Archive of Our Own

Jimin knows he looks like hell.

It’s 4:40 in the morning and he’s walking to Taehyung’s. There’s no way he can go back to his own apartment right now, no way he can open his door and look at his bedroom, his kitchen, even if he knows that he isn’t there anymore and won’t be again—but he shouldn’t have been there in the first place so why why why—

Stop, Jimin tells his head. Stop thinking about it. Go get a coffee.

It’s 4:40 in the morning and he’s going to get a coffee. There’s no way Jimin can handle going to sleep anytime soon, not when he gets to Taehyung’s, and probably not tonight, and maybe not ever. The doctors might have said that he was fine to go, and that he should get some rest, but his neck twinges every time he turns his head, and his throat aches with the bruises swelling purple-black on either side. Bruises in the unmistakable shape of fingers, fingers that a year ago had been careful and so insidiously sweet, deceptive so Jimin had only ever felt their tenderness until they started leaving aches instead of shivers in their wake. A breakup, six months without contact, the return of Jimin’s sense of self and safety, and now this. This is what Jimin gets for believing that the past was behind him.

There’s the bruise on his cheek, too—if it can even be called that, the bruise on his cheek, because the bruise is his cheek. The doctor had said Jimin was lucky not to have a zygomatic fracture, but even without an actual break, Jimin’s left eye is ringed in the same deep purple of the marks on his throat, and the left half of his face is pretty swollen. He has to ice it when he gets to Taehyung’s, but he figures it can wait a few minutes more so that Jimin can get some caffeine in him and hopefully stop feeling like hell even though he will still undoubtedly look it.

There’s a Starbucks on the way to Taehyung’s, which is great because all the money Jimin has is whatever’s left on his mobile Starbucks card. It’s enough for a small coffee; enough to delay the moment Taehyung finds out what Jimin’s been through in the past six hours and goes all worried and fluttery and Jimin why didn’t you call me right away and then starts crying, which will make Jimin think about it, which is the opposite of what Jimin wants right now. Maybe the opposite of what he wants ever.

When Jimin approaches the Starbucks, it’s blessedly empty. The only person Jimin can see through the glass is the barista, a guy with a shock of messy white-blond hair dressed all in black. Jimin pushes through the door and trudges toward the register, peeking up through his own honey-yellow hair to eye the kid behind the counter. The boy is barely taller than Jimin if he’s taller at all, and his cheekbones are arched and delicate, the line of his neck long and very pale in the dim light of the store. He’s beautiful like a charcoal sketch, an artist’s vision drawn out in artfully careless strokes. Jimin swallows and feels the ache of it down to his chest.

The kid looks up at Jimin with wide, startled fox eyes and slams the cash drawer shut.

“Fuck,” he says, pulling earbuds out of his ears as he blushes cherry bright. “I mean—sorry. We’re, uh, we’re not actually open until 5:00. I must’ve forgotten to relock the door.”

Jimin closes his eyes, resigned. “It’s okay,” he tries to say, except it’s a raspy whisper that makes the blond kid look kind of guilty. Jimin ducks his head before the kid can say anything. “Really, it’s fine. I’ll go.”

The guy taps something lightning quick on the computer screen, and Jimin turns to walk out of the store, but then the guy speaks: “Hey, no, it’s—you can wait in here if you want. The registers are all ready, which is the important thing. But it’ll take a few minutes before I can give you coffee. Just sit tight, okay?”

Jimin lifts his gaze. Those sloping fox eyes are studying him, lingering on the swollen purple of his cheekbone, the stain of fingers inked into Jimin’s neck like a brand of ownership, a collar he can’t take off no matter how much he aches to.

“It’s fine. You don’t have to, um,” Jimin whispers. The barista is clearly too exhausted to be flustered, but he does seem slightly overwhelmed by Jimin’s presence in the store, and it’s cute to see someone get a little ruffled over Jimin even if it’s probably only because he looks like an ad against domestic violence.

Which. With what’s happened to Park Jimin in the past six hours, he kind of is.

“Really, it’s fine,” the barista says. “Most of this stuff is done. Just give me a minute to finish up and then I’ll give you coffee. If you don’t mind waiting.”

Jimin sighs and lets his head tip forward, careful because he doesn’t want to feel the pain that sudden motion causes in his throat. He feels it anyway and wonders how long that will go on. If it will outlast the shape of his hands on Jimin’s skin as he pressed and pressed and—

Stop thinking about it. Get a coffee.

“Okay,” Jimin whispers. “I don’t mind waiting.” What else is there to say? What else is there to do? All that lies in Jimin’s future is Taehyung’s worry, his couch for a few nights until Jimin can summon the strength to pack up his stuff and move, because there’s no way he can keep living in his apartment now. He’s lucky that there are two weeks of break before school starts back up and he has to keep TA-ing, and that his only current responsibility is the research that Namjoon wants Jimin’s help with even though Jimin is a first year Master’s student and Namjoon is a professor at the age of 24.

Jimin’s life is the same as it had been before, except with more anxiety and neck pain and nightmares. Oh, and probably a court date. For when he has to testify.

The cute, sleepy barista nods. “Okay. Uh, do you want some food? The ovens aren’t hot yet, but I can give you a room temperature scone or something.”

“It’s fine,” Jimin whispers. “I’m not sure I can swallow. Um. Solid foods.” Also, there’s no way Jimin has enough money for any of the pastries in the case, glittering with sugar and tantalizing him with how sweet and comforting they probably are.

The barista blinks a couple times, his eyes flicking down to Jimin’s neck. “Right,” he says, like he’s not sure that he should acknowledge the bruises etched into Jimin’s skin. “We have yogurt. If you could manage that.”

“I’m kinda nauseous from the painkillers, actually,” Jimin says with this hysterical little laugh that sounds shrill and kind of terrifying even to him.

The barista nods like he knows what Jimin is talking about firsthand. “You do seem a little out of it. Um. Did you come here from the hospital?”

“Yeah,” Jimin breathes, hands deep in the pockets of the baggy sweats he’s wearing, the ones he’d been wearing last night before any of this had started. Back when he was alone in his apartment reading and sipping tea without any knowledge of what was about to happen. The memory feels so horribly detached from the reality Jimin exists in now, and Jimin bites his lip and wills away the tears.

“They must have given you a pretty strong prescription for the cheekbone,” the barista says, apparently no longer afraid to address Jimin’s injuries. “They just let you walk out? Or did you forcibly discharge yourself?”

“It was just the emergency room. They let me leave.” Jimin’s head swims with the memory of the short ambulance ride to the hospital, of coughing and coughing and wondering if he was going to die. He needs to sit down.

“You can sit if you want,” the barista says, like he’s read Jimin’s mind. Or maybe Jimin just looks that unsteady on his feet. Jimin hums and chooses a table near the bar while the barista runs around to do a couple of leftover opening tasks, scooping ice and switching out coffee urns and resetting a timer which he clips to his hoodie.

“You strike me as the type who likes sweet coffee,” the barista calls just as Jimin is drifting into a morphine-dazed stupor. Jimin startles up and catches the gaze of those wide brown eyes, and he blinks because it hurts how pretty this guy is and it hurts that Jimin can’t feel anything for it.

“Uh…yeah,” Jimin says. “I normally get a white mocha. But really, I just want a coffee. Just…black. Is fine. I don’t have cash on me. Just the Starbucks app.”

The barista hums and looks like he’s going to say something, but then he doesn’t. Jimin puts his head down on the table and wishes he could feel anything other than the wired agitation of adrenaline gone stale after hours in the ER.

Jimin rests for a few minutes, and then he hears footsteps behind him. “Hey, here,” a voice says, and Jimin sits up to see the barista setting a mug in front of him, the frothy white of the steamed milk visible under a veritable mountain of whipped cream.

Jimin lets out a sound like a whimper and feels his shoulders slumping in guilt and maybe terror. “I—I can’t pay for this,” Jimin gasps, and he’s for sure about to start crying, and—

And the barista is shaking his head, arms crossed as he sits down across from Jimin and fixes him with a steadfast stare.

“Drink it,” the barista says. He’s wearing his apron now, and there’s a handwritten nametag on it that says “Yoongi” in scrawled-pretty blue letters. He’s got a black beanie on now, too, and he looks a little bit more awake than he had ten minutes prior. “I already marked it out. You don’t have to drink it here if you don’t want to—I can give you a paper cup. I just thought you looked like you could use a few minutes to, like, sit somewhere quiet. No one really sits around in here until 5:30 or so. Drink that, and let me know if you want some food, yeah?”

The blond kid—Yoongi, except it feels weird thinking of him that way when they haven’t been properly introduced—looks at Jimin with something like hope in his eyes, and maybe something like determination.

Jimin bursts out crying.

“Shit,” Jimin says, wiping his eyes and wincing when his left cheek radiates pain down his nose, his jaw. “Shit, I’m sorry—I’m just, I’m a mess right now and I’m kind of high from the morphine and—why am I telling you that, wow, I—”

“Hey, hey, it’s fine,” the barista says, dragging his chair around the table so he’s closer to Jimin. “Can I touch you? Or will that not help?”

Jimin wipes at the tears on his right cheek and nods. “It’s okay.”

The barista reaches out and rests a palm against the side of Jimin’s wrist, bare because Jimin hadn’t exactly been able to grab a jacket before he’d been escorted to the emergency room, terrified and somehow alive and shaking so fucking hard and cold, cold, cold.

“I’m Yoongi,” the barista says. “I mean—you can probably read my nametag, but, um, just to be polite about it, I guess.” Yoongi’s palm is warm against Jimin’s forearm, his fingers long and spindly.

“Jimin,” Jimin whispers back, thinking he should probably offer some sort of reciprocal touch to acknowledge Yoongi’s hand against his wrist, but he can’t bring himself to do anything but sit there staring at the coffee in front of him. The whipped cream is starting to melt, and it’s about to drip down the side of the cup.

“Yoongi-hyung?” The door into the back room of the store swings open and a tall kid who looks younger than Yoongi and maybe even younger than Jimin appears, his arms full of plastic sleeves filled with paper cups. “Oh.”

“Jeongguk,” Yoongi says, “Uh, sorry, I got distracted. Can you finish up the rest of the opening stuff?”

The other barista, who is apparently Jeongguk, appraises Jimin for only a second before he nods. “Yeah, got it. I’m Jeongguk,” he says, the words aimed at Jimin.

“Jimin,” Jimin says again, only Jeongguk is too far away to hear it and Jimin can’t say it louder. Yoongi helps him out.

“His name is Jimin. He’s gonna hang here for a while,” Yoongi says, and Jeongguk nods and focuses on stocking cups. Yoongi turns to Jimin and squeezes his wrist. “You can stay as long as you want, okay?”

“Okay,” Jimin says. Yoongi sits with him in comforting silence for another few minutes, but once it hits 5:00 o’clock, he excuses himself to make mobile orders and help the slow but steady stream of customers who begin filtering in. They don’t stay, just like Yoongi had said they wouldn’t, and Jimin lets the quiet hum of the espresso machines lull him into something of a trance. It’s not sleep, but it feels restful in some far-off, detached way.

Jimin drinks the white mocha even though it sits too sugary-thick in his otherwise empty stomach. Once it’s gone, he summons all his strength and climbs to his feet. Yoongi is in the middle of helping a business lady who’s ordering enough drinks for her entire office, so Jimin just sets the empty mug on the counter and makes quick eye contact. Yoongi looks like he wants to come over and say something, but the lady is still rattling off her order, and Jimin doesn’t want to interrupt. He inclines his head and walks out into the early morning sunlight, the street still mostly empty in the orange glow of the sunrise.

It takes about ten minutes to get to Taehyung’s, and Jimin spends the time trying not to think about the marks around his throat, the painful swell of his cheekbone. He tries not to think about how those marks got there, or about all the things he’ll have to do when he moves away from the place where it had happened, or about his job and the research he needs to get done before he meets with Namjoon next week.

He also tries not to think about pretty blond baristas with nice hands and quiet countenances giving free white mochas to people who have obviously just been subjected to attempted strangulation. Maybe it’s because of the morphine, but Jimin finds that that part is the hardest to forget.

“Jimin? Holy shit, holy fucking shit,” Taehyung says when he opens the door. “Holy—get the hell in here, what the—how the fuck did this happen and why didn’t you—did he—what the fuck, oh my god, Jiminie, I’m going to literally kill him.”

Jimin smiles weakly and lets himself be tugged over to Taehyung’s couch. Taehyung is clearly in the middle of getting ready for work, his uniform shirt buttoned even though his hair is a wreck and he’s still in sweatpants, his socks mismatched and his breath all minty like toothpaste. Jimin sinks into the couch with Taehyung next to him, burying the right side of his face into Taehyung’s shoulder.

“Hey, hold on, let me call in to work,” Taehyung says, but Jimin shakes his head.

“No, Tae, don’t worry about it. I just didn’t want to go ho—to my apartment. Is it okay if I hide out here for a few days?”

Taehyung, blessed angel Taehyung, is running soft fingers through Jimin’s hair with one hand and holding him tight with the other, and he’s making little cooing sounds that are unreasonably soothing to Jimin’s rattled head. “Yeah, of course. You can stay here for as long as you want. Go get in bed and I’ll bring you some water and painkillers and stuff. Or do you want a shower? Fuck, fuck, I should have known he would—it was him, wasn’t it?”

Jimin nods. “Yeah. He showed up last night,” Jimin says, and then he cuts off, because he might still have a lingering daze from the morphine, but it’s wearing off, and he’s suddenly not sure he wants to be telling this story.

“And?” Taehyung prompts, reaching across the coffee table for his phone. “Hang on, seriously, let me call out real quick.”

“You don’t have to—”

Taehyung already has the phone to his ear, and Jimin waits while it rings.

“Hobi-hyung?” Taehyung chirps. “Hey, sorry, I know it’s short notice but there’s, like, no way I can come in, there was an emergency with Ji—my friend, I mean, shit, I’m probably not supposed to tell you because it’s not my place or whatever—”

“You can tell him,” Jimin whispers, because he knows Hoseok—not well, but well enough to know that Jung Hoseok is probably the cutest flower child to ever live, and definitely the nicest.

“—yeah, Jimin, uh, something really serious happened with his psycho ex and he’s hurt and I have to—thanks, Hobi-hyung, seriously, you’re the best. I can maybe come in later if you need me? Or pull a double tomorrow?”

Taehyung listens to whatever Hoseok is saying, and Jimin can hear the tinny sound of Hoseok’s voice saying something about staying home and not worrying about it, and Taehyung sighs and wishes Hoseok a nice morning and says thank you again, and then he hangs up and turns back to Jimin.

“Okay. Come on. Let’s get in bed. Unless you want a shower first,” Taehyung says.

Jimin bites his lip. “Yeah, um, a shower would be nice. To get the hospital off.”

“You were at the hospital?” Taehyung screeches, because Taehyung has always been terrible at volume control. “You were at the hospital and you didn’t call me?”

Jimin sighs. “Sorry, just…the police were there for so long. I couldn’t…I don’t know.” He decides not to mention the stop at Starbucks, because it’ll probably make Taehyung freak out even more to know that Jimin has been out in public all vulnerable like this.

Taehyung drags Jimin to his feet and leads him towards the bathroom. “Shit. You should have called me. I should have known.”

“How would you have known?”

Taehyung shakes his head. “I’m your best friend. I should have known.”

Jimin chuckles and it hurts, but it’s worth it for the way Taehyung looks at him. Taehyung is adorable and sweet even if he’s too loud and talks too much and is too friendly with everyone.

“Come on. Take a shower and then come get in bed with me,” Taehyung says, ushering Jimin into the bathroom. Jimin leaves the door open and Taehyung makes no move to close it either, and then Jimin is climbing out of his clothes and under the warm spray of water while Taehyung yells things from the bedroom. It’s all unintelligible under the sound of the water, but Jimin takes comfort in the deep, melodious sound of Taehyung’s voice even if he can’t catch the meaning.

Jimin gets out of the shower and into Taehyung’s bed, and when Taehyung asks, Jimin says he doesn’t want to talk. Taehyung doesn’t press. He just pulls out his laptop and queues up a bunch of short, funny YouTube videos, and they stay that way until Taehyung accidentally falls back to sleep. Jimin shuts the laptop and stares up at the ceiling, carding his fingers through Taehyung’s hair and trying not to think about anything.

Jimin startles awake just after 5:00 a.m. the next morning. Taehyung’s bed is pretty comfortable (not that Jimin gets more than six inches of it, because Taehyung is an absolute starfish when he sleeps), but Jimin has been tossing and turning all night, his dreams tinted dark with the feeling of hands around his throat and the sound of yelling in his ears. He climbs into an outfit that is at least 70 percent appropriate to wear in public and decides that if he’s not going to sleep, he may as well go back to the Starbucks and pay for the previous morning’s white mocha to be polite.

Jimin can see Yoongi’s white-blond hair through the window as he approaches the shop; Yoongi is tapping at the register just like he had been the previous morning, sipping from a paper Starbucks cup as he works. As soon as the bell over the door rings, Yoongi startles and hides his drink from view.

“Welcome to—oh, hi.” Yoongi leans forward so his hips are pressed against the counter, his palms flat against the granite.

Jimin ducks his head in greeting. “I brought money today,” he says. “For yesterday.”

“What? Why?” Yoongi frowns a little and pushes his glasses up. They’re big, clunky black things that make him look like a hipster, and he hadn’t been wearing them the day before.

“For the white mocha,” Jimin says, lifting a hand and then just letting it fall back to his side.

Yoongi shakes his head. “No. Stop. You’re not paying for that. I already marked it out, I told you.”

“But—”

“You want the same thing today? You can have something else if you want,” Yoongi offers.

Jimin bites his lip, contemplating whether he even wants coffee at all. Finally, he nods. “Yeah, the same is great, but…maybe less of the white mocha stuff? I normally like it really sweet, but my stomach is still kind of weird from the painkillers.” Jimin says, figuring it’s okay for him to customize his order a little if he’s paying this time.

Yoongi nods and heads over to the espresso machine. “Yeah, totally. You want soy milk or something? It might be easier on your stomach.”

Jimin shakes his head and looks down, embarrassed now that he’s being all particular about this. “No, I actually kind of hate soy milk.”

“Got it. You want it in a mug?”

And Jimin—well, he hadn’t planned to stay, really, but—

“Yes, please,” he whispers, blushing. Jimin hovers awkwardly between the register and the hand-off counter while Yoongi makes the drink, studying the lemon cake in the pastry case because it’s right in his line of sight and he loves lemon cake. It looks soft enough to eat, but Jimin can’t bring himself to ask for anything more even if he is going to pay for it.

“Did you manage to eat anything yesterday after you left?” Yoongi asks as he finishes up Jimin’s drink.

Jimin shrugs. “We…my friend and I, I mean. We had ramyun.”

“And the noodles were okay?”

Jimin nods. Yoongi puts whipped cream on the drink and slides it over to Jimin.

“Go sit down. I’ll be over in a sec,” Yoongi says, gesturing to the empty arrangement of armchairs in the corner.

“Wha—”

“I have a break for 10 minutes. Let me just heat up a breakfast sandwich,” Yoongi says. Jimin hesitates, and Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Go. Sit.”

Yoongi is apparently willing to take advantage of Jimin’s lack of a speaking voice, because he walks away and throws something in the oven before disappearing into the back room, his apron already pulled over his head. Jimin can’t exactly call out to him, so what choice does he have? He sits down in an armchair near the door and sips his coffee.

It takes about two minutes for Yoongi to finish up whatever he’s doing and sit down, and when he does, he’s carrying his breakfast sandwich and his coffee and a piece of lemon cake, which he sets on the side table next to Jimin.

“Here, eat this,” Yoongi says, settling in his own chair and taking a big bite out of the sandwich on his plate.

“Yoongi-ssi—”

“Hyung,” Yoongi says. “I mean, probably. How old are you?”

“23.”

“Great. I’m 25. Hyung is fine.”

“Hyung—”

“Shut up and eat the cake,” Yoongi says. “Why do you think I asked about whether you ate yesterday? I wanted to make sure you’d be able to.” He spits the words out like he’s embarrassed about the whole thing, and it’s cute the way he blushes, the red stain cut through by the frames of his glasses.

It’s cute, or at least it would be if Jimin could feel, well, anything.

“Jimin-ah,” Yoongi says, quietly, while Jimin sips his latte.

Jimin makes eye contact, but Yoongi doesn’t say anything. They stare at each other for a few seconds, and then Yoongi coughs and looks away and takes another bite of his sandwich. Jimin nibbles at a bit of the cake and chews it about a hundred times before he tries to swallow. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it’s manageable, and the flavor is sweet and delicious and makes Jimin kind of want to cry.

“You weren’t wearing glasses yesterday,” Jimin says after they sit in silence for a minute.

Yoongi nods and finishes off his sandwich. “Yeah, I normally wear contacts. But one of them was really fuckin’ hurting this morning, so I took it out and just came to work in glasses.”

Jimin nods. “They look good,” he says. “The glasses.”

There’s this moment where Yoongi isn’t looking at Jimin, but then his head comes up and he is, and, somehow, this moment steals Jimin’s breath away. It’s like one second, Yoongi is just leaning off to the side to sip his drink and everything is normal, and the next, Yoongi’s jaw is tilting and his throat is stretching as those cat-curved eyes come up to regard Jimin through the lenses of his glasses, and Jimin’s heart is skipping-skipping-skipping as all the air goes rushing out of him. Jimin wonders if it’s the slant of light coming in through the window or maybe the sugary-tart of frosting on his tongue that’s causing such a moment of magic madness, but either way, Jimin can feel the electric tension in the air. Yoongi’s eyes are lit to chocolate, his white-blonde hair glittering and wave-messy under the same beanie as the day before. He’s dressed in black skinny jeans and a soft-looking Henley, and he has a couple of earrings that glint metallic blue in the sunlight.

Jimin bites his lips and looks away before the tension of the moment can break into anything—well, anything.

“Yoongi-hyung,” Jeongguk’s voice calls. “There’s a phone call for you. Sorry, someone wants to complain about something, I don’t know.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Sorry. I’m technically in charge right now. Our manager doesn’t come in until later, so I’ve gotta go deal with this. But, uh, you can stay as long as you want. Let me know if you want anything else. Anything. It’s fine.”

Jimin nods, and Yoongi collects his plate and cup from the table before he heads off, moving maybe more slowly than he should be if there’s a disgruntled customer on the phone.

Jimin stays for another half hour. When Yoongi doesn’t reappear from the back room in that time, Jimin tries to pay Jeongguk, but Jeongguk only shakes his head.

“Nah, dude,” Jeongguk says. “You’re fine. Hyung will be mad at me if I take any of your money. He likes you, and Yoongi-hyung doesn’t really like anybody. I’m not gonna fuck with that.”

Jimin ignores the flutter of his heart as he walks out, feeling old and way too tired for this, and wanting it anyway.

After that, Jimin decides to make it a morning routine to get up just before 5:00 (not that he’s sleeping at that time anyways) and make his solitary way to the Starbucks down the road. He doesn’t tell Taehyung, and Taehyung presumably doesn’t know, because he’s always asleep when Jimin heads out the door and he’s always asleep when Jimin gets back. It’s probably a good thing, because Jimin is stuck wearing Taehyung’s too-big clothes for the time being, and Taehyung would probably have some sort of opinion about whether Jimin was wearing stuff that actually matched, but Jimin doesn’t really think that’s a top priority at the moment.

Going to Starbucks seems like a better option than lying awake in Taehyung’s bed, and Yoongi is there the third morning and the fourth. They sit together during Yoongi’s break and exchange maybe five sentences each day, which isn’t a lot, but it’s more human contact than Jimin is getting with anyone other than Taehyung at the moment. On the fifth day, a Wednesday, Yoongi tells Jimin that he won’t be in again until Friday, so on Thursday, Jimin goes in and chats with Jeongguk instead. Jeongguk keeps the conversation going with this easy ramble that reminds Jimin of Taehyung, and Jimin doesn’t say much of anything back because his voice is still a wreck. Jeongguk doesn’t seem to mind.

That afternoon, Jimin and Taehyung finally go back to Jimin’s apartment to pack him a bag of clothes for a couple of weeks. “I can really just stay at a hotel or something,” Jimin says, but Taehyung sticks his nose in the air and says, “That’s nonsense. You have to stay with me so I can make sure you at least try to sleep.”

Which. That’s the thing—no matter how hard he tries to relax, no matter how much tea he drinks before bed, no matter how many baths he takes and Mozart symphonies he listens to and ASMR videos he watches, Jimin can’t manage more than about two hours before he gasps himself awake dreaming of hands around his throat, the world slipping away because Jimin is dying. Dying. Jimin is dying in his dreams because he had been dying in real life, too. He had been dying because someone who was supposed to have loved him had tried to kill him.

“You look exhausted,” Yoongi says on Friday morning. The lack of delicacy is nothing new; if there’s one thing Jimin has learned about Yoongi in the past few days, it’s that Yoongi is quiet but he’s blunt when he does speak, like he has no middle ground between staying silent and spilling whatever he’s thinking without a trace of tact.

“Yeah,” Jimin admits. It’s been long enough now that Jimin’s bruises are fading, and his voice is returning so that it’s a harsh, scratchy rattle instead of just a whisper. He brushes his hair out of his left eye, and when his fingertips glance past his cheekbone, it doesn’t hurt. “I don’t sleep very well,” he says, stifling a yawn. The world is swimmy around him with how tired he is, but he knows as soon as he tries to get some rest, he’ll just wake up again, terrified and shaking.

“You tried any medication?” Yoongi asks. Jimin must look nervous at the suggestion, because Yoongi shakes his head. “I just mean, like, melatonin or something. I’ve taken actual sleeping meds before, like, back in college, when I was…well, anyways, just. Melatonin might help, if you want something less intense.”

Jimin shrugs. “I’m afraid if I take something, I won’t be able to wake back up when…when he tries to…”

It’s the first time Jimin has really admitted it out loud. Even though he hasn’t, really. But even Taehyung hasn’t gotten this much out of him, although Taehyung has asked enough questions and received enough yes or no answers to have figured out pretty much the entire story by now.

Yoongi pushes up his glasses. “You can tell me if you want.”

Jimin bites his lip, disorientation threatening to take over. “It’s hard.”

Yoongi nods. “Yeah. I get that. I mean, I haven’t ever—but, uh, you get what I mean.” Yoongi trails off and looks away, and Jimin ducks his head.

“Hey, I gotta run, but let me know if you want anything,” Yoongi says, just like he always does. Jimin nods and sips his coffee, a caramel macchiato today to change things up. It’s sweet and warm and wonderful, with an edge of bitterness that lingers on his tongue and makes him sleepy even though it’s supposed to have the opposite effect.

Jimin settles lower in the armchair and stares out the window, listening to the coffeehouse playlist humming low through the shop, and before he knows it, he’s relaxing into sleep.

“Hey, Jimin, you gotta wake up,” Yoongi’s voice cuts through Jimin’s doze, which is shockingly devoid of terror for the first time in a week.

“Wha—ah,” Jimin mumbles, his eyelids fluttering as he tries to blink himself awake. There’s a hand on his shoulder—Yoongi’s, probably, placed so his thumb rests against Jimin’s collarbone without aggravating the injuries on his neck. Jimin’s eyelids feel like they’re glued together with the exhaustion dragging through him, and his head spins with drowsy delirium.

“Jimin—Jimin-ah, honey, come on,” Yoongi says.

Jimin yawns and finally opens his eyes. He feels kind of sick and headachy, like he always does when he wakes up from a nap, only worse because naps are all he’s gotten for the past week. Does nap-sickness grow exponentially with every nap you take without getting a full-night’s sleep?

“You’re safe, just wake up,” Yoongi is saying, his thumb tracing patterns on Jimin’s clavicle. Jimin summons all his strength to focus in on Yoongi crouched in front of him. The blond of Yoongi’s hair is nearly glowing in the light of the café, his glasses dark against the pale of his skin.

“I’m really sleepy,” Jimin says.

Yoongi bites his lip. “You seemed really out of it. You still seem really out of it.”

Jimin nods. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t want to wake you, but my manager is coming in at 9:00 and technically people aren’t allowed to sleep here and Seokjin is a chill guy but he fucking loves this place and he’ll be disappointed if anything is out of place.”

“Oh,” Jimin says, “9:00? What time is it? I’m—” Jimin breaks off to yawn, the sound turning into a contented little hum at the end. “I’m supposed to meet with my sort-of boss at 10:00.”

Not that Namjoon will mind if Jimin is late. Namjoon is practically always late himself, usually because he’s off in one of the university lecture halls scribbling on the bigger white boards there because the one in my office doesn’t have enough room on it to think, why anyone expects me to use it is beyond me.

Yoongi nods. “I wondered about that. Your job.”

“I’m a grad student,” Jimin says. “Doing a Master’s program in dance education. But I’m helping one of the sociology professors on this project he’s doing on cultural discourse through dance. It’s…not that interesting.”

Yoongi shrugs. “You think it’s interesting, right?”

Jimin nods. “Yeah. But most people don’t.”

“You can tell me about it sometime,” Yoongi says, like it’s not at all important that he’s presuming there will be a sometime. A sometime when Yoongi and Jimin are, apparently, hanging out and talking about their lives instead of exchanging 10 minutes’ worth of dialogue at 5:30 in the morning at Yoongi’s place of work.

Jimin chooses to ignore whatever feeling is in his chest. “I’m lucky enough we’re on break right now,” he says. “I don’t actually have to go back to TA stuff for another week.”

Someone calls Yoongi’s name from the back of the store, and Yoongi shakes his head. “I’ll bring you another coffee in a minute if you want. To get you through the meeting with your sort-of boss.”

Jimin’s lip quirk up into a shy smile. “Okay, hyung.” He yawns again, and Yoongi straightens up so he’s standing over Jimin.

“Don’t fall asleep again, hon,” Yoongi says, the endearment tacked on and unacknowledged like Yoongi doesn’t realize he’s said it. Yoongi brushes a hand through Jimin’s hair, and then he walks away, and Jimin sits in stunned-breathless calm for a minute, his head blissfully free of anxiety or worry or fear or anything but the sense-memory of Yoongi’s palm across his forehead, through his soft-washed hair.

Yoongi comes back five minutes later holding another latte, and Jimin looks over at his first cup and sees that he hadn’t even drunk half of it before he’d fallen asleep.

“Sorry, Yoongi-hyung. Let me pay for both of them.”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “I let you pay for your drink two days ago. And it was only because Yugyeom-ah was around and I don’t want him seeing me give you a latte and then letting all six of his ridiculous friends have free drinks all the time. They’re a menace, all of them.”

Jimin swallows a sip of the drink and it’s the perfect temperature, sweet to combat the extra shot of espresso Jimin can taste swirling in with the foamy milk. “Thanks, hyung.”

Yoongi nods. “Good luck with your sort-of boss.”

Jimin’s shoulders tighten. “He doesn’t know what happened. He doesn’t know anything.”

Yoongi looks at Jimin for a second, and then he rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “Look, if you…if you want to, like, get lunch or something after your meeting. To talk, or whatever.”

Jimin huffs a self-deprecating laugh even as his heart swells with—something. “I don’t even know if I’ll make it through the meeting without falling asleep. Or, like, falling apart,” he says, the floaty feeling in his chest shattering sharp like a vase dropped on a marble floor. It feels sad, to think that he can’t even do normal Person Things, where once Jimin would’ve been flirty and thrilled and smiling the grin that makes his eyes turn into crescent moons, according to Taehyung. The I like you smile. The you should like me back smile.

Yoongi coughs and nods. “Yeah, yeah, sorry, I shouldn’t have…of course you need rest,” he says, pulling off his beanie to tug his fingers through his hair. He looks embarrassed and a little disappointed, but the way he’s staring at his feet makes Jimin think he’s more upset with himself than he is with Jimin.

“But—maybe if you wanted to get something quick? I just don’t want to fall asleep in public again,” Jimin blurts, because he can’t not say it. He can’t leave Yoongi looking like he’s blaming himself for all the shit the world has thrown at him, including this.

Yoongi is obviously startled. “Oh,” he says. “Um, yeah. Actually, uh, my friend owns a place. If you wanna go there. It’s just a diner, kind of American style, but he’d probably let us eat in the back or something. If you feel weird about…things.”

Jimin bites his lip and plays with the hem of his shirt. “Oh, yeah, uh—that sounds good. That sounds. Good.”

Yoongi looks like he’s about to respond, but then a tall, striking, way-too-graceful man sweeps his way into the coffee shop, and Yoongi straightens up. “Sorry, that’s my manager. Meet back here around 1:00?”

“Okay. 1:00,” Jimin confirms, and then Yoongi rushes off to talk to the guy who must be Seokjin.

Jimin heads back to Taehyung’s to change, and he’s surprised to find that his nerves over his meeting with the world-famous Dr. Kim are somehow preemptively soothed by the knowledge that Jimin will be with Yoongi again in just a few short hours.

Jimin tries his best not to read into it, whatever the heck it is.

The meeting with Namjoon goes about as well as Jimin had expected: Namjoon is late, and he’s carrying about 25 books between his forearms and his chin, and he takes one look at Jimin and drops them all into a heap on the floor to rush over to Jimin’s chair and collapse to his knees while he frantically asks what happened and generally freaks out all over Jimin’s lap.

“I’m fine, Namjoon-hyung,” Jimin says, putting a hand on Namjoon’s wrist in a show of familiarity. Jimin has known Namjoon since his first year of college; Namjoon had been a TA for one of Jimin’s freshman classes, and the two had become friends. It just so happens that Namjoon is a fucking genius who blew through high school too fast and then blew through college even faster. He got his doctorate before he turned 23.

Jimin is 23 and doesn’t even have a Master’s. But whatever. Jimin really isn’t threatened by kids with fancy degrees who are more like gangly, brilliant human giraffes than functioning adults.

“It was him, wasn’t it,” Namjoon says. “I should have—how did I not know?”

Jimin smiles. “It’s funny; Taehyung said the same thing.”

Namjoon shakes his head. “It’s not funny. What the fuck. I will fucking drive to his apartment and throw him down a flight of stairs. Two flights of stairs.”

Jimin shrugs. “That’ll be kind of difficult considering he’s probably still in custody.”

“The police took him?”

“They’re charging him with attempted murder. I—I might have to testify,” Jimin whispers, because he hasn’t let himself consider this part of things even a little bit yet.

Namjoon nods. “Okay. Let me know how I can help you. Anything you need—anything, I’ll be there. Fuck, Jimin, I didn’t—fuck, fuck.”

Jimin shakes his head. “It’s okay. I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Namjoon squeezes one of Jimin’s wrists in each hand. “I fucking love you, okay? I’m so fucking sorry,” Namjoon says, studying Jimin’s delicate cuticles with an intensity that says Namjoon’s mind is a million miles away. Jimin sits with him in silence for a few minutes, and then eventually Namjoon stands and asks if Jimin is okay to work for the rest of the semester or if he’d rather take some time off to recover.

Jimin shrugs off his concern. “I’ll be fine, hyung. Really.”

Namjoon doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t offer any resistance when Jimin insists they meet the next Friday to go over the research they’re supposed to have been doing during the time off school.

Jimin leaves the meeting and doesn’t fall asleep on the way home. He’s hardly even thought about all that research in the past week, but whatever. He has time.

He also has to go meet Yoongi.

“Wait, Taehyung works here,” Jimin says as they approach the café. He’s surprised he didn’t put it together earlier—there aren’t exactly a lot of American-style diners in Korea, and Taehyung proudly works at one that allows him to wear rollerblades on the job on Saturdays. Taehyung talks about it all the time.

Yoongi looks a little startled. “Oh,” he says, “I didn’t realize—we can go somewhere else if you want.”

Jimin shakes his head and his neck hardly twinges. “No, no, I mean—it’s not like Tae doesn’t know what happened or something. He’s seen the damage,” Jimin jokes, gesturing up to his eye, his throat. It’s easier to make light of the situation now that a week and a half has passed, but there’s still a weight in the pit of his stomach as he looks at Yoongi and wonders what Yoongi sees as he looks back at Jimin. Probably nothing beautiful, not like how Jimin looks at Yoongi and sees this work of art with slanted eyes and rose-petal lips and pale skin and a sort of lithe fragility set into protruding collarbones, the delicate curves of his wrists.

Yoongi nods. “Okay.” He looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. He holds the door for Jimin as they go inside, and Jimin wishes he could do something other than metaphorically cower at the rush of emotion surging behind his ribs.

What does it feel like to be a person? Jimin can’t remember, can’t access whatever file that is on his brain’s memory drive. Cannot run application “personhood.exe” because the data has been moved or deleted. Check your recycle bin. Would you like to restore this file?

Yes, Jimin thinks, restore. But there’s nothing to restore. Maybe he coughed out all that data when he was choking for his life.

“Oh my god, Jimin! How was your meeting with Joonie-hyung?” Taehyung asks as soon as Jimin walks in with Yoongi. Then Taehyung freezes. “Who’s this? Jimin, you didn’t tell me you have a friend who’s not me!”

Jimin nods. “Tae, this is, uh…”

“Min Yoongi,” Yoongi says, and suddenly Jimin realizes that they don’t even know each other’s family names.

Taehyung grins. “Kim Taehyung,” he says. “You already know Park Jimin!”

“Park Jimin,” Yoongi murmurs. He looks at Jimin with a glint like reverence in his eyes, and Jimin looks away.

“You guys want a booth or the bar?”

Yoongi steps forward. “Actually, I’m friends with Hoseok—think he would let us eat in the back room? Jimin’s really tired, and, uh—well, I mean, I guess you probably know that because he’s been staying with you,” Yoongi finishes, looking a little awkward.

Taehyung nods. “Yeah, for sure. The couch back there is super comfy. Jimin can totally nap. I mean, if Hobi-hyung says it’s okay.”

Taehyung rushes off, and a couple seconds later, he comes back dragging Jung Hoseok, who’s grimacing and running a hand through his hair. He looks flushed but not in a good way, his cheeks bright red while the rest of him is way too pale.

“What’s wrong with you,” Yoongi asks, raising an eyebrow in this skeptical look that’s just a little bit disrespectful. They must be good friends, Yoongi and Hoseok; it’s like Hoseok’s appearance has set Yoongi into his comfort zone, because suddenly Yoongi looks less awkward and more collected, a sort of bad-boy tilt to his head, the slant of his shoulders.

Hoseok swallows and looks like it pains him. “Dude, I’m dying. I went to the doctor and it’s not the flu, though, so I had to come in. I’m just doing office work today. Have to renew the liquor license soon.”

Taehyung nods. “I’ve been telling him to go home all day, but he won’t.”

Yoongi snorts. “Call your mystery boyfriend to pick you up.”

Taehyung and Jimin both perk up at that.

“Mystery boyfriend?” Taehyung asks, turning to grin at Hoseok. “Yeah, Hobi-hyung, call your mystery boyfriend,” he teases, poking Hoseok in the side. Hoseok winces. Taehyung has never been very situationally aware.

“Seriously, you look terrible,” Yoongi says. “We’re gonna eat in the back in case Jimin falls asleep in his chicken and waffles.”

“Chicken and waffles?” Jimin asks, because this combination sounds really weird and really American and really like something Jimin would never order but now kind of wants to try.

“Wha—I’m fine,” Hoseok says, following them into the back.

“You want me to just bring you a bunch of random foodstuffs? Rations? What’s a weird word that describes the sustenance we put into our bodies to not die?” Taehyung asks, because Taehyung’s grasp of language is tenuous at best.

“Just bring us whatever, yeah,” Yoongi says. “You must know what Jimin likes, and I’ll eat anything.”

Jimin is ushered into the back room of Jung Hoseok’s American-style diner without any more fanfare, because apparently he has lost all control over the situation and Min Yoongi is kind of assertive when he’s around someone he’s totally comfortable with.

Jimin does not fall asleep on the couch in the back room.

Something much worse happens instead.

“Jimin, hey, you’re in the back of Hoseok’s restaurant. It’s 2:03 p.m. on a Friday. You’re safe, and no one is hurting you. No one is touching you. Uh, what else does it say?”

It’s Yoongi’s voice, maybe, but there are hands around Jimin’s throat. It’s Yoongi, right? There are hands around Jimin’s throat, but it’s maybe Yoongi’s voice, or it would be if Jimin could find his way through the flood of panic and sensory mismatch. There are hands around Jimin’s throat. Again. Because that happened: he got choked, almost to death. That happened, and it’s happening again right now. Again. What?

“It says we need to ground him? Like, have him stomp his feet, or, like, hold a towel? And ask if you can touch him. Don’t just do it.” Maybe Taehyung.

“Okay,” Maybe-Yoongi says. “Okay, uh, Jimin, I’m going to hand you my hat, okay? Just, um, take it and feel it, yeah?”

There’s the weight of something being dropped in Jimin’s lap, and Jimin tries to fight his way back to the present enough to take it. There are hands around Jimin’s throat. His fingers meet soft woolen fabric, and he stomps his feet a couple of times because he vaguely remembers hearing something about that.

But there are hands around Jimin’s throat. Why is he holding a hat? There are hands around Jimin’s throat and he’s stomping his feet and Maybe-Yoongi is talking to him and Maybe-Taehyung is maybe there too, maybe.

“Jimin, it’s okay. Um, am I supposed to tell him to breathe? Can I touch you?”

It’s too confusing to follow what’s going on, but somehow that kind of helps because Jimin’s mind starts working overtime to try to figure it out. There are hands around Jimin’s throat. Why are there hands around Jimin’s throat? He’s holding a hat. Yoongi is asking someone if he can touch them.

“Jimin, can I touch you?”

Oh. Yoongi is asking Jimin if he can touch him.

“Yeah,” Jimin says, and lets go of the hat with one hand. Yoongi wraps his fingers around Jimin’s, and Jimin clutches back. His vision is clearing, and there’s a hat in his left hand, and Jimin is stomping his feet and looking around and he’s in Hoseok’s restaurant. It’s just after 2:00 o’clock on a Friday afternoon. There are hands around Jimin’s throat.

“There aren’t any hands around my throat,” Jimin croaks out, breathing deep and looking at Yoongi, who’s crouching in front of him and looking up with concern clouding his big brown fox eyes.

“You’re in Hoseok’s restaurant,” Yoongi says again.

Jimin sighs. “I—that was—I feel like. What happened?”

“We think it was a flashback,” Taehyung says, softer than his usual chirp. “I looked up how to handle it on my phone,” he explains, looking kind of proud but still mostly concerned.

Yoongi straightens up but remains on his knees. Both of his hands are pressed tight over Jimin’s right, and Jimin is still clutching Yoongi’s beanie in his left hand, and their faces are really close together.

“Are you okay?” Yoongi asks. “I can take you to the hospital or something.”

“I don’t…I don’t really know what to do,” Jimin says. “I don’t—what will the hospital do? It was obviously—like, a mental thing.” He’s practically whispering by the end, and Yoongi squeezes Jimin’s hands.

“You know, you could…uh, you could have PTSD. You could talk to someone,” Yoongi says.

Jimin’s breath stutters all over again, panic welling back up. He tries to tamp it down, is proud when he succeeds. “I don’t know.”

Yoongi nods. “Okay. You want me to walk you home or something?”

Jimin bites his lip and nods. “Yeah. I’m not…I’m not hungry anymore.” There’s still a big spread of food across the table, all of it greasy and heavy and nothing Jimin can stomach right now.

Taehyung steps forward to run a hand through Jimin’s hair. “You want me to ask Hobi-hyung if I can leave? I can stay with you,” he offers, looking down at Jimin and then over to Yoongi. “It’s okay, Yoongi-hyung. I can help him if you’re, like, busy.”

Jimin shakes his head. “No. You can stay here, Tae.”

Yoongi nods. “I’m not busy. And anyways, I’m pretty sure Hoseok is, like, hacking up a lung all over everything in the kitchen. You’re going to actually have to get Mystery Boyfriend to pick him up.”

Taehyung nods. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle that side of things if you keep watch over Jimin,” Taehyung says, crossing his heart. “You and I can be the A-Team, Yoongi-hyung.”

Yoongi snorts. “You’re kind of weird. Like this kid I work with, Jeongguk.” Taehyung looks vaguely interested at that, and Jimin can see the wheels spinning in Taehyung’s brain as he undoubtedly plans to go stakeout the Starbucks in case there’s a cute guy he can fall in love with. Taehyung loves falling in love, and he does it loudly and approximately three times a week. Nothing ever actually sticks, but maybe this one will be different. Jimin knows Jeongguk, and he knows Taehyung. He’s not ruling anything out.

Yoongi turns back to Jimin. “Can you stand, Jimin-ah,” he whispers, quiet like he doesn’t want Taehyung to hear. Like’s it’s their little secret, the way Yoongi is taking care of Jimin right now.

Jimin pushes to his feet, and Yoongi keeps hold of his hand as they head out towards the entrance. Jimin keeps his gaze downcast the whole agonizing way; he doesn’t want to be outside, not at all, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. They wave goodbye to Taehyung, and then Jimin has no choice but to step out the door.

“Where do you live?” Yoongi asks. “Or, I mean, Taehyung. If you’re still staying with him.”

“Yeah,” Jimin chokes out. He feels like he’s going to start crying. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Jimin starts crying. Yoongi brings his arms up like he’s going to hug him, but then the motion stalls before it can really start.

“Hey, hey, don’t worry, I’ll stay at Taehyung-ah’s with you if—” Yoongi cuts off as Jimin sags against him, Jimin’s head coming to rest on Yoongi’s shoulder so his tears drip-drop onto the fabric of Yoongi’s t-shirt.

“It’s so far,” Jimin mutters into Yoongi’s collarbone. “It’s so far, Taehyung’s apartment, I’m so scared—it’s scary outside, Yoongi. Yoongi-hyung,” Jimin says, hands coming up to fist into Yoongi’s shirt.

Yoongi stands there not moving for a moment, and then his arms come tentatively up to rest along Jimin’s spine. “Um. If you want. You can come to my place. It’s five minutes from here. I can carry you. Like a piggyback. You wouldn’t have to look at anything.”

Jimin clings tighter to Yoongi’s shirt for a moment before he nods. He has to jump to get on Yoongi’s back, but he gets settled with his legs tight around Yoongi’s hips and buries his head into the back of Yoongi’s neck, and then they’re moving, and the up and down of Yoongi’s steps is a soothing rhythm that lulls Jimin’s breathing calm again.

As promised, they make it to Yoongi’s apartment five minutes later, and Yoongi sets Jimin down to fish his keys out of his pocket and get them inside. It feels like Jimin waits a lifetime, but then they’re inside and Yoongi is closing the curtains of the studio so it’s blessedly dark, and Jimin looks around and realizes there’s no couch because of how small it is. There’s only a bed in the corner, and the kitchenette on the other side.

With nothing better to do, nowhere socially acceptable to sit, Jimin sinks to the floor and sobs into his forearms, his knees up against his chest.

“Hey, hey, Jiminie—Jimin, honey, come on, you can cry on the bed, okay? It’ll be more comfortable,” Yoongi says, voice close to Jimin’s ear and soft, so soft.

“I’m not—this isn’t—”

“Fuck, sorry, I know. I should have told you there’s no couch—if it’s weird, I can just, um, I can carry you home or call my friend who has a car or—”

“No,” Jimin says. “No, it’s—it’s fine, I just. God, why am I even crying?” Jimin spits, frustrated with himself and unable to get his emotions under control.

“I’m gonna carry you, okay? Hang on, hon,” Yoongi says, scooping Jimin into his arms and walking them over to the bed. They end up in a tangle of limbs on the mattress, but Yoongi’s pillows are soft, his blankets cool against Jimin’s overheated skin. Yoongi gets to his hands and knees and then climbs off of Jimin entirely, and Jimin rolls onto his side and nuzzles his head into the pillowcase.

Jimin cracks one eye open as Yoongi runs a careless hand through Jimin’s hair, and then Yoongi walks over to the desk in the corner. He grabs the chair and pulls it over to the side of the bed, and Jimin looks up at him and bites his lip and wonders why he doesn’t remember what it feels like to be cared for by somebody who’s not his best friend or his sort-of boss.

“Can I sleep?” Jimin asks.

Yoongi nods, and leans forward, and brushes a thumb against Jimin’s bruised cheek. The contact hurts like sour candy that cuts up your mouth: sharp and biting but you always want more.

“Yeah, hon. Go to sleep,” Yoongi says. Jimin closes his eyes, and he does.

Restoring data for application “personhood.exe”.

When Jimin wakes up, Yoongi is messing around with something on his computer. He has a pair of huge headphones over his ears, and he’s tapping his pen on a notebook scribbled with the same handwriting from his Starbucks nametag. Jimin pushes himself up and tries to straighten out his undoubtedly mussed hair with his fingers. When Jimin stands and stretches, Yoongi clicks something on the computer and then tugs down the headphones so they’re resting around his neck.

“Good morning,” Yoongi says, and Jimin looks at the clock. 6:35 p.m. He’s been asleep for close to four hours.

“It’s mid-evening,” Jimin says, grinning cheekily. “Do you regularly wake up this late on your days off and call it morning or something?” He feels good, somehow—like, really good. Like Yoongi’s laundry detergent might’ve been some weird aromatherapy thing that had sucked all the anxiety out of him while he slept.

Yoongi grins like he’s not sure what’s happening, but like he likes it anyways. “Maybe. I wake up at 3:30 in the morning most days. My sleep schedule is a disaster. And you were snoring for hours. It’s morning for you.”

“I do not snore!” Jimin says. Yoongi just looks at him for long enough that Jimin starts to blush because what if he fell asleep and snored on Yoongi’s bed—

Yoongi’s expression breaks into a grin. “Nah. You were drooling, though,” Yoongi says, spinning in his chair to shut down his computer while Jimin splutters and wipes at his chin and examines Yoongi’s pillow for spit stains.

There is one. “Fuck,” Jimin says. “I totally was.”

Yoongi laughs, the sound of it melodic and raspy, and Jimin realizes he hasn’t ever really heard Yoongi laugh before. Little snorts and chuckles, sure, but never a genuine laugh.

Jimin smiles and tries to combat his rising blush by averting his eyes.

“Hey, you wanna grab dinner and watch a movie? Or do you need to get back to Taehyung’s?” Yoongi asks.

Jimin shakes his head. He’s really hungry now that he’s thinking about it, probably because he hadn’t managed to eat much of lunch. “I can do dinner, yeah. But, uh, don’t you have work in the morning?”

Yoongi nods. “Yeah. Saturdays are a bitch. I’m off Sunday and Monday, though. If you want to hang out.”

Jimin wraps his arms around himself and thinks about what he’s doing, what he’s agreeing to. What he wants from this. What he doesn’t want.

“I have some research that I need to get done on Sunday,” Jimin says. “But it’s just stuff on the computer. So I could do it here. If you wanted.”

Yoongi nods. “Sure. I have stuff to work on, too. You can come by whenever. Here, add me on KKT so I can text you when I wake up on Sunday.”

Jimin bites his lip and tilts his head in agreement. “Okay,” he says, and they exchange information. “So. Dinner,” Jimin says once he sends a waving panda sticker to Yoongi and receives an unamused alien in return.

Yoongi nods. “Dinner. Anything you want?”

Jimin shakes his head and sits back down on the bed. “I’m not picky. No guarantees I won’t have another crazy flashback for no reason, though,” he says, grinning ruefully and running a hand through his hair.

Yoongi bites his lip and looks at Jimin in this way Jimin hasn’t seen before. It’s like Yoongi is trying to puzzle out a particularly difficult logic problem, not because he thinks the problem needs solving but because he has the time and the interest, and maybe there is a solution if he takes the time to think it through.

“What,” Jimin finally says, a teasing edge to his voice. Yoongi’s gaze should be offensive for its blatant curiosity, its appraisal, but instead Jimin just feels warm, like he’s being appreciated for his complexity and not shunned for it.

Yoongi shakes his head. “You know, you’re holding it together, like, shockingly well for someone who almost got strangled to death a couple weeks ago.”

Jimin gapes. “Who says something like that?” He’s more surprised than offended, though, and it feels weirdly good to hear it said out loud, to have it addressed like it’s not this terrifying thing to be danced around forever. But still—Jimin knows that this is not something you just say to someone—you almost got strangled to death a couple weeks ago—and he’s sure that Yoongi knows that just as well.

Yoongi shrugs, and this wicked grin crosses his face. It’s unlike any expression Jimin has seen on Yoongi before, and Jimin thinks maybe he’s seeing the real Yoongi for the first time. The Yoongi that no one gets to see, the one who hides away in this tiny studio apartment because he doesn’t like anyone (hadn’t Jeongguk said that?) and who doesn’t give a fuck and who is at the same time unerringly loyal and protective of that which he considers his own. A Yoongi who isn’t going to tread carefully when he knows that Jimin is strong.

“What,” Yoongi says, after Jimin is quiet for a second.

Jimin’s lips quirk into a wild and uncontrollable grin. “I am, like, holding it together, Yoongi-hyung. I almost got strangled to death a couple of weeks ago. Strangled. To death. But here I am, alive and, like, hanging out in your apartment and holding it the fuck together.”

Yoongi’s smirk breaks into a triumphant grin. “There you go, cupcake.”

Jimin splutters, and Yoongi tips forward to collapse onto the bed next to Jimin. “Cupcake?” Jimin shrieks.

Yoongi shrugs and rolls onto his back to look up at Jimin. “Yeah. Cupcake. Or would you prefer ‘Sweetcheeks’? ‘Sugar’? You do have a ridiculous sweet tooth,” Yoongi says.

Jimin lies down next to him and narrows his eyes playfully. “As if you’re not also drinking frilly, stupid-sweet lattes out of the cups you hide because you’re not supposed to drink them when you’re talking to customers.”

Yoongi blushes. “It’s black coffee.”

“You are so lying!” Jimin shrieks, giggling and giggling and not even noticing how all the flirting is hurting his throat.

“It’s true,” Yoongi protests, but he’s grinning and his cheeks are stained red and he looks so beautiful and he’s definitely lying, and Jimin grins back and nuzzles his head into Yoongi’s chest, sighing as Yoongi brings his arm up to tug Jimin in closer, to rest his palm against the back of Jimin’s head.

“So, we never figured out dinner,” Yoongi says, and Jimin whines.

“Hyung, come on, tell me it’s not just black coffee! You like sweet things, too!”

“I like you, don’t I?” The words are confident, and Yoongi says them without missing a beat, but Jimin can feel uncertainty in the way Yoongi’s shoulders tense up just a little.

Jimin smiles. “So it is a frilly, stupid-sweet latte.”

“Vanilla,” Yoongi says. “With extra whipped cream.”

Jimin coos, snuggles in so their legs are tangled together. “Maybe I should be calling you ‘Sugar’,” Jimin teases, and Yoongi wrinkles his nose.

“No. Make it sound cooler. Like ‘Suga’ or something.”

Jimin’s giggle bursts out of him, and he taps at Yoongi’s chest like he’s personally offended at the dropped last letter. “What, are you trying to play it like you’re some American rap gangster or something?”

Yoongi laughs. “No, I’m totally not.” A pause. “But kinda.”

Jimin laughs so loud it’s practically a cackle.

“Whatever,” Yoongi says, burying his nose in Jimin’s hair. “We don’t need nicknames or, like, terms of endearment or whatever,” he says, and then there’s this weird pause where Jimin can tell that Yoongi is thinking about something.

It hits him. Honey. Yoongi keeps calling Jimin “honey”, or “hon”, when Jimin gets overwhelmed.

Jimin has enough tact not to mention it. The fan in the corner is humming away, and the room is almost too dark to see, and Jimin feels so many things at once, and can’t parse them, and decides not to try.

“So. Dinner,” Jimin says.

“Dinner,” Yoongi affirms.

It turns out Yoongi’s kimchi fried rice (reheated from the fridge but only a couple days old) is really, really delicious.

Jimin doesn’t go to Starbucks the next morning. He stays in bed late, Taehyung’s arm slung over his waist until it’s past 9:00 and the sun is shining bright through the curtains. Taehyung blinks awake eventually and stumbles off to make coffee, and Jimin stares at the ceiling while he counts up the hours of sleep he got. Close to six, even if he had awoken once during the night. Taehyung returns with two mugs, and they lounge around in bed before Taehyung’s shift starts, joking around and looking at memes on Taehyung’s phone. It’s refreshing, and Jimin revels in the comfort of it.

On Sunday, Jimin gets a text around 11:45.

sorry, just woke up. you wanna come over?

Jimin can’t help the smile that flits across his lips.

sure, Jimin types back. what time?

He gets a response in less than a minute. I’m just eating, so you can come over whenever, Yoongi says. There’s a moment where Jimin can see that Yoongi is typing, and then the bubble goes away, and then it comes back, and then there’s a new message.

fuck, should I have waited for you to eat? I’m just having breakfast, I know it’s like noon I’m sorry

Jimin laughs to himself. it’s fine, hyung. I’ll grab something on the way.

okay, fuck, yeah, I’m sorry, Yoongi says. In a new message: see you soon.

Jimin almost types a smiley face. A heart. Several hearts.

Instead, he doesn’t say anything. He changes into a loose-knit sweater that hangs off his shoulder and a pair of black pants that aren’t quite leggings but also aren’t quite not, and then he heads out the door.

It’s not a long walk, and Jimin stops at Starbucks and feels kind of stupid for it, especially when Jeongguk sees him and shakes his head.

“He’s not here today, sorry,” Jeongguk says.

“I know,” Jimin says, absent-minded and distracted by the pastries. “Can I get two pieces of lemon cake? And a white mocha and a vanilla latte with extra whipped cream.”

Jeongguk stares at Jimin, eyes narrowed and chin tilted up in a look that reminds Jimin of Taehyung when Taehyung is figuring something out. Taehyung has no common sense, but he’s practically psychic sometimes with what he picks up on.

Jimin kind of hopes Taehyung does come to the Starbucks in search of Jeongguk.

“Sure. You don’t have to buy the drinks. I’ll mark them out for you. But I have to charge you for the cake,” Jeongguk says. Jimin tries to argue that he should pay for all of it, especially when he realizes that Jeongguk has given him a discount on the cake even if he won’t give it to Jimin free, but Jeongguk just shrugs. “I’m not charging my coworker for lattes and some lemon cake,” he says, and so. Yeah. Jeongguk knows.

Jimin blushes and gets his cake and his drinks, and when he arrives at Yoongi’s, Yoongi takes the proffered items with something like awe.

“You’re—oh, fuck, they really do get you addicted to this shit and I’m so addicted and—fuck, Jimin, you’re amazing.” Yoongi takes a sip of the latte and raises an eyebrow. “Did Jeongguk make this?”

Jimin nods. “Is that a bad thing? He knows it was for you—I mean, I didn’t tell him, but he figured it out.”

Yoongi shrugs. “Not surprised. He’s practically psychic sometimes. And no. Jeongguk actually makes my drink right. Yugyeom’s the one you have to watch out for. He can’t fuckin’ remember how much syrup to put in anything.”

Jimin smiles into the lid of his own latte and sets his backpack down on Yoongi’s bed. “Is it—sorry, is it okay if I work on your bed? Since you only have one chair,” Jimin says. Yoongi doesn’t even have a table—just the desk in the corner, which is cluttered over with all this equipment that Jimin can’t identify. There’s a piano keyboard hooked into it, which makes Jimin think Yoongi must have some hobby that has to do with music, but the rest of the stuff just looks complicated and electronic to Jimin’s untrained eye.

“Yeah, totally,” Yoongi says. “You can eat your cake on the bed, too. I eat on my bed, like, all the time.”

Jimin grins and makes a grabby motion for the paper bag with his slice of cake in it, and Yoongi hands it over. “Tae and I eat in bed all the time, too,” Jimin says. “He, uh, only has one bed. We’ve been sharing.” It sounds awkward, and Jimin realizes that he’s expecting Yoongi to be weird about it. He certainly hadn’t approved of any sleepovers that involved Jimin sharing a bed with his friends.

Yoongi shakes his head. “Does he starfish? He seems like he would.”

Jimin nods, pulling out his computer and nibbling on a bite of cake. “Yeah, totally,” he says, still a little nervous that Yoongi’s going to get mad.

Yoongi nods. “Dude, Hoseok does it, too. Every time we’re drunk, I swear. And when we’re not.”

Jimin grins and raises an eyebrow. “Does Hoseok-hyung end up in your bed a lot, hyung?”

Yoongi winks. “Sure. I like having nice, pretty things on my mattress,” he says, eyeing Jimin up and down. Jimin blushes all hot and sweet down his neck.

Yoongi finishes off his cake and stands up. “You want some water or something?”

Jimin takes another sip of his latte and nods. “Yeah, that would be nice.”

Yoongi brings over a couple of chilled bottles, blushing rosy when Jimin twists the top and laughs.

“This is already open,” Jimin says.

“Yeah, well, I just keep refilling them. And I don’t wash them in between so my germs are all over the top, and you’re just gonna have to deal with that if you want to drink water in this apartment,” Yoongi says, but he looks sheepish and adorable.

Jimin takes a long swig of the water and shrugs. “Fair enough. If I ever actually move out of Tae’s place, I’ll let you come over and we can eat off the same pair of chopsticks or something.”

Yoongi leans back in his desk chair and starts up his computer. “If you wanted to share chopsticks with me, all you had to do was ask. I can arrange that tonight when we eat more of my leftovers because I’m really bad at cooking the right amount of food for only one person.”

Jimin smiles. “Lucky for you, you have me here to eat the extras for you.”

Yoongi stares at Jimin a second too long, and then he flicks his head to the side to get his hair off his face. “Yeah,” Yoongi says. “Lucky for me.”

They spend the next few hours focused on their work, and Jimin gets mostly back on track with the research he’s supposed to be giving Namjoon on Friday. It’s quiet but not uncomfortable, and they finally break for dinner around 7:00 p.m., partly because Yoongi’s stomach is growling loudly enough that Jimin can hear it, and partly because Jimin is about to fall asleep onto his laptop.

“You sure you don’t want to just go to sleep?” Yoongi asks, looking genuinely concerned as Jimin yawns and shuts down his computer. “I really don’t mind. You can stay the night if you want. Or—you don’t have to. I can walk you home.”

Jimin shakes his head. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat, and then I’ll decide whether I want to just fall asleep right here,” he says, snuggling in against Yoongi’s pillows and closing his eyes. “Fuck, I really could just fall asleep right here.”

“It’s cute when you say ‘fuck’,” Yoongi blurts, and Jimin opens his eyes to try to get a read on his companion, but Yoongi already has his head buried in the refrigerator.

Jimin sits up and tugs at the collar of his sweater. Yoongi looks up from the refrigerator the way he had that morning in the armchairs, like he’s seeing a vision of something he can’t quite believe. Like he’s not sure how to react to it if it’s real. His gaze lingers on the slope of Jimin’s bare shoulder, the scoop of the pastel sweater against Jimin’s olive skin. Jimin can see the way Yoongi’s breath catches, the way his hands clench on the refrigerator door like he’s trying to hold himself up before he falls, or before he marches over and drapes Jimin’s body with his own.

Jimin swallows and brushes hair out of his eyes. Lets his own gaze drop down the column of Yoongi’s neck, the hollow of his throat, which is framed pale and alluring by the frayed edges of his black hoodie.

Jimin’s eyes meet Yoongi’s, and Yoongi blinks, and the moment is over. Not gone, but tabled, at least for now. Jimin thinks that Yoongi gets that. For now. For now.

“You okay with ramyun?”

Jimin nods. “Yeah. It feels nice on my throat.”

Yoongi makes a sad little hum. “Okay. You like the spicy kind?”

“Yeah,” Jimin says, standing up off the bed in a sudden burst of courage. He joins Yoongi at the fridge and leans against him with the whole line of his body, the way the old Jimin would’ve. The way the current Jimin does, apparently, because—because he does. He does it, and nothing bad happens at all. Yoongi’s breath hitches, and his arm comes up around Jimin’s shoulder, and together they appraise the empty fridge.

“I thought you said you had leftovers,” Jimin teases.

“I just wanted to impress you by making you think I cook a lot.”

“You had that kimchi fried rice on Friday.”

Yoongi blushes and coughs into his fist. “Seokjin made that.”

Jimin turns his head to smirk at Yoongi and Yoongi’s lips are right there. It would be so easy to close the distance. As easy as sidling up to him and getting in his space had been, probably.

Jimin doesn’t do it. Instead, he bites his lip. “Your manager makes you kimchi fried rice?”

Yoongi nods. “He says I can’t take care of myself and he loves cooking so he gives me food all the time.”

Jimin nods. “Hoseok does that for Taehyung, too, and then I usually get to cash in on that as well.”

Yoongi snorts. “Yeah, well, Hoseok’s mystery boyfriend sure is lucky to have someone who knows what they’re doing in the kitchen, even if all Hoseok can cook is, like, weird American foods.”

“My boss loves weird American foods,” Jimin says.

“Maybe he’s Hoseok’s mystery boyfriend,” Yoongi jokes, and Jimin laughs along.

After a few seconds of giggling, Jimin tips his head over to rest his temple against Yoongi’s shoulder. “Come on, hyung. Let’s make ramyun.”

Yoongi presses a kiss to Jimin’s bare shoulder like he isn’t even thinking about it. Jimin doesn’t freeze, or even tense. He just nuzzles his nose into Yoongi’s neck and puts his arm around Yoongi’s waist.

They stay like that while the water boils for the ramyun, and then they eat pressed against each other on Yoongi’s bed. Jimin almost falls asleep in Yoongi’s lap, and Yoongi insists on walking him home when Jimin decides he should go back to Taehyung’s.

“You don’t have to, hyung,” Jimin says.

“I don’t mind. Come on. It’s warm out. It’ll be a nice walk.”

And it’s not as if the streets they stroll are particularly beautiful or anything, but it is a nice walk, because Yoongi holds Jimin’s hand the entire way.

On Tuesday, Yoongi invites Jimin over in the early afternoon, and Jimin is tired and anxious and having a bad day. He goes anyway.

“You okay?” Yoongi asks when he opens the door.

Jimin shakes his head. “Had nightmares all night. I don’t—I don’t know why. I was so happy when I got home last night, I—” Jimin breaks into not-a-sob as he tries to stay calm and breathe, and Yoongi tugs Jimin inside and sits them both down on the bed.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. It’s gonna happen sometimes. Bad days, and nightmares.”

“I’m really fucking cranky and I probably shouldn’t even have come here,” Jimin says. “I’m just gonna be all mean at you, or be crying.”

Yoongi shakes his head. “No, hey, it’s fine,” he says, running a hand through Jimin’s hair. “You wanna lie down while I work? I can sit on the floor and you can put your head in my lap.”

And so Jimin lies on the floor with his head in Yoongi’s lap while Yoongi works, Yoongi’s headphones on and his fingers clicking and tapping away, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“What are you doing?” Jimin finally asks, when Yoongi has pulled the headphones down to ask if Jimin is still okay.

Yoongi swallows. “I…produce songs. Work on some DJ-type stuff, but also, like, writing my own. That kind of thing.”

“Can I listen?”

“They’re not that good,” Yoongi says, and Jimin shakes his head against the side of Yoongi’s thigh.

“Please, hyung,” he says, his hair splayed out against Yoongi’s thigh while Yoongi’s long fingers play with the honey-blond locks in this gentle rhythm that has Jimin sleepy and relaxed and so, so happy. Then, in the soft light coming in through the window, Yoongi plays Jimin a song that makes Jimin cry and cry, and it feels like release.

He cries and thinks of all he’s lost, and he cries some more, and thinks of all that he’s gained. Yoongi rubs gentle circles on his back. Holds him in his lap. Whispers comforting mumbles of nothing into his ear.

“And you tried to say your songs weren’t good,” Jimin says, feeling all soggy from the tears. “Thank you.”

“Catharsis,” Yoongi murmurs. He keeps carding his fingers through Jimin’s hair. Jimin keeps lying there, but it’s not because he doesn’t have the strength to get up. It’s because this is the place he wants to be.

“He came over late. After 11:00, if I had to guess.” It’s late now, in Yoongi’s apartment. After 11:00. If Jimin had to guess.

“I had just taken a bath. It was quiet, and pretty dark. Most of my lights were off. I was getting ready to go to bed.” It’s quiet and pretty dark now, too. In Yoongi’s apartment. Most of the lights are off. Jimin is lying under the sheets of Yoongi’s bed wearing Yoongi’s borrowed sweatpants. Yoongi is sitting up against the headboard. Jimin’s head is in his lap.

“I hadn’t seen him in six months. I shouldn’t have opened the door. He was yelling, and it was scary, but I had to get him to calm down. So I answered.”

Jimin trails off, and Yoongi’s fingers pause in their strokes through Jimin’s dyed-dark hair. They had done it earlier, when Jimin had complained about his roots growing in and Yoongi had suggested he just go back to having it dark. They had done it together. Gone to the convenience store, picked up some cheap dye which Yoongi had paid for, gone home, dyed Jimin’s hair. They had done it together, because they do things together now.

“You don’t have to tell me unless you want to,” Yoongi whispers. It’s dark, and everything feels safe, and the nightlight is glowing in the bathroom, and Jimin is comfortable.

“He came in and started yelling at me, which is why the neighbor called the cops,” Jimin says. “I begged him to be quieter. I put my hand on his arm. And that was when he hit me.”

Jimin reaches up to tangle his fingers through Yoongi’s and squeeze. “I don’t even remember why he was mad; isn’t that crazy? I still remember so many of the reasons he got mad when we were dating. It was last year—we broke up six months ago. And he was crazy then, too, but he didn’t—he didn’t hit me. He was rough when we…” Jimin trails off, and Yoongi’s fingers tighten enough that Jimin knows Yoongi gets the picture. “And he would shove me around and throw me to the floor and stuff, and leave bruises. But he never left a mark where it was visible. I don’t know.”

“It’s okay.”

“He grabbed me and threw me up against the wall and put his hands around my neck and squeezed. It felt like it went on forever, but I didn’t pass out, and the doctors looked me over and said I was okay. And then I walked to Starbucks and met you.” Jimin pauses, buries his head into Yoongi’s stomach. “It could’ve been so much worse,” he says.

“Did the cops…”

“They arrested him for assault and attempted murder. He’s…I mean, I guess if he somehow made bail, he could be out. But I doubt it.”

“Do you have to testify?”

“I gave a statement already. But…probably,” Jimin says. “I don’t want to. I mean, I do, but. I don’t know.”

Yoongi slides lower against the headboard, and Jimin wraps his arms around Yoongi’s waist. “I’m glad you came to Starbucks,” Yoongi says. “I’m not glad any of this happened to you, because I’m not. I want to kill that motherfucker. I mean. Fuck.”

Yoongi takes a breath and sits up, cross-legged, and Jimin mimics the pose so he can meet Yoongi’s eyes, because it feels like something important is happening.

“I’m not glad any of that happened, but I’m glad you’re here,” Yoongi says.

“I’m glad I’m here,” Jimin echoes, looking at Yoongi. It’s late. After 11:00, if Jimin had to guess. It’s dark, and pretty quiet.

Yoongi leans in quick, sure, and presses his mouth to Jimin’s. His hands frame Jimin’s cheeks, his momentum forces Jimin to grasp frantic fingers around the back of Yoongi’s neck to remain upright. Yoongi makes a broken sound and presses in harder, and Jimin darts his tongue out to run over Yoongi’s bottom lip. It’s sweet and simple, open, more than a peck but only just. Jimin flicks his tongue again against the soft of Yoongi’s mouth, and they both keen a little, and then they break away.

There’s this moment where time feels like it’s stopped. Jimin stares into Yoongi’s eyes and Yoongi stares back, both of them cross-legged and facing each other on the bed, the light low, the room silent. Jimin is holding his breath, and maybe Yoongi is, too.

Then Jimin blinks, and Yoongi’s fox eyes go all wide and stunned, like he’s only just realized what he’s done. He turns away and covers his mouth with his hand while Jimin ducks into his own palms and stifles a sheepish giggle.

“That wasn’t,” Yoongi starts, wiping his mouth and turning back to Jimin. “I didn’t—what I’m trying to say is, that is, um…” His eyes dart around the room, fingers still half-covering his mouth. He looks flustered and adorable and like he’s trying hard to feel bad even though he really, really doesn’t.

Jimin pulls his hands away from his own mouth and smiles. “It’s okay, hyung. I know you like sweet things. Especially when they’re in your bed. Or, like, your mouth.”

Yoongi’s cheeks turn a brilliant scarlet. “Jesus, Jimin-ah, I didn’t—you don’t have to—”

But Jimin is already surging forward onto his knees, tipping Yoongi’s chin back, pressing his mouth to Yoongi’s as Yoongi loses his balance and falls against the headboard, his head hitting the pillows as Jimin crouches over him and shivers at the way their mouths move together, lips locked, tongues tangled. Yoongi’s hands come up to clutch at Jimin’s hips and Jimin moans, and he throws a leg over Yoongi’s waist. Yoongi gasps into the kiss, and then he tugs Jimin flush against him so he can roll them over, and Jimin’s back hits the mattress, a whine escaping him as Yoongi traces kisses down the edge of his jaw, the column of his neck.

“Hyung,” Jimin breathes, hands scrabbling to find the hem of Yoongi’s hoodie, to pull the fabric up and off of him. Yoongi lets it happen, and he’s not wearing a shirt underneath.

“Fuck, is this okay?” Yoongi asks as he leans back in, his forehead pressed to Jimin’s as they both gasp for breath.

“Yes,” Jimin says. “Yes.”

Yoongi slides his hands under Jimin’s shirt, and Jimin lets out a low, broken moan.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” Yoongi says. “I won’t—you’re in charge here, you know?”

Jimin locks his ankles around Yoongi’s hips, and Yoongi’s eyes flutter shut, chin dropping forward like he can’t hold his head up.

“I know,” Jimin says, smiling as Yoongi gasps into his shoulder. There’s a pause while Yoongi glances up to make eye contact, and suddenly Jimin thinks of something. “Hey, hyung? You think you could leave the good kind of bruises on top of the old ones?”

Yoongi’s pupils dilate, his breath coming faster at the suggestion. “It might hurt.”

“That’s okay,” Jimin says. “Please.”

Yoongi nods. “Let me know if you need me to stop.”

Jimin bites his lip and tips his head back against the pillows. Yoongi’s breath ghosts across his skin, and then Jimin feels the sweet-sharp tug of teeth against his throat. Jimin lets out a ragged gasp.

It hurts, but later, Jimin looks at his throat in Yoongi’s bathroom mirror and doesn’t hate his own reflection anymore. He presses a thumb into one of the bruises, no longer in the shape of a finger, but in the shape of Yoongi’s mouth. Yoongi stands behind him and lets his mouth rest against Jimin’s bare shoulder and keeps his arms tight around Jimin’s waist, and Jimin relaxes into him.

Personhood.exe: application running.

“So anyways, that’s the story of how I didn’t actually manage to meet Mystery Boyfriend when he came to pick Hobi-hyung up the other day,” Taehyung finishes. They’re all sitting at a booth in the corner of the restaurant, Jimin and Yoongi on one side and Taehyung and Hoseok on the other. Hoseok is blushing but acting like he’s not, laughing in that airy way of his.

Yoongi scowls. “I can’t believe the guy is that smooth. Well, okay, I can, but I can’t believe Hoseok managed to be that smooth, sneaking out to the guy’s car when no one was looking. Especially when he was that sick.”

“I know!” Taehyung shouts, waving his arms and making honey mustard fly off his chicken tender to hit the window. Hoseok winces at the yellow glob on the glass. “I was even the one who texted him using Hobi-hyung’s phone! But his display name is just, like, two random English letters, and his picture is all artsy and he’s wearing sunglasses! I only knew to text that guy in particular because he was the most recent conversation and hyung had sent him a couple of hearts.”

“I sent those ironically,” Hoseok mutters, tapping his foot and reaching over to steal some of Yoongi’s fries. Yoongi bats his hand away and leans a little bit harder against Jimin. They’re not exactly being couple-y, but Jimin can see Taehyung’s brain working overtime.

The bell to the restaurant rings, and Hoseok and Taehyung both look up to see if they need to run help someone. It’s a tall guy with dyed-blonde hair (seriously, is everyone in Seoul going blond these days?) and sunglasses.

He walks over to their table, and Jimin does a double-take.

“Namjoonie-hyung?” Jimin asks.

Namjoon takes off his sunglasses. “Oh, hey, Jimin. Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says. He turns to Hoseok. “You ready to go?”

Hoseok stands, looking like he’s trying way too hard to be smooth and kind of failing. “Sure,” he says.

“Yo, why do you seem all nervous,” Yoongi asks, a single eyebrow raised.

Hoseok laughs. “What? No reason.”

“You know each other?” Jimin says, his brain still kind of stuck on that.

Namjoon shrugs. “Yeah, we’re friends. I know Hoseok’s roommate, Kim Seokjin.”

Taehyung perks up. “Wait, Kim Seokjin like Starbucks manager Kim Seokjin-hyung who’s gorgeous and perfect and Jeonggukie and I want to spoil the shit out of him, and also sleep with him regularly and with way more sappiness than is safe for work?”

“What?” Yoongi and Jimin say at the same time.

“We have a plan,” Taehyung says with a wink.

“Come on, let’s go,” Hoseok says. “We have to go drop off the renewal for the liquor license. Namjoonie agreed to drive me.”

“See you guys,” Namjoon says, waving and walking out the door next to Hoseok. They’re walking too close together, and Namjoon holds the door open for Hoseok as they walk out, and then they climb into Namjoon’s car laughing and looking at each other like—like—

“Holy shit. Namjoon-hyung is the Mystery Boyfriend. My boss is dating Jung Hoseok,” Jimin says in a daze.

Yoongi looks over. “That’s your boss? The guy you said is a world-famous prodigy professor? Dude, he’s hot.”

Taehyung perks up. “Wait, you guys didn’t know?”

Yoongi and Jimin exchange looks.

“What the fuck?” Yoongi says.

Taehyung smirks. “Sorry, I would’ve said something sooner if I’d known you didn’t know. But I was having a lot of fun teasing Hobi-hyung like I didn’t.”

“How did you know?” Jimin asks.

Taehyung sips smugly at his milkshake. “Come on, Jiminie-hyung. You know I’m psychic.”

Yoongi tilts his head like he doesn’t believe him, and then he leans over to Jimin and fake-whispers, “He’s been talking to Jeongguk, and they’re both apparently into Seokjin-hyung, which means they’re talking to him, too, and Seokjin-hyung is Hoseok’s roommate. Taehyung-ah isn’t psychic. He’s just a gossip.”

“Hey! I am so psychic!” Taehyung shouts.

“Did you know about this, then?” Yoongi asks, pressing a kiss to Jimin’s lips.

Taehyung’s face lights up, and he nods almost frantically. “Come on, hyung, everyone knew about that,” he says. “I’m really, really happy for you guys!”

Jimin looks at Yoongi, still a little out of it from the kiss. “You wanna go home and make out to your music?”

Yoongi’s eyes go dark. “You gotta say shit like that in the middle of a restaurant?”

Jimin smirks. “We can fuck to your music if you want.”

Taehyung and laughs and laughs and laughs, but Jimin is too busy being dragged out of the booth and back to Yoongi’s apartment to notice, or to care.