don’t worry, it takes two seconds to buy one.”

It actually takes two minutes, considering Jeongguk doesn’t even have the city's public transportation application downloaded on his mobile. But once he does, the pair of them enter the nearest metro entrance, riding the escalator down into the underground station. As it’s in a wealthier area, this particular station is one of the larger ones, connecting to multiple platforms through expansive shopping halls. Jeongguk seems surprised at this.

“Jeez, have you never taken the metro?” Jimin wonders, dragging him along towards the correct platform.

Jeongguk shrugs, scanning the various stores and tiny eateries while they pass by. His non-answer is an answer. There’s nothing wrong with him having never needed to ride public transportation. Jimin finds it innocent, in a way, how Jeongguk watches the busy station atmosphere like he’s stepped onto another planet. It’s not so different from the streets above, but Jimin guesses that Jeongguk has never thought too much about the fact that there could be just as much citizen engagement below the roads in comparison to the cloud-grazing skyscrapers.

On the train, Jimin expects Jeongguk to maintain his curious state of being as they crowd around strangers going to and fro, but Jeongguk says nothing. He does nothing. He just sits still, swaying in tandem with the vehicle as it travels. Whatever’s kept him away this past week must be on his mind.

“Don’t you wanna know where we’re going?” Jimin asks, hoping to distract him.

Jeongguk glances at the monitor above the nearest set of doors, where it displays this line’s stops and their current position on the tracks. “To hell?”

“If you’re referring to Sinwon, then yes.”

The lower district is still six stops away. Outside, the dark tunnels fade to light as their train ascends up from the earth and onto a raised rail, heading across the Han River alongside one of the water’s many bridges. Outside the windows, the afternoon sunshine reflects over the blue like glittering jewels.

“Isn’t that where you worked before?” Jeongguk says. “Why would you ever want to go back there?”

“It wasn’t all trashy,” Jimin tells him. “Good people live there. There are good businesses. They’re just stuck. I’m one of the lucky ones who got to leave.”

Yes, one may encounter more grime on the streets or more drunks haggling about after dark, but get past the hole-in-the-wall exteriors to find that Sinwon has more gems than it lets on.

Jimin thoroughly enjoys the lavish luxury he’s been blessed enough to live in the past six months, but sometimes, he misses the heart of some places that make-do despite having less. Perhaps they’re not as polished, but they act as if they are. There’s pride in what they have.

Take HaruHaru Dubu, for example. The tofu-specialty restaurant in Sinwon is crammed with peeling furniture and a low ceiling, but its tables are so clean they shine, its silver grills rust-free. The alcohol posters on the paneled walls are faded and haphazardly taped down, with the kitchen so small that it’s not even big enough to hide behind a separate door. It sits in the corner of the room behind the main counter. But with the place's common do-it-yourself concept, there’s not much need for a large kitchen other than to prep and store the ingredients. But Grandma Darim—the shop owner who insists on being called grandma by every customer—will inform you step-by-step how long to boil any soup broth before adding in the next ingredients, and in the most ideal order. She’ll slip in an extra sausage free of charge if you compliment her hair, which she still dyes herself every three weeks. Deokmyung, her nephew, will shout across the restaurant’s floor to converse with whichever guest holds one with him as he prepares each table’s order in the open corner kitchen. 

Jimin takes Jeongguk to HaruHaru Dubu, not even asking if he’s already eaten.

“Is that Park Jimin?” Darim exclaims from behind the counter the moment they enter the scraggly shop, squinting behind her massive eye-glasses.

Deokmyung snaps his head around from where he’s chopping a giant handful of green onions, breaking into a friendly smile to shout, “Aye, Jimin! Good to see you, man!”

Jimin waves with both hands, skipping on up to the front counter towards Darim. She gasps as he nears, scanning over him as if checking for injury.

“Wah, look at you,” she says, pinching a piece of his shirt. “Aren’t you cold with all of these holes? I swear, I don’t understand your generation’s fashion choices.”

He laughs. “Really? That’s all you have to say to me? Not, ‘Wah, Jimin, where have you been? I’ve missed your food orders paying my air conditioning bills’? Also, Grandma Darim, it’s May, not March.”

“Shut up, I’m old and always freezing. Besides, it’s going to rain later, so the temperature will drop.” Her eyes slide towards Jeongguk, who’s trailed over to keep a step or two behind Jimin. “And who’s this? A friend from work?”

Darim knows Jimin works at—well, used to work where he did. In Sinwon, Jimin wasn’t the only stripper. He used to frequent HaruHaru Dubu’s before or after a shift, depending on the hour. The food here is cheap and the atmosphere warm. In such a place in such a neighborhood, it would be weirder for Darim and her nephew to not know Jimin’s line of work. He doesn’t blame her for assuming Jeongguk is such a person as well, not when the pair of them are visually more put-together than some of the other restaurant’s typical clientele.

“Yes, actually,” Jimin tells her, because she’s not wrong. “Except I’m no longer at The Gilded Rose. I quit over six months ago. It’s why I haven’t been around.”

“Where are you now?” Deokmyung asks while Darim ushers them towards the closest empty table. There aren’t many of them—both empty and tables.

“Somewhere better,” Jimin answers, not wanting the entire floor to know his and Jeongguk’s business. “Out of Sinwon.”

“Well, then, it’s a shame you’re not close enough to stop by as much as you used to,” Darim says, dropping off two glasses and a jug of barley tea without having to ask, “but if it’s far from here, and better, as you say, then I’m glad. You still want the loaded soondubu? With kimchi?”

Jimin nods enthusiastically, his heart warm at Darim remembering his typical order. “Yes, please.”

“Deokmyung and I made pork mandu this week,” she continues while she heads back to the counter, checking out a table who has come up to pay, “they just need to be steamed. You and your friend want some?”

“Are you really asking me if I want mandu? I haven’t been gone that long, have I?”

“Deokmyung, you heard him! Give them six.”

Jimin beams as Deokmyung rustles around the freezer, bringing out a container of frozen dumplings before he neatly places them in a steamer and brings the wooden container to their table. He sets their mini stove to the proper setting before instructing them how many minutes to cook the dumplings. He rushes away only to return with dipping sauce. The table is already stacked with small plates and silverware.

While waiting for the dumplings, Jimin leans into the table across from Jeongguk. “I came here a lot when I worked here.”

“I can tell,” Jeongguk says, lifting a small smile. “It seems … homely.”

“It is. Their tofu stew is the best in all of New Seoul.”

“That’s a big statement.”

“Wanna bet I’m wrong? Loser has to pay.”

Jeongguk snorts. Both of them could buy every item off the menu and not even make a dent in their bank accounts.

“Hey, we’re living how I used to before Deca,” Jimin reminds him, playfully knocking his foot under the table. “Back then, this bet would be a large stake.”

Jeongguk’s amusement softens at this, like he’s quickly come to terms with Jimin’s past reality. “Okay, fine. I’ll accept defeat if the tofu stew is the best, as you claim, but I’ll have you know there’s a large contender for first place a few blocks away from Deca.”

“Is that so?” Jimin pours himself a glass of tea. “Guess you have to take me there sometime.”

Their dumplings don’t take long. Deokmyung must have been watching them, for he waddles on over the moment the snack finishes. He takes away the steamer after Jimin and Jeongguk transfer three dumplings to each of their plates. In place of the steamer, Deokmyung sets down a large clay pot, big enough for three servings, much less two. Like always, he splays out small plates of ingredients for the stew. There’s an instruction brochure taped to the wall, but Jimin doesn’t read it. He’s done this enough times. Jeongguk just slowly eats his portion of dumplings while watching him.

The pot is already filled with the first ingredients: oil, onions, and garlic. With the heat already set, Jimin waits until the contents are sizzling before dropping in the freshly chopped pork. Next goes chopped zucchini, mushrooms, a heaping cup of kimchi, and HaruHaru Dubu’s famous chili paste. After a few stirs to soften everything up, in goes the anchovy broth. While that’s boiling, Jimin takes a few minutes to enjoy his dumplings. He smiles at Darim in thanks when she drops off an array of banchan, from cold veggies to fishcake, as well as two more different types of kimchi. And two silver bowls of rice, of course.

“Does she think we have the stomachs of an army?” Jeongguk comments with gentle affection, eyeing his mound of rice.

“As if you won’t eat everything on this table.”

Jeongguk shoots him a knowing half-grin.

There he is.

Once the broth has boiled for an odd number of minutes, Jimin carefully plops in a bowl of silken tofu, breaking apart the pieces with a spoon. He then lowers the heat, just enough to keep it warm while they eat, before topping off their meal with a sprinkle of green onions and cracking two eggs into the broth. Jeongguk has been neatly stacking their emptied ingredient china, so Jimin places the emptied egg shells atop the latest dish.

Done, Jimin fans his hands over his work and says, “Ta-da!”

Jeongguk purses his mouth. “You really think this is the best tofu stew when this place didn’t even make it? You did.”

“Exactly. I made it, therefore it’s the best.” Jimin then laughs, taking one of their small bowls and a stew spoon to pour in a portion for Jeongguk. “Kidding. Kind of. But it’s their kimchi and chili paste that does most of the work. And their broth. Anchovy broth makes or breaks stew, you know. Some people just use plain water.” Jimin shudders, handing Jeongguk’s bowl to him. “Tragic stuff. Come on, try it. I wanna see you lose your shit.”

Jeongguk eyes him before taking the bowl. With his spoon, he fishes out a prime scoop with tofu, pork, and kimchi. Rather than pair it with a finishing scoop of rice, he first eats the stew on its own. As he swallows, Jimin just lifts his brows, waiting for the verdict.

Jeongguk just hardly squints. “I concede.”

Snickering, Jimin takes his own portion, stomach grumbling in anticipation. “Told you.”

“No, really, this broth is insane.”

“I’m saying.”

Maybe it’s the intimate room run by a grandma and her nephew, with friendly locals all squished together on the cramped floor. Maybe it’s the fresh, homemade meal that requires customer participation, bringing a sense of achievement to the dish. Maybe it’s because they haven’t seen each other for a week, and all it takes is one afternoon out to remember why they so often hang out outside of Deca in the first place. No matter the exact reason, Jeongguk slowly comes back. More than that, he relaxes. If he wasn’t wearing designer clothes, no one would think he doesn’t belong here slumped over this table in HaruHaru Dubu slurping up a piping hot bowl of tofu stew.

After their late lunch/afternoon snack/early dinner, Jimin takes him to karaoke, the activity extremely outdated but just as fun as it’s always been. The establishment they rent a room at has older holograms compared to the more lifelike ones at newer places, and the staticky avatars that accompany their stellar singing performances cause them to double over in laughter so severe that Jimin trips over himself and tumbles to the glittery floor. This only makes them laugh even harder. It’s silly enough for them to appear drunk, but not one drop of alcohol flows through their systems.

Jimin’s never seen Jeongguk so loose. As they have fun, it’s like his inner child is making a rare appearance. Jimin recalls Jeongguk’s younger brother who was shot and killed when Jeongguk was only seven. Jeongguk hasn’t really spoken about it again since the first time he shared it. Perhaps this giggling man before him now, who’s gotten comfortable enough during their rented hour to belt an oldie with a rainbow wig over his head, is part of the child that never got to be. How deeply trapped is this Jeongguk within himself?

Well, Jimin’s happy he’s come out now. 

Jimin’s just happy.

And based on how Jeongguk jumps with him and swirls him around like they’re performing a terribly dramatic ballroom dance, Jeongguk seems pretty happy too.

“This is fun,” Jimin tells him.

Pumping dance tunes fill the room from the song selection menu as Jeongguk searches for their next pick.

He looks at Jimin. He really looks at him. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, it is.”

Jimin lets the moment breathe before stepping over, taking the remote from Jeongguk’s hand to mute the music. Jeongguk just narrows his brows at him in confusion. It would probably be easier to say this if Jeongguk was still wearing any of the room’s props, but he’d recently taken them off to use the restroom, and he hasn’t put them back on. There’s no assistance. It’s only him and Jimin.

“I’m sorry for kissing you,” Jimin says.

Jeongguk’s confusion morphs into recognition. “You’re sorry,” he repeats, tone unreadable. The room’s colorful lights shadow his face in a dance of greens, reds, and blues.

“Yeah. Yeah, I didn’t mean … I was drunk.”

“I know that.”

“It was wrong.”

Jeongguk eyes do that thing where it feels like they’re boring past Jimin’s skin and analyzing his brain, like they can sense everything he’s not saying. It sends shivers from Jimin’s neck to his tailbone.

Then Jeongguk turns away, focusing on the room’s jumbo screen to choose their next song. “Thank you for apologizing.”

That's it?

He doesn’t sound thankful.

Jimin thought a weight would be lifted off his chest once he apologized to Jeongguk, but rather than evaporate into ease, his concern is replaced with near glee.

Because want is sizzling around Jeongguk like their meal cooking atop its stove. Red. Hungry. Hot. He tries to hide it while he concentrates on the karaoke screen, but Jimin watches him flicks between the same two song-pages four times.

No wonder he didn’t sound thankful.

Jimin just softly smirks to himself, lowering down on the room’s couch. He spreads an arm over the back, patiently waiting for Jeongguk to decide on a track.

How interesting, he thinks.

They only do two more songs before leaving the karaoke room, heading into the grayed evening darkened with rain clouds. Darim was right about the weather.

Jimin didn’t bring an umbrella, and Jeongguk doesn’t have one, so they stop at a convenience store to pick one up. Their day is far from over.

Jimin takes Jeongguk to a dessert shop a bit of a walk away, but it’s entirely worth it to share two bowls of bingsu. They sit at a tiny booth along the shop’s far wall while they dig into their selected flavors of the sweetened shaved ice—chocolate cream matcha and strawberry taro. Both contain a thick layer of red beans in between and are drizzled with gooey condensed milk. Jimin practically moans at his first bite.

“You’re such a foodie,” Jeongguk teases, but he’s just as satisfied with their desserts.

Once they’ve demolished their bingsu, Jimin announces that he needs to walk it off. Jeongguk just laughs, following him out the door and into the night. It’s begun to drizzle, not exactly enough to whip open an umbrella, but still enough to accumulate in Jimin’s hair. He opens their umbrella anyway, stepping close beside Jeongguk so they can share.

The sunset is hidden somewhere, the only evidence of its existence being the hazy glow in the air despite the black sky. Even so, the low light doesn’t last for long. Soon, it’s clear that the sun has sunk below the horizon, the only light left being artificial. The rain starts to pick up, just enough to finally dampen the very ends of Jimin’s pants.

“Come on,” he says, pulling Jeongguk under a dry patch gifted from the angle of stacked buildings above. There’s a side table pressed against the structure’s wall, likely used by a street vendor who's long gone. Jimin guesses whoever it is checked the weather and skipped out on setting up shop.

Jimin and Jeongguk settle on its edge, feet dangling while they watch the rain fall between the closely packed buildings, splattering the street in a methodical rhythm.

Jeongguk breathes in deep before sighing, resting back on his hands. “I love the rain,” he says.

The smell of the dropping water permeates off the road, always familiar, and therefore always embracing. Jimin has never thought of the rain as a direct metaphor for sadness. If anything, it’s gentle. It’s protective. Like the night, it creates a welcoming cover for things too difficult to say or do in the vast clarity of a bright and sunny day.

“Me too,” says Jimin.

They sit there for a few silent minutes, just watching. Feeling. Being.

The wet night is theirs. It waves open arms. But neither of them say a word. They don’t move an inch. Jimin enjoys the nothingness. It’s comfortable. But when he goes to interrupt it, Jeongguk takes their umbrella from its spot on the ground, motioning for Jimin to stand beside him.

“Let’s get going,” he says, disrupting whatever Jimin would have done next.

Jimin presses out a thin smile. He follows suit.

“So,” he starts as they trail down the narrow streets, the rain pattering against the top of their umbrella like tiny bursts in their ears, “how was the vile Sinwon towards you tonight?”

“Criminally underrated,” Jeongguk admits.

“You think? I didn’t even show you the strip club row.”

“Shame. Next time.”

“Eh, it’s probably not up to your standards, anyway.”

“You’re probably right.”

“So quick to judge. Perhaps the sex workers here could just use some Deca training.”

“If everyone could be properly trained,” Jeongguk tells him, “then there would be a Decadentia on every street corner.”

“But that would require proper trainers,” comments Jimin, “and no one’s quite like Deca’s trainers.”

“Well, no other sex worker is quite like you. It goes both ways.”

Jimin nudges him. “Charmer.”

“Don’t take that personally. It’s my job to feed your ego, as you said.”

Jimin elbows him a bit harder, the two of them falling into laughter as they turn a corner onto a new road.

“Yo, pretty boys!”

Jimin’s instinctively drawn to the sound, even though he’s spent years learning when to respond to advances and when not to. He can tell by the most simple inflection what someone's intentions are, particularly when they’re in an alley after the sun goes down.

When he used to walk through Sinwon as a frequent worker coming to and fro, creeps and freaks liked to dwell in the darkened spaces between the cramped buildings. They hung in staircases and in the public hallways of each stacked floor. Jimin knows how to ignore them, how to not even breathe in their direction. Any reaction gets them off, even a huff or side glance. Jimin knows to keep walking, to not turn his head, to not provide them any form of acknowledgment.

But because he’s with Jeongguk, Jimin momentarily forgets every piece of his learned self-preservation. He has no time to consider if it’s because he’s distracted or because he subconsciously believes that nothing can go wrong if he’s at Jeongguk’s side.

Jimin twists his neck towards the sound. His eyes instantly land on two men behind and diagonal to them, standing below a rectangle of dry land due to a skywalk flights above shielding them. It’s hard to tell in the rain, but they could be anywhere from Jimin’s age to ten years his senior. 

“Yeah, you, with the slutty outfit!” one calls, catching Jimin’s gaze.

Jimin turns away the moment Jeongguk mumbles into his ear, “Ignore them.”

Jimin plans to, but Jeongguk halts them both in their tracks as a new duo reveal themselves from a spot against a graffitied wall a few paces ahead. Outlined in flickering neon blue from an overarching store sign, the pair stare head on at Jimin and Jeongguk, gross smirks on their mouths. Jimin dares glance over his shoulder, watching the other pair kick off the opposite wall and stalk into the rain. Their black clothes quickly soak, but while wearing leather and nylon, the articles hardly constrict them. The same goes for the other two men coming towards Jimin and Jeongguk from the front.

“Come on,” Jimin whispers, tugging on Jeongguk to keep moving. But Jeongguk’s rooted to the spot, staring down the two men before them. The sudden hesitation baffles Jimin. “What’s the goal?” he murmurs into Jeongguk’s side. “To somehow acquire laser vision in the next five seconds?”

“You two boys seem lost,” starts one of the four men, running his tongue over his teeth. His hair is plastered to his forehead in the steady rain, droplets running down the rough planes of his face. A mangled scar runs from his eyebrow to his cheek, likely done with a scraggly knife.

“We know exactly where we are,” Jeongguk bites out stiffly.

Jimin doesn’t know why Jeongguk’s answering. He doesn’t know why Jeongguk isn’t moving. He was the one to tell Jimin to ignore them only a moment ago, yet now he’s stuck like glue to the black pavement. The pedestrian-only road they’re on is hardly as wide as the length of a transport, and as it’s one of many criss-crossing routes in the more rundown area, no one else joins them. Jimin’s not one to feel claustrophobic, but it’s what he thinks of. He catches passerby on streets ahead, but none glance to the side to catch the wary scene. Not at night. Not in the rain.

Thunder crackles above.

“Well, then you don’t look like you belong around here,” says the same man. He shifts his attention towards Jimin, practically undressing him with his eyes with how he slowly rakes his slimy gaze from Jimin’s face to his feet.

Jeongguk just barely shifts closer into Jimin’s side. The man notices it and curls a corner of his lips.

“He doesn’t look like he belongs with him,” starts one of the men from behind. Jimin snaps his neck around, keeping tabs on the mens’ movement.

“No, he doesn’t, does he?” says another, taking a step forward.

“Stay back,” Jeongguk grounds out, absolute venom in his voice. Jimin’s never heard him speak like this before. It’s surprising enough for Jimin to glance at him, only to catch just how tense Jeongguk is. Pure hatred is in his eyes. And horror. And fear. It’s a terrifying mix of the worst of emotions, and Jimin is left puzzled as to why a handful of street rats stir up such a severe reaction.

“Jeongguk,” Jimin mumbles.

“You really got him to care for you, too, kid, huh?” laughs the first man. Jimin’s confused on who he’s referring to until he looks back to realize the subject of the conversation is still Jeongguk. They’re still only talking to Jeongguk.

“Do you know how he looks at you?” says the other one in front of them, staring at Jeongguk but nodding a chin towards Jimin. Condescending humor lines his tone. It lines the curve of his eyebrows. “He just did it. I just saw it. What’s the goal here, kid? Because you may not be looking at him right now, but you’re holding onto him pretty damn tight.”

Jimin can’t help but focus on where Jeongguk at some point has taken his wrist. Jeongguk’s knuckles are white around Jimin’s bones.

He doesn’t loosen his grip. “Let us pass,” he says, dangerously calm. It’s the type of calm found in the eye of a hurricane.

“No, no, no, because you see?” says the first man, rolling his shoulders. The one beside him narrows his head, as if readying himself to strike. Jimin glances at the two men behind them, standing with their legs in position. “You think fucking around with him is gonna get you somewhere. You wanna fuck around? We can fuck around. Isn’t that this one’s job, anyway?”

“I’ll say this one more time,” Jeongguk scarily speaks, so stern yet so quiet that he must hardly be able to be heard by the men in the rainfall. “Let us pass.”

“Or what, Jeon Jeongguk? You gonna make some more empty threats? Because your only leverage is standing right here, and from the looks of it, you hardly seem to be in any position to use him.”

Too many things are bouncing around in Jimin’s head. For one, the guy just addressed Jeongguk by name, and it’s only now does Jimin realize they know him. Jeongguk knows them. It’s why he stopped. It’s why he’s not just simply ignoring them and walking on. Perhaps he can’t.

More empty threats. Meaning there were first ones. About what? To whom? Why are they speaking about Jimin like they know him, too?

Jimin can’t even wonder. There’s no time.

Jeongguk’s holding him so hard that his fingernails start to dig into his skin.

“You won’t touch him,” Jeongguk assumes.

“Why wouldn’t we?” the first man quips with a lift of a brow. “He means nothing to us, and especially nothing to our boss. Why do you think he sent us here in the first place?”

Jimin thinks Jeongguk is shaking. Maybe it’s vibrations from the booming thunder. The storm in the clouds is close enough for lightning to light up the sky only a few seconds later.

“What are they talking about?” Jimin whispers.

Jeongguk doesn’t even acknowledge that Jimin spoke. He says to the men, “If it’s to send a message, then message received. No need to be so fucking dramatic.”

The men chuckle. It’s hardly funny.

“It wouldn’t be an effective message if it was that easy,” says one from behind them.

It all happens very, very fast.

One moment, they’re all standing still around each other in the puddled street as the rain pummels down. Next, Jeongguk’s calves have been kicked into, and he’s tumbled to his knees. Jimin drops their umbrella as he’s wrestled away from Jeongguk from two sets of hands tightly wrapped around each of Jimin’s arms, dragging him backwards. Jeongguk’s eyes shoot wide at the sight, but the second he goes to stand, the distraction costs him.

The first man knocks Jeongguk back down and kicks him in the stomach. Hard. It sweeps the wind out of him, and it’s painful enough to witness that Jimin swears he feels the phantom feeling of it in his own gut.

But then his nerves catch up with his own situation, and he hones in on the fingers pressing into his biceps, of the two men larger than him shoving him back against the nearest wall. A video ad board above his head flashes moving lights onto the two mens’ faces, highlighting just how hideous they appear with their wicked grins.

Jeongguk is kicked into again. And again.

“Stop it!” Jimin screams, knowing it’s useless but hoping he can at least turn the attention towards him long enough to give Jeongguk the chance to catch his breath.

The first man crouches behind Jeongguk’s crumpled frame, fisting his hair to force his head up. “Watch,” he tells Jeongguk, meeting Jimin’s eyes.

There’s a second of calm, and then the two men holding Jimin switch gears. They roughly force him to turn around, shoving Jimin against the concrete wall. It’s hard enough for bits of the wet material to scrape along the skin of his face.

He doesn’t think what’s going to happen will happen, because it can’t. It’s never happened outside of the strip club. He’s never been so out of control.

All of these years, Jimin could have walked out and quit his job if he truly didn’t want to go through with a customer’s demands. Beyond the first time at his first club, Jimin knows it’s always been up to him. Outside club walls, he’s never experienced anything even remotely similar to what goes on within.

Even now, he thinks it’s not possible. Jeongguk is here.

But Jeongguk is on the ground.

“No—!” Jeongguk tries, actively wrestling to stand as the two other men keep him down.

Jimin tries to push off the wall, but it’s two against one. He gets only halfway around before his exposed cheek is slapped so hard that he sees stars.

Dazed, confused, terrified, his muscles betray him. They slacken. His limbs turn to noodles. The rain is cold, and he’s shivering as it pours down his head and through his drenched clothes. It slightly masks the feeling of the back of his fitted, wraparound top ripping open at the hands of one of the men. Jimin can’t see which of them is doing it.

“Don’t touch—!”

Jimin thinks he hears fist fighting. He doesn’t want to see how badly Jeongguk’s being beaten. At least Jimin’s facing the wall. At least they can’t look each other in the eyes as they’re both defeated.

One of the men with Jimin slinks his hands from Jimin’s shoulders to the band of his pants, the movement made easy with the rainwater. Jimin flinches at the touch, his stomach constricting.

“Why are you doing this?” he pathetically asks, not expecting an answer.

But one of the men does. He presses his entire front into Jimin’s back, his crotch flush against Jimin’s ass. With hot breath, the man’s mouth brushes his ear to whisper, “To help your boyfriend come to an understanding.”

Jimin then realizes the man up against him isn’t hard. Through his rather thin pants, his dick is clearly soft below his underwear. There’s no mistaking it.

Of course, that doesn’t mean this man won’t attempt anything. But the fact that he’s said what he has in addition to—

The man yelps. Then he’s gone. The other one lets go of Jimin only to grunt out a curse a few paces away. Jimin turns at the sound of fists on skin.

Two of the four men are knocked out cold, their faces coated in dark red like someone painted it on. The rain streams it down their necks and onto the pavement, where it blends into the road. Another man is stumbling up from where he likely was thrown down. The fourth is pinned under Jeongguk.

And Jeongguk’s beating the living shit out of him.

“Jeongguk,” Jimin says, except it comes out hardly audible. It’s pouring now. The steady flow has transitioned into something torrential in the snap of a finger, and the sound of the unrelenting nature blocks Jimin’s plea.

The only man not unconscious or under Jeongguk’s knees goes for him, a growl of anger barreling out of his throat. Jimin goes to yell, to warn Jeongguk of the onslaught, but Jeongguk doesn’t need it.

He narrowly escapes, climbing off of his current target to grapple for his new one. He lands a punch. Another. A kick. This one falls to the ground, and Jeongguk is beating him similar to the former. Knuckles scraping flesh wide open. There’s the crook of a broken nose.

“Jeongguk!”

The sky booms.

Sluggishly, the former target manages to push himself to his knees. He goes to stand, utter fury in his blood-stained eyes. Jimin doesn’t know what to do. His body acts before his brain does, and he places himself between the man and an occupied Jeongguk.

The man has the audacity to smirk. “See?” he sneers, his voice identifying him as the one who was pressed into Jimin’s back. Jimin’s tattered shirt only still clings to him because it’s wet. “Look how he reacts to you,” goads the man.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Because none of this makes sense. These men, their intentions, their actions—Jimin’s sense of reason is muddled like the swirling storm clouds. “Who are you?”

The man just coughs a laugh, smearing red under his nose as he swipes a hand over his face. He takes one step forward before his eyes widen and he freezes.

Jimin’s ears hear nothing but rain. With a slow glance behind him, he finds Jeongguk rise to his feet like a reaper from the grave. The man below him is unconscious, making him the third out cold. Or maybe he’s too hurt to open his eyes. Either way, he’s not moving, and Jimin hates that he feels relieved to see the man’s chest weakly rise and fall with each living breath.

Jeongguk says nothing. He slowly steps forward, his own face nicked and bloodied as it shapes into the most vengeful expression Jimin’s ever seen. He doesn’t meet Jimin’s gaze, but stares down the only man left standing.

This one isn’t an idiot. He flickers his eyes towards his three fallen friends.

“Go,” Jeongguk orders.

“Leave them here? They’re knocked the fuck out—”

“Would you like to join them?”

The man must hear the trembling sincerity in Jeongguk’s voice. He must see the promise in his darkened eyes. With a bloody spit to the floor, the man turns on his heel and stalks away. Only when he turns onto a street and is out of sight does Jimin dare move.

He teeters up to Jeongguk, gently taking his right hand to inspect within his own. Jeongguk’s knuckles are split, the thin cuts washed through with rain. Scanning over his face, Jimin views the slice on his cheekbone that could have only come from a sharp ring. His face will be bruised by tomorrow. “We’re going to the hospital.”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even make any motion to prove he heard a single word Jimin said. But when Jimin picks up their fallen umbrella and takes Jeongguk’s arm to lead him away, he silently follows. He lets Jimin pull him along towards the nearest medical facility in the district, Jimin never releasing the sleeve of his shirt from his grip. Jimin made a note to know where Sinwon’s nearest hospital is a long time ago. The two of them are only a fifteen minute walk from it, and they don’t speak the entire way there.

Entering through the emergency entrance, Jimin doesn’t explain to the triage nurse where they came from or why the both of them are scuffed up. She doesn’t press them for answers. All she does is question them on the technical causes of their injuries and has them formally check-in at the front desk. Another nurse will dress their wounds, she says, before rushing off to a newcomer limping through the doors.

The emergency room is shining white and smells like bleach and lavender. How frequently must they clean the busy space for it to not smell like even a whiff of the various injuries patients must come in with?

Sitting on two waiting chairs, still damp from their soaked clothes, Jimin sighs a long breath and rests his head against the wall. He feels the vinyl stick to his exposed back. This hospital must get enough patients from the district to not linger on his ripped open shirt. Though no one can see it now from where he sits, he didn’t notice anyone even glance for more than a second at it when he was standing. The style of the shirt is already cut out with purposeful holes meant to showcase slips of his shoulders and his arms, as well as his midriff between the material’s end and the waist of his pants. Maybe passersby think the torn back is part of the ensemble. It wouldn’t be the weirdest fashion choice seen around Sinwon.

Thinking of his attire, Jimin suddenly notices how loose his right shoe is. He bends over his lap to retie the undone laces of his boot. The cold air conditioning washes over his skin like a chilling breeze. When he sits back up, Jeongguk has taken off his jacket and holds it out for him.

Jimin stares much too long at it before taking the clothing, not bothering to slip his arms inside but only to drape it over his shoulders. It’s already oversized, and Jeongguk is broader than Jimin to begin with. It’s damp but not drenched like something out of cotton would be.

Jeongguk watches Jimin put it on. It’s the first time he’s truly looked at him since running into those four thugs.

Jeongguk lifts a heavy hand, like his bones are made of packed, heavy flour. But when he brushes his thumb over Jimin’s cheek, it’s as soft as a feather.

Jimin can count on his hands the amount of times Jeongguk has initiated this type of physical contact with him.

Jimin holds his breath. Maybe if he does, Jeongguk will stay a bit longer.

He registers that Jeongguk must be staring at where Jimin’s cheek was scraped over the concrete wall. Jimin hasn’t had the chance to look in a mirror, but the spot slightly stings. He can only imagine that there’s some sort of visual leftover.

Jeongguk goes to brush his skin once more, but he thinks better of it. His arm awkwardly hangs in the air between them before he brings it back to himself, turning away to face ahead of him. He clears his throat, holding his hands in his lap like he’s forcing them to stay still. It must be strange for him, Jimin thinks, to witness Jimin so bare in a way so different from the way Jimin’s bare on stage. This is a separate type of vulnerability, one that’s rugged and dirtied.

It’s also strange for Jimin to have seen the typically collected Jeongguk so unhinged.

A different nurse comes up to them, bringing them to an empty bed. They sit beside each other on its edge while the woman takes turns dressing their wounds. It’s not much and doesn’t take long. She makes sure neither of them twisted an ankle without knowing it, as well as completes various yet simple checks as standard procedure. She asks them a few questions. Jeongguk doesn’t bother to say he got kicked multiple times in the gut, so Jimin says it for him. The nurse then feels his stomach, and once she decides his internal organs are only probably a bit bruised, she instructs them how to clean and change their bandages before sending them on their way.

Jeongguk’s acting like an outdated gadget. He only speaks when spoken to. He only moves when he has to. But the few times he catches Jimin’s gaze, something heavy fills his large eyes, only for it to disappear the moment he turns away.

His voice is monotone when they pass a vending machine near the exit and Jeongguk says, “You should have water.” He doesn’t wait for Jimin to reply, but pulls out his mobile to scan his credit card on the reader. One water bottle tumbles to the bottom, and Jeongguk crouches to slip it out from under the flap. Jimin silently takes it, muttering a thanks before taking a few gulps. He offers the remainder to Jeongguk, who feebly shakes his head.

Jimin wastes no time to grip at Jeongguk’s wrist and force the bottle into his hand, the gesture no longer an offer but an order. Jimin exits the hospital first before Jeongguk can refuse him again. He only bothers to look over his shoulder to make sure Jeongguk’s following him. He turns back around when he’s seen him drink. Jimin’s not sure where to go next.

“I’ll take you home,” Jeongguk announces quietly when he catches up.

Jimin only nods, and they make their way over to the nearby metro line. There’s no need to play along anymore; they can order a transport. But Jeongguk doesn’t say anything as Jimin leads him to the metro instead. Besides, there’s always one close to a hospital.

As it’s later in the evening, the train they hop on isn’t crowded. They manage to snag two seats, and Jimin’s too aware of where his thigh is pressed against Jeongguk’s while they silently ride home. Jeongguk would normally pull away, he thinks. But he’s not now. Jeongguk sits in the aisle, but he stares out the opposite window. Jimin tries to meet his gaze in the reflective glass, the two of them mirrored with the train’s white ceiling lights against the black backdrop of the underground tunnel. But Jeongguk is unfocused.

Jimin drops his head on Jeongguk’s shoulder. He swears he hears Jeongguk inhale the smallest of breaths.

The sound of their feet on the pavement echo as they make the short walk from the station’s exit to Jimin’s building. The lobby doors swoosh open to let them inside. The elevator ride is seamless, quiet enough for Jimin to hear his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears. He thinks the beep of his front door is louder than usual when he unlocks it.

Padding into the entranceway, he doesn’t instantly go to slip off his shoes. Instead, he turns, leaning against the propped open door. Jeongguk remains out in the hall, hands clenched at his sides, standing like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“Your jacket,” Jimin remembers, going to remove it.

Jeongguk lifts a hand in gentle refusal. “Keep it.”

Jimin releases his fingers from the article, leaving it wrapped around himself. He waits for something. Anything. For an explanation. For a question. For an assurance. He’s not sure what he wants Jeongguk to say, but anything would work.

Except Jimin’s tired of waiting.

“Would you like to stay?” Jimin asks.

He’s not sure what’s considered common for the other sponsored performers, but then again, he and Jeongguk’s sponsorship is far from the norm. Their lives outside these walls are not sultry and secret, but innocent and open. If Jimin pretends he’s not an employee at Deca and that Jeongguk isn’t Ruby’s son, they’re almost friends.

It’s why Jimin figures Jeongguk will flat out decline. That he’ll shake his head and bid Jimin goodnight. Whatever indescribable relationship they have is built on Jeongguk keeping true to his word, and that includes giving Jimin a place to keep away from him or any other sponsor, if Jimin had one. Jeongguk is too respectful in this regard. For all Jimin knows, Jeongguk is internally beating himself up for doing so much as taking Jimin’s wrist earlier. 

But Jeongguk just asks, “Are you sure?”

Jimin nods, thinking that he’s been sure for a while.

Jeongguk releases a shaky breath, brushing past Jimin into the entryway. Jimin lets it shut behind him.

They remove their shoes, but Jeongguk takes longer, like he’s dragging out the action because he’s unsure what to do next. His hair is dried at the tips and still damp at the roots, just dipping over his eyes. He washed his hands at the hospital, but the rest of him wears the wet ground he was kicked onto.

“You should shower,” Jimin tells him, meaning nothing by it other than that.

Jeongguk looks at him from under his dark bangs. “What about you?”

As an answer, Jimin heads for his loft and its attached bath. Jeongguk follows.

Jimin doesn’t bother to flick on the lights in the loft, and he only switches on the single light above the shower rather than the brighter ones above the mirror. Jimin is already peeling off his socks when Jeongguk shuffles onto the tile, lingering before the doorframe. He’s like a child at a friend’s house for the first time, too modest to do much other than make sure not to touch anything. Jimin finds the sight endearing, but his general shock at the atypical behavior overpowers it. He’s never seen Jeongguk so careful and hesitant.

When Jimin begins to strip off his clothes, Jeongguk turns away.

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” Jimin says plainly.

Jeongguk is focused on the floor. “This isn’t Deca. This is your home.”

“I know,” Jimin says pointedly. He catches Jeongguk swallow at the reply.

No, this isn’t Decadentia. It is Jimin’s home, his private place away from work, and he’s making the conscious decision to undress before Jeongguk so he can shower away the traumatic night. Jimin knows exactly what he’s doing. He invited Jeongguk in, didn’t he?

With his clothes discarded in a pile on the ground, Jimin pads over to the glass door of the shower, pulling open its door to turn on the hot water. He lets it run for a moment, testing the temperature with his palm until it’s ready. Then he slinks inside, sighing as the satisfying heat slips down his skin.

Jeongguk remains frozen across the room.

“Are you really just going to stand there?” Jimin calls. "Swallow your pride and just come in."

Jeongguk flickers his eyes to him, not looking anywhere else but his face. The steam is already beginning to condensate the glass, turning Jeongguk beyond it into a hazy outline. “Are you serious?”

“We’re both bandaged up. We should help each other.” Jimin’s already making sure not to wet his face. He doesn’t exactly need the assistance to keep any water from seeping into the single bandage across his cheek, but Jeongguk has one wrapped around his knuckles and thus the rest of his hand. He has it on the corner of an eyebrow. On his jaw. Washing your hair with one hand while trying to keep your face dry isn’t ideal.

“I’m not going to stare at your dick if that’s what you’re worried about,” Jimin adds.

That gets something like a scoff out of him. “Liar. I know the performers gossip.”

Jimin knows that Jeongguk is fully aware of the particular attention he festers, including the harmless yet ridiculous rumors circulating about him. His body is only one topic of conversation, but it’s a frequent one. The performers fawn over his proportions, wishing they were privy to more than the sight of his defined clavicle or the strain of his thighs hidden below his pants. No one’s perfect, and Kkuli still is on the peanut-sized penis train (though, of course, he also still hopes he’s terribly mistaken).

Jimin just waits, turned in towards the water.

With something between a defeated sigh and a worried one, Jeongguk begins unbuckling the black belt at his waist. Jimin looks away, only listening to him undress as each layer comes undone.

A sudden strike of both fear and excitement jolts through Jimin. This is the Jeon Jeongguk, the one person at Deca none of the performers have access to but want to know the most about. He’s the acclaimed owner’s son and the business’s heir. He’s a beauty of a man, the kind of attractiveness not even the blind could deny. Jimin’s not so shameless to hide that he doesn’t feel pride knowing he’s been the sole performer with Jeongguk these past few months, personally selected by the man himself.

But despite these thoughts, Jimin’s not so shallow.

When Jeongguk steps in, Jimin doesn’t intend to cast his eyes downwards, but he does when he shifts to make room. He’s pleasantly surprised to see that Jeongguk’s dick isn’t overwhelmingly large or disappointingly tiny.

He is definitely not telling Kkuli either or. Let him continue his imaginations.

“You said you wouldn’t stare.”

“Sorry,” Jimin instantly says, meaning it despite the humored smile tugging at his lips. “Let me wash your hair. There’s blood in it.”

Whatever levity they have vanishes with the mention of blood, sucked away down the swirling drain at their feet. Jimin pumps out a dollop of shampoo from the bottle resting along the interior shelf, emulsifying it into his hands. Jeongguk is watching him so entirely, never leaving any spot above Jimin’s shoulders, but it’s like he’s doing so as to force himself not to peak any lower. The heaviness in his face drags down his tired eyes, giving him an alluring aura that’s even more alluring considering that it’s clearly not on purpose. There is no seductive intent from him, not one bit. But the undivided attention after barely glancing at Jimin since running into those men is tantalizing. It peppers Jimin in goosebumps.

Jimin has Jeongguk turn around and tilt his head back so none of the soap rolls down his face. Jimin gently lathers the shampoo into his hair, spending likely longer than necessary on the task. He can’t help it. His hands act mechanically as he gazes over Jeongguk’s built shoulder blades, the skin stretched across the muscle without a single flaw. He narrows so beautifully to a small waist, which is made even more apparent with how fit the rest of him is. Jimin skims lower, over the slight yet firm curve that separates Jeongguk’s two legs.

He shakes out of it, bringing away his arms from Jeongguk’s soapy locks to reach for the detachable shower head. He switches the setting to a more refined stream, placing a hand at Jeongguk’s hairline to act as a shield as he cleanses out the shampoo. Jimin adds conditioner to the ends next, repeating the process.

“Can you turn back around? I’m gonna carefully wash your face around the bandaids,” says Jimin.

Jeongguk listens, and Jimin takes two wet fingers to pad just enough moisture onto Jeongguk’s face for it to not slip down. He takes the facewash, barely pumping any out in order to softly circle small amounts around the bandages. He then swipes the soap away with two more wet fingers.

Jimin thinks he could fall into a six-foot hole with how Jeongguk is looking at him.

The lack of distance between their naked bodies doesn’t help, nor does the growing erections they both wear. Jimin can feel his. He can view Jeongguk’s out of his peripheral vision.

That’s only natural, he thinks. Jimin knows why his own body is responding, but who knows with Jeongguk. It could be superficial. It could be more. Jimin doesn’t know which reasoning he prefers, but he feels a bit faint at knowing Jeongguk is responding at all.

Jimin squeezes out body wash onto his cleansing scrubber, fully about to take the reins with this too, but Jeongguk places a hand over Jimin’s on the tool.

“I’ll do it,” he nearly whispers. Jimin lets the scrubber go.

While Jeongguk turns back around towards the water, Jimin figures he should take the time to wash his own hair and face. He, too, turns away, the wall his only line of sight as he scrubs his hair.

His heart is beating in his chest like a balloon pump is squeezing burst after burst through his arteries.

When they’re both finished, Jimin hands Jeongguk a towel before getting one for himself. He pats himself dry before wrapping the material around his shoulders, leaving Jeongguk to it while he goes for his closet. Jimin slips into boxer briefs and an oversized tee that falls mid-thigh. After ruffling his hair, he takes a fresh pair of underwear and lounge clothes into his hands, his damp towel slung over one arm, then returns to the bathroom. He finds Jeongguk standing on the floor mat directly beside the shower door, the pale white gold of the single light above the shower softening the background. His hair falls flat down his forehead, black with water, and his towel is slung low around his hips to showcase the delicate V dipping past his naval. Jimin tries not to ogle him, but it’s like telling a tourist not to stare at a national site.

But the prominence of Jeongguk’s sculpted figure is offset by his current stance and expression; he looks like a lost puppy. He wrings his hands at his center. He nibbles on the inside of his cheek. It’s such a contrast from the severe Jeongguk that Jimin witnessed earlier on the street that it’s enough to give Jimin whiplash.

“I’ve never been to another performer’s home,” Jeongguk suddenly admits, as though to answer any unsaid assumptions. He doesn’t know that Jimin hasn’t been thinking about that at all. What would Jeongguk say if he knew the true direction of Jimin’s thoughts?

“You’ve been here enough, though,” Jimin tells him, heading over to hand him the clothes. Jimin turns away to fold his towel, offering Jeongguk privacy to dress. Once he notices out of his peripheral that Jeongguk has climbed into the underwear, Jimin turns back to take his towel, placing it with the other on the adjacent wall’s shelf. He makes a mental note to remember to add them to his laundry pile later.

Jeongguk is staring at him when Jimin faces back. He hasn’t bothered to put on his shirt and pants, but just stands eerily still with the garments in his hands. Jimin holds the exchange, waiting for Jeongguk to twist away. But he never does. He just looks at Jimin. He really looks at him. It’s like how he stared at him at karaoke and at the hospital and in the shower.

There’s no invitation in his round eyes, exactly. There’s no lechery. It’s neither like the oppressive desire of a strip club or the admiring lust of Deca.

But Jimin can’t mistake yearning. He knows too well what that looks like.

Jimin pads a step closer to him, only half an arm’s distance in-between. Jeongguk’s firm chest rises high with each breath he takes. “Why are you looking at me like that?” asks Jimin.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to cry.”

Jeongguk does nothing but swallow. He’s a rock-hard wall of determination, or at least, he’s trying to be. It’s that which makes him so conflicted in Jimin’s point of view. That constant barrier of separation that forms from their job titles flashing across their foreheads as sponsor and performer—it’s like Jeongguk only half-heartedly maintains it. Like he’s only portraying the guise of wanting to seriously keep it up. Like he’s just waiting for a reason not to.

Jeongguk pulled away when Jimin kissed him at that nightclub, but Jimin was drunk. Jeongguk should have pulled away. It only earns him more credibility that he did. Jimin could never respect someone who takes advantage of an easy target.

So is it wrong for Jimin to have wanted him to reciprocate when Jimin was inebriated? In the moment, with the alcohol in Jimin’s veins sloshing away any prudence, he did what felt right. He did what he wanted. With no reason, but with every inch of his senses, he wanted to kiss Jeongguk.

And Jeongguk did the right thing by instantly ending it. He kept watch on Jimin all night. He took him home. He did the decent thing. Being decent shouldn’t earn him a medal, but to Jimin, Jeongguk’s actions displayed more than the bare minimum. To Jimin, it was more than common courtesy. He can’t be the only one out of the two of them that believes Jeongguk’s actions that night—from the investor dinner to the dancefloor—was just impersonal kindness.

Jeongguk has never done anything to prove he’s malicious, but he doesn’t exactly go out of his way to prove he’s compassionately warmhearted. He keeps the reality of why he stays away from the performers a secret. He’s blunt enough to the point that his initial comments towards Jimin at the start of their … whatever they are, came across as insulting. He’s reluctant to provide praise. He holds back his true emotions.

But it shines on his face like a beacon. He usually can mask that, too, but not with Jimin. Not anymore.

Maybe Jimin should ask, especially after his earlier guilt. But now, the prospect of it seems elementary. The heat in the air is as thick as fluffed cake. If Jeongguk wants, he can step away. But he’s not stepping away.

So, Jimin kisses him, and this time, he’s immensely sober. 

A low, guttural moan climbs out of Jeongguk’s throat at the contact. It almost sounds like he’s in pain. But that’s not possible, not with how gentle Jimin kisses him. To Jimin, it feels like the brush of winter’s first snowfall gracing the ground.

When he lingers a second press of his lips, catching Jeongguk’s bottom between his own, he swears that Jeongguk’s exhale is shaking.

Jimin slowly pulls back enough to look at him. Both sets of their eyes cross in close proximity, forced to see nothing but one another. Jeongguk’s look like blown up bubbles.

Jeongguk then lets the clothes in his hands drop to the floor beside their feet.

They meet each other’s mouths at the same time. In place of the fabric, Jeongguk’s hands take Jimin’s waist, fingers curled into the thinness of his tee, pushing into his skin. In a way, it’s like he’s trying to hold Jimin away instead of to tug him closer. But when Jeongguk, who’s shifted on the mat, teeters backwards towards the sink, his hands don’t loosen their grip. Jimin’s caught in his pull. Their legs brush one another as they stumble, Jimin thinking that he’s simultaneously pushing forward beyond being led by Jeongguk’s hands. The sink counter disrupts their awkward dance, but the dominoes have already fallen.

In the late hours of the night, in that expanse of time when Jimin is half-conscious on his pillows, he sometimes has ridiculous thoughts. They aren’t dreams. Dreams are for sleeping. But when he’s yet to be taken into total unconsciousness, his dazed thoughts are the result of a dark room, a comfy bed, and solitude. Under the guise of a lonely night, Jimin’s mind can freely wander.

In those moments, he sometimes thinks about Jeongguk.

How Jeongguk respects Jimin’s boundaries. How the corners of his mouth twirl when he’s amused. How he speaks so kindly. How he speaks so cocky. How he methodically twists his wristwatch when he’s thinking. How the planes of his face are carved like marble, counteracted by his doe eyes and rounded nose.

Sometimes, Jimin thinks about what it’d be like to touch Jeongguk. What it would be like for Jeongguk to touch him. Not like a stage performance. Not like a training session. Not like a striptease. 

So, now, Jimin leans in to kiss him slow and soft, like the curve of their lips are made of paper. They threaten to tear.

He feels Jeongguk’s palms tighten on his waist before loosening, like he’s hungry but uncertain if the treat being handed to him can truly be eaten. Jimin answers by skimming a hand across Jeongguk's bare torso. It’s a valley of tensed muscle. Another hand fixates on Jeongguk’s neck, his pulse pumping below his heated skin.

It’s okay, the touches mean. I want this. You can reciprocate.

It’s like this silent answer clicks something in Jeongguk’s brain. He takes the small of Jimin’s back, pulling him flush against him. Jimin gasps atop his lips. Separated by only two layers of their underwear, the tantalizing strain of their growing arousals shift against each other.

Is Jeongguk trembling? Or is Jimin?

Jeongguk licks into his mouth, and Jimin practically melts atop of him with a whimper, opening for more. 

This isn’t a choreographed routine. This isn’t for an audience. There are no steps or rules. There is no objective to satisfy a paying customer. But Jeongguk is paying him. They have their tongues down each other’s throats in the very bathroom of the very penthouse that Jeongguk provides. Jimin knows that, so why doesn’t he feel that? Maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe he’s delirious in his desire, lost like the starstruck audience who watch him act like he’s lost while he performs.

Except this isn’t a show.

Jeongguk hasn’t once vocally expressed any want for Jimin. In fact, he’s made it loud and clear that it’s never been his intention. But the way he’s kissing Jimin now says otherwise.

Jeongguk spins them around, and Jimin’s just the right height to lift himself onto the edge of the counter. Their mouths don’t even break in the movement. Jimin splays open his knees, Jeongguk trapped in the space between. The younger’s palms slide over Jimin’s bare thighs before navigating under his shirt, scaling up his ribs to leave goosebumps in their wake. Jimin has to keep his arms wrapped around Jeongguk’s neck in order for his ass not to fall into the sink. The pressure of their fervent kisses threaten to push him backwards.

But Jeongguk suddenly dips his hands under Jimin’s thighs, hoisting up his legs so Jimin can wrap them around him. Jimin crosses his ankles to lock in place, just under Jeongguk’s lower back. Jimin’s weak with how both of their clothed cocks are deliriously pressing into one another. Their underwear does little to mask the shapes and sizes of either of them.

Jimin shudders a breathy whine onto Jeongguk’s tongue when he drags Jimin’s legs up an inch, just enough to slide Jimin’s erection over his own. Fuck, if there was no clothing between them, this would be the perfect position for Jeongguk to fuck him. Jimin wouldn’t have to do a thing, but just sit here in Jeongguk’s strong grip and hold on as Jeongguk pounded into him over and over—

“You can have me,” Jimin whispers to him, feeling like shooting stars are firing from his heart down past his naval. “You have me.” He could finish right here. Just a few strokes, whether it’s from fingers or a mouth. Even just their shifting clothes. He desperately craves it in a way he doesn’t remember ever feeling. This isn’t how he feels when he performs. It’s like a missing cog has now been screwed into place, finally making him tick. Previous bouts of non-work desire were always just for the action and the resulting feeling. But with Jeongguk kissing him now, specifically Jeongguk—with the thought of Jeongguk himself touching Jimin further, kneeling before him, fucking him … God, just the thought of it being Jeongguk is enough to unravel him.

“Angel.”

“Don’t call me that.” Jimin drowns into another kiss, chest heaving, stomach swirling. “I’m Jimin. Please. Call me Jimin.” He knocks his hips forward, and Jeongguk fails to bite back a groan at the contact. Sparks of pride erupt within Jimin at knowing his touch is just as intoxicating towards Jeongguk as his is to Jimin.

Jeongguk whispers his name, his real name, but it sounds sad.

Right as Jimin tries to comprehend why, Jeongguk breaks away. He loosens his hands, and, like wilted flower petals, they fall from Jimin’s body. With a turn of his head, Jeongguk puts two steps between them.

Jimin slowly slips off the counter’s edge to stand in place. Jeongguk is no longer looking at him.

It’s terrifying, really, how one thing can so drastically change your current state of emotions. Even though Jimin wears underwear and a tee, he suddenly feels very exposed. He brings up his arms to hold across himself.

“I’m sorry—” Jeongguk begins, and Jimin braces himself for the regret. But Jeongguk continues, “—for dragging you into my business earlier today. Those psychos were for me, not you.”

Jimin’s heart skips a beat. He can’t believe he’s forgotten the day’s previous events after one makeout session. Reality floods back to his brain. “Who were they?”

“Gangsters. Losers. No one important.”

“Important enough to kick the shit out of you.” Ignoring the fact that Jeongguk kicked much more than the shit out of them in return.

Jeongguk’s eyes flare, but it passes as soon as it comes. Whoever those men are, he doesn’t want Jimin to know about it. Whatever they wanted, he won’t tell him. Jimin can’t lie and say that it doesn’t hurt after sharing such an intimate moment after a fun day and rough night.

As if on cue, Jeongguk makes a slight expression of discomfort, gingerly pressing two fingers to his increasingly bruising cheek. Jimin falters a bit on his feet, thinking how he’s so carefully bathed beside him in the shower only to forgo the same courtesy moments later. He hopes he hasn’t inflamed anything from his touches.

Maybe Jeongguk thinks the same. He’s staring at Jimin’s own bandaged cheek.

“I should go,” he says. He’s so quiet, like any decibel louder would tear the room in two.

“You don’t have to.”

“I gave you my word I wouldn’t bother you here, that this place would be yours away from me and anyone else, for your safety and privacy.”

“And what if the person you said that to wanted differently?”

Jeongguk seems frozen in time. Jimin might believe it too was it not for the slight feather of his jaw.

“I’d say,” he replies carefully, “that the person saying that now isn’t considering what the other person wants.”

“And what’s that?”

“That I should go, Angel.”

Angel. Not Jimin. It’s like a slap to the face.

Beyond returning to the stage name, it feels worse hearing Jeongguk wall himself up with how he says it. His words are rigid, but they’re weathered. Curious drops of melancholy drip down the sides. Jimin has no idea where that darkened emotion is coming from.

Jimin watches him slip back into his dirtied clothes rather than the fresh ones Jimin handed him. Jimin guesses that if he pushes Jeongguk to take the clean ones, he’ll decline. His damp hair tangles across his brow, mused from where Jimin ran his hands through it. With his wrinkled and bloodied clothing back on on his frame, it makes their shower pointless.

Before Jeongguk sees himself out, he says once more, “I’m sorry.” But this time, Jimin doesn’t think it’s just about their shared cuts and bruises.

Chapter Text

Jeongguk fell right into Park’s trap. He knew it the moment Park’s goons started barking about how Jimin looks at him.

And Jeongguk only knows that because it’s how he looks right back at Jimin.

Even if that wasn’t brought up, Park’s men likely would have spewed anything they could come up with if it would get Jeongguk to react as he had.

But what was Jeongguk supposed to have done? Let them snatch Jimin away and do with him what they pleased to prove that Jeongguk doesn’t care? Even if Jeongguk didn’t feel anything for Jimin, he’s not a monster. He’s not like Park. He’d save a stranger if he saw one being dragged away by thugs on the street.

But he figures there’s still a difference in how you save a stranger versus how you save someone you personally care for. It’s all in the reaction, and Jeongguk failed in masking his.

He doesn’t remember feeling so scared since that day he and Jeongsik were abducted by Park Kangdae. He doesn’t remember feeling so angry since that stray bullet in the mayhem pierced his brother’s gut, rupturing his mesenteric artery and causing him to bleed out internally. He was dead before he got to the hospital.

Jeongguk knew he was incorrect when he called Park a murderer. Murder is done with premediateted intent. Apparently, Park kidnapped Jeongguk and Jeongsik that day with the sole purpose of making his power and influence known to Ruby’s denied business deal.

The message was meant to be, I can harm your children whenever I want. You’d be a fool to become my enemy. Maybe he would have physically hurt them if that's what it took. He could have chopped off a finger or an ear. But when Jeon Ryuji’s men came for Jeongguk and Jeongsik, the two siblings hadn’t been touched other than to tie them up. However, in the rescue scuffle, shots were fired, and one hit wrong.

So very wrong.

No one knows who made the shot. Technically, Park didn’t murder Jeongsik, but he sure as hell is the reason he’s dead. Semantics aside, Park killed him.

Maybe Jeongguk wouldn’t feel so stricken if Park begged for forgiveness, if he genuinely apologized in torment over what happened that day. But meeting with him only further proves his wicked heart.

And what he pulled tonight … it cements he must really feel nothing for his own son. Jeongguk feels sick just thinking about it. How could anyone send their own lackeys to attack their own child? If it’d been just towards Jeongguk, he’d get it. But the fact that they forcibly grabbed Jimin, that they ripped open his shirt, that they pressed their slinky bodies to his back ….

Jeongguk turns over in his bed. He’s been trying to sleep for the past two hours after returning from Jimin’s apartment, but it’s proving pointless. His thoughts demand to be heard.

If Park really doesn’t care what happens to Jimin, enough that he’d even have his own men show up to prove it, then what leverage does Jeongguk have over him?

None. He has nothing. Jeongguk attempted to seek revenge with the threat of endangering someone Park cares about in the same way Jeongguk lost someone he cared about. But Park doesn’t care about Jimin. Jeongguk is both distraught about that and relieved—he doesn’t know what he’d do if the man actually did.

Park wasn’t wrong for calling Jeongguk’s bluff, because that’s exactly what it was.

Seokjin was right. Jeongguk isn't capable of doing anything even remotely similar to what Park is.

Yet, flashes of beating Park’s men in the storming street suddenly come to mind. He instinctively brings up his bandaged hand to cradle in the other.

When those pieces of shit manhandled Jimin, Jeongguk saw red. It blinded him as those gangsters kicked his knees under him and smashed his stomach with boots. It propelled him as he crawled up and fought his way out of it, the only focus in his head being Jimin, Jimin, Jimin—

Jeongguk never thought Jimin would kiss him like that, especially when sober.

After that torturous shower, Jeongguk still couldn’t have foreseen it. Just because Jimin permitted them to wash off the blood and rain under the same water spout didn’t mean the performer thought any differently about their atypical sponsorship dynamic. Jeongguk had been caught off guard when Jimin began to strip, only to quickly think that Jimin must trust him enough by now to no longer care to not be indecent in front of him outside of Deca’s walls. The concept of simply showering probably meant nothing to him. The concept of nudity probably meant nothing to him. And it’s not like Jeongguk is a prude, not when he’s grown up at Deca and has taken his own pleasure from people in the past, but with Jimin …

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

But it isn’t like Jeongguk immediately stopped it. He took his sweet time in doing that.

But fuck, was it sweet. Jimin tastes just as perfect as Jeongguk has imagined—no, better. He feels better, too. His slim, muscled body under Jeongguk’s hands, his plush lips on his tongue, his high-toned whimpers all from Jeongguk’s doing—

Jeongguk has never beaten anyone up before. He never even got into altercations as a child. When he boxes now to exercise, the sport in a gym is nothing but strategic sparring. Tonight, he wasn’t punching with any strategy, but only with the power of his body. He let it all loose, unleashing it until he knew those men couldn’t fight back.

Jeongguk curls into himself under his blanket. He hates everything to do with Park, including his men. They’re men who likely participate in other horrors as being part of protecting and fulfilling the orders of a drug kingpin. They’ve probably done enough damage in their lives to deserve one hundred beatings. But Jeongguk hates that he fought them at all. Images of their blood slicking down their faces twists Jeongguk’s insides. He did that.

Why did it have to be him? Why Jeongsik? Why did his mom even consider a partnership with Park all those years ago, anyway? He knows she did it because Park didn’t inform her of his plan to incorporate selling to Deca’s customers. He knows she broke the deal the moment she found out. But because he was in the picture at all, it led to what happened to Jeongsik. It’s led to this. Jeongguk doesn’t blame Ryuji. Park takes it all. But, fuck, if only Park hadn’t ever seen Deca as a business opportunity in the first place.

It makes sense why he did. A suggestive club with affluent members who already dive into one naughty interest must desire more, right? Deca upholds a certain level of decorum, but members often indulge in shows while under the influence. As long as they don’t act out of pocket, they are free to arrive as high as they wish. But recreationally smoking onyx is different from injecting heroin.

Park deals anything and everything, and Ryuji wouldn’t have her beloved members being encouraged to purchase goods on or directed from her property that could royally fuck them up to the point of no return. Park presented the partnership with Deca under the guise of simply funding the business in return for his share of the profits. Ryuji knew who he was, but if all he wanted was to hand over his money, then she wasn’t going to back down from the chance. Deca was still a young business at the time, and though it was on the rise, she wouldn’t become comfortable and complacent.

But Ryuji discovered Park’s true plan to use Deca as his new breeding ground for wealthy, long-term customers for his drug trade, so she broke off their deal.

Park responded by kidnapping Jeongguk and Jeongsik to encourage her to change her mind.

If Park isn’t even fazed by his own son, then the only thing left is busting him.

Fuck. Jeongguk should have gone to the police the moment he left the meeting with Park last week. He should have told them before he went. He didn’t because he planned to extend his leverage with Jimin, but now that that doesn’t matter, it’s likely too late. Any traces of the man and his men from their meeting spot are far gone by now. There’s a reason why Park was doing business in a rental space. He probably moves from location to location, never giving away any sense of where his headquarters is. He comes and goes where he pleases, here one moment and gone the next.

But CCTV must have caught tonight’s altercation. Surely Park’s men could be identified and followed from that.

Jeongguk slings off his covers, pushing off of his mattress before heading to get dressed. He can’t sleep as it is, and the nearest police station is within walking distance from his apartment building. He might call a transport, anyway. He doesn’t want to waste any more time.

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

“What do you mean you can’t identify them?” Jeongguk’s voice carries across the station’s main room, the quiet nighttime unit at their gray desks shooting him irritated glares. Jeongguk would think they’d be hard-pressed with any current situations occurring late into the night in New Seoul—robberies, assaults, illegal transport races that go down in the southern corners of the city—but the officers seated at their lowly partitioned seats seem bothered that a citizen has come in with imperative news about a highly wanted kingpin’s men. The industrial room is brighter than day with its piercing ceiling lights, likely to keep its occupants up and alert. 

The officer Jeongguk sits across from now has a receding hairline despite his age, likely somewhere in his late thirties. He heaves a heavy sigh, the tired sound matching the puffiness under his eyes. “Sinwon is a particularly rundown district, so its public cameras are not ideal.”

“What does that mean?” Jeongguk demands, pushing into the front of the man’s desk to try and glimpse at his monitor. “My mobile can do facial recognition from a glance, but you’re telling me these government-placed cameras can’t? What year are we in?”

The officer—Han Moochan, according to his nametag—creases his brow with discomfort. “They’re government placed, yes, but that does not necessarily mean they are up-to-date.”

An incredulous sound escapes Jeongguk’s throat. “Wah, so what? Our metro systems can look spectacular, like something from another planet, but God forbid we update our city’s security cameras that are meant to catch guys like this?”

“Unfortunately, sir, I am not in charge of such measures.” Jeongguk knows that. Taxes pay for such advancements, and though New Seoul residents hand over a hefty amount of those, it is its leaders that determine where the funds are implemented. They go to the wealthier districts by the river, like where Deca is. Not a place like Sinwon.

“Then how do you catch anyone with such shitty tech?” Jeongguk still gripes. “Wait, let me guess—you don’t! That’s why Park is still running wild!”

Officer Han awkwardly clears his throat, focusing on his monitor in a way that makes Jeongguk think it’s an excuse not to meet his eyes.

It’s not this cop’s fault, but Jeongguk’s had a really long fucking day. His typical patience is running thin. “So you can’t ID them,” Jeongguk says, repeating what Han told him a moment ago. “Then you can at least track them, right? Look through neighboring cameras to follow where they came from and where they went?”

Han clicks around his mouse, poking his tongue in his cheek. “Yes, we can do that. But I’ll warn you in advance that we might not find what you’re looking for. In addition to Sinwon’s CCTV quality, there are far fewer posted on the streets than in other districts. For example, some are every other street versus every other door. Then, if these men entered any buildings, we’d have to contact the owner of each floor or floors to access each respectful camera, much less if these men then entered any businesses.”

Jeongguk holds back his frustration, speaking as calmly as he can muster through gritted teeth, “Then do that. Please. These assholes assaulted me and my—” Jeongguk hesitates, unsure what word to use. “—friend.”

“Would you like to press charges?”

“I’d like you to find these men. They work directly under Park Kangdae. You at least know who that is, right? Or does his name get lost in all the other drug lords allowed to run rampant in this city?”

Han squares his jaw. “I’m aware of Park Kangdae and his wanted status.” With a shift in his high-back swirling chair, Han says, “Let me ask you something: Why would Park and his men have interest in attacking you?”

Jeongguk leans back, replying, “That’s irrelevant. If you’re wondering if I’m some enemy of his who works in the same scene, you’re mistaken. You can run my prints if you want.”

The cop huffs at Jeongguk’s brazenness. He opens his mouth to say something, only to pause as his eyes latch onto someone behind Jeongguk. Jeongguk twists his neck, landing on an older woman perhaps in her fifties. She wears a similar uniform to Han’s, except hers is far more decorated on her left chest below her cropped brown hair. She steps up around Han’s desk, standing close enough to catch his monitor.

“Chief Na,” Han greets, bowing his head. She nods back, scanning his screen before shifting her focus to Jeongguk. Her lids are lined with middle-age, but there’s nothing old in the fierceness of her eyes. Experienced years, maybe, but nothing slow and outdated.

“What’s this citizen’s situation?” she asks Han.

He explains it to her, sharing only what Jeongguk told him. Jeongguk was brief in his description of what happened, not naming Jimin or explaining who he and Jeongguk are. He simply stated that the two of them were coming back from a night out when Park’s men attacked them after clearly having been waiting to do so. He said he knows they were Park’s men, that he knows where Park last was, and that Park needs to finally be busted for his crimes. Maybe Jeongguk can help with that.

When Han is finished, Chief Na levels Jeongguk carefully. “What’s your name?”

Jeongguk flicks up a brow. “Must I tell you?”

“No. I already know who you are, Jeon Jeongguk, but I figured it’d be less startling to ask first.”

He straightens in his chair, all pretense vacating him. “How do you know me?”

“You’re the brother of Jeon Jeongsik,” she states casually, “the young boy who died at the scene of a kidnapping arranged by Park sixteen years ago. You and your brother were kidnapped in an attempt to blackmail your family’s business, Decadentia.” She sniffs, adjusting the sleeve of her neatly fitted uniform.

“How … how do you recognize me after all this time?” he wonders. “Did you work on the case, or something?” He was only seven back then, but he’s self-aware enough to know he’s greatly matured out of his lankly childhood body. Even Kangdae said so. Maybe the police secretly keep tabs on him, his mother, and Deca as survivor protection. Or maybe they have their own selfish reasons for knowing who Jeongguk is now, such as waiting for something illegal to go down at Deca.

“Not only that,” reveals Na, “but I was on the scene. I headed the case.”

Jeongguk bites back a gape. He tries remembering any of the cops from that day and the following weeks, but it’s all a blur in his mind. He was so young. All he remembers are the most dramatic moments, not the in-between. He knows the police tried to catch Park and his men, the death of an uninvolved child reason enough to warrant a raid, but he can’t envision it in his mind. Their search failed, anyway. Or was dropped too soon. Jeongguk remembers Ryuji informing him that the police had moved on when he brought it to her up one day, asking for any updates. He didn’t understand why they’d stopped. Weren’t the police supposed to catch the bad guys? Didn’t justice always prevail? That’s what movies and shows preached. It’s what Jeongguk was taught in school.

But as Jeongguk grew up, especially in a place like Deca, he learned the reality of this country’s societal system. The police only seek battles they know they can easily win, including ones that will earn them the most benefits. Each station in each district answers to an area headquarters that answers to the national headquarters, which sits under the commissioner general who is the puppet of whoever’s in the presidential office.

For decades, each president has varied little in their priorities. The general consensus has been to keep the rich happy, which thus creates a mutually beneficial relationship for the government. It’s why the poor are pushed into Boxes at the city’s edge, away from the living quarters of the wealthy. It’s why the river districts have pristine infrastructure compared to the slimy streets of Sinwon. It’s why kingpins like Park have gotten away with their drug operations unscathed, because like Park told Jeongguk, his clients range in all income levels. That includes the rich. Drug cartels make the economy go round as much as a legal business like Deca does. It’s why blatant sex work was legalized such a long time ago, because the nation’s leaders realized that they could utilize global forward-thinking to finally push national acceptance for something like sex work. The industry brings in the big bucks. So does the drug scene, but Jeongguk doesn’t think drug use will ever be universally accepted as something to legalize. Some might view sex as morally ambigous, but drugs chemically fuck up peoples’ minds. The downside to illegal drug transactions is that they aren’t taxable, but the money is still being moved around, and thus will eventually be spent on something that can be taxed.

No cop would ever admit to this. Jeongguk doubts an officer like Han Moochan even suspects the people in charge are so corrupt. He probably wears his badge proud, and he should if he’s the type of officer who joined the ranks with the intention to genuinely help society. But unfortunately, individual officers working at local stations can’t do much when it’s their leaders who control their direction of work. Jeongguk knows this. It’s not cops like Han Moochan he’s frustrated with, but the ones high above him calling the shots.

What about Chief Na? Who is she—someone who seeks justice below restrictive bosses, or someone who only seeks what she can gain for herself and the National Police Agency?

“If you headed the case,” Jeongguk asks, “then what are you doing at a local station? Wouldn’t you be in criminal affairs or something?”

“I transferred here ten years ago when I was promoted to chief of this station.”

It’s conveniently close to not only Jeongguk, but Deca. “What a coincidence, huh, being near Decadentia?”

Na doesn’t flinch. “Come to my office.” She turns on her heel before he can respond, not checking to see if he’s following.

He does.

Inside, awards and plaques line the walls beside maps of the city and various memorabilia, such as a signed Wolf’s cap from the baseball team’s former captain. Na settles into a high-back rolling chair behind her steel-gray desk, littered in tech and office materials. The surface is considerably messy, a contrast to Na’s otherwise outward togetherness. Once Jeongguk has sat in one of the two chairs opposite of her, she folds her hands atop the desk.

“Look, Mr. Jeon, I’m not going to bullshit you with vacant promises that we’ll try our best,” she tells him. “Everyday, we’re trying our best, and it doesn’t guarantee a thing. I can’t do much for you here. We can run through available CCTVs and track these men as far as we can, but if we come to a ditch in the road, that’s it. No team will be sent to find them.”

“You can’t even try—?”

“Sure, we can try,” she says, “but we won’t. It’s a waste of time. We’ll return empty handed. Best case scenario is that these men show up on more updated cameras somewhere else in the city, and we track them through facial recognition. But if they really are men with a big boss backing them, then their faces are probably listed under faux identities in the system.

“But let’s say they aren’t and their real names and addresses pop up. We go to their address and will likely find an empty home. People like this need to register an address as citizens, but it’s unlikely they ever actually live there, or even go there at all. If we send a notice that the police request their presence, the men will be no-shows. They don’t need to worry about ignoring a summons, because their bosses will protect them. The moment we see it’s more trouble than it’s worth, that it’s more dangerous than it’s worth, we skip out. We don’t fight a losing battle.”

Jeongguk scoffs, incredulous. “That’s insane. You’re the police. It’s your job to fight the battles the rest of us can’t.”

Na shrugs with accepted reality. “Me, along with everyone else at this station, is instructed not to bother with known underlings in these situations. Like I said, it’s a waste of time and resources. Rather than chase a deadend, we focus on what we know we can reach.

“Mr. Jeon,” Na continues to his severely unimpressed scowl, “the only way men like this are caught is in action, not after they’ve already fled the scene. Besides, it appears as if you roughed up these men a fair amount yourself. If we go after these individuals for assault, then I’ll have to charge you, too.”

He holds up his bandaged knuckles. “It was self defense.”

“Our country holds a fine line when it comes to self defense,” Na explains, “and a judge could find that you crossed it. The CCTV captured you and your friend walking away. Three of the four assaulters were left bleeding unconscious while the fourth fled.”

Jeongguk unlatches his tight jaw to reply, “So, to sum this up, you’re incapable of pursuing them over what happened tonight.”

“Yes,” answers Na.

Jeongguk huffs, slumping back in his seat.

Na twists her mouth, slowly leaning back in her own chair. “It was not by choice of my own that I ceased searching for Park as part of your brother’s case,” she tells him. He side-eyes her at the switch in topic. “There are delicate strings at play,” she says more gently, but just as seriously, “and even after being a station chief for a decade, I’m nowhere near what it takes to turn a new page. I either remain here and do what I can, or I quit in resentment of those more powerful than I. I choose to stay. I’m sorry this system cannot do more for you, Mr. Jeon. I don’t know what it’s like to be in your shoes, but know that I empathize as much as my heart allows it.”

Holding her gaze, Jeongguk sees the truth in it. He doesn’t think this woman is capable of lying, not because she’s naive, but because she’s been sharpened by this fucked up world like a constantly used sword.

“Park will always get away with it, won’t he?” he utters. “Not just my brother or what happened today, but all of it. Distributing drugs. Doing as he pleases. Absolutely no repercussions.”

Na exhales deeply. “Only in a very specific circumstance can he be detained. It requires more than a street scuffle from a handful of his lackeys.”

“Like what? Being caught red handed?”

“Yes.”

“But how can that ever happen if no resources ever go into busting him?”

“It can’t,” she tells him.

“Like I said, then. He’ll always get away with it.”

“Have hope, Mr. Jeon.”

He coughs out a pathetic laugh. “Why? When you’ve confirmed it’s pointless?”

She carefully levels him. “Do you read, Mr. Jeon?”

He frowns. “Read, as in books?”

“Yes.”

“No,” he replies, confused, “not really. Why?”

“There’s an author who writes riveting pieces on hope and life,” she says pointedly, though Jeongguk is unsure what she’s getting at. “He works hard to solve your concerns. I recommend checking him out. Here, let me write his name down for you.”

He watches as she grabs a memo pad and scribbles down a name on it with a few added words. When done, she rips off the single sheet and folds it, sliding it across the desk surface. There’s a hard look from her as he takes it, shoving it in his pocket. He accepts the note out of chivalry, not commenting aloud that he doubts some guru author he doesn’t even know can inspire hope in him. Life isn’t so black and white. A few inspirational quotes aren’t going to bring his brother back. He’s surprised someone like Na would recommend the outlet. She doesn’t seem like the type to divulge in pretty words.

As there’s nothing else Na can do for him, they wrap it up. Na will track the CCTVs as much as they can, but like Na said, that’s likely it.

It’s an ungodly hour of the morning when Jeongguk returns to his apartment, both too late and too early to bother to sleep. Jeongguk decides to just stay up. He can make it up tomorrow night—or tonight, he figures, as it’s technically a new day.

Restless, he does laundry. He cleans his apartment from top to bottom. He rearranges his kitchen cabinets, because he’s been meaning to do that for a while. At dawn, he takes Woojoo out for a long walk. His complex has an indoor park, similar to Jimin’s, but he wants to be outside. There’s only so many times he can circle the same floor.

He’s close enough to the Han River to take Woojoo there, so they stroll adjacent to the water alongside runners and bikers on its widened path, heading east to admire the rising sun. It coats the sky in a gradient of blinding orange as the dark blue fades lighter and lighter. Once Woojoo’s panting enough, they turn around.

Back home, Jeongguk downs two glasses of water and spends too much time in the shower. His fingers and toes are prunes when he comes out. Only then does he realize he should have taken a bath instead. It would have been easier.

He has breakfast delivered. He has no energy to cook.

While he eats, he suddenly remembers the memo from Na. He hops up from his kitchen counter to grab it from upstairs, returning to his meal while searching the name on his mobile out of curiosity. It’s not like he’s ever going to read any damn book.

Kim Namjoon. It doesn’t ring a bell, but sure enough, he’s an author like Na described.

After finishing his food, Jeongguk texts Seokjin.

Chapter Text

“Kim Namjoon? That name rings a bell.”

Jeongguk perks up across Seokjin at their two-seater table, the mid-level noise of the cafe’s chatter faded in his ears. Slotted in a spot between the coffee bar and a wall of booths, the motion on either side of Jeongguk paired with the noise is a slight irritation. It resembles the constant throb of Jeongguk’s too-tight bandage around his knuckles.

When Jeongguk arrived at the restaurant to meet Seokjin for lunch, only hours after returning from the police station, the older man eyed his roughed up exterior with controlled worry. Seokjin was more curious as to which direction Jeongguk’s explanation would go rather than the visual itself.

“What the hell happened to you?” Seokjin asked. “Did you trip going up your loft’s staircase?”

Jeongguk replied with a vulgar hand gesture. He also explained everything that occurred the previous evening, minus the intimate situation that occurred in Jimin’s bathroom. If he shares that part of the story, Seokjin will look at him with those all-knowing eyes of his and, he won’t have to say it, but he’ll express through a single stare that he thinks Jeongguk has made a mistake. Jeongguk doesn’t want to hear it, so he omits the part about kissing Jimin.

Seokjin has no idea Jimin kissed him drunk at the nightclub, either. But he knows about how Jeongguk jumped to Jimin’s defense at that investor dinner. He now knows Jeongguk did the same only yesterday, this time with much higher stakes.

Maybe Jeongguk doesn’t even have to divulge the details about his and Jimin’s physically intimate developments to Seokjin, because the rest of it already says enough.

“Whoever this Kim Namjoon is,” Jeongguk says, “maybe you read one of his books? Or saw it referenced online?”

“Please,” Seokjin says, spooning up a scoop of his meal, “I don’t read. No, it can’t have been that.” He savors his bite, thinking while Jeongguk takes the moment to eat his own lunch.

“Kim Namjoon …” Seokjin echos. Suddenly, he drops the end of his spoon smack onto his plate. “Oh! I know where I’ve heard the name. He’s friends with Park Jimin.”

Jeongguk swallows tightly, the food sinking slow down his throat. “What?”

“Before Jimin was officially hired, he came to Decadentia for a first meeting in order to check out the business. He was convinced I was an urchin attempting to sextraffic him, so he brought along a friend as backup.” Jeongguk, endeared, snorts at this. “It was a man named Kim Namjoon. Some names are common, but it could likely be the same individual. With our recent streak of coincidences and strange occurrences, I wouldn’t doubt it.”

“Do you remember what he looks like?” asks Jeongguk, already pulling out his mobile.

“It was back in November, but I’m sure I’d recognize a photo of him.”

Jeongguk types the man’s name into his web browser, seeing the same profile pop up from hours ago when he first looked him up. The focused image of Kim Namjoon looks like a yearbook photo, though it’s likely what he uses as his official headshot. Jeongguk holds out his device for Seokjin.

Peering at the picture, Seokjin purses his lips before nodding. “Yes, that’s him. Intelligent looking man, isn’t he? Well, I suppose he would be if he’s an author. What a funny coincidence.”

Watching Seokjin return to his lunch, Jeongguk mulls, “Jin. What if … what if Chief Na wasn’t recommending I read his books?”

“Just summaries, then?”

“No. No, she could have just said his name out loud, right? But she wrote it down and folded the piece of paper before giving it to me. And she underlined find him. I thought she just meant find him as in search him up for his work, but what if that’s not it?”

Seokjin takes his cocktail between his fingers. “You might be reaching.”

“No, look,” Jeongguk urges, crossing his forearms atop the table surface. “Her exact words to me were, ‘He works hard to solve your concerns.’ Maybe she was directing me to contact him because he can help somehow, maybe in ways she can’t.”

The more Jeongguk tries to explain this to Seokjin, the more it makes sense to his own ears. Why would a police chief recommend a self-help author? She’s a cop, not a therapist.

Despite Jeongguk’s lack of trust in the police to solve problems that don’t directly benefit them, he feels an instinctive trust towards Na. He doesn’t think she’s lying about regretting the reality of her position and its limits. She sounded genuine about his brother’s case. She didn’t have to give him any memo at all, whether it’s really for him to check out some books for his sanity or for something else hidden in the kind gesture.

“Do you think Jimin knows anything about this?” Seokjin asks with a raised brow.

“He doesn’t know about his father,” says Jeongguk, his mouth pressed into an thoughtful line. “If this Kim Namjoon is somehow related to all of this, then why would Jimin know that, too?”

Tentatively, like a clock ticking down to the inevitable, Seokjin tells him, “I suppose it doesn’t hurt to seek this man out. Worst case is he’s really just an inspiring author.”

“His website has contact information. I’ll email him. I can’t ask Jimin. I don’t want him involved.”

Flashes of last night flit across Jeongguk’s memory like lightning strikes. He rubs his forearm at the image of Jimin being dragged away by two of Park’s men, overtaken. He sees them ripping the back of Jimin’s shirt, the material clinging to his wet skin from the rain, Jeongguk unable to reach him.

“It’d be easy to use the excuse of Na recommending helpful books that just so coincidentally are written by Jimin’s friend,” Seokjin points out with a shrug. “He wouldn’t suspect anything.”

“Sure, but I want Jimin as far away from this as possible, no matter what it is.”

Seokjin carefully watches him over his drink glass, likely seeing everything Jeongguk doesn’t have to say. “What happened to you so easily being willing to harm him to get at Park?” Seokjin still asks, because of course he wants Jeongguk to vocalize his thoughts and intentions. “That’s the entire reason you sponsor him.”

“I told you,” Jeongguk says, focusing on forking his sliced meat so he doesn’t have to display his beating emotions under his face, “Park doesn’t care what happens to Jimin. Having Jimin is useless.”

“Then cast him aside.”

Jeongguk glances up from his plate. He can’t help it. “What?”

“You don’t need him anymore. You’ve never personally cared for any of the performers, having kept your distance in respect for them and so you don’t take advantage of your status as Ruby’s son. But you broke that with Jimin. Now that you know Jimin knows nothing of his father and can’t be used as bait, then you have no reason to sponsor him anymore. He can be freed for other members to sponsor, so he can work normally like the rest of them.”

Because this would be the logical next step, wouldn’t it? Now that it’s been proven how little it matters having Jimin at his side, Seokjin’s comments are considerably valid. Jeongguk should end things. He should let Jimin work as a typical performer with the same sponsorship opportunities as the rest of his co-workers.

Except the thought of no longer being in a sponsorship with Jimin doesn’t sit right with Jeongguk. Distancing himself from Jimin, ceasing whatever relationship they have—it fills Jeongguk with discomfort, like an itch that can’t be scratched. He may have found the strength to leave Jimin last night, but that was only after he was swept up in a tumultuous wave of Jimin’s mouth and hands and legs and everything in between.

“Park’s men came after the both of us,” Jeongguk rationalizes. “They know that I—they think I care for Jimin, which is exactly what Park pulled yesterday. It was to scare me.” Jeongguk picks up his drink, bringing the straw to his lips. “Breaking off my easy access to Jimin puts him in danger.”

“Do you?”

Jeongguk carefully sets his glass down. “Do I what?”

“Care for him?”

So much for Seokjin not straight-up asking.

“We’ve been hanging out these past few months,” Jeongguk explains, because this part of it is hardly false. It’s always better to avoid the truth with easier to say truths, not lies. Or, better yet, no answer at all. But that won’t slide with Seokjin. “He’s as much of a friend as he can be, despite our weird circumstances.”

“Hm. I didn’t know you had friends.”

“Then what are you?”

“A man who tries to do his job but has to play babysitter for his boss’s needy son.”

Jeongguk reaches over their plates to painlessly wack Seokjin’s bicep.

“So, you feel that you should keep Jimin at your side to protect him.”

Jeongguk relaxes in his chair, retaking his fork. “Something like that.”

“And what can you do if Park does come after you?”

“Well, I think I proved my capability in defending myself against his men last night.”

Seokjin’s gaze darkens. “You’re lucky they didn’t have weapons on them, Jeongguk. Next time, you might not be so lucky.”

He wonders why they didn’t. Maybe they did, and they just didn’t draw them, preferring fists. Although, weapons would have helped their cause. It could have gone down far differently had any of them pulled out something sharp or technical in response to Jeongguk’s advances.

“Then I’ll be prepared,” he tells Seokjin.

“Don’t be arrogant. You’re not a god. Na said it herself. The police will not and cannot incriminate Park. You tried to show him up by stating your hold over Jimin, but that didn’t work. You’re not willing to stoop to his level by injuring or killing Park, so what’s next, Jeongguk?”

Fuck, the two of them speak in circles.

“I’ll talk to Kim Namjoon and find out.”

“And if he’s really just an author?”

Jeongguk aimlessly waves his fork in the air. “Then I’ll get his autograph.”

Seokjin breathes out a heavy sigh through his nose. It’s always this way. He advises, and Jeongguk ignores his advice. It’s not because Jeongguk doesn’t value his suggestions, not at all. In a way, Jeongguk appreciates the constant push back. Better to have a friend who’s not afraid to disagree with you out of concern than one who blindly supports your every move for the sake of peace.

This situation with Park—this years’ worth situation—is not so easily discussed or agreed upon. Jeongguk imagines that if anyone else knew enough to voice an opinion, they’d think something entirely different than both Jeongguk and Seokjin. The world is awash in gray, but at least to Jeongguk, punishing Park is as black and white as it gets.

“Be careful,” Seokjin says to him.

“Always.”

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

Hello, Kim Namjoon. This is Jeon Jeongguk.

I assume you know who I am, so I won’t bother with lengthy introductions. I’m in the process of something personal, and while speaking to the police about a recent development, the station’s chief recommended I find you. She asked if I read, to which I said no, yet she highly recommended you anyways, letting me know of your work. She said you’d work hard to solve my concerns.

Would you be able to meet for coffee? I’d love to chat with you in person and get a sense of your expertise. Emails are quite impersonal. I’m curious to find out if you’re as helpful as the chief claimed you to be. Please get back to me ASAP with dates and times that work for you this week.

Also, I request that you don’t tell Jimin about this. For the sake of my professional relationship with him, it’d be inappropriate.

Best.

Jeongguk makes it a point to carefully word the email. It could be nothing, but on the slim chance that someone gets hold of the email who isn’t supposed to, both now or far into the future, Jeongguk doesn’t want his true intentions to be floating around the internet to be traced back to him. If Namjoon really is some harmless author who Na thinks is a beneficial source of inspiration, then that’s all Namjoon will see from the message. But if he’s not, then Jeongguk hopes Namjoon is smart enough to catch the double meaning layered within the words.

Jeongguk receives a response less than an hour later. Namjoon is available tomorrow at one, and because Jeongguk has nowhere to be on Wednesday afternoons, he deftly accepts.

Jeongguk sends him a meeting location, a casual yet higher end cafe-slash-coffee shop on the other side of the river, nowhere near Deca or even his university. Although severely unlikely, he doesn’t want anyone he knows to happen upon their meeting.

Arriving first, Jeongguk takes the initiative to order and pay for Namjoon’s coffee, choosing for him a universally accepted option of something iced and not too sweet. The ice cubes within the drink are frozen coffee, not water, so Jeongguk doesn’t worry much about arriving a bit early.

Namjoon is precisely on time.

Jeongguk is hardly ever on social media, but he scrolled through Namjoon’s Slab profile the day before to get a glimpse of who he’s meeting. The author’s internet aesthetic is that of what someone who appreciates art would look like—book quotes from other writers, photos of paintings and outdoor excursions, simple yet poignant status updates. There are a few pictures with Jimin. Jeongguk lingers on those. This man must be the high school friend Jimin has spoken about.

When Namjoon enters the coffee shop now, he looks the same from his profile—neat hair under a cap, neutral-toned clothes, and a mature yet youthful face. He doesn’t have to look for Jeongguk. Namjoon spots and instantly recognizes him.

“I took the liberty of ordering for you,” Jeongguk starts as an introduction, motioning towards the iced drink opposite of Jeongguk’s own. “I hope you’re not actually someone who requires more syrup than coffee.”

“Oh, no, definitely not,” Namjoon answers with a polite half-smile, settling across from Jeongguk at their table. He appears relaxed, like he’s really only here to discuss his written work with a potential reader. Is that why he seems nonplussed, or is it because he expected Jeongguk to contact him from the direction of Chief Na?

“I’m told you’re an author,” Jeongguk says, reclining back in his chair.

“That I am.”

“And that you can work hard to solve my concerns.”

“That’s a cryptic way of putting it.”

“Then how would you describe it?”

Namjoon reaches for his coffee. Tasting a sip, he makes an approving sound while he takes the straw between two fingers to swirl around the ice. “I don’t like speaking in riddles. Here’s the thing, Mr. Jeon—can I call you Jeongguk? I feel like you’re close enough with Jimin, and I’m obviously close enough with Jimin for me to refer to you straight up.”

Jeongguk lifts an indifferent shoulder.

“Right. Jeongguk.” Namjoon sips his drink once more before setting it down. “I’m an author, yes, but that’s not why Chief Na sent you to me.”

Jeongguk makes note of the fact that he never revealed which police officer recommended Namjoon to him.

“Writing is my day job,” Namjoon continues, “and before I was an author, I tried becoming a policeman.”

Well, this is most definitely not going where Jeongguk thought it would.

“Fascinating,” he comments, crossing his arms. “How is this relevant?”

Namjoon shoots him a look. “Wow, Jimin wasn’t wrong.”

“About?”

“Hm, what’s a nice way of putting it? How you get to the point.”

Jeongguk feels the corners of his mouth lift. “Then get to the point.”

Sighing, Namjoon continues, “I work with Na, and I’m the one who sent you Park Kangdae’s location at the rental space.”

Jeongguk instinctively glances around the shop, but no one pays them any mind. To his right, a mother and two young children share a slice of matcha cake. To his left, the male teenage employee at the order counter flashes a smile at the current female customer still in her school uniform.

“What do you mean you’re the one who sent me his location?” Jeongguk presses, shoulders squaring with sudden focus.

“I’ve kept tabs on Park for years. I notice if someone else is snooping around, and most recently, that’s been you.”

Jeongguk tries to hide his shock, but he doesn’t even bother to drink his coffee as a cover. “Explain.”

“Does it hurt to ask nicely?”

“Yes. Explain.”

Namjoon adjusts his ball cap. It’s a Wolf’s hat. “Don’t whine at me if I start from the beginning. I’m a storyteller, after all.

“So,” he goes, “I went to high school with Jimin.”

Jeongguk’s tempted to interrupt and ask if Jimin’s aware of Namjoon’s double life, if Namjoon spilled he was coming today despite Jeongguk requesting him not too, or if Jimin’s been keeping this from Jeongguk this entire time.

But that last one can’t be true.

Jeongguk holds his tongue and listens.

“After graduating, I planned to become a cop,” says Namjoon. “Call it my self-righteous desire to do some good in the world. However, I only got as far as bootcamp before I was let go. I never got my badge. At the time, I was a lot more emotional about it, but I’ve let that anger go. It was because there at basic, I learned the reality of the National Police Agency. From the very start, they shove on us their strict don’t ask policy. You can’t question anything, because you’re supposed to take everything. It’s that military mindset, you know? Except I guess I thought it’d be different with the police.”

“Let me guess,” Jeongguk deadpans. “You asked.”

“I asked about the don’t ask,” Namjoon confirms with a nod. “But it was more than that. It wasn’t just commenting about bootcamp training methods, but so we, as subordinates, can’t question how corrupt it all is. It was so that if a superior made an unfair decision, no one can question it. It’s how the police are brainwashed into only doing what they’re told and assuming that they only know what they need to know. Well, I didn’t like that very much, and I was let go for it. So, I pursued my Plan B career path. It threw my parents for a loop, but they secretly preferred I do something safe anyways.” Namjoon winces a bit. “Sorry, Mom and Dad. They have no clue about my after hours.”

“And how did that happen, exactly?”

“Chief Na contacted me two years after I was discharged—unofficially, I guess, as I never actually became a cop. She’d been going through the record of some other case when she happened upon mine and read my report on why I’d been let go. She got a hold of me and offered a proposition: she couldn’t give me any weapons, clearance, or classified information, but considering that the police ignore certain criminals, then it shouldn’t matter if a citizen gets involved in something they ignore. She never got over how she was pulled off of your brother’s case with Park and his gang. It’s obvious how he died and who Park is, but the higher ups made a bunch of bullshit excuses as to why they needed to utilize their resources and efforts elsewhere.

“Na always had it in the back of her mind, but seeing my release report gave her a thought. Would I be interested in helping her keep tabs on Park and his gang? It wouldn’t be much—I wouldn’t be busting into Park’s secret hideout with guns blazing. But I could keep tabs on him if there ever comes a day in which Na has the chance to arrest him.

“It’s not just Park,” Namjoon adds, “but whatever else Na wants help with. She warned me I’d be risking my life, because there’s only so much physical support she can give me considering this is completely under the radar. But, I told her that if I wasn’t willing to risk my life, I never would have attempted to be a cop in the first place. So, I’ve been working undercover as nothing more than a concerned citizen the past few years doing little things for Na when she asks. One of those—the biggest thing, really—is knowing where Park is. All the time.

“I emailed you his location, Jeongguk, because I know where Park even gets his favorite dumplings. Meaning, I know when an outlier is snooping around, which is you.”

It’s overwhelming to take all of this information in. Jeongguk should have met Namjoon at a bar, not a coffee shop.

“Why tell me where he was at all?” Jeongguk asks.

“I was curious what you wanted, particularly as one of Park’s victims from Na’s cut off case back then, and even more so because you’re currently my best friend’s sugar daddy.”

At that, Jeongguk can’t help but huff a humored smirk over his coffee cup.

“So,” says Namjoon, “I talked to Na about it, and her instinct told her that Park wouldn’t hurt you. Not now, at least. I waited until Park planned to have a harmless business meeting with some client of his, emailing you where it’d be and when I knew the meeting would be over so Park would be alone. I tracked you on the city’s CCTV feeds to make sure you left the same way you went in.”

Jeongguk doesn't ask how Namjoon has access to city CCTV. He can guess it’s thanks to Na.

“Where does Jimin fit in all of this?” Jeongguk asks, because amongst all of the info bombs Namjoon just dropped on him, this is what’s at the forefront of Jeongguk’s mind. It’s forcing its presence like a sun ray caught in a cloud.

“An oblivious place,” Namjoon answers, sounding regretful. “He knows nothing. When he was offered a job at Decadentia, I knew what the club was, but I pretended I’d never heard of it. But my support of him taking the job was genuine. I know enough about your brother’s case to know about Deca, particularly how it’s been a safe and successful employer ever since that tragedy. Besides, Jimin would have just stayed a stripper if he didn’t take the job, and I hate that Jimin lived that life for so long.”

At Jeongguk’s pensive face, Namjoon quickly assures, “I have nothing against stripping, but it was the danger that comes with it that I hate. So, yeah, Jimin being at Deca the last six or seven months has been great for him. But it’s a funny coincidence that you ended up sponsoring him, isn’t it?”

Jeongguk doesn’t feign ignorance, but he hardly reverts to instant admittance.

“Look,” Namjoon starts, leaning in towards the table to speak low below his cap, “I don’t know what kind of relationship you’re pretending to have with Jimin, but I know why you started it at all in the first place. Except Jimin doesn’t know a thing. Not about me, you, or his father. I also don’t know the full extent of his feelings for you, but he likes you. He seriously likes you. I don’t want him getting hurt in all this.”

Jimin said those words already. I like you. They kissed two nights ago, and it was more than some basic kiss. It was a silent conversation spoken with their bodies, two musical notes empty on their own until brought together to form a melody.

“Well, you said it yourself,” he tells Namjoon, toying with his watch on his wrist. “You know why I started this in the first place.” To get back at Park, and Jimin’s unfortunately his son.

Namjoon tilts his head in disapproval. “Yes, but I don’t mean it like that. Don’t break his heart, Jeongguk.”

He has nothing to say to this.

Rather, he drags his mind to something he can talk about.

It’s ridiculous that Na has to go around the police when she’s a chief herself. Doesn’t her position give her any sway? Jeongguk grabs his coffee, irritated, and takes a long sip. “You really just watch where Park goes like a fly on the wall? You haven’t done a damn thing yet?”

“What can I do? What can Na do? She has her own superiors. She’s caught in a tight web. It’s why she reached out to me all of those years ago in the first place, and there are still major roadblocks.”

Jeongguk recalls her comments about why she chose to remain an officer, even despite its limits. It’s admirable, he thinks, but also frustrating. He still mutters, “If she doesn't like how they operate, why bother being a chief?”

“Um, a salary?” Namjoon offers. “Government job benefits? And because she has access to the information that led her to me, and thus brought you to me now.”

Jeongguk side-glances him. “How is me being here making any difference?”

“The difference is that you can meet with Park.”

Jeongguk narrows his brows.

“I can’t,” Namjoon continues. “He doesn’t know me. Even if I pretended to be a buyer, or a seller, or someone from another gang, I couldn’t do anything that would force the cops to move in on him. He’d never let a stranger get close enough.” He pauses, but Jeongguk has a feeling he knows where the conversation is heading. It whirls something in his chest like a chilling wind.

Namjoon tells him, “But you can.”

Chapter Text

His thoughts still swaying back and forth like a pendulum from earlier, Jeongguk shoves his lengthy conversation with Namjoon to the back of his mind. He smooths his hands down his airy jacket as he stalks away from his cycle, headed towards Deca’s back entrance within the parking garage.

The late spring air is humid tonight. Its misty embrace clouded Jeongguk while he sped down the cycleway, the warmth flowing through his clothes. He’s glad he dressed light, but because of his helmet, he’ll have to stop to adjust his hair once within Deca’s walls.

Tonight, he needed to take his cycle. On the bike, the freeing rush of the fast lane’s wind and the blurring lights through the maze of New Seoul’s skyscrapers cleared his head. Now, rising up the elevator and stepping off at his destination, the overwhelming thoughts threaten to return.

Earlier, Jimin texted him asking if he was coming. Jeongguk didn’t plan to, but after staring long enough at his mobile screen for his sight to go fuzzy, he figured it was the right thing to do. Still, Jeongguk skips out on the stage performances tonight, instead arriving ten minutes before the VIP social hour begins. He has no desire to witness anyone fucking today, especially Jimin.

Jeongguk can’t imagine the shit Jimin had to put up with before he began working at Decadentia. He knows Jimin primarily stripped for male customers. Jimin once told him that it wasn’t intentional, but that those were just the individuals who came to his clubs. Although women can be just as vile, it’s idiotic to think men aren’t more familiar with causing imperious cruelty.

This societal history stems from the moment humankind tossed away egalitarian hunting and gathering to begin roles centered on farming, ones that highlighted the physically strong and therefore cultivated the assumption that those partaking in hefty manual labor equated to a superior mind. It’s ironic considering that Jimin’s former employers were often all-male staff for an all-male customer base. Wouldn’t one think that would even the playing field? But the catch is that the men frequenting such establishments don’t see the performers as men—they don’t even see them as human.

Thinking about Jimin having to interact with roaches who pretend to be men makes Jeongguk’s blood boil.

He felt the same watching Park’s men shove Jimin against that concrete wall in Sinwon. Something about it felt wrong, not just because the act was fucked up on its own, but because it was the first time Jeongguk has ever seen Jimin so helpless. It’s like picking up what looks to be a perfectly ripe fruit, only to find it soft and defenseless to a too tight grip. In a way, the unexpected realization is even a bit sinister.

Jeongguk isn’t calling Jimin’s helplessness soft, because Jimin isn’t helpless. But two nights ago, he was outnumbered. He was forced to submit. That is what’s off. That is what’s sinister. It put into a shockingly apparent perspective what he might have had to deal with when he stripped, something Jeongguk has only casually considered beforehand.

He works his jaw at the thought.

His fingers run through his hair in front of the bathroom mirror down the hall from the exclusive cocktail lounge. Thick and healthy, it’s hardly mused too much from his helmet. A few fluffs and it’s back to being dapper.

But his face. Jeongguk sees the tinted bruises through his makeup, having blended the products on before leaving home in an attempt to mask the darkened colors. He doesn’t think others will notice in the cocktail lounge’s low light, but he sees it. 

Facing himself through his reflection, he wonders what Jimin sees when he looks at him. Jeongguk has always valued self-care when it comes to hygiene and presentation. He doesn’t consider himself conceited over his own physical appearance, but he does appreciate how he grooms himself well. He supposes he gets it from his mother.

Jeon Ryuji is always elegant in both her poise and dress. She made sure to dress Jeongguk up like her little doll when he was young, but he never minded it. While the outside world turned to trendy colors and patterns for fashion, Ryuji has always been a fan of sophisticated monochromes and classic design. Of course, she enjoys pops of hues here and there, such as her famous red. But Jeongguk has always liked black, even before Jeongsik died. His preference for the shade is hardly a reflection of his internal struggles, but if the shoe fits.

Jimin likes fashion. He also takes care of himself, as he should with his job. But Jeongguk wonders if Jimin cares that he and Jeongguk are alike in this way. Does he find himself pulled to Jeongguk for it? Does he find parts of Jeongguk’s outward appearance worthy of appreciation in ways Jeongguk doesn’t?

Because Jeongguk likes how Jimin has a habit of fixing his own hair. He likes how Jimin’s shoulders are slight, enough to fit snugly within Jeongguk’s arms when they kissed in Jimin’s bathroom. He likes Jimin’s delicate hands, the strength in his thighs in contrast to his slim waist, his naturally rounded backside—

Jeongguk curls his fists atop the sink’s countertop. Thinking like this doesn’t help anything.

He checks himself once more before leaving for the lounge.

He enters before the performers do, so he goes straight for the bar. He nods politely as passing VIPs before taking a seat at an empty stool at the bar’s left end.

“Good evening, Jeongguk,” instantly greets one of the three bartenders, a young woman some odd number of years older than him. “What will it be for you tonight?”

He sighs, drumming his fingers atop the counter. The bar wall is stacked with a towering display of bottles, showcasing an excess amount of choices. “Surprise me,” he decides, lazy rather than thrilled. “Just make whatever it is straight.”

She gets to it, crafting a cocktail in a short glass. It doesn’t take long. When she drops it off, she watches while he tastes it. It’s strong, smooth, and similar to the handful of concoctions he usually orders, making it comfortable.

“This is perfect,” he tells her, though he didn’t expect anything less. “Thank you, Seolyeon.”

She nods. “Of course.” Her attention suddenly flicks past his shoulder, and he half-turns to catch the performers strolling into the room. “Anything else for you?” she asks.

Glancing away from Jimin, Jeongguk says, “Yes, one of whatever tonight’s special cocktail is.”

After Seolyeon delivers the second drink order, he takes it and his own towards where Jimin has settled on a tufted loveseat off to the side of the room, perhaps as though waiting for him to come over. The small sofa faces the windowed wall. With its back to the lounge, Jeongguk lowers himself down beside him, the cityscape view a speckle of lights. He wordlessly hands Jimin the second drink.

“Which one is this?” Jimin asks, inspecting the flute.

“Not sure. If it’s shit, blame whoever decided today’s featured drink.”

Jimin sips the pale pink liquid, scrunching his face while he judges. “It’s good,” he decides. “Fruity. Taehyung would like it.”

Taehyung, as in BB. Jeongguk knows all of the performers’ names, of course, even if he hardly ever refers to the staff by them. But with over twenty performers, he sometimes requires a moment to remember which real name is whose.

He doesn’t have to think too hard when it comes to BB. Jimin only ever calls him Taehyung when he speaks about him to Jeongguk. Min Yoongi, too.

Jeongguk is glad that Jimin is close with them. Despite everything, he wants Jimin to feel comfortable here.

As future owner of Deca, Jeongguk desires his staff to get along, even more to be friends. He feels satisfied when Jimin speaks warmly about the others, for both his sake and Jeongguk’s.

For the guise of appearances, the two of them are tucked beside each other on the loveseat. At least, that’s Jeongguk’s excuse. He wonders if it’s Jimin’s too, or if Jimin doesn’t even need to force an excuse in his mind anymore to layer over how close they sit. Their sides are pressed together, legs slightly turned towards the other. They sink into the soft cushions, backs curved and bodies relaxed. At least with the window being the only thing in front of them, they don’t need to take care of their expressions.

Jeongguk doesn’t know how any of this works. For some reason, he’s able to sit here, his limbs and muscles all loose, even though he had quite the eventful discussion with Namjoon earlier. He shouldn’t feel so at ease, not when he knows it’s not just him keeping things from Jimin, but Jimin’s very own best friend. Not when things are now more complicated than they’ve ever been.

But here with Jimin, even if just for a blissful moment, he can allow himself to succumb to it.

To succumb to him.

“Hey.” Jeongguk softly nudges his arm, gathering Jimin’s attention from where he’s observing a clump of animated members laughing a bit away to the right of them. The contrast is like their own little nook being a smooth stone among jagged rocks.

“Are you okay?” Jeongguk asks.

“Yeah,” Jimin answers automatically, seeming surprised Jeongguk even asked.

Jimin is more covered up today, less skin than usual on display below his stunning matching set. But the pieces are still fitted, molded to his body to showcase every line and curve. He’ll never be able to mask why he’s in this room in the first place.

“No,” Jeongguk replies, unaccepting of his answer. “About what happened two days ago. Are you okay?”

Jimin toys with the glass between his fingers, staring at the mixture within. “Sure. I guess.”

“How descriptive.”

“You want me to sob in your arms, or something?”

“No, but I’d appreciate a bit more than a sure.”

Jimin rolls his eyes. “Right, says Mr. Loquacious.”

Jeongguk focuses on the nightscape beyond the windows with silent exasperation. Jimin’s the bright one. Jimin’s the shameless one. He should be able to voice his emotions about that night to Jeongguk, no matter how upset. Hell, maybe he’s actually doing just grand, and while that would be worryingly questionable, Jeongguk wants to hear it.

Jeongguk has spoken more to Jimin these past few months than with anyone else, even Seokjin. He’s spent more time with him than anyone. He knows for a fact the same can be said about Jimin in return.

Jimin might have been understandably hesitant at the start of their sponsorship, but he’s opened up since. He’s even divulged more about what his youth was like when his father was around, though he’s kept away from any detailed anecdotes. But he’s provided a handful about his mother. He’s even shared about his teen years at the orphanage.

In this moment, Jimin reverting back to being so instantly closed off must mean he’s not, in fact, all right.

“I mean,” Jeongguk specifies, “about what happened in the alley.” Not afterwards. Jeongguk can’t talk about afterwards.

He glances at Jimin’s cheek. His small bandage has been prematurely removed, instead covered up in makeup for the sake of his recent performance.

Jimin twists his neck to hide that side of his face. “I’m fine, Jeongguk.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Okay, no,” he agrees with faux cheer, “it sucked, but there’s no point in rehashing it, unless you want to finally explain who the fuck those men were.”

Jeongguk can’t, and even though Jimin doesn’t understand the context, he knows it, too. The disappointed look he wears pools something hollow in Jeongguk’s gut.

Jeongguk takes his alcohol glass from where he’s been resting it on his knee, knocking back a gulp to fill his stomach with the burning liquid instead.

“But it’s weird,” Jimin says, speaking up despite his prior comment. “Those guys, the ones who grabbed me—one of them said they were doing all of that to ‘teach my boyfriend a lesson.’ While I’m flattered they assumed you were lucky enough to snatch me up, I’m guessing you know them. You do know them, don’t you.” At Jeongguk’s hesitation, Jimin narrows his chin and says, “Don’t bullshit me, just say yes or no.”

Jeongguk sighs. “Yes. Technically.”

“Then shouldn’t they know the right semantics of what you and I are? Unless using that particular word was the point, because they were clearly targeting you. I mean, the one all pressed against me like a slimy sandwich wasn’t even hard, like he wasn’t even interested in me other than to mess with you. Then again, that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have done anything to me, but … who knows. It’s just weird.”

Holy shit.

Park is a twisted genius. A sick, horrific genius.

His men were meant to send a message, and that’s exactly what they did. They may have spooked Jeongguk and Jimin, but they wouldn’t have hurt them, not really. They’d beat up Jeongguk, such as by kicking the wind out of him, but when it came to Jimin, Jeongguk doesn’t think they would have gone any farther than what they did. Jeongguk just interrupted their little play before they could stop it themselves.

And that was the point, wasn’t it? Jimin barely scratched his cheek, but what else would those men have done beyond running their hands down his back? It was to make a statement, one that declares that Park is in control. It was to show he doesn’t care for Jimin, except he does. Otherwise, why would he send his men in the first place? If he truly didn’t care about Jimin and truly had called Jeongguk’s bluff, then he wouldn’t have wasted his time with a threatening follow-up.

How did Jeongguk not realize this until now? Park does care for his son. In whatever strange way it might be, he does. It’s probably why he left Jimin as a child without a trace. Perhaps he didn’t want Jimin anywhere near his job.

From the brief history Jimin has shared with Jeongguk over the past few months, Jimin mentioned that his father seemed to love his mother, even if he didn’t give Jimin the time of day. Maybe it was to protect him, Jeongguk thinks. Park chose to have a relationship with Jimin’s mother, therefore he chose to stay in her life despite him being a kingpin. But Park admitted that Jimin wasn’t planned. Park never intended to bring a child of his own flesh and blood into his dangerous lifestyle.

Jimin told Jeongguk that his father would visit and send money but ignore him. What if it was on purpose so that Jimin would grow up hating his father and not wanting anything to do with him? So he’d stay away and thus stay safe?

And when Jimin’s mother died, there was no reason for Park to come around anymore, not if it was his goal for Jimin to keep away. Perhaps ceasing to send him support money while Park was reeling in the riches when Jimin was an abandoned child was cruel, but Park probably thought a full cut off was best. Besides, Jimin had grandparents to live with, right?

If true, Jeongguk disagrees with Park’s method, but his opinion hardly matters. Park probably didn’t think his in-laws would pass away so quickly, forcing Jimin to move into an orphanage.

Shit. Jeongguk does still have leverage over Park with his son.

If Jeongguk’s gut instinct is right, then Park cares more for Jimin than he let on. He cares as a father who never wanted his innocent child to so much as breathe in the direction of the dangerous life he leads. He cares for the child of the woman he loved by staying away from him.

But what can Jeongguk do? His leverage is back to being non-existent if he can’t actually pull through with any threats of his own.

Park could have sent a follow-up because he wanted to make sure Jeongguk actually didn’t do anything, and maybe it was also to prove that Jeongguk cares for Jimin himself. Because if Jeongguk cares for Jimin, he won’t hurt him.

It was a test, and Jeongguk didn’t pass.

After that night, Park’s men would have returned to inform him all about how Jeongguk flipped out. Kangdae has now confirmed his suspicions after only one meeting.

What’s left, then? Maybe Park was lying about not caring if Jimin finds out that his father is actually a gang leader who distributes drugs and facilitates further illegal activity. Park lied about not caring for his son at all. Who’s to say he’s not lying about caring for what his son thinks of him?

Jeongguk considers his conversation with Namjoon. Jeongguk has access to Park, especially now. Maybe bringing Jimin to him is the right way in. Maybe this is the only way.

Except picturing Jimin and Kangdae in the same room fills Jeongguk with the same off feeling he felt two nights ago in Sinwon with those goons.

Why can’t Jimin be despicable like his father? Why does Jimin have to sit beside Jeongguk now, drinking gracefully from his cocktail glass to resemble the stage name he goes by?

It’s so unfair. From Jeongsik to Jimin, everything is so fucking unfair.

Jimin suddenly tugs on a lock of Jeongguk’s hair, bristling him out of his torturous thoughts.

“Are you growing out your hair?”

“Not on purpose.”

“I like it,” he says, smoothing it over Jeongguk’s ear. “It suits you.”

Jeongguk holds Jimin’s stare before he swallows the last sip of his drink. He can’t take it anymore. “Want to get out of here?” he says, dropping his empty cup beside him with a clink.

“Are you serious?”

“When am I not?”

“On occasion. I haven’t even finished my drink.”

“Take it with you.” Jeongguk grabs Jimin’s hand and pulls him to his feet. “I’m fairly certain Deca can cover the cost of one rogue glass.”

Ignoring the onslaught of staring that follows them stalking out of the room, Jeongguk pushes forward, Jimin on his heels.

He doesn’t know where he’s going or what they should do, he just knows that he wants out. Deca’s his second home, but he wants nothing to do with it right now. He wants to navigate the familiarity of sitting close at Jimin’s side elsewhere, somewhere unrelated. He wants to take advantage of the blissfully oblivious time they have left, because it’s on a timer.

“Do you work tomorrow?” Jeongguk asks as they step into the floor’s elevator.

“No, why?”

“Let’s stay out.”

Jimin balks at him, likely recalling how swiftly Jeongguk left after that heated kiss. Jeongguk was too overwhelmed that night, unsure he’d be able to keep his wits about him if he allowed himself to fall into Jimin entirely. He needed to reign himself in. He already couldn’t sleep when he arrived home, taking a trip to the police station instead. Now, after passing out the previous night to play catch up, he’s a bit steadier on his feet.

“Are you okay?” Jimin questions.

“Not really,” Jeongguk replies, tapping his foot on the floor while they descend the building’s spine. “But I think I’d be crazy if I was.”

He sweeps out the doors when they open, heading for the garage. Jimin flounces after him, the heels of their dress shoes clacking atop the sanded concrete with each step.

“Jeongguk,” Jimin calls.

They reach his cycle, the bike not too far in from its reserved parking space. Jeongguk lifts the seat, pulling out his additional helmet before unlatching his own from its lock.

“Jeongguk,” Jimin repeats, flushing when Jeongguk thrusts one of the helmets over his head for him. “I never said I wanted to go anywhere.”

Jeongguk freezes, his hands slackening along the sides of Jimin’s helmet. “You don’t?”

Jimin holds his gaze for a moment before weakly smacking him away. “I do, you just didn’t give me the chance to say so.”

After securing on his own helmet, Jeongguk swings a leg over his cycle, Jimin settling into the seat behind him. Unlike the first time they rode together, Jimin instantly snakes his arms around Jeongguk’s middle while the bike lights to life in purple, tucking his helmet-head as close as he comfortably can atop Jeongguk’s shoulder.

He must have left his cocktail glass somewhere when he was trailing behind him.

“Where to?” Jimin asks.

“You want to go to the beach?”

“Right now? It’s one in the morning.”

“So? There’s a full moon.”

“Who are you and what did you do to Jeon Jeongguk?”

He scoffs, backing out of his parking spot before stalling in the middle of the lane. At Jimin’s confused hum, Jeongguk says, “I’m giving you the chance to tell me yes or no.”

Jimin pokes his stomach, comically causing Jeongguk to jerk. “Yes. Let’s be a little rebellious.”

“We’re just going to the beach,” Jeongguk says, “not running away.”

Running away should be permanent  Jeongguk knows this is only temporary.

He lets off the brake, shooting them out of the garage and onto the cycleway.

Muwangpo Beach is sixty kilometers from New Seoul, and the typical daytime traffic is vacant during the late night. Rather than a ridiculous forty-five to sixty minute journey of stop and go, the high-speed cycleway riding adjacent to the main road gets them to their destination in half an hour.

The closer they ride towards the west coast, the lower the temperature drops. The sticky air fades to something softer, with gentle breezes swirling the smell of salt through the night as they halt at a stoplight once off the cycleway.

Though enough New Seoul citizens pepper the city streets past midnight, Muwangpo’s beach town is emptied beyond the occasional passerby stumbling out of a bar or exiting a 24-hour convenience store. Most residents and visitors alike are long asleep, with stores shut until morning and the roads void of any traveling transports. Vehicles are parked, with the only sounds being drifting laughter echoing off the pavement from bars and the rustling of fully bloomed trees.

And the ocean. It moves with the moon.

Jeongguk parks in a public lot beside the nearest beach entrance. The pair of them stroll down a walkway through the brush, everything coated in navy blue. The moon hangs bright in the sky, just enough to illuminate where they step. It washes the tide in glistening darkness.

Muwangpo Beach is known for its vast stretch of sand spanning from the street to the shore. Even with the pulled in tide, you could line up a handful of buses across the grains before reaching the water. It’s empty at this hour, at least at this spot.

A few feet from where the wobbly dry sand transitions into a flat, wet bed, Jeongguk and Jimin stop to kick off their shoes and peel off their socks. They roll up their pants as much as they can. Jimin finishes first, and he tiptoes forward into the sea.

Jeongguk waits for him to react, wanting to gauge the water’s temperature. But Jimin just curiously glances at the calm tide spilling between his ankles.

“Is it cold?” Jeongguk wonders.

Jimin motions indifferently. “Not really.”

Pants high enough, Jeongguk follows him in.

“Ah—fuck!” he seethes, flinching as the chilling water soaks his skin. Jimin bursts into a fit of devilish giggles, absolutely entertained.

Jeongguk shoots daggers at him, wincing while the shore alters the water’s level up and down his calves. “For fuck’s sake, it’s June, not January.”

Still grinning, Jimin replies, “It’s not hot enough yet to heat the water, I guess. Also, young masters student, the sun went down hours ago, so there’s that.”

Jeongguk kicks a splash at him. Jimin widens his eyes in overly dramatic offense.

“You’re not really gonna start a splashing war with me,” Jimin says more so in a warning. “You know how much this outfit costs?”

“Did I buy it for you?”

Jimin hesitates. “Maybe.”

“Then I’ll pay for its dry cleaning.” Jeongguk kicks out another splash.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Jimin urges, running away up the shore and thus out of the splash zone. Jeongguk doesn’t have the time to even frown before Jimin’s pulling off his layers and unzipping his pants.

Jeongguk lets out an incredulous laugh. “You’re insane. The water’s freezing.”

Left in nothing but his underwear, Jimin forgets his clothes on the sand and pads back into the sea, going far enough in until the surface reaches his stomach. Then he crouches, letting the water hold him up. He doesn’t say a word, but just patiently smirks at Jeongguk.

Jeongguk sighs. Then he steps up the sand and undresses next.

They stay in the water until their fingers and toes turn to prunes, until they’re so accustomed to the temperature that the breezy air is what slathers them in goosebumps. They wade around, taking a moment to splash like mischievous little kids. No one is here to witness them do it. If any and all viewers are absent, are their actions actually that of children?

For Jeongguk, it’s just fun. But he doesn’t remember having such innocent fun since he was a kid, back when he’d run around Deca’s halls with Jeongsik and Seokjin. Everything after Jeongsik’s death was void of the feeling. His mother was a corpse for a year until she became a devoted businesswoman, even more so than before. Seokjin was a teenager and out of reach in a way he’d never been prior to then. Jeongguk was a shy student, focused on his studies more than his social skills.

Fun isn’t a familiar concept to him. But in the past few months, he’s been relearning it thanks to Jimin.

Teeth chattering, they somehow end up embracing, desperate for warmth. It’s so easy to stay locked together in the weightless water. They float like that for a while, the sound of the shore filling their ears and the moon highlighting their faces in pale white. With delicate fingertips, Jimin traces the bones of Jeongguk’s jaw, cheeks, and brows. He carefully brushes over his bruises. Searching Jeongguk’s face, Jimin surprisingly blooms into a gentle smile that spring flowers would envy.

“What?” asks Jeongguk, confused as to what about his bruising could possibly be worthy of such a pretty reaction.

“You’re cute.”

“What?”

“You are. You don’t even know.”

Jeongguk frowns. Jimin just hums a giggle.

Then Jimin hugs him, tucking his chin into the crook of Jeongguk’s neck. His exhales blow hot on Jeongguk’s shivering skin.

Their hearts beat in sync, pressed together.

Jimin’s the first to pull away, but he interlocks his fingers with Jeongguk’s, leading him back to the beach. He guides him to the dry sand, and they splay out on their backs, the grains sticking to their wet shoulder blades.

“The moon looks fake,” Jimin mumbles, both of them gazing up at the pitch black sky.

“So do the stars.” The flickering dots billions of lightyears away sprinkle across the darkness. They’re a phenomenon unseen in the light-polluted city of New Seoul.

“It’s a shame,” says Jimin. “New Seoul is so … artificially bright. It’s beautiful, sure, but so is this.” There’s a comfortable pause, a time to enjoy the sound of the melodic waves. Until: “You drove here without any directions.”

“My mother used to take me here during the summer when I was young. Me and my brother.” Jeon Ryuji isn’t always decked in business wear typing away on a monitor to delegate her entertainment house. There was a time when she frequented getaways with her children. She likes all things lavish, after all. What’s more lavish than a beach vacation during the hot summer months? Relaxing out on the shelly sand, soaking in the sun, dining on exquisite seafood dishes. She’d laugh at Jeongguk and Jeongsik’s antics as they dirtied themselves in the sand.

“After Jeongsik died,” he continues, “we came less and less. It admittedly was more so my own teen angst that ended the tradition rather than my mom.”

“Ah, was this when you started wearing funeral clothes, listening to metal, and grew out your hair to strategically cover your eyes?”

“I never listened to metal.”

Jeongguk can almost hear Jimin smile beside him.

“But the hair,” Jimin says.

“ … There was a moment when it was a bit long.”

“Is there photo evidence?”

“Somewhere.”

“Cool, I’ll harass Seokjin for it.”

“Please, don’t.”

“My God, I think this is the first time you’ve said please.”

“That can’t be true.”

Jimin playfully nudges him, and they fall into another safe silence as they gaze up at the stars.

Suddenly, a dog barks far in the distance, likely a stray or a late-night bathroom walk.

“Shit,” Jeongguk murmurs, reaching for his discarded pants to grab his mobile.

“What?”

“Woojoo.”

Jimin winces, seemingly having forgotten about the jindo himself. “She can’t hold it all night? Do you usually take her out this late?”

“She can hold it, but she’ll need to go out in the morning.” Jeongguk messages a trusted neighbor, one who’s taken Woojoo out before when Jeongguk’s been out of town.

“Aren’t we heading back after this?” asks Jimin.

“It’s almost three.” Jeongguk knows he’s unlikely to get a response at this hour, so he clicks off his device after sending the text. The sudden worry gone, he rests back along the sand. “I came here intending to stay the night.”

“As nice as this is, I don’t think sleeping out in the open is the safest move. Some bird’s gonna wake us up trying to poke out our eyeballs with its beak.”

Jeongguk closes his eyes, smiling. “We’ll rent a room, Angel.”

Jimin doesn’t answer. Lids still shut, Jeongguk comments, “Unless you’d rather sleep out here and risk a bird attack.”

“A room sounds good.”

Once the air has dried their skin, they gather their things and head for the beach’s public showers. They each wash away the clinging sand from their bodies before stepping into the drying domes, the encased space made for beach goers to quickly complete their wash in contrast to a basic towel. The only thing it can’t do is fully dry their damp underwear. Not wanting to slip into their pants only to soak through them, they turn back-to-back and each slip off their undergarments before re-dressing, choosing to go commando for the moment. No one is likely to see them, anyway, besides whoever checks them into their lodging. And perhaps a store clerk. Jimin mentions stopping by that convenience store they passed for snacks and necessities.

The main strip is walkable, so they leave Jeongguk’s cycle as is and tread to the store.

Its fluorescent ceiling lights are a stark contrast to the dimmed golden streetlamps. The clerk doesn’t even spare them a glance. He’s hunched over the checkout counter watching some drama on a tablet, its dialogue echoing through the empty store while he crunches on a bag of potato chips.

Jeongguk and Jimin select their share of treats, as well as toothbrushes, toothpaste, and fresh underwear. Whatever hotel they stay at should have the rest in its bathroom.

When Jeongguk snags a sealed bowl of ramen, Jimin side-eyes him.

“What?” he says, going for the counter to pay so he can quickly use the store’s ramen station.

Jimin shakes his head with a soft laugh, grabbing a ramen pack for himself, as well as a glass of peach soju for them to share.

After paying and filling their plastic bowls with hot water, they settle outside at one of the store’s exterior plastic picnic tables to slurp up their late night snack. Jimin pours Jeongguk’s shot before his own. Jeongguk huffs at the action, bemused.

“How old school of you,” he teases, bending back his neck to down his shot from its paper cup.

Jimin shrugs, swallowing his own. “Some habits die hard.”

“You have no qualms when it comes to drinking at Deca.”

“Everything about Deca is a far cry from tradition. This right here, pigging out on cheap ramen and soju—this is ingrained in our blood as Koreans. I feel like our ancestors would be ashamed if I didn’t properly man the soju as someone older than you.” Whether intentional or not, Jimin lifts a leg to rest his foot on his seat, his knee bent below his chin. The posture paired with the humble meal in this small town crafts the perfect visual to support Jimin’s comments.

Jeongguk smiles at it, enamored.

Once finished, they tread to the nearest hotel Jeongguk searched up that’s up to par with his standards. He doesn’t mind a simple place as long as it has at least four stars and positive reviews noting cleanliness. He considered taking up the hotel he and his family always resided at, but he thought better of it. He came here tonight to get away from the rules and glamor of Deca. He doesn’t need a high-end hotel reminding him of it.

As expected, the small lobby is vacant beside the concierge. She sleepily checks them into an empty room on the highest floor—the 10th, which is a joke compared to New Seoul’s cloud-reaching heights—before handing them the keycard.

Unlike their ease at the beach and the convenience store, Jeongguk and Jimin are suddenly silent when they step into the elevator. Jeongguk thinks he can hear his heart thrumming in his chest. He hopes Jimin can’t.

The room is clean and simple, styled in accents of woven rope, whites, and tastefully placed hibiscus-themed decor. They drop off their goodies on the television stand. Jeongguk scratches the back of his neck.

“Do you plan to shower?” he asks.

Jimin perks up from where he’s arranging the snacks. “Hm? Oh. Not really. I think the exhaustion is finally hitting me. Besides, didn’t we kind of already do that?”

Kind of, except Jeongguk definitely still feels sand stuck between his toes.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Then I won’t, either.”

Memories of two nights ago flood back. Gripping Jimin’s waist, tasting his tongue, gliding his clothed erection over Jeongguk’s own.

Jeongguk snatches his newly purchased toothbrush, toothpaste, and underwear, using them as a valid reason to excuse himself to the bathroom. He roughly washes out his mouth and uses the hotel’s facial cleanser, breathing deeply over the sink as the lukewarm water slips down his neck.

At this rate, he’s going to go mad.

He changes into the new underwear, foregoing putting his clothes back on when he’s just going to get into bed. He’s grateful neither of them switched on any of the hotel room’s lights other than the desk lamp. He’s not sure he’d be able to exit the bathroom otherwise. For some reason, wearing nothing but his undergarments here feels different than on the beach.

There, it’s expected.

He trades places with Jimin, averting his eyes as they pass each other. Jeongguk then uses his brief alone time to further inspect the room.

Was he so out of it when he entered that he didn’t realize it’s a single bed? It’s a king, giving them plenty of room, but still. It’s the idea.

Jeongguk rubs at his chin, laughing quietly to himself. He’s definitely going crazy.

Before Jimin comes out, he climbs under the covers on one side, the blankets heavy atop his body. He checks his mobile in case his neighbor texted him back, but to no surprise, the message hasn’t even been read yet. He isn’t worried. He knows the neighbor will see the text when she wakes up and will be more than happy to take Woojoo out. Jeongguk sent over his current door password, meaning he’ll have to change it once he comes back from—

The sound of the bathroom door clicking open silences his thoughts. Jimin softly steps out, indecent as much as Jeongguk is indecent. He doesn’t say a word as he shuts off the single lamp, getting into bed on the other side. The covers rustle with the shift.

Unlike Jeongguk, who’s turned towards the ceiling, Jimin lies on his side, tucking an arm under his head below one of two pillows. Jeongguk feels his stare like it’s physically pressing into his cheek.

When Jeongguk’s sight has adjusted enough to the darkness, he nestles over, facing Jimin. There’s a respectful space between them, but it wouldn’t take much to close it. Jimin’s a shadowed silhouette, tinted with the barest red from the television’s off-button indicator across the room. Low shades from outside sneak in from under the closed curtains.

It’s cold in here, like all hotels. But the blankets are thick, and Jimin’s salt-scented body heat permeates underneath them.

“Are you okay?” Jimin whispers.

Jeongguk nods. It’s not entirely accurate, but it’s not a lie.

Jimin reaches forward a cautious hand, stroking back a slip of Jeongguk’s hair. “Good. Me too.”

Maybe they should have gotten two rooms. Jeongguk isn’t sure if he’ll be able to sleep tonight. He’s too used to a lonely bed. Even Woojoo keeps to her crate when it’s bedtime.

“Thank you,” Jimin suddenly tells him, his voice as calm as the moonlit tide.

“For what?”

“I don’t know.” It’s so difficult to see the details in the dark. There’s only the outline of him, but it’s enough. “Standing by me,” he decides.

Jeongguk doesn’t know what to say to this, so he says nothing at all.

Jimin falls asleep first. Jeongguk watches it happen, listening to his breaths become methodic, before he, somehow, eventually follows.

It ends up being the most peaceful sleep he’s had in years, but he doesn’t even know it while he’s unconscious. One moment he’s tuned in to Jimin’s quiet exhales, and the next, Jeongguk is gone himself.

Chapter Text

It’s become a quiet agreement. Jimin and Jeongguk no longer spend time together under the guise of their sponsorship, but instead just spend time together. The shift hasn’t been verbally uttered, but Jimin likes to think he’s aware enough to notice it. Does Jeongguk?

If not, then Jeongguk has done a fabulous job keeping his idiocy hidden until now, but Jimin likes to give him more credit than that.

Jimin wonders if this is what it’s like between Taehyung, Yoongi, and Hoseok. Is it natural to text each other daily thoughts and happenings as if sending off to a personal diary? Do the three of them order takeout and crash on the couch, watching shit television?

Because that’s what Jimin and Jeongguk are doing tonight.

Jeongguk has brought Woojoo over to Jimin’s penthouse, and she’s currently snuggled up by their feet atop the living room rug. Jimin has managed to convince Jeongguk to watch this stupid reality show that Chan managed to convince Jimin to rot his braincells watching. Jimin was originally reluctant to start it himself, but the dramatic concept and scandal is admittedly addicting. All it took was one episode for Jimin to want to know what happens next.

After watching two more on his own, Jimin decided this was the type of show that required company and commentary. Chan had already watched it, so the immediate person Jimin figured to watch alongside him was Jeongguk.

Who else did Jimin spend most of his time with? But it wasn’t just that. When Jimin had considered watching the series alongside someone for shits and giggles, the immediate person who’d come to mind was him. Jeongguk seemed to be the first person who came to mind for everything recently. Jimin only thought of Namjoon once he realized this, mentally smacking himself for betraying his friend of ten years.

Sorry, Namjoon.

Tonight, Jimin and Jeongguk are on episode four out of ten, having caught up to where Jimin left off on his own. Jeongguk wasn’t thrilled to be watching such a mindless program, which only made it more entertaining for Jimin when Jeongguk slowly became invested. He won’t admit it, but he has been carefully watching each episode, grunting responses to Jimin’s commentary.

Like many reality shows, it’s a dating show jam packed with vulgarity and overdramatics. A selection of participants stay in this massive, rented out slew of skyscraper floors for a month and are tasked with getting to know one another, hopefully ending the show liking someone enough to pursue a romantic relationship in real life. The catch is that a select few of the members are hired spies, meaning their task is to inconspicuously wreak havoc by getting the actual participants to fall for them while in reality, the spies don’t actually have any plan to date them in real life. It’s a cruel concept, Jimin thinks, but that’s why it’s been the top trending show since its release.

The naive participants have no idea that this is the show’s true purpose.

The ending is that if the spies get someone to choose them in the end, the spy gets a credit prize. If they don’t get anyone, they get nothing, but they can still earn a few credits based on the amount of drama they cause. If the participants genuinely pick other non-spy participants, they each get credit prizes, plus a genuine relationship.

“Oh my God, she’s so cute,” Jimin says at the current scene on screen. One of the spies had just given a sickeningly romantic monologue to a clueless participant who has no clue that he’s lying through his teeth. She’s all but teary-eyed, a touched hand to her heart at the man’s words. They’re twenty seconds away from having censored sex, but for the moment, it’s sweet like candy.

“She’s gonna combust in on herself when she finds out he’s a spy at the end of the season,” Jimin says. “But he’s doing such a good job, it’s kind of scary. I’d believe him. And I mean, with that body, I’d forgive him even if I found out he was the spy.” Jimin laughs, glancing to see if Jeongguk is too, but Jeongguk only offers a small smile in acknowledgement. His right fist rests on his leg, and he fidgets with his fingers. Jimin nudges him, encouraging a comment from him in return, but Jeongguk only nods towards the TV as if to say pay attention.

Jimin thought that after the beach, things would change.

They have in some ways, seeing how much closer Jimin and Jeongguk have become since, but it’s not the definition of close that Jimin thought. Jimin keeps waiting for Jeongguk to take initiative like he did that day, to take Jimin’s hand and drag him elsewhere, whether it’s to another beach, or a different destination altogether, or to his bed.

Just do something. But it’s still nothing.

As they finish episode four and eventually episode five, Jimin shuts off the screen before it can automatically start episode six.

Jeongguk has been quiet today. He doesn’t say anything when Jimin turns off the television. He doesn’t move.

Setting down the remote, Jimin murmurs to Woojoo. The black jindo pushes herself up at his beckoning, adorably lazy after dozing for the past two hours. Jimin pats the space between him and Jeongguk, and Woojoo follows the silent command, effortlessly hopping up onto the couch. Jimin lovingly strokes her sleek coat, forever impressed with how clean and groomed Jeongguk keeps her. Her fur is always soft and warm. It’s impossible to not want to touch her in some way, whether it’s a full on embrace or a gentle pet on the head.

Jeongguk must feel the same. He lifts a hand, running it down Woojoo’s back. In the exchange, he brushes Jimin’s hand, only to slightly clench his fingers and pull away.

Jimin’s throat tightens.

He decides to pull Woojoo into his arms, even though she’s a decently sized animal. Her weight shifts Jimin on the cushions, and not entirely by accident, Jimin slides, resting against Jeongguk’s shoulder and arm.

“How pretty you are,” Jimin tells Woojoo, using both hands to cup her face. Jeongguk keeps still. Jimin can’t see him from how they’re sitting. Is Jeongguk looking at him or Woojoo?

The dog accepts the love for a moment before tiring of the position. She ruffles out of his grasp and jumps off the couch, padding over to the television and curling into a ball.

Unlike Woojoo, Jimin doesn’t move away. He waits.

But Jeongguk doesn’t move either.

So, Jimin is the first to shift, except he doesn’t leave. He lifts himself up, leaning forward on one hand, pushing into the couch to face the man beside him.

The lights in the kitchen are dimmed. There’s a lamp beside the television casting the living space in a warm glow, more akin to candle light than LEDs. The resulting effect is Jeongguk’s eyes heavily lidded and dark, as black as the night sky beyond the windows. Jimin could jump into them like a swimming pool and happily drown. They’re like melted chocolate, but are they bitter or sweet? Jimin thinks to himself that he doesn’t really care which one it is. He likes the taste of both.

“I want something,” Jimin mumbles. His voice is a pin dropping in a silent room. The penthouse is so high up with thick enough glass that no street noise carries up. The lack of the TV is more noticeable once it’s off, vacant of the cursing and sound effects from the recently shut off entertainment.

“Do I need to ask you,” Jimin continues, “or will you just give it to me?”

If Jeongguk’s stare bore powers, it would beam lasers through Jimin’s own eyes. “I always give you what you want,” he whispers, “don’t I?”

When it comes to their sponsorship, yes.

In the beginning, Jimin was reluctant to Jeongguk’s atypical sponsoring of him, not understanding how to go about it when he’d been trained to handle just about everything else. But once Jimin came to terms that this is how his experience at Deca would be, it became easy to ask for things from Jeongguk. Jeongguk gets him whatever he wants—materially, anyway. But Jimin has long realized it’s better to have a handful of nice things to cherish rather than too many items that can never be fully utilized in one lifetime.

After enough shopping trips to satisfy Jimin, there hasn’t been anything else left to buy. He likes pretty things, but he’s not stupid enough to have more than he can use. It’s why so much of his time with Jeongguk is just that—time.

He supposes he could ask Jeongguk to travel overseas for some exciting vacation, as they’d yet to do anything like that, but that’s not the type of thing Jimin is asking for now.

He knows Jeongguk knows that, too. It’s written all over his face.

When it comes to this, Jimin isn’t sure if Jeongguk will give it to him.

Yet, here they are.

Jimin flicks his gaze to Jeongguk’s mouth, silently asking for permission. Jeongguk says nothing, but he doesn’t move away, and though that’s not good enough for Jimin, he unfortunately thinks that it’s all he’ll get.

If Jeongguk voices dissent, Jimin will stop. He’ll get up and bid Jeongguk goodnight, and they’ll go their separate ways as they eventually always do every time they see one another. If Jeongguk turns his head, Jimin will pull back. If Jeongguk places a hand between their mouths, Jimin will read the room and back off.

So, he kisses Jeongguk with a shaky breath, because he hopes to every god in the universe that Jeongguk does none of those things.

They kiss like dew drops on flower petals, as if too much pressure will cause them to burst and slip right off. Jimin leans into him, breathing in his floral scent and smiling against his mouth, because who would ever think that the outwardly intimidating Jeon Jeongguk would smell like a spring day? Someone like Kkuli probably thinks Jeongguk smells like whiskey and sex, but that can’t be farther from the truth.

Jeongguk slides back along the couch as Jimin pushes closer. At some point, Jimin has crawled into his lap, his knees on either side of him while he kisses down atop Jeongguk’s upturned head. Jeongguk’s hands dig into his waist while his own wrap around Jeongguk’s head. He sinks down atop his crotch, pulling out a low sound from deep within Jeongguk’s throat.

Just how often has he thought about this ever since that first night they kissed in his bathroom? How many times has Jimin performed on stage, focusing on Jeongguk in his private suite and imagining if it was him on stage with Jimin instead?

Too many times. He’s lost count.

He suddenly palms Jeongguk’s hardening want through his pants, feeling over the layers in between just how much it’s straining to be kept down. Jeongguk lets out a gruff sound at the touch, and Jimin grins atop his lips—

Jimin is thrown off of him.

Awkwardly toppled onto the adjacent couch cushion, he’s too shocked to instantly right himself.

Meanwhile, Jeongguk hastily pushes to his feet, stalking a notable distance away. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Jimin can only imagine the black spots the pressure causes in his vision.

“Why?” Jimin asks, his voice coming out much thinner than he intends. “Why do you push me away?”

Jeongguk’s jaw shifts. If he were a stormcloud, the vibrating thunder in his bones would be palpable. “Because we can’t.”

“We can.” Jimin’s not desperate when he says it, because the last thing he’ll ever do is beg for someone. But the intensity of his tone comes from the certainty that he and Jeongguk should by all reasons have no barriers keeping them apart. Yet, Jeongguk ceaselessly keeps up his walls, no matter how many cracks destabilize them day by day.

If Jeongguk was blatantly uninterested, Jimin would not have allowed himself to hopelessly get this far. But Jeongguk’s walls not only have cracks—they’re nearly transparent.

But they’re also blurry. It’s why Jimin can’t pinpoint Jeongguk’s motives and emotions. The only thing he knows for certain is that Jeongguk physically responds to him, because that can’t be hidden. But Jimin is also considerably confident that Jeongguk’s attraction to him isn’t that superficial.

“That’s what this is,” Jimin goes on, sitting up straight on the edge of the couch. “It’s what a sponsorship is. You give to me—and you give so much to me. I don’t even ask you to, but you do. But you won’t give me this.”

It’s more than that. It’s become more than that, but Jimin doesn’t know how to talk about this in any other way. At the end of the day, they are in a sponsorship. If they strip away that excuse, would there still be a reason to see one another? Jimin’s confident in his answer, but is Jeongguk?

Jeongguk shakes his head, brow crinkled in unease. “That’s not part of the rules. It’s an unspoken expectation with the others, for the entitled assholes who sponsor the performers to sleep with them in return for themselves being such generous donors, but I’ve never expected that from you—wanted it, even. That’s not—I don’t want that from you.”

Jimin finds him so ridiculous that he stands to say, “Oh, you don’t want that?” He flicks his eyes to the defined bulge still present between Jeongguk’s hips. Jeongguk doesn’t have to glance down at himself to understand the obvious.

“I think you do,” Jimin says. “I know you do.”

“That doesn’t fucking matter.” Jeongguk pivots on his heel to turn half-way around, as though that makes a difference. “Because that’s not what this is.”

“Then what the fuck is this, Jeongguk?” Jimin throws out his arms with the question. His patience is dwindling like the flickering wick of a candle. In its place are the growing embers of a wildfire. “I think I’ve done pretty well at Deca, playing my part as a good performer to boost the appeal of the family business. I’ve gone on all these daily excursions with you, keeping you company and telling you everything about my life like you want, and in exchange you spoil me with things, things, and more fucking things. But then what? What’s next? For us to keep doing this, to keep dancing around each other? Hanging out here watching shitty TV, laughing over food, shopping together, going to the beach and spending the night—what else could this be?”

Jeongguk has gone eerily still, like a deer in a forest picking up on something wary.

Jimin releases a humorless noise, his voice lowering but in no way weakening. “You’ve been … you’ve been wonderful to me,” he admits. “So wonderful that it continues to surprise me.”

The side-long look from Jeongguk reveals his confusion.

“Keeping your space from me,” continues Jimin, “allowing me privacy, giving everything to me so no one else has to. Except, that’s only because I’m yours. I mean, legally, literally, I’m not—I can kick you to the curb whenever I want, but then maybe I won’t have a job at Deca anymore, right?”

Jeongguk says nothing, but he doesn’t have to. He made it very clear at the start that Jimin would not be wise to deny his sponsorship.

“Maybe I’d have to go back to being a stripper,” Jimin says, and he instantly pictures it in his mind. Having to parade around a dingy club masquerading as something glamorous, kissing up to entitled customers who see him as nothing but a fuckable sack of meat. At least at Deca, he’s a worthwhile fuckable sack of meat. He’s someone to admire in high regard, not salacity. But if Jimin’s being honest, he recently has been feeling tired of every kind of sexual attention, even the good kind.

It contradicts his upset at Jeongguk’s present refusal. That fact alone confounds Jimin.

Or maybe, it makes it more clear that he only wants the attention from one person, not multiple.

“I’ve gone along with you through this entire sponsorship, talking to you, spending time with you—no one else sponsors me. You made sure of that. By all accounts, I’m yours.” Jimin cocks his head, knowing he looks like a petty bastard when he does it. But it really fits what he says next: “So, how can you stomach watching me get fucked on stage?”

Jeongguk’s not only made of thunder; lightning zips over his skin. It lifts the hair on his arms, flowing through the raised blue veins that zigzag across him.

At least, Jimin imagines that’s what Jeongguk feels like. But rather than unleash his internal buzzing, he keeps it at bay, ever so controlled.

Jimin doesn’t want that.

“How do you put up with it, huh?” Jimin slowly steps around the coffee table. He catches Jeongguk snap his attention to where Jimin’s feet gently sink into the area rug with each step. “Me getting fucked by the others in front of a live audience? You don’t think I recognize how you look at me? It’s how I’ve always been looked at. But the catch is that there’s something else there in your eyes, something deeper that other viewers have never bothered to give me, and all I know is that it makes me want to give to you the way people have only ever wished I could give to them. Not for a show, not for credits, not for the eyes of others. But just for you, from me. From the real me. But you’re going to stand here and tell me you don’t want that? That’s bullshit.”

Jeongguk seethes through his teeth, “Watch yourself.”

“Oh, now you want to pull the big boy sponsor card and order me around? Guess what, Jeongguk? You’re not denying anything I said.” Jimin’s reached him by now, and he plants himself right in his face. It’s close enough for Jimin to see his own fish-eye reflection in Jeongguk’s round eyes.

Jeongguk is too proud not to move away. Or maybe he can’t for another reason.

“What if I told you I want you to have me?” Jimin purrs. “To fuck me? Just you, and no one else? That when I’m on stage, it’s you I imagine fucking me. That when I look out into the audience, I look at you. It’s only you.”

Jeongguk is absolutely rigid. “Stop.”

“You don’t really want me to.”

“Funny. I didn’t peg you as one to disregard consent.”

Jimin scoffs. “What, are you going to brand my words as harassment? Please. You’ve only ever wanted the truth from me, but now you’re the one refusing to be honest.”

“You need to stop.”

“Just tell me you don’t want me.”

Jeongguk bites out a rough laugh, the kind that would cause the average person to straighten up and steer clear. But Jimin isn’t so easily scared off.

“You already said I’m being dishonest,” answers Jeongguk, “so why should I bother?”

“If you say it now,” Jimin assures, leaning in his head as though there are eavesdropping ears to hide from, “I’ll believe you. If you grow the balls to say it, I’ll stop.”

At some point, Jeongguk’s breaths have grown short and quick. It’s not something nearly as dramatic as a panic attack, but it’s enough to denote his walled pieces crumbling down in fragments. They must be piercing his lungs. 

Jimin presses, “Say it. Just say it and I’ll let this go. Say you don’t want to have sex with me. Not ever.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t what?”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Just say it and I’ll stop.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t what? Can’t say it?”

Something detonates in Jeongguk like a dropped stick of dynamite. He thrusts his neck forward, facial muscles focused and tensed, eyes dark as night. “I can’t have sex with you!” he bursts out. “Because if I have sex with you, I’ll fall in love with you!”

Jimin’s entire world stops. His orbit stills. Space and time no longer exist to him. He faintly registers the sound of his own heart thumping in his ears, of his blood pulsing through his veins.

“And I can’t do that,” Jeongguk continues, voice breaking. “I can’t.”

Jimin doesn’t think this is real. Is it a dream? But not even those are this inexplicable. But this moment, he quickly realizes, is happening, because it’s too tangible for him not to. Except he feels as though he’s watching himself from five feet above his very own head. He sees himself wait a few silent seconds before daring to brush a thumb over Jeongguk’s cheekbone. To slowly graze his fingers through Jeongguk’s hair.

Jeongguk trembles with each touch, like creek water over pebbles. He closes his eyes when Jimin presses a kiss to his jaw. To his cheek. To the corner of his mouth. Jimin lingers his forehead over Jeongguk’s, breathing him in.

It’s then when Jimin slips back into his body. Final resolve fills him up, matching the blurring at the corner of his own eyes. He doesn’t mean to cry. He doesn’t even know why the tears have come, but they have.

Jimin goes to pull away, his arm beginning to fall.

But Jeongguk snatches his wrist with one hand and wraps his waist with another. And then Jeongguk is kissing him frantically, like he’s drowning in the depths of the sea and Jimin is the only supply of oxygen he has. He slips his tongue into his mouth, kissing him and kissing kim and kissing him. The force of it pushes Jimin backwards, and he nearly trips over his feet. Slamming into whichever wall is closest, his shoulder blades rattle at the impact. The brief pain fades as Jeongguk hastily lowers to hook both arms under Jimin’s thighs, and Jimin gets the intention. He’s suddenly swept up against the wall, legs wrapped around Jeongguk’s middle and arms wrapped around his neck. They’re a clash of lips and tongue, of short breaths and whimpers. Jeongguk holds him steady in his strong hands as he strides away from the wall and up the stairs, his climb unwavering despite the extra weight. Jimin can only gasp when he’s splayed atop his bed covers. Jeongguk’s body curves over him like a crashing wave.

“I hate watching you on stage,” Jeongguk rasps, running his hands across the toned plane of Jimin’s torso. “I hate it.”

Jimin arches into him, unceremoniously working away the buttons of Jeongguk’s shirt. They keep getting caught in the fabric, and Jimin is two more failed tries away from ripping the material off instead. “You do?”

“Yes.” Jeongguk swoops over him, taking his bottom lip between his teeth and sucking. Jimin moans while he lifts his hips, pressing his want upwards into Jeongguk’s own. From their go on the couch, Jimin’s erection is already aching from his underwear’s entrapment. He can’t remember the last time he’s been so impatient, so eager. It fuddles his brain. The rest of him takes over in place of it.

He manages to undo the rest of Jeongguk’s buttons, and soon his shirt is up and off of him. Jimin glides his palms across the hard muscle of Jeongguk’s stomach, feeling him uncontrollably contract at the touch. Jimin sinks into the mattress in disbelief as how defined Jeongguk feels under his hands. He’s so very hot. His body heat is near feverish.

Jimin is melting below him.

Jeongguk removes his mouth from Jimin if only to sit up on his knees and curl his fingers into the band of Jimin’s pants.

He says, “Lift your hips, sweetheart.”

In one go, he tugs them and Jimin’s underwear down and off. The cool air strikes Jimin’s cock as it rolls up along his stomach.

He can’t even count the amount of eyes that have now seen him in his entirety, at his most vulnerable.

But laying atop his bed now, naked below the very man who technically owns this very bed, he feels a strange sense of welcomed meekness. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt that before. In his career, he’s always had to be domineering, even if his outer persona pretended not to be. If it seemed like his eyes were closed, they were really cracked open. If it seemed like he was hazy, he was actually crystal clear. It’s all part of the act, him being demure and unknowing. Him being overly flirtatious and coy.

But with Jeongguk now, he doesn’t have to act. He can just feel. He can just respond. And he finds that there’s a large part of him that feels relief in the comfort of knowing that he is actually a bit acquiescent. Because he can be right here, like this. Because with Jeongguk he feels safe enough to let go.

Jeongguk’s looking at him with unadulterated desire, but not in haughty assumption as if Jimin owes him anything. Not like he’s just an attractive body to lord over. Not even like he’s a piece of art to admire as a lifeless thing on a wall.

He’s looking at him like he’s nothing more than a man named Park Jimin. Someone valuable. Someone with a heart and mind and soul who just happens to also be made of tempting skin, muscles, and bones.

“You’re so beautiful,” Jeongguk whispers. Jimin believes him when he says it.

Jeongguk undoes the buckle of his own pants, pushing off the bed to stand so he can step out of his remaining clothes. Jimin presses up on his elbows, watching Jeongguk’s silhouette from the ground floor’s soft glow. It’s the only source of light. Jimin’s irritated with how he can’t see the details of Jeongguk’s glorious body, so he sits up and tugs Jeongguk back down to feel him instead.

Jeongguk buries his forehead into Jimin’s neck when their cocks brush against each other.

Treading the waters, Jimin slinks down a hand and curves his fingertips around the head of him. Jeongguk buckles forward, his groan muffled. He’s leaking precome, and they’ve hardly even started.

Jimin grins. “Already? You must really want me.”

“Shut up,” Jeongguk hisses. The low words send a shudder down Jimin’s spine. “You’re so cocky, you know that?”

Jimin wraps a fist around him, though his hand isn’t big enough for the entirety of it. Jeongguk sucks in a tightened breath at the contact. Jimin doesn’t flick his wrist. He doesn’t do anything. He just holds him there in a silent warning, one that makes it clear Jimin is perfectly aware of how cocky he can be, of how self-aware he is when it comes to his effect—as in, what he’s doing to Jeongguk right now.

“I do know that,” Jimin proudly tells him.

“Smartass. Just stop talking.” Jeongguk molds his mouth to his, gliding his cock up into Jimin’s hand. When Jimin teases his length with swirling fingers, Jeongguk reaches between their bodies and grips both of Jimin’s wrists. He pulls them up to pin above Jimin’s head under a large, single palm. Jimin is so taken aback that he can only blink up at him, lips parted and hips pressed into the mattress under Jeongguk’s weight.

“No comment now?” Jeongguk croons with a smirk, gliding his free hand down Jimin’s throat.

Fucking hell.

Jimin swallows, his respiration lifting his chest with each take. It’s where Jeongguk travels next. He glides his thumb over Jimin’s right nipple.

Jimin has to force himself not to squirm. Letting go to Jeongguk doesn’t mean he has to completely fall apart at the seams. Not yet, anyways.

But Jeongguk must sense that he’s holding back. The knowledge glints in his eyes, so dark in the low light that Jimin can’t tell where his pupil meets his iris. He circles the pad of his thumb over Jimin’s nipple again, this time meeting it with his index to tantalizingly pinch. Jimin can’t help but writhe.

Or, at least, he attempts to. Jeongguk’s body has at least twenty extra pounds of muscle on him compared to Jimin’s, and it keeps Jimin locked in place. He can only twist his torso and arch his back, stuck.

But that’s clearly the point.

“Fuck, you’re sensitive, aren’t you,” murmurs Jeongguk. He lowers himself down to flick the tip of his tongue over the same bud. When he grazes his teeth, a whine escapes past Jimin’s lips. It only encourages Jeongguk. “You aren’t acting for me, are you?”

“Do I look like I’m acting?”

“Who knows?” Jeongguk breathes across Jimin’s sternum, switching to the other side. His hold on Jimin’s wrists tighten when Jimin instinctively begins to try and pull them apart. “You’re our top talent, aren’t you?”

“Say the paying members? Or say you?”

Jeongguk grins atop his peck before kissing his left nipple. The touch is so tender that Jimin shudders out a curse when Jeongguk nips at him a moment after. Jimin’s nerves are on fire.

“You’re no one’s talent right now,” Jeongguk tells him, slinking up his head to leave his mark on Jimin’s throat. “You’re here.”

This is nothing, Jimin thinks, but at the same time, it’s just too much, too much, and his mind doesn’t know how to react other than to strain under Jeongguk’s hold. Except his attempts to struggle are flimsy.

Because it feels good.

So good that it shoots what feels like electric bolts down his naval and to the head of his cock, which currently sits heavy atop his stomach. When was the last time it so quickly stood on its own? It’s aching, waiting to be touched, but Jeongguk intentionally sits on Jimin’s thighs so as to not accidentally brush the pooling desire.

The tension is building like a tornado, spiraling down Jimin’s body as it takes shape.

“How hard has it been?” Jimin taunts, his voice feeble. Damn him if he won’t go down without a fight. “Holding back from me?”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer but just continues his work. Jimin supposes that is an answer.

“Did you imagine it, too?” Jimin asks. “Me on stage? Did you picture it was you up there with me? Or maybe not. Maybe you pictured taking me off that stage and into a backroom, far away from the hungry audience, to take me right then and there for yourself. In private, away from watching eyes, because it’s not them I belong to. Am I yours, Jeongguk?”

“No,” Jeongguk grinds out, lifting his head. Jimin freezes for a moment, thinking he’s misread Jeongguk’s thought process.

And when Jeongguk speaks next, Jimin sees that he has.

“I’m yours,” he says. Jeongguk follows by releasing Jimin’s wrists to kiss down his ribs, down his stomach, to then hold the base of Jimin’s cock and take the tip into his mouth.

Jimin streams out a slew of curses, digging his hand into Jeongguk’s hair. The instant relief is intoxicating. He can’t say much as Jeongguk wraps him up into his mouth. He takes his time tasting Jimin, trailing his tongue from top to bottom, puckering his lips over the head in a kiss. It’s like he’s enjoying the sensation of knowing that Jimin is slowly unraveling below him, like he’s finally devouring the one thing he’s kept away from for so long. He doesn’t toy with Jimin’s cock with the intent to get him off. No, he’s doing just that—toying. This is hardly the main event.

Knowing this, Jimin tightens his grip on Jeongguk's hair, yanking his head up from between his legs.

“Stop wasting time,” Jimin tells him. He then releases Jeongguk, rolling sideways to reach for his nightstand. He opens the middle compartment, pulling out his just-in-case necessities of lubricant and a condom. He holds out both.

Jeongguk takes them.

It’s torturous waiting to be stretched enough. At Deca, Jimin typically preps beforehand on his own, unless being prepared is part of the performance. But Jimin didn’t plan to have sex tonight. When he’s not at Deca, he doesn’t have sex at all. He doesn’t even remember the last time he slept with someone unrelated to his line of work. It was so long ago.

It’s why being so responsive to Jeongguk is dangerous, he thinks, because Jimin isn’t seeing this through the lens of having to succeed for a paycheck.

He’s just naturally this much of a goner.

He really wants Jeongguk inside of him. He wants to be as close to him as possible. Jeongguk’s fingers aren’t enough, even if they’re still sending tremors through Jimin’s bones with each push and curl. Jimin can’t explain it, much less internally comprehend it. He just knows that he wants Jeongguk more than he’s ever wanted anyone, and even if the portrayal of that right now is wanting Jeongguk to properly fuck him already, it’s not just that.

There’s no other way to become closer to someone. This is it. This is all he can do. He never exactly wants to perform sexually with his co-workers, even if he doesn’t mind it. It’s just a job. He doesn’t desire them. He likes them, sure. He cares for them. But it’s not whatever this is.

Deca taught Jimin to appreciate the human body and experience as a collective art, but right now, he doesn’t see it that way.

Here, now—this is personal. This isn’t for anyone else to admire.

I’m yours. Jimin likes that. He likes that a lot. He knows that kind of statement isn’t realistically accurate, but emotionally, he believes it. He revels in it.

When Jeongguk finally, finally pushes into him, they’re facing each other. Jimin refuses to turn around, and Jeongguk doesn’t ask him to. He arches his back while Jeongguk sinks deep within, slowly brushing that interior wall before slinking out to the edge only to push back. He tests the momentum, allowing Jimin to acclimate to him.

“You’re insane,” Jeongguk groans, rolling his hips to adjust his cock between Jimin’s muscles. He braces both hands on Jimin’s hip bones.

“Thought I’d be looser?” Jimin can’t keep still. Each push and pull spiral sparks through his body. “You know that’s not actually a thing, right?”

Jeongguk pulls back to then knock forward with a rough thrust, a far cry from his gentle start. It jostles Jimin’s entire body atop the covers, bringing out an uncontrollable sound from his throat. This only causes Jeongguk to smile that stupid smirk he reserves just for Jimin.

“It will be after this,” Jeongguk promises, starting a hastening rhythm.

Oh. Jimin is most definitely a goner.

Jeongguk fucks him like he himself is, too.

At some point, Jeongguk has hooked his arms under Jimin’s knees to bring them up beside his chest, Jeongguk balancing his weight atop of him as he goes and goes and goes, kissing Jimin’s lips through the intensity of it. When their lips aren’t feverishly against one another, their eyes are latched, and Jimin sees himself reflected back in Jeongguk’s gaze. Whimpers flitter out both of them, and soon enough, Jeongguk’s burying his face in Jimin’s neck, trembling all over and spilling into his condom, Jimin feeling the warmth of it inside its casing.

In reflex, Jimin goes to stroke himself for assistance, but Jeongguk knocks his hand away, taking the job while he quickly gathers himself to continue back and forth, in and out, despite his sloppiness as he comes down from his own high. Just his determination alone is enough to finish Jimin.

“Jeongguk,” Jimin hitches, everything turning into white numbness before exploding like a supernova. Jeongguk, already done, collapses atop of him, holding him while Jimin trembles through his release, Jeongguk’s hand catching most of it. Jeongguk hardly seems to care.

Fuck, Jimin thinks, his heart practically palpitating like he’s had a dangerous amount of extra strong espresso. His breaths exhale unevenly while he rides out the feeling. How is he supposed to think when he’s certain that was the best orgasm of his life? When, technically, it wasn’t even all that special?

It was vanilla, he thinks. Basic intercourse.

But fuck. Fuck. That’s the point, isn’t it? That’s all it took? For him to feel like this?

He can’t move. He doesn’t care to.

The pair of them just … breathe, for a moment. They need it.

They breathe.

Chest to chest.

In and out.

The second Jimin strokes Jeongguk’s hair—far, far gentler than how he was gripping at it like a horse before—Jeongguk pulls away.

He stands, all broad shoulders and narrow waist in the backlight of the ground floor light from below the loft. He goes to take a step away, but Jimin shoots out a hand. He wraps it around Jeongguk’s wrist, locking him in place.

“You’re not leaving.” It’s not a command. There’s no question mark in Jimin’s words, but the statement remains uncertain, anyways. Jeongguk must notice it.

Softly, he answers, “I’m getting us towels.”

Jimin still hesitates in dropping Jeongguk’s arm. He watches him walk away into the attached bathroom, its double doors open wide. It’s too far away for the living room light to reach, so Jeongguk flicks on the lesser of the two light switches. Jimin can’t help but stare at him. At the muscles shifting in his back as he reaches to take two large hand towels. At the curve of his ass above firm thighs. At the definitive shape of his chest as he stands sideways in Jimin’s vantage point, washing his hands and dampening the corner of each towel under the sink faucet.

Jimin’s seen a lot of naked people. He’s seen a lot of attractive people. Handsome, pretty, beautiful. Everyone has something that sets them apart. Anyone can be viewed as having likable physical features. In the entirely objective sense, Jeongguk is just another fit body and pretty face. But as Jimin stares at him, he realizes that Jeongguk’s individuality stems from the fact that Jimin personally finds him beautiful. It’s not as though Jimin’s never been personally attracted to someone before, but he doesn’t think it’s ever been as intense as Jeon Jeongguk. He also doesn’t think he’s been attracted to someone’s heart and mind in addition to their physicality.

He doesn’t know what to do now knowing what that feels like.

Jeongguk returns, and for a split second, Jimin thinks he’s going to clean Jimin up himself. But Jeongguk doesn’t sit down. He just holds out one of the two towels to Jimin. Jimin takes it, and he doesn’t miss how Jeongguk makes sure not to accidentally brush their fingers in the exchange.

Jimin can’t articulate the instant hollowing of his stomach. It’s like a vacuum has stuck its end down his throat and sucked out everything full and warm.

They don’t look at each other as they wipe themselves of dried come, lube, and sweat. Jeongguk even turns away when Jimin shifts to get his underside. Jimin wants to think it’s solely out of respect, of letting Jimin do what the average person might consider embarrassing. He believes it’s partly that, which in and of itself would normally soften him. But Jimin knows it’s not just that.

I can’t have sex with you. Because if I have sex with you, I’ll fall in love with you.

Well, what now?

Jeongguk takes the used towel from Jimin’s hand, again not touching him, but Jimin tightens his grip on the fabric. Jeongguk’s lashes flutter while he otherwise stands as still as ice.

“You’re not leaving,” Jimin repeats like before. This time, the uncertainty has spread its tendrils deeper into his tone.

“I’m putting these away,” says Jeongguk, barely louder than a whisper. “Can we at least put some clothes on?”

Jimin releases the towel, throwing his legs off the edge of the bed. “I’ll get you something.”

“I have my own—”

“You want to sleep in your day clothes?”

The only evidence that Jeongguk is still breathing is the delicate rise and fall of his chest. Jimin waits for him to say no, to slip back into the outfit he came in and stalk out, just like he did during the only other time they ever touched. At least back then, they hadn’t had sex. They’d just kissed. But Jimin isn’t sure if having now fucked makes it harder or easier to leave. He understands either side of the coin.

But Jeongguk slowly shakes his head, answering Jimin’s question.

So, Jimin goes for his closet and brings out two fresh sets of either for the both of them. He dresses first before stalking up to Jeongguk, who has yet to place away the towels. He presently holds them to cover himself, something Jimin might endearingly laugh at were he not so worried.

Jeongguk takes the clothes with one hand while Jimin takes away the towels from his other. He dresses while Jimin places the towels in an obvious place inside the bathroom so he remembers to wash them later. He glances at the sink. He knows he should clean his face. He knows he should brush his teeth. But he fears that any more waiting will give Jeongguk a good enough excuse to vacate not only the room, but the entire penthouse.

Jimin only lets himself wash his hands, but it’s more like a rinse.

Turning back into the bedroom, Jeongguk is standing like a pole beside the bed, sticking out of place. He follows Jimin’s steps with heavy eyes. His facial features are still so strikingly fucked out. “Woojoo is here,” he says.

Jimin blinks, having forgotten the animal is still downstairs. “She can stay, right? You keep her in a cage at night, but she can still stay here?”

Jeongguk nods. “She’ll be fine. She’ll just sleep on the floor. Is that okay?”

“Of course it’s okay. Does she need to eat? Or go out?”

“Out.”

“Okay. Okay, then we’ll take her out. The complex has an indoor dog park with a walking area. We can go right now.”

“You don’t need to—”

“I’m coming,” Jimin interrupts. He refuses to let Jeongguk out of his sight.

They keep silent as Jeongguk leashes Woojoo, as they take the elevator down to the dog park, as he lets Woojoo free in the enclosed space to do her business and expel any lingering late night energy before bedtime. Jimin doesn’t feel awkward, but the thought of Jeongguk feeling awkward makes it awkward. Jimin can’t stand it, because from his perspective, there is nothing uncertain about this. There’s much to unpack and learn, yes, but nothing in doubt. It’s the fact that all of this is so new that Jimin’s so sure, because how else could he feel like this at all if he wasn't sure?

He’s known Jeongguk for months at this point. It’s not a lingering infatuation. It’s not a limited desire.

Arriving back at the apartment, Jeongguk unleashes Woojoo and guides her to the living room, commanding her to lie down on the plush rug. He quietly adds to Jimin, “She might move around in the night. If you don’t want her jumping onto your furniture, maybe I could—”

“That’s okay, I don’t care,” Jimin quickly cuts off. “It’s fine. She can sleep wherever she wants.”

As they trail towards the stairs, Woojoo must sense this isn’t a momentary separation. She hops up, nails padding atop the stone floor to reach their legs. She plops beside their halted frames, staring up at them with her pouty eyes. Somehow, she’s curved her ears just enough to add to the adorable begging.

“Jooie, no, go back,” Jeongguk orders, pointing towards the living room. Woojoo just lowers her head, eyes shifting in one more shy ask.

“She can come up,” Jimin says, reaching out to softly pet Woojoo. He doesn’t let Jeongguk refuse, hastily saying, “Woojoo, come on, let’s go,” motioning for the animal to follow as he ascends the stairs. She wastes no time listening.

Although Woojoo’s never been upstairs, she only does one curious sniff around the loft before curling up at the foot of Jimin’s bed. It’s as though the scents of the two people permeating the space are enough for her to comfortably settle without having to investigate any further. Her ease warms something in Jimin’s heart.

He tangles his fingers with Jeongguk’s, leading him to the bed once more. Without saying a word, Jimin pulls back the covers and gently guides him atop the sheets before climbing in beside him. Jimin then takes the comforter and throws it over the two of them, snuggling into Jeongguk’s side.

The man is as firm as concrete. Beyond where Jimin touches him, he doesn’t return a similar gesture.

“You can touch me,” Jimin whispers into his chest, feeling Jeongguk’s raising heartbeat below his cheek. “I want you to. I’m telling you to.” It’s the clearest component of their sponsorship, that Jeongguk does not touch Jimin unless told to. Well, now Jimin is telling him to.

When Jeongguk doesn’t instantly move, Jimin adds, “It’s important, you know. Aftercare. I didn’t realize how much until Deca.”

Jimin isn’t trying to gain pity, but his words are what does it. Jeongguk shifts lower along the pillows, slightly turning in towards Jimin. He gingerly lifts a hand, as though mentally going over the options, and decides to trail his fingers through Jimin’s hair. Jimin can’t help the comforting exhale that blows out his nose.

“You can touch me, Jeongguk,” Jimin repeats, though this time, he doesn’t just mean in the moment. The permittance is firm. Long-lasting. However Jeongguk is feeling, he needs to know that Jimin welcomes it.

“Okay,” is all Jeongguk says. It’s better than nothing. It’s more than better than nothing. It’s not a decline or an argument. To Jimin’s ears, it sounds like acceptance.

“And you can stay. You … you can always stay.”

“Angel—”

“Please don’t call me that,” whispers Jimin. He swallows tightly, adding moisture back to his vocal chords. “Please,” he asks. “That’s not my name. It’s not—I’m Jimin. Please. Call me Jimin. Only Jimin.”

Jeongguk continues to methodically run his hand through Jimin’s hair. It’s the most soothing thing Jimin can remember experiencing.

“Okay. Jimin. I’ll call you Jimin. But I can only say it in private.”

Jimin nods against his shirt, knowing that much. At Deca, Jimin will always be Angel. That’s unavoidable. He’s so used to his stage name after years of it. It doesn’t bother him. In fact, he adores it. But it can’t ever be used without its attached meaning, and sometimes, Jimin doesn’t want to be known as Angel, the sex worker. He knows he’s lying in bed with a man who pays him to keep him company, who’s the son of Jimin’s boss, who only even met him because of Jimin’s profession, but Jimin at least wants to try and pretend that there’s more to whatever they are.

I’ll fall in love with you.

With that declaration, Jimin knows it’s not just him who feels this way.

Laying softly for a while, Jeongguk continues his considerate touches. He shifts them to the shell of Jimin’s ear, to his temple, to the small arch of his cheekbone, before returning to the side of his hair. Jeongguk is as delicate as someone in disbelief, like if he presses too hard, Jimin will disappear. It’s a stark contrast compared to the welcomed roughness of him pounding into Jimin not too long ago. With the built up intensity let out of his system, all that’s left is this tired tenderness.

But Jeongguk’s fingers freeze when Jimin says, “Do you want to talk about what you said earlier?”

There’s no need for elaboration. The way Jeongguk solidifies under Jimin’s body shows he comprehends exactly what Jimin is referring to.

He lets his hand fall to his chest, done with its stroking. But it sits brushed against Jimin’s own. “No,” he says, sounding like the walls of his throat are closing in on him.

“What if I want to talk about it?”

“I can’t stop you, but you’ll be talking to yourself.”

“I don’t know what this is, Jeongguk,” Jimin starts, not wasting a moment. Jeongguk inhales a tiny breath, like he wasn’t actually expecting Jimin to talk about it. “But either of us denying that there’s something here is really elementary. I don’t exactly have any plans. I’ve always just … it’s always been making it another day for me. Getting to tomorrow. Getting my next pay. Now that I’m in a place where, even if I know it won’t last forever, that I don’t have to worry about that—it lets me think about pursuing things I never had the time to. I mean, even if I had the time, I didn’t have the capability. But I’m thinking about a lot of things now, and you take up most of my mind. That’s where I’m at, and I don’t know what it means, but I do know that I want you to stay the night. I know that I like spending time with you, and that I’ve been wanting this—what we just did—for a while, now, and not because you sponsor me. This … it has nothing, nothing, to do with that. Can you just tell me that, too? Tell me if this is all that is to you.”

“You’re only saying this because of what I said first,” Jeongguk feebly tells him, as though accepting his defeat. “I think I’ve already answered you.”

“Then do you—”

“Jimin.”

It’s strange to hear his name from Jeongguk’s lips. The novelty paired with the intensity shuts Jimin’s jaw.

“I’m here,” Jeongguk says. “That’s all I can say.”

Jimin tucks himself further into Jeongguk. Neither of them comment any further, not about them, the evening, or anything else. At some point, Jeongguk is stroking Jimin’s hair again, and at some point, the sensation lulls Jimin to sleep.

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

It’s the next day. Jeongguk impatiently taps his mobile against his thigh.

Namjoon texted saying he’d call shortly, wanting Jeongguk to confirm he’s available to talk before ringing him. Jeongguk instantly replied saying he’s alone and able, but Namjoon has yet to respond.

Now, Jeongguk sits on the edge of his bed, nibbling on his thumbnail.

He throws his hand down when he notices the poor habit. It used to plague him when he was a child until he miraculously rid himself of the mindless action. But recently, he’s been subconsciously raising his fingers to his teeth more often.

His mobile suddenly lights, and it doesn’t even have the time to fully ring once before Jeongguk has answered the call.

“What is it?” he says, foregoing any sense of greeting.

“I’m 99.7 percent confident of where Park Kangdae will be in three days’ time,” replies Namjoon, “give or take .03 percent for the sake of traditional statistics. I remember that much from university.”

Sudden adrenaline whooshes through Jeongguk’s chest like an onslaught of wind. He pushes his mobile harder against his ear, as though he could jump through it and meet Namjoon face-to-face. “Where?”

“I’ll email the exact location to you through an encrypted email, but he has a meeting in Gangpo with a supplier.” The district is on the other side of the Han River, an area of New Seoul known for its plethora of cherry blossoms in the spring. Unfortunately, the blooming season has passed. “Based on prior activity, it should only take less than half an hour. He usually leaves the moment he’s finished with business.”

“Then I’ll get there right before he’s even gotten his foot out the door.”

“There’s no guarantee he’ll let you walk away like last time,” Namjoon says in warning.

“Have you come to like me, Namjoon?”

“Jimin cares for you, so I care what happens to you.”

Jeongguk tightens his jaw. Subconsciously, phantom traces of Jimin’s touches raise goosebumps over his body. It’s been hours since Jeongguk returned home last night, after he gave into his tragic desire. It wouldn’t be as bad if Jeongguk had just kept his mouth shut. If he’d just slept with Jimin without revealing any pieces of his mind, Jeongguk wouldn’t feel as rickety as he does now. But what he’d told Jimin before they slept together is what cemented it. It was practically a declaration.

“Send the time and location as soon as you can,” he tells Namjoon, shaking out of his thoughts. “And … and thank you, Namjoon. You never had to help me. You could have told Jimin all of this time, too. So, thank you.”

There’s a heavy pause as the man on the other line takes in Jeongguk’s gratitude. “You’re welcome,” he answers, just as sincere. “You’re a good man, Jeongguk. I’ll also send you more info about the plan. I’m not the only lone ranger Chief Na knows, and if we’re going to pull this off, you need all the backup you can get. This will work, Jeongguk. I know it.”

“It has to.” Jeongguk mumbles, following with goodbye before he hangs up.

Namjoon’s been right in every aspect of information he’s provided Jeongguk about Park Kangdae, but the one thing he’s wrong about is his faith in Jeongguk.

There’s no purity in revenge, not even when it’s justified. Jeongguk knows this, and it’s because he still plans to follow through with his intentions that Namjoon would surely retract his statement if he had a clue.

But does that mean the wicked should get away with their crimes? It’s the classic argument of the lesser of two evils, of doing what’s best for the greater good. Kangdae needs to get off the streets, and he deserves punishment for Jeongsik’s death and the lingering trauma it caused to Jeongguk and his mother.

If there was an easier way, Jeongguk would do it.

But Kangdae doesn’t deserve easy.

Chapter Text

The second week of June brings in a wet heat. It’s been a dry spring for the most part, but a few late storms roll in, introducing moisture from the western coast. It lingers late into the night and after the sun rises, casting condensation on glass windows and metal handrails. Dew drips off of the greenery dotting the otherwise monochromatic structures of New Seoul. 

Tonight is humid. It’s nearly sundown, and with the evening comes a damp sheen hovering over the city like it’s been painted onto the streets. Jimin runs his fingers through his hair as he walks, refusing to let it fluff from the sticky air. But thankfully, there’s a slight breeze, and it manages to keep him from sweating too much.

Jimin arrives at a courtyard centered between four buildings. White-flowered dogwood trees pepper the pavement between food stalls and benches. He can’t help but think that the planted nature is always an interesting contradiction amongst the sleek architecture and technology.

He’s too busy admiring the foliage to notice who’s come up behind him. He startles when a low voice mumbles into his ear, “You’re here?”

Jimin spins around, harmlessly smacking Jeongguk’s arm. His pathetic fright is short-lived once the realization that it’s only Jeongguk settles within him. He came here planning to meet Jeongguk, but he still feels a sense of relief knowing it’s him anyway. That calmness pools into Jimin’s stomach like warm honey.

“You couldn’t just tap my shoulder?” Jimin chides.

“That’s hardly as fun.”

Jimin grins, expecting Jeongguk to match it, but he doesn’t. Jimin intends to ask if everything’s all right, but he never gets the chance.

“Hungry?” Jeongguk says before he can, nodding towards the plethora of lined up food stalls. “Come on, let’s eat. You pick.”

Jimin’s not a picky eater, but in a way, liking everything can make choosing a meal even harder. He eventually decides on a fusion business, and the pair settle down at a propped up table beside the stall with wagyu tacos and tropical fruit teas. While they eat, Jeongguk asks where Jimin would go if he took a trip. Jimin says there are too many places. He has a mental list.

“Why haven’t you gone to any of them?” Jeongguk asks.

Jimin shrugs. “No one to go with.” But right after he says it, he thinks that’s not entirely true. “Well, Namjoon would go if I asked, probably. He’s someone who appreciates the world. Maybe that’s why I’ve never asked him.”

Jeongguk tilts his head, the question he wants to ask in the gesture.

“Namjoon’s an author,” Jimin explains, like it's obvious. “He likes furniture and paintings and nature. He’ll look at two lines on a canvas and summarize the painter’s internal grief, meanwhile I’ll think, Hm. This person only squiggled two lines yet has their work displayed in a museum. If I go anywhere with him, I think I’ll end up hating myself. Besides, he likes to make a whole itinerary. When he goes on trips, it’s a trip.”

“Being constantly on the move seems counterproductive if you’re somewhere for leisure.”

“Right! Wah, Jeon Jeongguk." Jimin wags a finger. "I guess you’re pretty smart.”

He lifts a brow, but he doesn’t need to defend himself.

“Why the sudden question of traveling?” Jimin asks, picking up his second taco. He slings on a smile. “Are you planning to take me somewhere?”

Jeongguk softly shakes his head, shifting his eyes away. “You’re always able to take time off from Decadentia, you know. You say you haven’t been anywhere, so you should. Wherever you want.”

“I also said I had no one to go with.”

“I could name a handful of people at Deca who’d love to travel with you,” Jeongguk tells him, still averting his gaze.

Jimin slumps a little. He assumed Jeongguk was offering. Though Jimin never thought too much about it, now that it’s been mentioned, he thinks that he'd greatly enjoy traveling somewhere with Jeongguk. Outside of Korea, they could be anyone. Maybe it’d give them the strength to say what they can’t now.

“Jimin.”

He perks up at the call out, still not used to hearing his name from Jeongguk’s lips.

“Promise me … promise me that you’ll live your life doing what you want to do.”

The serious shift picks at Jimin’s nerves, but at the same time, he’s touched by the sincerity. “I already am.”

“Are you?”

Jimin reaches forward, gently placing his hand over Jeongguk’s wrist. The sudden touch catches Jeongguk’s line of sight.

“Yes,” Jimin tells him honestly. “Because of Decadentia’s generosity, because of you, I’m finally at a good place in my life.”

Rather than smile in relief or nod in gladness, Jeongguk seems to only shrink. He doesn’t pull his hand away, but the discomforting twist in his expression might as well be a flashing sign that he wants to.

It's so abnormal for him. Jimin doesn't like it.

Jimin slowly reaches back. “Are you all right?”

“What? I’m fine.”

“Jeongguk—”

“Your drink is melting. Don’t waste it.”

“I think we could afford another one if it came down to it.”

“It’s the principle. Come on, let’s finish up and walk around. The skyline walkway is nearby.”

The skyline has existed in Gangpo for years, but Jimin’s only strolled down it a handful of times. The glass walkway snakes through the district’s buildings a few stories up, bordered with flowers and art to create a scenic trail. It’s rather romantic. Jimin thinks he hasn’t come here often for the same reason why he’s never traveled anywhere with anyone.

He keeps his mouth shut for a while, enjoying the night by Jeongguk’s side. They chat idly, the topics of their conversations never straying too thoughtful. But the longer the evening goes on, the more shaken Jeongguk appears, and eventually, Jimin can’t hold back any longer.

“Okay, Jeongguk. Cut the crap. What’s wrong?”

Jeongguk doesn’t seem too surprised that Jimin’s caught on, but then again, it doesn’t seem like Jeongguk has been trying very hard to hide whatever’s befuddling his mind. But that in and of itself is strange; Jeongguk knows how to remain collected even if he isn’t. Only so rarely does he crack. Up until now, it’s usually been only when it’s related to Jimin has he let up his facade …

“Do you trust me?” Jeongguk asks out of the blue.

Jimin holds his stare, finding atypical desperation. “What?”

“Jimin.” Jeongguk takes a step towards him. “Do you trust me?”

Jimin doesn’t hesitate because he’s unsure, but he takes a few soft seconds to answer because the pleading behind Jeongguk’s eyes worries him.

“Yes."

Something like relief flutters across Jeongguk’s face, but it hardly eases him. He turns against the railing they’ve stopped at, facing the cityscape. He asks, “You know how my brother died, right?”

“Mm."

Jeongguk never explicitly told him the details, but the manner of  Jeon Jeongsik’s death isn’t a secret. After working at Deca for so many months, Jimin’s heard enough pieces of the story to form an entire picture. He knows that some wealthy drug lord wished to do business with Deca, and when Ruby backed out, the drug lord kidnapped her children as leverage in an attempt to persuade her to change her mind. When rescuers came, a gunshot fired in the scuffle, and Jeon Jeongsik died not too long after. Such a story couldn’t be kept secret within Decadentia, but it was still taboo enough to only whisper about. Though Jeongguk himself was the one to first tell Jimin his brother died as a child, he likely never told Jimin how because he figured Jimin would find out on his own. Jimin can’t fault him for that. He can’t imagine how difficult it would be to talk about it, how traumatic it is to think about it. Jeongguk was so young, and he saw everything.

“The man who killed him—” Jeongguk crosses his arms over the metal. “He’s been gone for a really long time, and I’ve been looking for him for years. And now … I know where he is. Today. Tonight. I know where he’s at right now, and I’m going to confront him.” He faces Jimin. “Will you come with me?”

Jimin blinks. He was not expecting this tonight. Or ever, for that matter.

It’s a lot to process. Flashes of possible outcomes whisk through Jimin’s mind like fliers caught in a brisk wind. All he can say is, “It’s dangerous, isn’t it.”

Jeongguk doesn’t bullshit him. “Yes. But he won’t hurt you. Trust me.”

Jimin doesn’t know how Jeongguk could possibly know that, but would Jeongguk ever willingly take Jimin somewhere if he knew it was a risk? He recalls that night in Sinwon when Jeongguk retaliated against those thugs. Though Jimin doesn’t wish to see Jeongguk reverted to such a state, he can’t imagine Jeongguk ever holding back when it comes to defending him again. Knowing this, despite the details, a glimmer of warmth blooms in Jimin’s chest. I trust you.

Jimin reaches, taking Jeongguk’s hand. “What about you?”

Jeongguk bows his head, looking at his palm enveloped in Jimin’s. He doesn’t answer for a moment, and when he does, all he says is, “Please come with me.”

Jimin probably shouldn’t. He should probably convince Jeongguk not to go at all. Jimin has no idea what they’re getting themselves into. But holding Jeongguk’s hand, Jimin feels a blind belief that as long as they’re together, everything will be all right. Jeongguk said he’s been looking for this drug lord for years, so surely Jeongguk has planned this confrontation. It must have been eating away at him, and now, he’s finally telling Jimin because it’s now or never.

“Okay,” Jimin says.

Jeongguk softly smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

They leave the skyline walkway, Jeongguk leading them to their destination. It’s within Gangpo, so it’s walkable. Jimin keeps his hand locked with Jeongguk’s as they go, hoping the touch is enough to steady some of Jeongguk’s inner trouble. He wishes to ask more about the entire affair they’re heading to, but he doesn’t feel that the timing is right. He supposes he’ll find out soon.

They arrive at a non-assuming building, nothing out of the ordinary to its neighbors. The lobby is simply an elevator, bathroom, and staircase, and they ride the elevator to the ninth floor. Stepping out, a windowless hall greets them, with fluorescent lights guiding their way. Turning a corner, Jeongguk instantly steps before Jimin, and Jimin doesn’t know why until he sees that the door at the end of the hall is guarded by two ominous individuals. Their arrogant postures and tech gear wrapped around their heads, as well as the peaking out of handheld weapons in their street clothes, displays that they must work for this drug lord. Who else would have stationed goons such as these?

“Stay with me,” Jeongguk whispers behind his shoulder. “Remember: they won’t hurt you.”

Jimin drily chuckles. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

Though he doesn’t know why he wouldn’t be a target if things go south, Jimin follows Jeongguk while they tread onward. As said, he keeps close.

The two guards humorlessly chuckle when they approach, clearly not taking them as a threat.

“Wah, you two again?” the one on the left snorts. Jimin frowns at the statement, glimpsing more closely at the face behind the hologlasses. Though that night in Sinwon was dark, and though it was raining bullets, Jimin wouldn’t forget the four men who attacked them.

It clicks. Of course, now it makes sense. Those men … they provoked and went after them—Jeongguk, in particular—because they must have known who Jeongguk was. They did know who he was. They spoke to him with familiarity, which confused Jimin at the time. They must have come after him because of this,  Jimin thinks. In whichever way Jeongguk is involved with this drug lord, he probably shouldn’t be.

Not dangerous? Jimin presses closer into Jeongguk’s back, fearing for him.

“And again, showing up without an appointment,” adds the guard to the right.

“You think you’re a big shot? You must,” —the left guard jeers his chin towards Jimin— “bringing him along with you.”

Jeongguk cocks his head. Though Jimin can’t see his expression from behind, he can only imagine it’s the suave persona Jeongguk pastes on when he’s as Deca, the one that sends chills down the spines of those who don’t know him well enough.

“That’s exactly right,” he says with faux sweetness.

The guards shuffle on their feet, clearly not expecting such a confident response. The one on the left is the first to gather himself. “Get the fuck out of here. Boss isn’t expecting you, and you’re asking for trouble by bringing him with you.”

“Tell him we’re here,” Jeongguk says. “I’m sure he’d love to see us.”

The two guards exchange a look, seemingly reluctant to let their boss know who’s arrived. But, whether they like it or not, they’re only minions, and even if they appear to not want to listen to Jeongguk’s request, they have to. Jimin suspects they’d be the ones to end up in trouble if their boss discovered someone had come to see him only for him to not be informed.

The one of the left gruffs before disappearing through the door. He’s in there for over four minutes, and to pass the time, Jeongguk attempts small talk with the individual guard left outside. The man snaps at Jeongguk to shut up.

“Rude,” Jeongguk murmurs, but he doesn’t speak any more.

When the other goon returns, his jaw is clenched. He shoots a glare at Jeongguk. “Boss said to wait until his current business is finished.”

“And how long will that take?” Jeongguk questions languidly.

“It’s as long as it takes.”

“Well, then, is there anywhere to sit?”

The two guards stare at him like he’s a rodent. Jeongguk just shrugs in response, turning halfway towards Jimin. “Sorry. I guess we’ll have to wait for a bit.”

“It’s fine,” Jimin answers, but he doesn’t know if anything is fine at all. He doesn’t know who’s beyond those doors, and knowing that it’s the original perpetrator who cornered them in that Sinwon ally stirs discomfort in Jimin’s stomach.

It wouldn’t be an effective message if it was that easy. That’s what one of those goons had said that night. They’d come to send a message, but what message? Jimin assumes it was to scare Jeongguk off from finding this drug lord. Jimin tries to remember what else those four men had said, but the dialogue is blurry in his mind. He remembers some words, but mostly only images.

After some time, the guarded door at the hall’s end opens. Holding open the door is a neat man in a suit, but it’s obviously not him who had been in a meeting with the drug lord. Breezing out the held-open door is a glamorous woman likely in her forties, with pin straight hair flowing about her like a magnificent curtain over her shimmering outfit. She’s dressed more like she’s headed to a party than a business meeting, but then again, perhaps this drug lord is only her first stop of the night. She doesn’t spare the two guards any attention, and she only briefly glances at Jeongguk and Jimin before waltzing past, her own guard on her toes.

Jeongguk shoots up his brows in question towards the two guards, and one enters for a moment. Returning, he says, “He’s ready to see you.”

Before Jeongguk and Jimin can enter, they’re patted down for weapons, and once cleared, in they go.

Jimin expects a single room, but he’s instead greeted with multiple rooms, like a shop broken into multiple open areas sanctioned off by half-walls. He has no idea what this space is possibly used for. All he sees is lavishly placed furniture and more guards positioned throughout. Perhaps it’s a frequent meeting location for this drug lord, thus the affluent decor and dark atmosphere. However, rather than find the man of the hour reclining in one of the open spaces, Jeongguk and Jimin are instead led to a closed off room. Through the door, it appears to be an office minus any desk. They’re greeted with an intimate sitting area before a frosted window, allowing red shadows from some outside shop sign to bleed inside.

But Jimin doesn’t linger on the room design. Instead, his gaze freezes over the man sitting on a single armchair, blowing out a puff of onyx from a slim metal roller. He has slicked back hair over a high forehead, with rounded cheeks and a firm jaw above a prim suit. One leg is crossed over the other, and he doesn’t even look at the new arrivals the moment they enter. Rather, he takes his time inhaling another wisp of onyx, likely the most recreational drug he distributes from his cartel. Black spirals dissipate before him like a film screen fading in from black to color, revealing the picture. His eyes finally land on his guests.

Jimin’s heart drops to his feet. Before he can help himself, one word breathes through his lips.

“Dad?”

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

Jeongguk remains a foot ahead of Jimin, blocking half of his body with his own. He can’t see Jimin’s face; he refuses to remove his attention from the man lounging in front of them. But Jeongguk hears the confused recognition in Jimin’s voice when he calls out for his father. How can so much emotion exist in one word?

Park Kangdae discards his used roll of onyx atop a side table to his right. With a final blow of the black smoke, he languidly rises to his feet. Even with the distance in between, it’s obvious he and his son are identical in height.

Jeongguk attentively watches Kangdae’s every move. It doesn’t appear that he expected to meet Jimin tonight, but it also doesn’t seem like he’s too shocked. It’s like he’s been waiting for this day to come, as though it’s always been inevitable.

“What is this?” Jimin says, breaking the momentary silence. Jeongguk likes to think he’s adept at reading Jimin’s moods, but right now, he can’t tell. There are too many feelings clashing, like a palette splattered with too many colors to differentiate, resulting in a muddled, gray mess.

“I underestimated you,” Kangdae tells Jeongguk. He holds his hands behind his back, something Jeongguk recognizes as pure comfortability. It’s human nature to conceal the front of the torso when faced with anxious situations. People cross their arms or fold their hands at their stomachs, instinctively protecting their organs and warming their own body. But Park Kangdae is surrounded by four trustworthy henchmen. There’s one behind him, one on either side, and one behind Jeongguk and Jimin at the door. More are outside. Kangdae has no reason to worry, even if subconsciously. His arrogance is not just for show. It’s factual.

But this doesn’t disconcert Jeongguk. Kangdae’s composure only assures him that everything is going to plan.

“By coming here,” says Kangdae, “I suppose you care less for the man at your side than you let on. I’m impressed.”

“Is that what you think?”

“It must be. You’re already aware of my indifference to whether he knows of my identity or not, and I seem to recall you saying that informing him wasn’t the threat you were going for. With that said, you must have come here intending to draw his blood before my very eyes to attempt and invoke some semblance of pain from me, right? To make me feel the pain you’ve felt?” Kangdae raises his lips in not quite a smile. “But you know I don’t care, and I know you do. Still, you’ve come to pay me a visit today, so I am impressed, and curious to learn why.”

Why does he have to speak so vaguely? Jeongguk needs him to say more.

“You were right,” Jeongguk starts.

Kangdae’s visage just barely fluctuates in confusion. “Oh? How so?”

“When you called my bluff. You were right.” Jeongguk tightens his hold on Jimin’s hand at his back. “I would never hurt him.”

“Yet you’ve brought him here.”

“You won’t hurt him, either.”

“You believe so?”

“I know so.”

Kangdae holds Jeongguk’s stare for a moment, and for those intense couple of seconds, Jeongguk irrationally questions his own confidence. If he’s miscalculated, if Kangdae orders his men to attack, then things will turn ugly. Fast. Namjoon and Chief Na’s fellow hidden partners are stationed nearby, but they’ll only barely make it in time if Kangdae pulls something haste. They can’t be too close, otherwise they’ll draw the attention of Kangdae’s gangsters. But Jeongguk didn’t bring Jimin here without guaranteed backup. He’s not that much of a fool.

But he did come here banking on Kangdae’s innate paternal care. Maybe Kangdae doesn’t care if Jimin earns a scratch or two, as evidenced by the "message" he sent them a few weeks ago, and though Jeongguk hates the thought, it’s a risk he’s willing to take for the mission at hand. But if Kangdae really, truly, doesn’t mind what harm comes to his son—

Kangdae disrupts Jeongguk’s concerns with a quiet chuckle. He dismisses his men to wait outside the room, and then he turns on his heel and lowers himself back down where he was sitting before. With a casual wave of his hand, he tells Jeongguk and Jimin, “Sit down. I feel we’ll be having a detailed conversation, and I really hate wasting my energy by standing for too long.”

The door clicks shut, leaving the three of them alone. Jeongguk goes to sit, but he halts when Jimin’s hand slips out of his grasp.

“What’s. Going. On.” Jimin enunciates each word. He’s rooted to the spot, eyes widened like he’s seen a ghost.

From his chair, Kangdae clicks his tongue towards Jeongguk. “You brought him along without even telling him where you were going? How cruel of you.”

Jeongguk hasn’t realized how tense Jimin is until he faces him, catching his expression. Jeongguk softens, stepping up to him and taking his hand. Jimin doesn’t pull away, but he hardly accepts the gesture.

“Jimin,” says Jeongguk gently, “come on.”

Bloodshot, Jimin mumbles, “You said we were going to the man who killed your brother.”

“Yes.”

“This … this is that man?”

Jeongguk hesitates at the shock, the sadness, and the anger. Then he nods.

“He’s my father,” Jimin says.

“Yes.”

“You knew?”

I knew that your father was the one who killed my brother? That he killed anyone at all? That you’re his son? That I knew any of this before you did? Jeongguk wants to tell him everything, but he can’t. Kangdae needs to say it. All of this depends on Kangdae admitting it.

Jeongguk wraps Jimin’s hand in both of his own. “Please come and sit with me,” he whispers.

Jimin listens, but he comes along like he’s a kite being pulled by a string.

Once they’re sat, Kangdae starts, “Well, I’m sure you’d much rather tell the tale.”

In this case, Jeongguk rather wouldn’t, but he supposes it works as long as Kangdae confirms his statements.

“You really don’t mind if he knows everything?” Jeongguk asks. This is almost too easy. Jeongguk doesn’t want to jinx it by letting his guard down, but he also doesn’t want to make a mistake by keeping it up.

Kangdae exhales a curt half-smile. “I mind having to repeat myself.”

Well, then.

Jeongguk looks at Jimin, who’s staring at his father. Kangdae doesn’t return the attention. In fact, Jeongguk doesn’t think Kangdae’s spared his son even once glance since they’ve been in here. Even in his speech, he’s never directly addressed him, nor has he even said his name. Is Kangdae’s care so broken, or is it so overwhelming that he can’t bear to face the child he abandoned?

“Jimin,” says Jeongguk. “Remember how I asked you earlier if you knew how my brother died? Did you hear that it was a scuffle between Deca and a drug kingpin? That the kingpin kidnapped my brother and I when we were kids to hold as blackmail in order to get my mom to submit to doing business with him? That when we were rescued, my brother died in the crossfire? That the kingpin and his men disappeared and got away unscathed? That’s this man. His name is Park Kangdae, and he’s your father.”

The blood has drained from Jimin’s face, but he doesn’t move other than to blink. It’s like the moment he saw his father when they entered this room, he already gathered enough in order to not be as flabbergasted now. But he’s still hearing all of this for the first time, and in some ways, Jimin’s stone-still frame is worse than him acting out.

“Park Kangdae,” Jeongguk calls out. “Tell him what happened.”

“Isn’t that what you just did?”

“He deserves to hear it from you. Are you such scum to not even say one word to him after so many years without contact? Whether you care or not, I thought someone of your status was at least courteous.”

Kangdae’s small smile grinds Jeongguk’s gears. He wants to rip it off of his face.

“Yes, you’re right,” Kangdae agrees, further leaning back in his chair. It’s like he’s watching a movie. Does nothing faze him because he was born without a heart, or has his line of work numbed him after so many years? Jeongguk can’t decide which answer is more tragic.

Kangdae details what happened so long ago, though he still manages to avoid directly addressing his son. Rather, it’s though he’s telling a mildly interesting story to an audience. He doesn’t bother glossing over things, but he doesn’t sneer or contrastingly smirk. He explains exactly what happened without any remorse or resentment. If anything, he sounds disappointed, but Jeongguk already knows such disappointment lies in a missed opportunity rather than a deceased child. The longer Kangdae rehashes the events of the past, the more resolve Jeongguk feels for being here today.

He can only hope the minuscule camera and mic carefully concealed on his person is picking up every word Kangdae says.

Kangdae wraps up by concluding that he had to operate further in the shadows after what happened. Decadentia was a legal business, so Jeongguk’s mother had no reason not to go to the police over the death of her son. Kangdae and his drug empire were forced to lay low for many years. They still do.

Boo-fucking-hoo, thinks Jeongguk. The only reason Jeongguk is here now is because the police haven’t and won’t do a thing. It’s why Chief Na puts her entire career on the line to secretly support her own investigations, why Kim Namjoon risks his life to go against the complaints he had that forbade him from becoming a cop in the first place.

Jeongguk scoffs at Kangdae. The man only arches a brow at him.

In the short bout of silence following the end of Kangdae’s account, Jeongguk glances over at Jimin. He’s yet to say a word this entire time. He has only attentively listened, his hands tightly folded in his lap.

Now, he slides a stony gaze towards his father. “Did Mom know?”

It’s like a screen glitch. Kangdae finally looks at his son, and that God-forsaken smile finally slides off his face.

“No,” he answers. “Not the details.”

“But she knew you peddled drugs. She knew you were the kingpin of a gang.”

“Yes.”

Jimin whispers in disbelief, “She defended you. This … this is the job you worked so hard at, that kept you away every month, that brought in all of our money … this is what she defended.”

“Do not mistake her,” Kangdae speaks lowly. “She did not support my work, but she bore it out of her care for me, and because she had no other options.”

Jimin’s expression doesn’t fall like snow or rain, but like piercing hail. “Even now,” he breathes in realization, “even now you only care for her.”

Kangdae’s jaw feathers. “You know nothing.”

Defeatedly, Jimin laments, “That’s why I’m here, right? Because I didn’t know any of this? Well, now I know. Now, you’ve told me everything.”

“Not everything.” Kangdae flickers to Jeongguk, and to his unease, that sly hint of a smile makes a return. “You’ve yet to hear the most recent updates of this story. Aren’t you brimming with curiosity?”

Jimin slowly follows Kangdae’s line of sight, and Jeongguk’s stomach sinks like an anchor.

No wonder Kangdae doesn’t mind if Jimin knows everything, because included in this everything is Jeongguk’s involvement.

When he and Jimin got here, Kangdae claimed Jeongguk doesn’t care for Jimin as much as Kangdae thought. Jeongguk indirectly denied that, but Kangdae wasn’t referring to Jeongguk physically harming Jimin. He meant emotionally, and he knows that Jimin won’t be left internally unscathed when he learns how Jeongguk first used him to get to Kangdae.

How he’s still using him.

But Jeongguk has no other choice, and at the end of the day, Jimin deserves to know the truth about his father.

Jeongguk believes this will all work, and in the end, things will settle, especially between them. It has to work. He has to believe that.

“This one here,” Kangdae starts, referring to Jeongguk, “has been playing you like a chess piece on what he thinks is a clever little board. He thinks he’s winning the game, but in reality, there is no winner.”

Jeongguk keeps quiet.

“There’s just a boy attempting to reign justice like a horse, but in the meantime, he’s clumsily trampling on everything in his path, especially you.” Kangdae rises from his seat, and Jeongguk instantly stiffens in heed. He watches as Kangdae slowly trails around them while he continues.

“After the matter with this one’s brother,” drawls Kangdae, “he never crossed my mind again. But low and behold, over fifteen years later, he randomly appears during a meeting of mine. He’s physically grown, but the moment he speaks, he’s no different than the naive little boy from back then. He explains that he’s taken you under his wing, that you work for his family business and he has the pleasure of sponsoring you—don’t worry, he spoke well of your talent. But he didn’t come see me just to share where my son ended up. Can you guess what purpose he had to brag about you? Here’s a hint: it wasn’t to praise Decadentia’s newest hire.”

Jimin was frozen solid when he learned the truth about his father. He silently took in everything, his breaths even despite any internal rush of blood or pounding of his heart. But now, as he takes in everything Kangdae is revealing about the person sitting beside him, Jimin appears to be on the verge of trembling. His eyes already are.

“Just like how I used Jeon Jeongsik and Jeon Jeongguk as leverage,” Kangdae says, “Jeon Jeongguk has used you. You were nothing more to him than a threat to lord over my head, nothing more than potential payback for the death of his brother. I’m unaware of how long this boy has known of you, or since when he concocted this foolish idea to try and use you against me, but I do know that he came to me claiming he’d hurt you in order to fulfill his pathetic revenge. I wonder, Jeon Jeongguk, if tonight is your idea of justice, even if I’ve said countless times how little I care for my son to learn my truths. Or maybe you’ve had a change of heart and are seeking closure. If so, it appears that your own closure only cares for itself, and not the people it affects in the process.”

With difficulty, Jeongguk has held his tongue, but he can’t any longer after Kangdae’s last sentence.

“That’s not true,” he snaps.

“But everything else is, right?”

Jeongguk pales, because it’s Jimin who's spoken, not Kangdae. But it’s not even the words themselves that make Jeongguk feel like he’s been tossed off the cycleway railing—it’s how heartbroken they sound. Utterly, undeniably heartbroken. Jimin even stands, like he has to physically put distance between them because he can’t bear it otherwise.

Jeongguk rises himself, but he doesn’t dare step closer.

Because the thing is, Jeongguk can’t deny any of it, even if he wants to.

“Yes,” he answers tightly, “but it’s not—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Kangdae cuts off, still casually circling them like a vulture. He tells Jimin, “It’s also true that he wouldn’t have ever hurt you, because he cares for you. Isn’t that right, Jeongguk?”

It hurts Jeongguk’s pride to respond to Kangdae, but Jimin must know that his father is right, at least when it comes to this.

Except Jimin’s blanched face doesn’t change. “From the beginning,” he whispers, “it’s been only this.”

Jeongguk has too much to say, too much to explain, but he can’t do it here. “No,” he replies, at least having to say something. “No, it hasn’t. But, Jimin.” Jeongguk’s eyes are burning. His throat is closing. “Jimin, he killed my brother. He killed him, and got away with it. Then I found a way. And it was better than doing nothing. Anything is better than nothing.”

Kangdae’s laugh sounds from behind Jeongguk’s left ear. “What way? You came here tonight to tell my son the truth, but what else is there? All I see is two young boys torn over the past and present, whereas I’m only being held up from moving on with my evening. Hogeum! ”

The room’s door opens, in-entering one of Kangdae’s lackeys who Jeongguk can only assume to be Hogeum.

“Deokgu, Joonki, Hongro.” Kangdae motions them in, filling the room with the four men who’d been stationed within earlier. They close the door behind them.

Jeongguk immediately takes a protective step towards Jimin, but Jimin backs away.

“Jeon Jeongguk,” Kangdae sighs, cracking his neck with a spine-tingling pop. “You said I was right about you; I correctly called your bluff. You’ll be glad to know that you were right about me. I have no intention of injuring my son, but you … you have been a particularly irritating thorn in my side.”

With one swift motion of their boss’s hand, the two goons named Hogeum and Joonki grab each of Jeongguk’s arms from behind, holding him in place as they force him to his knees. Jeongguk startles at the initial contact, but he doesn’t struggle to escape. He’s outnumbered, and if anything, being overtaken will only serve as more incriminating proof to capture on video.

Unlike his previous backward step, Jimin now staggers as if planning to rush over. However, he quickly thinks better of it. Good, Jeongguk thinks. Better that Jimin is left out of this.

Kangdae lazily stalks up to Jeongguk. It’s like he has all the time in the world.

“Stop,” Jimin blurts out.

Kangdae tilts his head as he half-turns. “Stop? Why?”

Jimin says nothing.

Kangdae humphs, facing Jeongguk once more. Clasping his hands behind his back, he bends at the waist, meeting him at eye-level.

Despite the physical similarities Jeongguk originally saw between Jimin and his father, now that Kangdae is this close, Jeongguk sees none of it. Jeongguk has seen Jimin up close. He’s observed every lash, every freckle. He’s kissed his mouth, his neck. He’s been at the receiving end of his pouts and his laughter. The haughty, vile look on Kangdae’s face resembles nothing of Jimin.

Kangdae opens his mouth, likely to spew shit, but he’s interrupted when a lackey Jeongguk recalls to be named Chaeyeon bursts through the door.

“Boss,” she rasps below her blue-lit hologlasses, “there are detectives down the street and in the building.”

Kangdae narrows his eyes, more calculating than concerned. “Their status?”

“They’re not engaging, but they seem to be … waiting.”

Jeongguk witnesses Kangdae put the pieces together in a manner of seconds. He glares at Jeongguk like he wishes to impale him on a flagpole.

“You little shit,” he grinds out, and finally, his composure vanishes. He pulls back his leg before barreling the pointed toe of his shoe into Jeongguk’s gut. It knocks the wind out of him, but Hogeum and Joonki don’t even allow him the courtesy of slumping over.

Jeongguk thinks he hears Jimin gasp. It’s difficult to tell when his senses are honed into what he guesses are his intestines throbbing.

“Clear out,” Kangdae orders Chaeyeon and the others beyond the door. “Don’t seek a fight, but if any of the detectives engage, do everything but kill them. Dealing with their bodies is more trouble than it’s worth, but they don’t need to walk anytime soon.”

Jeongguk catches Jimin’s horrified expression as Kangdae’s henchmen follow his order, filing out. But not the four inside the room with them. No, these are staying for a reason. Jeongguk guesses why before Kangdae even continues.

“Jeon Jeongguk,” Kangdae drawls, shutting the door before rolling up his sleeves, “you miss your brother so much? I’ll give you a one-way ticket to go and meet him.”

“No,” Jimin gets out, and this time, he starts to run. But before he can even get two steps in, Deokgu and Hongro grapple at him, holding him back. Unlike Jeongguk, he fights them. He thrashes, he kicks, but it’s no use. Like in that alley in Sinwon, it doesn’t matter if Jimin’s weak or strong—it’s two against one. These men are gang members. They’re experienced fighters. One punch would likely knock Jimin to the ground. It’s their job to protect their boss, and it’s going to take a lot more than kicking and screaming to escape them.

But seeing Jimin like this somehow comforts Jeongguk. Despite everything, Jimin is trying to run to him.

“No,” Jimin repeats, shaking his head. “No, no.”

“Be quiet,” Kangdae snaps, not even bothering to glance back.

“Stop—Dad!”

Kangdae flinches as though he’s been pricked. A flash of hope flickers over Jimin, but it’s short lived. Park Kangdae is unyielding. Not even the desperate pleas of his son will prevent him from doing what he wants.

Jeongguk closes his eyes as Kangdae goes in for the kill.

Chapter Text

Jimin struggles to free himself of the gang members holding him back. Their hands are clamped so hard around his biceps that he wonders if they’ll leave bruises.

Jimin wants to run across the room, to splay himself in front of Jeongguk so his father can’t touch him. His father said he wouldn’t hurt Jimin, so what else could Jimin do other than form a barrier between the two and take that chance?

But Jimin can’t do anything other than remain helplessly where he is, painfully watching the other two lackeys beat Jeongguk into a pulp per their boss’s command.

His father threw the first punch. With a studded ring on his finger, that alone was enough to draw blood. But now he just watches. In control, he’s relaxed, and he has no qualms over the violence taking place before his very eyes.

It’s difficult for Jimin to take it all in.

Difficult is a massive understatement, he thinks.

First hearing that he was going to confront the man who’d left a dark trauma on Jeongguk’s life, only to arrive and be faced with the man who’d done the same to Jimin’s. Then to learn the details, to both feel empathetic for Jeongguk’s story while simultaneously coming to terms with his own. To put the puzzle pieces together of his own absent father, to understand the complexities of his own childhood. To discover Jeongguk’s original intentions with him, bringing forth hurt and betrayal, only to now feel the desperate urge to save him as Jeongguk is transformed into a bloody mess while Jimin’s father lords over his handiwork.

“Stop,” Jimin begs, but it’s pointless. He tastes salt on his lips. When did tears start to fall?

Fight back! Jimin thinks. Why isn’t Jeongguk fighting back? He took on these same men before, so he can do it again. But he’s not. He’s being held up by one only so the other can land punch after punch, kick after kick. What's scarier is that they aren't even in a rush. They allow Jeongguk the chance to catch his breath, to let the pain lace through his nerves so it stings the utmost ache, only for the oppressors to repeat the process.

Jimin thought he knew what horrifying is from former strip clubs, from former back alleys of the dilapidated Sinwon district, but nothing compares to this.

In this moment, Jimin doesn’t care what he’s learned since stepping into this room. He doesn’t care if he was just a pawn, if Jeongguk brought him here to try and get at his father or for some other fucked up reason—all Jimin knows is that he feels like vomiting at seeing his own father, who he’d thought disappeared off the face of the earth, oversee Jeongguk be relegated to a helpless, injured sack. Jeongguk is slumped, his mouth stained with dark crimson. His breaths are labored, his forehead slick with sweat.

Kangdae holds up a hand, and the man currently kneeing into Jeongguk’s stomach ceases. He shifts to assist the other holding Jeongguk up, each taking an arm like before. Jeongguk can’t stand. He can’t even kneel. He’s like a hefty bag of rice in between them. The only thing that reveals he’s even still conscious is that when Kangdae nears, he spits blood at the man’s polished shoes.

Kangdae icily smiles before snaking his hand through Jeongguk’s disheveled hair, roughly thrusting his neck up. “How old are you, Jeon Jeongguk?”

When Jeongguk doesn’t immediately answer, Kangdae jerks back his hair even further, causing Jeongguk to uncontrollably wince.

Voice like velvet, Kangdae insists, “I asked you a question.”

“Twenty-three.”

“How young. Let’s see, the situation with your family’s business occurred sixteen years ago, correct? You were … seven? Yes, seven. And your brother was how old?”

Jeongguk is shaking, but Jimin doesn’t know if it’s from fear, anger, or simply because Jeongguk’s body is aching with pain.

“Nine,” he grits through his teeth.

“How interesting. At that time, my son was also nine.”

Jimin frowns, trying to understand where his father is going with this. Kangdae’s tone is impossible to read. Is he regretful? Apathetic? He could be either. His composure is chilling, yet there are still layered emotions tucked beneath. Jimin learned how to read people after serving them for so long, but he never really knew his father. Especially now, after so many years, the man before him is a complete stranger. The uncertainty makes him that much more scary.

The only reason Jimin even instantly recognized him is because they look so much alike. He wouldn’t know him otherwise.

“Harming children is never my intention,” Kangdae tells Jeongguk. He slides his hand out of his hair and down his cheek, and for a strange moment, Jimin thinks Kangdae is going to pinch him like one would an adored toddler. “You’re still just a boy,” Kangdae says, but then he tightly grips Jeongguk’s chin, his expression darkening. “But you’re no longer a child.”

Terror races frantically through Jimin at the looming intent. “Dad,” he calls desperately. Kangdae continues to ignore him. Jimin thrashes again, but it’s no use. He can’t move. If anything, the two men holding him back grip him even tighter. They must understand Kangdae’s next move too.

It’s not like Jimin’s father is trying very hard to hide it.

“Please,” Jimin trembles. No one’s coming, and his father is going to kill Jeongguk.

Jimin slides his focus back and forth from his father to Jeongguk like a pinball. He doesn’t want to remove his attention from Kangdae for one moment. He can’t miss anything. But Jimin wants to look at Jeongguk. He wants Jeongguk to look back, but he hasn’t met Jimin’s eyes since that first punch.

Please, look at me. Spare me one glance to prove that this wasn’t just a ploy to you.

Kangdae slides a hand under his lapel and fleshes out a knife. Its center indent catches a glare, creating a spark in Jimin’s vision like a flick of a flame. It coincides with the weapon’s dramatic flare. It’s not that it’s obnoxiously long, nor is the handle too decorated, but even from a distance, Jimin sees that it’s deadly sharp. One quick slice across an artery is all it would take. One stab through the heart would be as easy as spearing the flesh of a fruit.

Jeongguk finally meets Jimin’s gaze the moment the room’s door bursts open.

There’s a silent stillness as the newcomer rapidly assesses what he’s just landed upon. Jimin’s torturous face flickers in absolute befuddlement at recognizing who’s interrupted. It would all be quite comical were the situation not so terrifying.

Namjoon wastes no time. He instantly hops on the offensive, tasing the nearest goon holding Jeongguk. The man convulses before plonking to the floor like a domino, unconscious.

Meanwhile, one of Jimin’s guards wastes no time, running at Namjoon like a boar. Before he can even shuck out a weapon of his own, Namjoon swiftly side steps him. The man practically barrels into the wall. Namjoon goes to taze him too, but he’s in too close proximity, and it allows the man to narrowly avoid earning a zap. He fluidly knocks the device out of Namjoon’s hands and jerks out a knife of his own. In a blur, he strikes, but Namjoon blocks.

This wakes Jimin up. He takes his chance.

He rams his elbow into the lone henchman keeping him in place, but he doesn’t get very far before he’s yanked back by a fist in his clothes. Jimin yelps, twisting to kick at the man’s shins. Out of the corner of his vision, he catches the one with Jeongguk discard him to join the fight against Namjoon. Jeongguk topples to the floor, not out cold but likely not far from it. Kangdae is a few feet away from the action just watching—

Jimin is slapped across the face. It’s worse than a punch, he thinks. A punch aches, but a slap is disrespectful.

Blood boils in Jimin’s veins. The man stuck with him is grappling with his arms, forcing him to remain in place while his two friends handle Namjoon.

What the fuck is Namjoon doing here too?

One of the gang member's hands is on Jimin’s shoulder. So, Jimin turns his neck and sinks his teeth into his skin.

A high-pitched squeak erupts from the man’s throat. He instinctively slings back his arm. Having caught him off guard, Jimin musters all of his energy and grabs the man’s shoulders, forcing down his torso only to knee him in the balls. Painfully groaning, the man’s knees cave, and he sinks to the floor.

Then Jimin slaps him. Twice.

Jimin spins to help Namjoon, finding that his friend has managed to collect back his taser and zap one more gang member, but he’s still fighting the final lackey left standing.

Since when could Namjoon fight? Why is he here? How is he here? Just how much does Jimin not know—?

Jeongguk is no longer a heap on the floor. Jimin’s stomach lurches at what he finds instead.

"Stop!” he screams, though his words are directed at Namjoon more than anyone else.

His friend shoves at his opponent, permitting them enough distance to glance over at the latest development. What they see ceases their fighting spirit. Namjoon stays rooted, and Kangdae’s man positions himself at the door, returning to a guard formation.

The one behind Jimin shakily rises to his feet, but he doesn’t touch him. It’s not that he’s learned his lesson, but it’s that he doesn’t have to. Jimin isn’t going anywhere. He won’t retaliate.

Not when Kangdae has lugged Jeongguk to his feet and flushed the length of his knife to his throat. It’s really so sharp; beads of blood already bubble along the silver.

Jeongguk’s head is upturned towards the ceiling, Kangdae’s grip back in his hair. His Adam’s apple bobs in an uncontrollable swallow, and Jimin staggers when he catches the blade at Jeongguk’s neck press deeper as a result. A single stream of red trickles down his delicate skin.

Standing behind him, Kangdae glares fiercely at Namjoon over Jeongguk’s shoulder.

Jimin’s father has been impressively calm tonight, but it appears as though his patience has finally run dry. 

“Leave with the rest of your party,” Kangdae orders Namjoon, voice scarily even despite his glower, “unless you want to see this boy’s jugular paint the ground.”

“How do I know you won’t just kill him when I leave?”

“I won’t.”

“He will,” Jimin argues. He jostles when the man behind him shakes him in a clear threat to remain silent. Jimin roughly shrugs him off, meeting Namjoon’s eyes in a silent plea.

“I’ll make a deal, then,” Kangdae says.

Tears slip down the sides of Jeongguk’s beaten face. Are they from the pain or the rough position?

“You and your crew leave with this one” —Kangdae jerks Jeongguk’s head to refer to him— “and forget this day ever happened. You were waiting in the shadows as backup, right? That’s why Jeon Jeongguk came today. Not to shove my son in my face, but for this, for you to be given cause to infiltrate and save him from danger.”

Namjoon doesn’t confirm this, but he doesn’t deny it. While he wears a poker face, Jimin can still guess Kangdae’s assumptions are correct.

“My son is right,” Kangdae continues, angling his blade even more precariously along Jeongguk’s throat. “If you leave this room on your own, taking my son but leaving Jeongguk, only to immediately return for my arrest, Jeon Jeongguk will be long dead. But if I let him go, and he safely leaves with you and your friends, then this day never happened.”

Jimin can only assume Namjoon has come with police, considering that woman Chaeyeon mentioned detectives earlier. If so, then they have every right to barge in here if there are citizens in trouble. They don’t need a warrant if there is probable cause.

But Kangdae won’t even entertain letting Jeongguk go unless they all leave first. Kangdae will watch them go, and he’ll probably have his men trail them to make sure they go far. By the time things die down and the police do return, Jimin’s father will be long gone. He’s disappeared for years. Jimin doesn’t doubt he can disappear again.

“What will you do if we don’t leave?” Namjoon asks.

Jimin shoots him a worried look.

“If you kill Jeon Jeongguk right before my eyes,” Namjoon continues, “you’ll be incriminating yourself more than you already have. You won’t walk out of here in anything other than a pair of handcuffs.”

Kangdae huffs a chuckle. “Show me your badge.”

Jimin curiously awaits for Namjoon to pull one out, to reveal that he is actually an undercover detective, but he does no such thing.

“You think I don’t know who you are, Kim Namjoon?” Kangdae says, not surprised. “I’ve operated in the shadows for many years, and I wouldn’t be as skilled at it as I am if I wasn’t aware of who was trying to stick their nose into my business.”

Namjoon doesn’t display any shock or fear. “You never stopped me from snooping.”

“Because I knew you weren’t a cop. You’re nothing. And even if you were, what could a lowly policeman do? Policemen follow orders from bosses who follow orders from politicians. It’s a bureaucracy, and priorities center around what earns the most coin and maintains the most power. Chasing a powerful cartel is a danger and a waste of resources. It’s a poor money maker. If anything, it’s a financial loss. You couldn’t do anything to me even if you did have a badge. Why would I care if you tattletale my dealings and whereabouts to some chief who’s as equally powerless as you are? Even today, I’m curious to know what you thought you could accomplish. I suppose the answer is happening at this very moment. You busted in here playing hero, yet I’m sure you silently hope I slit this boy’s throat so you have an excuse to detain me. But, then again, it’s not like you yourself can even arrest me for it. So, with that said, you’re left with not many options.”

Jimin painfully waits for Namjoon’s response. As much as Jimin would like to see the perpetrator defeated, they’re in a hazardous situation. Jimin can’t think of anything other than that goddamn knife carving a thin line of red along Jeongguk’s neck. Any more and Jeongguk will start gasping. One attempt at Kangdae and they’ll all see red pour.

Jimin makes eye contact with Namjoon. Jimin shakes his head.

Namjoon answers Kangdae, “Let him go.”

Jimin’s father cocks his head. “Hm, now that I think about it, how do I know you won’t just turn back on your word the moment I give Jeongguk to you? You’re a fair fighter. Perhaps more detectives will arrive in the hall and overpower me before I can leave. I don’t like that.”

Namjoon glowers, “You’re the one who proposed the deal.”

“And I’m changing it. I’ll give you Jeongguk safe and sound, but my son will stay with me until I know for a fact you and your team are long gone from here. Once you are, I’ll let him go.”

Namjoon exhales an incredulous breath. “You’re fucked if you think I’m leaving without—”

“It’s okay, Joon,” Jimin interrupts. “I can stay.”

Namjoon’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline.

“It’s okay,” repeats Jimin, resolve settling in his chest like heavy, wet sand. “He won’t hurt me.”

Despite everything, for some innate reason, Jimin believes that. He shouldn’t, not when Jeongguk’s one wrong move away from a slashed throat, but Jimin’s still standing. He may have one ringing slap to his name, but even then, it was inflicted without Kangdae’s approval. Park Kangdae was a shit dad when Jimin was a kid, but he was never violent.

At the orphanage, when Jimin felt particularly self-deprecating, he used to ponder what was worse—having a dad who didn’t act like he existed versus one that made sure he knew he did? Some of the other children had come from physically abusive homes. Yet, some used to share that when their families were in a rare, pleasant mood, there were still moments of happiness. Jimin remembers that from his mother, but not his father. He doesn’t remember much of his father at all beyond a handful of core memories. Park Kangdae was not in his life frequently enough to cultivate memories worth keeping.

Today, Jimin has learned that he truly had no clue who Park Kangdae was, not back then. But for some odd reason, Jimin believes that his father won’t hurt him now. Maybe it’s because Jeongguk walked in here so vehemently believing that, even if he knew the same assurance didn’t apply to himself. Maybe it’s because Kangdae was always indifferent towards Jimin, so much that it was a waste of his precious time to ever dirty his hands with him.

Either way, Jimin knows the only way that Jeongguk and Namjoon are going to walk out of here now is if he stays.

“Jimin,” Namjoon starts carefully, “There’s no guarantee.”

“No,” he agrees, “but there’s a guarantee that both you and Jeongguk will be hurt if you don’t do as he asks, so please, Namjoon. This is my choice. Take Jeongguk and go.”

Namjoon looks as though he wants to say more, but he knows his options are extremely limited. He likely knows he won’t be able to convince Jimin out of this. So, his jaw tenses, gaze flickering to Jeongguk, Kangdae, and finally Jimin. Eventually, he nods. Jimin could never blame him. Jimin’s relieved.

“Was that so hard?” Kangdae drawls. “Hongro, hold him.”

The goon behind Jimin takes his arms. This time, Jimin doesn’t wrestle him away. Jimin stands perfectly still, eyes boring at his father.

“Let Jeongguk go,” he commands, stern from the depths of his throat.

Kangdae lifts a brow at Jimin’s severity. With a slick push, he removes the blade from Jeongguk’s neck and shoves him forward. Kangdae instantly takes a step back in case Jeongguk somehow gathers enough of his energy to spin around and attack. But Jeongguk is slunken, and he flounders forward. He nearly crashes to the floor before Namjoon hastily catches him. Namjoon dips his head under one of Jeongguk’s arms, helping him to his feet.

“Remember, Kim Namjoon,” Kangdae tells him, lazily sticking his knife back within his clothes, “don’t linger.”

"If you hurt even one hair on his—"

"Spare me your worry. I won't even hold his hand. But I am his father," Kangdae says, and only now, there's a strange spark of sincerity in his tone. "Out of everyone in this room, only I can guarantee his safety, and I promise he will have it."

Namjoon only gruffs in response, focusing on hoisting Jeongguk out. As they near the door, Jeongguk’s head lolls, and he meets Jimin’s eyes. Pain pools in his irises.

Since entering this room, Jimin’s been too overwhelmed to navigate his own emotions, but he briefly wonders how he himself looks in Jeongguk’s point of view. Jeongguk is physically hurt, making a twisted expression from him as expected, but Jimin’s fine. Still, does Jeongguk see an equally pained face staring back at him?

Jimin has a discomforting feeling that they are mirrors.

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

He’s left alone.

Jimin tries the windows, but they’re permanently locked. He could always break them, but there’s the matter of the nine story drop, never mind the likelihood that his father’s henchmen would barge into the room the moment they hear the glass shatter. His mobile is useless; his father took it from him with the promise he’d return it once they left.

While Jimin checked the windows out of lonesome curiosity rather than escape logic, he won’t attempt to run. For one, he knows he’d fail, but two, it’d be pointless. He chose to stay here in order to give Namjoon and Jeongguk an out. That choice was made without an alternative plan to flee.

While he’s certain about that choice, he’s not certain about what comes next. Kept locked in the same sitting room where every revelation was laid bare, he’s too anxious to sit. The most he can do is crouch facing the door, waiting for his father to return.

He imagines that Kangdae has gone to delegate his men on exit strategy. Jimin may be entirely in the dark in regard to whatever the fuck Jeongguk and Namjoon had originally planned, but he got the gist of what was waiting outside for Kangdae if the drug kingpin hadn’t kept Jimin as leverage.

When did Jeongguk and Namjoon meet? Jimin racks his memory. He can’t recall personally introducing them. He would have remembered that. But clearly they know each other—they more than know each other. When did they meet, and how did they ever find anything in common enough to team up? How was Namjoon still involved with the police when he hadn’t even gotten past basic all those years ago? Why didn’t either of them tell Jimin anything? Jeongguk is one thing, but Jimin has been best friends with Namjoon for over a decade. How could Namjoon—?

Jimin presses a hand to his temple. His brain is one handful of swamped thoughts away from drowning.

He takes a deep breath. He steadies himself.

Sometime later, his father returns. He enters with the ease of a man who hasn’t just been exposed to the abandoned son he hasn’t seen in over fifteen years. It would disgust Jimin if he wasn’t already so dazed.

Kangdae and two guards lead him down the building’s elevator and straight out the front doors, like it's any random evening. Jimin scans the nighttime streets for anyone familiar, but he catches no one other than oblivious passerby. A sleek black transport idles at the curb, its majorly windowed exterior so dark it’s impossible to see inside. A guard opens up the backseat door. Kangdae gestures towards the interior.

“After you,” he tells Jimin. At Jimin’s hesitation, he adds, “I’m not kidnapping you. We must leave this location, but once enough distance has been put between us and I know I’m not being tailed, I’ll let you out. I’ll even order you a taxi to take you home.”

“Don’t,” Jimin snaps. Who knows if Kangdae will then have Jimin tailed. Then again, it probably isn’t difficult to discover where Jimin lives. He resides within walking distance to Decadentia, and it wouldn’t take a genius to figure he lived close by. Additionally, Kangdae probably has a plethora of contacts, and if not, he has loyal lackeys who aren’t afraid to gut the information out of someone.

Even more than the previous reasoning, Jimin declines Kangdae’s offer out of spite. He doesn’t want anything from the man.

Kangdae huffs a near chuckle. “All right. You can walk, then. Get in the transport.”

Jimin obeys, sliding in.

He thinks they’ll ride in silence. Kangdae doesn’t speak immediately, and Jimin sure as hell isn’t going to offer small talk. But two minutes in, Kangdae begins.

“I’d like to explain myself to you,” he says.

Jimin swallows a snort. “Is that so.”

“I’m not one to take issue with false assumptions, not when I’m the only one who needs to know the truth, but in this case, I’d like there to be no doubts about you and I. I never intended for you to learn of my lifestyle, but now that it’s been exposed, there is no benefit to keep what’s left hidden. I do not fear your judgment, but it doesn’t sit right with me to drop you off without explaining the rest, at least for your own sake.”

“I don’t need excuses.”

“Facts of the past are not excuses.”

Kangdae waits for Jimin to reply, for him to deny any desire to know more, but Jimin can’t refuse him. He’d be lying if he told his father to keep his past to himself. Jimin isn’t just curious about it; he’s desperate to know.

“I was already caught up in the drug scene when I met your mother,” he starts. “She didn’t know at first. I’d always been particularly talented at hiding. Initially, my relationship with your mother was meant to be a mutually beneficial fling. It was based on attraction and commonality. We enjoyed each other, nothing more. But, as with every case, I fell in love with her, and somehow, she returned the sentiment. I originally wanted to keep my lifestyle a secret from her because it was, frankly, none of her business, and I didn’t trust her. But after things turned serious, I wanted to hide it to keep her safe. Of course, when so in love, keeping such dark secrets turn into unbearable burdens, much less the fact that I couldn’t explain to her my sudden disappearances or keep up the falsehood of the fictional job I’d spun up prior. She eventually found out, and though she was horrified, she was more horrified for my well-being than the work I dealt with. She could have left me then, and I wouldn’t have blamed her, but she did not.

“At the time, I was already considerably rising in the ranks. I knew one day I’d take over the cartel. It was only a matter of time. I figured I could protect your mother if I had acquired such an overarching position. But taking the reins of a gang requires more than just brute strength—it’s all manipulative politics. It’s threats. It’s bearing enough power that I don’t even need to draw blood, because the intent behind my words is enough to strike fearful reverence. I was in the process of building such reverence when your mother informed me that she was pregnant with you.

“Now I had to protect two, not just one. We had discussed a future family before, but had ultimately decided not to pursue it with the danger of my reality. However, we weren’t careful, because in the past when we hadn’t been careful, nothing had ever happened. But you happened, and while your mother’s fear for you blossomed into deep affection, my concern only strengthened.

“I was not around much when you were born. Back then, it wasn’t by choice. I had responsibilities to attend to, and the farther away I handled them, the farther they were from you and your mother. My biggest success was never measured in money or business, but in secrets. No one on my side knew about you and your mother. They didn’t know I ever dated her, much less married and had a child with her. To them, she didn’t exist. When I was not at home with her, she didn’t even exist to me. Neither did you.”

“I didn’t exist to you when you were home, either,” Jimin mumbles.

“For good reason,” Kangdae supplies. “I made a very difficult but necessary choice after you were spotted with me in public.”

Jimin frowns at this.

“When you were a little more than a toddler, your mother’s grandfather passed away, and she went to attend his funeral out of town. She had planned to bring you, but after raising you nearly entirely on her own for three years, I offered to stay at home and watch you while she took a break to visit her family and properly mourn. She hadn’t gone one day without you until then, and she deserved a break, even if it was hardly a relaxing one. Reluctantly, she let me watch you while she was gone for three days. During that time, I did all the things I had yet to do with you. I took you to a baseball game even though your legs barely reached the end of the seat. I took you to the Han River and bought you ice cream. I put up with a childish movie because the animation made you laugh.

“The night before your mother returned, I took you to dinner, and I made the idiotic decision of taking you to a place I had been before. Among the patrons were two members of a rival gang. As easily as I recognized them, they recognized me. However, it was beneficial that they thought they could best me at seeing I was alone and with a child. I was dressed down and attending to you. They took the visual as less threatening. That was their mistake.

“I knew they’d follow us, so I let them. After leaving the restaurant, I purposefully entered an alley I knew had a weak spot free of CCTVs. I’d utilized the space before. I slowed my pace and allowed them to catch up. I sat you down on a backdoor step and turned you around, ordering you to stay put and never look back, or else I’d spank you so hard that you’d scream. I smacked your wrist to show you how it would hurt more. You listened, and while you faced away, I killed those two men and called someone to have them disposed of. Then, I took you home, and realized that I couldn’t even have one weekend with you. That’s when I decided you’d be safe as long as I kept away. So, that’s what I did.

“When your mother passed, I tested the waters. Stricken by grief, my mind was disordered, and I illogically chose to reveal your existence while I took you along with me. I never brought you too close. I often kept you in a transport or took you to destinations unrelated to my career beyond a few exceptions. Once it had been a few weeks and I had come to terms with your mother’s passing, I realized that keeping you near was not feasible. If anything, this was a devastating opportunity to cut ties completely, to send you off where you’d never step even one foot closer to the danger of my life.

“I cared deeply for your mother, and I cared deeply for you. All I did was to keep you safe.

“While you grew up, I had someone keep an eye on you and report to me. They did not follow you every hour of every day, but they would check on you every so often to make sure you were still breathing. Ever since that night when those two rival gang members saw us, I worried in the back of my mind that someone else would find you and use you to get to me. I wanted to make sure no one ever did. But I never asked for details. I only wanted to know if you were safe, and when I heard you were, that was it.

“Seeing you all grown up now and hearing how you got to where you are, I must say that I feel as though I failed a bit in that regard. I have no opinion of your career choice, but I can’t imagine that you walked down a path of flowers to reach your current status. But I suppose it’s better than being caught up in narcotics.”

Jimin’s been holding his comments back up until now, but he can’t help but scoff at this. While Park Kangdae sounds sincere in his account, he also displays no rejection to his own career choice. The trouble for him laid in balancing his job with his family, not the crime itself. There’s zero remorse for choosing this path, only lingering disappointment in how it turned out. In fact, the comfortability in which Kangdae tells his tale offers the assumption that he settled all of this within himself a long time ago.

Meanwhile, Jimin’s head is spinning like a typhoon.

His father dares to refer to Jimin being involved with narcotics as a danger when Park Kangdae himself has dedicated his entire life to it. He brushes his hands of the tragedies his drug ring results in—such as the death of Jeongguk’s brother—yet when it comes to the son he hasn’t bothered to personally check on in over fifteen years, he suddenly acts as though he cares about the damage.

“Then I’m sure you’d hate to know I was forced to submit to customers to keep a job,” Jimin harshly responds. “Or maybe you still somehow rationalize that one’s better than the other.”

Kangdae waves a hand. “I don’t like it, but the past is the past. Jeon Jeongguk has told me you’re living well now, and that’s all that matters.”

Jimin nearly gawks at him. One reason is for the incredibly merciless comment, and the other is because Kangdae has mentioned Jeongguk.

Something clicks.

Jeongguk only sponsored Jimin to get to Kangdae. Jimin was bait. Kangdae said it himself, that Jeongguk was only using Jimin. As much as Jimin believes there is nuance laced within the truth, he can’t deny the obvious.

Was this the reason that Jimin was even hired at all? He didn’t audition. Seokjin picked him out like a hawk.

Fuck, was Seokjin in on this too?

If not, it was still all the same. Jeongguk learned of Jimin’s existence and had Seokjin recruit him. Jimin joined Deca full-time, and Jeongguk breached his personal rule of keeping a distance from the performers in order to sponsor Jimin for the sole purpose of using him. He pretended not to know who Jimin was so Jimin wouldn’t suspect anything. Knowing Park Kangdae, Jeongguk probably found it strange that the kingpin’s son was some random stripper. Thinking back, Jeongguk casually yet pointedly inquired about Jimin’s parents and childhood. No wonder he was so curious—he wanted to know if Jimin knew anything about his father. He wanted to know if Jimin was on his father’s side, or maybe if he knew where he was so Jeongguk could more easily enact his revenge.

It all makes sense now.

But what doesn’t make sense is why Jeongguk defended Jimin so many times. Why was he so shaken that day in Sinwon’s alley when Kangdae’s men attacked them on the street? Perhaps it was because he knew exactly who they were and was having traumatic flashbacks of his brother, but then why was he so gentle with Jimin afterwards? Why did Jeongguk stand up for Jimin to Tak Chinmae at that investor dinner, so visibly rattled? Why did he indulge Jimin more than he had to? Jimin wouldn’t have suspected a thing if Jeongguk had been more of an asshole like he’d initially thought when he’d first arrived at Decadentia. Jeongguk didn’t need to sit through hours of shitty reality TV with him. He didn’t need to take him on a night trip to the beach. He didn’t need to maintain respectful boundaries until he couldn’t hold back anymore, claiming that if they finally crossed the line, he’d fall in love with him.

Were those all lies too? If so, Jeongguk is a brilliant actor, better than any Deca performer or movie star.

Except no one is that good.

But it doesn’t matter, because the outcome has resulted in this.

Jeongguk still used him to attempt to faze Kangdae, to enact an excuse to arrest him. He still chose not to tell Jimin a thing. Like Jimin’s father, Jeongguk kept hidden, but unlike Kangdae, it was never for Jimin’s safety.

Deep within Jimin’s heart, hurt seeps forth like ink spilled atop thin paper.

He receives a split recess when the transport stops.

“I don’t expect you to like the reasons as for why I kept myself distant from you,” Kangdae tells him. ”I know it hurt you, but I stand by my belief that keeping away did more good for you than if I had stayed.”

Jimin’s fists are clenched tightly enough in his lap to keep from shaking. “You could have sent me money,” he grumbles. “Even anonymously, you could have provided for me. All you did was send some scout to make sure I was at least breathing. How long did you do that, huh?”

“Until you graduated high school. I figured you were old enough by that point to survive on your own.”

“Did you even know my grandparents died, forcing me into an orphanage?”

“Yes. I knew that much.”

Jimin scorns a hateful laugh. “So you just watched. First my mother died, then you left, then my grandparents died, and I was sent to live in a cramped room with eleven other homeless children who liked to spend their time comparing sob stories. You knew, and you did nothing.”

“Your grandparents loved you and cared well for you. The orphanage was a decent one.”

“It was still an orphanage!” Jimin shouts, exploding his pent up emotions. Kangdae doesn’t even flinch. There’s a partition between the front seat from the back, but Jimin’s too erratic to care if he’s overheard.

“Are you kidding me?” he continues. “I was alone! I had no assets! You know what happened when you dropped your watch on me? I didn’t go to university. I became a fucking stripper. And heaven knows I don’t hold a prejudice against sex work when it’s successfully paid my bills these last six or seven years, but it wouldn’t have been my first choice of a career had I grown up differently—if I’d had living guardians who supported me through my school years. I probably would have gone to university. I probably would have wanted to if I’d grown up in an environment where I was promised that it was certain. I would have gone, and I would have partied like a stupid kid, and then I would have shaped up and graduated with some boring office job, but it would have been safe, secure, and I’d had at least one living parent to come back to when it got tough.

“Though,” he adds bitterly, “I doubt an irritating day at the office is hardly as irritating as having to give a blowjob to an entitled strip club customer who sees me as nothing but an object. You thought leaving me was to protect me? No. No, you left me to die. It’s a miracle being a stripper didn’t end up being a pipeline for me to get into drugs. I always stayed away from that. But imagine that. How poetic would that have been, huh?

“But you know, despite everything I just said, I am glad you left. I have assets now, enough to never have to go back to stripping. And I think I would have resented my life had I known the true nature of who you are. But oh, well. I know now, and guess what? I only despise you more than I ever have.”

Kangdae’s jaw shifts, the only evidence of mild discomfort. “I’m sorry, my son. For all of it, truly.”

Jimin hates that he believes him. He believes him because Kangdae’s apology isn’t defined by the same morality as Jimin’s, thus making Kangdae capable of apologizing in the first place. Except to Jimin, it's empty words.

“I’m not your son. Even when Mom was alive, I wasn’t your son. Spare me your pathetic apology.”

“It’s true that no apology I say will ever carry the weight of how you and I have played out. But know that I loved your mother, as I do you. After today, you will never see me again.”

“I don’t ever want to.”

“Then I hope you’re glad knowing you won’t.”

Jimin startles when his door is pulled open. It’s one of Park’s guards, likely having followed them in a different vehicle.

Jimin looks back at his father. He searches for the remorse he craves, but he sees not even a hint of it. Park Kangdae did make a choice, and while Jimin understands the man’s logic behind it, Jimin doesn’t agree with it.

“Goodbye, Jimin,” his father says to him. He hands him his mobile he’s kept until now. “Please live well.”

The door remains held open, so Jimin gets out. When he stands on the pavement, he can no longer see his father sitting on the opposite end of the vehicle through the blackened windows. The guard stalks back to the transport behind Kangdae while Jimin slowly pads to the sidewalk. He watches as the vehicles drive off. Once they turn a corner, they’re gone.

Jimin stands there for a while.

All he can think about is how everyone in his life has lied to him.

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

He doesn’t go home. His penthouse bought with Jeongguk’s money isn’t his home.

He ends up at a spa. He pays the cheap entrance fee and changes into the plain cotton uniform, stuffing his belongings in a locker. He intends to stuff his mobile inside, but when he turned on the device simply to search up directions to the nearest twenty-four-hour spa, he was bombarded with calls and texts from Namjoon.

call me the MOMENT you turn on your mobile

Jimin please call me

your mobile is ringing now, meaning it's on, so please answer. at least text me so I know you’re not dead in a ditch

I know you’re probably pissed at me, but I SWEAR, I didn’t know you were gonna be there with Jeon Jeongguk. this was meant to be an operation with just him. I’ll tell you everything, but you need to answer

please just tell me you’re okay. please.

Jimin sighs, glancing at the device inside the locker room.

I’m okay. my dad let me go. he didn’t do anything to me.

Namjoon replies immediately, as if he’s been impatiently waiting beside his mobile. give me proof. Park could be the one saying this

Jimin shares his location at the spa and even goes so far as to snap a photo of his recognizable hand in front of the lockers. They display the business name. After sending, Jimin hastily texts in addition, don’t you dare come here. not you, not anyone. I want to be alone. 

thank you, and fine. but please text me again in a few hours so I know you’re still there or when you leave. I don’t trust Park

Jimin replies that he will before locking up his mobile. Then, he spends far too long in one of the heated rooms, then far too long in the freezing room, then he showers below lukewarm water and rests his head against the tiled wall, letting the stream wash over him until a leg falls asleep. The pins and needles wake him up enough to shut off the water and retire to the main room. His stomach growls, but he feels sick just thinking about food. So, he curls up on a padded mat and falls asleep.

But he remembers to text Namjoon before he does.

Chapter Text

Jimin sits on the bench along the window. The blinds are shut to keep the sun rays from disrupting Jeongguk’s deep sleep, but even if they weren’t, Jimin doubts the light would wake him. Jeongguk is knocked out cold, drugged up on painkillers while an IV keeps him hydrated and a monitor on his pulse displays his resting heart rate. The count is calm and maintained. Though Jeongguk is bruised and bandaged, Jimin doesn’t think he’s ever seen him more at peace. Could he be dreaming? Jimin wonders.

In the luxurious hospital suite, the lights are shut off, though enough seeps in through cracks in the blinds and from the exterior hallway to create an almost warm atmosphere. Rather than cold white, the room is a painted in champagne beige, with dark wood cabinets and rounded furniture. Jeongguk's bed is a double compared to the standard twin, with a fridge along one wall and a pull-out couch to accompany any lingering guests beside another.

Jimin's years growing up with not much to his name have him instinctively wrinkle his nose at the superiority of the room. The rest of the hospital's patients have to share cramped rooms in tiny beds, with stark white walls and less than lovely decor, if any.

But then Jimin remembers that he is now someone who could afford a room like this, and if he can, why would he settle for less?

He sighs. Such thoughts are useless at a time like this. It isn’t like he wants Jeongguk to be stuck in a standard room when he could be here.

Jimin glances over at him.

Jimin wasn’t even going to come inside, only hoping to catch an unseen glimpse and receive and much needed update. But after greeting Seokjin outside the room and learning that Jeongguk was fast asleep, Jimin entered.

Jeongguk’s closed lashes brush his cheeks, his hair soft and flat across his forehead after having been washed by a nurse. Jimin has the urge to gently brush it back, but he keeps still on the bench, choosing to simply watch instead. When will Jimin ever get to witness Jeongguk so at peace again? Jimin takes the chance to appreciate the opportunity, ignoring for the briefest of moments why Jeongguk is in this room to begin with.

After some time, the suite door slides open, letting in the bright hallway light like a blinding flash. Seokjin quietly enters, closing the door shut behind him and darkening the room once more. He trails over to the opposite side of Jeongguk’s bed, halting a step or two away.

Jeongguk is unconscious to the point that he can’t possibly wake from their conversation, yet the two of them still speak under their breaths.

“As an employee of Decadentia, you promised me protection,” Jimin murmurs towards Seokjin, though his focus is still locked onto Jeongguk’s relaxed face. “And you failed to maintain that.”

Seokjin exhales quietly, as if having waited for this conversation. “I know," he utters quietly. "I never intended Jeongguk to go as far as this, but I can’t plead my case by saying I tried very hard to stop him. Despite that, I am sorry.”

Jimin doesn’t realize he’s clenching down on his teeth. Once he does, he forces himself to release the tensity. “It’s possible to understand your intentions—empathize with them, even—yet still be upset by it. Conflicting emotions, that’s what being human is, right?” Jimin spares him a glimpse, finding that Seokjin’s focus is on Jeongguk. Quietly, Jimin rises, collecting his bag. “With your job as not only the head of talent, but as Deca’s trainer to teach trainees of its philosophy, I hope you’re smart enough to get if I'm not that forgiving right now.” He goes to leave, brushing past the edge of the mattress and heading for the door.

“For what it’s worth, Jeongguk cares deeply for you.”

Jimin halts in his step, a spark of conflicting pain flickering inside his chest like a struck match. “Did he tell you that himself?”

Seokjin slowly turns, facing him with regret. “No,” he laments, “but as you mentioned my job, I can only succeed because I’m an observer. It’s how I recruit trainees. It’s how I teach them. Seeing as you know that, I trust that you can believe me when I tell you that Jeongguk cares for you. He doesn’t need to tell me. He might be a closed book to the rest of the performers of his own volition, but to me, I have him memorized. I don’t need to guess what makes him up.”

“Then did you just sit back with some popcorn and let him surprise me with a father-son reunion?”

“I knew of his initial plans in which you were involved, but I can’t say I knew specifically what he’d do. I … I was not supportive of it, but it’s true I let him do what he wanted. In my mind, it was his journey to take.”

“Except it tunneled through Deca,” Jimin points out, “the place where I work. I could probably sue you and the entire business for employer negligence.”

Seokjin’s expression remains calm, but not because he’s overly confident. If this is the first time Jimin has seen Jeongguk so at peace, then this is the first time he’s seen Seokjin so defeated.

“You probably could,” he replies simply.

Jimin keeps silent for a few seconds, letting his former statement hang in the air. But it’s difficult for him to be cruel. “I won’t,” he ultimately says. Seokjin just barely fluctuates his brows at this. “But I’m taking a leave. I don’t know how long, but you’re going to tell Ruby and make her grant it.”

“You don’t wish to quit all together?”

“Deca is an inanimate entity," Jimin admits. "It’s innocent, and it’s a pretty decent place to work. For now, I’m just taking time off. Indefinitely.”

Seokjin places his hands behind his back, nodding once. “Of course. Any further action you take, whether you leave for certain or not, I’ll understand.”

Jimin’s about to finally leave when he once more catches Jeongguk’s sleeping frame behind Seokjin. “Don’t tell him I was here.”

“Would you like me to let you know when he wakes?”

Jimin thinks about it, initially unsure, but it only takes a short moment for him to softly nod. With that, he gives Seokjin a look of goodbye before excusing himself.

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

For a moment, Jeongguk only realizes that he’s awake. He doesn’t feel his limbs, but recognizes that he’s conscious.

Then the pain comes.

He hisses the second he attempts to move, feeling a deep soreness stretching from within his torso. A dull throb beats in the back of his head, the feeling akin to heaviness felt from exhaustion. But he’s not tired, at least not physically. From the state of himself under hospital bed covers, he figures he’s been asleep long enough.

He twists his neck, feeling like if he were to try and sit up, he’d regret it, and searches for his mobile. One glance and he sees he’s in a hospital gown, but besides the bed is a nightstand. Neatly resting atop is his mobile. It’s even on a charging pad, like it’s been waiting for him. But Jeongguk can’t reach it.

He scans about his bed. Ah, there. He’s two seconds from pressing the call button to learn what the fuck is wrong with him when his action is interrupted by someone entering his room.

“Finally,” mutters the new arrival, sliding the door shut behind him. Seokjin stalks to Jeongguk’s side, already about to force him back down before Jeongguk can pull a muscle.

He settles back against his pillows. “Please tell me I didn’t get whooped this bad.”

“Two broken ribs, a concussion, and internal and external bruising. Then there are all the cuts and bruises scattered all over you like ornaments on a Christmas tree.”

Jeongguk subconsciously raises a hand to his face, pulling along the tubes attached to his hand.

Seokjin irritably huffs, “Don’t worry, your pretty face will heal.”

Jeongguk pulls back his lips, resolving that, okay, Seokjin is angry with him.

“How long has it been?” asks Jeongguk.

“Over two days.”

“  … That’s longer than expected.”

“You were knocked out cold when you were brought in. Be glad your concussion was mild. They’ve been giving you suppressing pain killers for your ribs, which I assume is why you’ve been out like a light, but I’m not a doctor. And I’m not your guardian, so they don’t tell me more than they can. But I’m guessing the drugs have been enough to keep you under so your body can re—hey, stop moving.”

It’s not that Jeongguk wants to move, but the aching of his ribs causes him to shift even though he knows it will likely only make things worse. Saying this much aloud, he replies, “I probably only woke up now because this hurts like hell.” He pushes his head back into his pillows, the fabric so soft he sinks. “Can they drug me again?”

Rather than press the call button, Seokjin slips out his mobile. Jeongguk frowns, but Seokjin clears his confusion by stating, “I’ll get the doctor after I let Ruby know you’re awake.”

A hollow echo empties his chest. It’s strong enough for him to momentarily forget the otherwise ache. Quietly, he murmurs, “How much does she know?”

Seokjin glances at him. “Enough.”

“Did you tell her?”

“Yes. Because it’s about time she knows exactly how much pain her son is going through.”

“I mean,” mumbles Jeongguk, toying with his fingers atop the covers, “if I keep still, it kind of just turns into a dull throb—”

“She was hysterical, Jeongguk.”

That quiets him.

Seokjin sighs, permitting himself to perch along the end of Jeongguk’s bed. “When she got here,” he starts, “seeing you all battered and bruised … it was like Jeongsik all over again. Whatever lid she’s kept on her own trauma all of these years to be the poised Ruby we all know, it just burst when she saw you, especially once she knew why. I haven’t seen her so emotional since Jeongsik’s funeral. Honestly, Jeongguk? It scared me. She isn’t just my boss; she’s like an aunt to me. I won’t lie to her about this, about you. Neither of you deserve that.”

Jeongguk won't lie by saying he at least didn't consider if something like this would happen. He told Jimin with surety that Park Kangdae wouldn’t hurt him, but Jeongguk couldn’t promise that he himself would have remained unscathed. He mentally prepared to get beat around a bit, but now that he’s lying here, he’s grateful it’s only this much. That knife flashes in his vision, and only now that he’s free of it, he finally imagines what it would have been like had it actually slit his throat. It’s not that Jeongguk wants to die, not by a long shot, but he had enough adrenaline pumping through his blood the other night that he wasn’t afraid of being harmed. Only now does he think about the repercussions it would have had if that night had gone more south. His mother … she already lost one son.

Fuck me, Jeongguk thinks.

“You shouldn’t have been the one to tell her,” he says with remorse. “I should have.”

“You still can. I’ll let her know right now that you’re awake, and I’ll go bring the doctor, okay?”

Jeongguk nods, and he watches Seokjin go the the door.

Until a thought zips through his brain like lightning. Even more, it strikes through his heart. “Seokjin, wait. Is … is Jimin okay?”

Jeongguk grips the sheets as Seokjin slowly turns, his expression unreadable. The seconds it takes for him to answer feel like hours.

“... He’s okay in that he doesn’t need medical attention.”

Relief floods Jeongguk. He considered this too. But there’s still hurt at hearing this even if Jimin physically isn’t.

“Has he visited while I was out?”

Seokjin hesitates like he’s thinking of how to best pacify a child. But when he speaks, he’s firm. “No. No, he hasn’t.”

Swallowing, Jeongguk nods, looking away. He’s disappointed, but he’s not surprised, and he’s far from blameful.

“Jeongguk,” Seokjin says before he goes. “Don’t sit here expecting him to.”

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

While he waits for his mother to come, Jeongguk is greeted by the attending doctor and nurses. The man briefly but succinctly explains a similar diagnosis to what Seokjin revealed, only more technically. Broken ribs are annoying more so than damaging, the doctor tells him. Nothing can be done to heal them except time and rest. His concussion at this point is a lingering headache, and the cuts will heal well as long as they’re cleaned and dressed more often than not.

When Jeongguk asks how much longer he needs to stay in the hospital, the doctor admits that he could go home today. They were just waiting for him to fully wake to observe him in regard to the concussion. As the doctor leaves, one nurse gently places an ice pack on his ribs while another hands him a tablet where he can order a meal. They encourage him to eat immediately. Though he feels hungry, he doesn’t feel like eating, but he doesn’t wish to cause the nurses trouble, so he orders rice porridge with simple sides to get him started. He’s about halfway done with his meal, thinking that he desperately wants a bath and to brush his teeth, when Jeon Ryuji arrives.

Even now, she refuses to be caught dressed in anything less than regal. She breezes into the room, softly letting the door shut behind her. Jeongguk instantly maneuvers away the rolling table off his lap, on guard as his mother reaches him. She stands at his bedside, inspecting every inch of him other than his face. Jeongguk can only sit silently, waiting for her reaction. It’s like a timer without a visible countdown.

If one didn’t know Ryuji, they’d suspect she was the epitome of calm, even in a situation like this. But Jeongguk sees the strain on her neck. He sees the small shaking of her irises. By the time her gaze lands on Jeongguk’s face, he has to look away, unable to meet her stern expression.

“Before entering,” she begins quietly, “I ran into the doctor. He told me of your current condition, that beyond requiring extensive rest, you’re otherwise all right. You’ll heal.”

She pauses, long enough for Jeongguk to slide his focus back to her. Her fists are clenched, near trembling. He doesn’t blame her. While he waited for his meal, he got a hold of his mobile and checked himself out through its camera. While his wounds are safely wrapped, nothing can hide the bruising. Patches of purple and pale green coat him like ghastly paint.

“Mom—”

“I never thought you could be so selfish,” she growls. “At times, you’ve been mischievous, but you’ve never done anything that was ever remotely more self-focused than the average person.” She exhales a concentrated breath, like she’s trying not to explode. But with how shaky it comes out, Jeongguk fears she won’t remain successful for much longer.

“How could you do this?” she asks, her voice as thin as ice. “How dare you put yourself in danger and seek out the same man who killed—” Her throat catches, and she sways on her feet. Jeongguk instinctively reaches out to steady her, but he doesn’t move his arms more than a few inches before his ribs lace with pain. Ryuji holds up a hand despite his attempt, keeping him away.

“The same man who killed your brother,” she continues, swallowing tightly. “The same man who dared take you two from me, whose actions resulted in the death of my child. You held onto this resentment all alone, and you went to him all alone, and were nearly beaten to death by the same man …”

She can’t hold it in any more. Her mouth twitches, and then uncontrollable tears slip down her cheeks. She bows her head, pressing the lengths of her pointer fingers below her eyes. But she doesn’t sob. She swallows it down. Jeongguk can just barely reach a nearby box of tissues, but he grabs it anyway and holds it out for her. She notices after a moment, angrily snatching it out of his hands. She doesn’t blow her nose. The action is beneath her. But she dabs at her face, drying as much as she can.

She drops the used tissues on the bedside table before lowering down next to her son, sniffling once more. She lifts a hand to lightly smooth his hair, a stark contrast to the barely checked anger in her prior tone.

“Seokjin told me how you’ve been searching for him all this time,” she says. “How you’ve remained more affected by your brother’s passing than you’ve let on.”

A sudden spark of irritation ignites in Jeongguk. “We can’t all get over it after only a year.”

Ryuji’s eyes darken, and she pulls back her hand. “I am not saying you need to get over it.”

“But you’re disappointed that I haven’t, unlike you.”

“I’m disappointed you went after the man who did it,” she snaps. “That you’ve kept this from me. You believe that I’ve somehow gotten over the death of a child? No. No, I only tuck it away when I must. When I still had to operate a growing business, when I still had to be a competent mother and raise you without losing myself to grief. I withered away for a year, and it was a miracle Decadentia didn’t wither with me. But you were starting to, and I realized I couldn’t keep that up any longer. Ever since then, I’ve tucked away the pain, because I have to. For you, for me, and for everything else. I suppose you’ve subconsciously learned that from me. You’ve done the same.”

Jeongguk feels his eyes begin to burn. He knocks back his head, using gravity to rid himself of the sensation.

“There is no right way to deal with trauma,” she says. “There’s no right answer, but there are most definitely wrong answers. Revenge is one of them.”

“Do you know why I went, Mom? I wasn’t alone. Maybe I didn’t tell you, but I wasn’t alone. If I hadn’t gone, then we wouldn’t have gotten proof from Park Kangdae’s own mouth about everything he’s done. If I hadn’t gone, who else would have?”

After leaving Jimin with Kangdae, Namjoon all but carrying Jeongguk out of the building, the two reluctantly drove off. Per Namjoon’s command, their backup courtesy of Chief Na also vacated the area. It was just in time, too. Kangdae’s men had been given instructions not to kill, but anything else was free reign. While Na’s unofficial lackeys might have come expecting to ruff it up with some gang members, Jeongguk still didn’t want anyone to be unnecessarily hurt. So, they all left, and Jeongguk could only hope Kangdae kept his word about letting his son go in return. Jeongguk had a feeling that if he’d fought to stay, it wouldn’t have accomplished a thing. For the same reason Jimin chose to remain, Jeongguk left.

In the passenger seat of the transport, Jeongguk shakily removed the minuscule camera and mic from his frame. Despite Jeongguk being kicked enough times in the gut to feel the taste of metal crawl up his throat, the device appeared unharmed, but they wouldn’t know until they transferred its contents to a computer. Either way, even if Jeongguk stomped on the device, it had been live-streaming its contents to Chief Na. Jeongguk’s task had been to send the live feed, and Chief Na’s had been to record the stream. The raw files on the device itself was more so back up if the streaming failed.

While it would have saved them future trouble in tracking down Park Kangdae had they been able to contain him and wait for legal officials to arrive, the recorded proof is all that matters.

Jeongguk tells his mother everything. There’s no reason to hide it anymore.

Once he’s done, she’s considerably calmed, though Jeongguk would rather she look furious than heartbroken.

“Jeongguk,” she begins after a heavy moment of silence. “The question isn’t what would have happened if you hadn’t done all of this. It’s that some things are better left alone, no matter how unfair. The world doesn't advertise itself to be anything less than cruel, even if there are beautiful things within. It’s up to us to focus on that beauty instead, which is what I’ve been trying to do for fifteen years. My fault is that I’ve tried too hard while ignoring the darkness surrounding everything else. I ignored it swirling around you.” She turns closer to him atop the sheets, her brows crinkled. “I’m so sorry, Jeongguk. I should have noticed your pain. I should have stopped you from ever reaching this point.”

He shakes his head, fervent in stopping her from taking any blame. “This isn’t your fault. Jeongsik isn’t your fault.”

“Yes, he is,” she automatically replies. “What mother leaves her children unattended long enough for them to waltz away with some stranger? Why didn't I have more security back then?” She huffs a defeated sigh, smiling wryly, ironically. “If only I’d been more careful. It could have been so easily avoided.”

“Park Kangdae wasn’t a stranger to us, not when he often came to Deca for both business and pleasure. And we were often at Deca. The place was our second home. Were we meant to stay locked in your office all day? No one could have foreseen Kangdae’s last result for some bonus drug funds. Kangdae is the villain, Mom. He was the intruder.”

Ruby takes his hand with both of hers, focused down at the embrace. “But I’m your mother,” she says resolutely. “I’m Jeongsik’s mother. I’m responsible, no matter what. No matter what outside forces come in, you two were and are my responsibility, and I’ve failed both of you.”

A pang strikes through Jeongguk’s middle, but it’s not from his ribs. Not once has he ever blamed his mother for what happened to Jeongsik. The thought has never even crossed his mind. How can you prevent a disaster when you’ve never experienced one? When you never think one is even possible? It isn’t Ryuji’s fault, and it isn’t anyone at Decadentia’s fault. Everything is because of Park Kangdae’s greed.

“You didn’t fail us,” he tells her. “Maybe I can’t yet change your mind about Jeongsik, but you haven’t failed me. I’m here. I’ve grown up well, haven’t I? I’ve always done well in school, and hopefully I’ll be good enough for you to accept me as your heir to the family business—”

“Are you happy, Jeongguk?”

This catches him off guard. “What?”

“Are you happy?” she repeats. She releases his hand, if only to let him have it back. “You’re a clever young man. Yes, you’re smart, and your academics and capabilities make me so proud. Your confidence, your devotion to Deca even when it’s all you’ve ever known …. If you wished a different path, I would support you, you know that, right?”

He doesn’t know that. He’s never known that.

She’s right that all he’s ever known is Decadentia, a result of growing up in a family business where nothing else is expected, so to do something else? What else could he do? It’d be pointless of him to put his talents into another business when Deca is his mother’s pride and joy. She built it from the ground up all on her own, and as much as she’s proud of it, so is Jeongguk. He’s honored to know he’s the son of such a successful woman, to know that one day, he’ll have as much control over its operations as she does. He’s not just working to eventually be beside her because he doesn’t have any other choice—he wants this. He looks forward to it.

Walking a different path has never crossed his mind. He didn’t think it had ever crossed his mother’s, either. Staying at Decadentia has always been just the most logical path, much less the desired one.

“But I ask, Jeongguk,” she continues, “are you living a happy life? Because I think if you were, you wouldn’t be in a hospital bed blooming in bruises.” She strokes his hair affectionately, but sadly.

“I love Decadentia,” he says, willing the melancholy out of her expression. “I want to stay there.”

“All right,” she accepts, “but what is it you love outside of Decadentia?”

“Do I have to have anything else? Deca is your entire life. Why can’t it be mine?”

“Yes, it’s my life,” she concedes, “and that’s why I’m qualified to tell you that devoting your entire being into one thing is not all that it’s cracked up to be, especially a career. Perhaps it makes me a hypocrite, but I hope you could excuse that and understand my concern for you as a result.”

He recalls her comments about tucking away her pain for the sake of raising both him and Decadenta. He knows she’s partly referring to that, if not almost entirely.

And he thinks of Kangdae. He thinks of his years of resentment for the man.

“If I’m unhappy,” he says quietly, “it’s not because I’m overly focused on Deca instead of spending my free time taking yoga classes or doodling.”

“Seokjin told me you’ve acquired ample evidence to convict Park Kangdae.”

“Yes.”

“Then is it over?”

“Well, we still have to spread it around and hope that it’s enough to force action, but I’m confident that it’s—”

“Then are you happy now, Jeongguk?”

He pauses. “It’s not over yet.”

She lets out an accepting sigh. “Will it ever be? Jeongsik … he’ll always be gone, and that will always hurt.”

“It won’t suddenly be rainbows and butterflies,” he argues, a bit impatient, “but I can’t deny that it won’t be a lighter load once Kangdae is ruined. Don’t you get that, Mom?”

“I do, and I’m sure it will be.”

He doesn’t like how plain she sounds when she says that.

He trails, “... But?”

“Seokjin briefly mentioned that Park Jimin was the key in all of this.”

Jeongguk focuses down on his lap.

She adds, “Did Seokjin inform you that Angel’s taking an indefinite leave from Decadentia?”

He snaps up his head. “What? No. He didn’t quit?”

“No, he hasn’t quit. This outcome …. Well, it finally puts your sponsorship with him into a clearer perspective. And here I was thinking you’d finally just gotten a crush.”

Jeongguk isn't naive enough to think that things will return back to how they were, not when Jimin is now likely under the impression that everything has been a ruse. But while Jeongguk had kept his true intentions hidden from him, Jeongguk had never planned to care for him. He never planned to become friends with him, even. The goal had been to become comfortable enough to talk. It wasn’t that Jeongguk even wanted Jimin to like him, as long as he trusted him. You can still detest someone yet trust their words to be true.

There’d been no ploy from Jeongguk to get Jimin to care for him in return. What benefit would that bring? All it did was complicate things.

I need to see him, Jeongguk thought. He needed to explain—

“You’re happy with him,” says his mother.

Honestly, he answers, “I didn’t mean to be.”

“But you are, regardless. It’s why I’ve continued to allow the sponsorship despite our agreement that you keep a respectful distance from the performers as non-staff and a non-member. Jimin reciprocates, too. I see it.”

Jeongguk briefly frowns at this. He didn’t think his mother thought they were anything more than a standard sponsorship relationship, but then again, she witnessed Jeongguk’s severe reaction at that investor dinner. That was out of character for Jeongguk, even in front of her. But other than the expected chiding from her that he received the following day about his actions, she didn’t comment on the specificity of it. He assumed she didn’t recognize his reaction as anything other than being possessive over a performer he claimed as his. But clearly, she had read between the lines.

“You can tell?” he wonders.

She lifts a single brow. “You’re really asking me to confirm if I’m a good observer? We work in the business of voyeurism, darling. I catch everything. More than anyone, I’d notice if my typically lonesome son suddenly had a special relationship.”

“Well,” he mumbles, picking at his fingers, “it doesn’t matter. Jimin’s not here now, is he?”

“You can’t really blame him, can you?”

“No,” he whispers. “No, I can’t.”

She softens, gently placing a hand on his to cease his poor habit. “Beyond Deca and your degree,” she says, “your time and energy should be spent on someone like him. Unfortunately, I haven’t gotten to know Jimin as personally as you, but I don’t need to in order to understand that he’s a good person. Some people have that natural charisma about them, and through his performances, his interaction with the staff, what Seokjin, Misook, and Dogoon have told me during his training, he exudes a warm heart. Much of it beats for you, and it’s obvious that you’ve fallen into its embrace.”

Jeongguk’s throat feels like it’s been stuffed with tissue paper. He roughly swallows as moisture gathers at the corners of his eyes. The emotions come like a summer storm rolling in from the west coast sea, sudden and dark. When he speaks, it comes out wobbly.

“I know what I’ve done to him is shitty,” he wavers. “It’s more than that. But … but there wasn’t any other way. There wasn’t.”

“It’s okay,” his mother placates.

“No, Mom.” He fervently shakes his head. “I knew Park Kangdae wouldn’t physically hurt him. I never could have physically hurt him either, not even in the beginning when I didn’t know him. But—I mean—should I have dishonored the dead for the living? Is that what would have been right? I can’t even think about what Jeongsik would want. He was a child when he died. His brain wasn’t even fully fucking developed. He never went through puberty. I don’t even remember him, Mom.”

Ryuji exhales a brittle breath, shutting her eyes as Jeongguk continues.

“I remember my feelings of anger and sadness about his death more than him as a living, breathing person. Trying to visualize him without the help of photos or videos is like grasping at straws. Would I care so much about Kangdae if he hadn’t killed Jeongsik, but someone else? Someone I don’t know and don’t care about? I don’t know, but he should still be put away. How many other Jeongsiks have died because of him, people we don’t know but who have people of their own who do? And in regard to Jimin—”

Jeongguk cuts himself off, forcing down the lump that threatens to tip him over the edge. “He’s strong,” he determines. “He has a firm mindset. He’ll be okay. He has to be. I never wanted to hurt him. Maybe … maybe now he can get closure, right? He never knew what happened to his dad, but now he knows. Maybe, in the long-run, this will be good.”

But as Jeongguk confronts the reality of an uncertain future with Jimin, his voice takes over a small, panicky tone.

“He’ll understand where I’m coming from. He will. Right, Mom? He’ll understand, right?”

Jeongguk has to believe his own words. If Jimin remains as distraught as he was when they faced Kangdae, if he continues to look at Jeongguk with as much brokenness as he did then, Jeongguk really doesn’t know what he’ll do.

Ryuji says, “I can’t tell you that, Jeongguk. I’m sorry. But I hope so. I hope he does.”

“It’ll work out,” he murmurs to himself. “Yeah, it will work out.”

It has to. It must.

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡. 

Out of uniform, Chief Na is nearly unrecognizable. Even after already sitting across from her for a few minutes, Jeongguk is still considerably impressed by her ability to transition from a brusque policewoman to an unassuming middle-aged lady. Today, she appears no different than a mom who’s a few years behind the latest fashion trends. Her close-cropped hair is wavy about her face rather than tucked straight behind her ears, and she even slouches in her cafe chair, mindlessly swirling the contents of her iced coffee. Her outfit’s ill-fitting and bland. She’s boring. She’s a nobody. She blends in perfectly. She could be Jeongguk’s own mother, or an aunt, or a teacher.

He came wearing plain pants and a graphic tee, nothing too conspicuous but nothing that makes it seem he’s trying too hard. He is in his early-twenties, after all. Though he’s never cared about onlookers when it comes to his detailed get-ups, he figured it was best to appear more like an unimposing youth today.

He perks up at seeing Namjoon enter the business. He, too, just looks like any other guy. In fact, he looks like a stereotypical author with his natural, earthy style. On second thought, Jeongguk doesn’t think Namjoon tried very much when dressing himself today.

Namjoon orders a drink from the counter before coming over. Jeongguk impatiently sips from his own while he waits. Without thinking, he raises from the table wrong, shuddering as his ribs thrum with a dull ache. Chief Na shoots him a mildly concerned glance, but he just shakes his head. He can’t do anything about it. His pain killers are on a schedule, and he can’t exactly whip out an ice pack right now. He just slowly retracts to a straightened position, breathing deeply.

Namjoon notices his strained expression when he takes the chair between him and Chief Na. “Are you even supposed to be walking around?” he asks in place of a greeting.

“I’m actually not supposed to be on bedrest,” Jeongguk explains. “The doctor said to go about my day normally, minus any intense physical activity. It’s all right with the pain meds and icing, unless I move wrong, like just now. But good to know—I just need to awkwardly sit like this the entire time, no big deal. At least you two look natural. Hopefully it cancels me out.”

Namjoon seems unconvinced, but he doesn’t say any more about it.

“So,” Jeongguk starts, “now that we look like two brothers with opposing fashion sense getting an afternoon coffee with their boring but very dear mother, should we discuss our next steps? Is the video quality all right, or was the camera turned into my clothes the entire time?”

“The evidence is proficient,” Chief Na replies, unphased. “In fact, it’s more than we could have ever hoped.”

“It wasn’t too vague?”

“Doesn’t matter if it is. Anything vague insinuates enough, especially when there’s clear footage of the guilty party commanding physical violence to a righteous opponent, never mind as his innocent, horrified son is restrained and forced to watch.”

Jeongguk tightens his jaw, the memory of Jimin’s face unkind. “So, you believe it’s enough for conviction.”

“Not through official channels.”

“Still?” Jeongguk scoffs.

“It would be shut down for breaking privacy rights,” Na says. “Anything Park said would be void.”

“But that’s where public opinion comes in,” Namjoon adds.

“Exactly. Once the people are involved, the same excuses for denying Park’s conviction would conveniently be fought by the same courts who shut it down in the first place.”

“What if they can’t?” Jeongguk asks. “Or still won’t?”

“I wouldn’t concern yourself with the legal details,” Na assures him. “No matter the procedural turnout, Park’s past will be known by the entire nation. His sins will be outed, and he’ll be rightfully painted as the villain in this story. Anyone of influence who’s secretly done business with him or has blindly glanced over his reach would rather save their own asses than let him get away. With enough public outcry, it’s more beneficial to take a stand than to turn a blind eye. Worst case scenario is that our footage can’t convict him, and Park still roams the streets, but now the authorities will be looking for his every move, because they’ll have reason to arrest him for something else. They’ll want to.”

“Imagine the positive clout for whichever team brings him in after his atrocities are blared from the rooftops,” says Namjoon.

Jeongguk isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. He’s known this is how it’s always been, but the irony continues to kill him. Rather than feel at ease that he’s not the only one who recognizes his country’s corruption, the likewise awareness only makes him feel worse.

But he can’t fix what’s already broken. It’s not up to him. He doesn’t want to change the world, even if he wishes for it. It’s never been his goal to be some public activist that calls out the system, but only to seek justice for his personal loss. Is he selfish to do so? He doesn’t know. He suspects this is a question he’ll never find the answer to. If someone steps up to bat, he’ll cheer from the sidelines, but if he’s placed at home plate, he fears he’s the type to strike out.

The only thing he can do is adapt and beat the opponent at its own game, out of the spotlight.

“Namjoon,” says Chief Na, “how is the list going?”

“I’ve gathered about 150 contacts so far.”

“Double it."

“What list?” Jeongguk asks.

“Journalists,” says Namjoon, “news anchors, podcast hosts, even social media stars. Anyone with a reach on the right channels. We’re sending this footage to them like a PR pitch.”

With worried haste, Jeongguk asks, “You haven’t sent it out to anyone yet, have you?”

“No, of course not. We first wanted to speak with you after you’d gotten out of the hospital.”

Jeongguk lets out a relieved sigh. “Good. Thank you.”

“Suddenly not in a rush?” Na questions.

“I want to explain everything to Jimin before we do anything.”

There’s a beat of silence. Namjoon presses down on his mouth, awkwardly taking his drink to sip.

“What?” Jeongguk presses. “Did you already tell him?”

“Not everything,” he admits, “but I had to at least share my side of things. He’s my best friend, and I’ve hidden this side of my life from him for years. I didn’t exactly plan for him to find out by bursting in to save you when you confronted Park, but Jimin wasn’t meant to be there in the first place. Thanks for that, by the way. If you weren’t already injured, I’d punch you in the gut, you son of a bitch.”

Jeongguk keeps his head high, refusing to back down from his previous decision. “His father wouldn’t have said a quarter of what we got on video if Jimin hadn’t been there. I know you know that.”

“I don’t know that, actually.”

“Then were you really willing to risk it?”

“Yes, because I went there under the impression that I was only present as backup for you and not you and my best friend.”

“Jimin was the catalyst. Park Kangdae had no reason to vocally rehash anything with me if Jimin wasn’t there to tell it to, and besides, I’m sure Park would have kicked me to the street in minor annoyance versus beating the shit out of me. I’m sure my pain will make a convincing visual for our cause. Didn’t Chief Na say something similar just a few minutes ago?”

“You strayed from our plan,” Na tersely cuts in.

Jeongguk is made silent by her stern statement. He has no qualms defending his actions to Kim Namjoon, but Chief Na ushers an automatic sense of hierarchy. Jeongguk’s suppressed unease over bringing Jimin along bubbles to the surface when she’s the one to call him out.

“You confronted Park Kangdae willingly,” she continues, “understanding the stakes. You did not offer Park Jimin the same.”

“I told him I was meeting with the man who killed my brother,” Jeongguk murmurs, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. “I told him it was dangerous. And I asked him to come with me. I didn’t force him.”

“But he was unaware of exactly who you were bringing him to meet. You pointedly chose not to reveal that this man was his father.”

Jeongguk keeps quiet, unable to deny it.

“I’m indifferent about the personal right and wrong,” Na tells him. “It’s not my business. But it’s a fact that you brought someone into a secret, unofficial operation in which he had a blurry understanding of what he was walking into. Any harm done to him would have been on all of our heads, not just yours.”

Jeongguk didn’t tell Namjoon and Chief Na because he knew they wouldn’t have allowed it. Namjoon, for obvious reasons. Chief Na for exactly what she was scolding him for right now.

“However,” continues Na, “I believe you’re right in that Park wouldn’t have admitted a considerable amount of what he had if his son wasn’t present.”

Namjoon’s brows shoot up as Jeongguk narrowly keeps from jerking his torso in surprise, saving himself from potentially irritating his healing bones.

“You agree with him?” Namjoon gapes.

“It objectively was the most efficient decision.”

Namjoon huffs, slumping back in seat while he mumbles, “Unbelievable.”

“If you were an official cop under my leadership,” Na tells Jeongguk, “you’d be punished, but fortunately for you, none of this ever officially happened. We weren’t involved. When the video is sent out, it won’t be from us, but an untraceable anonymous citizen. All names besides Park Kangdae’s will be bleeped out, all faces other than his and his men blurred, all other voices drastically pitched.”

Jeongguk swallows tightly, saying more so to Namjoon than anyone else, “Please don’t send it until I’ve spoken with Jimin. He needs to hear it from me before the media.”

“We still need to finish editing and gathering contacts,” Na reminds him.

“If he even sees you,” Namjoon adds with a gruff, crossing his arms.

“What … what has he said?”

“About you? Not much. I’m sure as hell not gonna push it. You should talk to him, actually.”

Jeongguk glances down at his lap. “He hasn’t answered any of my messages. He’s never at his apartment, or he’s not answering the door.”

Namjoon narrows his gaze. “You tried to see him?”

“It was the first place I went after getting out of the hospital.”

Mild surprise coats Namjoon’s face. Perhaps he thought Jeongguk’s first priority would be this current meeting between the three of them.

“If there are no more questions about Park Kangdae,” Na pointedly mentions, already readying to stand amongst the heavy atmosphere, “then I’ll take my leave. Jeongguk, please refer to Namjoon for any updates, as he’s the one I have a direct communication channel with. We won’t proceed until we’re all ready, but do let Namjoon know when that is, so he can inform me.” She lingers for a moment, her stoic eyes barely softening. “I’m glad you’re all right, for the most part, anyway. I’ll never bullshit you, but find hope in that I personally believe this will be successful.”

With that, she nods before heading off, leaving Jeongguk and Namjoon to discuss the main person who ties them together.

Jeongguk is the first to break the silence. “You know where he is.”

“Of course I do.”

“Please tell me.”

“I don’t think he wants to see you.”

“You just said I should talk to him.”

“I’m aware.”

“Namjoon,” Jeongguk pleads. “Please. I need to explain myself to him—not even for me, but so he’s not left wondering what was real and what wasn’t. I’m sure he was confused when you explained yourself to him, right? Imagine how confused he must be about me. I’ve spent more time with him this past year than anyone.”

Namjoon twists his mouth, ticking his finger atop the table. Visibly reluctant, he eventually says, “Fine. But I don’t want to bring you to him like an apology on a silver platter. Whatever is between you two has nothing to do with me.”

“I know. I don’t expect you to pick sides.”

“There is no picking; I’m always on Jimin’s side. It’s why I’ve kept tabs on his dad for this long. It wasn’t just a coincidence that Chief Na had me watch him. Any of her secret spies could have taken the job, but I pushed that Kangdae was mine. I never wanted Jimin to come into contact with him. I knew it would only bring trouble. Working with you was a risk, but it was doable as long as Jimin was left in the dark. That way, he wouldn’t be hurt. But you brought him along.”

“Kangdae cares for him,” Jeongguk says for the umpteenth time, growing tired of his own repetition. “In his own sick way, he cares. He wouldn’t actually hurt him—”

“Jimin’s fucking heart is hurt, Jeongguk.”

If Jeongguk was a flower, he would have wilted as quickly as one in a time lapse upon hearing this.

“It’s not about being shot,” Namjoon quietly fumes, “or being punched, or being sliced open with a knife. Though those things are genuine concerns, that’s not the point. The point is that I knew if we succeeded, Jimin would learn the truth about his father eventually, but it would be through a third-party source. It’d be indirect. He wouldn’t have had to face the man who made him grow up with daddy issues, to learn from his own mouth that his father wasn’t just a shit dad but a literal drug kingpin who’s committed a plethora of crimes due to the nature of his cartel. He’d hear it on the news, maybe read it online, and feel stumped. He’d piece together the unknowns of his childhood and make it make sense, and he might feel bad about it, maybe freaked out, but he’d probably be able to accept it far more easily than if he were to hear the horrors directly from Kangdae’s mouth. But that’s not what happened.

“No, Jeongguk," Namjoon fumed, "what happened is that he did hear it all from his own dad’s mouth. Can you imagine how traumatizing that is? Especially when Park Kangdae doesn’t give a shit about even attempting to soften the blow? He turned it around on you so quickly too, to punish you, and he must have known revealing your true intentions to Jimin wouldn’t just hurt you, but him. Kangdae had no issue doing that. He had no issue beating you up, forcing his son to watch—can you imagine, Jeongguk? Being forced to witness the guy you’re basically in love with get beat up by your long lost dad who’s turned out to be a drug lord, all while discovering that the guy he’s beating only ever intended to use you?”

Jeongguk flinches. Namjoon doesn’t appear sympathetic.

“Maybe you and Chief Na are right,” Namjoon continues sternly, “maybe Kangdae wouldn’t have said as much had Jimin not been there, but you’re an enticing guy, Jeongguk. I’m sure if you really wanted to, you could have pulled it off. But that’s not what happened. Without telling me, you brought Jimin, putting him in a situation I never, ever wanted him to experience. You can go on and on about how Jimin was never in physical danger—which is bullshit, by the way, because you can assume but you can’t ever really know—but his mentality? It’s fucked right now. I don’t have to imagine how confused he is about you. I see it every day.

“He’s been staying at my place with me. You want to see him? Go today. I’ll stay out for a few hours. I’ll text you the address and call the lobby to let them know to allow you up the elevator. I have a security camera, so Jimin will know it’s you if he checks. Tell him all you want that I let you up, and maybe he’ll open the door, but if he doesn’t, then don’t take a nap in the hallway. I don’t wanna come back and find you waiting like this is some cute romance movie, because it isn’t. Okay?”

Jeongguk can only stare blankly at him, both grateful and saddened by everything he's said.

“Thank you,” Jeongguk whispers.

“Yeah, whatever. For Jimin’s sake, not yours, I really hope you two can make up.”

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

Jeongguk has been on the edge of his seat waiting to see Jimin even since waking up in the hospital, but now that he’s standing in front of Namjoon’s apartment door, he hesitates. His hand lingers in midair before the doorbell. It’s not that Jeongguk has suddenly had a change of heart, but he’s afraid. He’s afraid of what’s to come when Jimin opens the door. If Jimin opens the door.

During all this time, from the build up of confronting Kangdae to this very moment, Jeongguk never thought about this part.

He shakes out of it. There’s no use in agonizing over it when he’s here. He rings the doorbell.

He waits a few seconds, allowing Jimin to gather himself from whatever he’s doing to check on the interior security panel to see who’s come. After more than a minute passes, Jeongguk rings again.

No answer.

He knows Jimin’s home. Namjoon said so.

Meaning, Jimin is choosing not to answer.

Jeongguk drops his forehead on the door. “Jimin,” he says, knowing his voice will transmit through the panel’s microphone if Jimin chooses to listen. If not, then he can at least see from the angled lens that Jeongguk is talking at all. “Please. Namjoon told me you were here. I just want to talk.”

He waits another minute. Two. He promised he wouldn’t linger like a poor fellow from a film, so once he rationalizes that waiting won’t make Jimin suddenly open up, Jeongguk sluggishly turns on his heel.

But he twists back around with newfound energy when he hears the beep of the knob unlocking.

Standing still in the center of the hall, Jeongguk feels like a hot spotlight is blinding him, even though the only person looking at him is Jimin. Maybe that’s why.

“Hi,” Jeongguk says.

“Hi.”

Jimin’s dressed down in lounge clothes, his face bare and soft hair dangling over his eyes. He holds onto the door as if it’s the only thing keeping him up.

“Can I come in?” Jeongguk asks gingerly.

Jimin squares his jaw, and for a split second, Jeongguk fears that he’s going to say no. But Jimin steps to the side, silently giving his answer. 

A small sense of relief flows through Jeongguk.

Inside, Jeongguk briefly scans Namjoon’s home, catching natural design and colors. He thinks that it’s vastly different from his own place, contrastingly full of sharp accents and dark flavors. Here, it seems unassuming. It seems comfortable.

Jimin doesn’t guide him anywhere. He doesn’t offer him anything. He just goes to the couch at the end of the unit and plops down, taking a throw pillow to clutch to his chest. Jeongguk carefully follows, lowering himself down on the farthest cushion.

He can’t help but stare at Jimin. He searches him for any injuries, even though Seokjin assured him that he was okay after leaving Kangdae.

“You’re okay?” he asks.

Jimin flickers an incredulous expression.

“Your father didn’t do anything to you after we left that day, I mean,” Jeongguk elaborates. He wants to hear it from Jimin, not anyone else.

“No.”

“Good.”

Jimin hesitates. Quietly, he asks, “You?”

“Ah.” Jeongguk splays his hands atop his thighs. “Well, as you can see from my beautifully bruised face, I’m in the process of healing. I was in the hospital for a little. I had—”

“I know.”

Jeongguk pauses. Had he spoken with Seokjin? “You didn’t visit.”

“Yes, I did,” he says. It’s like every word out of Jimin’s mouth requires effort, like he’d rather be using his energy for something more worthwhile. “Once. You were asleep.”

Seokjin said Jimin hadn’t. Jeongguk left the hospital a few hours after his mother came, meaning the only time he’d been asleep was when he’d been unconscious. Maybe Jimin had come when Seokjin wasn’t there, or Seokjin lied to him for whatever reason.

Whatever the truth is, it doesn't matter. Jeongguk knows the truth now. Despite Namjoon’s living room feeling as heavy as cement, knowing Jimin visited him in the hospital lightens the load even just a little.

“Oh,” Jeongguk replies. He doesn’t know how to proceed. What can he say? He has so much to say that he’s unsure where to start. He doesn’t ever remember feeling so out of place. Everything about Jimin rattles him, and while he welcomes it, it’s far from effortless. “I know you’re upset about what happened,” he decides. “About your father.”

Jimin narrows his eyes. “You think I’m upset about my father?”

Suddenly uncertain, Jeongguk murmurs, “Aren’t you?”

“Of course I am, but I’m more upset at you.”

Jeongguk winces.

“I’ve hated my dad for as long as I can remember,” Jimin continues, “so a few more reasons to hate him doesn’t make much of a difference. But you … having reasons to hate you does.”

Jeongguk glances at a miscellaneous spot on the couch, but he’s not really looking at it. “I’m sorry it had to happen that way.”

“You’re sorry?” Jimin scoffs unpleasantly. “No, you’re not.”

“I am.”

“Really?” Jimin sets aside his safety pillow, straightening. “Apologies are based on regret. Tell me: if you could go back in time, would you have done anything differently?”

Jeongguk’s hands clench. “I couldn’t have.”

“You could have told me!”

Jeongguk’s face strickens at this. Tell Jimin? How could he have told him?

“You could have told me the truth about my father,” Jimin explains, eyes alight with sudden rage, “how you knew who I was and what he did to your brother. You could have asked for my help. You could have asked. You knew I hated my dad. You think I would have just tossed aside your history with him? Maybe I would have been initially reluctant, but I wouldn’t have done nothing. I wouldn’t have done that to you. But you took matters into your own hands before I could even make that choice. You really didn’t even see me as someone to share this burden with. All I was to you was just a thing to use. That’s all I’ve ever been.”

Jimin shakes his head in hurt defeat, a small smile anything but pleasant curling up a corner of his mouth. “Well,” he concludes, “you used me. You brought me along and threw everything in my face, all so my father could witness his pathetic son learn the truth. And what did it accomplish? You just got beat to a pulp, and I got my heart broken, but not by him.”

Jeongguk prepared for anger and criticism, for resentment and blame. He knew he’d find himself face to face with a morose version of Jimin, but he doesn’t expect this clear dejection. Even after hearing what Namjoon told him, Jeongguk hoped it hadn’t been true. He hoped Jimin wasn’t actually so downbeat by everything that had happened, that if Jimin was upset, he was more upset over his father and not the details of Jeongguk’s involvement. Jeongguk had selfish reasons for wanting that, but more than that, he wanted it for Jimin’s sake.

It hurts to think about, but he hoped Jimin didn't care for him in return as much as Jeongguk does. If Jimin didn't care, then the less hurt he'd be by Jeongguk's actions. But he knows he was deluding himself by thinking Jimin's affection has been anything but thoroughly sincere.

Right now, it's evident.

“You needed to be there,” Jeongguk tells him. “That conversation needed to happen in order for Park Kangdae to admit to everything.”

“For what?" Jimin asks, incredulous. "He’s gone, still on the run doing what he does best, hiding and ruining lives.”

“No." Jeongguk shakes his head. "When we met with him, I was bugged. I wore a tiny camera that picked up everything. It connected live to Chief Na, the police chief of station 33. Has Namjoon told you this?”

Jimin shifts in his seat, wrinkling his nose. “He told me about Chief Na. About how she recruited him to secretly work for her under the table.”

“Did he tell you that Chief Na worked on my brother's death case all those years ago? That that’s why she’s kept tabs on your father all these years?”

Jimin’s quiet, so Jeongguk takes it as the chance to further explain. “Remember when you took me to Sinwon?”

Jimin’s eyes are heavy, likely remembering that alley. Maybe images of their first kiss pops into his head. “How could I forget?”

“That night, after I left your apartment, I went home and couldn’t sleep, so I went to the police station to report those assholes. They were Kangdae’s men. I knew they were, because I’d met Kangdae only a week prior and recognized them. It was the first time I’d seen him since he kidnapped my brother and I. I’d been looking for him all of these years, and finally, I received a suspicious email stating exactly when and where Kangdae would be. I later found out it was Namjoon who’d sent it, but I’m sure he’s told you his side of the story."

Jimin briefly nods. Jeongguk continues.

“So, I met with Kangdae, with no plan other than to just confront the person who killed my brother, only to walk out of there like a fool while he was absolutely unruffled. Then, a week later, his men show up while you and I are out in Sinwon, and it was to scare me. It was a threat. I hoped CCTV could catch them and lead the authorities back to Kangdae, so I went to the police. I ended up meeting Chief Na, who inconspicuously connected me with Namjoon. I met with him, not knowing he was your friend, only to learn the connection and figure out how he and I could work together.”

Jeongguk pauses, staring pointedly at Jimin. “Namjoon didn’t know I was taking you to meet your father,” he tells him. “He would never have agreed to that. He bit my ear off today about it. Don’t be upset with him.”

Jimin frowns. “You met up with Namjoon today?”

“And Chief Na. When I brought you to meet Kangdae,” Jeongguk says, “it wasn’t really so you could hear the truth. Of course, you should know. You deserve to know. But it’s not—it wasn’t to throw it in your face. That wasn’t the idea. You had to go so Kangdae could tell you himself, because he had to admit to everything while I wore that camera. Chief Na got it all. That’s why we met today, to discuss our next steps. We haven’t done it yet, but we plan to leak everything to the press, to show the world who Park Kangdae really is and what he’s done. The cops can’t get him because his drug sales benefit money moving through the economy, whether it’s illegal or not. It’s why the police focus their arrests on people who, in comparison, don’t matter, because the cops don’t exactly have a choice.

“But what matters more to government officials than the economy? Public opinion. Money only comes after a good image, and even if people don’t care for or agree with something, they’ll support it if it looks good among the masses. Image is the start of everything. Spreading Park’s atrocities will cause public uproar, so the wealthy and powerful will publicly voice support for getting someone like him off the streets. Why wouldn’t they, when they can only seek to gain a boosted image? And what does that bring? Support. Money. Loyal money. Therefore, it will benefit the cops to finally go after Kangdae, because now they’ll have to. Their bosses’ bosses will order it, because they’ll see the greater benefit of publicly playing the hero than secretly allowing Kangdae to get away with illegal drug sales.

“In regard to the video,” Jeongguk makes sure to mention, “your voice will be altered and your face will be blurred. Your name will be beeped. No one will know it’s you, so you don’t need to worry about the public discovering who you are or how you’re involved. But it’s going to be revealed no matter what. After everything, it will come out.”

Jeongguk finishes, cautiously eyeing Jimin for a reaction.

Quietly, Jimin asks, “Why haven’t you done it already? Sent out the video?”

“I was waiting to tell you about it.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t have agreed to this plan?”

Jeongguk furrows his brows. “What do you mean?”

“What I said earlier, Jeongguk. You could have told me. You could have told me all of this." Jimin reaches for the throw pillow again, hugging it like a defeated child. "But I guess I never mattered to you. I was just a piece of the chessboard.”

Jeongguk instantly replies, “That’s not true."

“Isn’t it? It’s why you sponsored me, so you could get close to me. It’s why you wanted to know about me, so I could tell you anything I knew about my dad. If I trusted you, I’d tell you, and that’s exactly what I did. And if I was with you, if I trusted you, then you could use me as leverage against him.”

Jeongguk opens his mouth to answer before clamping his teeth back together. He wishes there was a better way to describe it, because Jimin’s statements aren’t wrong. It’s just that original intentions don’t reflect the current reality. How far back can one be excused? Forgiven? Understood?

It’s no secret that Jeongguk originally intended to use Jimin, and until the end, that’s what he did. But there are gray details splattered between the black and white, blurry and full of complicated feelings that completely shattered Jeongguk’s initial plan. He’s already lamented this to his mother.

A bitter laugh escapes Jimin’s throat. “The only reason I even got a job at Deca is because you wanted me there. No wonder everyone was shocked that I never auditioned.”

Jeongguk's confusion provides a brief recess from his otherwise torturous emotions. “What?" he says. "That’s not true. I didn’t even know who you were until Seokjin told me he’d hired you. I knew Kangdae had a son, but I never knew your name. Because Seokjin’s older than me, he remembered the little boy named Jimin who’d wait alone in the car while his father did business at Deca. But Seokjin coincidentally found you after all these years. I didn’t seek you out. He recruited you, and you were hired for your stark skill and nothing else. My … intentions with you came after you were hired. No matter what, Jimin, you earned your spot at Decadentia fairly and deservedly. Do not doubt yourself.”

Jimin stares openly at him, clearly having unexpected Jeongguk’s rebuttal.

Being downcast over Jeongguk and his father is one thing. Jeongguk doesn’t want Jimin to turn those poor feelings onto himself thinking that even his career is tainted, because it's not and never was.

After a moment, Jimin mentions, “I’m using my leave right now.”

“I know. Do you plan to return?”

Jimin sighs, looking up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I wasn’t going to, but now that I know I wasn’t hired for your intentions …. But you know what, Jeongguk?” He presses down on his lips, resigned. “I’m so tired of being used for other people’s interests. Deca can boast all it wants on being a place of art and beauty, of appreciating intimacy and the human body, but at the end of the day, I’m still just getting fucked on a stage so rich assholes can enjoy some entertainment at my own expense. Even if the majority of them look at me in admiration, they still have a claim over me. It’s why sponsorships exist. I know I can choose to accept or deny them, but then again, I couldn’t with you, could I? Besides, there’s not one performer without a self-seeking sponsor. How long could I possibly last while denying paying customers their membership rights?”

“I’ll make sure that’s not a problem,” Jeongguk assures, firm.

“Don’t you get it? The problem lies in the fact that you have to make sure it’s not one.”

Throughout Jeongguk’s life, he knows he’s had an atypical engagement with sex. Even if his mother managed to hide the details of the family business from him for as long as she could, he still was witness to its operations from a very young age. He became desensitized to it. It’s not that he’s learned to treat sex carelessly, but comfortably. It’s familiar to him. At its core, when it’s void of personal emotions, nothing about it intimidates him. He views it as just another entertaining activity, like riding a bike or putting on a play. And, because he’s not the one stripping and getting in front of an audience, he doesn’t have to navigate the additional aspects that come with being a performer. Jeongguk views Decadentia like a business, not a source of personal pleasure. It’s always been that way.

But deep down, there’s always been a tiny part of him that feels off. He’s always ignored it, because for the most part, there’s never been anything horrifying related to sex that’s occurred within Deca’s walls. Deca has strict rules for a reason. It prioritizes its performers’ mental and physical health and well-being. It guarantees financial security. It’s committed to working with the performer as a partner more than a hierarchy.

So why has there always been a small sensation in Jeongguk’s chest that screams that, despite all of this, something is wrong? Something is bad?

He’ll always support Decadentia. He’ll always believe in it.

But because of that minuscule feeling tucked away in the depths of his mind, he understands Jimin’s perspective. He painfully understands.

He honestly tells him, “My mother would be pained to hear that you feel this way about the place she so carefully built.”

A bit of Jimin’s edge softens. “It’s not Deca,” he admits. “Deca is far from terrible, but it’s not perfect, just like how any job isn’t perfect. But for those who enjoy sex work, it’s the closest thing to it. I admire Deca. I respect it. But I don’t know, Jeongguk. I think I’m done with this lifestyle. I’ve been saving up enough to go for a while without having to work. Maybe I’ll get a financial advisor to invest it for me so it lasts, because I have no clue how to even begin something like that. And after that … I don’t know. But for now, you can do whatever you want with my apartment. I won’t be going back.”

Jeongguk nods, despondent but unsurprised. “It’s yours. Everything in it is yours.”

“It’s only mine because you gifted it to me as part of your plan,” Jimin murmurs. More so to himself, he adds, “Getting close to me was all part of your plan.”

“No, it wasn’t.” It was easy to explain about Kangdae, to share how he’ll be outed to the world and chased until he’s rightfully apprehended for his years of crimes. But this? Not this.

“I never meant to get close to you,” Jeongguk says, absolutely and entirely wrecked. “I’ve failed fatally at that.”

Jimin swallows, not meeting his eyes. “Then if the goal was to make me get close to you, why keep a distance for so long? Why didn’t you just worship me from the get-go to feed my ego, or have me sleep with you to create intimacy? Then I really would have trusted you.”

“That was the point," Jeongguk sighs. "I didn’t think you’d appreciate swapping out a self-assuming strip club customer for a sponsor who now could ask and expect more than what you had to do at your former employer. I figured keeping a respectful distance and giving you the power of choice would mean more to you, and I was right. And … I had no desire on my part to ask certain things of you. In the beginning, I looked at you and only saw your father. You look like him. Did you know that? But you’re nothing like him. Not at all.”

“You could have blackmailed me into telling you where my father was when you thought I knew," Jimin suggested."Or, you didn’t even have to hide any of this from me at all. If you hate my father so much, why bother to play alongside me for so long? You could have harmed me to get to him. You really could have.”

Jeongguk can’t help it. He laughs. How many times has he said he couldn’t harm Jimin?

Hearing his laugh, Jimin eyes him warily.

But the sound dejectedly falls off, turning into silence hefty enough to compete with desert boulders. Eventually, Jeongguk sighs.

Softly, gently, he says, “Remember when I told you I couldn’t have sex with you because I’d fall in love with you?”

Jimin freezes. Each breath he takes looks as though it’s straining him, like Jeongguk’s got his fists wrapped around his lungs.

“But,” Jeongguk continues, “you and I slept together, and I was a fool for thinking that’s what would make me fall for you. I’d fallen in love with you long before that. I just didn’t know it.”

Jeongguk looks at Jimin like a wretched love song. “I mean it when I said I never meant to get close to you. But even if I hadn’t, I could never have hurt you. You’re innocent in all of this. You’re as much a victim to your father as I am. I know that.”

Tears slip down Jimin’s cheeks. He frustratingly swipes at them, turning his neck away. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because you have the right to know. I won’t ever keep anything from you again. I swear on my life. The apartment is yours, Jimin. I put it in your name. You can sell it, rent it out, whatever you want. You can let the bank take it if you really don’t want anything to do with it, including everything inside. I’ll send you all of the relevant documentation and information regarding the place. But it’s yours. Whether you keep it or sell it, let it be a new start for you away from all of this, if that’s what you want. It’s definitely what you deserve.”

Jimin doesn’t say anything. Jeongguk sits there for a while, allowing him the time to gather himself in case he wishes to say more. But after all Jeongguk gets is a perpetual turned away head and silent tears, Jeongguk decides it’s best if he leaves. Jimin shouldn’t have to sit here and force back his tears in front of an audience. Jimin’s already revealed so much of himself to crowds. If he wants to cry, he should be able to do so freely. Jeongguk can at least give him this.

Jeongguk pushes himself to his feet. Rather than feel weightless after revealing everything he’s wanted, it feels like he’s carrying two tons on either shoulder. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself before he goes.

Jimin hastily rubs his nose with his wrist and blurts out, “You know what’s the worst part about all of this?”

Jeongguk stills, lugging his gaze towards Jimin. Jeongguk shrugs.

“It’s that I’m so angry with you,” Jimin quavers, “and that I feel so betrayed, because of course even you would do this to me. Of course, I can’t even have one person who doesn’t use me for their benefit. How could you love me if you still did all of this without telling me? Putting me into that position? It’s fucked up, Jeongguk. You’re not excused because you think you had a valid reason to play Good Cop.” Jimin then settles himself, molding his voice into something quiet and stern. “Love is selfless,” he adds. “Maybe you fell in love with me, but you never loved me.” 

It’s like a knife is gutting out Jeongguk’s heart, but all he can do is take it. He has nothing else to say. He has no more defenses to give.

Because he realizes that Jimin is very far from being wrong, and this revelation silences Jeongguk like stone.

Lashes wet and inky black, Jimin suddenly closes his eyes, like what he’s about to say next contradicts his prior statement. “But I’m also relieved,” he whispers, “and that’s the worst part, because I believe you when you say that you love me.”

Jeongguk swallows, the motion scraping down his throat. He manages to get out, “I do.”

If anything, the pain he feels now proves it.

He thought he’s been living in pain ever since Jeongsik died, but nothing could have prepared him for this. Jeongguk may have lost someone to death, but that was out of his control. But here, now, with Jimin, this is of his own doing. Jeongguk isn’t losing Jimin due to an external force taking him to where Jeongguk can never see him again. With whatever happens next, Jimin will still be here, unlike Jeongsik, and Jeongguk will have to live knowing Jimin is near yet out of his grasp.

Jimin replies, “It’d be so much easier if you didn’t.”

Jeongguk has to silently agree.

Jimin exhales a shaky breath, lifting his gaze. “Is there anything else you want to say to me?”

“I’d apologize until my vocal cords gave out,” he speaks softly, sadly, “but we already determined my apology isn't worth much. So, no. No, I’ve said all I came here to say.”

Jimin nods. He sniffs once more, and Jeongguk has to look away. His own eyes sting.

“Then please go,” Jimin whispers.

Jeongguk does. He heads for the door, slipping on his shoes. With one final look, he finds Jimin across the room. But Jimin turns away. At least like this, Jeongguk can stare at him unabashedly. Jeongguk memorizes the waves of his hair and the shape of his shoulders. Then, after a moment not even remotely long enough, Jeongguk opens the door to finally, finally go.

“Goodbye, Jimin,” he says.

Jimin doesn’t say it back.

Chapter Text

Jimin’s feet pad carefully over the shiny tiled floor. While he puts effort into making as little noise as possible, fellow visitors scattered throughout the airy columbarium are as quiet as him. The unanimous self-restraint offers only muted whispers and echoing footsteps, making Jimin feel as though even his breaths are too loud.

Jimin comes here every year on his mother’s birthday. Years ago, he used to come more often. His grandparents brought him without comment, and the orphanage didn’t mind as long as he took a tracker pass so they could keep an eye on his whereabouts less he ran away.

But after some time, Jimin stopped frequenting the columbarium, only paying a visit once a year.

While cremation has always been a historically common choice, it’s not the only option, unless you live in the middle of nowhere with plots to spare. There’s so little land in New Seoul that it’s nearly impossible to get an in-ground burial. Perhaps it would have been prettier to visit an outdoor grave, to kneel at a tombstone and splay flowers atop the grass.

But this building of niches—the stacked square spaces dedicated for thousands of passed mothers, fathers, and children—is beautifully maintained, with high ceilings and pale bright rooms more akin to the sheen of pearls than a hospital.

Jimin’s mother’s niche is engraved with her name, like the rest. Within the space displays an urn and personal items, from the necklace she wore every day to an erected photo of her and Jimin. While her ashes are safely tucked away inside, Jimin knows that it’s not really her here. He’s visiting a memorial more so than an actual grave. But even if his mother was in a plot below the earth, what difference were bones to ash? Either way, his mother’s soul is long gone.

But there’s a sense of tranquility inside the columbarium. It’s not spooky or looming with death, but serene, a polished place to quietly mourn and honor those who have passed.

Jimin enters one of many small alcoves, the rows of niches broken up in order to present privacy. He turns right, lowering himself to the floor. His mother’s niche is closer to the ground, making him precisely eye level when he sits on his knees.

He takes the three yellow roses tied at the stems he bought in the building’s lobby and places them in the niche’s flower ring. They’re his mother’s birthday flower. The petals are not yet fully bloomed, so they’ll be permitted to sit here for a few days before janitorial staff remove them before they can fully wilt and dampen the space's neat visual.

Beside the stems, Jimin gazes at the urn behind the glass. Its shiny white paint is decorated in simple floral patterns. His mother picked it out when she was still alive. Jimin doesn’t like to remember that day, because to him, the act of selecting your own urn is considerably morbid. But it’s because of the discomfort that Jimin starkly remembers it at all, and he’ll take whatever memories of his mother he can get.

Jimin hasn’t visited her since her last birthday, before he began working at Decadentia. A lot has happened since then.

He tells her everything. His throat is dry by the end of it. Swallowing only makes it worse, but he has no desire to leave for the sake of hydration, even if water is only two floors away. By now, he’s slid to the ground, leaning back against the glass shelves. He probably shouldn’t lean on strangers’ niches, but he’s the only one here. Besides, like his mom, the deceased aren’t here with him to care about propriety.

“What do I do, Mom?” Jimin whispers, his voice hoarse with overuse. He shuts his eyes, the bright ceiling lights blurring his vision. He has to sling an arm over his face. “I love him. I still love him.”

He doesn’t know what this says about himself. He’s spent years being a play thing for paying customers to use and abuse, only to end up in the hands of someone who used him for something other than sex. Is that meant to make it better? If Jimin can easily differentiate Jeongguk from the rest as a means to not automatically dismiss him, does it mean that Jimin has no self-respect?

Because Jimin empathizes with Jeongguk. Even worse, he feels an odd sense of guilt. He logically knows that’s ridiculous, but it’s not him who seeks the feeling out. The knowledge of his blood relation to Park Kangdae forces it on him. Jimin isn’t saturated with it, but it still feels like a mosquito bite—tiny and healable, but ever so irritating.

Does this mean Jeongguk’s actions are easily forgivable? Does Jimin’s feelings for him mean that Jeongguk isn’t like the rest, that he’s deserving of a second chance?

Or does it mean that Jimin’s a fool?

If Jeongguk wasn’t so mutually heartbroken, then it would be so much easier to decide. If it really had all just been a ruse void of personal attachment, then Jimin could spit in Jeongguk’s face and get as far away from him as his money would allow.

That could be anywhere, really. He could go places he’s never been before, places he once couldn’t have imagined he’d have the funds for. He could travel to an all-inclusive resort island and get tipsy on bottomless piña coladas. He could hide away in some mountain town and cuddle up beside a fireplace. He could change his name and start over, only letting Namjoon in on his new identity.

But when Jeongguk came to talk to him, there was no mistaking the same brutal heartbreak that cracked through Jimin’s own chest. There was no falsity, no arrogance, no mystery. It was the barest Jimin had ever seen him, and despite himself, Jimin had the strongest urge to wrap Jeongguk up in a hug and tell him everything was going to be okay.

Jimin wonders if that makes him pathetic or compassionate. He wonders if there’s a difference.

How much of it was real? This is what’s been reeling through his mind the most. Like a camera roll, he flicks through each memory and tries his best to analyze each one. There’s the social respect, the banter, their personal conversations—what was done in order to keep Jimin at Jeongguk’s side as an advantage, and what was done because Jeongguk fell for him?

Even if Jeongguk does care for Jimin, even if he was sincere in the time they spent together, it was all still done with an added purpose, for a main purpose. Their past moments together are forever tainted. They can’t be separated.

Jeongguk said he never meant to get close to Jimin. But he did, and he fell in love with him because of it.

What is Jimin supposed to do with that? What is he supposed to do?

On the tiled floor of the columbarium, he annoyingly wipes at his eyes.

The conflicting emotions are tearing him apart. He’s so frustrated with it all that even after a month, he still can’t come to a final conclusion.

Does Jeongguk falling for him excuse the path it took for him to get there? Does it cover his dishonesty and the fact that he still used Jimin even after knowing his feelings for him?

Feelings mean nothing if they’re not put into action. Jimin doesn’t believe in quietly keeping love to yourself. Either you share it or you move on, and Jeongguk chose to keep his boxed up so he could push through with his own selfish desires.

Yet, Jimin can’t blame him for it. Jimin understands why he did it. It was messy, but strategic, and because of it, Park Kangdae has become the most publicized criminal in the nation in the span of only a few weeks.

The edited video of that night is still one of the most trending pieces of content across the country. It’s resulted in discussions of law and morality, of government corruption and individual decisions. There’s everything from detailed think pieces to vulgar memes. The hunt is on. Jimin doesn’t think it will take much longer for the police to find his father. When the government actually wants to find someone, it does. Invested citizens are waiting, so the government has to provide, because this time, doing so is in its favor.

Jimin wonders if it’s right to be more upset over Jeongguk than his own father.

I’ve hated my dad for as long as I can remember, so a few more reasons to hate him doesn’t make much of a difference. But you … having reasons to hate you does.

Jimin doesn’t hate Jeongguk. He doesn’t think he could ever hate him. But because he doesn’t, because he feels so much the opposite, all of this hurts that much more.

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

Jimin has slowly, begrudgingly, been moving things out of his penthouse into a storage unit. It’s mostly clothes and old belongings he kept from before he’d even moved in. All of the furniture, the fashion he procured after joining Deca—none of it is his. Maybe it technically is in name, but he doesn’t want it.

While he told Jeongguk the truth about seeing Decadentia as an innocent entity, he can’t separate what happened with Jeongguk and his father from the business. The penthouse is a result of a sponsorship. So is the decor. So are the clothes.

When he received all of the digital paperwork from Jeongguk in regard to the unit, Jimin discovered that it was already paid for in full. The only thing Jimin has to do himself is cover the monthly utilities, but there isn’t much when he’s not actively living there. He isn’t sure what to do with the place. He knows the diligent path is either to rent it out or host it as a stay for travelers, but he doesn’t have the current mental strength to deal with the complexities of starting up something like that. He could always keep the property and let it accrue value. Even if he sells it now, he would only make a profit, because he isn’t the one who bought it.

But the longer he thinks about his options, the more his brain hurts, and he doesn’t want to bother his head when his heart is already in poor condition.

So, for now, he’s leaving it be.

Today, he’s come to the penthouse to continue his lazy moving process. Namjoon suggested he just hire someone else to deal with the hassle, but for some reason, Jimin wants to do it himself. It’s weird, he thinks. Each time he steps into the unit, he’s reminded of every time Jeongguk came over, a concept he tells himself not to think about. But at the same time, it’s the exact reason why he doesn’t hire a mover.

Jimin doesn’t understand why he seeks these memories. For the most part, they're positive ones, if not neutral, but he double crosses each one with the question of, Was Jeongguk being genuine then, or was he only trying to get me to trust him so he could use me to get my father? Was it both? What do I do if it’s both?

Jimin crouches in his loft bedroom, hanging his hand between his arms. He ruffles his hair with a curt breath.

He’s going to go mad at this rate.

Thankfully, his madness is put off for another time when his ringing mobile disrupts him.

He stares at the caller ID. Ruby. Jeongguk’s mother.

Jimin added his former boss’s number into his mobile the moment he started at Decadentia, but he’s never used it, and she’s likewise never contacted him. Jimin has received company-wide emails sent by Ruby, but never anything between just the two of them. Even when she told him about that investor dinner she wanted to bring him along to, it was during work on the open staff floor. They’d never spoken alone. Not once.

Now, she’s calling him.

While Ruby was a pleasant business owner, she let her staff fill the roles of mentors and supervisors. If Jimin ever needed advice or had questions, he went to Seokjin or Misook. If anyone at Deca ever wished to discuss his progress and well-being, Seokjin or Misook sought him out for those conversations.

He clears his throat before answering. “Hello?”

“Hello, Jimin.” Her voice is calm, as smooth as the ruby red gems she favors. “I apologize for calling out of the blue. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Jimin heads over to his bed to sit, one he hasn’t slept on in weeks. “No, no, I’m just … tidying up.”

“Good, good. I wanted to call and see how you’re doing.”

He thinks she’s a little late for that. Maybe she thought she was giving him space.

“Fine,” he says.

“If that was the case, I’d still see you every week at Decadentia.”

He flattens his mouth, unable to comment.

“I’m not upset that you’ve chosen to permanently leave us,” she continues. “While I’m disappointed that we’re losing your talent, I hold no hostility over your choice. I understand your decision. That’s partly why I’m calling today. I don’t want you to leave Decadentia without knowing that you’re not leaving on a bad note. I hope you can understand.”

“I do,” he answers honestly.

“Good. That’s relieving to hear. But, Jimin, I wanted to apologize for anything that resulted in your decision to move on from us, whether it was me directly, any staff or members, the work in particular—”

“It wasn’t Decadentia,” he interrupts before her list grows. “It wasn’t you.”

“Then,” she says, “I’d like to apologize for my son.”

Jimin suddenly craves a drink. However, his kitchen is empty, so he defeatedly falls back atop his covers instead. He sets his mobile on speaker and drops it over his chest.

He hesitates in immediately replying to her. He appreciates the humility, but to Jimin’s knowledge, Ruby had no awareness or involvement in the affairs of her child.

“Thank you,” he tells her, “but you can’t apologize for him.”

“Then I’d like to express my shame as his mother. You are—were—under my care, and I allowed my son the atypical chance to sponsor you without knowing his intentions. My lack of attention put you in danger, and I am sorry for that. What occurred between you and my son goes beyond Decadentia. So, as both the owner of Decadentia and as the mother of the young man who endangered you, I’m sorry, Jimin.”

He takes in her words like a stroke of paint, careful and considering.

“He was in more danger than I was,” he admits quietly. It’s so soft that he wonders if Ruby has heard him clearly over the line.

But, after a thick silence, she responds, “That’s irrelevant.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why did you allow Jeongguk to sponsor me in the first place? I know your deal with him about finishing school first before he actively works at Deca,” he tells her, “so why did you permit him to sponsor me when that goes against your agreement? And, nevertheless, let him cut me off from anyone else sponsoring me?”

He hears her sigh. It sounds so melancholy that it’s impossible for him to have any poor feelings towards her.

“I admit that letting him forbid any other members from sponsoring you was showing him favoritism,” she says. “It’s not in line with a Decadentia performer’s duties and benefits for anyone to control your sponsorships. But, Jeongguk is my son, and for so long, he’s been so lonely.”

Should Jimin feel bitter at hearing this? Spiteful? He’s unsure how to define the ache in his chest, but he knows with surety that it’s not malicious.

“Truthfully,” Ruby continues, “I assumed he’d taken innocent interest in you—as innocent as one could be at Deca, anyhow. He’s never shown interest for a performer before, nor for anyone outside of Deca, for that matter, at least to my knowledge. No one permanent, anyway. No one he’s found worthy enough to introduce to me.

“But then there was you, and similarly to how I recognized your talent and beauty, I assumed he saw the same. I made it clear to him that if he was to sponsor you, it would be under the same rules as any Deca member. Beyond him being your only sponsor, he could not do anything to you that you did not consent to. If I got any wind that he was causing trouble, I would have stepped in.

“But I didn’t,” she says, “because all I saw was how protective he was of you, how loyal. I saw how impressed he was of you, how admirable. I saw how much he adored you. And I saw the same from you reflected back. So, I let him sponsor you, because for once, he went somewhere other than home, Deca, and school. He was spending frequent time with someone other than Seokjin. As upset as I am at myself for not seeing the struggles he’s kept inside this entire time, I don’t know if I ever could have even guessed, not with how much brighter he’d become since meeting you.”

The back of Jimin’s throat begins to thicken like a sock has wedged its way inside. He gulps down the lump, taking a wavering breath.

“I don’t know the details of your relationship beyond the commonality of your father and Jeongguk’s brother,” Ruby adds, “but I can say with confidence that Jeongguk’s love for you is not a lie. His happiness with you has never been a lie. The most difficult part of this for him turned out not to be facing Park Kangdae, but facing you.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“He told me enough.”

“Excuse my bluntness,” Jimin murmurs, “but are you trying to act as his wingman?”

“Is that not in line with being his mother? I will always support him. But don’t mistake me,” she quickly mentions. “I am not the type to mindlessly praise him and covertly hide his misdeeds. I will call out his faults, but I will simultaneously always stick by his side. I want what’s best for him. I believe that what’s best for him is you, Park Jimin. So, selfishly, I’ve called you. I cannot convince you of anything, nor would I ever want to purposefully take advantage of your feelings in order to sway you one way or the other. But he cares for you, and I believe that you could care for him in return, so I refuse to sit back and say nothing for the sake of propriety. Feel free to scream at him, to give him hell, to not give into his apologies. But I hope that you could one day forgive him, and that both of you could start anew.”

Jimin says nothing. He has no answer for her. Besides, he doesn’t think he’s capable of responding without his voice wobbling. He’s carrying a sudden burst of pride that trembles at the thought of Ruby knowing her words have instantly left a mark.

As if reading his mind, Ruby says, “You don’t need to answer me. I just wanted to share my thoughts with you and express my personal apology. Again, Jimin, I’m sad to see you go from Decadentia, but I more than understand, and I wish the best for you. If I have the right to ask anything else, please consider what I’ve said on this call. With that, I’ll say goodbye. It’s been a pleasure having you at Decadentia as Angel. Goodbye, Jimin. I hope to see you again.”

Jimin manages to utter a goodbye before the call ends with a descending string of tones. He just stares up at the ceiling for a moment, attempting to collect his thoughts. They’re zooming like pinballs. Each time they hit a wall, they don’t ping, but only increase his headache.

He supposes it hurts only because he cares.

Eventually, Jimin pushes himself up, finishing what he came to the penthouse to do.

He leaves rolling along a small suitcase, riding down the seamless elevator and exiting out onto the hot summer afternoon. The only good thing about the compact skyscrapers and their interconnected skywalks is the shade, but it also means a lack of any breeze beyond passing transports. Jimin feels sweat bead at the nape of his neck after less than five minutes in the humidity. He’s only breached the busiest section of roads before taking shelter under a community umbrella positioned above the entrance to a crosswalk. A handful of others are camped out below the material as they await their turn to cross, but the shade is wide enough to fit twenty. Jimin thinks that he should have brought a portable fan—

“Angel?”

Jimin snaps his neck at the sound before he can even think to decide whether he wants to respond or not.

Directly in his line of sight, two familiar faces are pushing their way through the throng of shaded passerby. The crosswalk lights up in sudden green, and while the crowd dissipates, the two individuals only continue perpendicular, nearing Jimin.

He’s rooted to the spot, his back to the traffic light post atop the edge of the sidewalk. Citizens pass in all directions, but they’re a blur in Jimin’s peripherals as he faces Taehyung and Kkuli.

Though he doesn’t expect to run into them, he’s not entirely surprised. Decadentia is close by, after all, as is each of their homes.

“Angel!” Kkuli exclaims once he’s close enough to confirm. He embraces Jimin in a tight hug before Jimin can get in a word, his curls attacking half of Jimin’s face. As quickly as he’s approached, Kkuli then leans back, inspecting Jimin from head to toe.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he starts, gripping Jimin’s biceps. Everything he says next is in a dramatic ramble. “Everyone at Deca knows you quit, but no one knows why. Jeongguk barely shows his face, hardly long enough for someone to grow some balls and ask him what happened. Seokjin won’t spill. He even said not to talk about it—it was kind of scary, actually. No one’s gonna ask Ruby, that’s for sure. Why did you disappear off the face of the earth? You aren’t answering any messages; I kept checking Slab but you haven’t posted anything, so I’ve been worried sick. Jinju thinks you moved countries for a better gig; Hyesong says you got bored and secretly hate all of us; Nuri’s been a bitch saying you ran away with some rich ass sugar daddy somehow hotter than Jeongguk, a theory that I thought was ridiculous because who could that ever be? Um, wait, why are you crying—oh no, don’t cry, I didn’t mean to make you cry—”

Jimin roughly wipes under his nose, rapidly blinking to force back the tears that have yet to fall. But it’s pointless when wet streaks already slide down his skin, when the salty water in his eyes pool so strongly that they’re impossible to hide.

“Kkuli,” says Taehyung, “I mean this respectfully, but please shut up.”

Taehyung comes forward and gently brushes Jimin’s tears away. This only makes Jimin cry even harder.

“I’m sorry,” he blubbers, incessantly swiping at his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

Taehyung drapes a comforting arm over his shoulder, tucking him in. “Shh, don’t be sorry.”

Kkuli blinks. “Um, no, let him be sorry. He just upped and left without even saying goodbye.”

Jimin knows he must be red from the crying, but he feels his ears heat further while onlookers witness his snotty mess. Despite Kkuli’s straight up tone, he positions himself closer as if to block Jimin from the stares. 

“I didn’t mean to ghost all of you,” Jimin insists, followed by a choking cough when mucus catches in his throat. 

Kkuli’s face scrunches. “Okay, okay,” he pleads, taking Jimin’s hands, “I forgive you. Please, stop crying. I’m not that offended, okay? Don’t be upset. Don’t choke, please.”

Jimin sniffles, willing himself to calm. While it’s easier to gather his breathing, the tears leak like a dripping faucet.

Once he’s no longer on the verge of hyperventilating, Kkuli comments, “But, Angel. We expect an explanation.”

Jimin isn’t sure if he should tell them.

Up until now, they’ve known nearly all of the details of his former relationship with Jeongguk, especially during the early stages when Jimin had no idea what the purpose of Jeongguk’s sponsorship was. Jimin used to ramble to them about his curiosities and the latest Jeon Jeongguk happenings, and they’d gossip about their own sponsors in return like giggling school children.

Jimin hasn’t meant to ignore them all this time, but he didn’t know what to say to them if he saw them again. Now that he knows the answers to the questions they used to discuss together, he hasn’t wanted to explain them. It wouldn’t be with the same mischievous energy as before.

Nothing is the same anymore.

This time, if Jimin tells them the biggest update of his life, he’s unsure if he can go into details without crying. He’s already crying from just meeting them on the street.

But they’re looking at him with such raw concern that he thinks it would be a betrayal towards their friendship if he kept them in the dark.

Because they’re his friends, aren’t they? They aren’t just former coworkers. They’ve seen all of his vulnerabilities and have physically engaged with him from the inside out. They’ve shared their thoughts, fears, and happiness. Maybe Jimin was too used to seeing coworkers as nothing more than casual acquaintances, just people to be friendly with at work and drink buddies after hours. But facing these two men on the street after weeks of hiding himself shocks him with the realization that if anyone could understand the complexities of human nature, relationships, and ethics, it would be his former Decadentia partners. They are his friends, and they’ve never used him.

Why has Jimin always been so focused on what people think of him for his body? For his work? Even for his romantic interest? Why has the concept of genuine platonic friendships never appeared desirable to him? He supposes he always used Namjoon as an excuse, that he never needed anyone else. But even Namjoon kept things from him.

To be fair, Namjoon’s far more easy to forgive. Jimin is more surprised than upset at his friend of ten years—no, eleven years now—keeping his secret agent life to himself. Besides, it’s easier to not be upset at him when he never wanted Jimin involved in the first place. Namjoon didn’t use him, not ever.

And neither have his friends from Decadentia.

“My place is right up the road,” Taehyung offers, as gentle as the dawn before it tips over the horizon. “If you’d like, we can go there to talk. Soonsu may be home, but I can tell him to give us privacy—”

Jimin shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. He can hear it, too.” Yoongi is as much his friend as Taehyung and Kkuli.

So, Taehyung leads Jimin and Kkuli to his apartment, and there, Jimin tells them everything. It’s similar to what he’d relayed to his mother’s ashes, except this time, he has to start off with a backstory.

When he first goes to speak, his words fumble out like rocks, clunky and heavy, but it doesn’t take long for him to fall into his story, smoothing out. It all comes pouring out of him like a waterfall, countless rapids of history from his childhood to now. The more he speaks, the stronger his confidence grows, because other than Namjoon, no one knows the extent of his past.

Except Jeongguk. Jeongguk knows a fair amount.

But Namjoon is a childhood friend, and Jeongguk is … not a friend, exactly.

But these three men in front of Jimin now—they are truly his friends, new ones who he’s grown to care for, who he knows have grown to care for him. It feels relieving to share himself with them, to strip himself bare in a way separate from sex, to lay upon them his story, his concerns, his entire being.

In the past, he never allowed himself to be so transparent with his coworkers. Friendly acquaintances were common, but genuine friendships were rare. At the strip club, everyone wanted to present an all-in-this-together attitude only when it benefited them, and more often than not, it didn’t. Stripping was a solo venture.

Who could snag the better customer, from their attitude to their wallets? Who could earn the most tips? Who could do the least while gaining the most? There was rivalry, competition, and backstabbing bitches who were only in the field either because they had to in order to survive or because they wanted to in order to ride a high horse. Jimin got that. He didn’t expect anyone to be anything less.

But Decadentia has taught Jimin of community. Every petty, dirty interaction he had when he was a stripper has not once made an appearance at Deca. While there was always a sense of protection amongst his fellow strippers, the environment didn’t make it easy to follow-through. But at Deca? There’s a communal pact to place each and every performer above every paying customer. The thought of leaving any performer behind is not even a shadow of a thought.

Admittedly, Jimin feels ashamed to admit that he doubted if he’d be received just as kindly by Taehyung, Yoongi, and Kkuli if he were to see them again. Talking to them now, he’s so, so grateful to know just how warmly he’d be taken back.

After he finishes, they get him water for his parched throat. They hug him. They ramble their opinions, which Jimin urges. While it sincerely helps to hear their perspectives in order to solidify that he is not crazy for his conflicting mindset, he’s filled with opposing replies to everything they say.

“It sounds as though Jeongguk is remorseful,” Taehyung says.

“But he didn’t deny that he’d do it again,” answers Jimin.

“Yeah,” says Kkuli, “his mysterious hotness was a walking red flag all along. You should drop him. Block him. Forget him.”

“Do I have to walk away?” Jimin asks, his stomach swirling uncomfortably in something he thinks could be fear.

“You know the truth now,” says Yoongi, “so either you accept it and work things out with Jeongguk despite it, or you move on without him because of it.”

“Right, but which one?”

They discuss until Jimin’s so exhausted from the crying and the conversation that he sways when he stands to take a bathroom break. Taehyung ushers Jimin into his room, refusing to send him out and instead tucks him into his own bed.

“What about you?” Jimin murmurs, timely yawning as Taehyung bunches the blanket up to Jimin’s neck.

“I’ll just sleep in Yoongi’s, it’s no big deal. You need rest.”

Jimin nods, eyes already half-closed. It feels like wet cement is weighing his lids down. Taehyung clicks off the light and quietly closes the door, and before Jimin knows it, he’s fallen asleep. When he comes to, he decides that he’s just taken one of the most comfortable naps of his life.

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

Jimin waits until his father is sentenced. The original plan was just to wait until he was detained, but things moved rather quickly.

It’s mid August, the hottest time of the year, so maybe that’s why the country is a bit more saturated in irritated bloodlust.

There are supporters outside the courthouse when the authorities bring Kangdae in. His summons is rushed, surpassing convictions rotting in jail cells as they wait for a final verdict. Normally, someone like Kangdae would be held in the most luxurious holding facility, if there was one. He’d get a private room with thick bedsheets and miscellaneous items to help him pass the time. He’d see more food on his plate when it’s pushed between the latch of his cell. Maybe he would get a rushed summons either way, but this time, he’s the nation’s top celebrity. The people want to see what happens next, so the government is going to gladly put on a show for them.

Perhaps Kangdae has been receiving special treatment behind closed doors, but that sort of information is kept from the public. All the public sees is his body wearing a standard prison uniform and his wrists locked in handcuffs while he sits beside his defense attorney. His trial is broadcast like a reality show.

It’s funny, Jimin thinks. Two months ago, no one knew who Park Kangdae even was. Now, they’re so quick to defame him after a single video.

While the video was the kick that rolled the ball, it’s been the media’s obsessive buzz that has shot the ball through three hoops, down a mountain, in a loop-de-loop, and into the goal.

While Jimin’s glad to see his father rightfully tried and punished, the entire situation makes him feel uneasy. From an objective standpoint, the cards are folding the way they should. So, why does part of him feel like he’s standing atop those cards, falling with them?

He has no pity for his father. No empathy.

And yet …

His father pleads guilty. It frustrates audiences who hope he would maintain a claim of innocence, because now he'll receive a lesser sentence. Jimin isn’t sure what he thinks of Kangdae’s plea deal. Is he owning up to his mistakes, or is he following his attorney’s advice for self-gain? In some odd way, Jimin believes that it’s both, but he still knows the real reason why Kangdae regrets Jeon Jeongsik’s death, and it’s not out of moral guilt.

When it comes to his role as a drug kingpin, some instances have too much evidence to hide. The authorities caught a handful of Kangdae’s men in addition to him, and while they’re loyal, they’re hardly as sound as him. They're easier to break.

For Jeongsik, Kangdae is convicted of some form of manslaughter. Jimin doesn’t know the difference, but he does understand the judge when she announces that Kangdae will serve 25 years with no chance of parole—no early release due to his consistent drug scene participation. The sentence is not just for Jeongsik, but for everything else the court has successfully managed to charge him with.

In a way, 25 seems short. When Jimin thinks of causing the death of another human being, he imagines decades upon decades, even life. But Kangdae can’t be convicted of murder, because truthfully, he didn’t plan to kill Jeon Jeongsik. No one even knows whose bullet hit the kid. But Kangdae takes the blame, so he’s sentenced as much as the court can give.

I’m 25, Jimin thinks. Maybe 25 years is long, after all. Kangdae will be in his late seventies when he gets out. Jimin will be nearly the same age that Kangdae is now.

He shudders at this.

While gradually processing this outcome, Jimin decides it’s time to pay someone a visit.

He doesn’t tell Jeongguk he’s coming. If Jeongguk doesn’t know, then he might not be home when Jimin appears—Jimin does this on purpose. If Jeongguk isn’t there to answer the door, then it gives Jimin one more day to gather his wits. Maybe it’s cowardly of him, but Jimin’s still not entirely ready to face Jeongguk. The issue, however, is that he doesn't think he’ll ever be ready.

But if he made decisions based on whether he's ready or not, then he’d never do anything.

So, even though he’s not wholly ready, he goes to see Jeongguk, because he wants to, and that’s what matters.

Fortunately (unfortunately?), Jeongguk is home. He answers immediately.

He looks the same as he always has, but for what reason would his physical appearance change drastically in two months? If anything, because he’s in the comfort of his penthouse, his hair is unstyled and hangs in his eyes, and his clothes are oversized loungewear. Before, Jimin would have managed to find something intriguing about even this. Now, Jimin just finds the appearance guileless. Jeongguk may be all high-fashion and beguiling smirks, but he’s also this—a young man who’s nothing but childlike when hidden within his own home, wrapped in the safety of comfy clothes.

He stares at Jimin with those starry eyes of his, blinking like he can’t comprehend who’s standing before him.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

Woojoo is loose, and she’s come up at Jeongguk’s heels, wiggling in excitement at seeing a familiar face. Jeongguk nudges her to the side, but she looks to be one mistaken command from barreling into the hall and jumping up Jimin’s legs. Jimin instantly softens a bit at the sight of her, and while he’d love to properly greet her, he hasn’t come to pet her fur and play fetch.

“Are your ribs okay?” Jimin asks. Jeongguk’s cuts and bruises are long gone, but Jimin doesn’t have x-ray vision. 

Jeongguk glances down at his torso as if having forgotten he has ribs at all. “Oh—yes. They’re pretty much healed by now.”

“Good,” Jimin says, and then he punches Jeongguk in the stomach.

Jeongguk caves with an expected grunt, teetering on his feet. Before he can even transition his pained expression into confusion, Jimin has knocked him back through the door frame, embracing him in a bone-crushing hug.

More than anything, Jimin has realized, is that he’s more pissed that Jeongguk was willing to get hurt. Through it all, despite everything, Jeongguk brought Jimin along to confront Kangdae fully believing that Kangdae wouldn’t hurt Jimin, but likely knowing he himself was up for grabs. Somehow Jeongguk knew Jimin would be spared, and when Jeongguk was beaten by Kangdae’s goons, he took it. For the sake of convicting Kangdae, he kneeled there and took it.

Maybe he took it because he figured Kangdae wanted to beat someone, so better it be him than Jimin. He took the beating while Kangdae took the bait, adding more fuel to Kangdae’s own dumpster fire that ultimately became the stark evidence that put him in prison.

But what would have happened had Namjoon not busted in? For how long would Jeongguk have slumped there as they punched and kicked into his flesh?

“How could you let them beat you?” Jimin chokes out, finding himself weakly smacking Jeongguk anywhere he can land.

Jimin thought he’d be composed when he came here. It’s why he managed to bring himself to see Jeongguk at all. But now that he’s seen his stupid, handome face, is wrapped up in his warm arms, can even smell his familiar scent that Jimin didn’t even realize he’s missed—

Jimin hits him. He shoves at him. It’s with the strength of a toddler, but with the passion of a wildfire.

Jeongguk accepts it. Somehow, that only brings frustrated tears to Jimin’s eyes.

“What if he killed you?” Jimin cries, throwing down his arms when his blows don’t feel as satisfactory as he’d like.

Woojoo circles their entwined legs, likely thinking they’re playing a game.

“Chief Na’s team was there,” Jeongguk answers calmly, sounding quietly resolute rather than confident.

“My dad put a knife to your throat like your neck was nothing but paper,” Jimin spits back, his anger surfacing like the carbonation in a shaken can of soda. “Spare me the details of your backup plan that depended on unofficial nobodies—yes, Namjoon included—who relied on tasers to take out gang members literally bred to kill. And you—” Jimin’s voice catches. Jeongguk leans forward, as if about to step over and hold him in support, but he thinks better of it and remains in place.

“You let them hurt you,” Jimin murmurs, unable to speak loud without his voice shaking. “How could you let me witness that?”

Jeongguk holds his gaze, steady. When he speaks, his tone is careful. “I didn’t exactly enter that room wishing to get my ass kicked.”

“You could have died.”

“I wouldn’t have.”

Jimin shakes his head, turning away. Truth is, maybe Jeongguk is right. Namjoon relayed all of the details of that night to him already—the original plan sans Jimin, anyway. Namjoon and his fellow under-the-radar associates kept position in the shadows, ready to jump in the moment any of Kangdae's henchmen started trouble.

But that's why Namjoon bursted in when Kangdae went too far, surprised himself that things had escalated so quickly.

"If just Jeongguk had gone," Namjoon had shared with Jimin, "I probably wouldn't have needed to show up at all. Jeongguk was supposed to go in, have a nice little chat with your dad, and come back out. But by bringing you, he put a target on his head. Thank God your father has a weird conscience in regard to you, but he seemed pretty willing to slice Jeongguk's throat open."

“By all accounts,” Jimin tells Jeongguk now, angrily swiping away the salty tears that have slipped down his cheeks, “I should never speak to you again. What you did isn’t just be some douche who makes trashy comments or doesn’t follow through with plans like a normal fuck-up of a man—you put me in a really fucked up situation, and you did the same to yourself and made me think for a good few minutes that I was gonna watch the man who abandoned me put you six feet under. You brought me to the scariest night of my life. Do you understand how big this is, Jeongguk?”

Jimin doesn’t know what he expects. He figures common reactions would be either to crumble in sudden guilt or shout defenses with pretentious pride.

But Jeongguk just … stands there. His expression is so depressing that it would make the color gray curl up into a ball and cry. He’s not proud, nor is he hysterical. He’s just … defeated.

Jimin thinks to himself that during the time they’ve been apart, particularly since Jeongguk visited him last to explain his point of view, that Jeongguk has done some thinking on his own. The way he’s looking at Jimin now, with such heavy melancholy that sad songs have absolutely nothing on him—it makes Jimin wonder if Jeongguk has already gone over in his head what Jimin’s exclaiming at him now.

He seems to already be aware of it. He seems to have accepted it. And it seems to deeply, deeply sadden him.

Jeongguk says, “I know.”

“I thought I could come here and talk calmly.” Jimin exhales an ironic laugh. “Then again, I guess I’m just an idiot for thinking anyone I talk to doesn’t have some second agenda.”

Jeongguk’s gaze darkens. “You’re not an idiot.”

“I trusted you,” Jimin gives as a prime example.

Jeongguk squares his jaw, but he doesn’t back down. “No. You trusting me was you being kind.”

“Then I guess being kind is worthless.”

Jeongguk actually stalks up to him then, sudden determination in his step. Jimin is too stunned to back away.

“Park Jimin,” he starts with a newfound energy, “you’re right. You’re right that I did something incredibly dangerous and damaging, that I brought you into a situation unprepared and hurt you in the process. You’re right that you shouldn't speak to me again, because after pulling my head from my ass these past two months, I’ve belatedly understood that there’s no humane way in which I could ever even be your friend after what I did to you. You’ve always been right about many things. But you calling yourself an idiot? Saying that your kindness is worthless?” Jeongguk scoffs, absolutely fervid. “Your kindness is what brought light into my life the past year. It’s what actually made me momentarily forget about my brother, my stressful school work, the intricacies of Deca—it showed me the value of getting close to someone, of wanting to do things for someone from my heart and not from my wallet. Every day, because of you, I looked forward to something. I’ve never been that way in the past. You made me rethink everything. Everything.”

“But you still took me to confront my father.”

“And that’s entirely the fault of my own. Me choosing to do that was because of me, not because of anything you did. It had nothing to do with you. Nothing. And, unfortunately, only after having done so did I realize that my actions have everything to do with you, because you were right. I can’t claim to love you if I did what I did to you. I valued my vengeance over your safety, your mental health, and our own relationship. I deluded myself into thinking that locking up your father would make up for it, that you’d understand once I explained my reasons to you. But—fuck. Jimin.” He pleads with with his eyes, his brows curving down like frowns. “Don’t you dare blame yourself. I’ll take everything from you, but I refuse to take your self-depreciation. I refuse to let you believe that anything bad that’s happened to you is somehow something to do with you. You’re a heart personified, a shooting star lighting up everywhere it goes and making even grown men fall to their knees in instant devotion, just hoping for even one wish. I know my apology is worthless, but I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Jimin sniffles, shoving Jeongguk in the stomach. “Fuck you,” he mumbles, then Jimin pulls him into an all-consuming hug. “Stop making me cry.”

Jeongguk breaths against his neck, hugging him back, holding him like this is the last time. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. You said you wouldn’t change anything.”

Jeongguk shakes his head against him, pulling back his face to speak clearly, but he refuses to let Jimin out of his arms.

“I was wrong. I would have told you everything beforehand. I would have,” he insists at Jimin’s doubtful expression. “I don’t know why it never crossed my mind. I suppose I was that self-absorbed. I couldn’t see a world in which you’d possibly help, because I didn’t think that was your burden to bear. I also never planned to bring you to him. In fact, there was a time when I had no clue what to do. You were by my side, and I had no info on Kangdae’s whereabouts, and the longer I was with you, the more I realized I couldn’t do anything to you.” A bitter laugh escapes his throat, more sad than harsh. “But, I still did, in the end, didn’t I?”

Jimin watches how Jeongguk works his jaw, how he stares down at Woojoo who’s seemed to have realized that she won’t be getting any full attention anytime soon.

Jimin catches the puffiness under Jeongguk's eyes, the pallor of his skin. Has he not been sleeping well? And is it Jimin’s imagination, or is his face thinner?

Jimin takes his chin in a hand, inspecting him. Jeongguk’s eyes widen at the touch.

Jimin then tsks, dropping his hand. With all of his sincerity, he softly says to him, “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you? It must have been really, really hard.”

Jeongguk instantly tears up. One moment, he’s dejectedly hanging his head. The next, he’s entrapped in Jimin’s gaze, eyes red-rimmed and lips trembling. Jimin doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jeongguk cry, not really.

“You swore to me you’d never hide anything from me again,” Jimin starts, forcing himself to ignore the tears for now.

Jeongguk swallows hard, nodding. “I did.”

“So, if I ask you a question, you’ll answer, no matter what it is?”

“Yes. I promise.”

Despite himself, Jimin lifts a hand and roughly brushes away a stray tear on Jeongguk’s cheek. “When did you start to see me as something other than just a piece of your plan?”

Taken aback by the sudden question, Jeongguk answers honestly and instantly, “When you first visited my apartment and met Woojoo.”

Jimin thinks back, furrowing his brows. “But that was only a day after I moved into my penthouse, right after our sponsorship began.”

“I know.”

“It was that early?”

“I still had every intention of following through with myself,” he explains, this time a bit awkwardly, “but in terms of my personal opinion about you … you weren’t who I thought you’d be.”

Jimin takes that in, mulling it over. “Yet, you still …”

Jeongguk sighs, his shoulders slumping with him. He pulls aways, bending to motion Woojoo over. She instantly pads up to his knees where he holds half of her body in his arms. He burrows into her like a safety net.

“I fought it for a very long time,” he admits, “until I couldn’t. Even after—” He clenches his jaw. Ticks his head. “After we slept together, I shoved it down again, because there was an opportunity to get Kangdae.”

Jimin looks down at him. “You had a choice, and you chose.”

Jeongguk focuses on limply petting Woojoo. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“Then what else can I do?”

“You can let me actually call the shots for once.”

This shuts Jeongguk up. He slowly strokes Woojoo, and damn him if the vulnerable visual doesn’t spark something warm in Jimin’s heart.

Jimin lowers himself to the floor, taking the spot on Woojoo’s other side. She wags her tail at the sudden attention, slipping out of Jeongguk’s grasp to step into Jimin’s lap, searching for new pets. Jimin doesn’t miss how Jeongguk looks minutely betrayed.

“Look,” Jimin begins, resolved on his decision. “I don’t trust you right now. I still feel really awful when I even look at you. I don’t know what was true between us, and even if it was, it really hurts to know that what happened still happened. But, apparently, I’m not an idiot, so maybe I’m not so dumb for feeling how I feel. You said I’m kind.”

Jimin pauses, letting the weight of that actually settle within his chest. “I want to be kind. I want to be better. I want people to want me for me, not anything else. And I want to learn what was real. I want to relearn everything. You owe that to me.”

Slumped on the floor, staring at him like a poor man being given the chance at his first meal in months, Jeongguk whispers, “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you’ve hurt me and broken my trust, and while I don’t excuse your actions, I understand them. Can I forgive you? I don’t know. I’m still pissed. I don’t know how long that will take to settle down, but I want to try, because I believe that so much of the time we spent was more about us than about my father.”

Thickly, genuinely, Jeongguk says, “It was.”

“Then tell me about it. Tell me everything you thought back then, about me, about us, about your own feelings. Let me know you.”

Swallowing hard, nodding, Jeongguk answers without a doubt, “Okay. I’ll tell you everything. But what comes after I’ve said it all?”

“That’s for me to decide, but I hope it’s that we can both move on together.”

“Together?”

Jimin lets Woojoo go, and she must instinctively know it’s best that she pads off. With the animal barrier between them gone, Jimin scoots over, closing the distance between himself and Jeongguk. He harmlessly jabs Jeongguk in the stomach, this time with a finger and not his fist.

“Yes, you idiot,” Jimin says. “I thought you were smarter than this. Oh, wait,” he adds, layering on the sarcasm, “apparently you’re not. Warning: expect weak but petty insults from me moving forward as a coping mechanism.”

Jeongguk coughs out a laugh. Jimin wonders if it’s the first time he’s laughed in a while.

“Lay it on me,” he tells him.

“Good, because I’ve heard I can have a sharp mouth.” 

“Oh, I know.”

Jimin looks him over. Before, he’d have been hesitant to reach out and caress him. Not because Jimin was particularly shy, but because of the boundaries of their former sponsorship. Now, Jimin has left Decadentia, and he is no longer bound to Jeongguk by anything other than his own choice.

Jimin brushes a thumb over Jeongguk’s cheekbone, softer than when he wiped away his tears. “Are you okay?”

He thinks Jeongguk shudders at the gentle touch. With a wry smile, he answers, “I think you can guess the answer to that question.”

“Obviously.” Jimin gives him a look. “But I’m asking anyway.”

“I’m … moving forward.”

Jimin solemnly nods, dropping his hand. Suddenly quite tired, he transitions onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. Jeongguk follows, nothing of them touching except the tips of their shoulders, their bodies sprawled out like two legs of a starfish.

“Have you been keeping up with my dad?” Jimin asks.

Jeongguk hesitates, likely unsure how to speak on Kangdae now in front of him. “Yes.”

“He’s been sentenced.”

“I know.” Jeongguk pauses. “Are you okay?”

Mindlessly folding his hands across his chest, Jimin says, “After learning all the shit he’s done, I’m glad. But also … I’m sad,” he admits, taking a deep breath, “and I’m angry that I’m sad.”

With a voice like melted chocolate, Jeongguk tells him, “He’s still your father.”

“But that shouldn’t mean anything. He was barely in my life. Why am I still so upset over someone who was never there?”

“Because you’re upset over what could have been. What you missed out on. Over the fact that you got stuck with a father like him.”

Hearing Jeongguk offer such warm comments after his involvement with Kangdae only evidences that Jimin’s made the right decision. Jeongguk could lie here and relay aggrieved satisfaction at Kangdae’s turnout, but instead, he’s asking if Jimin’s okay. He’s validating his conflicting emotions.

Jimin tells Jeongguk everything Kangdae said to him in that transport. While he speaks, Jeongguk listens with his entire being. Not once does he even hint at a lack of focus, of a desire to get his own word in.

Meeting Jeongguk today is incongruous, Jimin thinks. For so long, Jeongguk was a roguish mystery. Poise dripped from him like gems. Now, after knowing his demons, after coming face-to-face with his vulnerability, it’s like Jeongguk has ripped off a mask. Jimin doesn’t see frailty underneath, but he does see the cracks that it had been hiding for so long. Jimin understands them, and he’s not turned off. Instead, he feels a desire to help smooth the jagged edges, because he knows what it’s like to be broken.

Jeongguk’s faults humanize him.

Jimin felt pulled to Jeongguk from the beginning, whether it was cautious curiosity or bubbling desire, but it was like being pulled to the enchanting colors of something laced with poison. Jeongguk was too sure of himself. He was too guarded. Though Jimin enjoyed their time, though he knows Jeongguk wasn’t entirely closed off, there was still always a feeling in the back of Jimin’s head that something was amiss.

Jimin used to just connect it to Jeongguk’s refusal to elaborate on his reasoning for their sponsorship, including the fact that Jeongguk was so clearly into him yet seemed to be in actual fucking pain every time he even entertained the idea of simply kissing Jimin.

Yet, Jimin fell for him anyway.

And now, after everything, he sees Jeon Jeongguk as a hurt young man who witnessed something traumatic, who’s held onto that trauma, and who desperately wishes to love despite the hurt he’s carried for so long. He hasn’t allowed himself any semblance of genuine human connection outside of a group of people so small that Jimin can count them on his hand.

Jeongguk’s university friends only know his school persona, a quiet, well-off young man just hoping to learn the ins and outs of business. The Decadentia performers know him as an intimidating force who likely fucks around with equally as intimidating partners beyond Deca’s walls.

Not even Seokjin had known the extent of Jeongguk’s plan.

Who does Jeongguk really have? Who can understand him?

It’s Jimin’s father who’s done this. Yes, Jeongguk is responsible for his own actions, but after thinking about it all these weeks, Jimin’s concluded that rather than feel anger towards Jeongguk, he feels pity.

Not awkward pity, like a stranger accidentally witnessing a passerby trip over their shoelaces, but empathetic pity, because Jimin understands how unfeeling his father is and how that must have hurt Jeongguk. Jimin knows what it’s like to lose a close family member. He understands wanting to love and be loved but ultimately closing yourself off for reasons too complicated to explain.

In many ways, Jimin sees himself reflected in Jeongguk.

Once their discussion of current events has come to a lull, Jimin asks if he can spend the night.

“It’s three in the afternoon,” Jeongguk says.

“And? I didn’t say we’re going to bed now.”

“I’m not sure if I can entertain you for so long.”

“Seriously? I didn’t come here expecting you to play a fabulous host. I’ve been here enough without you needing to keep me entertained.”

Jeongguk pulls himself up into a sitting position, Jimin following. “I just mean, I’m working on a research paper for school.”

Jimin’s focus automatically lands on the opened laptop left on the living room coffee table. Its screen is darkened, half-turned towards what looks to be a long-ago-finished glass of coffee. Jimin didn’t even notice.

“Oh,” Jimin says. “Well, I can hang upstairs if I’ll distract you.”

He should probably have offered to leave instead. Anyone else would have done that. But Jimin doesn’t want to go. He won’t act like a polite stranger afraid to cause offense. He and Jeongguk are far past that. Jimin plans to stay.

The side of Jeongguk’s mouth twitches in a small smile. It’s like he knows this.

“I won’t relegate you upstairs like it’s a dungeon,” he says. “I’ve done school work around you before. I think I can handle it.”

That he has. More than a few times.

So, that’s what they do. Jeongguk goes back to working on his paper, and Jimin lounges on his mobile, scrolling through whatever entertainment helps pass the time. Woojoo even snuggles up on Jimin’s side, as comfortable as if he’d never been away. Through the calm silence, the only sound the clicking of Jeongguk’s keyboards and his occasional sighs, Jimin thinks how easy it is to fall back into before.

Should it be so simple? Or should there be a more dramatic make up between them, something with pleading promises and theatrical emotions?

Jimin likes the former. After all of the bullshit, he doesn’t want any more.

There isn’t anything left to say about the past. What’s done is done, and Jimin’s made his decision for the present. So has Jeongguk. They’re in agreement.

After too long of a stretch without talking, Jimin gives Jeongguk a break by asking out of nowhere, “So, how’s Deca these days?”

Jeongguk snorts, dropping his neck back along the top of his couch cushion. “Boring without you.”

Jimin hates that this makes him blush, but he’s always been one to relish in praise. It shouldn’t surprise him, especially now that the compliments are coming from someone he loves.

I love him, Jimin mentally says to himself. He already knows this, but every time he actually strings together the words, he’s hit with the revelation again as if it’s the first time.

He won’t tell Jeongguk. Not yet. For one, that would be too easy for him, and Jimin wants to drag it out. After how long Jeongguk dragged Jimin along, the man can survive a bit of the same back. Besides, in Jeongguk’s case, he’ll be delighted at the end rather than hurt. If anything, Jeongguk’s hardly receiving a fair reprisal.

But also, Jimin isn’t sure if his love is justified. He refuses to vocally put his love into the universe before he knows for a fact that it won’t be for naught. Jeongguk needs to prove himself, and it’s not going to take only a handful of days. Jeongguk needs to work for it. He needs to deserve it.

So, Jimin will love him silently, because Jimin knows that being better means being bigger. Jimin loving Jeongguk is not because of what Jeongguk has done for him or to him, but because of who Jimin is and wants to be.

Looking at him on the couch, Jimin says to him, “You’re saying you want me to return?”

“No,” Jeongguk answers airily, “just letting you know that your presence is sorely missed.”

Jimin puckishly pouts his lips, tilting his head. “If I was still at Deca, I’d be fucking a handful of people every week in front of a very invested audience.”

“Thus why I said no.”

“Aw, don’t want to share?”

Jeongguk’s eyes darken, but a shy playfulness curls up the corners of his mouth. “I thought we already went over this.”

Jimin recalls the night they finally had sex. How Jeongguk carried him up the stairs, how he hovered over him all hot and heavy, how he breathlessly uttered that he hated watching Jimin perform on stage.

Jimin warms at the memory.

“Jimin.”

“Hm?” He shakes out of it.

“You may have worked in the sex work scene for many years,” Jeongguk tells him, suddenly quite serious, “but I don’t view that as what defines you. You have never been just some pretty body to me.”

“Are you trying to reel me in like a fish? Because it’s working.”

Jeongguk softly chuckles, but he shakes his head. “I’m being honest.”

“Then should I be touched or slightly annoyed that my charms didn’t work on you like they were supposed to?”

“I think your charms have worked too well on me if I’m telling you this, right?”

Jimin smiles. He’s messing around. He’s actually hardly irritated, and he’s very touched. While he’s always glad to hear positive comments on his body, on his physical skills, on his performances—it’s rare that those who are interested in him beyond friendship see him as anything other than a body to admire. They don’t even know him. They never can, not when all they see is an exaggerated persona.

But Jeongguk knows Jimin probably second to Namjoon at this point.

Later, once Jeongguk mumbles that his brain is turned to mush, they order dinner in. They watch a movie. Jimin tries to pay attention, but he’s still in a weird state of deja vu while simultaneously knowing things are different. He can only half keep up, missing entire lines of dialogue when he thinks too hard about how Jeongguk is just a cushion away, how they’re not sitting directly next to each other. Jimin sat down first. It’s Jeongguk who chose to put a safe space between them. Part of Jimin is grateful for the gesture, but the other part is annoyed that Jeongguk thinks he needs to do that in the first place.

Old habits die hard, Jimin supposes. Or, maybe, Jeongguk isn’t sure how to proceed. Maybe he’s giving Jimin the reins to make the first move, because for many months, everything was officially under Jeongguk’s command despite his stated boundaries.

The movie ends before Jimin can decide on an answer. Jeongguk takes Woojoo out for one last bathroom trip before returning, and he and Jimin ready for bed. Jeongguk provides him with a change of clothes. Jimin carries a toothbrush in his daily bag, so that’s already covered, but Jeongguk offers up his entire bathroom anyways.

While Jimin takes his turn to wash up, he realizes that he’s never spent the night at Jeongguk’s apartment. They shared a bed at the beach. Jeongguk has only stayed over Jimin’s once. But beyond that, this is the first time for Jimin to make the stay at Jeongguk’s.

Once they’re laying beside each other, the lights shut off and the curtains shut, Jimin murmurs in the dark, “I missed you.”

As soft as silk, Jeongguk replies, “I missed you too.”

Jimin closes the space between them, tucking himself into Jeongguk’s frame like it’s his own personal cocoon. Jeongguk accommodates, wrapping his arms around Jimin and encasing him in his fresh scent of flowers and musk. Jimin feels Jeongguk’s heartbeat reverberate through his chest.

“I’ve been thinking a lot these past two months,” Jeongguk quietly starts, his chin brushing against Jimin’s head. “I realized quite a lot of things. Most pressingly, I realized that I was so wrapped up in my own trauma from Park Kangdae that I hardly considered yours. For that, I’m sorry. Please don’t push this apology away, because I mean it.”

Jimin keeps silent, letting Jeongguk continue.

“Early on in our sponsorship,” he says, “when you first mentioned your father to me, you said you’d moved on from him. At the time, I took that seriously, so I used it as an excuse. But I know that was wrong. I know that was selfish. I’m not the only one who’s suffered because of Park Kangdae, yet I only cared about what he did to my family. Even after learning about what he did to yours, I used that as an excuse to push my own agenda. I’ve victimized myself for a long time. But you’ve gone through a lot, Jimin. I see that. I see you. I’m so sorry for positioning my own pain over yours. I took your pain and used it to funnel my own, to recognize commonality, but I didn’t offer the same back, because I kept you in the dark.”

Jimin buries himself further into Jeongguk’s warmth, not knowing how to accept such raw apologies when all he’s ever known is anything but. Beyond his mother, beyond Namjoon, he can’t recall such genuine expressions from anyone who’s sought his company. He hasn’t had much strife with friends, none worth such detailed comments. It’s not to say he’s glad he and Jeongguk even have to have these conversations, but he’s considerably touched. Maybe Jimin should be more prudent, but he can’t help but instantly believe Jeongguk’s words. It’s not only that he wants to, but that Jeongguk sounds nothing but hopelessly sincere.

Jimin lingers on Jeongguk’s mention of keeping him in the dark. “I knew about what happened to your brother,” he offers.

“But you didn’t know the who,” Jeongguk refutes. “Anyone at Deca who was around back then and remembers the details is not allowed to even utter Kangdae’s name. You didn’t know it was him. It’s not the same.” Jeongguk shakes his head atop of Jimin’s.

“Your own pain,” he continues candidly, “your own experiences—they’re valid. They’re important. They can’t be ranked, nor should they be ignored. I’m so sorry for bringing you into an environment in which you weren’t prepared, one where you were faced with emotionally devastating bombshells. Truthfully, Jimin? As happy as I am that you’re here, part of me is ashamed that you are.” Jeongguk slightly tightens his hold on him despite his words. He whispers into his hair, “How can you be here? How can you even want to try to forgive me one day?”

Jimin knocks back his neck, forcing Jeongguk to look at him in the dark. “Because I’m better than my father, and I’m better than you.”

Jeongguk nods. “I know. That’s why …” He trails off.

“Why what?”

Jeongguk says, “That’s why I’m in love with you. You’re so much better. Better in every possible way. Am I even qualified to feel proud of you?”

Jimin’s chest feels like it’s been swept with a sugary sweet wind. “I think so.”

“I’m so proud of you.”

“I am of you.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not,” Jimin tells him straight. “Two months ago, you never would have said anything that you are now. You probably wouldn’t have even considered it. Yet, here you are, actively growing. I think there is still so much left of you to bloom, and I’m really, really looking forward to seeing it.”

Jeongguk presses a soft kiss to Jimin’s forehead before tucking him securely back to how they were.

A moment passes, long enough for Jimin to think they’ll say no more before they go to sleep.

“Jimin,” Jeongguk suddenly whispers against him. “I misspoke.”

“Hm?” Jimin hums, both emotionally and physically drained. But he wants to know what Jeongguk has to say. “About what?”

“I’m not just in love with you,” he shares. “I promise to love you, to really love you. I promise on my brother’s life.”

“Love as in an active verb?”

Jeongguk chuckles into his hair. “Yes, exactly. It’s not just my own feelings, but my own actions.”

“I like compliments,” Jimin suggests. “Actually, scratch that. I shouldn’t help you.”

Jeongguk laughs again, quiet yet whole. “That’s okay. Your existence is enough of a help.”

“Cheesy.”

“You want me to be honest, don’t you?”

Jimin nudges him, but he doesn’t voice denial. Instead, he lets sleep take him, and it comes swiftly. It’s a peaceful feeling he hasn’t felt in a number of weeks.

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

The next morning, Jimin wakes up to an empty bed. When he checks his mobile, Jeongguk’s left him a message explaining that he had to attend his morning class, but that Jimin can eat anything from the kitchen and play with Woojoo; she’s missed him.

Jimin takes up the offer and eats a late breakfast before spending some quality time with Woojoo. He even takes her to the building’s indoor dog park and lets her pounce around until she’s panting and plopping down at Jimin’s feet, absolutely spent.

Jimin doesn’t plan to linger at Jeongguk’s place until he returns. He heads back to Namjoon’s, his indefinitely temporary home, only to be met with the apartment’s owner focused on his laptop. Namjoon raises his head when Jimin enters, eyeing his outfit as though catching that Jimin wore the same clothes yesterday.

“How’d it go?” Namjoon asks, trailing Jimin’s figure as he gets himself a glass of water.

“Really good,” Jimin says plainly, putting too much effort into pouring his glass. He’s afraid Namjoon will tease him if he catches Jimin’s smile.

“I’d hope so,” Namjoon says, “seeing you obviously slept over.”

Namjoon already has enough to tease him about.

Jimin sharply turns around. “We just slept. Literally.”

Namjoon raises his brows but doesn’t say any more.

Fuck it. Jimin laughs.

For the next few weeks, Jeongguk and Jimin do more of the same. Jimin spends time over his penthouse. Jeongguk even comes over to Namjoon’s, though Namjoon is still quietly protective of Jimin. Rather than throw it in Namjoon’s face that he also kept secrets from him, Jimin just finds the loyalty endearing.

Jimin doesn’t go to Deca. He doesn’t want to. But he visits his former coworkers when he can. Other than Taehyung, Yoongi, and Kkuli, none of them know why he truly left the employer. They just think he’s moved on from the scene, which isn’t wrong. Jimin hasn’t gone back to working. He’s still unsure what he wants to do.

“Are you now uncomfortable with my family’s business?” Jeongguk asks him one day. “That I’ll eventually work there?”

“No,” Jimin tells him truthfully. “My personal experience with the sex work scene has nothing to do with yours. If anything, I’m glad someone like you and your mother are so devoted to making it as safe and enjoyable as possible.”

Kkuli says that Jimin should become an influencer. “You’ve got the face and personality.”

Taehyung says he should go into fashion. “You’re always dressed so chic.”

Yoongi says he should continue letting Jeongguk spoil him and live off his riches. “It’s the least he can do.”

Jimin sits on his options, and he eventually takes up Taehyung’s suggestion. It helps when Taehyung sets Jimin up to meet with Jung Hoseok’s fashion designer sister. After that, the dominoes fall into place. He’s not simply given a job. He still has to prove himself and wait to see if there’s a permanent fit for him. Without a degree and legitimate experience, all he has is his personal style and passion. But unless one wants to become someone severely trained like a doctor or attorney, many jobs are built on personality. Jimin may not have gone to fashion school or interned at an agency, but he’s always kept up with the trends. He can’t sew or draw, but he has a plethora of ideas. He knows how to talk to people. This combined with his readiness to learn is what propels Hoseok’s sister to eventually offer him a permanent position. Jimin can’t express his gratitude enough. His way in is odd and perhaps unfair, but she constantly assures him that she wouldn’t have even bothered giving him a chance if she didn’t instantly see a spark in him the day they met.

“When you walked through my office doors,” she tells him, “dressed like you’d just stepped out of a magazine in your heeled boots and perfect hair, only to then smile with the perfect blend of confidence and humility, I knew you’d do well. Don’t feel awkward because my brother connected us. He may have opened the door, but you had to walk through on your own.”

Growing up, Jimin never could have imagined himself in an office. The concept seemed so far away, an unreachable life that he never even considered liking because he never thought it would happen. But now that it’s part of his new life, he’s glad for the mundane. It’s hardly as tedious as he thought; he’s kept busy, that’s for sure. But he enjoys the content. He enjoys the people.

His new coworkers don’t know about his former career, and he doesn’t intend to tell them. It’s not that he’s ashamed, but truth be told, he just doesn’t want to discuss it. He tells them he was a model, which technically could be true. If they want to assume what kind of model, he doesn’t mind if they guess. He doesn’t shy away from encouraging the shy faces they make when they tread a little too far out of their comfort zone. To Jimin, it’s only humorous. Their modesty is what keeps them from outright assuming, and thus not talking about it.

While Jimin’s new career is hastily making progress, he can’t say the same about his new love life.

Jimin and Jeongguk are made up. That isn’t the issue. What’s done is done, and the past is the past.

But it’s like they’re walking on eggshells around each other. Jeongguk is the one who’s keeping a distance, and rather than force the space in between to close, Jimin has silently been respecting the boundary. 

They talk. They talk so much. There is hardly a boundary when it comes to both of them equally sharing their lives, unlike before. Jimin requested to relearn, and Jeongguk is teaching him everything.

Jimin will randomly ask about a season of Jeongguk’s life, and Jeongguk will respond with whatever anecdotes he can remember. They’ll play would you rather, making it a decent mix of both serious topics and ridiculous, unrealistic choices. They’ll hang out together only to do nothing, because why do nothing on your own when you can do it with someone? These things, they aren’t what’s stretching a distance.

It’s that besides harmless cuddling on the couch when they’re watching TV, they don’t touch each other.

Jimin never intended to go along with this. If he knew they’d fall into this pattern, Jimin would have said something straight off the bat. But so often, Jimin thinks, people in varying kinds of relationships fall into unspoken agreements that both parties are too afraid to bring forward. The longer time goes on, the less either wishes to speak up, so no one does, and nothing changes.

After Jeongguk maintained a respectful barrier for so long during their sponsorship, Jimin believes it’s only right that he does the same in return now that there is no such definite relationship to describe them. After everything, Jimin doesn’t want to push Jeongguk, especially when it’s clear that Jeongguk is not the kind to so easily display his inner desires.

He’s told Jimin so much about his life, but he and Jimin have hardly discussed the two of them as a pair. Their frequently spent time together, their conversations—all of it is a mutual understanding. They’re together, but they’re not, and while Jimin understands Jeongguk’s hesitance to cement it, he also doesn’t.

There comes a point when you need to step over the eggshells to reach a destination, no matter if they crack or not.

Besides, Jimin’s never been one to stay silent forever.

“Jeongguk,” he calls one day. He lifts a finger, beckoning Jeongguk over. The two of them are seated on different sofas in Jeongguk’s living room, having just gotten back from a casual dinner out. It ended with ice cream, and Jimin can still taste chocolate on his tongue when he says, “Come here.”

Jeongguk listens, not thinking anything of Jimin’s command. He slips away his mobile, having been mindlessly scrolling, while he lowers beside Jimin.

Jimin sits straight, turning into him. Their legs knock together.

“I want to ask you something.”

Jeongguk waits, expression open and patient.

“What am I to you?”

“Are you fishing for compliments?”

Jimin painlessly smacks his thigh. “I’m serious. Give me a term.”

Jeongguk’s brows slightly furrow, evidence of his brain working for a proper response.

“Am I your friend?” Jimin wonders. “Your confidant? Your bro?”

Jeongguk slings him an unimpressed glance. “Bro? What are we, dumbass high school boys who unironically use that term in place of something less obnoxious?”

Jimin holds up his hands in faux surrender. “Oh, excuse me, Mr. Smarty Pants. Good to know I should never utter the word bro around you if I don’t want to get my dick cut off.”

Jeongguk offers a small yet amused grin, and for a moment, Jimin considers ceasing his original plan. But it’s because he wants so badly to kiss that stupid smile off of Jeongguk’s face that he continues.

“So, friend,” Jimin decides.

Jeongguk lifts an unamused brow. “Seriously?”

“What? We’re friends, aren’t we? We hang out all the time, we tell each other our deepest, darkest secrets, we go on little playdates.”

When Jimin meets Jeongguk’s gaze, he sees his playful calm fade away. Instead, Jeongguk’s features relax, like he understands just exactly what Jimin is seeking to pull out of him.

“Jimin,” Jeongguk says quietly, suddenly very, very serious. For some reason, Jimin is suddenly reminded of Jeongguk’s handsome severity. “You and I are not just friends.”

As they’ve fallen into a comfortable companionship the past few months once everything with Jimin’s father settled, much of the tension between them was strung out and smoothed over. That has included everything physically. There was no aching desire to get into each other’s pants, but to mend their former relationship into something new, and that’s required thorough and gradual discussion. Jeongguk has had to earn Jimin’s trust back. That wasn’t going to happen with sex.

In many ways, Jimin is so grateful to know that his dynamic with Jeongguk during their sponsorship was never entirely about the physical desire. Jeongguk may have found himself attracted to Jimin, but he didn’t fall for him because of it.

But Jimin wanted it for so long. He expected it. After many years as a sex worker, he thought that it was the obvious end all be all. As a performer of Deca, he figured it would be normal to pursue that with his sponsor.

And while Jimin knows Jeongguk wanted it too, it was a result of his feelings for Jimin, not the other way around.

Jimin’s only ever known attention from sex. It’s bizarre to him even now that Jeongguk can romantically care for him without needing to tear off their clothes like wild animals.

If anything, this only proves to Jimin just how much Jeongguk cares. But this also only makes Jimin care for him in return, so much so that his body is overwhelmed to the point that he feels like he’ll explode if he can’t express his care to Jeongguk in the best way that he knows how.

“We’re not just friends?” Jimin repeats. He leans in, just enough to tease that he’s even teasing. “Then are we best friends?”

Jeongguk closes his eyes for a few seconds. “Jimin.”

“Do you love me?”

Jeongguk’s eyes snap open. His visage contorts as if he’s pained that Jimin would even ever ask that. “Yes,” he says.

“Then show me.” Jimin stares at him in a silent challenge.

When Jeongguk does nothing, Jimin huffs out a curt breath and takes matters into his own hands. He climbs over Jeongguk’s lap, straddling him back along the couch cushions. Jeongguk’s hands instantly grab Jimin’s waist to keep him steady, his eyes widened at Jimin’s shameless move.

“It’s been months, Jeongguk,” Jimin murmurs over him, head bowed over his own. Jeongguk’s breaths have hitched, his fingers digging into Jimin’s sides. “Why don’t you touch me? Why? This isn’t a sponsorship anymore.”

“It’s because it’s not a sponsorship,” Jeongguk whispers. Jimin sharpens his attention when he hears how feeble Jeongguk suddenly sounds. Jimin didn’t expect such a direct answer.

Jeongguk meets his gaze, eyes as big and black as ever. “I don’t want to fuck this up,” he admits. “Not again. Never again.”

Jimin softens, his hands on Jeongguk’s shoulders weakening. Instead, he curls an arm around Jeongguk’s neck, leaning in to whisper in his ear, “If you refuse to touch me, then you will.” He pulls back, gently toying with the hair at the nape of Jeongguk’s neck. “Do you not want to?”

“That’s not it.” Jeongguk gruffs out a strained laugh, void of anything even remotely funny. The sound swirls Jimin’s stomach. “That’s far from it.”

“I once asked you if I was yours,” Jimin recalls, carefully angling his body atop of Jeongguk’s. The shift is minimal, but it’s still there, and Jimin knows he’s hitting his mark when Jeongguk involuntarily twitches. “You said no,” Jimin adds, “that you were mine. If that’s the case, then will you do what I ask?”

“I always do,” Jeongguk answers. He doesn’t sound defeated when he says it, like how one would when they’re disheartened. But he does sound hopeless. He sounds like a man who’s absolutely incompetent at denying Jimin, with the key being that he absolutely does not mind.

Jimin grinds down on his lap with the force of a feather. To the unaffected, it would feel as light as air. To Jeongguk, it must feel like a stimulating strike that’s far from enough.

Jimin slips his hand into the back of Jeongguk’s hair, holding it tight. Leaning forward, close enough to practically brush Jeongguk’s lips with his own, Jimin orders, “Then show me.”

Jeongguk hovers, hot breath tickling Jimin’s mouth. It’s as if they’re in slow motion. Within the heavy allure, Jimin leans in, just enough to torturously tease, but he jerks to a stop when Jeongguk suddenly captures his chin in a hand.

Jeongguk slyly cocks his head. “If we start, I’m not holding back.” His free hand slips under Jimin’s shirt, curving to the small of his back. Jimin reactively arches forward. “Not anymore.”

“Finally,” Jimin mumbles at the dominance, jaw loosening as Jeongguk adjusts his hold to the shell of Jimin’s ear. “That’s what I want.”

“Are you sure?” Jeongguk gently tugs Jimin’s head down, angling him to expose his neck. He leaves a hot, languid kiss on his throat. Jimin shivers at the contact.

“Mm,” Jimin hums, more of a moan than an agreeing word. Jeongguk’s fingers still press into his back, his others locked in his hair. When Jimin attempts to move, Jeongguk brings forward his hand to grip Jimin’s bicep, holding him firmly in place as he takes his time leaving wet kisses along Jimin’s neck. They turn into slow love bites, his tongue lapping over his skin, the gentle nips raising goosebumps from Jimin’s head to his toes.

“Do you miss this?” Jeongguk wonders, his voice as alluring as velvet. “The way your heart starts to race, how your skin becomes peppered in chills, how an aching feeling stirs within your gut.”

“I’m not an addict,” Jimin replies faintly, subdued from Jeongguk’s attentive touch. Jimin is curled into him, taking every kiss, every stroke of Jeongguk’s fingers.

“Irrelevant.”

Jeongguk thumbs the tightened space between Jimin’s legs, kept in place below his fitted trousers. Jimin involuntarily jerks his hips, quietly frustrated towards the hampering apparel.

“Performing wasn’t real,” Jimin murmurs into Jeongguk’s neck.

“You still felt it.”

“I have five senses, don’t I?”

“You reacted.”

“I was acting.”

“Every time?”

No, not every time. If Jimin didn’t enjoy it, he wouldn’t have been able to stomach it.

At the time, performing sexual shows at Deca was thrilling. He’d never been much of an exhibitionist, but he quickly discovered the appeal. In many ways, it’d become easier to get off when he knew an audience was enjoying it as much as him. It encouraged him to give more, to show more, to deliver as best as he could. Even when a position or movement didn’t draw natural reactions from him, it was easy to put them on, and he didn’t mind doing it. The drama is what made it fun. It became a welcomed challenge, even. How long could he go before finishing against his will? What noises garnered the best crowd response?

Though Jeongguk had been his sponsor, Jimin’s online profile on Deca’s website continued to update with content for members to consume. Like he’d done when he’d first joined the ranks, his profile contained new behind the scene videos updated every so often, new conceptual photoshoots, responses to written comments, and more. Here, Jimin played off his charms to the max, allowing his personality to shine through in ways not dependent on him moaning like a baby on stage. But he still knew how to tantalize when he wasn’t naked. It was the way he spoke with a giggling and soft lilt, the way he ran his fingers through his hair, his perpetual smile that was far too beguiling to appear innocent.

But with Jeongguk, he doesn’t want anyone else to see this side of him. He doesn’t want anyone to witness him become undone like a spool of yarn, for onlookers to be receivers of his smiles and enticing words. The desire for this kind of attention from strangers is lost on him. He doesn’t want it. He doesn’t need it.

He only needs one person.

“No,” Jimin answers him, forcing Jeongguk back to look at him.

“Then my question remains.” Jeongguk inches his head forward, Jimin matching the movement backwards like two positive ends of a magnet tugging but not meeting. “Do you miss this?”

“I miss you.”

Jimin intends to maintain the mutual seduction, but his reply comes out significantly earnest. It transforms Jeongguk’s titillating expression into heartfelt desire, and before Jimin knows it, Jeongguk has drawn him into an oppressive kiss. It captures him whole, leaving him defenseless to the motion, only able to concede. He happily surrenders as Jeongguk lifts him up, only to press him down onto the couch cushions. He raises his arms so Jeongguk can remove his shirt, lifting his hips so Jeongguk can pull off his pants.

Jeongguk pauses to retrieve necessities before they push forward, and the minute Jeongguk’s body heat vacates him is all but torture. He’s practically vibrating when Jeongguk returns, flipping him around before kneeling to the floor, his slick fingers stretching Jimin open. Jimin buries his head into the crook of his arm, pressed into the couch, his cock heavy between his torso and the towel Jeongguk has laid down. The longer it takes, the more impatient Jimin becomes. He attempts to gather friction by grinding his hips, but the moment he does, Jeongguk slips his fingers out and clamps a firm hand on the small of Jimin’s back.

“No,” he says.

Jimin huffs. “Stop playing around.”

Something like a chuckle sounds from Jeongguk. To make matters worse, he leans over Jimin’s spine, brushing his mouth over his ear. “You want me to touch you?”

The redundant question physically aches. “At least prep me on my back,” Jimin says. That way, Jeongguk can stroke him in tandem.

But Jeongguk says with as much cocky arrogance that he can muster. “No, thanks.”

Jimin makes to shift. Jeongguk forces him down, locked in place.

“We should have a safe word,” Jimin states.

Jeongguk’s grip instantly loosens, his body instantly pulling away. “I’m sorry—”

“Shut up, don’t you dare stop.”

There’s a confused pause. “You’re okay?”

“Jeongguk, I’m really fucked out, so no, I’m not okay, but that’s why we need a safe word, because I don’t plan to ever use it unless you’re literally ripping me apart.”

Jeongguk exhales in relief, retaking his position at Jimin’s side. Jimin can’t see him, but he feels him circle his entrance with a finger. Jimin automatically clenches around empty air, not stretched enough and therefore desperate to be filled until he is.

“Should we brainstorm?” Jeongguk asks conversationally, pushing the pad of a single digit just through the wall of muscle. It’s not far enough. Jeongguk lazily rings around.

“You should hurry the fuck up.”

“Okay.” Before Jimin can say a word, Jeongguk slips a second finger inside, curling both across the sensitive interior. Jimin lets out a satisfied breath, dizzy with how blissfully good it feels.

Jeongguk traces tight figure eights, gradually widening him. “How about ice skate?”

Jimin snorts a laugh. “Something outlandish is always best.”

“Ice might not be the best. What if we ever do ice play?”

“Is that something you want to do?”

“I plan to do a lot of things with you, sweetheart. Best to keep our options open.”

Despite the lack of any current ice cubes, Jimin still shivers. “Autumn,” he says.

“What?”

“Autumn. It’s the season we’re in right now,” he explains. “The season you and I finally got our shit together. At least, you’re in progress.”

Jeongguk clicks his tongue at the ending comment, pushing his fingers in as far as they can go. Jimin hisses into his arm.

“Autumn works,” Jeongguk says.

“Perfect.”

“Great.” Jeongguk pulls out. “All right. I think you’re ready.”

When Jimin goes to turn, Jeongguk presses him back down, chiding, “Nuh-uh-uh.” Jimin rises to his elbows instead, twisting his neck around to catch Jeongguk reach for a plug Jimin didn’t even know he had.

Jimin lifts his brows. “Excuse me?”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer, too busy coating the plug in lube.

“I don’t need that,” Jimin tells him. “You said it: I’m ready.”

Jeongguk meets his eyes, the threat of a smirk on his mouth. “Ready for this, yes.”

Jimin makes to flip around again, but Jeongguk pins him down, one hand on his ass and the other between his shoulder blades. The hand on his backside simultaneously holds the plug. It brushes Jimin’s skin.

With an agreed safe word, there’s no reason for Jeongguk to stop unless Jimin says it. Jimin doesn’t utter anything even close to autumn, despite his countering.

So, Jeongguk pushes the plug in.

“I could think of something better to stick inside me,” Jimin mumbles. The only reason why Jeongguk would plug him up is because he has no intention of entering him himself for a while. In the meantime, Jimin will stay prepped, and when Jeongguk is ready, he’ll slide in like butter.

“Good things come to those who wait.”

“We’ve waited this long already.”

“Exactly,” Jeongguk answers, removing his hold and coaxing Jimin to turn around. Finally. Jimin shifts, insides melting just from being able to gaze at Jeongguk’s likewise naked frame. He lifts his arms to drag Jeongguk atop of him. Jeongguk halfway complies, situating himself on the couch’s edge while he leans over Jimin’s face. It isn’t exactly what Jimin wants. When Jimin frowns, Jeongguk only gives a close-lipped grin. He grips at Jimin’s wrists when they near, halting him in place.

“We have waited this long,” he murmurs, releasing a hand to skim down Jimin’s torso. Jimin flinches when he softly brushes over his stomach, ticklish. He nearly moans when Jeongguk slinks the same palm around his cock. “That’s why this is going to last.”

Jeongguk kneels back on the floor, parallel to Jimin’s hipbone, his hand never leaving what it holds.

“As your sponsor,” he continues, feeling around Jimin’s length like it’s a temptingly soft plush, “I said I’d never bow down to you lest you view my compliments as insincere.” Pre-come leaks from the head, assisting Jeongguk’s slow yet poignant pace.

Jeongguk rises, bowing to press down a feather-light kiss along the shaft’s edge. Jimin shudders at the sight.

“Jimin,” he says, his hot breath breezing over Jimin’s erection. “Let me worship you now.”

Jeongguk takes his sweet time toying with Jimin, fingering his cock until it’s fuzzy like static. He makes sure to move measuredly, to never go too fast. He occasionally licks him up like a popsicle, but he never takes Jimin fully into his mouth.

Jimin aches to touch Jeongguk back, to return the favor, but Jeongguk shuts him down.

Having to sit and take it is both overwhelmingly wonderful and irritating.

When Jeongguk nears his face, close enough for Jimin to reach, he takes his chance, slinking down Jeongguk’s muscled abdomen to meet what’s lifted at its end. Jeongguk instantly caves, his maintained facade of relaxedness dropping as quickly as clicking a mobile to sleep mode. Jimin grins, locking his legs around Jeongguk’s torso before he can escape. Jimin lifts his hips, using his convenient core strength to make sure the two of them meet.

“Menace,” Jeongguk whispers.

“Please fuck me,” Jimin says in return.

Obliging him, Jeongguk rolls on the awaiting condom and positions himself. Gently, he removes Jimin’s plug, cool air instantly taking over the emptiness. Jimin bites back a grunt, pressing the back of his hand to his temple. He clenches his teeth when Jeongguk inches forward, tortuously sliding himself inside with the speed of a snail.

Jimin figures that’s the point.

Jimin doesn’t have to adjust too much to him thanks to the plug, but Jeongguk’s been without touch this entire time. He nearly whimpers when he’s fully encased within Jimin, bending over their joined bodies to lower his forehead to Jimin’s sternum. Jimin lovingly strokes his hair, chuckling.

“Has your waiting backfired on you?” Jimin jests.

Jeongguk shakes his head, his hair softly shuffling over Jimin’s chest.

“Hm, really?” Jimin wonders. “You seem like you’ll be a goner the moment you start moving.”

“I’m already a goner.”

Jimin laughs straight from his belly, full and bright. He takes Jeongguk’s face in his palms, lifting up his head. He smooths his thumbs over his cheekbones, admiring such a handsome face, admiring the affection staring back at him.

“Will you last, then?” Jimin asks him, only half-serious. “This is the main event, after all.”

Jeongguk weakly maneuvers out of Jimin’s grasp, rising back to sit on his knees. He slinks slightly out at the movement. “I said I’d make this last.”

Slowly, agonizingly so, he pushes as far as he can go. Hands on Jimin’s waist, he begins a rhythm. It lacks the right amount of pressure and the ideal speed, making it so Jimin’s release just lingers rather than builds to the brim.

It’s tormenting.

Jimin tries to touch himself. Jeongguk stops him. Jimin tells him to go faster, so Jeongguk does, but only for a short burst before ceasing. When Jimin has his eyes closed, that’s when Jeongguk decides to touch him, catching him completely off guard.

“Jeongguk,” Jimin whines after a while, writhing. He pushes Jeongguk’s hands away, trying to sit up. “Enough, Jeongguk, let me up. Now, let me up now.”

Surprisingly, Jeongguk listens. Maybe he hears the lack of thought out enticement, only hearing the utter desperation in Jimin’s tone, enough to give into him.

Jeongguk removes himself, and Jimin wastes no time, He scrambles up, pushing Jeongguk onto his ass to rest against the couch back. Jeongguk watches as Jimin climbs over his lap, taking Jeongguk’s cock in his hand to line up with and lower himself down upon.

Gravity forces Jeongguk’s length as far as it goes, causing Jimin to breathlessly moan. He hugs Jeongguk’s shoulders, inwardly warming when Jeongguk hugs his torso in return.

Jerking his hips back and forth, Jimin controls the motions now. Like this, Jeongguk can only sit here, unable to maneuver how he wishes. His quick breaths heat Jimin’s chest, his kisses peppering across his skin.

When Jimin picks up speed, picking up force and pressure, Jeongguk ceases his affectionate touches, only able to tightly embrace him. He’s holding him so strongly Jimin feels like his ribs will crack, but he welcomes the feeling. It’s like Jeongguk is trying to merge into him, like this somehow still isn’t close enough.

Jimin understands it all too well.

“Jeongguk,” he whispers into his hair, tiring but refusing to slow. He’s a tingling mess, especially as Jeongguk starts to glide his palms across the entirety of Jimin’s back. He scrapes his nails down his spine. Jimin whimpers.

“Jeongguk,” he says again, grinding forward and back, forward and back. Lips to his temple, Jimin tells him, “I love you. I really fucking love you.”

Jeongguk hugs him again, flushing his face to his chest. But he says nothing. He makes no sound. Concerned, Jimin starts to slow, but Jeongguk startles as if Jimin’s committed a crime.

“No,” Jeongguk utters, voice caught as though his throat has been stuffed with cotton. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop, please.”

He’s crying. Jimin feels the hot tears drip onto his chest.

“Jeongguk,” Jimin murmurs worryingly, leaning back to swipe away his tears. Jimin can’t help but stop as he searches Jeongguk’s face, the man’s eyes lined in sudden red. Jeongguk accepts the care despite his pleas.

“Goodness, what a baby, why are you crying?” Jimin tenderly smooths back his hair. “Do you want to finish? Is it unbearable?”

Jeongguk chokes out a laugh, bowing his head back to Jimin’s sternum, wrapping himself back around him. “Most of the time, you’re very perceptive,” he says with a sniffle. “Other times, you’re incredibly simple.”

Jimin smiles against him. He picks up where they left off.

“I love you,” Jimin repeats, as soft as a spring breeze. He knows why Jeongguk's crying. He knows it's not as superficial as finishing or not.

Jeongguk’s elusiveness is maybe what had originally drawn Jimin in all those months ago, but it would never be what makes him stay. To build a genuine relationship, they have to open up to each other, and they have. From deep conversations to silent tears during love making, Jimin embraces Jeongguk’s feelings and emotions as much as Jeongguk physically embraces him now.

Tonight cements the final step of their beginning, but there is so much yet to come. Jimin can’t wait for what comes next.

.｡:+*୨✦୧*+:｡.

“Move in with me,” Jeongguk says.

It’s moments after they’ve finished, only having just wiped away the remnants of their go. Rather than instantly shower away whatever’s left, Jeongguk’s tugged Jimin back against him, the two wrapped together on the couch in an innocent cuddle. All they wear is their undergarments they slipped back on. Jeongguk has tugged over them a throw blanket, keeping their body heat below the fabric.

Cheekily, Jimin replies, “As your best friend?”

“As my boyfriend,” Jeongguk responds seriously, not taking the bait. “My partner. My person.”

Thinking back to their pre-sex conversation, Jimin says, “See? Was that so hard?”

“Yes.” Jeongguk harmlessly flicks him. “You’re a minx.”

“You love it.”

“I love you,” says Jeongguk, pulling Jimin closer against him, their legs tangled below the blanket. “You’ll be the fucking death of me.”

“Now, let’s not get morbid.”

“You’re avoiding my proposal.”

“Not avoiding, just dragging it out to pull your arm.”

“So?” Jeongguk asks, uncertain hope in the word.

Jimin breaks into a smile. “Hm, let me think …”

“Park Jimin.”

“Yes, yes! Don’t attack!”

Jeongguk has twisted over him, a hovering threat in his eyes. The threat, Jimin guesses, is a plethora of kisses. Maybe a ticklish jab in the stomach. Either way, Jimin’s body is quite done with any further stimulation. He giggles at Jeongguk’s severe stare.

However, at Jimin’s double yes, Jeongguk’s visage brightens.

“Really?” he asks, a bit breathless. “You’ll move in with me?”

“Look,” says Jimin, shifting as Jeongguk settles back beside him. “I love Namjoon, but I really miss living in a penthouse. And I miss you.” Jimin playfully swipes the tip of his nose. “All the time. Even when I’m with you, I miss you.”

During sex, these words evoked something heavy. Now, they only soften Jeongguk’s cheeks.

“Cheesy,” he mumbles.

“Cheesy? Who was just sobbing because you got to finally stick your dick in me again?”

Jeongguk slaps a sudden palm over Jimin’s mouth, devilishly leaning in. “Shut your mouth unless you want me to shut it for you.”

Jimin grins against his palm. He sticks out his tongue, successfully scoring an impish lick. Jeongguk automatically jerks his palm away.

“Who said that’s not what I was trying to achieve?” Jimin says.

Jeongguk delivers with his threat, shutting Jimin up with a kiss. Despite Jimin’s bold talk, he melts below Jeongguk’s touch, unable to deny him even after a tiring round. He’s fully content on repeatedly burning to a pile of goo each and every night if it means he gets to fall asleep and wake up beside Jeon Jeongguk.

He teased Jeongguk for crying, but Jimin understands. If Jimin wasn’t so giddy, he’s sure his own tears would pool down his cheeks like spring rain, refreshing and new, bringing life to a new season of beautiful blooms.

Except it’s now autumn.

The season is often tied to decay, of dead leaves fluttering to the floor.

That’s not what Jimin thinks.

In order to grow, you must rid yourself of any decay. You must release what’s not worth keeping and empty yourself for the promise of rebirth.

Many believe the spring to be the beginning of a new tide, but Jimin thinks right now is a far better representation. He and Jeongguk have dropped their dead leaves, their branches bare and ready for their next season.

Jimin snuggles into Jeongguk’s chest, exhaling a relieving sigh.

I’m home, he thinks. Finally, I’m home.