Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is commonly believed that school is where a child should learn to adapt to real life, but for Jimin it isn’t. If life is going to look anything like school, he refuses to see the point of it. If the boss is a tyrant—forever shouting, demanding obedience and crisp results with the swagger of guaranteed success, shaming you in front of everyone—and the colleagues are lying grovelers, then nothing in his world will have changed. The “best” bosses, oddly enough, are the ones who started at the bottom. The ones who didn’t get straight A’s but spent all those years riding you, hitting you, making a sport of it. People like that, if they don’t wreck their lives completely, are the ones who claw their way up. For Jimin, school means suffering, a rigged system, submission to the strongest. It gives you crumbs of knowledge and an oversize helping of how to stay alive in society. Life is the same. And if you don’t agree—they’ll trample you. If you’re different, not like the rest—they’ll trample you. If judgment dogs your back—they’ll trample you. The beast of socialization does not tolerate individuals or their differences.

Jimin doesn’t want to believe that out there, in the life ahead of him, nothing will change. In the present, he isn’t like the rest. In this world—wherever you end up—there’s always a leader, a toady, a rebel, and an outcast; there’s no escaping that. Jimin drew the last lot: closed-off, tight-lipped, alone. He’d have liked to be invisible as well, only a predator seems to sense a victim without thinking—and it always strikes. The human version of a law of nature: the weak get hit, humiliated, brought to heel.
What does school teach besides knowledge? To be strong, not to complain, not to whine, not to snitch. To adapt. Jimin learned that. He adapted to his station and didn’t whine or complain when they kicked him yet again outside the gates of the place he loathed. He never took money to school, knowing they’d simply take it off him. So his one chance at a decent meal in a day was always the cafeteria. But even there, on bad days, he sometimes went hungry: a flipped tray, a sly trip, food ruined with milk poured over it—or no appetite at all, because the body under his shirt ached with raw scrapes. Hunger, short sleep, having to look after himself, and the constant pressure of an impossible school workload. No picnic—but you learn to live with it.

Today is no different from the others. The empty apartment he shares with his mother only faintly resembles a place where a child is properly cared for. Given the way things turned out, having just one parent—a single mother who is gone at work day and night—is nothing to be proud of. Jimin has never seen his father. It would be easier if he had died, or divorced Jimin’s mother, or simply run off—but there isn’t even that to say. The most despised label in their world is a woman who “got herself a baby” and never married. Jimin belongs to that paltry percentage of children raised in single-parent homes. Another badge in the pitiless ecosystem of his school: “son of a whore.” Jimin has heard that filthy line thrown at him more than once, and there’s nothing he can do. You can’t shut everyone up. No one cares how hard it is to make it in a shaming society when you’re a lone woman feeding an almost grown son and earning every ruble by the sweat of your own work while other families are intact.
So Jimin never complains about how he lives. He hides in his room if the marks on his face are too obvious, or he simply lies that a ball hit him in PE. He scrubs the uniform that’s forever dusty from kissing the asphalt in a bathroom sink and sews the torn-off buttons back onto his shirt.

To help his mother any way he can, he took a night job as a clerk at the little neighborhood shop by their building. The pay per shift is meager, but he’s allowed to take home groceries past their sell-by date. Edible enough—so long as you don’t let them sit. After a night shift, though, getting to school is hard—fatigue makes itself felt—and Jimin forbids himself to nod off in class. He nurses the thought that once he reaches his room, he’ll sleep for a year.

He has a problem even with that—the bully who hounds him most lives next door. Min Yoongi’s family is a mess, too. And sometimes, when Jimin hears the shouting through the thin walls, the thud of furniture, the blows from a perpetually drunk father, he thinks maybe he himself doesn’t have it so bad. Curses and wishes for a quick death are regular visitors there—they keep him from sleeping. But when the fatigue is too heavy and his body aches, Jimin simply blacks out, one ear buried under a pillow.
He often catches himself thinking that Yoongi deserves what he gets, because he treats Jimin no better—picking at him for nothing, because he likes the look of fear, submission, assent on his face. Just like Yoongi’s father, who’s always swearing through the wall and hurling empty bottles at him, then sending him out for beer when he refuses.

Most of the time, though, Jimin just feels sorry for him. Sorry that both of them live in a world this unfair, both subject to bullying—even if from different sides. Yoongi, at least by temperament, can stand up for himself and won’t let the other boys push him around. Yes, he’s an outcast—but they’re afraid of Yoongi. And Jimin is afraid of Yoongi.

He often comes into Jimin’s shop in the dead of night, a cigarette clenched between his teeth, lets his gaze slide over Jimin, and takes food off the shelf. He doesn’t load up; just enough for a bite—the same triangular kimbap or a sausage. He doesn’t pay, of course. And Jimin doesn’t object. He stands with his head bowed, avoiding his eyes. And, if he’s honest, he’s grateful that Yoongi doesn’t grab ramyeon or get greedy with the snacks but takes the same expired items set aside in their own spot, as if he knows Jimin will write them off. At least that way Jimin doesn’t come up short in his pay.

Jimin doesn’t know himself. He doesn’t know what draws him more. His heart stays quiet when, from under his lowered bangs, he sneaks a look at the girls in his class, forever chirping over fashion magazines and celebrity spreads. Pretty, sweet-faced—nothing in him answers. Jimin has tested himself. On days when no one bothered him and he sat quietly in the corner, ringed with notebooks during hagwons—after-school study halls that keep them working till late. Long legs stretching from beneath their skirts didn’t spark any interest. That scared him. In high school, every self-respecting boy tries to stand out and win over this or that girl so he can boast afterward, but Jimin couldn’t care less. Unmoved by the pretty face, the tint-slicked lips, the teasing flirt, the trim figure, the pampered hair. So indifferent he started to think something was wrong with him. How are you supposed to understand your own sexuality when absolutely nothing stirs you? He even tried looking at boys—and still found nothing that could rouse his interest.

The only person who stirred anything in him was Yoongi. Mostly negative—though not always. Just having him nearby sent an unfamiliar swell through Jimin’s chest. Anger, hurt. At times, hate. Jimin couldn’t grasp why someone almost in the same situation as he was treated him that way. What had he done to deserve the constant kicks from Yoongi’s crew? Nothing. Just as Yoongi himself hadn’t deserved what he got from his father. That’s simply how things had fallen out.
And the strangest thing was this: when Jimin heard his classmate being beaten by his father—hoarse protests, slurred curses, words of hatred bleeding through the walls—pity would come over him. Even though Yoongi and his buddies kept wrecking his life, the pity was sharp enough to clamp his chest and steal his breath. In a way he understood Yoongi’s grievance against a brutal world. Jimin was just a place to dump someone else’s pent-up feelings. Not a flattering role, but nothing new.

To figure himself out, Jimin would sometimes, before sleep, imagine what it would be like to kiss another person. He hadn’t done it yet. So he ran through classmates in his head, playing possible scenes on loop. Perfectly ordinary teenage fantasies. Without emotion, it seemed to him he could press his lips to anyone’s. Just a touch. What was so special about it? No different from touching with a hand—stripped of any context.

But he didn’t want to project those thoughts onto Yoongi. Even less onto Yoongi’s buddies—there he’d sooner just bite. Jimin denied himself Yoongi’s image, knowing that even in his head it would unleash a storm of indignation—and something else. He brushed the nonsense away and fell asleep without getting any closer to an answer. Photos of models in magazines, kissing scenes in K-dramas—none of it spoke to his heart. Nothing at all. Empty.

As soon as Jimin came up to the classroom, a shoulder clipped him in passing.

“Out of the way, loser,” Min Su tossed over his shoulder.

His backpack slips off his shoulder and thuds to the floor as snickers sound behind him. Yoongi isn’t the only one who works him over—he’s got friends. The same kind of hard cases who more often do the kicking and send him to the vending machine for drinks. Jimin does it in silence—but not always. He bends for the backpack, teeth clenched, and a palm slaps the back of his head. He smooths his mussed hair without a word and takes his seat without talking back. It’ll only get worse; better to keep quiet. Maybe they’ll lose interest. Yoongi isn’t here yet—no one for his buddies to show off to. He’s forever late, sleeping through the start of class, which is for the best. At least that way Jimin doesn’t have to run into him in the corridor outside their doors. No one knows they’re neighbors. Yoongi has kept that to himself, and Jimin couldn’t care less why. He barrels in right before the bell, blowing into the room. There’s a raw scrape on his cheek, and the tired set of his face only confirms he barely slept last night. Same as Jimin, who had to listen to the shouting through the wall.

Jimin covertly studies the red blotch on Yoongi’s cheek; in the sunlight it shows bright, standing out sharply against his pale skin. Yoongi yawns, stretches in his chair with his arms thrown up after trading greetings with his friends, and the teacher walks in. Pity rises in Jimin again. He hates the feeling in his chest, and he can’t say why it rattles him so much. If he hadn’t been a witness to other people’s fights, maybe he wouldn’t care. But when you’re forever hearing how even the most dangerous animal—one that could tear you apart—is tormented and beaten, you can’t help feeling compassion.
While he rummages through the thought of why this person he hates stirs such contradictions in him, Yoongi turns around. And by the time their eyes meet, Jimin doesn’t realize he’s still staring—lost too deep in his head. Maybe Yoongi won’t leave him alone for one simple reason: Jimin is a witness to his humiliation, the thing Yoongi is ashamed of.

“Hey, what are you staring at? Turn away—eyes down.” The words come in a whisper, a finger aimed at him, snapping him out of it.

Jimin obeys. He blinks, scattered, and drops his gaze into the textbooks he’s just pulled from the classroom locker. Yoongi has folded himself to sleep on his arm, cheek turned toward the window.

By lunchtime everything changes. Break is always loud—girls filming every kind of clip for TikTok, laying trending tracks over the footage; someone styling a shot of their lunch in a neat container for Instagram; others dozing off or sunk into their phones. Filming dumb pranks is a class favorite. Jimin floats in silence, trying not to move at all. The sketchbook he loves to draw in—he didn’t manage to put it away—is yanked from under his hand, the whole thing caught on video.

“Oh, what have we got here?” Min Su brings the camera in close on his drawing. “Park, looks like we’ve got a future artist!” He peers at the sketch: a boy asleep—no telling details, just the back of a head, shoulders, an arm stretched along the desk. Only Jimin knows the quick study was taken from one particular back he’d had to stare at for several periods in a row. Yoongi saunters up to his friend, glances into the sketchbook—and keeps silent for a suspiciously long time.  Jimin thinks, without any proof, that he recognizes himself there.

“Give it back!” A shout, a grab for his own property, a flare of scorching shame.

“Hey, what are you, a loser?” A kick to the shoulder shoves him back into his seat. “Don’t twitch, Park. You know people like my videos, right?” A lazy hand drops onto his shoulder; he leans in. “They like that pretty face of yours—when it isn’t busted. Knew that? You’re gonna be a star.” The sneer in Min Su’s voice grates. “You pull so many likes—ah, almost a shame.” He pulls a face for the camera. “Face it, Park: you’re nothing. No money, no connections, no future. You’re just a poor son of a whore. This is your best shot at fame. You should be grateful to me.” A growl in his ear, fingers biting down on his shoulder. Jimin curls in and keeps quiet, staring at his own fingers knotting the fabric of his pants. “Answer me!” The sketchbook smacks the back of his head, forcing a reply.

“Back off,” Jimin says, barely audible. He’s simply had enough.

Yoongi keeps quiet. Just looks at him—long, and silent. Jimin can always feel it on his skin. From the corner of his eye he checks: the gaze doesn’t let go. Yoongi has definitely realized the drawing is of him. The thought alone makes Jimin’s ears blaze; his cheeks stay hot.

“Did you hear that?” Min Su turns to Yoongi. “He talks back—imagine that…” He swings around and raps Jimin on the head. “Go buy me a Coke, you piece of trash,” he says, booting Jimin’s shoulder and tossing the sketchbook back onto the desk.

“I don’t have any money,” Jimin mumbles without looking up.

“Hey, Yeon Bin, you hear that? The moron says he’s got no cash.” He swivels back to Jimin and jabs a sneaker into a chair leg, sending it screeching aside. “Then find some, you bastard, before I kill you!” he growls in Jimin’s ear.

“Not a chance,” Jimin snaps, springing to his feet. He knows they won’t start a full-on fight in class—but that doesn’t mean he won’t take one in the ribs. He’s overstepped. He probably shouldn’t be this open about his protest, but sometimes he just breaks.

“You got a death wish? Waa—look at that, our Park rolled out of bed on the wrong side today.” Min Su drives the promised punch into his stomach. Pain knots tight inside and spiders out through his body; Jimin folds, gulping for air. “You’re dead, you hear me?” they hiss at the back of his head.

“Forget this freak,” Yoongi lays a hand on his friend’s shoulder and steers him toward the door. “He’s just sick of his worthless life, that’s why he’s asking for it. I’ll buy you a drink—come on.”

Jimin is on the verge of snapping back—arguing over whose life is more worthless—but he doesn’t get the chance. Yoongi pulls a bill from his pocket and drops it on Jimin’s desk, a silent signal to go get the Coke anyway.

“You’ve got five minutes, loser—just do it,” he throws over his shoulder, hauling his friends out with him.

A fresh wave of hatred breaks over him. The only feeling that’s been bright in him lately won’t let up, even while Jimin shakes the hapless vending machine and jabs at the buttons. The Coke ends up on that jerk Min Su’s desk by the time they all come back. Jimin walks straight to Yoongi, who’s dropped into his seat, and holds out a fist with the change inside.

“Your change,” he grits out, arm suspended.

Yoongi looks him in the eye, then turns away again. He stretches an arm along the desk and lays his head on it, worn out, clearly set on going back to sleep, not on keeping this up.

“Keep it,” slips off his lips.

Jimin freezes for half a second, swallowing the words. Yes, Yoongi works evenings too—Jimin’s seen the food-delivery jacket and a scooter helmet in his hands—so he’s got some cash of his own. Taking the change? No. He’s too proud for that, and after all the talk about being poor it lands like an extra insult. From whom, no less? Someone who has no more than he does. Jimin spills the coins onto the desk beside Yoongi’s back and hears Yoongi exhale, annoyed. He doesn’t care. He turns on his heel, hurries back to his seat, tucks the precious sketchbook into his backpack, and fixes his eyes on a single point on the plastic desktop. Only the flexing in his jaw gives him away as Yoongi lifts his head and looks over. Again the stare. Jimin knows it. He feels it on his skin, and he hears the other punks muttering among themselves, promising to get him after school for the nerve he showed.

During the long break Jimin bolts from the room, grabs a tray, and plants himself in the front rows of the cafeteria—more or less safe, right under the noses of the teachers on duty. That way the worst that can happen is he goes hungry if Min Su or Yeon Bin pour milk over his rice. But it doesn’t happen. The idiots stroll past, toss a few jokes his way, and flop down with the girls.

By early evening Jimin is blinking with fatigue, just trying to make it to the end of the school day. Even art club brings no joy—he’s too tired. It helps to know the sketchbook he uses to draw one particular person—and then scrawl over until the lead snaps, letting the anger out—isn’t with him today. He doesn’t ruin every drawing, only the ones that come out too real. Fox eyes, one of them double-lidded; the scowl; the bruise; the cracked, dry lips—those he slashes with special relish and draws again. Why Yoongi and not Min Su or Yeon Bin—he doesn’t know. The others are disgusting to draw. Only these features won’t let him rest; they lift that same hatred in his chest. The one thing he feels. The vague urge to sketch him again and again—he refuses to analyze it. He just ignores it.

Even though he leaves school last, it doesn’t save him from a beating. Min Su has waited with Yeon Bin by the doors. Yoongi isn’t with them—not surprising; he’s surely off doing delivery as soon as the main classes end. Jimin breaks into a run to try to avoid getting hurt, but after a night shift and a sleepless night he has nothing left. One yank on his backpack, and he’s pitched onto the asphalt. A couple, three shots to the ribs, some kicks—he almost gets off easy. They’ve waited longer than they hit. But one clean shot to the face splits his lip. They leave him on the pavement and stroll off, pleased with their evening, laughing loud and throwing threats over their shoulders.

It’s not all that bad. His hands are bloody from the lip he’s wiped; his jacket is dusty again and will need brushing at home; the cuffs, spattered with blood, will have to be washed. If he thinks about it, it’s been a while since they last beat him. His ribs tug with pain in his side, but with a heavy breath he heads to the corner shop, takes a can of cold Coke on his tab, and presses it to his mouth. The chill pricks his swollen lips like icy needles, but it’s the best way to keep the swelling down. After a while the spiky cold dulls everything. Near eleven he’s dragging his feet home. His mother will be back around then, so he hurries—to keep out of her way and wash off as much of the damage as he can.

What he doesn’t expect is to run into Yoongi sitting by his apartment door. He’s smoking. Jimin stops and watches him closely. The hands tremble in little twitches; their owner takes ragged drags, blowing acrid smoke through the same split lips. Another fight with his father—plain enough from the new scrapes layered over the old. Nerves shot, eyes glittering with anger. The fresh cut seeping at his mouth says the rest. Yoongi spots him at the end of the hall and turns away at once, taking another drag. He doesn’t want to meet Jimin’s eyes, doesn’t want to show what he’s just been through—least of all the bruises on his face. Jimin draws a deeper breath, fills his lungs, and walks straight toward his own door. He stops at the lock, pulls the cold can of Coke away from his face.

Another heavy breath, a few more steps. He stops by Yoongi’s feet and holds the can out. It isn’t taken. No look. He keeps it there anyway and says nothing.

“Hey, you don’t get it? I’m not in the mood. Get lost, loser.” He bats Jimin’s hand away so hard the tin slips free, hits the floor, and rolls a little down the hall. “I don’t need pity from someone like you.”

“It’s not pity. It’s compassion,” Jimin says, scooping up the wayward can. He freezes with his back to Yoongi, then turns, resolute.

“Keep your damn compassion to yourself.” Yoongi’s gaze slides over his face, shiny with wet, and stops on the matching split lip. He saw Jimin pick the can up, one hand bracing his ribs. “You need it more,” he says—more evenly now—and reaches a hand out for it again.

Yoongi turns away, tucking his knees hard to his chest, and draws on his cigarette again—making it plain the conversation is over and he isn’t taking handouts. Jimin says nothing, ready to head for his own door, but something stops him and won’t let him go. He doesn’t want to talk either. Not after his ribs got worked over and his face split. He breathes in deep, lets the air out loud, and still—he turns back. He sets the can down by Yoongi’s feet without a word, one hand holding his side, and leaves just as quickly. The lock gives its familiar chirp as his door opens, and he can feel eyes on him the whole time. Jimin always feels that heavy aim of a gaze on his skin; it spooks him. He ignores it, shuts the door, and hurries to the bathroom to wash up.

Not understanding why the pity still forced its way out—why it insisted on declaring itself—he splashes cold water on his face, rinsing off the grit. He slips out of his jacket and, with quick, practiced strokes, brushes the dust away and soaks the bloodied cuffs. When he lifts his T-shirt, raw red scrapes jump out along his ribs. There’ll be a bruise for sure. Jimin has stopped keeping count of how often they bloom there.

He wolfs down a quick bowl of rice from the cooker he set in the morning, with crisp kimchi and a reheated sausage from the shop’s expired stock, then hides in his room. His mother comes half an hour later, peeks into the dark to make sure he’s all right, and goes about the house in a hush.

Morning greets him with a stab in his side. The alarm rings, but Jimin barely hears it, silencing it on autopilot. Sleep is so sweet that time slips past. Half an hour later his eyes fly open in horror. He’s overslept. He vaults out of bed, skips the basics, ignores the aftershocks of pain. Dressing on the run, he snatches up his backpack and bolts for the door. The neighbor’s door slams just as hard. Yoongi’s overslept too. He’s used to it; Jimin, though, is panicking. Getting chewed out, listening to the teacher’s complaints, apologizing—not his idea of a morning.

Yoongi shoots past, and Jimin tears after him. But by the time he hits the stairs, he’s out of gas. The breath won’t come. He’s never been any good at PE—always finishing last to the teacher’s grumbling. Air is in brutal short supply; he doubles over, both hands to his gut. At this pace he’s bound to miss first period: the school’s a couple of kilometers away and he can’t run another step. And honestly, he almost doesn’t care. With a resigned sigh his eyes fall to Yoongi’s back. Yoongi jumps onto his scooter without bothering with a helmet and fires it up. Yoongi glances back at Jimin, mutters a curse under his breath, and looks away.

“Move it, loser, get on,” comes over Yoongi’s shoulder a beat later, louder now.

Jimin still can’t tame his ragged breathing. Eyes wide, he can’t believe what he’s hearing. A ride?

“Are you fucking deaf?” Yoongi growls. “ Sit. Now. Or I’m fucking leaving.”

Jimin lurches forward, skids up to the scooter, and freezes for a heartbeat, not trusting it. Then their eyes meet—anger bright and hard—and he gives a small, uncertain nod. Still gasping, he swings a leg over the seat.

The engine gives a deep growl as the scooter lurches off the line, yanking Jimin back. Yoongi snags him by the lapels of his school blazer, eases the brake, and hauls him in.

“Hold on, idiot,” he throws over his shoulder.

Jimin, panicking, clutches at his arm, and at once he’s tugged forward—forced to press into Yoongi’s back, almost bumping the back of his head. Yoongi traps Jimin’s wrist against his waist; that rough palm—no longer so rough—guides his fingers into place, showing exactly how to hold on. Dry, warm fingers press his hand to Yoongi’s stomach, and Jimin mirrors it with the other, edging closer.
It’s his first time on a scooter, and fear mixes with a kind of awe as the wind skims his face. The speed isn’t much, but it’s enough to knock the breath out of him with nerves. Jimin presses his chest tighter to Yoongi’s back when the hands pinning him at his stomach let go to grab the bars.

The smell of someone else’s hair stuffs his nose—tobacco from a smoked-out apartment—and warmth comes through the thin T-shirt under his fingers. Yoongi has decided to give him a lift, and Jimin’s mind can’t take it in. He’s sitting too close, breathing nervously, holding on, afraid of the speed, and his thoughts scatter. For the first time he feels something besides hatred for this person rising in his chest. As if it were breaking through the shell of the negative, prying the edges apart with something new, and smothering the rest. A flutter. Jimin is badly rattled; he doesn’t understand his own reaction. The other body works on him in a spellbindingly wrong way. The heat from those fingers that were just now closing over his hand still burns on his skin. The tight closeness knocks him off balance—but he has no time to sort himself out: Yoongi swings toward the school and brakes hard. He knocks Jimin’s hands off him, slips off the seat, and kills the engine. Jimin tries not to show the embarrassment, the confusion, the thrill of a first ride, and jumps down in silence after him.

“You breathe a word—I’ll kill you.” Yoongi growls over his shoulder, and bolts for the school grounds.

There’s no time to think; Jimin hurries after him. He barrels into the classroom, out of breath, barely manages a bow, and drops into his seat under the teacher’s steady gaze. The bell rings—he made it. He turns to Yoongi with a timid glance, his thanks landing on a perfectly impassive face. Yoongi slicks his hair back, tugs at his blazer to let a cool draft in, and works his breathing down. He doesn’t look Jimin’s way for a minute or two, but from the tilt of his head and the words forming soundlessly on his lips, Jimin knows he’s been caught staring.

All day he turns it over, trying to figure out why Yoongi helped him. Maybe because Jimin showed him compassion the night before and this was payback? Possibly. It could be Yoongi simply wanted to settle an invisible debt, to pull him out of a jam. What’s more, almost every break Yoongi drags his friends off with him so they don’t get bored and start in on Jimin. Most likely Jimin is idealizing it, pinning nonexistent credit on himself. During the last break a pack of cigarettes slips out of Yoongi’s pocket at Jimin’s feet; Yoongi snatches it up fast, their eyes colliding. Smoking is banned at school. That never stopped the trio from stepping outside for a smoke.

The whole crew reeks of tobacco as they file past and drop into their seats. The bell rings, and the teacher who’s just come in heads straight for the back rows.

“Bags on the desk!” he says, slapping a notebook on the table—first to Min Su, then to Yoongi and Yeon Bin. “Up—empty them out!” he barks. He finds nothing but the usual supplies and adds, “Turn out your pockets. Now.”

From Yoongi—unlike the others—a pack of cigarettes tumbles out.

The teacher curses; the class goes still, watching as Min Yoongi is told, in a hard voice, to follow him to the teachers’ lounge.

On his way to punishment, Yoongi throws him a pointed, accusing look. Jimin, horrified by the thought of what Yoongi must be thinking, can’t help his mouth falling open. He didn’t snitch. He didn’t. But it looks like he did. It was at his feet the pack fell during break; Jimin saw it go back into Yoongi’s pocket; and the teacher clearly came on a tip, knowing he’d find contraband.

Yoongi keeps looking at him right up to the door, leaving with his backpack, stepping in the teacher’s wake. Jimin is about to blurt that it wasn’t him—but he swallows it when their eyes lock and he catches the heat in Yoongi’s glare. The whole thing looks pretty rotten.

Chapter Text

Yoongi is suspended for the rest of the day. That’s all Jimin catches from Min Su and Yeon Bin trading whispers at the next desks. He tucks his head into his shoulders, doing his best not to draw the eye of the punks still rattled by the teacher’s surprise raid on their backpacks. Thank God they didn’t connect the dots the way Yoongi did. Jimin couldn’t take another beating back-to-back. He’d be laid up for a couple of days, then have to make up the lessons by turning in extra assignments. Same goes for Yoongi now. It’s one thing to show up and sleep on your desk; it’s another to miss classes and owe the teacher whole chunks of the syllabus. He’s got a night shift at the shop ahead, and the only way to survive another sleepless night is to keep his head down and not court trouble again. Lucky or not, they forget about him for a while. Min Su mostly goes after him when there’s an audience and backup in the form of his buddies. Yoongi himself, just by being around, gives them a reason to start something and have their fun.

As soon as classes are over—and he’s knocked out his homework during the extended study period—he hurries home. Change clothes, drop the backpack, head to work. He’s taking the long zigzag stairway up to his floor, with the line of apartments along the outdoor parapet, when someone yanks him hard by the collar. Jimin doesn’t even have time to register before Yoongi’s furious face fixes in front of his eyes. Yoongi unhinges his teeth to pull the cigarette from his mouth and blows acrid smoke into Jimin’s face. An instant later a forearm slams crosswise into his chest, pinning him to the wall.

Jimin’s head thuds dully against the wall, the hit catching him off guard, and the reek of smoke fills his nose. His throat starts to rasp at once. He coughs, eyes squeezing shut against the pain spreading at the back of his skull, and only after a couple of seconds does he understand what’s happening.

“Why the hell did you snitch on me? Got a death wish?” Yoongi growls in his face, driving the elbow in harder.

“It wasn’t me,” Jimin blurts, scrambling to defend himself, eyes flaring with outrage. “Not me! I didn’t tell—swear.”

“I see it doesn’t sink in, huh? Min Su doesn’t hit you enough? Want more?” The look from under Yoongi’s brow is pure threat. “You owe me now—got it.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“You were the only one who saw the pack fall out of my pocket.” The glowing butt snaps against the wall beside Jimin’s face; sparks spit out and die, the cigarette dropping at their feet.

“Why would I do that? I wouldn’t go whining to a teacher,” Jimin shoots back, pushing his chest into the pinning arm to take the pressure off. Yoongi’s too close; in the half-light his eyes shine with hate—so familiar it’s scary.

“For payback. No?” Yoongi lifts a hand, his gaze pausing on Jimin’s mouth, and jabs a finger into the barely healed cut. “How about you just do what you’re told, huh? Just bring the Coke when you’re asked, don’t talk back, and nobody lays hands on you, loser. Ever think of that? Keep that long tongue behind your teeth and everything stays fine.” His finger drags across Jimin’s lip again in a rough stroke—purely to hurt. It blows the safeties in Jimin that are supposed to keep him alive. The words land too raw. And it isn’t even the humiliation or the pain.

“Why don’t you try the same thing?” Jimin jerks his head, knocking the hand away. “Why don’t you just bring your father his booze and keep your mouth shut?” Pain dulls the fear, and the urge to jab back with the same kind of advice—pressing the sore spot—surges stronger.

“What?” The growl drops low. Fists knot in Jimin’s lapels; he’s yanked, shaken, and slammed back so his head hits the wall again. “Got a death wish, you psycho? Shut the hell up—got it? You don’t know shit.”

Yoongi shoves Jimin aside and bolts down the stairs. Jimin stays where he is in the dark corner, trying to get his breath back, mouthing, soundless: “It wasn’t me. Not me.” It’s hard to process. He didn’t get hit—Yoongi just ran. It makes no sense. If he’d said that to Min Su, they would’ve worked him over until the spite ran dry. Yoongi just let go. Even for words like that, he could’ve put a fist in Jimin’s face. A minute later Jimin realizes how brave he’d been—something that almost never happens to him.

The night shift at the shop, after that emotional jolt, is rough. His eyes keep sticking shut, and to stay awake he looks for anything to hold on to. For nights like this he always brings the sketchbook—the one scrawled over in graphite across the face of the one person he hates. Like now: chin propped on his hand behind the counter, he draws. He draws the scooter he rode on, pressed to a warm back. He’s almost finished when Yoongi’s ridiculous accusation floats back up, and his hand stops. Staring at the drawing, Jimin can’t tell why he keeps doing this, why he keeps drawing Yoongi again and again. A sharp flare of anger—and he slashes the lead hard across the page, ruining the sketch for good. The graphite tip, under the pressure, chips the way you knew it would and snaps.

“Sick of you—I hate you!” Jimin snarls, flinging the sketchbook to the edge of the counter and staring at his ruined pencil.

The anger and the spill of feeling jolt him awake—an excellent way to kick a tired brain into gear. But a minute of blankly studying some random item on the shelf, and regret sets in. He regrets wrecking the pencil. The drawings are what help him ride out the boil inside. With a heavy breath he reaches for the backpack he brought, hoping to find a sharpener. Dawn is a long way off yet, and he still needs a way to deal with everything churning in him.

The door to the shop swings open just as he’s busy rummaging at the bottom of his bag. Yoongi walks in without a word, and Jimin freezes, locking eyes with him. Yoongi breathes the last of the smoke from his lungs into the room and heads, as if on rails, to the shelf with the expired stock—the stuff Jimin wrote off at midnight and set aside for himself. He takes a share, as usual not greedy, and strides past with a scowl. Jimin doesn’t want to look back. He doesn’t want to keep up a pointless conversation either. He stares at the feet that stop at the counter. Something’s off. The other boy’s gaze has snagged on the open sketchbook. Yoongi is studying the scribbled-over drawing, and Jimin lunges for his secret. He snaps all the pages shut at once, realizing Yoongi saw—and almost certainly recognized—what was on them. Yoongi’s eyes stay fixed on the sketchbook’s matte gray cover. Jimin drags it toward himself, afraid of being exposed completely, and pitches it down behind the counter. Too sharply for it to go unnoticed.
Yoongi leaves without a word. He doesn’t even look back. Which is a mercy. Because one frightened face is enough to make anyone suspect there are other drawings there. Not all of them are scrawled over—but even the ruined ones make it clear who’s in them.

The automatic door slides shut behind the broad back, and Jimin drops onto the counter, burying his hands in his hair and clenching tight. A crushed groan slips out—but the sudden thought that Yoongi might not be far, might be watching from the dark beyond the glass, makes him pull himself together. He smooths his hair, straightens, flicks a look at the display windows, and stares for a long time. He doesn’t have the nerve to go out and check. The thought just keeps eating at him, a nagging paranoia. Maybe Yoongi was standing at the entrance before that, finishing his cigarette before coming in, and saw the flare-up that came first. Saw him scrawl over the drawing, saw him fling the sketchbook to the edge of the counter. And then saw the reason for the anger. Jimin hurriedly stuffs the sketchbook back into his backpack so he won’t touch it again tonight, and rubs his eyes, worn out. A sleepless night ahead, and a full day of classes tomorrow. Toward dawn the fatigue finally wins. Lying on his arm in the empty shop, Jimin dozes off. At the first trickle of early customers he jerks upright, scrubbing his face hard with both palms to wake up. He loads the leftover expired stock into his backpack and waits for his relief. The guy is so late there’s no time to run home and drop any of it off.

After a rushed change into his school uniform—the one he always carried for days like this, when his replacement at the shop showed up late—Jimin hurried to class. The first half of the day was a struggle. His eyes kept sticking shut, and his attention was shot.

Watching his classmates buzz with energy, he couldn’t help comparing their carefree lives to his own—working nights, staying awake to help his mother, doing everything not to be a burden. Jimin wished he could mess around during breaks too, chat with someone about a new movie they’d seen in theaters. But he simply had neither the time nor the strength. His only comfort was the free after-school art club, where he went several times a week to practice.

Yoongi wasn’t sleeping at his desk today—not for the usual few hours. Jimin figured things at home must’ve been calm enough for him to actually catch some rest. The weekend was ahead, and Jimin was already dreaming of reaching his pillow and sinking into his blanket, finally getting the sleep he needed.

Min Su and Yeon Bin were loudly swapping stories about their “adventures” with girls, laughing like idiots and whispering to each other. Yoongi listened, smirked, and looked almost as carefree as the rest of them. Jimin, exhausted, let himself slump onto his desk, hoping to steal a moment of rest between classes. But apparently his drained, sacrificial look was too tempting.

“Hey, Park,” someone calls from the side. “Get over here.” A hand waves him over.
Jimin would’ve ignored it, but he knows too well they won’t leave him alone. He drags himself up and shuffles toward Min Su’s desk. He stops and stares at the floor.

“Listen, we’re talking about girls,” Min Su brags immediately, almost friendly as he throws an arm over Jimin’s drooping shoulders. “Yesterday I grabbed Nayeon’s tits. I swear she’s got amazing rack.” He shows his hand, as if weighing them in his palm. Then he pinches Jimin’s chest, demonstrating the “size” on him. “Come on, Park, be honest. Ever held boobs?”

“No,” Jimin mutters flatly, wanting nothing more than to get back to his seat.

“Yeah, figures,” Yeon Bin snorts, shoving him in the shoulder.

“Come on, admit it—Nayeon’s a hot chick, right?” Min Su pushes on, still holding him in place. Jimin flinches at the closeness and jerks his shoulder to get free of the touch. “Do you like Nayeon?”

“No.”

“So who do you like? Come on, share with your only friends—who’s got you drooling in class? You sit there all day with your nose in your drawings, you damn impotent.”

“Nobody.” Jimin finally shrugs the arm off, earning an irritated look from Min Su.

“Jesus, you’re even more pathetic than I thought,” Min Su scoffs, tugging at the lapel of Jimin’s uniform. “Or maybe you’re a faggot. Huh? That it? You like guys? Sitting there drawing—” he gestures toward Jimin’s desk, “—boys in your little sketchbook. That’s it, isn’t it?”

Jimin stays silent. Too long. Long enough for the first burst of laughter to die down—
and for Yoongi, suddenly interested, to rise from his seat and step in close.

“You didn’t answer,” Yoongi says, voice low as he hooks a finger under Jimin’s chin, forcing him to look up. “You into guys?”

The friends fall quiet, attention sharpened—they hadn’t expected their joke to be taken seriously, much less noticed by Yoongi.

Jimin stares back stubbornly, his gaze flicking across Yoongi’s dark irises.

“No,” he exhales. “I’m not.”

The defiance in his voice lands sharp. He jerks his head back, shaking off the cold fingers burning his skin, swallows the tremor running through him under that heavy gaze, and slips out of Min Su’s hold to return to his seat.

His denial isn’t taken seriously—laughter rises again, louder this time, along with a firm insistence on the opposite. Agitated, Jimin unzips his backpack to switch notebooks when his eyes land on the gray sketchbook from his night shift. He never brings it to school—never. Not even by accident. He never risks having it taken or anyone discovering the obsession inside.
The realization hits him like a slap: he’s made a huge mistake. He should’ve left it at work. Nervously glancing over his shoulder, he catches Yoongi still watching him—heavy, unblinking—while the other idiots are cracking jokes about his orientation.

“All right, enough,” Yoongi cuts them off, slapping Yeon Bin’s shoulder. “Quit talking crap. Let’s get some air. You can tell me what happened next with Nayeon.” His friends agree instantly and hurry toward the door.

Jimin hunches into himself, drops his backpack to the floor, and shoves it under his feet. From the corner of his eye he watches the boys leave the classroom. Yoongi is last.
The moment he draws level with Jimin’s desk, a heavy hand lands on Jimin’s shoulder—his heart plunges in terror. Pressure crowds the space as Yoongi leans close to his ear, and with his other hand, quick as a snake, dives into the open backpack under the desk.

Jimin jerks, about to leap up to protect himself from humiliation—but he’s forced back down hard.

A whisper, hot enough to burn his ear:

“You owe me, remember? I’ll give it back when you do my assignment. It’s on my desk.”
He lifts the tightly clutched gray treasure in his hand, taunting him with it.

“Please give it back,” Jimin rasps, his voice hoarse. “I’ll do it—just give it back,” he begs, turning with a hunted look—and meets Yoongi’s eyes.

“Not before you finish it, Jimin.”
Yoongi presses his shoulder down with emphasis and nods toward the assignment lying on his desk by the window.

Yoongi leaves, and Jimin can’t breathe. His chest locks tight with the fear that Yoongi might—out of curiosity or spite—show the sketchbook to his friends. And then the label will stick forever. It’s bad enough being an outcast—being branded a faggot is a thousand times worse. That word carries too much weight, too much poison, for someone as already-judged as Jimin. It would bury him alive. Every day in this place would become unbearable. He bolts across the classroom and grabs the sheets of the assignment. His hands shake; there’s a lump in his throat; panic gnaws at his insides. He’s not like that. He’s not gay. He can’t let that cloud hang over him too. But who’s going to care about reason when the drawings say otherwise? Jimin draws only Yoongi. He’s sketched not just the scooter that carried the two of them to school. There’s the crumpled pack of cigarettes—the one that caused the accusation of snitching. Even if Yoongi opens the sketchbook himself, Jimin will die of shame. Cursing his own stupidity, he sinks into his chair. The assignment sheets blur through the sting of tears scratching at the back of his eyes. He can’t pull himself together. His anxiety is too strong; he blinks hard, trying to hide the state he’s in from the few classmates who stayed behind. Breaking down here would be the last nail in his coffin.

The bell rings. Late students file back in, taking their seats. Jimin doesn’t dare turn around to check his worst fear: Did Yoongi show the sketchbook? Did he open it? He glances at the legs under nearby desks—Min Su and Yeon Bin show no signs of knowing anything. But he feels Yoongi’s gaze on him. Heavy. Certain. Sniffling, Jimin wipes the dampness under his nose and picks up his pencil, spreading the assignment pages before him. Sleep and exhaustion dissolve under the nerves. No matter how fast he works, he can’t finish before the end of class. Yoongi tosses a few words to his friends and leaves, not staying for after-school study time, where homework is supposed to be done.

Jimin doesn’t stay after school either. The weekend is ahead—he’d planned to sleep it away and squeeze the homework in between naps. Right now the only thing that matters is not leaving Yoongi alone at home with his curiosity and that sketchbook. He stays an extra hour, scribbling furiously to finish the makeup work Yoongi owes after being suspended, and then bolts, fingers locked tight around his backpack straps. By the time he reaches their building, desperation pounding in his head, he’s wheezing by the time he hits their floor, breath sawn short. He doubles over, trying to suck in air and pull himself together. It doesn’t work. The closer he gets to those fox eyes—and the moment he’ll know for sure he’s done for—the worse it gets. Under normal circumstances he’d never in his life knock on Yoongi’s door. But right now, desperation is driving.

He drags a lungful of air into his chest and pushes it out slowly through pursed lips, fingers nervously twisting at his pant leg as he stands in front of the door. Then he knocks, hard. A hoarse, drunken bass rumbles from inside:

“Who the hell’s at our door? Yoongi, open up and tell ’em to fuck off. I didn’t order shit, and I’m not listening to any goddamn sales pitch! Run ’em off, for fuck’s sake!”

The door flies open; Yoongi stands there, furious, and freezes for a second with a question in his eyes. Jimin is still breathing hard from the run as he holds out the sheets of completed work.

“Give me my sketchbook back.” He looks straight at him, stubborn, trying to see whether Yoongi knows what’s inside. Yoongi’s face is unreadable. His brows are knitted, his mouth pressed into a flat line; it’s obvious he has no time for this.

“Later.” Yoongi glances over his shoulder at the noise. His father is getting up, knocking into something in his drunken stupor; a chair clatters to the floor.

“I did the assignment. Give it back.”

“I said I’ll bring it by later. Beat it,” Yoongi growls, looking past him at his father, who’s cursing out the innocent chair and kicking it in pain. Then he slams the door in Jimin’s face with the papers in hand, leaving Jimin standing there, huffing with anger, fists clenched.

His own door bangs against the frame too loud when he slams it, and all he wants is to smash everything he can reach. Mirroring what he just saw, Jimin kicks the chair in his room; it crashes to the floor. He sweeps his schoolbooks off the desk, letting his emotions spill over. He can’t do more than that. Cursing filters through the wall, and for the first time in his life Jimin catches himself wishing Yoongi would get what’s coming to him. But when, after a burst of shouting and swearing from the other side, a sharp slap rings out followed by a dull thud, Jimin goes still. He already regrets the thought. No, he doesn’t want this to go on. But right behind that shared wall is Yoongi’s mirror-image room—and that’s where he’s being beaten right now. There’s hissing, snapping back, talking back to the man, throwing insults in return—only making it worse. More slaps follow.

Jimin can’t take it. What can he even do? Call the police? Should he? If Yoongi wanted his father taken away, he would’ve done it himself. The first idea that comes to Jimin feels like the best one. And he can’t stand the whimpering from someone like Yoongi. He grabs the expensive bottle of top-shelf liquor his mother was given as a gift, yanks it from the cupboard, and bolts for the door. He throws on the apron from his shop uniform and shoots out of the apartment barefoot. He pounds on their door with his fist until the noise inside cuts off and a furious, drunken animal fills the doorway. Red eyes, blazing with rage, fixed on him; breath coming hard; spit shining on his lips as he snarls, a cloud of stale alcohol hitting Jimin in the face:

“What the fuck do you want, huh?”

“Good evening, sir,” Jimin says, bowing politely and trying to see past him. Yoongi is on the floor, wiping blood from his nose. His cheeks burn from the blows and the sheer unfairness of it. “We’re running a promotion at our store.”

“I don’t need anything.” The man starts to slam the door, but Jimin blocks it, firmly.

“No, no, you misunderstand. I meant you’ve been chosen as a winner,” Jimin rushes out. “As a regular customer, you’ve been selected by our manager to receive a complimentary bottle of whiskey, delivered personally.” He bows again and offers the expensive alcohol, praying the bastard’s mood will flip, that he’ll drink himself out and leave Yoongi alone. “Please visit us again, sir. We value every customer.”

He bows once more; the bottle is snatched from his hands, the man brightening at the sight of free booze. He chuckles, pleased.

“Good boy,” he praises in a disgusting voice. “Now that’s how you treat your customers. Yeah, this is exactly what I’m talking about.” He turns the bottle in his hands, admiring it. “Tell your manager he should do this more often. I’ve bought enough liquor there to earn more than one of these.”

He gives a greasy smirk and slams the door. Jimin heads back to his room, listening. On the other side of the wall, it’s quiet. Yoongi’s father, satisfied with his prize, is no doubt already pouring himself a drink. Jimin lets out a slow breath, riding out the emotional whiplash, climbs onto his bed, and presses his ear to the wall. Silence. Then a faint, scratchy sniff. And then the sound slices through the quiet: a sob, muffled by hands. Realization crashes down; Jimin’s mouth falls open in shock as the sound comes again. He wishes he hadn’t listened. Yoongi is sitting alone on the other side of the wall, quietly crying. A wave of prickling goosebumps ripples over Jimin’s skin. A chill runs through him; his hands start to shake. He bites his lip, feeling tears prick at his own eyes. He doesn’t understand his reaction. He refuses to accept that someone like Yoongi could cry. Not like this. Anything but hearing that soft, broken sob from someone with a character that strong. Not from Yoongi. Horrified, Jimin jerks away from the wall and starts pacing the room. Books are scattered, the chair is on its side, and in his head there’s only one sound: the raw, pained noise of someone he hates. It’s his fault Yoongi’s being beaten by his father, his fault he provoked it by showing up. Guilt boils too hot in his chest. Because of him, Yoongi is sitting over there with his red, swollen face buried in his hands. Jimin grabs the first book he sees and hurls it at the wall where that sound shattered him.

“Shut up!” he yells at nothing. He lunges for his laptop, flips it open, and slams on the first track he can find just to drown out the guilt. He drags the volume slider up and falls onto the bed, pulling a pillow over his head. His eyes go wet at once. He lets himself go, finally, and cries—sobbing just like what he heard through the wall. The world is merciless to people like them.

By the end of the evening, nothing more comes from behind the wall. Jimin has knocked out for several hours. Too much crashed down on him, exhaustion from the night shift included. He wakes only when his mother comes in and lowers the volume of the blasting music. It’s night outside; rubbing sleep from his eyes, he greets her and trails after her for a late dinner. Watching his mother, he suddenly realizes that compared to Yoongi’s father, his family is a good one—broken or not. Pushed by that thought, he steps closer and hugs her from behind, resting his cheek against her shoulder.

“Did something happen, Jimina?” his mother asks softly. “Sorry—my hands are wet.” She keeps washing the dishes, stacking them aside.

“No, everything’s fine. I just felt like hugging you.” He presses his cheek gently to her shoulder. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, son. I’m sorry you have to be alone so often while I’m always at work. You’re such a good boy.” She keeps rinsing plates, fingernail poking at the drain where grains of rice get stuck. “Ugh, damn it, clogged again,” she mutters. Jimin pulls back, looking over her shoulder into the sink filled with cloudy water.

“What now?” she wonders, trying to reach the food scraps with her hand, but nothing budges. “Should I call a plumber?”

“Maybe I can try?” Jimin gently nudges her aside. He fishes around under the water, but the drain is completely clean, and still nothing goes down.

“There are tools in the storage room on our floor—I’ll go get them.”

“No need,” Jimin cuts her off. “I’ll handle it. Go rest, you’re tired.” He ushers her toward her room with quiet care. “I’ll look up how to fix it online. If it doesn’t work, I’ll call someone tomorrow. Just leave it to me.” Driven by the sudden urge to help, he hurriedly pulls on his sneakers and flies out the door.

It isn’t the first time something like this has happened—he’s seen plumbers clear the pipes before. But for some reason, right now, he wants to take on the role of the father he never had and handle the problem himself.

Opening the small utility closet on their floor—the one stuffed with gardening tools and all kinds of miscellaneous building supplies—Jimin knows he’ll find a basic plumbing kit in there. The tiny room, which used to belong to the janitor who worked seasonal shifts cleaning the floors, reeks of alcohol. The sharp stench punches into his nose the moment he slips inside from the dim hallway light. He doesn’t have time to understand why. His foot catches on a garden broom; it crashes to the floor as he adjusts to the half-dark, lit only by a barred window above the door. Something moves on the cot. Jimin freezes.

“You?” The hoarse voice stops him cold. Yoongi is drunk. He pushes himself up sluggishly and sways to his feet. A fist curls into the front of Jimin’s T-shirt, yanking him closer, and he breathes the words out in a hot, bitter stream of alcohol-laced air. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“The drain’s clogged,” Jimin stammers, shamefully choking back his nerves as his eyes adjust and Yoongi’s features emerge from the dark. “I need the tools,” he rasps, his voice thin with fear. Another breath lands warm on his cheek.

Yoongi says nothing for a few seconds. He just stares, blinking heavily, swaying on unsteady legs, then finally lets go of Jimin’s shirt. Turning away, he rummages through a row of neatly stacked shovels. Jimin looks around the room—realization dawning. Yoongi hides from his father here. The closet isn’t abandoned at all. The cot is made up with a sheet, a small pillow rests on top, and an open storage cabinet holds personal belongings. His eyes snag on a familiar matte gray sketchbook. He lunges for it without thinking.

“Here. This is better. Just pour it down the sink,” Yoongi says, handing him some kind of drain cleaner instead of tools—and then freezes when he sees what Jimin is clutching to his chest.

Jimin snatches the bottle, desperate to flee, but he doesn’t make it far. Yoongi grabs him by the collar, spins him, and slams him against the wall.

“I did my part. It’s mine,” Jimin blurts, defending himself as Yoongi exhales alcohol straight into his face again.

“Why do you draw me?” The question lands almost lips-to-lips.

Jimin’s stomach drops. He’s been found out. Seen. Exposed. Yoongi has seen every sketch. Every crossed-out page. And now he wants an answer—one Jimin doesn’t have. He doesn’t know why he fixates on that face. He knows how it looks from the outside, and there’s no explanation he can give. He stays silent, staring into the dark eyes in front of him. Every sketch in the notebook—scribbled out or not—is unmistakable.

“You like me?” Yoongi scoffs, crowding him, eyes flicking mocking paths across Jimin’s trembling lashes before dropping to his mouth. He sighs again. Jimin can’t feel his legs at all. Panic swells in his chest at the blunt conclusion he’s spent months refusing to consider. In his head a single word is screaming—faggot—sticking to him like a death sentence. His reputation is already trash; this would be worse. “Answer me,” Yoongi presses. The few centimeters between them make thinking impossible.

“I hate you,” Jimin breathes. A sudden surge of indignation washes out the fear, though his voice still trembles. “I draw to cross it out. To ruin it. That’s how I get rid of everything I feel. That’s all. I don’t like you. I hate you,” he chokes out. But Yoongi doesn’t look convinced. He huffs a quiet laugh, dropping his forehead onto Jimin’s shoulder, nudging him with it.

“Same,” Yoongi murmurs, grinning drunkenly as his hand slides down—fingers clamping into Jimin’s side through the fabric. He yanks him closer, lifting his head off his shoulder, and the breath in the tiny closet turns molten. Jimin can’t think. Should he shove him away? Run? Test his own words and see if he’s lying to himself? What is Yoongi even going to do? Kiss him? Take Jimin’s first kiss for himself? And with who? A guy? The guy he supposedly hates? Is that right? He doesn’t know. He’s drowning in feelings he can’t sort.

Hot breath spills against his face. Those fingers keep gripping, squeezing, pulling, letting go. Jimin can’t breathe. His lungs seize. He gulps through parted lips, accidentally sharing his breath. It sparks something. Immediately the hand on his side tightens; Yoongi’s eyes drag to his mouth, and he leans in. He misses—barely brushing the corner of Jimin’s lips—drawing a fractured gasp from him. Jimin’s heart slams wildly, loud enough to choke him. He can’t believe this is happening. He can’t believe Yoongi is almost kissing him.

“Same,” Yoongi repeats—the word flipping in meaning—and then he closes his mouth around Jimin’s lower lip. He drags him closer by the waist, crushing the last centimeters between them into dust.

The kiss is careful but hungry, laying every tangled feeling bare. Yoongi wants a response—any response. Jimin is terrified to give one. Terrified that even a twitch will tip everything over and trap him in something he can’t undo. Distrust screams inside him. But Yoongi doesn’t stop. He isn’t hesitating the way Jimin is. He keeps kissing him—slow, steady.
Bolder each second. His other hand slides down to Jimin’s waist, gripping hard, pulling him flush into his groin. There—hard. The realization snaps something deep inside Jimin’s restraint. Yoongi is turned on. Yoongi is kissing him. You can’t fake that. Not arousal. Jimin’s mouth parts, a breath stumbling out, and he moves his lips back—instinctively, blindly. Repeats. Learns. Kissing is… pleasant. He’d never imagined. His thoughts melt, tangling with panic and heat. He clutches Yoongi’s forearms, swallowing the bitter alcohol on his breath. The first slow drag of Yoongi’s tongue along his lips—after a startled wet click—knocks the floor out from under Jimin. Yoongi licks again, chasing another gasp, then pushes his tongue into the kiss. The room spins. Kissing isn’t just pleasant—it's electric, dizzying. Their lips pull, suck; their tongues slide wetly, and breathing becomes impossible. Yoongi keeps scorching Jimin’s cheeks with every exhale, panting, losing control, kissing deeper. His arms lock around Jimin’s waist, hands clasping behind his back, trapping him, dragging him closer. His palms sweep Jimin’s spine, his shoulders, exploring every inch.

At some point Yoongi tears away, just enough for them to breathe. His chest heaves, trembling against Jimin’s through the thin cotton. Jimin feels his heartbeat like a hammer against his ribs. Yoongi pants into the breath Jimin just exhaled. Eyes closed, he shifts unsteadily on his feet, then finally releases him. Jimin doesn’t wait. Terrified of what comes next—terrified to speak, terrified not to—he grabs the fallen bottle and the sketchbook and bolts. Out of the closet. Out of sight. Away from all of it. Away from Yoongi.

Chapter Text

Bursting into the apartment, Jimin can’t believe what’s happening to him. His heart hammers in his chest, trying to break out of its ribcage; blood pulses in his temples, and his lips remember the heat of that touch with painful clarity. Almost without thinking, he brushes his fingers over them, the pads skimming the soft skin. They’re damp. There’s still Min Yoongi’s spit on them and the taste of alcohol in his mouth. It’s all real. Someone kissed him. For the first time. The first time—and it felt so good it’s hard to believe. With shaking hands, Jimin twists the cap off the bottle he brought home. The sharp smell hits his nose and sobers him a little. He dumps a generous amount of the liquid into the sink, not knowing the proper dose and just hoping it will do the trick. If it doesn’t, he’ll call a repairman first thing in the morning—but he is not going back to that closet. That would take courage, and he burned through every last scrap of it in the past fifteen minutes.

He throws the sketchbook—the thing responsible for his current state—into his desk drawer, then drops onto his bed and buries his burning face in the pillow. His cheeks throb with heat; his palms are slick with the fever running through his body. Something impossible just happened. The bottle of liquor sitting in the storage room is unmistakably the one he brought for Yoongi’s father. There was almost nothing left at the bottom, and Jimin is sure Yoongi swiped it once his father passed out. Got drunk himself rather than spend one more minute in the same room as a violent drunk, and hid out there instead. Jimin wants to believe that this sacrificial offering will make its way back where it belongs, even empty. Because knowing that the missing bottle of whiskey—which he’s sure the drunk will go looking for in the morning—might become a new reason to beat Yoongi is unbearable. The thought makes him want to go back, warn him, say what he’s guessed—anything, just so he doesn’t have to hear those ragged sounds through the wall again. But he still can’t find even a grain of courage in himself. Facing Yoongi’s eyes and having snatches of those kisses flash through his head? Unthinkable. Not now. Not today. He touches his lips again, rolls onto his back, and stares up into the dark ceiling.

Kissing is… magic. That fizzing in his chest, the indescribable flutter and rush. But with who? With a boy. With Yoongi. It doesn’t fit inside his fractured mind. His thoughts snarl together. The person he “hates” stole his first kiss, left him in this light, fluttering state—and that moment is never going to wash out of his memory. Or is it? Does he really hate Yoongi? Or does he feel something so strong that trying to cram it into a single word just doesn’t work?

Jimin can’t sleep. He clicks on his desk lamp and pulls the sketchbook back out of the drawer. There’s too much in him right now, all of it begging to spill onto the page. He draws. Draws in pieces and fragments: quick sketches of hands on his sides, remembering the fingers fisted in his shirt. Now they’re on paper. As if an impossible fantasy had come alive and was staring back at him from the white sheet. He draws black eyes in the half-dark of the room, fixed straight on his soul. He draws the kiss. Someone else’s mouth on his. There are a lot of sketches. After a couple of hours lost in it, Jimin finally runs out of strength and falls asleep with the sketchbook on his chest. When he starts to roll over in the morning, it slides off and thumps to the floor, all the pages fanning themselves into one loose pile. The sound makes him crack one eye open; he squints at the sketchbook he spent half the night filling with kisses. In the corner on the very last page, on the inside of the back cover, there’s writing. He rubs his eyes, trying to focus. Reaches for the book, certain he never wrote anything there himself. Bringing the corner closer to his face, he blinks again and recognizes Yoongi’s handwriting.

Don’t scratch your drawings out, loser. They’re beautiful.

At first glance, it’s just an insult—but there’s more to it than that. The note drags him back to the thought that Yoongi has gone through every sketch, knows what’s in there, likes it, and… in the end Jimin circles back to the kiss. He doesn’t want to tear his brain apart wondering what comes next or how Yoongi is going to act the next time they meet. He isn’t expecting much anyway. People like Yoongi don’t change, and Jimin himself has no idea what to even hope for. Their friends don’t change either. And the kiss might have been nothing more than a way to test something. Himself? Or Jimin? To test Jimin’s honesty after everything he said—I’m not gay, I don’t like guys, I don’t like Yoongi. But why would anyone go that far? There’s too much in his head at once. Jimin is scared. He’s scared to go to school on Monday because the whole day could turn into the worst of his life. They’ll laugh, say it was a bet, slap a label on him. One more. Anything he says won’t be worth a thing. Who’s going to believe him if he says Yoongi kissed him first, that he enjoyed it, that he was hard? No one. No one will believe him. And given that Yoongi was drunk, they’ll only pile on more—say nobody in their right mind would do something like that sober, that it had to be for money. Easy cash for one, and the word ‘faggot’ stamped on the other. Jimin wouldn’t survive that.

It’s quiet behind the wall. Quiet all day. No Yoongi. Just the babble of the TV and nothing else. The sink is finally draining; the cleaner worked, and Jimin silently rejoices over the money he’s saved. The whole day drags by in mental torture. His mind keeps shoving up images, dragging him back to what happened. Again the nerves, the tremor in his hands when the teasing kiss flickers in his head—up until the moment Yoongi deepened it. And every time, the dizzy rush slides straight down into his groin. Jimin pushes the thoughts away, forbids himself to dwell on it. He can’t. It’s wrong. It’s not something he’s even allowed to think about.

Monday breathes down his neck. Jimin doesn’t sleep, strung too tight. Sleep won’t come; his body is wrecked, his thoughts chew him to pieces. He cracks the apartment door and peeks out like someone terrified, bracing for a run-in, but he’s almost sure Yoongi will be late as usual. The hallway is empty. He hurries to school, just to avoid crossing his path. But on the threshold of his classroom he almost chokes on his panic. There might already be a different world waiting in there, one with no place for him.

Someone shoves him between the shoulder blades with an irritated, “Move it, Park,” forcing him to take that step.

Inside, everyone is still busy with their own lives. No one spares him a glance. The quiet where he’d been braced for loud laughter and fingers pointing his way feels like a miracle. But how long will it last?

Yoongi, like always, is the last to blow into the room and, just as usual, drops face-first onto his desk to catch up on all the sleep he’s missed. No one looks at him. Everyone ignores him. Min Su and Yeon Bin don’t pay him any attention, and Jimin is suddenly sure—they don’t know. He lets out a shaky breath and drops his forehead onto his textbooks. The sticky fear doesn’t fully let go, just loses some of its grip. Yoongi is going to wake up sooner or later and could tell his friends all about his big win. Exposed him, proved his point, scored a victory—or something else Jimin hasn’t had the courage to name yet. During break the teacher calls Yoongi’s name; he jerks awake, scrunching his nose in a sleepy frown.

“Min Yoongi, did you do your assignment? I’m still waiting for your makeup work,” comes from the teacher’s desk.

“Yes, sir.” Yoongi digs out the assignment Jimin did for him—copied over in his own hand—and turns it in.

On his way back to his seat, he flicks a glance Jimin’s way. Jimin’s breath snags at once when their eyes meet. The redness from those slaps the other night is gone from Yoongi’s face. Yoongi’s lashes flutter, his gaze skitters aside, and he looks almost thrown for a second before bolting from the room, dragging his friends with him. Jimin catches it, and the realization ties his chest in a knot. Yoongi isn’t going to tell anyone—he’s ashamed. The rest of the day Jimin feels that heavy stare on him in passing, catching it from the corner of his eye when Yoongi turns his head to sneak a look. Never long enough to get called out on it—but enough to make Jimin’s nerves sing. Over and over, his gaze snaps back to the supposed object of his hatred—if Yoongi can even be called that anymore—at the slightest movement from that side.

Art class is up next. The main lessons are over, but Monday refuses to become the end of his miserable little world. They don’t even bother him today. Yoongi keeps vanishing during every break—anything to stop Min Su from turning his attention toward Jimin. Keeping him out of sight. Good. Jimin himself still isn’t fully collected. Going up to Yoongi with questions is pointless. He’s in no position to demand answers. Rubbing his itchy nose with his sleeve, Jimin steps outside to cross into the neighboring building. The fresh air fills his lungs, brisk and steadying. He walks between the storage sheds, where the school keeps its equipment—until someone yanks him by the collar of his blazer and drags him into a narrow gap between two buildings. The place where half the school smokes, hiding behind the concrete. Yoongi pins him to the wall with a hard glare. No smell of cigarettes—he didn’t come to smoke. He was waiting. For him. Jimin freezes under the weight of that stare and has nothing to say. Yoongi seems to make up his mind before hissing out a warning:

“Say a word about what you saw or what happened—and I’ll kill you.”

Jimin stays silent. He can’t break eye contact. Can’t find the courage to speak. That same weekend-long turmoil rises in him again. His palms, damp with cold sweat, rub quietly against his pants. Yoongi shakes him, as if forcing a nod out of him.

“I’m not a faggot, got it? I was drunk. You hear me?”

But Jimin can’t focus. He can feel Yoongi’s breath—hot, brushing his cheek—and his gaze drops before he can stop it. He’s staring at the mouth that kissed him. The one he drew over and over last night. Pink. A little bitten. Dry.

“Hey. Eyes up here,” Yoongi whispers, glancing around to make sure they’re alone. He looks down at Jimin’s lips himself when Jimin lifts his gaze, shame coloring his face. “Forget it. Got that?”

Jimin drops his eyes to the ground. So that’s the conversation. No answers needed anymore. Yoongi is ashamed of what he did. He turns to leave; Jimin isn’t being held anymore.

“You didn’t answer me. Hey!” Yoongi barks from behind him, already pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He slips one between his lips, ready to light it.

“I got it,” Jimin says, turning back, looking straight at him, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He’s the mistake. That stolen first kiss—an accident. A waste. Yoongi doesn’t want to hear anything else. “You’re not a faggot. You were drunk. Forget it.”

Yoongi freezes, staring at him—and it’s as if neither of them is breathing. Jimin exhales shakily and starts moving toward the end of the alley—but Yoongi suddenly swats the unlit cigarette aside, lunges forward, and grabs Jimin by the front of his blazer with a low snarl:

“You fucking idiot…!”

He doesn’t get to finish. From the other end of the building, a teacher’s voice cuts through the air:

“Hey! Out of there—now!”

Yoongi drags him deeper into the alley at once. Jimin understands: if he gets caught smoking again, they’ll hit him harder with punishment. Yoongi will be suspended for longer. They’ll call his father into school instead of settling for a stamped notice sent home. Jimin is sure Yoongi forged the signature on that one himself. He has no desire to be the reason for another beating. He doesn’t even want to imagine what Yoongi would get for a cigarette he never even managed to light. Jimin decisively yanks the crumpled pack out of his hand and steps toward the opening. He has to ignore the shocked look in those foxlike eyes. But they don’t let him throw himself under the bus.

“Have you completely lost it? What the hell are you doing?” Yoongi hisses, grabbing him by the collar.

“Why do you care? I’m the one who’ll be stuck doing all those extra assignments anyway. Better I do it for myself. They’ll suspend you longer than me.”

“What are you gonna tell your mom? That you’ve been smoking? Idiot.” Yoongi jabs a finger into his forehead and shoves him back behind his own shoulder. “No.”

“That’s none of your business what I tell her. You’ll have it worse,” Jimin says, fist clenched tight around the pack, refusing to give it back. He meets Yoongi’s eyes and takes another stubborn step toward the exit.

“I said, out of there. I’m counting to three,” the teacher repeats, voice edged with threat. “Or I’ll punish you to the full extent.”

“Shut your mouth and stay down,” Yoongi whispers. His gaze drops to Jimin’s lips; then he starts scratching at his own—rubbing them with his fingers until they redden, swiping his palm over them. He strides out of the alley with sudden confidence.

“Teacher,” he says, bowing at once.

“Min Yoon-gi,” the teacher drawls his name, and Jimin hears the malicious satisfaction in it. “Up to your old tricks again. Smoking? Haven’t learned a thing? To the teachers’ lounge. Who’s back there with you?”

“Teacher, I wasn’t smoking,” Yoongi says, turning his pant pockets inside out to show they’re empty. “Really. I was with a girl. We were making out.” He shoots a look toward where Jimin is hiding, then moves closer to the teacher—out of Jimin’s line of sight. “Honestly. Here, see for yourself.” He blows out a loud breath to back his story. “I wasn’t smoking. There’s no smell, and my hands don’t stink either—you can check. Please, try to understand, we’re just kids. She’s too embarrassed to show her face. We weren’t doing anything serious. We just wanted some privacy. Please, teacher, I’m telling the truth—don’t make her come out. It’d be really awkward.”

“You’ve got some nerve, huh? This is the place you pick? You’re here to study, not fool around in corners. I was told you came here to smoke.”

“No, really, look—” he’s probably holding his hands out again, showing his empty pockets, “we weren’t smoking! We were just kissing, that’s it. You can see my lips are red. And who told you that, anyway?”

“Doesn’t matter. And quit shoving your hands in my face. Fine, I’ll let it slide this once. Tell your little girlfriend that next time I’ll make her come out. See how she likes that,” the teacher says, apparently satisfied, and turns away.

Jimin can’t believe his ears—Yoongi lied, and it worked. It’s terrifying to imagine what would’ve happened if the teacher had insisted and made him step out. Then it would be crystal clear Yoongi hadn’t been kissing a girl. Jimin is in no way ready for that. He would’ve flashed the pack of cigarettes still clutched in his fist, and they both would’ve taken the punishment. Anything but having to stand there and be ashamed of something he didn’t do. Not like this.

Yoongi peeks back into the alley, takes in Jimin standing there like a statue, eyes wide, and this time he doesn’t bother whispering.

“He’s gone. You can come out,” he says—and, not waiting for him, walks off.

In art class, the new topic refuses to stick. Too many thoughts are tangling all at once. Yoongi didn’t let him throw himself under the bus, worried about what Jimin’s mother would say. He came up with a story and wriggled them both out of trouble. He could’ve just let Jimin step out there with the pack in his hand, shrugged off the fallout that, technically, had nothing to do with him. But for some reason, he cared. And he’d made it very clear he wasn’t interested in talking about what happened—or anything else. His logic, once again, doesn’t add up.

“Hey, you’re Jimin, right?” someone pulls him out of his fog. Jimin jerks his head up and turns toward the voice. A boy is sitting beside him. Judging by how his knees are jammed up against the underside of the desk, he’s tall. Jimin doesn’t remember seeing him before—or rather, he almost never pays attention to who’s around him, too tired all the time.

“Right,” Jimin nods, unsure why this stranger is trying to chat.

“Jungkook.” The boy offers his hand. “Sorry to bother you, I just wanted to say you’re really good.” His eyes flick toward the drawing in Jimin’s sketchbook. “Will you share your secrets?”

The hand stays hanging in the air; his face is open, smiling. Jimin reaches out, gives a limp shake, and doesn’t quite trust the compliment. Another one who’s just dying to laugh at him?

“Seriously, wow,” this Jungkook murmurs, head tipped a little to one side as he studies the page. “I’ve seen your other stuff too. I’ve been wanting to say hi, but I chickened out. The teacher’s always praising you. It’s amazing how you can get the light and shadow so clean with just a pencil.”

He sounds genuinely friendly. He really doesn’t look like another Min Su or Yeon Bin. He keeps whispering excitedly, glancing at the teacher now and then, showing Jimin his own drawings for comparison. He gets into the details, and Jimin starts to think he actually knows something about art—and isn’t just looking for a stupid excuse to mess with him.

“You’re not bad yourself,” Jimin offers back.

“Oh, thanks—I’m self-taught. I only recently worked up the nerve to come here. I didn’t think they could teach me anything new, but I was wrong. Turns out I was totally clueless about the basics.” He grins. “By the way, I’m older than you, so you can call me hyung or just Jungkook, I don’t mind. I’ve seen you around the halls at school, and when I saw you here I figured this was my chance. Let’s be friends.” He nods with easy confidence, and Jimin can’t believe someone like this could be interested in him. “Seen you in the halls” doesn’t sound very convincing. On the surface, this Jungkook looks like he stepped out of a magazine: styled hair, a pretty face, a good athletic build, a branded T-shirt under the uniform, same for the sneakers on his feet. You can tell he comes from money. And he’s a year ahead of Jimin, too. Why would someone like that want to be friends with him? With a nobody, an outcast. In those same corridors, anyone who saw him would’ve seen a kid with his head down, hurrying for the exit, or trailing behind Min Su with a bottle of Coke from the vending machine in his hands, or in a uniform splashed with milk. Or in the cafeteria, bent over an empty tray after getting tripped to the sound of everyone’s laughter. The nagging thought that this might be another dumb prank doesn’t leave him. It’s hard to believe anyone really wants to be his friend. But he decides to at least watch for a while and make up his mind later.

“It’s not that hard once you get it, hyung,” Jimin says, letting out a breath after a small nod at the offer of friendship. A shy smile tugs at his lips as he goes back to the drawing, pointing out the obvious mistakes in Jungkook’s. “This part’s off. You’ve got the light hitting the object from both sides at once, so in the overall picture it really stands out. You’re mixing it up in places. Fix that and it’ll look a lot better.”

“Waaah, you’re a total pro,” Jungkook reacts maybe a little too loudly, flashing a blinding smile. “I need extra lessons. Help me? Please?” He gives Jimin’s shoulder a friendly little shake, drawing another smile out of him. “I’ll pay you, seriously. Give me a couple lessons, Jimin?”

“I don’t know, I don’t have much free time,” Jimin shrugs. The teacher taps the roll book on the desk, calling for quiet, and Jimin shuts up at once, ducking behind another student’s back.

“No, really, I’m not taking no for an answer. I’m applying to an art school. I need extra practice. And when he talks”—Jungkook jerks his chin toward the teacher, hiding behind someone’s shoulder—“I don’t understand a damn thing. I’m fine with any terms. Come on, help me out. Give me a couple assignments—I’ll draw them, you check. Just a few tips, that’s all. Extra cash never hurts, right? My family doesn’t exactly keep track of it.” He grins. “So, deal, Teacher Park?” he jokes, giving Jimin a new title. “I really do love your work.”

“All right,” Jimin agrees. He would’ve helped anyway if Jungkook kept pushing. It doesn’t feel like a setup, so why not make a little money on the side? Or no, he decides—he won’t take any money. And the idea of having an actual friend, even if only in art club, is a pretty good alternative in his life. Jungkook seems easygoing, genuine, with a real spark of interest in his eyes. “I’ll help you for free. You don’t have to pay.”

“Then maybe you can show me what kind of pencils you use? Or paints, brushes? Brand, size, color palette, thickness—everything.” Jungkook pelts him with questions in a whisper.

“Sorry, I don’t remember, honestly. They’re at home. Mostly I draw there. Here I just listen and do quick sketches,” Jimin says, shoulders hitching.

“Show me, then? I’ll walk you home. Next time I’ll have the same stuff.” Jungkook latches onto the idea at once. “I won’t keep you long—I’ll just take a picture and that’s it. Yeah?” He presses, and for some reason Jimin really doesn’t want to bring a stranger to his building. He’s embarrassed, too. His eyes drop again to the pricey sneakers that scream how different their lives are.

“I’ll just bring them next time,” Jimin tries, reluctant, hoping to avoid the awkwardness over what his apartment looks like.

“I’m not trying to invite myself over,” Jungkook laughs softly. “We barely know each other; I’m not that rude. Just bring them out, I’ll snap a photo. No need to drag all your stuff here, Jimin. This way’s easier.”

Jimin yields, gives a flustered nod, and buries his nose in his sketchbook. Having someone to be friends with—that’s a first for him. Jungkook’s friendliness is relentless, and his interest doesn’t feel wrong. If anything, Jimin wants to believe he could be interesting to someone—useful, even.

Jungkook chats the whole way to Jimin’s place, cracking jokes; his laugh is infectious. He’s taller, broader, and it’s obvious he’s into sports as well. Every so often he bumps Jimin’s shoulder playfully, fishing for a reaction to his latest comment. They talk a lot about painting, famous artists, exhibitions Jungkook has been to. Jimin feels a twist of envy—he’s never been to a single one. The stories are captivating, and time flies. Climbing the stairs to his floor, Jimin feels that old awkwardness again—he still can’t bring himself to invite him in. Jungkook, though, strides ahead like he owns the place, hands shoved carelessly into his pockets, as if he already knows the way.

“We’re here,” Jimin stops him when Jungkook predictably walks past his door. “Wait a sec, I’ll be quick.”

Jimin throws the door open, rushes to his room, grabs his favorite supplies and piles them together so Jungkook won’t have to wait long. Then he hurries back out, a silly smile tugging at his mouth at the thought that someone actually cares about his hobby. He darts into the hall in his house slippers, nudges the door shut with his elbow, and catches his breath. Jungkook is saying something in an awed murmur, pulls out his phone, and starts taking pictures—and suddenly Jimin feels uneasy. His head turns automatically toward the corridor. Yoongi is standing there, watching them, a cigarette between his fingers. Judging by how he’s planted himself there, he’s been waiting to see which apartment the uninvited guest in their school uniform would go to. Out of the dimness Jimin sees the smile slide off his lips; his frown deepens. He flicks the smoldering butt over the railing and heads toward them with purpose.

“Lunch is on me,” Jungkook says, grinning at Jimin as Jimin hugs his pencils and paints to his chest, stepping aside to give Yoongi room.

Jungkook doesn’t have time to pocket his phone. Yoongi shoulders right between them, clipping him hard. Jimin is sure it’s on purpose. The phone slips from Jungkook’s hand, hits the concrete on a corner, and the screen protector cracks in a spiderweb.

“Tch, hey,” Jungkook clicks his tongue, pointing a finger at Yoongi’s back. “Ever heard of manners? People are standing here.”

Yoongi stops dead. He clearly has no intention of swallowing that. He whirls around; the naked aggression in his stare collides with Jungkook’s startled one.

“Got a problem?” he growls, taking a step closer.

“No problem,” Jimin says, stepping in front of his new friend. He moves on instinct, pushing Jungkook—now holding his busted phone—back with one hand. “Don’t. Jungkook, he’s got a shitty temper,” Jimin sums up, surprised at his own bravery. For once he doesn’t feel threatened. With someone at his back, it’s not as terrifying to snap back at the blatant rudeness and disrespect. Right now, Yoongi is being downright rude.

Yoongi presses his lips into a thin line, staring him down, then flicks a look at Jungkook. The muscles in his jaw roll under his skin; he snorts and stalks off toward his own door. Before it closes, though, Jimin is sure he hears:

“I’m really sorry, Jungkook, I’ll pay you back for the phone. I’m sorry,” Jimin says, head bowed.

“Forget it, don’t worry about it. Your neighbor’s a jerk. Just buy me lunch instead. Yeah, that’s it. You owe me lunch, Park Jimin!”

“Okay. Deal.”

Chapter Text

That night, loud music thunders behind the wall. Jimin falls asleep to its muted rhythm, knowing Yoongi is alone. His father isn’t home, which means Yoongi can finally let himself breathe a little. That’s still better than shouting, slamming doors, or drunken rampages. Yoongi heads to school behind him, keeping his distance. Jimin feels the heavy stare burning into the back of his head. It’s… embarrassing. A little unsettling. He manages to glance back only once — just to confirm he isn’t imagining things. And he isn’t. Yoongi, well-rested for once, isn’t late today, but Jimin is relieved he didn’t have to run into him in the hallway. He picks up his pace, wanting to widen the distance between them — between himself, yesterday, and Yoongi’s outburst at Jungkook. Shame prickles hot under his skin every time he remembers the cracked screen. He’s almost sure Jungkook won’t talk to him now. Their brand-new friendship might end before it even begins. And that… stings. It stings because Yoongi’s behavior was, at the very least, rude. But things aren’t as bad as Jimin expected. He isn’t grabbed by the collar, no anger spat in his face for stepping in yesterday, for daring to talk back. He prevented a fight — small victory, but still something. Maybe Jungkook will forgive him for having such an impossible neighbor. And Jimin is determined to buy him that lunch, even though he spent the entire walk to school trying to choose a place. A small street café near the gates, maybe — where classmates sometimes hang out after lessons? But he has no number. Jungkook never gave him a way to reach out, and Jimin silently scolds himself for not asking in the chaos of yesterday.

Yoongi is sullen and barely speaks to his friends, and because of that they keep shooting glances toward Jimin during the long break, Luckily, Minsoo’s newest fling with Nayeon is the perfect distraction. She clings to him every break, chattering excitedly about the latest school gossip while he wraps an arm around her waist. The whole group is about to head to the cafeteria for their usual slow parade through the heart of the school — perfect for collecting rumors. Jimin always goes last. Staying unseen gives him a chance to eat in peace.

But not this time. Jungkook appears in the doorway of their classroom. His gaze sweeps the room until it lands on Jimin’s head, bowed over a notebook. He exhales, relieved.

“Found you!” A hand lands on Jimin’s shoulder, fingers ruffling the hair at the back of his head. “Hey, Jimin,” Jungkook’s voice drops warmly from above.

“Hi…?” Jimin snaps his head up, stunned — painfully aware of how this must look to everyone else. Girls freeze mid-sentence, staring at the handsome upperclassman standing by Jimin’s desk. Tall, fit, expensive accessories peeking out from under his uniform, steady confidence, hand tucked casually in his pocket — he radiates popularity. And he’s older.

That alone makes the whispers flare instantly. Jimin hears his surname. Hears the confusion.

Why him? Why is this guy talking to him?

“So, lunch? I was looking everywhere for you. Seriously — I ran through half the school, it was hell.” Jungkook nudges his shoulder, drapes an arm around him with friendly insistence.

“Come on, come on — you owe me a meal, remember?”

He pulls Jimin toward the door — and freezes for a second when his eyes lock with Yoongi’s. Jungkook scans him from head to toe, clicks his tongue in pointed disdain. Recognition. Disapproval. Jimin’s stomach drops. Yoongi’s face darkens like a storm cloud. He’s already pushing up from his seat when Jimin yanks Jungkook out of the classroom as fast as possible.

“Aish, you’re in the same class as that asshole? Damn…”

Another nudge to his shoulder, light but incredulous.

“And not just him,” Jimin mutters evenly. “I’m… really sorry about yesterday. I thought maybe we could go to an actual café, you know? A proper apology. Didn’t think a school lunch was enough to make up for breaking your phone.”

“I told you, don’t worry about it. Screen replacement takes five minutes.”

He shrugs. “And what’s wrong with the cafeteria?”

“Well… it doesn’t really count. You pay for your own meal, so it’s not the same,” Jimin says helplessly.

“Oh? Then I won’t say no if we go somewhere other than the school cafeteria.” Jungkook grins. “Good. Then you owe me a café lunch. Cafeteria doesn’t count. I’m getting meat. You’re treating me to meat, right? Beef? And school lunch doesn’t count as payment!”

“Pork,” Jimin corrects softly.

“Nooo, don’t do me like that, hey— I was counting on beef!” Jungkook laughs.

“Pork,” Jimin repeats, tugging on the lapel of Jungkook’s blazer — finally smiling himself. “It’s all I can afford. Sorry.”

“Tsk.” Jungkook clicks his tongue, pretending to sulk, then bursts out laughing.

“Then I’ll buy us the beef and you can get the pork. We’ll stuff ourselves full, and you can share a couple of your drawing hacks, yeah?” He rubs his stomach at the thought, his eyes squeezing shut a little as he imagines how good the meat will taste.

“Deal.”

In the cafeteria, Jungkook picks through the school lunch tray, only eating the sausages and whatever looks good, while Jimin polishes off everything in sight, stuffing himself enough to last the whole day. Jungkook ruffles his hair again, cracks jokes about his appetite, shows him the delivery app on his phone with all the food he ordered yesterday—and more. Jimin is embarrassingly flustered. He feels awkward under this easy warmth and friendly attention. He isn’t used to it. Every now and then, his gaze skims over the other students in the cafeteria, because that heavy feeling in his chest won’t go away. Part of him can’t shake the idea that people are watching. He wants to show them he isn’t that bad, that he’s someone you can be friends with, talk to, not just shove around and send to buy drinks. Yoongi really is watching. So are his friends. They whisper to each other, clearly discussing the fact that Jimin has a senior hanging around him now. Jimin is half proud of the startled looks thrown his way over their shoulders. It can only mean one thing—Jungkook is real. Not some plant sent in to mess with him, play a prank, or set him up. From the shocked faces it becomes clear they’re looking at him differently now. It’s insane how much it means, having friends, in the cruel social world of school. An imaginary cushion of safety. Jimin has never been to the other side of the moon—the one that’s always in the sun, where people actually notice you. From over here, the world doesn’t seem so bad.

Jungkook steals one of his sausages, pops it into his mouth and grins. Jimin makes a playful noise of outrage around a full mouth, eyebrows shooting up. His hair is ruffled again, a hand promising to pay him back in meat later for the theft. Jimin laughs—and somewhere in that moment there’s a harsh clatter of chopsticks against the table. His eyes immediately find the source of the sound—Yoongi’s freaking out, shoving his tray away and getting to his feet. His food stays untouched. He shoots Jimin a vicious look and stalks out of the cafeteria, ditching his friends. Jimin’s mood drops hard. Usually Yoongi cleans his tray, eats everything he’s given. Not today. He doesn’t want to poke at whatever’s going on in that head. He doesn’t even want to consider that it might have anything to do with his new acquaintance. Yoongi made it pretty clear—forget it. Jimin tries not to think about it, not to go back to that still-buzzing memory of their closeness, focusing instead on bright Jungkook.

Back in class, for the first time, girls come up to talk to him. Their intentions are pretty transparent—some of them ask who that handsome guy with him was, what his name is, they beg him to share his phone number, which Jimin never actually got. He stammers that he’ll ask next time they meet and see if it’s okay to give it out. Having all that attention suddenly dumped on him is…nice too. Jimin doesn’t feel like an outcast. Not anymore.

Of course, Min Su and Yeon Bin can’t keep their noses out of it either. In their usual way, like they’re buddies, they beckon him over, start questioning him, draping lazy arms over his shoulders. The last thing Jimin wants is to share any of it. He keeps his answers short, eyes down. Yoongi snaps at them to back off and leave Jimin alone, if only so he doesn’t have to see him hovering around. Jimin wouldn’t mind that, either.

Yoongi doesn’t come by the convenience store in the middle of the night for expired food anymore. He’s been in a permanent bad mood for at least a couple of days now. Barely eats at school. For some reason it bothers Jimin, even though it shouldn’t. Jungkook, on the other hand, keeps pushing his own portion onto Jimin’s tray on top of everything else, introduces him to his crowd, and soon Jimin knows a couple more seniors. Just as good-looking, popular, tall. Next to Namjoon, Seokjin and Jungkook, Jimin feels tiny. They welcome him easily, chat over his head, fuss over him like he’s a kid brother. Girls look over at him more and more. One day he even finds an apple on his desk and hears giggling comments about it from a group of friends. And, to his surprise, Min Su and Yeon Bin stop bothering him as much. Being popular is kind of awesome. It’s doubly nice when three tall seniors freeze in the doorway and wait for him so they can haul him off to lunch. As for Yoongi—Yoongi doesn’t go to the cafeteria anymore. He just stares at Jimin for long stretches during class. Jimin feels it, knows it’s true.

After yet another night shift, Jimin comes to school with his backpack stuffed full of food. Once again he didn’t have time to stop by home because his replacement is always oversleeping. Yoongi is late. When he finally shows up, there’s a bruise blazing across the bridge of his nose, spilling down under his eyes in dark half-moons. His face has gotten gaunter over the past week. Anyone can see he isn’t eating enough. Jimin lets out a heavy sigh, staring at the back that collapses onto the desk. Last night was bad. The kind of night he’s glad he didn’t have to hear. It’s obvious Yoongi’s dad, drunk out of his mind, slammed his face into something, that’s why his nose is busted. But one detail still jumps out—Yoongi’s knuckles, on the hand stretched along the desk, are scraped raw. The thought sneaks in that Yoongi fought back. Swung in return, defending what little pride he has left.

He doesn’t want to think about that bleak world next door to his own. Jimin yawns, bone-tired after another sleepless night, and is grateful he didn’t have to hear any of it firsthand. It hurts again, seeing that pain, that hollowed-out face, when his own backpack is crammed with food. In an effort to focus on something else, Jimin draws. He sketches the hand lying loose on the desk, the scuffed, stinging knuckles—and then curses himself in his head and flips to a new page to draw Jungkook instead. Or rather, Jungkook’s back in his school uniform. Just another quick sketch of two guys. An arm slung over a shoulder, the backs of their heads—the picture of their friendship, all the proportions carefully in place. Nothing specific enough for a random onlooker to recognize who it is. Jimin gets lost in it, misses the bell entirely, wanting to finish before lunch so he can show it to Jungkook. Jungkook will definitely appreciate the effort, praise him in that dazzled way—same as his new friends. Jimin is counting on it.

He doesn’t count on Yoongi noticing the sketch as he comes up behind him, glancing over Jimin’s shoulder out of the corner of his eye and recognizing Jungkook in the boy doing the hugging. The sketchbook is snatched out from under his hand. Wild eyes stare at the drawing from up close just as Jimin whips around in fright.

“Give it back!” Jimin shoots up from his chair and unsuccessfully tries to yank the sketchbook back.

“Only after I do this,” Yoongi growls, getting ready to rip that poor page out. He catches the sheet between his fingers to tear it free, crumple it and toss it, but he doesn’t get the chance. Behind him, Jungkook comes to a stop, snatches the sketchbook out of his hands in turn and clicks his tongue right by his ear, shoving Yoongi in the shoulder.

“Tch. Hey, dumbass, I see you still haven’t learned any manners.” The sketchbook is handed back into Jimin’s hands, and he just stares, stunned by Jungkook’s sudden appearance.

“And you, what, got the wrong classroom or something? Get the hell back to your own, what the fuck are you even doing in here?” Yoongi growls, his fists clenching like iron.

“Didn’t come here for you. And where I go is my business,” Jungkook rumbles, stepping in closer and straightening up to his full height to loom over Yoongi.

Jimin knows nothing good is going to come out of this kind of back-and-forth, and the last thing he wants is to be the reason for a fight in the classroom. But he doesn’t have time to do or say anything. Yoongi throws the first punch. It lands glancing and not as hard as he probably wanted, so Jungkook, staggering back, comes at him with his fists up. They scuffle, desks screeching as they skid aside and chairs crashing over. Jungkook lands a solid blow to his stomach, forcing Yoongi to double over in pain. Jimin, out of his mind with fear, throws himself into the fight as a useless third body. No one even notices him when Yoongi straightens up a little and launches himself at Jungkook, grabbing him around the waist to tackle him to the floor. As Jungkook backs away from the oncoming hit, he bumps into Jimin, and Jimin stumbles and goes down. His head smacks loudly against a desk leg and he squeezes his eyes shut, grabbing the back of his head with both hands. A long groan of pain slips out of him. He sits on the floor, barely seeing or understanding anything, but the fight stops. Yoongi makes a move to rush over, but he gets shoved hard in the chest and drowned in a stream of curses.

“Fucking bastard,” Jungkook growls, hauling Jimin to his feet. “You’re getting the fuck away from him. Freak.” Jimin is dragged out the door, supported under the arms while he lets out faint little sounds at the sharp pain in the back of his head. “Come on, I’m taking you to the nurse’s office. Are you okay, Jimin?” he asks, rubbing gently over the sore spot to ease the ache.

Jungkook keeps cursing for a long time, ranting about their classmates being out of their minds, tossing out threats about how he’ll get his hands on Yoongi later and show him how he’s supposed to behave. Jimin protests desperately at that while the nurse presses ice to the bump on the back of his head. Jungkook agrees only reluctantly, because Jimin’s fingers are literally digging into his hand, begging him not to start any more fights. Jimin doesn’t like either of their moods, so he asks Jungkook to stay away from his classroom for a while so he doesn’t spark another argument. He promises to come out into the hallway on his own and even screws up the courage to add that he’ll stop by their class instead. His wishes are heard. Jimin exhales in relief, smiling over this small victory. It feels good to be listened to, good to be defended. Friends really are kind of amazing. But what Yoongi did—trying to tear up his sketchbook—stays a mystery. And it stings. Maybe it was just a bad mood, a night full of stress, hunger. Jimin mentally nods along with his own explanation. Yoongi’s been looking rough as it is lately, not eating, not coming by the store, not taking any food, and now he’s gotten into a fight with Jungkook on top of it all—with a bruised nose and split knuckles.

When Jimin goes back to class, Yoongi is already gone. He doesn’t show up again for the rest of the day. His food-stuffed backpack drags at his shoulders that evening as he punches in the code on the lock to his building. His soft bed welcomes his exhausted body after a sleepless night, but sleep doesn’t come. There’s a drinking party going on behind the wall—voices of Yoongi’s father’s drinking buddies. But no Yoongi. His thoughts drift back again to the backpack full of food he brought home. Jimin decisively packs a good portion of it into a bag and steels himself for a recklessly brave move. He slips on his slippers to carry it down to the storage room and leave it all there in silence. It’s unbearable to think about, to see Yoongi not eating. Sure, he probably buys something with the money he earns from deliveries, but Jimin knows from experience it’s nowhere near enough. And besides, his father can easily strip him of the last of it.

The door opens quietly inward. The room is already dark, but the shapes of things still faintly show in the deepening dusk outside. He freezes on the threshold, trying not to make a sound, because he sees a back turned toward the wall. He hopes he’ll stay unnoticed while Yoongi sleeps. He won’t. A face turns toward him, gaze lingering while it pieces together who the uninvited guest is. The urge to drop the bag at his feet and bolt surges through him. Jimin lowers his eyes, shuffles awkwardly, and sets the bag down on the floor.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Yoongi shoots to his feet, and the chance to run without answering evaporates instantly.

“You’re not coming for food anymore. So I brought it myself,” he mumbles quietly, swallowing the words with nerves.

“You think I need your charity?” Yoongi looms over him, drawing up to his full height, and Jimin curls in on himself, shoulders lifting toward his ears.

“Just eat it and forget I was ever here, okay? Forget it,” he whispers, barely audible, then immediately turns and grabs the door handle with a sweaty hand. He has just enough time to regret his attempt to help—the cause of all the day’s trouble standing right in front of him—when the slice of hallway light vanishes. A dull thump against the door forces it shut again. Yoongi is breathing against the back of his head, standing so close Jimin can feel the warmth, and answers just as quietly:

“I can’t. I can’t forget.” Fingers of his other hand clamp into Jimin’s side, pull him back as a forehead presses into the base of his skull.

Jimin inhales sharply, stunned by the sudden closeness, and finds he can’t breathe out. Something inside him twists tight into a knot just under his ribs. Every cell in his body feels like it’s begging for more contact. Yoongi drags him back by the side and nudges his head forward against Jimin’s spine again. His eyes drop to the door—blocked now by a hand that slides down. The other hand moves too, no longer gripping him with that fierce hold, but sliding over his stomach. Strong arms wrap around his waist and pull him flush against a solid chest. Warm breath spills over the back of his head, and Jimin’s mind blanks. He sinks into the circle of Yoongi’s arms, soaking up the heat. Yoongi buries his nose in Jimin’s hair, locks both arms around his middle, forearms circling him tight, and places a kiss on the bruise. On the exhale, Jimin hears:

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” Another soft brush of lips through his hair. Goosebumps race down Jimin’s spine, lifting the tiny hairs on his arms and tightening his skin. He can’t believe this scorching tenderness coming from someone with such a rotten temper. Those hands grow bolder, slide higher, taking away the last scraps of his will. One arm settles fully around his stomach while the other rises hesitantly along his chest, fingers catching on his collarbone. He’s trapped—held close, pressed tight to a warm, steady chest—listening to the shattered voice behind him. Jimin is drowning in his own feelings. His heart is about to explode, and he knows Yoongi can feel that humiliating rhythm through the thin fabric of his shirt. Panic claws at him, but there’s no chance to break free, no chance to run. The grip is too strong. “Breathe,” Yoongi murmurs against the back of his head, heat from the breath burning his skin. Another shiver sweeps through Jimin. Another wave.

Jimin lets the air out through his lips in a shaky rush, then drags in another breath along with the tremor running through his body. This time he doesn’t hold it. Yoongi nuzzles into his hair, rubs his face against him, and Jimin realizes it’s not just his own heart going wild. Back there, pressed to his spine, it’s pounding way too loud. What is it Yoongi can’t forget? What was he just talking about? Why apologize for an accidental fall and a bump to the head? Jimin refuses to make sense of any of it without hearing the meaning spelled out. Yoongi makes no sense. He doesn’t fit any of Jimin’s logic—pushes him away, and then does… all of this. But thinking is impossible with those hands holding him so tight, squeezing like they’re trying to soak up the feel of his body, and Yoongi’s nose is already rubbing at his temple, his ear, his cheek. Jimin can’t think at all. Heat and cold chase each other under his skin, his palms slick with cold sweat. The rest of him is one exposed nerve. Every broken breath against the shell of his ear makes his knees shake. He’s ashamed of how his body is reacting to nothing more than touches, but there’s nothing he can do. He melts in those strong arms. Tentatively, Jimin lays his cold fingers over Yoongi’s forearm. The muscle twitches under his touch, the tiny tremor making his own hands shake and giving him away. He’s breathing hard as his fingers trail higher along Yoongi’s arm, tracing the raised veins on smooth, pale skin, until they find the scrapes on his knuckles. He’s always wanted to touch the veins he kept copying into his sketches. With the barest, gentle stroke, Jimin runs the pad of his finger around the reddened patch on the back of his hand and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to pull his thoughts together.

“You wanted to tear up my sketchbook. I don’t understand,” he whispers, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Why?”

“Sorry,” comes the answer, so soft, right away—and nothing more. Jimin never gets the explanation he wants, or any reason for what Yoongi did.

“No. I don’t understand you,” he insists. “You tell me to ‘forget it,’ you ignore me, threaten me, hurt me, and you’re always angry. I can see that.”

“I don’t understand myself either. I can’t forget it, I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Yoongi squeezes him tighter, his arms saying how sorry he is, and keeps nuzzling his cheek with his nose. It’s driving Jimin insane. It’s like he’s losing his mind. Jimin can’t focus on the conversation again. He’s too worked up, every touch to his body sending waves of heat spreading out in all directions. He’s aroused. It’s just a hug. Just arms locked tight around his chest and stomach and that maddening nose roaming over his cheek. Rough, dry lips smear tenderness over his cheek and his ear, and it makes him feel like he’s going to fall apart. His head is spinning; Jimin squeezes his eyes shut to get out one last reproach:

“I hate you. You stole my first kiss and told me to forget it, Yoongi. How am I supposed to forget something like that?”

He tries gently to pull himself out of the iron grip, but the hold only loosens enough for him to turn and face his offender. Or rather, Yoongi makes him turn, steering him with his hands and refusing to break the soft press of his lips to Jimin’s burning cheek, or the tickle of his nose against it.

“Same,” Yoongi murmurs right against his mouth. “I gave you mine, too.” The confession slips out before he brushes his lips over Jimin’s full lower lip and shares his breath.

Yoongi wraps an arm around Jimin’s waist again, tight and sure, his palm pressing firmly into Jimin’s back as he leans in and kisses him with new, bolder force. A hot breath flares across Jimin’s cheek through Yoongi’s nose as their mouths finally meet. Trembling, greedy—his lips close over Jimin’s, slick from being licked a moment earlier. Their traded hatred already sounds like a confession of something softer, maybe even more. The same old words feel like they carry a completely different meaning now. Jimin’s mind blanks. He feels insane, the way he leans into Yoongi, how his body arches forward with a hunger for the same shock as last time. Only this time it’s stronger. The excitement curling tight in his chest burns more fiercely; the tension in his groin is sharper. This time Jimin knows what to expect, so he opens his mouth in trust, letting Yoongi’s licking tongue slide in deeper. The moment Yoongi pushes in, insistent and sure, his tongue tangling with Jimin’s, Jimin buries his fingers in the black hair at the nape of his neck and moans, unable to control the sharp stab of arousal that hits hot and low in his groin. Yoongi reacts to the sound, tightening his hold, lifting Jimin onto his toes. One hand locks around Jimin’s waist, iron-strong, while the other anchors the back of his head, refusing to let him pull away from the too-deep kiss. Jimin is practically hanging off Yoongi’s neck, arms wrapped around it, yielding to the demanding, searching movements of his tongue, matching them with his own. Yoongi kisses too intoxicatingly—breathing loudly, unlike Jimin, who can barely get a breath past the tightened knot in his throat. His own moan hits his ears too sharply, flooding him with shame. He tries to shut his mouth, to stop himself, but Yoongi doesn’t let him pull away. He kisses deeper, licks over his lips, sucks at them with slow, dragging insistence, sometimes grazing them with his teeth only to soothe the spot immediately after with his tongue. Yoongi hums a low moan straight into the kiss, showing him it’s okay—that he likes it—and Jimin pushes his tongue back into his mouth with renewed hunger, pressing closer. One of Yoongi’s hands slides up and down Jimin’s back, drifting now and then to the bruise on his head, fingertips brushing the tender bump with a featherlight graze. The other arm never stops circling his waist.

The sensations are unreal. Gasping for air, Jimin digs his fingers into Yoongi’s broad shoulders and squeezes, pulling back just enough to breathe. He pants heavily as Yoongi lowers him back onto his feet. Their foreheads touch. Yoongi’s lips shine with Jimin’s saliva. It feels unreal. Too close, too much. Those lips—Jimin can’t stop staring at them as he drags in ragged breaths—look insatiable. Yoongi trails light pecks at the corners of Jimin’s mouth, brushes his cheeks, leans back only to kiss him again. Hungry, passionate—his lips pull at Jimin’s full lower one, sliding over it with his tongue before diving back in.

Jimin has no idea how long they stand there kissing, but the room is completely dark now. He feels hot all over. Every bit of awareness sharpens on the touches—hands, lips, tongue—and his ears catch the small sounds of pleasure both of them let slip from time to time. Yoongi doesn’t let himself do anything more than stroke Jimin’s back or the back of his head. He doesn’t go further, doesn’t reach for anything crude he could brag about if Jimin were a girl. Just tender hunger and an endless thirst for kissing.

“Don’t go,” Yoongi whispers into his swollen lips. “Stay with me a little.”

“Then eat,” Jimin insists.

Yoongi nods, feels his way toward the switch, and the room floods with a warm yellow glow from the old ceiling lamp. In the light, the magic thins. Every detail of Yoongi’s face is visible—his reddened lips from their kisses—and Jimin is painfully aware that Yoongi is staring at his own flushed, embarrassed cheeks. He hides his eyes, but Yoongi’s hand lifts his chin, forcing him to meet his gaze.

“Don’t hide from me. I won’t hurt you. Not anymore. I’m sorry.” He leans in slowly and presses a soft, damp peck to Jimin’s lips.

Trust doesn’t come easily. He’s flinched at Yoongi’s glare, at shoves to his shoulder or back too many times for it to vanish in a second. But come to think of it—Yoongi has never actually hit him. Pushed, threatened, scared him—but not beaten him. That was Min Su and Yeon Bin. Jimin nods uncertainly, eyes dropping to Yoongi’s mouth. Kissing in the light feels strange. Embarrassing. But Yoongi doesn’t share his shyness. He cups Jimin’s face again and kisses him briefly, searching his eyes. Then he pulls Jimin by the hand and sits him down on the narrow bed where he’d been sleeping earlier.

He takes a triangular kimbap out of the bag, offering one silently, but Jimin shakes his head and climbs onto the bed, kicking off his slippers. Curling up against the pillow in the corner, knees pulled to his chest, he watches Yoongi’s profile while he eats rice and tuna.

“Another one,” Jimin orders, earning a surprised lift of eyebrows and a faint smile. “You’ve lost weight.”

“So you noticed,” Yoongi nods, gets up, and walks to the gardening tools in the corner, rummaging for something. “Here.” He freezes with a bottle in his hand—the exact same brand of expensive liquor he gave his father. “Put it back before my mom notices it’s missing. Just put it back, okay? No arguing, no questions. I’m paying you back.”

Jimin is so stunned he can’t say a word. He stares at the whiskey with wide eyes, knowing exactly how much it costs. Too much for people like him and Yoongi. Yoongi must’ve gone hungry, must’ve saved every coin to buy it—and now he’s asking Jimin to return it so he won’t get scolded. Jimin presses his lips together, looks away, and sniffles, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. Refusing would hurt him. Saying “you shouldn’t have” would cheapen the sacrifice. Someone worked themselves to the bone for this bottle. For him. He takes it and holds it to his chest. Frowning, he stares at it and nods. He’ll return it. He’ll respect what it cost.

“You upset?” Yoongi asks softly, lifting Jimin’s chin between his fingers and peering into his eyes, shiny with emotion.

“No, I just remembered how much I hate you,” Jimin snorts—and then smiles right away when he hears Yoongi’s quiet laugh. It feels so unfamiliar, so unreal to be cared about by Yoongi and to hear him laugh that Jimin can’t look away, memorizing the smile for a future drawing.

The second kimbap disappears obediently, and then Yoongi climbs onto the bed too, but he doesn’t reach for more kisses. He pulls Jimin’s legs straight while Jimin leans back against the wall, then slowly inches closer to lie beside him. Yoongi’s head settles on his stomach, arms wrapping around his hips from behind, circling him tightly. Jimin flushes with embarrassment at the weight pressing against his belly and lower down, but he rests his hand on Yoongi’s head. Letting his fingers glide through the hair, he strokes him steadily. Yoongi closes his eyes, nose pressed into Jimin’s stomach. He smiles into the touch like a warm, well-fed cat.

“Tell anyone and I’ll kill you,” he rasps through a laugh, and Jimin snorts back. Yoongi nestles closer, cheek pressed to him, arms tightening as he says sternly: “Hey. Don’t shake me. Let me lie here in peace.”