body euphoric

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/29612472.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Rape/Non-Con
Category: M/M
Fandom: 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Relationship: Jeon Jungkook/Park Jimin
Characters: Park Jimin (BTS), Jeon Jungkook, Bangtan Boys | BTS Ensemble
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - College/University, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn,
Park Jimin-centric (BTS), College Theater Club AU, Host club AU,
Prostitution, body issues, Mention of Drug Abuse, Sexual Tension, Jimin
is so bad at feelings they've decided to unionize and go on strike, Jung
Hoseok | J-Hope & Park Jimin are Best Friends, Attempt at Humor,
Minor Jung Hoseok | J-Hope/Min Yoongi | Suga, Non-Graphic
Rape/Non-Con, Slice of Life, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort,
Angst with a Happy Ending
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2021-02-21 Completed: 2021-09-30 Words: 177,593
Chapters: 17/17
 body euphoric
by anoria_bard

Summary

Park Jimin: History major, a passion for acting, imitator extraordinaire of human emotions
he's never had the pleasure to experience. He thought he could fake them all, until someone
glimpses the person behind the cracks in his mask, and his world flips upside down.

or

Two things happen at the start of the semester that threaten to break Jimin's already fragile
mental equilibrium:
1. Hoseok telling Jeon Jeongguk that Jimin will certainly audition for his play
2. Hoseok dragging him to a host club with his straight friends, and Jimin making an
unfortunate discovery

maybe he should just ditch his best friend.

 Chapter 1
Chapter Notes

hi! this fic is set in seoul, but a couple things may not completely reflect the way things
are/are done in south korea, as i took some liberties in order to develop the story the way
i wished to. (realism?? what is that??)

edit: thank you so much for all your love and support! here's a few amazing
moodboards that really talented people on twitter have graciously made for body
euphoric, please check them out, they're all incredible:

🔹
🔹 moodboards chapters 1-7 by @13_limmie

🔹 moodboard #1 and moodboard #2 by @gorymk

moodboard by @vickyguk

enjoy!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

1.
Do you mind? I’m trying to eat breakfast.

Let’s be honest: his stepfather wouldn’t give two shits if Jimin asked him to kindly get the
fuck out of the kitchen. He’d just stand there, butt naked, flaccid cock limp against his thigh,
looking at Jimin like he’d grown two heads and wasn’t sure which had talked to him.

“Ah! Did you see that? Fell right on his ass!, the little faggot,” Daejung chortles, eyes glued
to the small TV screen. His stepfather leans against the counter and slaps a hand on his thigh
with a powerful smack that makes Jimin wince. Fucking idiot.

Seven AM in the morning, and Daejung is having the time of his miserable life watching a
replica of an old Japanese TV program on God-knows what godforsaken channel. It’s one of
those silly little shows where people do the most idiotic, inane things just to snag a crumb of
popularity. It goes like this: there’s a room, the contestants are locked in this room, they win
if they find out what’s the one thing in the room that looks normal but isn’t because it’s
actually made of chocolate. Jimin’s watched this particular TV show one too many times to
find it even remotely interesting anymore. Thought it stupid the first time, thought it stupid
the second time, but he kept on watching just for the hell of it. Then, when the hosts crack the
seventy third sexist joke at the expense of the token overweight woman – clearly there for
comic relief – mistaking the only vaguely-phallic object in the room for The Chocolate One,
well, then it really starts to get a little trite.

Jimin hates Daejung and Daejung’s stupid TV programs. Hates his derisive laugh, always
high and loud like the braying of a donkey. Hates the way his eyes glint maliciously when he
yells offensive slurs at the TV. Hates his stupid oversized dick, hates how proudly he parades
it around, hates how often he’s been forced to look at it first thing in the morning when the
only thing he wants to do is drink his coffee and watch the fucking news. Hates how it never
fails to remind him of the sound his mother’s bedpost makes slamming against the wall their
bedrooms share.

They’d been at it almost all night long. Jimin fell asleep with his headphones on, but the
audio on one side had started skipping and the noise cancelation had never been top notch to
begin with, so he basically ended up listening to a bad porno.

So yes, he’s in a foul mood. Yes, he feels like puking on Daejung’s limp dick. Yes, it’s both
because he finds it disgusting and because he knows it’s been inside his mother at least three
times last night. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Do you mind?” Jimin snaps, spilling half of his morning coffee when he slams the mug on
the table. “We were watching the news.”

He gestures vaguely to him and Jihyun, who's eating his milk and cereal in silence. His
brother glares.
“What news?” Daejung snorts. “They’re always the same. You don’t need to watch the
news.”

He sniffs, gulps down the rest of his morning beer. Fresh out of a shower and Jimin can
already smell his stink. He’s never going to wash that off. Like no matter how hard he scrubs,
he’s always going to stink like days-old sweat and cheap beer. Like misery. Like failure.

Jimin turns to his brother—who’s staring at his milk like he's seriously contemplating
drowning himself in it—and scowls.

“Have you been looking for more part-time jobs?”

Jihyun shakes his head.

“Hyunie, I know you’re busy with school, but you really need to find a job. You start
university next spring. What me and mom earn isn’t enough to cover—everything.”

Jihyun shrinks in his chair, pushes the cereal around the bowl. It’s all soggy, little brown rings
bobbing sadly in lukewarm milk.

“I know. I’m sorry. I had a lot of homework this week.”

Jimin sighs.

“Please find one as soon as possible. I know it’s hard, but we really need the money.” He
glances to a pile of letters messily stacked on top of weeks-old magazines. Bills, and
apparently he’s the only person in his family who wants to keep having electricity and hot
water.

“You know how hard it is to find a place that hires high-schoolers?” his brother snaps. “And
I’ve got exams soon. And I’d get in huge trouble if the school finds out I have a job.”

“The school won’t find out, I promise.”

“You’re just saying that cause you want the money.”

“And what do I need the money for, uh?” Jimin hisses, trying to keep his voice low. Daejung
snickers at something one of the TV show hosts says, then gulps down the last of his beer and
throws the bottle in the sink.

“Do you want to go to college or not?” Do you want to escape this hell or not?

Jihyun stares at him, defiant. “Yes.”

“Well then, either you step up your game and bag a full scholarship in your college of choice
or you’ll have to resort to finding a job like the rest of us mortals.”

Jihyun flushes. He doesn’t like to be reminded of his shortcomings at school. Jimin knows
he’s smart, but he’s also very lazy, and could be so much more if only he put a little more
effort in studying. But then again, it’s hard to keep this mindset when Jihyun grew up with
the very epitome of ignorance and failure living in his house since before he was born.

Jimin turns to Daejung again, unfortunately catching him in the beatific moment of
scratching his balls. He feels nausea crawl up his throat, sour and strong.

Repugnant. Him and his hairy balls. Everything about his stepfather’s body is obscene. He
has the physique of a man who was once athletic but let himself go when he realized he liked
beer more than the gym. His beer belly sags forward, heavy and soft, and Jimin can only
hope it grows large enough to droop over his junk, so he can spare them the sight.

How can Jihyun tolerate it? He never complains. Has never given any sign he found
Daejung’s exhibitionist streak repulsive. Is it just him? Maybe it is. Maybe it’s because he
was just a child when Daejung moved in with their mother. Maybe it’s because he remembers
vividly the first time he heard them have sex in his parents’ bedroom. Maybe it’s because
he’d always retained the confusion, the fear and the repulsion of the night he saw him take
his mother from behind. And because he was old enough to know, but too young to watch.

Too fucking young to watch.

2.
Waiting for Hoseok to finish class, Jimin glances absent-mindedly at the multitude of colorful
fliers pinned on the notice board. Something catches his interest, so he goes to take a closer
look.

He moves over some of the most recent notices to dig up an old flier riddled with pin holes.
It’s about last year’s play. The university’s theater club puts up a play every year, often
written and directed by the students themselves. It garners a lot of attention even from
neighboring universities, as the quality of production is usually pretty high. Jimin meant to
audition last year, but eventually decided to take a third job to help his family make ends
meet. He wouldn’t have had the time to go to rehearsals, so he dropped the idea altogether,
albeit ruefully.

The bell rings, and Jimin startles. He was so engrossed in the pitiful contemplation of his
miserable life that he almost forgot about Hoseok. He spots a redhead with an easy smile and
bright eyes walk out of the closest classroom, and holds up a hand in greeting.

“How was class?”

“I missed the deadline for an essay and Mr. Kim shamed me in front of the whole class,”
Hoseok chirps, unbothered. “Semester starting off great.”

“Sounds about right.”

“What do you have there?” Hoseok rips the flier from his hand, cocks an eyebrow. “I
remember this. You wanted to join the club last year, right?”

“Yeah. Didn’t have the time, though.”

“You moped for weeks. I almost asked my classmates in the club to have pity on you and let
you join last-minute.”

“I worked three jobs. Can’t be in two places at the same time, Hobi.”

“What about this year?” Hoseok asks, crumpling the old flier and throwing it in the nearby
trash can. “I think I’ve heard Namjoon talk about auditions. They’re probably gonna put up
the info either today or tomorrow on their social medias.”

Jimin bites his lip, eyes roaming around the notice board. He hasn’t acted in a play in a while.
Isn’t sure he even remembers how to pretend to be someone he’s not in front of an audience.

“Come on, Jimin. Isn’t Jihyun old enough to get a job? Do something you enjoy once in a
while. God knows you deserve a break.”

He could try it out this time. He could drop his job at the convenience store and maybe hand
it to Jihyun if the timetable suits his school schedule. He could do something a little selfish—
just to feel a little alive again.
“I haven’t acted since high school.”

“So what? It’s not something you forget, and you have real talent. Everyone said so,
remember? The coach even said you could’ve pursued a career in acting. Personally, I think
you should have.”

Jimin scoffs. Hoseok comes from a fairly well-off family and has never had trouble with
money. He’s been Jimin’s best friend since middle school, but sometimes he can be a bit
naïve.

“Acting is expensive.”

“But joining the university’s play is free,” Hoseok sing-songs. “Come on. I’m gonna
seriously sign you up myself if you don’t. I heard that last year someone got scouted into one
of the biggest acting agencies in the country. Can you imagine that? You don’t wanna miss
such a big opportunity, right? Think about it,” Hoseok huffs, jogging to catch up to an already
exasperated Jimin, “—who knows, you could become the next face of South Korean
cinema.”

“You do know the chances of this happening are—”

“Oh! Look who's here!” Hoseok yells, surprise turning into glee as he spots a tall, dark-haired
student walking toward them. “Gguk, my dude, come here! We were just talking about you.”

“We were not?” Jimin says, panicking. He knows Jeon Jeongguk from—around, you could
say. He’s a Literature major like Hoseok, and they share a couple of electives with the
History majors sometimes, but that’s about it—Jeon Jeongguk hangs around the cool, artsy
people, people whose clothes are rigorously bought in the most expensive urban-streetwear
shops in Hongdae, people who spend evenings talking about books and philosophy and art in
small, secluded family-owned cafes.

“Oh?” Jeongguk arches an eyebrow, walking up to them. Jimin doesn’t think he’s ever seen
him from up close before, let alone talked to him. Maybe he sat in the row behind him in a
lecture once. “What about?”

His voice isn’t as deep as Jimin imagined it would be. It’s strangely melodic, but with darker
undertones, bleeding into a pitch black.

Hoseok squeals when he sees the stack of fliers in Jeongguk’s hands.

“Are those for the play?”

“Yep.”

“Oh my God, this is a sign. My friend here,” Hoseok puts an arm around Jimin’s shoulder
and he stiffens, steeling himself for what he knows is inevitably going to happen, “—wants to
audition so bad, like so bad he was literally begging me to ask you when you were going to
open the sign-ups—”

“That’s not—”
“—he’s a terrific actor, you know? Doesn’t look it but he is, trust me. You want him in your
play. He’s gonna make you famous.”

Jimin feels a little bit like dying, a little bit like poking two fingers into Hoseok’s eyes and
scrape them off their eye sockets.

“Don’t mind him, he got dropped on the head as a baby,” Jimin says, smiling awkwardly at
Jeongguk. He already feels the tell-tale signs of an ugly blush on his face.

Jeongguk hums, looks him over, then smiles faintly.

“He can certainly try.”

Jimin’s eyebrows shoot up. What the fuck? Isn’t he younger than him? A little rude to judge a
book by its cover. What’s he smirking about? Jimin doesn’t look like he acts well? Fucking
bullshit.

“Oh, I will certainly try.” Jimin shoots him his most saccharine smile. Hopes it gives you
cavities.

“Great. Now excuse me, I have to put these up,” Jeongguk waves the fliers around. “Hope to
see you at the auditions, uh—”

“Jimin,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Yeah. See you in class, Hoseok.”

Jeongguk walks past them without sparing Jimin of another glance, and methodically
proceeds to cover at least half the notice board in posters.

“Is he allowed to do that?”

“Who cares. Are you signing up? I think Gguk likes you.”

“I don’t even know what the play is about,” Jimin scoffs, taking the flier from Hoseok’s hand.
He looks it over, skims the synopsis. “Oh, damn. It’s an original work?”

“Yeah, it’s tradition. The uni holds a contest where students – mostly lit majors—participate
by submitting their original screenplays. Then a commission of professors picks the best one.
This year we got Jeongguk, Namjoon and a dude called Min Yoongi who’s majoring in music
production, I think? I guess he’s taking care of the soundtrack.” He glances at Jeongguk,
who’s currently talking with another student interested in the play. “Namjoon’s got a brain
bigger than yours and mine put together. And I think Jeongguk’s got big ambitions.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. He wants to become a filmmaker or something.”

“A filmmaker?” Jimin squints. “Then why is he studying literature?”

“Wait. Maybe it was screenwriter?”

Jimin hums, stealing another glance at Jeongguk. He’s smiling big, slapping another student
in the back like they’re old friends. Looks more like an actor than a screenwriter, he muses.
Pretty face.

He glances back at the flier. This year they picked a period play, a piece set in sixth century
Silla centered around the tragic story of hwarang Sadaham and Mugwan. Jimin frowns. He’s
familiar with the story, of course, being a Korean history major. But this is a very peculiar
story to tell.

“What’s it about?” Hoseok asks, glancing over his shoulder.

“It’s a period piece about two hwarang of Silla, who were thought to be lovers,” Jimin
answers evasively. “We don’t know much about them, but I’m pretty sure the story ends in
tragedy.”

“So it’s a tragedy?” Hoseok says, a little disappointed.

“This says the original story is heavily romanticized. I think it’s a tragic love story.”

“Which character you gonna audition for?”

They walk out of the building and into a patch of sunlight. The bright September sun paints
the canopy of leaves overhead in deep emerald greens.

“Easy,” Jimin smirks, and he doesn’t stop to wonder where all this sudden confidence is
sprouting from, “the protagonist, of course.”

“Oh, shit, you going all in, uh?” Hoseok pats him on the shoulder. “Does it mean you’ll
smooch a dude in front of the whole university and beyond?”

The September sunshine suddenly feels a little colder. Oh, crap. He shrugs, feigning
nonchalance. “If I get the part, yes.”

“That takes guts—”

“So have you thought about what you want to do on your birthday? You mentioned
something big yesterday,” Jimin steers the topic away from his poor life decisions with a little
more desperation than he intended. “It’s less than a month away. What do you have in mind?”

“Oh, that.” Hoseok smiles bright, mischief glinting in his eyes. If the sudden change in topic
fazed him, he doesn’t give it away. “I thought of something really special. You’re all in for a
treat.”

Jimin raises his eyebrows. “Oh God. What treat?”

“First, a little survey. Are you still bi?”

Jimin’s eyeroll threatens to dislodge his eyeballs from their sockets.

“Yeah, surprisingly, I’m still bi.”

“I was beginning to think you were past women, you haven’t dated one in a while.”

“Well shit, I wasn’t aware my bisexuality membership expired.”

“Just checking, dude.”

“Why do you want to know?” he looks over at Hoseok with suspicion.

“Just one word: Host. Club.”

“That’s two words,” Jimin shoots back, frowning. “And I already hate everything about it.”

“You didn’t even let me explain!”

“What’s there to explain? It’s a host club. You want to celebrate your birthday at a host club.
Like a sixty-year-old sleazeball.”

“Yeah, but—it’s gonna be fun! Lots of champagne! Gorgeous girls—I mean, you still like
girls, right? That’s why I asked.”

“How considerate of you.”

Hoseok huffs, rolls his eyes, “We’re not gonna spend the whole night there, of course—”
Jimin doesn’t believe him for one second, “—it’s just to do something new and exciting.
There’s this club in Gangnam, it’s super exclusive and you gotta make a reservation in
advance—”

“Tell me they're full.”

“—and they told me they have an opening because a large group had just canceled!”

“Jesus Christ.”

“We can celebrate my birthday and you getting the part in the play at the same time!”

Jimin stops in front of the History faculty, hand on the door.

“One, shut up about the play. Two, don’t try to sweeten the pill like that. It won’t work.”

“I have already made the reservation and I’ve already put your name down. You’re coming
with me or you’re not my best friend anymore.”

“Words cannot describe how much I hate you,” Jimin deadpans.

“Leave that to the Lit majors. Maybe Jeongguk could help?”

“Fuck you, man."

“Maybe you should get fucked and relieve some of your stress. You could get your future co-
star to help, since you two will be frolicking in the play anyway."

“It’s not a porno!” Jimin exclaims, exasperated. A couple of girls passing by cast him mildly
scandalized glances. “And stop talking like I got a part I haven’t even auditioned for.”

“I wonder how explicit it’ll get,” Hoseok muses, fingers thrumming on his chin.

“You know, the hwarang were first and foremost warriors. They fought for their country and
had a pretty strict code of honor.”

“And they were gay as fuck.”

Another eyeroll. His eyes are going to wear out soon. “Not necessarily true.”

“Come on, Jimin. A male-only institution whose only prerequisite was to be handsome?”

“Actually, you’d have to belong to the aristocracy to—"

“—they were totally having some sick orgies.”

Jimin glowers.

“If I end up with a part in the play, I’m gonna ask Jeongguk to write me a sonnet about how
much I find you detestable.”

Hoseok smiles. “I look forward to reading it.”

3.
The water is still cold. It’s been almost ten minutes, and the shower is still running freezing
cold. It’s probably the shower’s mixing valve that’s broken. Every other faucet in the house
works just fine.

Jimin sits on the toilet and waits for the water to turn warm. Hot, if he’s lucky enough. He’s
still completely dressed, sweater and jeans and sneakers and everything. There’s a huge
mirror above the sink. He stares at his reflection. A tired man in his early twenties stares
back, disheveled mop of blond hair falling limp over eyes swollen with sleep, ugly pillow
lines creasing his cheek. He’d meant to take a nap in the afternoon, just to rest his eyes. He
ended up sleeping almost five hours straight. He hates this. He hates sleeping in the middle of
the day for two reasons. One, there’s a 99% chance that his subconscious will slip him a
weird-ass dream, often a nightmare riddled by his worst paranoias and anxieties. Two, he
always wakes up in a foul mood. Not because of the nightmares, but out of frustration when
he realizes it’s dark outside and he’s wasted an entire day sleeping.

And having shitty dreams, at that.

Jimin sighs, puts a hand under the water spray. A little warmer. Better jump in now and relish
in what little warmth he can get, before the shower decides to arbitrarily switch to shitting
literal hail.

He sheds his clothes on the floor, doesn’t bother to pick them up or fold them neatly or throw
them into the laundry basket. There’s not enough steam to fog the mirror, but Jimin doesn’t
look at himself anymore. Clothed, he likes his reflection. Some might even say he’s a little
vain—not his fault if literally any hair color suits him. He’s had this honey blond for a while,
the roots are slowly starting to grow out. He still hasn’t found the time to cover them up, but
they’re in style anyways, right?

Naked, that’s another story. Naked bodies are—how should he say? Vulgar. Yes, that’s the
word. He’s always found them tasteless. Slim or chubby, firm or soft, bulging muscles or
saggy skin—at the end of the day, when people shed the layers of clothes that most often than
not define their personality, people are just a sack of flesh. And the more Jimin stares at those
bodies, the more they look misshapen, wrong. Even a beautiful body turns vulgar in his eyes.
And what’s a beautiful body anyway? Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, they say. Yet
Jimin can’t think of a single time he’s thought a naked body beautiful. Are his eyes broken?
Has his idea of beauty been altered somehow? Or is he the only person in the world who sees
people the way they’re meant to be: graceless, wriggling worms playing at being nature’s
favorites.

Some naked bodies he finds more offensive than others. Take his stepfather’s, for example.
Everything about him screams loud, offensive, obscene. Yet he’s as proud of the meat
between his legs as a PhD student is proud of their first academic publication. Maybe his
inability to see beauty lies in the fact that he’s grown up around the only person in South
Korea who’s developed an allergy for clothes.
Jimin gets inside the shower stall and slides the glass panel closed behind him. He squirts a
generous amount of bodywash in his hand, starts hastily scrubbing the skin until it’s red. The
water turns slightly colder. He washes his hair in record-time and turns off the shower before
it has the chance to attack him with sleet. He steps out of the stall with stinging eyes, dripping
wet. The mirror is all fogged now, his reflection a blurred pink blob. That’s what he likes
about hot showers. The steam. You’re hidden from view, lost in the vapors. For a few minutes
he can pretend he hasn’t got any problem with the body reflected in the glass. He’s still him,
just a poorly rendered version of him. Like he’s a videogame character that hasn’t loaded
properly because the console is outdated. Maybe he should get another console. Upgrade to a
new brain. Is this called going to therapy? He doesn’t feel like what he has is worthy of a
visit to the shrink. He knows what they’d cling to. So Jimin, tell me about your relationship
with your stepfather. The imaginary woman in his head has about four PhDs in psychology
proudly displayed in her office, wears cat-like glasses, and crosses her legs like she’s Sharon
Stone in Basic Instinct. How do you feel about him?

Oh, the embarrassing stories he could tell. Not just about his stepfather, but his life in general.
Like that time the boy he liked brushed his clothed dick and he 1. got instantly rock-hard, 2.
panicked harder, so much so he jumped out of his skin and headbutted him as they were
kissing. The boy said he didn’t mind, but every time he tried to push Jimin’s legs open and
grind against him, Jimin squirmed, closing up like a clam.

Frigid. That’s what you are. Thank you very much for the diagnosis, miss Stone-wannabe.
Probably neurotic, too.

He towels himself quickly, slips in his change of clothes. As he gets out of the bathroom he
sees his stepfather wandering in the kitchen. He’s had the decency to put on sweatpants, but
they hang way too low around his hips and he’s got no underwear on, so he might as well go
around naked. He rolls his eyes, feeling the familiar repulsion and the stinging
disappointment in knowing they belong to the same species.

And that’s the saddest part. When Jimin undresses at night and sees a glimpse of his naked
flesh, he has to stop his mind from spiraling. What sets them apart? The things he’s seen, the
things he’s heard—he swore to himself he’d never grow up to be another Daejung. But
sometimes he can’t shake off the feeling that they share in something ugly already: this need,
this urge, this animal instinct.

And he’s terrified to look down and feel repulsed.

Thank you for the trauma, dickhead.

4.
The theater is bigger than he remembers. Perhaps it’s because he’s on the stage this time,
overlooking rows upon rows of empty seats—empty except for three men sitting in the very
first row. Kim Namjoon, Min Yoongi and Jeon Jeongguk, two Literature majors and one
Music production major, respectively director, music score producer slash sound engineer,
and lead screenwriter of Orioles.

Jimin clears his throat, sets the script on the floor, walks closer to the other man on the stage
with a thin, uncertain smile. The man answers with a smile of his own which immediately
puts him at ease.

“Alright, now we have—Park Jimin, right?” Namjoon asks, glancing at the list in front of
him. “History major?”

“Yes.”

“Nice to meet you, Jimin. I’m Namjoon, these are Jeongguk and Yoongi. Do you have
previous experience in acting?”

Jimin gives a non-committal shrug. “Just your standard high school plays experience. I joined
a theater club for three years, it wasn’t anything major though.”

“Alright. Why have you decided to audition for the role of Sadaham?”

Jimin takes a few seconds to ponder over the question, scratching his neck with nervous
fingers. It’s hot up here, under the harsh spotlights. There’s enough light that he should be
able to see their faces in the first row, but they’re all a blur of shadows. Perhaps it’s for the
better.

“I like how he’s portrayed in the play,” Jimin says. “I know this is a romanticized version, but
it feels honest. Authentic. I like the depth of Sadaham’s feelings, he’s very three-dimensional.
That’s about it, I think,” he finishes, shuffling his feet. The third man on the right leans
forward in his seat, and light hits his face. Jeongguk looks at him with mild interest, twirling
a pen in his fingers. The movement is almost hypnotic.

“Well, thank you for the compliment,” Namjoon answers, a kind half-smile on his lips. “So, I
know we’re being a little unfair cause we’re imposing a scene for everyone who auditions for
Sadaham, but we’ve already gotten our Mugwan here—” he flashes a dimpled smile at the
man next to Jimin, who smiles back, “and we’re all about the chemistry, you know?, we want
Sadaham and Mugwan to feel like real lovers, we wanna—we wanna feel the sparks, the
fireworks, the heart beating out of your chests, you know?”

With each word Namjoon’s face lights up brighter, rapt expression caught in the ecstatic
contemplation of a Sadaham and Mugwan that probably only exist in his imagination.

Jeongguk chuckles, pencil twirling relentlessly between his fingers.

“Yeah, no problem,” Jimin says, steeling himself. He’s had time to study the bit, he finds it
rather easy. It’s the scene where Sadaham and Mugwan almost kiss for the first time, but
they’re interrupted by an emissary saying there’s been an attack on the king’s life. Basically a
little blushing, a lot of pining, a lot of staring at each other’s mouths. Pretty sure he can pull it
off flawlessly—other than being a hopeless romantic at heart, Jimin’s watched enough
replicas of Pride and Prejudice to feel confident about his ability to replicate yearning.

“Hi, I’m Kim Taehyung. Nice to meet you, Jimin.”

Kim Taehyung’s skin glows amber under the spotlights, the golden brown of his irises is the
warmest shade of brown he’s ever seen, and the timber of his voice reminds Jimin of drinking
cinnamon-spiced hot cappuccino—the Italian style cappuccino, not the cheap-ass Starbucks
version. It’s a voice that slides down your spine until it pools in your belly, warming you up
from within. A deep, glossy chestnut color.

And he smiles a lot, like a whole lot, like he’s never stopped smiling since Jimin’s joined him
on the stage. If he had a tail, he’d be wagging it frenetically. Jimin tilts his head to the side,
looks him over. If Kim Taehyung were a dog, he’d be a golden retriever.

“Hi, pleasure’s mine.” Jimin gives a little bow, smiles politely.

“Alright, Jimin. Ready when you are,” Namjoon says, and time stops altogether.

It’s like a switch flips in Jimin’s mind, and suddenly he’s not on a stage anymore, and the
young man smiling at him isn’t a young man he’s just met, but the man he’s been in love with
for years. And Jimin lets himself believe it with every fiber of his being, as Park Jimin the
student bleeds out of his body and in comes Sadaham, hwarang of Silla.

His body knows how to act the part of the boy caught in the throes of first love, and him and
Taehyung dance around each other with both words and bodies. A spark ignites between
them—there’s electricity, a subtle current that swells and ebbs, swells and ebbs, as both
Sadaham and Mugwan play with feelings stronger than they’ve ever felt before. Their lines
are crisp and honest, their voices singed with passion. They play along with each other’s
fleeting glances and even more fleeting touches, and when the time comes for Mugwan to
boldly grasp Sadaham at the waist, hips slotting together—Jimin freezes.

Fuck.

It comes crashing down on Jimin all at once—how Sadaham is very much a sexual being, as
driven by honor in protecting his country as he is by lust when it comes to his heart. Mugwan
too, and Taehyung reflects it perfectly in the way he looks down at his lips with eyes glazed
with want, like Jimin—no, fuck, Sadaham, no—wait, fucking hell, who is he now?—like
Sadaham is the only other person in the world. A person who very much wants to kiss him
and even fuck him eventually—right? wait, do they fuck in the play? yeah but it’s not like
he’s going to fuck Taehyung in front of an audience, ah ah, it’s fine, you’re gonna pull it off—
and now for the first time since he’s begun the scene, Jimin forces himself to act.

He loosens up, shakes the ugly feeling bleeding at the back of his mind. He puts a hand on
Taehyung’s chest like he’s about to shove him away, then bunches his fingers in Taehyung’s
shirt, pulling him closer, closer, closer—too close, his body is literally plastered all over
Jimin, he can feel every single thing, and is something moving? Oh God,—but he doesn’t let
go, act professionally for fuck’s sake, you want this part, right?—and focuses on how warm
Taehyung feels—it’s Mugwan, not Taehyung—how solid he feels under his black t-shirt—no
no no it’s a fucking tunic, he’s a warrior and he’s wearing a tunic, don’t break character—and
the thundering in his ears is a little distracting but he powers through and just before the kiss
that’s never destined to happen, Namjoon announces the end of the scene and Jimin pushes
off Taehyung and takes several steps back.

Sweat trickles down his spine, but he’s sure it’s just because of the heat of the spotlights.

The silence that falls on the theater is louder than his heartbeat. Then Namjoon raises his
hands and puts them together, once, twice, three times. He’s clapping. He’s looking straight at
Jimin and he’s clapping, and there’s a strange expression on his face, emotion singed with
something akin to reverence. He looks like he’s going to cry.

“Magnificent! Breathtaking! I felt like I was watching Orioles on the night of the show, it
was that good! The chemistry between you two is—” he turns to the other two, radiating
enthusiasm from every pore, “simply out of this world! Right, guys?”

“It was very good,” Yoongi says, nodding slowly. He seems mildly impressed, which–if what
Hoseok told him about Min Yoongi is anything to go by—means that he’s actually really
impressed. “Very good indeed.”

Namjoon points at Jimin with sudden solemnity and declares, “You’re my Sadaham, Park
Jimin!”

“That’s a yes for me,” Yoongi shrugs.

Elation swarms Jimin, making him feel all tingly and warm. He’s pretty sure he’s blushing
because he feels his cheeks sting, but it’s a nice sting.

“It did feel really nice acting with you, Jimin,” Taehyung says. He’s never stopped smiling.
God, Jimin could kiss his golden retriever face right now.

“Jeongguk, you’re being unusually quiet. What do you think?” Yoongi asks, leaning on his
seat to look at the screenwriter.

Oh. Jeongguk. Hope still in full bloom, Jimin squints through the spotlights to look at the
other man’s face. What he reads there bursts his little bubble of joy.

“He’s good, but could be better, I guess.”

“What do you mean, could be better? Have you seen them acting? It was crazy.” Namjoon
sounds personally offended.

Jeongguk shrugs. Slumped in his chair, pencil still spinning over his fingers, he looks bored
to death and beyond. His legs are spread wide in a display of unprecedented arrogance, black
combat boots stomping all over Jimin’s heart.
Fucking brat.

“I’m not saying he’s not good. I have eyes. He’s not bad. Him and Tae make a pretty solid
team, but…”

“But what?” Namjoon rolls his eyes.

Yeah, but what, you pretentious little shit?

Jeongguk huffs, tucks the pencil behind his ear – can a Lit major even be more cliché than
this? – says, “—something’s not quite right. I’m not sure what, though.” Shrugs again. “Just a
feeling.”

“Just a feeling,” Yoongi repeats. “Well, okay. Had Jeongguk agreed on the spot, we’d have
given the role to you, Jimin, but… apparently his gut tells him there’s something wrong, and
we decided to assign Sadaham’s part unanimously, you see.”

“Okay,” Jimin says, hoping he doesn’t sound as disappointed as he feels. “Thank you for the
opportunity.”

“This doesn’t mean you’re out of the race, of course. We’re gonna let you know the results by
tomorrow, so keep an eye on your phone, alright? We’ll notify you soon.”

“Perfect,” Jimin tries his best to appear cheerful, when in reality all he wants to do is body-
slam Jeon Jeongguk to the ground and paint his face blue and purple. He smiles through his
murderous thoughts. Maybe he’s being overdramatic. He casts another glance toward the
screenwriter as he climbs down the stage. Jeongguk is watching him with the very specific
indifference most often reserved to particularly boring lectures. Nope, he’s not being
overdramatic at all—he hates the guy, wants him dead.

“Thank you for coming here. We’ll keep in touch,” Jeongguk dismisses him, already glancing
at the name of the next candidate on the list.

“Yeah.” Jimin’s throat feels parched. “Thank you.”

And that’s when Park Jimin decides: if he doesn’t get this part, he’s going to hate Jeon
Jeongguk forever more.
5.
Jimin lies on his side, covers up to his ears, engrossed in the heart-wrenching performance of
James McAvoy casting the most longing of glances at a super young Keira Knightley. He’s
watched Atonement at least a hundred times already, but every time he puts it on he always
tears up a little at the end, like it’s the first time. And both McAvoy and Knightley are hot as
fuck. The woman in her dainty, Elizabethan-era-kind-of-way, McAvoy in that very peculiar
pasty-looking English-countryside-stableboy kind of way. Watching movies on his phone
isn’t ideal, but he’s in need of a certain kind of comfort that can only be found at 1:00 AM
curled up in fetal position on his bed.

Orioles’ writers are liars. Liars, and Jeongguk’s the worst of them all—you say that only
because he didn’t love your performance, a tiny voice whispers in his ear, and it’s fucking
right, and he’s got every right to be. He was amazing. Alright, he stumbled a little bit toward
the end, but he honestly thought he did a pretty good job. His voice never quivered once—
except when it was supposed to—and he didn’t shy away from Taehyung’s touch, no matter
how much he wanted to. Had it been real life, Jimin would have probably fled with his tail
between his legs. Acting he does pretty well, but fleeing from intimacy—oh boy, that’s what
he shines at. Chef’s kiss.

A notification pops up on the upper side of the screen, ruining a particularly emotionally
packed scene. Fuck off, he thinks as he swipes with a finger, then freezes.

He scrambles to sit up, legs tangling in the sheets, and opens the KakaoTalk chat.

Kim Namjoon:
Hello Jimin! Namjoon here. Super excited to let you know you’re officially our Sadaham. See
you at rehearsals on Monday!

Holy fucking shit.

Kim Namjoon:
Sorry we didn’t tell you earlier. Jk was supposed to send you a message, but he forgot. Hope I
didn’t wake you up!
Jimin stares at the words you’re officially our Sadaham, see you at rehearsals, and Jk. Jk.
Who the hell—oh, fuck. Of course Jeon Jeongguk kept him on his toes all fucking day.

Jimin gets up, does a little happy twirl, and throws the phone on the mattress. This calls for
celebration. He boots up his laptop, props it on his legs as he lays comfortably on the bed,
fluffed-up pillows at his back. No more watching Atonement on his phone. He’s earned the
right to watch it on a bigger screen.

He got the part, and now he’s at least got something to look forward to this semester. He got
the part, and for the first time in a while, he feels genuinely excited. He can’t wait to start
with rehearsals, meet the other actors and actresses, feel the stage in his blood again. He had
always loved acting, he truly had. He found it liberating to slip out of Park Jimin’s skin and
wear the face of another. Pretending to be someone he’s not has always been exhilarating.

He got the part, this means Jeon Jeongguk came around on his own at some point—unless
Yoongi and Namjoon held him at gunpoint. He doubts it, and a satisfied smirk stretches
across his lips.

I’ll show you the best Sadaham of your miserable life. Brat.

Perhaps he won’t hate Jeon Jeongguk forever more, then.

6.
Their first rehearsal isn’t a rehearsal in the truest meaning of the word. They sit around a long
table in one of the unused classrooms adjacent to the theater and read the script from start to
end, getting a feel for all the characters and snacking on the refreshments brought by the
older members of the club.

It isn’t a super big play. There’s only about twenty actors, and many of them have minor
roles. Apparently, Jimin’s co-star Kim Taehyung is famous around the campus, and already
has a small fanbase who can’t wait to see him shine on the stage. Jimin glimpsed a few
freshmen girls trying to peek into the room when he got in, giggling and blushing furiously
every time Taehyung smiled or laughed or glanced their way by accident. He wonders if he’s
going to get anonymous hate for kissing the university’s heartthrob in a play.

“I like the emotion you put behind every line, Jimin,” Taehyung says to him during the break.
They’re halfway through the script, and so far everything has gone smoothly, with only some
minor changes to the script. “We’re just reading through the script but it feels like you’re
already on the stage. Where did you study acting?”

“Oh, t-thank you?” He liked to receive compliments, but he never quite learned how to accept
them graciously. “I never took acting classes or anything, though I wish I had. I feel like I’m
a little stiff sometimes,” he says. “I guess I just watch too many movies, and that’s how I
learned? If that makes sense. But thank you. You’re not bad yourself. Have you acted
before?”

“I had a small part last year,” Taehyung smiles broadly, and it feels like their little corner of
the table illuminates in gold. “Did you watch the play?”

“I didn’t,” Jimin admits a little bashfully. “I was... a little busy with work. I wanted to join the
club earlier, but, you know. Gotta pay tuition one way or another.”

He smiles, then cringes internally. It’s pretty self-evident that Taehyung doesn’t, in fact,
know. He looks him over as he pours some water in his glass. Tall, well-groomed, are those
Gucci boots?, even his golden brown hair looks expensive. Jimin can sense how much that
styling costed.

“Damn, you’re a working student?”

“Yes. I have a few part-time jobs,” Jimin says. “I also worked several shifts at the Lit Library,
but then they switched me over to History.”

“Hmm, that’s where I saw you then. I immediately thought you looked familiar when you
came to audition.”

Jimin sputters in his drink. “W-what?” Purebred golden retriever Kim Taehyung knows him
from somewhere? Him, Park Jimin, wallflower extraordinaire?
“Yes. I’m ninety percent sure I saw you around the library.” Taehyung squints, leans over his
seat, stares at his hair. Jimin feels incredibly self-conscious all of a sudden. Did a pigeon shit
on his head or something?

“Have you ever dyed your hair brown?”

“Yes?” That was his hair color before going blond.

“Do you wear prescription glasses? Black, thick rimmed?”

“Uh—yes. Sometimes. When I study.”

Taehyung snaps his fingers. “There ya go. You’re the Lit Library’s hot librarian working on
the second floor.”

Jimin huffs out a breathless chuckle, nervous fingers tapping on the glass. “I think you’ve
mistaken me with somebody hot.”

“No mistake. I had a couple friends who had a crush on you. Used to hang around the library
all the time, and I know for a fact those guys don’t even know how to open a book.”

“One wonders how they got into this university to begin with,” Jimin smiles.

“Right? It’s crazy. Bet they bought their way in.” Taehyung sighs. “By the way. Have you
ever been aggressively hit on while working there? Cause chances are it was them, and I
happen to know where they live.” Golden retriever by day, Pitbull by night.

“No, it was pretty chill. Lit majors are generally very relaxed, always scribbling their sad
little sonnets in their little Moleskine notebooks. I liked working there.”

He’d seen Jeon Jeongguk there a couple times. And Namjoon, and his other friends too. He’s
not sure why his mind jumped to Jeon Jeongguk first. Must be the lingering resentment.

“Bet you’re even more popular now that you’re a hot blond,” Taehyung winks at him.

Honesty hours: Kim Taehyung is not his type. Broad without being too muscular, a face like a
cherub’s, perfectly dyed caramel hair, voice like liquid warmth. But he’s such a social
butterfly, so painfully extrovert and effortlessly likeable. And Jimin’s always had a much
softer spot for—well. He doesn’t want to say the word assholes because he’s not that big of a
masochist, but he does like boys that offer him a challenge—to put it mildly.

A challenge he always loses cause both his body and mind work against him all. the. fucking.
time.

“Ah ah—uhm, thank you? But uh, seriously, it’s not what you think. I’m just a normal
student. ”

“Well, get ready for a rise in popularity next semester. You’re gonna get huge around the
uni.” Taehyung taps his nose with a knowing expression. “Trust me. You and me starring
together in Orioles? I smell fame.”
“For you, maybe. You look like you could handle fame. I’d just get crushed by the attention
and decide never to show my face again.”

“And it’d be a great loss for the community. Oh, Gguk!” Taehyung’s eyes cut to somebody at
Jimin’s back. “Tell Jimin how excited you are to see your character come alive with his
incredible acting.”

“Your character?” Jimin repeats, brain lagging behind. Did Taehyung put special emphasis on
your, as in Jeon Jeongguk’s very own character?

“I didn’t know anybody owned the copyrights to Sadaham.” He shoots Jeongguk a

mellifluous smile.

“Jeongguk wrote almost all his lines, and most of the interactions with Mugwan. Isn’t he
amazing? The love story is all him. The sexual tension build up, too. I swear he’s some kind
of genius in—I don’t know, romantic tension and shit.” Taehyung pats Jeongguk on the back
with such enthusiasm Jeongguk almost tumbles into Jimin. “And he’s never cheesy about it.
Truly a genius literature student.”

“Thanks, Tae.” Jeongguk takes each and every one of Taehyung’s compliments like the
genius literature student he is: with an annoying, effortless poise that screams Yep, totally
true.

“I didn’t know you wrote Sadaham,” Jimin says, arching an eyebrow. Damn. Shouldn’t have
said I liked him so much when I auditioned. He wants to kick himself for accidentally
praising Jeongguk’s skills.

“He was a very complicated character to write. Had to read up a bunch of literature on him
before coming up with the right characterization. Orioles is a work of fiction, of course, but I
wanted him to stay true to what little we know about him.”

“Jimin’s a History major, did you know?”

“Bet he found at least a dozen historical discrepancies in the screenplay,” Jeongguk says,
smiling. “But they’re all Namjoon’s fault. He was in charge of the political intrigue, the
major twists and turns of the plot. I am more of a, uh—character driven author. I write
characters. I write what they feel, how they feel it. And I want my characters to be played
exactly how I want.”

There’s a gleam in Jeongguk’s eyes that tells Jimin he’s one hundred and twenty percent sure
Jimin’s not going to play his character how he wants, and that he’s going to give him hell for
it.

“You know, when an actor plays a character, it becomes as much as the actor’s as it is the
creator’s.”

Jeongguk’s smile stiffens. “Hmm. That only happens with professional actors, not amateurs.”
Blood floods to Jimin’s face, and he’s almost overcome with the urge to jab his fingers into
Jeongguk’s windpipe.

“Professional actors work with professional screenwriters, Jeongguk. You’re just a college
student who dabbles in scriptwriting for now, aren’t you?” He smirks indulgently. “Maybe
after you’ve worked your way up the ladder you’ll get to work with the actors you want.
Decade more, decade less. I hear the competition’s pretty steep.”

It’s maddeningly satisfying to see a blush set on Jeongguk’s face. He almost looks prettier
with his cheeks dusted in pink.

“I look forward to see your take on Sadaham, Jimin. Everyone’s expecting so much out of
you.” Oh yeah, Jimin knows what he’s doing. Put more pressure on him. The guy might not
be a professional screenwriter yet, but he sure does know how to be a professional asshole.
“You’d hate to let everyone down, right?”

“Alright guys, break’s over.”

Yoongi’s voice cuts the tension between them, but it’s hard for Jimin to ignore the stupid
smirk on Jeongguk’s face. The worst thing about Jeongguk is that he looks like a super
friendly person—and he probably is with the chosen few he calls friends—and it’s almost a
pity to see such an easy smile poisoned by resentment. But that’s what Jimin gets when he
looks at him, and he’s determined to make Jeon Jeongguk change his fucking mind by the
day of the play, at any cost. He’ll pull all-nighters to watch How To Act Realistically
compilation videos on Youtube if he has to. He’ll pour heart and soul in this performance,
hone his skills to the point that Jeon Jeongguk will beg him on his knees to play every future
character his sorry ass ends up writing.

He’ll be such a perfect Sadaham, Jeon Jeongguk himself will fall in love with him.

Oh, he’ll show him.

7.
Every time he invites Hoseok over, he has to make sure Daejung isn’t home. He could
seriously die of embarrassment if Hoseok saw even a glimpse of Daejung’s hairy nut sack.
He’d flee the country, start a new life in Siberia--the only silver lining being that he would
never see his stepfather’s stupid face ever again. Unfortunately, he already swore to himself
he’d turn Jeongguk’s scorn toward him into utter reverence, so he really can’t risk it.

“Man, the Kim Taehyung?” Hoseok sighs dreamily. “I mean I’m not gay, but—”

“Sure.”

“—but he’s on a totally different level. Like, I’d be down. You know what I mean?”

“Be down with what?” Jimin mutters, eyes skimming over his Chinese history III notes.

“You know. Stuff.”

“Butt stuff?”

“Woah, hold your horses. Maybe a blowjob or two.”

Jimin looks at him, eyebrows arched. “You’d let a man put his cock in your mouth but draw
the line at a cock up your butt?”

“Yeah. That’s where, you know, you become gay-gay.”

“Ah, double the gay. Of course.”

Hoseok’s latent homosexuality would be entertaining if it weren’t utterly depressing most of

the time.

“Like, I’m sure it’s pleasurable and all, even though you’ve always refused to tell me in
detail,” Hoseok shoots him a resented glance. “I really don’t know what we’re best friends
for.”

Kinda hard to narrate an experience you’ve never had.

“Dude, my sex life is private, how many times do I have to tell you? You don’t get to know it,
my other friends don’t get to know it, nobody knows it.” Hell, he doesn’t know it. Probably
never will if he doesn’t get past his issues.

“I’m just saying—maybe I’d have tried it if only you told me—”

“What? It’s my fault you’re not experimenting?” Jimin quotes the word with his fingers, rolls
his eyes. “We live in 2021. There’s this thing called the Internet.”

“—I’m just saying that, yeah, Kim Taehyung is a hot piece of ass and that’s the objective
truth,” Hoseok huffs, flopping on his back on Jimin’s bed. “And you’re super-duper lucky to
be acting alongside him. You’d make such a good couple in real life too. Is he gay?”

“I don’t know.”

“He dresses super well. He was voted best dressed in the whole campus last year.”

“Are you stereotyping him?”

“No! I’m just—”

“—saying, yeah, I know.”

“—like it’s a win for the gays if he’s gay, or even bi, you know. That’s all.”

“You’re not making any sense,” Jimin sighs, turning a page on his notes. “Are you sure you
don’t want to suck his dick? I can give you his number.”

Hoseok flushes a deep burgundy. “Excuse me, I’m straight. I’m a boob man.”

Jimin thinks back to Taehyung’s wide frame, how he felt solid and warm under his hand the
day of the auditions. “He’s got boobs alright.”

Hoseok throws him a pillow. “Shut up!”

“You’ve still got time to change your host club reservation and switch to the men’s side of the
building, if you know what I mean.”

“And how do you even know there’s a gay host club, too?” Hoseok eyes him suspiciously.

Jimin shrugs, highlights a section of his notes. “I looked it up on the Internet. You know, that
thing where you should search for the Buzzfeed quiz Am I Secretly Gay?”

“We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you and Taehyung.”

“Are we?”

“Yes. And let me tell you this, my friend: half the school’s gonna fall in love with your pretty
angel face, and the other half’s gonna write lengthy fanfictions about you and Kim Taehyung,
and not all of them will be about the characters you play.” Hoseok wiggles his eyebrows in a
very suggestive way.

“Hm. Thanks for the heads up. You didn’t make me feel uncomfortable at all.”

“Just thought I’d prepare you for the incredible amount of psychic damage you’re gonna get
after I send you the most thought-provoking pieces of fiction.”

“Can’t wait,” Jimin deadpans.

“On a totally unrelated note, how’s the search for Jihyun’s job?”
“I gave him my shift at the convenience store. He’s doing alright, but we’ve gotta be careful
that the school doesn’t find out. They have a pretty strict policy when it comes to underage
students working.”

“I’m sure nobody’s gonna report him. He looks older anyway.”

“Yeah, that’s a plus,” he mutters, tapping the pencil on his lips. He really needs Jihyun to
keep the job—or any job, for the matter. It’s thanks to him that he can go to rehearsals, not to
mention they really need the money. He’s already dreading the day he’ll inevitably ask Jihyun
to make time for another part-time job.

“Anyway, getting back to more pressing matters… Since it’s just two weeks away, let’s talk
important business.”

“Such as?”

“Your outfit for the host club.”

“You know you can’t hook up with those girls, right?”

“I heard you can if you pay extra.”

“That’s prostitution.”

“They’re escorts. Don’t look down on their craft.”

“I don’t feel comfortable paying for sex, and not just cause it’s illegal,” Jimin says, rolling his
eyes.

“I'm joking, Jimin. You'll just sit next to them, looking pretty. Just let them do their job.
Maybe one of them will be so smitten with you she’ll pay you to hook up with her."

Jimin underlines the last paragraph of his notes and lets out a drawn-out sigh.

Miserable, that’s what you are, the voice whispers in his ear. It sounds a little like his
stepfather, and that’s enough to make him feel even worse. Miserable and so very sad.
8.
“Okay, guys—good job!” Namjoon claps enthusiastically and climbs on the stage as the
technicians switch props and sets. “Amazing. The way Sadaham reacted to the news of the
war breaking out was top-notch, Jimin. Couldn’t have directed you better myself. Chapeau,”
he pats him on the shoulder, brimming with excitement. “This is going to be spectacular. I
feel it in my blood.”

Jimin shrugs off the tension in his shoulders, unclenches his jaw. He’d gotten maybe a little
too much into character. Namjoon liked his performance, but he personally felt like he
exaggerated a little bit. I can do better.

“I can do better,” Jimin says. “Let me do it one more time.”

“Nonsense, Jimin. You were great the first three times. I’ve yet to see you make a bad take,”
Sanghoon, one of the extras who plays the servant in Sadaham’s household, steps up to him
with a beaming smile. “You’re like a little hidden gem. I wish we had you in the club earlier.”

“Yeah, man!” Taehyung saunters on the stage from behind the scenes, sporting what looks
like half a curtain draped around his midsection and shoulders. “I swear I almost teared up for
real when you told us the enemy army slaughtered the village.” A girl trails behind him,
huffing and puffing as she tries to take Taehyung’s measures. Probably one of the Fashion
design majors helping around.

“Thank you.”

Jimin preens at the praise. He missed this feeling, missed being at the receiving end of
compliments and appreciative glances. He’s had two rehearsal sessions with the club so far,
and they’ve both gone splendidly well. He basked in the praise, it made him feel alive, and it
functioned as fuel for the rest of the week. Everything he did, he did with a sort of glow
around him. The world is suddenly a much prettier place, and every time he steps on the
stage and hears the sound his sneakers make against the polished wood, there’s a moment
when his heart hammers away with pure, uncontainable joy before quieting down to a slow,
steady pounding. And then he’s in control.

He smiles at Yoongi, who flashes him not one, but two thumbs up. Then Jeongguk steps on
the stage, pencil behind his ear and crumpled script in hand.

“Okay, out Sadaham and the servants, now we try the scene with—”

Jimin doesn’t pay attention to a word Jeongguk says because he’s too busy staring daggers at
him. Two great rehearsal sessions, everyone enamored with Jimin and Jimin’s raw talent –
their words, not his – and Jeongguk hasn’t complimented him once. Complimented is maybe
the wrong word—he’s not after Jeon Jeongguk’s praises after a mere week of rehearsals. But
at least a nod of acknowledgment, a thank you for your hard work, a fucking glance thrown
his way. Instead, Jeon Jeongguk always sat there, in the very first row, script open on his
crossed legs, tapping a pencil on the highlighted pages impatiently, as if he couldn’t wait for
Jimin’s scenes to end quickly. And never, ever said a word.

It’s not like Jeongguk never commented on anyone’s acting, ever. He did. He gave Taehyung
some directions on a scene, and murmured appreciatively when he acted them out perfectly.
He said he liked the way the extras strolled around "with purpose, as if they were truly going
about their business”. He liked the way the actress portraying Sadaham’s first love glanced
coyly at him.

Then Jesus fucking Christ on the cross, couldn’t he say a word of encouragement to Jimin,
too?

But then again, he figures it’s better than having the screenwriter openly criticize him in front
of the whole club.

Jimin scoffs, takes his script from where he set it down on the stage, and walks behind the
scenes. Jeongguk’s probably not saying anything because he doesn’t have anything to
criticize. He feels instant relief as the thought crosses his mind, and he feels a little of
something else, too—is this triumph? Tastes like only half a victory, but a victory
nonetheless. He takes a seat in the dark and watches Jeongguk say to one of the actors he
“liked the way he said the line, but maybe add a little more emotion?” What a pretentious
little brat. He doesn’t know what to say to discredit him, so he just ignores him altogether
while dishing out compliments and tips to random people. His antagonism toward Jimin’s
acting skills is all constructed, based on… what? Antipathy at first sight? Hell if he knows.
Maybe Jeongguk is afraid Jimin’s talent as an actor could overshadow his skills as a
screenwriter.

Maybe he’s just really insecure. Maybe he’s rotten jealous.

“Jimin, can you come over here? I need to tell you something.”

Jeongguk waves him over without even glancing his way.

“The scene with Sadaham’s first love? Way over the top. It felt a little too pathetic, if you
know what I mean.”

Or maybe he’s a fucking piece of shit and Jimin’s about to jab him in the eye with a corner of
the script.

“Pathe—"

“You know, pathetic as in too much pathos,” Jeongguk cuts him off, barely holding back an
eyeroll.

“I know what pathetic means!” he snaps, losing his composure for a second. Pretty sure
Jeongguk chose this word on purpose.

“Alright, alright. No need to be so touchy,” Jeongguk smirks. “Just tone down the
melodrama, alright? It kinda looked like I was watching a scene out of a B-rated Spanish
soap opera.”

Jimin gapes. “Excuse me?”

“Fantastic! See you in the next scene.”

He stares as the other man disappears behind the scenes. The thundering in his ears threatens
to veil his vision in scarlet red.

The color of rage.

9.
“What do you mean, you lost your job?”

Jimin turns to look at his brother so fast he hears the muscles in his neck pop.

“I got fired. Someone must have recognized me and reported me to the school.” Jihyun
shrugs like he knew it would happen sooner or later. “I told you it was likely to happen. The
boss even scolded me because he got caught hiring a minor,” he says, then mutters, “as if he
didn’t hire me himself.”

Jimin’s heart sinks somewhere near his stomach.

“Well, then you gotta find another job.”

“The school said this was my first strike, and that if I was caught working again there will be
major repercussions,” Jihyun warns him, arms folded and stare sharp. “Mom says it’s your
responsibility to find a job.”

“Mom can fuck right off,” Jimin snaps, anger climbing high, high, high. Jihyun takes a step
back, a little surprised, and it doesn’t make Jimin feel any better.

“I can’t find another fucking job. I joined the university’s theater club. I play the protagonist.
I can’t leave now, I have a responsibility to them.”

“All this for a stupid play?” Jihyun says, eyebrows arching.

Jimin throws his very heavy Modern History manual at his brother.

“This stupid play is the only thing keeping me alive and sane in this hell of a house,” he
snarls, not feeling an ounce of remorse when a corner of the book hits Jihyun square in the
chest. “Can you even imagine how good it feels to spend time away from all of you? Every
time rehearsals drag longer than they should I am elated. I am bursting with joy. And that’s
because cutting my fingers off with a dull kitchen knife would feel better than living in this
fucking house.”

“Then go away!” Jihyun screams, gathering enough courage to step inside Jimin’s room.
“Who’s keeping you here? No one! We’re all waiting for you to get the hell out of here and
leave us the fuck alone! You’re the one who always starts the fights, you’re the one who
always provokes mom and dad! Do you have any idea how exhausting it is for me, when I
just want to live my life in peace?”

“Mom and dad?” Jimin is full-on shouting now, voice breaking at the very end of the word.
“Daejung is not your dad. He’s no one’s dad. Don’t call him dad in front of me ever again.”
His hands are trembling. “And what do you mean, who’s keeping me here? Do you know who
I’ve been working three jobs for? Uh? Do you have the slightest idea who I've been slaving
away at work for?” He crowds Jihyun’s space until he can see his brother’s fear bloom in his
pupils. He shouldn’t do this. He jabs a fingers at his brother’s chest.
“You. So I can pay for your tuition next year. So you can go ahead and study whatever you
want. So you can get the fuck out of this house and have a better life. But maybe you don’t
want that, uh? Maybe you’re okay here with mom and daddy dearest. Maybe you like having
him prance around naked like he’s king of the castle. Is that what you like about dad, Jihyun?
You wanna grow up to be like him? He’s your role model?” With each cruel question Jimin
takes a step forward and Jihyun takes a step back, the unease rolling off of Jihyun spurring
him on. “Maybe you like him more than you care to admit? Is there anything you do together
that I don’t kno—”

“Fuck you!” Jihyun snarls, shoving him harshly. Jimin hits the foot of the bed and trips,
falling hard on his ass and dragging half his duvet down with him. Jihyun’s eyes are glassy,
brimming with hot, unshed tears. “You know what? When you’re like this, you disgust me
more than he does.”

Sprawled on the floor, Jimin stares, bewildered, at the empty space his brother left behind.
Hurt washes over him like a cold wave, and disgust, disgust at what he’s said, at the monster
he saw reflected in Jihyun’s eyes.

He’s always thought the monster living in this house was the one who stole his father’s place
—but maybe he was wrong. He was so focused on hating and antagonizing Daejung all his
life that he failed to realize he was making Jihyun’s life a living hell.

Jimin pulls the duvet over his head, curls up on the floor until his body is covered from head
to toe. He doesn’t want to see this house anymore. He doesn’t want to be here anymore. And
apparently nobody else wants him around either. Jihyun, his stepfather for sure, maybe even
his mother—she never speaks a fucking word to him, and she’s barely even home, but it
wouldn’t come as a surprise.

When he starts crying, he doesn’t care to control his sobs. The tears rolling down his cheeks
feel hot and heavy, but he refuses to wipe them away.
10.
Summer gives way to a reluctant autumn, and the enamel blue skies of September slowly
wash out as October approaches. The leaves on the campus’ trees pale and pool on the
ground, forming mounds of golden yellows and red. Jimin’s always loved autumn, it gives
him reason to hang around the campus for longer than he’s supposed to. He’s one of those
people who snap about a hundred thousand pictures of foliage, and his pockets are always
stuffed with some of the brightest leaves he can find. He never does anything with them,
though. He usually forgets he has them in the first place, until the moment he rummages in
his pockets for spare change or gum and comes out with a bunch of dry leaves crumbling in
his palm. Not as pretty anymore.

He likes collecting them regardless, enjoys having these quiet moments—the time he spends
loitering around the Literature building where the trees are older and sturdier, and if he’s
lucky he catches a couple rabbits hopping away, or the precious few minutes he reserves for
himself before and after rehearsals. He walks inside the building leaving the world at his back
painted in warm autumn colors. He walks out to the same world in a different palette, dusk
staining the sunset reds in pretty blues and purples. He snaps a picture and doesn’t post it
anywhere, just keeps it to himself. To remember what it feels like to get out of the theater,
where he did something he loved, and admire the day as it bleeds out into the night.

It’s not going to last long. He’ll have to find another job soon, and unless he takes a shitty
night job he will almost certainly have conflicting schedules. He dreads the moment he’ll tell
Namjoon he’s leaving the play. He most definitely doesn’t want to think about the jubilee in
Jeongguk’s face. It’ll be like Christmas for the young screenwriter. Fuck him.

He stares at Namjoon, Yoongi and Jeongguk standing to the side, confabulating among each
other, occasionally nodding or adding a note to their scripts. The technicians move about the
stage, arranging the set. Everything looks so familiar already, and he feels like he belongs to
this room, to these people.

Jimin stares, and as he stares he picks at his lip. It’s a habit of his, had it since he was a child.
Whenever he feels anxious or nervous, he pinches his bottom lip between thumb and
forefinger, nails digging deep until the skin starts to peel off a bit. He picks at it and picks at
it until it burns and bleeds, and when he tears off the thin skin, he starts again. His lip
becomes a bloody battlefield, but the copper on his tongue is strangely comforting.

Lowering his hand takes a conscious effort. It’s one of those days when he feels like drawing
blood. He shouldn’t though. If he ends up bleeding people are going to start worrying.

Jimin shakes his head to get rid of all the ugly thoughts dampening his mood. No time to
mope around, he’s at rehearsal, and he’s going to try out a very important scene for the very
first time. Since he isn’t going to be Sadaham for long, he should enjoy himself. Make as
many happy memories as he can, and treasure them forever.

“Alright, Sadaham and Mugwan, if you could step on the stage, please,” Yoongi shouts from
the darkened seating area. The artificial light of the lampposts outside slats over rows and
rows of empty seats in bright white squares, but the majority of the hall is still shrouded in
black, and Jimin can’t really see anything with the glare of the spotlights in his eyes.

“Nervous?” Taehyung playfully elbows him in the side. “Don’t worry, I’m a really good
kisser.”

Jimin gives a little chuckle, hides his jittery hands behind his back. He’s never had to kiss
anyone in a play before. It makes him a little nervous, and a little excited.

“Okay, guys, as you know, this is an important scene in the play. At this point, Sadaham and
Mugwan have been dancing around each other for quite some time… and they’re stupidly in
love but can’t do anything about it cause Sadaham’s engaged, there’s a war breaking out,
yadda yadda, everyone wants you two to fuck it out of your systems and then finally save the
country with the power of love. You with me?”

“Does he even like his own screenplay?” Jimin whispers at a chuckling Taehyung.

“Yoongi pretends to be a hardass, but he’s the one who pushed to write a love story,”
Taehyung whispers back.

“Really?”

“Yep. Then Jeongguk came and turned love into tragedy.”

“Well, it’s historically accurate. Mugwan dies and Sadaham kills himself after seven days of
mourning. It’s in the Samguk Yusa.”

“Kim Taehyung and Park Jimin, am I talking to the wind?” Yoongi booms, hands on his hip.
With his black-rimmed glasses and the hair pushed back from his forehead, he looks a little
like a pissed off high school professor.

“Sorry,” Jimin apologizes quickly. “Me and Mugwan kiss for the first time, got it.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “They don’t simply kiss. The tension permeating the entire first act
explodes in your faces and you give in to the throes of your deepest desires. This isn’t just
where the romantic tension snaps, this is the apex of all your sexual tension—but for the love
of God, keep it classy. No unnecessary groping, no humping like animals in heat. Listen to
your hearts and listen to your bodies. Do what you’d do if you were seventeen and about to
fuck your first crush.”

“Didn’t you just say to keep it classy? Seventeen-year-old me was horny as fuck,” Taehyung
says, grinning.

“You’re an actor, Kim Taehyung.”

“I’m a Lit student who was told to channel my teenage self for the scene. Your directing
sucks.”

“We just want to see how you go about it without external input first,” Namjoon explains.
“You have such great chemistry together, we’re pretty sure you won’t need any pointers.”
“Alright, let’s see how this first take goes,” Jeongguk sighs, crossing both legs and arms
while he sinks deeper into his seat. He looks like he’s preparing for a direct assault on his
sensible intellect, and Jimin kind of wants to hurl a shoe at his face.

The lights dim, the people both backstage and in the seating area fall silent. Jimin gets in
position, takes a big breath. Inhales, and he’s Park Jimin. Exhales, and he’s Sadaham.

Him and Taehyung start the scene, and the theater around Jimin crumbles to dust. There is no
Namjoon eagerly watching from the first row, mouth parted in awe. There’s no Yoongi
staring intently with a hand on his chin, feline eyes scanning every detail of their interaction.
There is no Jeon Jeongguk and the blank stare of his expressionless dark eyes. Nothing else
exists, except for the world weaved by his imagination. And the man before him is one of the
fiercest warriors of all Silla, and he wants him.

Want. Want is a strong word, a – powerful word. Jimin wants to act well, wants to make this
scene perfect, wants to look at everybody’s face and see it light up in admiration. Wants the
acclaim, the praise. Wants Jeon Jeongguk to acknowledge he’s good. Wants to keep being
Sadaham, even if the way Taehyung looks at him—like he’s devoured by an all-consuming
lust—makes him a little bit uncomfortable, like he always feels when he receives this kind
of… attentions.

Focus. I’m not Jimin, I’m Sadaham. Jimin’s thoughts waver. Park Jimin’s slipping into the
fold, weaving himself across Sadaham’s threads. His want is stained in un-want. Taehyung’s
hands on himself are too heavy and big.

When Taehyung leans in to steal the first kiss from Sadaham’s lips, Jimin almost draws back.

He calls it a win, the way he didn’t pull back. The way he shoved Park Jimin in a dark recess
of his mind and gave a little nudge to Sadaham. He knows he should act the part of the love-
struck oriole a little more enthusiastically, but he hopes his hesitation goes unnoticed.

Kim Taehyung is a good kisser. Jimin can count the number of people he’s kissed on one
hand—and he’d held up two fingers, to be exact. One for a girl, and one for a boy. Both were
a crush of his at some point, and both were equally disappointing. The kisses were wet,
clunky, and made him feel uncomfortably horny. He got a little better at it with the boy who
never got to the stage of boyfriend, and he remembers alternating between feeling like he
wanted to push the other boy's pants down to suck his cock and hating the strain of his own
erection against his jeans.

Truth be told, he’s always had a love/hate relationship with every single one of his erections.
That’s a great line to start off a conversation with a sex therapist, except that he doesn’t have
any intention of going to one.

So, Kim Taehyung: good kisser. Really good. The best Jimin’s ever had. Sad that it has to be
a fake kiss, Mugwan kissing Sadaham and not Kim Taehyung kissing Park Jimin. But then
again, if it really were Taehyung kissing him, he would have drawn back.

He answers eagerly, as he imagines Sadaham would—or at least, as eagerly as his unease lets
him. But he’s an actor, he should be good at hiding how he feels. He powers through, kisses
Mugwan with want but keeping it classy like Yoongi wants, and then waits for the impending
and, scene! that’ll put an end to his misery.

“Breathtaking!”

Namjoon’s voice booms in the empty hall, but reaches Jimin’s ears as if through layers and
layers of cotton. Taehyung breaks the kiss and he’s left breathless, panting. He covers his lips
with the back of his hand and looks toward the first row.

Namjoon’s already climbing on stage, excited as always. Jimin doesn’t think he’s done that
good of a job, and starts having doubts about the reliability of Namjoon’s many praises.

“I knew you worked well together, but damn! That kiss? Are you sure you’re not together, or
something?”

“It’s called acting, Joonie,” Taehyung says, shooting him some very golden-retrieverish
finger guns.

“And you do it so fucking well. I held my breath for the entire scene, I was so mesmerized by
you two,” Namjoon says. “Just a thing, Jimin: you were a little stiff at the beginning, but I’m
sure it’s nothing you can’t fix. For a first take, it was amazing. Good job.”

“It was?” Jimin asks, a little timidly. Did they really not see how he fumbled? Is he that good
of an actor? “I’d like to try again. I can do better. I know it.” He kind of doesn’t want to, but
he’s an actor, come on. And he’s the lead. And this is a love story. And he’s a perfectionist,
for Christ’s sake, he won’t let his issues get in the way of the one good thing in his life.

“Of course, of course. I’ve got a few little tweaks to the scene too, for example when—”

He lets Namjoon’s voice fade away, a distant buzz in his ears. Jeongguk is staring at him
from the first row, where the light of the lampposts outside doesn’t reach. His expression is as
dark as the shadows around him.

The rest of the afternoon goes by take after take after take. They try the first kiss scene a
couple more times, until everyone agrees it’s almost perfect. It’s the almost that ticks Jimin
off. He can’t shake the feeling that it’s because of him.

Still, when Namjoon announces the end of rehearsals, Jimin feels he did good. This is nothing
you can’t get better at, he thinks as he slings his bag over his shoulder. I just have to be less
stiff. Relax a little.

Easier said than done. Jimin isn’t sure if it’s because of Taehyung’s rather imposing physique,
his charisma, or the sheer enthusiasm with which he tackled each scene, but he feels his
guard go up a little every time the other man gets too close. Perhaps it’s a visceral reaction to
extremely handsome and happy people. The extreme wattage of Kim Taehyung’s impetuous
personality leaves him breathless at times.
He lags behind as the only other History major in the club strikes up a conversation with him
about timetables and juggling classes and rehearsals. When the guy excuses himself with a
Sorry, gotta run or I’ll miss the bus, Jimin doesn’t notice that he’s left almost completely
alone in the theater.

Almost, as the only other person in the hall is Jeon Jeongguk.

Jimin’s first instinct is to ignore him and walk out like the screenwriter isn’t worth the time of
day. Jimin’s second instinct is to pull out the heaviest of his Modern History tomes and throw
it at Jeongguk as hard as he can. Neither of these primordial urges win, and Jimin finds
himself acting on a sudden and quite irrational feeling of curiosity.

“Hey.” He appears behind Jeongguk like a shadow, and can’t suppress a smirk when the other
man startles a little. “I want to ask you something.”

Jeongguk cocks an eyebrow, stuffs a crumpled script in his bag and turns to face him fully.
“Shoot.”

“You’re always awfully quiet in my scenes. I thought you’d be more involved, since
Sadaham is one of your creations.” He doesn’t ask why he’s got that sullen expression on
every time he ends a scene, it’d be a little too antagonistic and, honestly, there’s really no
point in making an enemy out of Jeongguk if he’s going to leave the play soon. “Am I that
good of an actor that you don’t have any tips for me?”

Jeongguk’s smile is strained. “It’s a deliberate choice.”

“No doubt,” Jimin huffs. “Care to tell me why?”

“I don’t want to ruin the relationship between lead actor and screenwriter.”

Jimin rolls his eyes. What relationship? “You clearly think I’m doing something wrong. I’m
kindly asking you to tell me what. We’re both adults, we can work around our… antipathies.”

“I don’t dislike you.”

“Could have fooled me,” Jimin says. “Every time I’m on that stage you look like you’ve been
forced to swallow strychnine and you’re anxiously waiting for it to take effect. You can tell
me if you think I suck so badly.”

Don’t fucking tell me or I’ll bash your head in with a bag full of hard-cover books.

“You know what?” Jeongguk smiles, shakes his head, looks down at him like he’s the God
Almighty of theater and Jimin’s just a lowly peasant, “I gotta give it to you, for someone
who’s never had any experience acting before—”

“I do have some experience ac—”

“I don’t mean high school plays. I mean real acting. I mean performing on a real stage in
front of a real audience, someone who isn’t just your parents or your extended family or your
friends’ grandparents,” Jeongguk says, talking over Jimin like he’s a petulant child. “So. For
someone who’s never acted seriously before, I’ll admit—you’re not bad. In fact, you’re pretty
good, Jimin. Everyone tells you so all the time, you don’t need me to tell you every time we
end a scene, do you?”

It comes as a surprise how easily Jeongguk acknowledges Jimin’s acting skills. He expected
the screenwriter to say something truly hurtful, hostility rolling off him in waves. Instead, he
gets this—Jeongguk admitting to his face that he’s pretty good. Jeon Jeongguk 0 – 1 Park
Jimin.

“But this part—Sadaham—this part requires a, a certain depth of emotions. A special kind of
involvement.”

Ah. There it is.

“Are you saying I’m shallow?”

Jeongguk’s lips take on a bitter curve. “I’m saying that sometimes you look like you’re
emulating a feeling you learned of in movies, and that’s what you base your entire
performance on. It comes off artificial, you know? Manufactured. Certainly not the kind of
authenticity I was striving for when I wrote the character.”

It feels like liquid concrete has been poured all over him and it’s rapidly solidifying on his
skin, rendering him incapable of breathing, of moving. There’s so many things he’s being
attacked with that Jimin doesn’t know which insult to address first.

“Em—emulate?” Jimin stutters, tries to cling to his anger, but what he finds instead is utter
mortification. “I’m not even a human to you? I’m a fucking robot who emulates emotions,
and isn’t even good at it? You gotta be shitting me.”

“Hey man, I’m just telling you straight. You came to me with questions, and I answered,”
Jeongguk shrugs, zipping up his bomber jacket as if to say we’re finished here, I’m going
home.

“Your answers don’t make fucking sense!”

“And that’s why I didn’t want you as the main character,” Jeongguk finally snaps, almost
baring his teeth to a shell-shocked Jimin. “Cause I just had this gut feeling you took
constructive criticism like a fifteen-year-old who thinks he’s a special snowflake.”

“Constructive criticism? You just said I’m emotionally frigid!” Jimin shouts. And a special
snowflake? Who says that in 2021?

“Those are your words, not mine.”

“That’s basically what you said.”

Jeongguk sighs, fiddles with the shoulder strap on his bag, then looks him straight in the
eyes. His voice is steady and low when he speaks next. Black, like tar. Sticky.
“Listen. You’re our Sadaham now, alright? Whether I like it or not. And I’m your
screenwriter, whether you like it or not. So now you go home and you work on the stuff
Namjoon told you about, cause that’s the least you could do. Go home, loosen up, jerk off to
your favorite porn or something—I don’t fucking know, do what you gotta do to get rid of all
the tension that makes you as stiff as a board—“ vague hand-waving to Jimin’s body, “—then
go watch another rom-com and try to get a better feel of what it’s really like to be in love, to
desire another person with every fiber of your being until all your nerve endings feel like
they’re on fire and you’re reaching self-combustion—” his eyes gleam with a strange light,
his voice has raised to fill the entire empty hall, “and then come back and act. better. That’s
all I ask of you. Act better.”

Act better.

Jimin thought those two words would be the ones that hurt him the most, but he’s wrong.
There’s another truth hidden in Jeongguk’s almost carelessly thrown words, a much harder
truth. Bizarre to say the least, how a young, arrogant Lit student he barely knows could
psychoanalyze him the way he’s never let a true professional do.

He stands in the middle of the deserted theater for a long time after Jeongguk’s gone. He
stays there, rooted to the ground, frozen thoughts and frozen body.

And he’s not angry anymore, just sad.

11.
Slumped against at least half a dozen pillows, Jimin balances his laptop on his legs, trying to
find a comfortable position. The computer runs impossibly hot, fans whirring like the
machine is about to take flight. He hopes it lasts just a little longer—just until the semester
ends. Then he can maybe find enough money to get another one. A cheaper model, one that
will be undoubtedly less durable, but that’ll work for a couple years at least.

Tonight is Pride and Prejudice—but not the 2005 Hollywood movie, enough with Keira
Knightley’s skinny ass already—he’s watching the 1995 award-winning BBC adaptation. He
always liked this one better, he knows it by heart. Colin Firth makes for a much more
credible Mr. Darcy, less melancholic and more tsundere, like Austen intended.

The movie has its memorable moments—the famous hand twitching scene where Mr. Darcy
gets hard just by helping Elizabeth out of the carriage, true pinnacle of Hollywood romantic
tension – but there’s just something about the old BBC series that Jimin can’t quite explain. It
just fits the book better. It’s simply a much better developed enemies-to-lovers story, and not
only because it lasts 5 hours against the movie’s two.

He thinks back to Jeongguk’s words. He doesn’t think he’ll get better at acting just by
watching Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle pretend to fall in love—Jeongguk knows it too, and
probably knows he doesn’t have any other way to learn. Nothing can help him unless he goes
out there and experiences love himself. Jeongguk’s been very clear, he’s struck every chord in
Jimin’s heart: it’s true that he’s never desired someone so strongly his whole body caught fire.
He’s had a couple crushes, but nothing as powerful as Jeongguk evoked. He doesn’t know
what it means to give yourself to another person entirely. Never had the luxury of trusting so
blindly.

This movie was a bad idea. He’s so fucking romantically frustrated.

And that’s when the fun really begins. As if the universe caught on Jimin’s misery and
decided it wanted to bring him even more misery, Jimin begins to hear the unmistakable
sounds of his parents fucking in the other room.

He glances at the watch, it’s 1:30 in the morning. He should’ve gone to sleep earlier, and now
he’s stuck watching Pride and Prejudice with the haunting soundtrack of his mother and
stepfather having raunchy, middle-aged sex.

Jimin grinds his teeth, sinks deeper into the pillows. He focuses on the brightly lit screen in
front of him, on Elizabeth Bennet in all her unapologetic glory grinning up at a scowling Mr.
Darcy. He wishes real life were like this. Wishes all the insufferable, mean, tall, dark and
handsome men hid a heart of gold and an 82-acres estate in the English countryside. Instead,
he’s left with Jeon fucking Jeongguk’s bitter words and bitter stares.

The sex is loud. Louder than Mr. Darcy’s smoldering stares could ever be, louder than the
violins in the series’ soundtrack. Jimin turns the volume up. He’d bang on the wall to get the
point across if he didn’t already know it would incite Daejung to be louder.
He doesn’t know why, but his thoughts float to hands grasping his middle. Taehyung looked
like he was infatuated with him for real, and nobody complained about his performance.
Jimin couldn’t blame them. He’d been perfect, the way he gazed into his eyes, the way his
hand slid down his back to hold him at the waist. They were supposed to be both strong,
attractive young warriors, but Jimin flailed around like a maiden in distress. Bet Sadaham
didn’t blush when Mugwan embraced him, he scowls to himself. Bet he was confident and
proud and ready to have hot, passionate sex.

It’s frustrating, it’s not like he’s filming a porno. That’s what annoys him the most, the fact
that he doesn’t know how to behave in a scene that only hints at sexual intercourse. The
lights dimming on the stage will leave the crowd wondering whether the sex was consensual
or not thanks to his stupid knee-jerk reactions.

Well. It won’t be his business for much longer. He has to find the courage to tell Namjoon
he’s leaving the cast. And he has to find another job, again. Unless Namjoon wants to pay
him for his acting. Which he highly doubts he will.

The moaning gets louder, the rhythmic banging of the bedpost against the wall drives him
insane. Taehyung’s phantom touch makes him restless. He squeezes his eyes shut and focuses
on the audio coming out of the laptop. It doesn’t work. He’s growing hard.

Fuck.

He knows it’s natural, a healthy bodily reaction – he googled it the first time it happened, is it
normal to get hard when you hear your parents having sex?, and the Internet assured him he
wasn’t a degenerate freak. Yet he still felt disgustingly bad, the dirtiest he’d ever felt.

The ghost of Taehyung’s hand on himself doesn’t help at all. Jimin vividly remembers the
slide of his hands, different for each take. Like he wanted to keep it interesting, like he
wanted to show Jimin and everyone else he was the perfect lover, with a hundred thousand
tricks up his sleeve. He broke Jimin’s love-stricken mask with a single, well placed press of
his palm. And Jimin’s blush bloomed like red roses in May, and he looked like he was
playing the part of a bucolic little shepherdess in a piece of European medieval literature,
where the girl gets ravished by some random French knight.

He needs a fucking cold shower. If they had a bathtub in the house, Jimin would fill it with
ice.

He throws the laptop on the bed and slams the door to his bedroom open just in time to see a
fully naked Daejung saunter in the bathroom, cock spent and wet between his legs.

Jimin slams the door shut and almost yells in frustration. The jarring close encounter of the
sixth kind with Daejung’s junk isn’t enough to make him go soft—and he really doesn’t want
to focus on it to try to wind down his excitement, because he doesn’t want to think about it.
He tries to think of other disgusting stuff, snail’s slime, dog shit, the smell of a gas station
toilet in the summer, old man’s sweat, but all these thoughts are superficial and beneath all of
them there’s the image of golden locks and big, veiny hands.
Fucking Taehyung. Why you gotta be so fucking memorable, Jimin thinks, physically in pain.
Almost all of his erections are painful when he doesn’t take care of them—and it’s exactly
because he refuses to do anything about them that they hurt. He was never the typical horny
teenager hiding out in his room with lotion and a roll of toilet paper on the nightstand. Was
never much for experimentation. Guess he’s one of the few teenage boys who was spared the
agonizingly embarrassing trip to the hospital for trying to suck his own dick. He’s at least
proud of that.

He throws himself face-down on the bed, bunching the sheets in his fists so hard he feels his
nails through the fabric. He starts unconsciously canting his hips down, shallowly at first,
then stops when he realizes what he’s doing. He whines, feels the tension in his body rise,
starts again. He humps the mattress harder to get more friction, chases this feeling that won’t
go away until it pushes him over the edge. He’s ashamed, eager, he doesn’t care, he cares too
much. Taehyung’s hands on him, his mouth on his, Jeongguk looking down on him and
saying loosen up, jerk off to your favorite porn. The memory of harsh eyes and harsher words
drag a moan out of him, and he hides his face in the sheets.

He comes untouched, like many times before. Soiled, sweaty, and defeated, he slumps on the
bed, ashamed like never before.

He feels fucking miserable.

12.
The Golden Peony is the gaudiest, most expensive place Jimin’s ever stepped in. It’s also the
only host club he’s ever seen, and the feeling he immediately gets as soon as he walks inside
with Hoseok and his friends is that this place hides a lot more than what it lets on.

Most host clubs are just a place where lonely middle-aged women and men look for company
and some conversation. People know that if you’re looking to scratch another itch, you go to
a nightclub to get a lap dance. And if you want even more, there’s many places where the
fluorescent night lights of Seoul don’t shine as bright.

The Golden Peony somehow manages to be all three places in a single nice, marble-covered,
fountains-spilling-wine-in-the-middle-of-the-patio package. Depending on who you are, how
long you’ve been a regular, who your connections are and how much you’re willing to pay,
you can probably get a lot of different services. And if you don’t swing the way Hoseok and
his friends swing, well, you could just discreetly ask the staff to kindly escort you to the
men’s side of the building.

They’ve been sitting at a table drinking, playing silly games, and doing menial conversation
for the better part of two hours already and Jimin feels as uncomfortable as the day he got
dragged to a frat party on his freshman year. He’d left in a taxi a couple of hours later without
nobody being none the wiser, and he wishes he could do the same today as well, but Hoseok
would notice. And Hoseok’s currently having the time of his life, and his parents are going to
be super fucking pissed when they find out he’s squandering their money on Seoul’s most
expensive host club.

The girls are all pretty, he’ll give him that. He doesn’t know if Hoseok’s picked them out of a
catalogue or if they were selected by the house, but they’re pros at their craft. They bat their
Rimmel-coated eyelashes, pucker their cherry-red lips, and Jimin’s impressed at how they
mastered the art of crossing their legs without flashing panties—or lack thereof, as the bolder
ones would whisper in his ear. They never stray into vulgar territory, but the way they toy
with the line feels very exciting.

They are pretty, and they smell good. They feel kind of good too, when they press against
Jimin to pretend to re-fill his glass with champagne. But apparently being surrounded by half
a dozen attractive girls can’t cure him of his issues—who would have known? Still frigid as
ever. He wonders if the girl currently rubbing her breasts against his arm can feel the
temperature around him drop like an elevator plunging two hundred thousand floors.

But that’s the thing, though. His body isn’t frigid. There’s a disconnect between body and
mind—his body wants, and his mind is super uncomfortable. He thinks his stepfather would
love a place like this. He’s sure he wouldn’t think twice about cheating on his mother. He’d
grip the girl’s waist and pull her closer, maybe even persuade her to sit on his lap, and try to
fuck her through layers and layers of clothes because he’d be too fucking poor to pay for a
room upstairs. The thought makes him gag, and the girl’s perfume becomes suddenly too
much for his nose. He excuses himself and looks for the toilet.
It’s a very busy night, and aside from the working girls, the staff is all busy catering for the
customers’ every need. Jimin looks around for the toilet sign, but doesn’t find any. When he
manages to catch the attention of a waiter, he hand-waves toward a very general direction and
mumbles something Jimin doesn’t quite catch. Great.

He thinks he’s walking toward the right direction. Somehow that waiter managed to point to
at least three directions at once, so it’s very hard to figure out which door or hallway he
meant. He’s entertaining the thought of calling a taxi while in the toilet and just scram.
Maybe he can find a secondary exit, a hidden one, maybe one reserved to staff. He could
sneak out without Hoseok and his friends noticing. He’ll text Hoseok to say he didn’t feel
well, and pretend to ignore his friend’s suspicious glances the day after. Explicitly say that
the girls made him uncomfortable would just bring forth more and more questions he doesn’t
have answers to.

The hallway Jimin finds himself in is dimly lit, very different from the rest of the building.
No marble columns in faux Doric order, no cream-colored wallpaper, and no polished parquet
on the floor. Just a long, anonymous hallway. Some of the lights overhead are busted, one
flickers faintly. An eerie feeling clings onto Jimin’s body. This feels like one of those
nonplaces, like empty parking lots at night or motel rooms, but the shiver that travels up his
spine isn’t entirely unpleasant. He likes this nonplace better than the other, more grandiose
rooms.

Then the magic breaks, and he hears a door open, voices, a laughter, the sound of chairs
scraping against the floor. Male voices. One sounds bizarrely familiar—something in the
timber, the cadence of the words, the color it immediately evokes in Jimin’s mind. Black.

He whips around to ask for directions – again—an apology already on his lips. It dies as soon
as he meets the eyes of the voice’s owner.

“You lost, sweetheart? This isn’t—”

The words catch in Jeongguk’s throat as he gapes at Jimin. For a moment, Jimin simply does
not compute. He stands there, completely dumbfounded, looking at something that’s clearly a
glitch in the matrix. Clearly he’s stumbled into a part of the game—life—he isn’t supposed to
see. Like he’s messed around with cheat codes trying to get to the damn bathroom and
complete his quest—pissing, call for a taxi—and he stumbled upon a horrible easter egg the
developers hid between the folds of the game—life—because they decided at the last second
it wasn’t meant to be seen by the player—him.

Because this simply can’t be.

Reload. He can’t.

This game—life—is broken.

Or maybe it works flawlessly, because Jeon Jeongguk is not T-posing and the texture of his
face and body looks even more detailed than ever, or it’s maybe Jimin that immediately
zoomed in on his perfectly smudged eye-make up, tight as fuck leather pants, and mesh shirt.
He doesn’t have an adjective for that shirt. It’s just a very revealing mesh shirt, and God,
Jimin can see his nipples.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Park?”

Jeongguk’s hissing brings him back to reality.

“Since when do you call me Park?”

Very intelligent comeback, exactly what needs to be addressed right now.

“Shit—”

The door Jeongguk walked out from opens again and Jeongguk grabs him by the elbow and
shoves him unceremoniously inside another room to their right. It looks like a dressing room,
with padded chairs in front of a series of mirrors lined by light bulbs, the kind of vanity
mirrors you’d find in celebrities’ dressing rooms. They have a room similar to this one
backstage, in the university’s theater. They manage to slip inside unnoticed, and Jeongguk
slams the door and locks it.

“Why the fuck are you here, Jimin? Were you following me?”

“Follo—” Jimin stammers, outraged. “You think I’m here for you?”

“You certainly don’t look like our regulars.” Jeongguk looks him over, crosses his arms. His
whole demeanor screams defensiveness.

“Wow. Excuse me if I’m not as filthy rich as you. I was here with friends,” Jimin says, rolling
his eyes. “Hoseok’s celebrating his birthday. I was just looking for the toilet.”

“You think I’m filthy rich?” Jeongguk laughs, pushing off the door to take a seat in one of the
chairs. “Then what am I doing here? Voluntary work?”

Jimin blinks. His brain is still blue screening like it’s running on Windows 98. “Uh, I don’t—
what are you doing here?”

Jeongguk sighs. “I imagine you’re on the Golden Peony side. With the girls?”

“Yeah?”

“Didn’t think you were straight.”

“I’m not.”

“I work at the Black Bird.”

“Oh.”

“The boys’ side,” Jeongguk finishes with an eyebrow quirk. “Same building, same owner,
different clientele.”
“I know what it is,” Jimin snaps. A pause. “Fuck. You work here?”

“Yep. Not the kind of job you’d expect a filthy rich person to have.”

“I just thought—”

“That I looked like a spoiled rich guy? I’m flattered.”

Jimin shrugs. “You forgot pretentious and insufferable.”

“I can still report you for trespassing, you know? Or I could start screaming and say you
dragged me here against my will.”

“And why would I do that?”

“I’m a Black Bird host. People pay a lot of money to get me alone in a room,” Jeongguk
smirks, leaning back on the chair and slowly spreading his legs.

Jimin feels his face heat up in record-time. “I’m smaller than you, Jeongguk.” He looks him
over, takes in the bulging thighs, the faint outlines of muscles under the mesh shirt. “Pretty
sure you’ve got muscles in places you shouldn’t.”

“Plenty enough reason to lock me in a room with you,” Jeongguk grins.

“Are you—” Is Jeon Jeongguk flirting with me? What the fuck kinda alternate dimension did
he fall in? “I didn’t drag you here. You did.”

“Yeah. About that,” Jeongguk gets up, walks closer. “You’re not gonna say a word to anyone
about this, are we clear?”

“You mean nobody else knows you work as a host?” Jimin arches an eyebrow. “You work
here in secret?”

“It’s not exactly a reputable job, Jimin. Wouldn’t look good on my resume, you see?”

“What happens if the university finds out?”

Jeongguk’s smile is pure venom. “They won’t find out.”

Jimin watches him closely. His pupils are blown-out, his jaw is clenched tight, and there’s a
slight tremor to his hands. When he notices Jimin staring, he balls them into fists at his sides.
He’s as taut as a bowstring, tension evident in the set of his shoulders.

“Your dirty little secret is safe with my indifference, Jeongguk,” Jimin says. “I couldn’t care
less. I’m not interested in ruining your reputation.”

“This isn’t just about reputation,” Jeongguk scoffs. “You think I care about that? There’s my
future on the line. This place pays for my tuition, and more.”
Jimin gapes. “This—this place, as in this job? Working as a host?” Considering Jeon
Jeongguk walks around the campus fooling everyone into thinking he’s one of the rich guys,
how much do they pay him to refill glasses and slide a hand up a sleazy man’s thigh?

“You know what this place is, right? You can’t be this naïve. I thought it was just a façade to
make people like you more.”

“Excuse me?”

“Black Bird and Golden Peony’s main business is sex, Jimin. They sell sex. I sell sex. It’s
how I make a living,” Jeongguk says, playful smile vanishing from his lips. “I’m an escort. A
prostitute. A high-end one.”

Jimin stares back with wide eyes. “Fuck.”

That smile again, quicksilver. “Fuck, indeed.”

The doorhandle rattling furiously interrupts their conversation. Jeongguk splays a hand on the
door and asks, cautiously, “Who is it?”

“Why are you asking who is it like I’m ringing the doorbell to your house, Jeongguk?” an
angry voice says from the other side. “This is my establishment. Open the fucking door.”

Jimin sees Jeongguk mouth shit and hastily unlock the door. A man in his early thirties barges
in the dressing room, clad in a dark navy suit that just smells like expensive Italian fashion
brand.

“How many times do I have to tell you I don’t like it when you lock the doors? Do it again
and I’ll remove the locks myself.”

“I’m sorry, Seokjin,” Jeongguk says, raising his eyes to the ceiling as soon as Seokjin turns
his back to him. “Won’t happen again.”

“And who’s this guy?” Seokjin asks, eyebrows quirked in interest. He saunters over to Jimin
and looks him up and down like he’s appraising a racing horse. “Your friend’s pretty. Prettier
than you, I dare say.”

Jimin’s blush deepens. “I think I’m gonna go. Hoseok’s probably looking for me.”

“Who’s this Hoseok, and is he as cute as you?”

“Jin, stop coming onto him like that,” Jeongguk hisses. “He’s just a friend from school. He
was about to leave.”

“From school?” Seokjin arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Didn’t you say nobody knew
you were working for me?”

“He just found out,” Jeongguk answers through clenched teeth.

“My, oh my! Drama,” Seokjin chuckles, amused. “You won’t tattle on my little Skylark, will
you, pretty boy?”

Skylark? “I’m not interested in ruining his life,” Jimin says. For all his friendliness Seokjin
looks a little odd, like his words and actions and even his demeanor are all part of a carefully
crafted persona.

“Splendid! Then it’s settled,” Seokjin chirps, breaking into a blinding smile. His face is
perfectly symmetrical, and for a second Jimin’s left disoriented. The man owning one of
Seoul’s most expensive host club establishments is probably more beautiful than all his hosts
put together.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it then. But if you took him here to fuck him, Gguk, please don’t
leave the condom in the trash bin. Take that shit with you,” Jeongguk rolls his eyes as Seokjin
takes a little card out of his pocket with a flourish and hands it to Jimin. The image of a
stylized black bird in flight is stamped on expensive cream-colored paper. “And you, pretty
boy, if you ever want to earn some extra money—”

Jeongguk snorts. “He isn’t what you seek, Jin.”

“—you know where to find us. I’d be delighted to have a dainty little thing such as you in my
repertoire of little birdies.” Seokjin winks.

“Uhm, thanks?” Jimin says, uncertain. Is that a compliment? “I’ll think about it.” That’s the
polite thing to say, right?

Seokjin waltz out of the room with a last wink. Jimin’s left speechless and a little stunned.
Everything happened so fast, and Jeongguk’s leopard-print cardigan slid over his shoulder to
reveal half a tattoo he’d never suspected of, and did the very owner of the Black Bird just
offer him a job as a host?

“What’s with all the, uh—bird references?” Jimin asks, still a bit dazed. He turns the business
card over, stares at the club’s symbol.

Jeongguk hugs the cardigan close to his body, shivering lightly. He looks exhausted all of a
sudden, all the energy and tension drained out of him. “Didn’t you notice how all the girls at
the Peony have the names of different flowers?”

“Oh. Right.” He remembers that the girl who was plastered at his side told him her name was
Lily. “Is this a thing here?”

“Pretty much. The girls are all flowers, and the guys are birds.”

“So, you’re Skylark?” Jimin asks, half a mocking smile on his lips. Jeongguk’s face darkens.

“Yes, I am. Though only customers get to call me that,” Jeongguk says. “So, either shove a
stack of bills in my underwear or stick to Jeongguk.”

“I know it comes as a let-down, but I really don’t have that kind of money.”
“Pity. I never say no to money,” Jeongguk grins and flicks him under the chin with two
playful fingers. Jimin flinches, body immediately going rigid.

“See?” Jeongguk laughs. “This is what I mean when I say you’re too stiff. Maybe you should
really try working here. Learn to loosen up. Literally.”

“Fuck you.”

“I can do that for the right price.”

Jimin groans.

“You know what? Fuck the toilet, I’m going home. Can I get out through something that’s not
the front door? I really don’t want Hoseok to see me.”

Jeongguk shrugs. “I can take you to the Black Bird’s entrance.”

“Uh—I’d rather not.”

“Afraid to be seen exiting a gay host club?” Jeongguk asks, smirking. “I thought you didn’t
have many friends in Gangnam.”

He just doesn’t want to see the place. Living the Golden Peony’s reality for just a couple of
hours was enough.

“Anyway, my break is over and I wasted it all on you. Come on, I’ll take you to the side
exit.”

He follows Jeongguk out of the dressing room and down the long, eerie hallway that doesn’t
remind Jimin of a nonplace anymore. It reminds him very much of a place, now. The place in
which he came to know another side of Jeon Jeongguk, a side that dresses in leather and
blatantly flirts with him. He’s still reeling from all that.

Jeongguk pushes a door open and the crisp October air drifts inside. The host lingers on the
threshold, holding the door open for him.

“Just so you know—if you say a word, I’ll make your life a living hell.”

Jimin huffs out a chuckle. “You’re already part of my hell.”

Jeongguk squints. “What?”

“See ya, Skylark.” Jimin puts his hood up and makes his way down a couple brick steps,
leaving marbles and parquets and all their palatable wonders behind. “Don’t sing too much
tonight.”

“You’re an ass.”

“At least my ass is free,” Jimin shrugs, walking backward into the night. His eyes are still
fixed on the very still figure of Jeongguk on the doorway, half shrouded in darkness and half
bathed in warm light.

Jeongguk flips him off and Jimin laughs. He turns around, phone in hand. Time to shoot
Hoseok an apologetic text.

Time to go home and freak out.

13.
“I feel like this bit here—Sadaham and the other hwarang discussing battle strategies? It feels
a little forced. I mean, Sadaham’s relatively young, right? He can’t know much about war.”

“But he comes from an aristocratic family. He’s probably been taught this shit all his life.”

“Well, yeah, but…” Jimin sweeps the stage with his eyes, looking at the technicians
swapping props and sets without really seeing them. He’ll miss all this. He still hasn’t told
Namjoon he’s leaving. “Maybe Sadaham should be a little more naïve? He’s not a fully
grown man, he’s still on the cusp of adulthood.”

“No changes to the script, it’s too late for that. Sadaham is a little genius who knows his stuff
and that’s that.”

Jeongguk walks over and drapes an arm around Namjoon’s shoulder, fixing Jimin with big
black eyes. He speaks with a tone of finality, and there is zero trace of the flirty Skylark Jimin
met just a couple days before. They’ve been politely avoiding each other for the whole
duration of rehearsal, though Jimin had often the feeling someone was monitoring his every
action on and off the stage.

“I aged the characters a little bit, otherwise we should have had to tone down the romance,
don’t you think? So it actually makes sense.”

Jimin thinks about insisting, then shrugs. It’s not like he will play Sadaham after today. He
feels extremely guilty, he knows he should have told Namjoon and the others about leaving
much earlier, so they could start to find a replacement already. But some selfish part of him
wanted to cling to the stage a little longer, and hear his voice fill the theater as he brought
Sadaham to life, scene after scene after scene. But he can’t delay the inevitable anymore.

Jeongguk frowns at his uncharacteristic resignation. Jimin doesn’t want to wait for one of
Jeongguk’s snide remarks, so he excuses himself and goes backstage to get his stuff. He
thought about talking to Namjoon after the rehearsal, but maybe it would just make him look
like a selfish dick who wanted to have one last useless day as a protagonist of the play.
Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he revises his plan. Tomorrow, after the last bell, he’s
going to text Namjoon. He’ll ask him to meet in one of the cafes dotting the campus. He will
buy Namjoon a coffee and tell him he can’t continue playing Sadaham because of family
issues. Namjoon’s a discreet person, he won’t ask questions. Jimin will say he had been
thinking about leaving for a while but never found the courage to do it, and he’ll apologize
profusely for wasting everybody’s time.

It will not be painless, and he’ll feel like shit. But it’s what must be done. He’s already
looking for new jobs. He tried looking for some that wouldn’t clash with his schedule—
classes and his other job and the theater club—but it would mean working very late in the
evenings or even at night, and the pay was almost always not worth it. He really doesn’t have
much choice.
Jimin puts his earphones on, scrolls for the right playlist to listen to on his way home.
Nothing too melancholic, because he doesn’t think he can stand it right now. Nothing too
upbeat because he’s really not feeling it. He’s still hunting for the right soundtrack to his
emotions when he walks past one of the dressing rooms backstage and hears soft voices drift
out to the narrow corridor. He wouldn’t pay them any mind if not for the mention of his
name.

“—he’s good, right? I was surprised on the first day of rehearsal.”

A second voice hums, then waits a beat before adding, “His acting drops a little around
Taehyung though, don’t you think?”

Jimin freezes.

“Oh yeah, I noticed the same thing. Especially when they kiss, right?”

“Right, it’s like you can feel he doesn’t look a hundred percent comfortable, you know? I
wonder why. I’d pay hard cash to kiss Kim Taehyung.” A giggle.

“I get the feeling he’s not super experienced.”

His heart plummets.

“You think? He’s so pretty though.”

A scoff. “That doesn’t mean anything—"

“Jimin? You’re still here?”

Jimin squeaks when Yoongi materializes at the end of the corridor. Fucking Yoongi. Always
floating everywhere like a pasty-looking ghost. He swears his footsteps don’t make any
sound.

The dressing room door opens wide and the look on the girls’ faces when they see Jimin is
one of utter mortification. Jimin makes the split-second decision to save them and himself
from a lifetime of embarrassment.

“I’m sorry Yoongi, did you say something?” he pulls one of his earbuds out, pretends to
pause the music he never put on. “I didn’t hear you.”

The look of relief on the girls’ faces doesn’t bring him any relief. He still feels like someone
poured a bucketful of cold water over his head.

“Nothing, I was just surprised to find you here still,” Yoongi shrugs.

He gives him a tight smile. “Yeah, it’s a little late. See you next week.”

He walks past them in a hurry, with his head ducked to hide the blush on his face. He doesn’t
trust his expression not to reflect the mortification he feels in his heart. He needs to get out of
here fast, and breathe.
And try his hardest not to break down on public transport.

It’s such a trivial thing, really. Nothing devastating happened. Why is he being so fucking
dramatic? It’s not like he’s a professional actor who acts for a living. He’s a History major for
fuck’s sake, his dream is to get a PhD in Modern History and land a nice job in one of Seoul’s
universities. His entire life doesn’t involve around this stupid little play or the stupid little
character Jeon Skylark Jeongguk wrote.

And yet the days he spent rehearsing were the most fun he’s had in a while. Being able to be
out of his house with people who seemed to appreciate him for a talent he’d always thought
of as worthless was exhilarating. It made him feel like he mattered as an individual beyond
Park Jimin, the family member who breaks his back to bring in the money to pay for the bills.
Park Jimin, rich Jung Hoseok’s poor friend. Park Jimin, straight A student who dreams of the
security of a boring job.

Jimin shoves his hands in his pockets, balls them into fists. He digs his nails into his palm
with his left hand. His right tightens around a piece of hard paper.

He pulls it out. An elegant black bird against a creamy white background, the name Kim
Seokjin stamped underneath it.

No. This is madness.

Jeongguk manages to juggle the host club, classes and rehearsals effortlessly. Jeongguk
prances around wearing Balenciaga sneakers. Jeongguk is a sexual being perfectly
comfortable with his body and sexuality.

Jeongguk is everything Jimin wishes he could be.

If you ever want to earn some extra money—

This is what I mean when I say you’re too stiff. Maybe you should really work here, you know.

he doesn’t look a hundred percent comfortable

 I get the feeling he’s not super experienced

get rid of all the tension that makes you as stiff as a board
I’d be delighted to have a dainty little thing such as you in my repertoire of little birdies.
 Jimin calls the number on the business card.

Chapter End Notes

someone once complained that my jimins are too cold, so i hope this one gives them
brainfreeze
 Chapter 2
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
1.
Jimin was nine the first time he caught his stepfather masturbating.

He’d woken up with a full bladder and the frayed threads of a dream he couldn’t weave into
anything specific. He’d padded down the hallway and opened the bathroom door with a hand
still pawing at his sleepy eyes, and that’s when he saw him.

Had he paid attention to the low grunts on the other side of the door, or the light spilling
through the cracks, Jimin would’ve headed straight to bed to wait for his stepfather to finish
his business and go back to sleep. But he was still groggy, and the dream had scrambled his
head a bit, and he didn’t notice.

The door wasn’t locked, he opened it easily. The light was familiar—fluorescent white, harsh
on the eyes, especially if you’re still half-asleep. Jimin didn’t like cool lights, they always
reminded him of the time his mom took him to the hospital to say goodbye to his grandfather.
The lights overhead had shined much in the same way. Some were bright and blinding, others
weak and flickering like the pulse of his grandfather’s heartbeat. He’d died an hour later,
washed out in cool white light.

Daejung stood in front of the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Back then he still
cared about his appearance, worked out all the beer he ingested during the days he stayed
home. Flattering shadows dipped on his bare chest, the muscles on his arms rippling as he
worked at his length with a brutal pace.

More than the image, it was the sounds that stuck to Jimin the most. A squelching, wet
sound, punctuated by the grunts of an animal. Daejung didn’t slow down nor stop when he
noticed him standing there, frozen on the doorway. He stared at him through all of it, hand
working faster, until he spilled in the sink with a grunt trapped behind clenched teeth. Ropes
and ropes of thick white splattered on the mirror, trickling down the reflection of Jimin’s
face.

The unease he felt since that night, Jimin was never able to shrug off.
2.
Kim Seokjin’s office is as ostentatious as its owner, like the rest of the Black Bird. Seokjin’s
elegant features clash with the garishness of the place, and Jimin finds it bizarre. Seokjin
shouldn’t look like he belongs here, and yet he does. Jimin knows perfectly well this is Kim
Seokjin’s natural habitat.

“So you’re saying you’re completely inexperienced?”

“Right.”

“And you’re in desperate need of money.”

“Yes.”

Seated at his antique desk, Seokjin peers at him from above his clasped hands. Each of his
fingers is adorned by heavy rings. “I can offer you a job, Jimin. I admit that when I handed
you my card I had bigger ambitions for you in mind, but I’ll make do. I can offer you a
simple hosting job in my club—you know what it means, right? It’s the, how should I put it
—the most basic service we offer to our customers. No escorting, no private rooms, no sex.
You’d only attend to the gentlemen in the booths and let yourself be groped a bit. We call
these hosts Commons, as in Common Birds. There’s three different levels, each with their
name. It was my idea.” He grins widely, revealing teeth that look like they would shine in the
dark.

Jimin swallows.

“You understand the pay will reflect your status, yes? Taking clients to the private rooms is
more lucrative, but it’s obviously a job that requires a very different set of skills.”

He nods. Standard hosting works well for him—for now. The money is still a lot better than
any other job he’s ever had. As tempting as it is to just say yes to the escorting jobs and the
private rooms appointment for the sake of a buttload of money, Jimin knows he wouldn’t last
a single second in those levels.

“I’m okay with just hosting.”

Seokjin looks him over, smiling like a Cheshire cat.

“You’re lucky, Park Jimin. Two of my birdies fled the nest last week, and I’m in dire need of
new promising hatchlings. Though you lack the, uh—experience, I think you’d fit right in.
Then if you ever want to climb up the ladder, you can always come back after you’ve gained
a little bit more experience.”

“Why birds?” Jimin blurts out. The way Seokjin talks about the hosts makes his skin crawl.
Like they’re all birds in a cage.

Seokjin grins. “Do you know the Italian word for bird?”
“No.”

“It’s uccello. Did you know it’s slang for cock?”

“No.”

“The more you know,” Seokjin says, taking a cigar from an elegantly carved wooden box on
his desk and lighting it. The pungent and aromatic smell of expensive tobacco fills the air.
“We’ll see how long it’ll take you to make the jump to Exotic.”

“Exotic?” Jimin asks, frowning. A knock at the door draws Seokjin’s attention.

“Oh, that must be our lovely Skylark. I asked him to kindly come here before starting his
shift,” Seokjin says affably. Then to the door, “Come inside.”

Jeongguk slips in the office almost on his tip-toes, as if he’s afraid of ruining the expensive
Persian carpet. He’s still dressed in casual clothes, which means he’s sporting expensive
combat boots and a hoodie that costs half of what Jimin makes in two months.

He freezes when he spots Jimin, then turns to Seokjin with a comically confused expression.

“What’s he doing here?”

“Jimin here is your new colleague,” Seokjin explains. “Isn’t it exciting? Since you already
seem to know each other well, I’m leaving him to your care. Show him around, guide him
through what it means to be a Birdie here. Be the Virgil to his Dante, okay?”

When Jeongguk turns to stare at Jimin, his expression is one of utter astonishment.

“You’re working here?!”

“Yep,” Jimin answers, trying to fake nonchalance. He knows he failed when Jeongguk looks
at him like he’s gone mad.

“I wasn’t being serious when I told you—”

“Boys, why don’t you take it outside? I’m sure you have a lot to catch up on.” Seokjin waves
his hand dismissively and leans back on the leather chair with a mildly annoyed look. “Papa
bird here has a lot of work to take care of. Jimin, you’ll get an email with the contract and all
the details pertaining to your schedule. If you have any more questions, ask Skylark. Now
shoo.”

“Wait, uh—so you’re really hiring me? And if he’s Skylark, what am I?”

A million questions swirling in his head, and he’s preoccupied about what his host name is
going to be. He glimpses Jeongguk very obviously rolling his eyes at him.

Seokjin takes a long drag from his cigar. Dense gray smoke curls around his handsome face,
fogging the glint in his eyes for a long moment. He looks him up and down, attentive eyes
focusing on every detail of Jimin’s face and frame, taking in the faded orange sweater and the
worn black jeans with holes on the inside of his thighs—he’d gone to war with this pair of
jeans, and it showed, a little too much maybe. He’ll have to throw them out soon if he doesn’t
want to be reprimanded by the university for indecent dressing.

“Why not Oriole?” Seokjin ventures. “You sort of look like one already, with the color
scheme you’ve got going on. You’ll be our tiny little Oriole.”

“I’m not tiny,” Jimin snaps.

The expression on Seokjin’s face starts to morph into something darker, but Jeongguk grabs
him by the arm and drags him toward the door. “Oriole is fine. Let’s go.”

Jimin lets himself be shoved out of Seokjin’s office –“Bye, little birdies!” Jimin hears him
chirp—then right into the elevator.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jeongguk hisses, punching the ground floor button. The
elevator starts its descent with a low purr.

“Can’t you put two and two together? I’m piss poor. You said you make good money
hosting.”

Jeongguk throws his hands in the air. “So you decide to suck dicks for a living?”

“I won’t suck any dicks. I got the base plan or something.”

“You’re a Common?” Jeongguk asks, eyebrows arched. “That’s not a lot of money.”

“For you, maybe,” Jimin shoots back. If he saves up, he could even move out of the house
eventually.

But Jeongguk shakes his head. “You don’t know what you put yourself into. Hosting is hard,
and this place isn’t like the other host clubs in the city. You’ve seen Seokjin. Prostitution is
his business. Even if you’re not working upstairs, hosting at the Bird isn’t just about pouring
wine and batting your eyelashes. And now that I think about it, I’m not even sure you know
the basics of flirting.”

“Well, you’re the Virgil to my Dante, right?” Jimin asks sarcastically. “Lead me through the
nine circles of Black Bird’s Hell.”

The elevator doors open on the lobby’s vaulted hall. Jeongguk guides him through a hidden
corridor, one where the elegant chandeliers hanging from the ceiling are swapped with
average-looking lights.

“Tell me you’re not doing it for the play,” Jeongguk says, glancing over his shoulder. He
ushers him to a dressing room very similar to the one he’s been before. “I was joking when I
said you should work here. Orioles isn’t a porno, we didn’t ask you to learn how to
professionally deepthroat Taehyung.”

“I know that,” Jimin huffs, picking at his lip. An old scab starts to bleed again, leaving his
fingertips stained with red. He licks his lips to clean away the blood. “But I need the money.
Bad. If I don’t get this job, I—I can’t keep playing Sadaham. I would have to find yet another
job to cover for… a lot of shit at home, and then I wouldn’t have the time or the strength to
go to rehearsals.”

There it is, out in the open. Didn’t exactly expect to say the words to Jeongguk of all people,
the only one who’d probably be ecstatic to know he was thinking of leaving the play.

Jeongguk studies him for a moment, and for once he doesn’t snap back.

“But is it really worth it?”

Jimin shrugs. “It’s good money. I know it’s unpleasant, and I know I don’t have your
predisposition for the job—”

“Are you saying I’m a born whore?”

“—but it leaves me with enough free time to go to rehearsals, and I really, really want to be
Sadaham in your play, Jeongguk. It means a lot to me. The play. The stage. Everything.” He
knows he sounds a little desperate, and hopes Jeongguk doesn’t make fun of him for it. But
Jeongguk’s expressions seems to soften ever so slightly.

“If you say so.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“For barging into your life like this.” He figures he owes Jeongguk some kind of apology, in
a way. “First you don’t want me in your play, then I get a job at the place you’re secretly
working at. I know you didn’t want any of this.”

“It’s fine,” Jeongguk sighs, sinking into a couch on the other side of the room. “It’s not like I
hate you or anything.”

“You don’t?”

Jeongguk looks at him. “No? Why would I?”

“I thought you didn’t like me much.”

“I never said that,” Jeongguk says, frowning. “You seem to have rather strong feelings about
me, though. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your scathing looks, Jimin.”

“Well, you always act like an asshole around me, and you don’t do that with other people.”

“That’s because I expect a lot from you, Park Jimin,” Jeongguk explains, crossing his legs.
“And I will not settle for anything less than perfection, though I fear you have a long way
ahead of you still.”

“Excuse me?”
“Enough chit-chat. I’ve barely got fifteen minutes to show you the place and introduce you to
the guys.”

“What happens in fifteen minutes?”

Jeongguk smiles sardonically.

“I’m all booked in fifteen minutes, Park.”

Something tells him he’s not going to see much of Jeongguk on the first floor of the Black
Bird.
3.
Jimin’s first day at work is a little like a dream, and a lot like a nightmare.

A dream because he still can’t quite believe this is happening to him—well, I chose to let this
happen to me, I guess—and half-expects to wake up to the sound of his alarm.

A nightmare because there’s currently five Japanese businessmen in this secluded booth with
him, and the weight of their eyes as Jeongguk introduces him is suffocating.

“Do you mind if there’s an extra tonight, Mr. Shinoda? He’s a new guy, needs to learn the
ropes a little. He’s just here to watch, you won’t pay for him.”

Mr. Shinoda is a man in his early fifties. Small frame and small beady eyes, hair that is
already fading to a dull gray. Perhaps being a successful businessman makes you age faster,
Jimin thinks.

“Oh, he can watch,” Mr. Shinoda leers. “He can watch all he wants.” His Korean is fluent and
he talks with the faintest hint of an accent. From the way he grips Jeongguk at the waist like
he’s his personal property, Jimin figures this isn’t the first time he’s visited the Black Bird.

Jeongguk throws him a baleful look that translates to sit there and stay quiet, and maybe even
try to learn all you can. Jimin perches atop a stool in the corner of the booth and watches,
silent as the grave.

There are four clients and six hosts, so it’s rather crowded. This is probably one of the biggest
booths, ask for anything bigger and they’ll straight-up give you a room upstairs. But that’s
where the upper-level birdies get down to business. And their business is drastically different
than what’s being discussed in here.

They’ve dressed him up for the occasion, because if he’s to be a host at the Black Bird, he’s
got to keep up the appearances. Jeongguk had taken him to one of the dressing rooms and
proceeded to bury him under a pile of clothes he was supposed to try on. Another boy that
couldn’t be older than nineteen had helped him find the right mise. The clothes he’s wearing
are much too revealing for his tastes, but at least they aren’t as tacky as what he’d seen
Jeongguk wear the first time he saw him working—though he admits Jeongguk had kind of
rocked the animalier print.

“So he’s not a birdie yet, yes?” a client asks, appraising Jimin with open interest.

“Nope,” Jeongguk says, comfortably seated on Mr. Shinoda’s lap. He brings a champagne
flute to his lips and watches him with gleaming black eyes. “You can look but you can’t
touch.”

“When are you finishing your apprenticeship, boy?”

The man addresses Jimin directly, and he freezes. Is he expected to answer? Can he? When
does his apprenticeship ends, indeed?
“Cause I want to be your first client when you’re on the catalogue.”

The ice encasing his body burns.

“He starts as a Common,” Jeongguk chips in. “No private rooms for him.”

“That’s a pity.”

“Plenty of other birds in the sky,” Jeongguk sing-songs. “Me, for example.”

Mr. Shinoda pulls him closer, hand splayed protectively on his back.

“Not when I’m around.”

“Of course not, Mr. Shinoda,” Jeongguk smiles sweetly. He cants his hips slightly as he
presses closer to the older man, and Jimin wants to get up and leave or at least avert his eyes,
but he can’t. He has to watch it all, and learn. He hopes the others don’t notice how hard he’s
gripping the stool.

The evening ticks by excruciatingly slow. Something Jimin learns from the very first seconds
of watching—the birds are much more provocative in their hosting than the flowers on the
other side of the building are. These young bodies writhe, stretch languidly, rub against each
other like animals in heat, and it seems like their lips are permanently parted in moans they
never let out, a silent little preview of what they’d look like if they were to be brought
upstairs. To Jimin, this is like peeping into a soft-porn orgy, an oxymoronic experience that
makes his head spin and the sweat on his back freeze over.

The subtle touches, the bolder ones, the groping, the stroking, the mouthed kisses against
bare skin, the slow canting of hips against hips, the hands permanently parked on upper
thighs. Jimin stares and takes it all in, and when repugnance starts to bleed through the cracks
of his mask of neutrality, threatening to overcome him, he digs his fingernails through his
palms until the pain grounds him again.

And thus business is conducted, wine is drank, champagne is poured over the hungry mouths
of hosts by clients who eagerly watch the pearly liquid trickle down the column of their
necks, their eyes fogged by wanton lust.

One by one, the birdies are all asked to go upstairs. No one refuses, and the first one to go is
Skylark.
4.
“Don’t bother finding another job. Did you hear me?”

Jihyun sits at his desk with a pair of headphones covering his ears, head bobbing slightly to
blaring hip-hop music Jimin can hear from the doorway. He walks up to his brother and
shoves the headphones to his neck.

“I said, did you hear me?”

“Fuck—what? What do you want?”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” Jimin barks. “Did you even try to get a job? And where the hell
did you find these?” He nods to Jihyun’s headphones. They look brand-new, expensive.

“They’re a gift.”

Liar.

“Oh, a gift you say? From your sugar daddy?”

“Fuck off,” Jihyun snarls. He mumbles something under his breath, something that sounds a
lot like I’m not a faggot.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Jimin’s anger explodes like water bursting out of a dam. He takes his brother by the collar of
his shirt and lifts him up like he weighs nothing. “I catch you saying that word again and I’ll
throw you out of the house, you hear me?”

“You can’t do that! This is mom’s house—”

“—mom’s high half the fucking time, Hyun! Do you think she’d even notice you’re not
around?”

“You’re hurting me!”

“Talk like Daejung again and I’ll cut off your fucking tongue.”

He lets him go then, shoving him back into the chair. It almost tips over with Jihyun’s
weight, and he watches as his brother struggles to grab onto his desk. Jihyun’s on the verge of
tears, but he doesn’t care. He’s fuming. Positively enraged. He can’t let his brother turn into
another Daejung. He can’t let his stepfather taint the only member of his family he cares
about.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jihyun yells, a sob cracking the angry words. “You need to see a
doctor. You’re crazy. I hate you.”
“You don’t know what true crazy is like,” Jimin snaps back. “Pray that you never find out.
For whatever’s worth, don’t bother finding a job. I took care of it, like fucking always. Say
that word again and you won’t see a cent, though. Are we clear?”

He slams the door without hearing Jihyun’s reply. He isn’t even sure he was going to answer
anyway. His first conversation with Jihyun since the day of their fight, and he managed to
yell in his face and physically assault him.

This isn’t me.

A lot of stuff doesn’t feel like him lately. Maybe Jihyun’s right. Maybe he’s not a hundred
percent there. Maybe there’s something wrong with him, a little cog that broke a long time
ago, started to rust, and now the rust’s spreading to the whole machine.

Or maybe he’s just fucking pissed because his brother indirectly called him a faggot.
5.
“The big day today, uh?” Hyesung asks him, eyes boring into Jimin’s through the mirror.
He’s a host with cherry red hair and sharp cheekbones. Taller than Jeongguk when they stand
side by side, but Hyesung retains a certain grace that is unusual for someone as thin and tall
as him. He’s also known as Swan, but Jimin soon found out none of the boys liked to be
called with their host names.

Jimin slumps into the couch, drops his eyes to the coffee table in front of him. Someone
brought refreshments, but he hasn’t touched anything yet. Dressed in his skimpy outfit, blond
hair styled away from his face in a way that makes him look sharper, more mature, he doesn’t
feel like himself. Doesn’t look like himself. He stares at Hyesung’s reflection in the mirror.
Nods.

“I still think Donghyun made a mistake with your styling,” Jeongguk says, sprawling next to
him on the couch, a foot propped up on the coffee table. He opens a can of coke and downs
half in one big gulp. Today he’s dressed entirely in red, and his plunging neckline doesn’t
leave much to the imagination. When Jimin finally tears his eyes away from Jeongguk’s
chest, he finds him staring back with almost the same intensity. “I would have kept your
good-boy vibe. Now you just look like another whore.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean, you’ve already got this whole soft-slash-cherubic look going on. Why waste it?
Clients love to mess around with the innocent looking ones.”

Jeongguk thinks he’s soft and cherubic?

“Why don’t you roleplay the part of the good boy next door?” Jimin says, miffed. “You’re the
most Bambi-eyed guy I’ve ever met in my life. Straight out of a Disney movie, I swear.”

Jeongguk scoffs as Hyesung bursts into laughter, smearing the lipstick he was carefully
applying on his lips. Another guy gelling up his hair snorts and says, “He’s not wrong.”

“It isn’t how I look, it’s how I act,” Jeongguk says, arching a sharp eyebrow at Jimin.
“Maybe I should give you lessons.”

“Gguk’s for clients who like double-edged blades,” Hyesung says, teasing Jeongguk. “He can
be your angel or your devil, you know?”

His statement is followed by the other host’s chuckle.

“Don’t let him fool you though. Despite looking like a cheap-ass whore, he’s the one doing
the fucking most of the time—believe it or not.”

“Don’t divulge what happens upstairs, Nightingale. You’ll scare off the Common.”

“Bet he won’t stay Common for long.”

“Can you stop talking like I’m not in the room?”

“Alright.” Jeongguk sets his foot down, turns to watch him with a dangerous half-grin.
“Since you’re minutes away from your big debut, let’s see what you learned.”

“What?” Jimin frowns, suspicious.

Jeongguk sits up and spreads his legs wide. Jimin hates it when he does that. He looks less
like a bird and more like a wolf.

“Imagine I’m a client.”

“No.”

“Attend me. What would you do?”

“I’m not doing this with you,” Jimin huffs, skin prickling.

“You can’t be embarrassed out there, Oriole. Blushing like a virgin maiden is out of the
question. If they smell your insecurity, you won’t be in charge anymore.”

“Why do you make hosting sound more dramatic than it is?”

“Because I don’t think you’ve grasped how serious it is,” Jeongguk says with utter
seriousness. “If you think you can half-ass this job, you’re gonna have a nasty awakening
soon.”

“I’m not half-assing it.”

“Then show me.” Jeongguk nods to the refreshments. “Pour me a drink.”

Jimin wants to scoff, wants to say pour it yourself. But everyone’s eyes are on him, and the
atmosphere has changed quality—it’s viscous, sticky on his skin. Jeongguk watches him
through half-lidded eyes, the beginning of a smirk that says you don’t belong here staining the
corners of his lips.

Jimin changes posture, rolls his neck, then eases into the role he’s chosen for Oriole. During
the nights he spent observing Jeongguk and the other birds, Jimin noticed something—
everyone in Black Bird is playing a part, nobody is actually showing a crumb of their true
selves. Nightingale, Skylark, Sparrow—those were the masks boys slipped on to play the part
of birds. And the more they acted well, the more clients were satisfied with the service, the
more money they brought home.

All he’s got to do is act. And Jimin can act. And he chose very carefully which personality
fits this oriole better.

Jimin crosses his legs, the material of the artfully ripped jeans he was made to wear for the
occasion stretching taut across his thigh. The threads spanning each hole dig into his flesh
uncomfortably. It’s worth it when he notices Jeongguk’s eyes flicker down, linger.
He opens a can of soda – no wine or champagne in the dressing rooms, unfortunately—and
pours half in a paper cup. Then takes the cup and sits back on the couch.

“There you go,” he says mellifluously, batting his eyelashes just like he saw the other birds
do countless times.

Jeongguk isn’t impressed. He looks at Jimin, then the glass, then at Jimin again.

Jimin almost breaks character to roll his eyes. He’d been surprised to see how many clients
enjoyed being fed by hosts, but apparently it’s a power thing and a lot of important men get
off on it. Jimin could tolerate doing it to a stranger—especially if he got paid for it—but he
never expected to do it to Jeongguk. That changes things a little, and he has to remind
himself that this is just pretend.

He scoots closer, tensing up as soon as his leg brushes against Jeongguk’s. He knows
Jeongguk has noticed, but he doesn’t drop the act. He raises the cup to Jeongguk’s lips
slowly, watches him part his mouth while staring straight at him, a challenge gleaming in the
dark of his irises.

When Jeongguk draws closer Jimin jerks the cup back, downs the soda in one gulp, and
smiles.

“I don’t do shit for free,” he says, enjoying the look of confusion in Jeongguk’s face. “Next
time you want me to do something for you, request me at the front desk.”

Jeongguk takes the paper cup from his hand and crushes it. “Unless you plan on making a
client drink straight from your mouth, don’t ever pull shit like this, Jimin. Some may not like
this whole—bratty act you’ve got going on.”

“If you want to kiss me so badly all you gotta do is ask.”

Jeongguk raises an eyebrow. “You’re really not gonna last long here, uh?”

Jimin drops the pretense. “You just watch me.”

“Oh, I will,” Jeongguk drawls. “I’ll be the first to witness your mental breakdown, and the
first to tell you I told you so.”

Turns out Jeongguk was wrong.

Sure, it’s just Jimin’s first night at the Bird and this is his first table. The customers aren’t as
old as he thought—a plus, because the over-seventy clientele really makes his skin crawl and
all his hair stand on end—and they actually enjoy Oriole’s prickly approach to hosting. He’s
paired with another boy, a younger host who goes by the name Hummingbird, who is his
exact opposite. Giggly, flirty, always coming up with the weirdest innuendos, the perfect
bubbly personality to contrast Oriole’s apparently irresistible coldness.

Because these men, believe it or not, are falling head over heels for Jimin’s make-believe
tsundere personality.

Jimin didn’t mean to come off that cold. He’d envisioned a personality that was a little less
meek and a little more aloof than the others, true, but as he started to ease into the role he
realized the two men were getting much more into him than into Hummingbird—who was
practically begging to be taken to a private room. He may have started off a little colder than
intended because of nerves, but upon seeing how much these filthy rich businessmen loved to
be brushed off by him, he started to amp up the ice a little more.

And it paid off.

This isn’t bad, Jimin thinks as he pours what must be the evening’s hundredth glass of
champagne. He’s been pretending to drink for what feels like hours, because hosts aren’t
allowed to get drunk of course—though the clients loved to make them dizzy, cause a dizzy
host is always easier to take advantage of. Jimin is very careful not to ingest any alcohol at
all. Tempting as it may be to try a 200.000-won-a-bottle French champagne, he absolutely
doesn’t want to wake up in a room upstairs naked from the waist down, and yes he knows
he’s a Common Bird and Commons aren’t allowed to go upstairs and there’s security and
cameras everywhere, but he met Seokjin. He isn’t a hundred percent sure he can trust a man
who runs a host club empire that’s actually a prostitution ring.

It isn’t entirely bad, true. He still feels uncomfortable every time someone pulls him closer or
feeds him grapes or wants him to feed them grapes—though Jimin admits he found what
trespassed in the dressing room between him and Jeongguk more nerve-wracking than this,
weirdly enough – but the knowledge that they can’t do anything else to him puts him at ease.
Honestly, he doesn’t know how the guys above Common level deal with the fact that at any
given time they might be requested in one of the rooms upstairs. Jimin knows they made the
conscious decision to prostitute themselves, knows that they’re supposed to do anything in
their power to make the customers want to fuck them and get that percentage money, but he
wouldn’t know how to deal with that amount of stress. The thought of strangers seeing him
naked, touching him, using him like he’s an inflatable doll with a hole between his asscheeks
—no, thank you.

Good money, though. But not for him.

He could never be an Exotic Bird like Jeongguk.

“What do you think we should do, uh, birdie?”

The thread of his thoughts breaks when the man whose lap he’s sitting on jostles him on his
legs, eager for an answer to a question Jimin didn’t pay attention to. His first instinct is to
squirm away from the insistent hard-on he feels prodding at his ass, but just as he’s about to
scoot away he catches himself and thinks of Jeongguk’s disappointed expression. Skylark
would call him a pussy while grinding on that boner, probably making the guy cum in his
pants by the sheer sensuality of his gyrating hips or something.
Jimin clenches his jaw and presses closer, eliciting a slight hiss from the adoring man
underneath him. He calls it a win.

“Sorry, I wasn’t listening,” he purrs. Damn, shouldn’t have said sorry. Maybe Oriole doesn’t
say sorry at all. He’ll have to finesse the details of Oriole’s personality another day, revise
the pros and cons of his performance once he doesn’t have a cock trying to fuck him through
layers of clothes.

“Stock markets and business talk bore me.” He drags the word into an exaggerated, petulant
drawl, making extra sure to rub against the dude’s clothed boner one last time. Oh, he’s
getting good at this. He’s only a reasonable 40% nauseated, currently smothering the part of
him that wants to vomit all over these gentlemen with a nice, fluffed-up pillow until it dies
from asphyxiation and lets him earn his money in peace.

“You’re right, enough business talk,” the man says. He’s looking up at him with the same
adoring intensity one usually reserves to particularly awe-inspiring works of art—if art also
made people horny. He supposes some art does.

“Why don’t we take it upstairs?”

Ah, there it is, the infamous question.

Perhaps this could be a nice little cheat he should exploit next time. Make his clients horny
enough that they want to immediately take things further upstairs, and then break their hearts
by saying sorry guys, my butthole’s not for sale and hand them to the Rare or Exotic birds.
Easy, painless, and effective.

“Yes, why don’t you go?” Jimin says, disentangling himself from the man’s hold.
“Unfortunately, I don’t offer that kind of service.” He uses the exact words Jeongguk told
him to say whenever a client asks him to go upstairs, and finds that he rather likes the sound
of them. “Why don’t you wait here while I bring you the catalogue? So you can choose
another host that fits your tastes.”

He can tell the exact moment the customer’s heart shatters into tiny little pieces. This is
definitely the highlight of his job, squandering sleazy men’s hopes with a smile that isn’t
faked anymore but very much authentic.

“What d’you mean—I can pay you twice the price.”

Oh I know you can. Knowing how much money double the normal price for fucking is,
Jimin’s knees almost buckle.

“Sorry, can’t. I’m not allowed to go upstairs. I’ll be leaving now,” Jimin says, slipping out of
the booth with a genuine smile. Holy shit. He did it. He survived his first hosting at the Black
Bird. And he’s still whole, and no one tried to flash him their dicks, and he didn’t puke all
over the parquet. This is a massive win.

He’s actually earned money for this shit.

As he gets back to the booth with the catalogue in hand, he opens it at a random page and
skims through the rows and rows of pictures of sultry boys in seductive poses. He leaves
through the pages until he finds the right picture.

Skylark stares at him with eyes heavy with make-up and a grin that promises a good time,
and Jimin wonders how the men browsing the catalogue for their next exciting fuck feel upon
seeing his picture.

It doesn’t entice him. He just feels a cold shiver travel up his spine.

That night Jimin slips inside his house feeling a little like a burglar. He tip-toes down the
corridor to not wake anyone, opens the door to his room, then falls on the bed, muffling a
groan in his pillow. After the two rather mild-mannered customers, he got another table after
a mere ten-minute break. They were older, and richer, and louder, and handsier. There were
four hosts and four clients at the table. They didn’t enjoy Oriole’s bratty personality as much
as the other two.

He had to let go a little, had to drown the screaming part of him until his screams were
nothing but bubbles in a dark ocean. There were only hands, hands touching him everywhere,
dragging him under. Strong, insistent, demanding. You’re our property, the hands screamed,
nails digging into the flesh of his stomach, fingers leaving bruises as he got pulled closer,
closer, closer, we paid to have you, and we’ll enjoy you to the fullest.

But he’s earned money, good money, and this makes him feel buzzed. When he got back to
the dressing room he’d found Jeongguk re-touching his make up at one of the vanity tables.
He’d changed clothes, slipped into something possibly even more R rated. There were
hickeys all across his clavicle, and his lips were puffy and swollen. He didn’t know Exotic
Birds let their customers kiss them.

“How’d you do?” Jeongguk had asked him, vaguely curious. He was looking him over
attentively, assessing him. Perhaps he’d been a little surprised to find him alive.

“Fine.”

“Heard Minsoo say you bewitched a client.”

“Who’s Minsoo?”

“Hummingbird.”

“Ah.”

“So is it true?”
“What is?”

“What he said. Did they actually fall for it?”

“Hook, line and sinker.”

“Won’t always be like this, you know.”

“Just let me have this, alright?”

Jimin scoffs as he remembers Jeongguk’s words. He didn’t even congratulate him for his first
day at work. Other hosts had smiled at him encouragingly, high-fived him, teased him good-
naturedly. Not Jeongguk. He’d sat sullenly in front of the mirror, smearing eyeshadow on his
eyelids with his pink lips pressed into a tight line. He disapproved, like he disapproved of
anything Jimin did.

Before giving in to sleep, Jimin drags himself over to the bathroom, relieved to find it
blissfully empty. He locks the door, washes his face thoroughly in the sink. Avoids looking at
his reflection, even though he’s fully dressed. He cups his hands beneath the faucet, watches
the warm water pour over his fingers, slipping, slipping, falling down the drain.

He stays locked in the bathroom for an hour and vomits the night out of his system.
6.
“Ok, no—stop. Jimin, you’re coming on too strong. It’s great that you’re trying different
acting styles, but this is maybe a bit too over the top.”

“I liked it,” Taehyung winks when Jimin immediately pulls back, blushing.

“Fuck. Sorry, I—I don’t know what I was doing.”

He did. He slipped into the wrong Oriole for a bit and almost grinded against Taehyung.

“Yes, what’s gotten into you lately? You’re a little aggressive,” Yoongi says. “Sadaham’s
more nuanced, more subtle in his sexuality, right Jeongguk?”

Jeongguk is too busy hiding his face behind a hand to answer.

“Just act like you’ve always acted before,” Yoongi goes on. “Unless maybe you can find a
middle ground?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I’ll do better,” he says, nervous fingers picking at his bottom lip.

“Don’t stress too much about it, okay?” Namjoon adds. “You have all the time of the world to
practice and get better.”

“If you’re struggling with some scenes, we could meet up some other day and rehearse them
together. What do you think?” Taehyung suggests.

“Uh—I’ll think about it. I’m very busy.”

“Alright, let’s take five, alright?” Jeongguk shouts from his front row seat. He’s rubbing his
temples incessantly, as if trying to will away a particularly fastidious headache. “Jimin, can I
talk to you?”

Fuck. “Uh, yes. Coming.” Fuck fuck fuck.

Jeongguk takes him aside and pins him with one of the most serious looks he’s ever given
him.

“You know people can be sensual without actually doing anything overtly sexual, do you?”

His blush deepens, heatwaves across his cheeks.

“The secret lies in how you carry yourself. The vibe you give off to others. But this happens
only if you’re comfortable with yourself, and when you’re on stage, I don’t get that from
you.”

“Don’t get what?”

“That you’re comfortable. In your skin, and in Sadaham’s skin. Sometimes you look like you
don’t know what to do with yourself. And this inevitably begs the question—” he lowers his
voice in a whisper that only Jimin can hear, “—how the fuck can you host if you don’t feel
good in your skin?”

“We’re not at the Black Bird now, Jeongguk. We’re at rehearsal,” he says, trying to swerve
the topic to safer territories. This is really not something he wants to discuss here.

“But you see, it’s all connected. Don’t pretend you haven’t accepted Seokjin’s offer because
you took it as a challenge against yourself. Seokjin told me you’re a virgin, is it true?”

The sudden question catches him off guard, and Jimin chokes on his spit. His sputtering
almost turns into a hysteria-induced coughing fit.

“That was confidential!”

“Nothing is confidential at the Black Bird,” Jeongguk snorts. “I suggest you learn what
makes your body tick, Jimin. And not just on a physical level, but on an intellectual level too.
I’m obviously not suggesting you go on a sexual discovery through the club because it’s
literally the most toxic environment you could choose to approach sex,” he glowers at Jimin,
“so if you have a crush, Park, this is the perfect time to act on it. Confess, go on dates, have
protected sex, and for the love of God, stop acting like a fool on the stage.”

“So you’re basically saying I can’t play Sadaham well because I’ve never slept with
anyone?” This anger he feels simmering underneath his skin is about to spill over and stain
his vision in red. He wants to take Jeongguk by the shoulders and shake him shake him shake
him until he hears his bones rattle. “Only grown-ups are worthy of playing the characters you
wrote, uh? Why didn’t you say so on the script? Why didn’t you stamp a big ass No Virgins
Allowed warning on the posters, uh?”

“You’re delusional,” Jeongguk replies coldly. “I never said that. You have a talent in
misconstruing other people’s words in a way that almost impresses me. I couldn’t care less
about the number of cocks you’ve had or not up your ass—I’m talking about emotions.
You’ve clearly never been in love or felt attracted to anybody before, and that’s perfectly
fine, okay? But I need an actor that knows how to replicate those emotions almost to
perfection. So, either you fake it until you make it, or feel it and then pour it all into the
performance. But since you’ve been failing spectacularly at the first option, well—you figure
it out. I’m done talking with you.”

Jeongguk stalks away without deigning him of another glance, leaving Jimin standing there
with a dozen jagged shards of glass embedded in his chest. There’s a knot in his throat he
can’t seem to swallow down, and a frustrated scream lodged at the back of his mouth. His
eyes sting.

He leaves the theater without anyone noticing, hating Jeon Jeongguk almost as much as he
hates himself.
7.
Life has been weirdly devoid of colors lately. Jimin wakes up, avoids his family, goes to
class, jokes with Hoseok. He goes to rehearsal and for a while he finds colors again, in the
voices of the people in the club. They’re bright and vivid and blinding even—except for one,
one that stuffs his ears with black tar until it smothers everyone else’s colors. But when
Jeongguk doesn’t speak, the colors are all there, even though none belongs to him.

Then at night he goes to the club and the world washes out again.

Tonight has been particularly exhausting. The door to his house opens to darkness, his family
probably already asleep in their beds. Then he notices a suffused light coming from the
kitchen. Someone must have left the counter light on. He pushes the door open and sees his
mother sitting at the table, alone.

“Mom?” he asks softly. “What are you doing still awake?”

The counter light at her back is enough to shine a yellowish glow on her. It makes her look
sickly, more emaciated than she already is. Her cheap blonde hair dye is fading into a dirty
yellow, and her roots are rapidly growing in.

“Jimin?” she whispers. She kicks the chair next to her. “Sit with me for a minute.”

Jimin doesn’t turn on the lights and sits. He prefers to stare at his mother’s profile while she’s
half darkness and half feeble light. This way he can’t notice the thin, yellowed skin around
her eyes and mouth that make her look ten years older than what she is.

“Why don’t you ask me where I’ve been?” Jimin asks. “Or why I’m home late?”

His mother doesn’t answer. She rarely answers his questions.

The silence between them stretches on, and Jimin gets restless. He’s tired and wants to wash
away the evening’s leery looks and groping hands, and finally collapse on his bed until
morning comes again. Her mother lights a cigarette and offers it to Jimin. He shakes his head.

“You’re doing well,” his mother says. “So well. My Jiminie. My firstborn son. You look so
much like your father.”

“Is that why you never look at me?”

She doesn’t look him in the eye. It’s like she’s talking to a ghost, or someone she wishes were
one.

“How are your classes?”

“Cut the crap,” Jimin says sharply. “Tell me what you want. Is it money?”

Her mother takes a deep drag from the cigarette.

“Isn’t it a bit early to have wasted all your salary?”

Gray smoke surrounds her face, shapeless as dreams. The smell pricks his nose, makes him
want to sneeze.

“Did you lend money to Daejung again? You’re never getting it back.”

“He’s family. I’m not lending him anything.”

“He is not family. He’s a leech. A parasite sucking you dry.”

“I lost my job.”

Jimin stares.

“What?”

“I lost my job,” she whispers, eyes still fixed on the countertop ahead. “They fired me this
morning.”

“Wh—how—why?” Jimin leans on the table, tries to catch his mother’s gaze. “What did you
do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” she says, scratching at her left arm. Her thin sweater is worn out and
is at least ten years old, and there’s a hole in the sleeve that she keeps picking at. She doesn’t
flinch when Jimin grabs her arm and pulls up the sleeve.

“You said you wouldn’t do it again.” He chokes on the words, staring in horror at the track
marks on the inside of her elbow. “You said you’d try.”

“It isn’t easy, you know?”

“This is the reason we barely make it each month,” Jimin whispers angrily, pressing down on
the red and yellow bruises on her skin. She flinches, jerks away, the look of a wounded
animal on her face. “Your addiction is the reason I feel my sanity slip away each time I wake
up in the morning. You are aware of what you’re doing to this family, yes? You do know
you’re a fucking burden to us all?”

She’s trembling, or maybe it’s the withdrawal that makes her shiver violently. Jimin doesn’t
care either way.

“I tried,” she whines, a pathetic whimper that sounds fake to Jimin’s ears. His mother has
always been a drama queen, good at pretending, acting. She taught him how to lie, how to
pretend to be someone he’s not. “It’s hard. You don’t understand, you don’t know how it feels
like. It sucks everything from you, it’s—it’s all I think about.”

“Oh, I do know,” Jimin says viciously. “I’ve seen you relapse about a hundred thousand times
since dad left. Since you made him leave.”

“He didn’t want to help me.”

“You didn’t want to be helped.”

She flinches again when he bangs a fist against the table, but it’s a pretense. He sees it. it’s all
fake, fake as the plastic nails on her fingers, fake as her hair color, fake as her personality is
fake when she isn’t in a drug-induced stupor. “You never did. I wish you overdosed when me
and Hyun were children. I wish dad took us with him to Busan.”

“His mistress didn’t like snotty children,” she spits out venomously.

“He didn’t have a mistress.”

She laughs. “What do you know of the world, Jimin? You’re so naïve. Between you and
Hyun, even though he’s younger, you’ve always been the weaker one.”

“Fuck you.”

“You know it’s true. It’s not a bad thing, being weak. You’re like me. You’re weak like me.”

“I am nothing like you.” He looks straight into her eyes, hopes she sees how old his hatred
for her is. “The day I become you is the day I decide to choke on sleeping pills.”

She laughs again, sandpaper voice that grates against Jimin’s ears. “Good luck with that. You
would just wake up in a hospital room with a head-splitting headache.”

He looks at her without hiding his disgust.

“Oh, don’t make that face,” she huffs, nails scratching at her arm again. “Easy for you to look
down on me. Do you know how hard it was to send you to college? Just because you’re
getting an education doesn’t mean you have the right to act all high and mighty all the
fucking time.”

“It’s my scholarship and the money dad left me,” Jimin says. “You didn’t lift a finger. If it
were for you, I’d be unconscious somewhere with a syringe sticking out of my arm.”

“And maybe junkie you wouldn’t have been a pain in the ass.”

She scoffs, blowing a strand of dry hair from her face. Her expression turns from derisive to
serious in the blink of an eye. “Maybe you should try it, you know. You’re always tense,
always scowling. Did I ever tell you about the first time I did heroin?”

Jimin leans back in the chair. He doesn’t have the strength to fight her anymore, exhaustion
finally hitting him like a tsunami. Everything he says bounces off her as if she’s immune to
his every word. It’s always been her superpower—that and being able to avoid death by
overdose.

“No, and I don’t want to know.” But he stays there. His legs feel like lead, his feet hard
concrete. If he threw himself in the Han river tonight, he wonders if he would sink to the
bottom.
“It happened my second year in college, before I dropped out. I was crazy in love with this
guy—oh, he was a wonder. All the girls had a crush on him.” Her eyes glaze over, the
memories stronger than the drugs in her system. “I’d been crushing hard for over a year. And
he was a player, you know? He had slept with so many of my friends, but I was too shy to
approach him. I was always the wallflower at parties.” She giggles. “Then one day, I guess he
just noticed me. I don’t know. He came up to me and asked me if I wanted to join him and his
friend. His friend was one of his many girlfriends, a gorgeous girl who looked like she came
out of a magazine. I said yes. I went upstairs and thought, this is it, he’s going to make love to
me.”

Jimin crosses his arms, presses his lips into a thin line. Unease pools at the back of his throat,
slides down his spine, fills his belly with poison.

“I was so nervous. It was my first time. Just watching them kiss made my stomach flutter. I
thought I was so lucky. So lucky.” She sighs, takes another cigarette. Her face lights up for a
fraction of a second, and for that fraction of a second Jimin sees her as she would have been
back then: pretty, shy, a little anxious. “I craved his touch more than anything else. He asked
me if I wanted to feel good and I said yes. He taught me how to shoot heroine that night.”

You were an idiot, he wants to say. He doesn’t say it. The beginning of the end, before I even
had the chance to begin.

“It was like my mind emptied of any superfluous thought. It felt like the most amazing
feeling in the world. It felt wonderful. It felt like bliss. I had this beautiful man next to me,
completely naked, with whom I’d been in love for over a year, and I didn’t feel a single thing.
I didn’t want him to fuck me. I didn’t want him to kiss me. I just wanted to feel that way
forever.”

Jimin swallows. “Congratulations.”

His mother blinks, her expression falls. She stares at him like she’s seeing him for the first
time, and he stares at the arm hiding the track marks.

“Your dream came true. I hope it kills you one day.”

He leaves his mother sitting at the kitchen table, dim counter light shining unflatteringly on
her hunched figure.

His mind is also empty of any superfluous thought, and he finds it ironic. He goes to bed
without washing the night off his skin.
8.
Seokjin’s office hasn’t changed since the last time Jimin’s been here a few weeks ago. The
only thing that has changed is the weather that he can spy from the big windows at the man’s
back: the sky that had grudgingly given way to the pale blues of autumn is now gray and
pregnant with rain. It’s cold outside, and Jimin shivers in his thin hoodie.

He doesn’t want to be here asking for this. He never imagined he would find himself in this
situation.

“So, what do I owe the pleasure?”

Seokjin looks at him from above his interlocked fingers. His suit and tie are immaculate, as
are the gelled-back hair and perfectly manicured fingernails. Everything about him screams
power and money, but Jimin’s only interested in one of those things.

“I think you know why I’m here.”

“Do I?” Seokjin arches a perfect eyebrow. “But you’re doing just fine. I’ve got a few clients
who adore you.”

“I’m not leaving,” Jimin says. “This is… the opposite.”

Seokjin leans back in his expensive leather chair. “Are you saying you want more work?”

“Yes.” More money.

“Rare or Exotic?”

He swallows thickly. Seokjin watches him with unblinking eyes.

“Can you—can you explain the difference again? Just, just to be sure I got it right the first
time.”

“Sure,” Seokjin says affably. “As you know, Common birdies do the most basic work—
they’re just hosts, nothing else happens, everything is perfectly legal. Rare birds are admitted
to the private rooms upstairs and often work in groups. It’s simple hosting, but taken up a
notch, you see? You need a little more privacy, although there’s limitations to what Rares can
do.

“They basically offer sexual entertainment without penetrative anal sex with the customers.
In no way the customers are allowed to penetrate the hosts. They can ask them to come on
their fingers, use dildos, vibrators or any kind of toys, but the golden rule is—no penetration.
It’s very straightforward, really.”

“So, it’s just—they watch us masturbate?”

“Oh no, they can touch you. Everything that constitutes outercourse is allowed—fellatio, for
example. That’s blowjobs.”

“I know what it is,” Jimin says, miffed. Sweat trickles down his back.

“There you have it. You do basically whatever they ask you to do, except for fucking. That
service is a little more expensive, and it’s the job of an Exotic.”

“So, Exotics do… all the rest,” Jimin says evasively. He wipes the palms of his hands on his
thighs.

“With some regulations, of course,” Seokjin concedes. “But we’d get into the details only if
you tell me you want to make the switch to Exotic.”

“I—how much for Exotic, again?”

Seokjin takes a piece of paper from a notebook and scribbles something. He hands Jimin the
note. His reaction is the same as the first time Seokjin let him know how much Exotic and
Rare earn per session—utter astonishment, mixed with dread.

“I need you to understand something, Jimin.” Seokjin resumes his pose with the interlocked
fingers on the desk, slipping back to a more serious expression. “Here at the Black Bird we
like to offer an immaculate service, the sort of exciting and stimulating experience customers
can’t get anywhere else in the city. We’re not a dingy club with graffitied bathroom stalls and
watered-down cocktails, we’re a luxury host club, and you birdies aren’t cheap whores with
loose assholes who can’t even take a proper shit anymore. You’re pretty, well-mannered,
capable of a certain level of intellectual entertainment if required, capable of performing the
perfect blowjob if also required. Think of yourself as a hetaerae in ancient Greece, or a geisha
in the old Japan Empire. Get it?”

“Yeah,” Jimin rasps, the croaking of a crow. He picks at his lips with his fingers, restrains
himself from peeling off the dead skin. Later.

“You understand I can’t have you work Exotic right away, yes? I need boys with experience.
I need hosts that know what they’re doing. And before you ask, yes I know there’s a prolific
market for virgins and first times,” Seokjin rolls his eyes and Jimin shrinks in his seat; that
was definitely not a thing that he was going to ask and the sole thought makes his skin crawl.
“I’ve dabbled in it before, and after a series of unpleasant experiences I decided to distance
myself from it.”

“So it’s a no?” Jimin asks. Part of him is immensely relieved, and another, hungrier, more
miserable part is left with the bitter taste of disappointment.

“It’s a no—for now. As for Rare…” Seokjin scans him from head to toe, like he’s done
already so many times before. “Jeongguk says you’re a little stiff and that’s to be expected,
you had never worked as a host before. But he also says you’ve got potential, and as I’ve
already mentioned, you’ve made a couple fans.”

“Jeongguk said that?” Jimin says, a little stunned.

“I can maybe see you working as a Rare, but you’d need practice. You gotta build up your
experience, toughen up, develop a thicker skin. You can play it cool when a customer puts a
hand on your leg, but what about when they ask you to suck them off? They want living, hot
flesh, not stone.”

“I can do that,” Jimin says, cringing at how desperate he sounds. Rare is good, excellent
money, he can do with Rare for the moment. He needs to. He must. “I can, I can learn? Tell
me what I have to do and I’ll do it. Do you want me in the private rooms to observe and take
notes? I’ll do it in a heartbeat. I’ll memorize everything and replicate it perfectly.”

Seokjin laughs, a little taken aback. “Is this enthusiasm or desperation, I wonder? Poor little
birdie. What’s made you so desperate for money?” But he doesn’t wait for an answer. “This
isn’t a college lecture, Jimin. You can’t bring your little notebooks and colored pens and sit
quietly in a corner expecting to jot down the five essential points for the perfect orgy. It
doesn’t work this way.”

“Then what do you want me to do?”

“We can give you a little push in the right direction,” Seokjin shrugs, shooting a quick text on
his work cellphone. “But if you want to be good at your job, I heartily recommend practicing
on your own. Go outside, hook up with strangers—or pay a prostitute, whatever tickles your
fancy. Buy a dildo and practice going down on it in front of the mirror.”

“But h-how will I know when I get good at it? How—how long will this take? I need the
money. Bad.” He runs a hand through his hair, exasperated, “Can’t you, I don’t know—put
me at a cheaper rate?”

Seokjin cuts him off with a boisterous laugh. “Sell you for cheap? That’s not what we do. I’m
sorry Jimin, but if you want to work as a Rare I need to know you’ll be good at it. I’m
confident you’ll be a pro in no time, especially with the help of—”

A knock cuts him off, and Jimin has a weird feeling of déjà vu. He puts two and two together
in the split second before Jeongguk’s brunet head pops inside the office.

“You called?”

“I texted,” Seokjin says with a pleased smile. “Jimin, who better than our own little Skylark
to show you how it’s done?”

Jimin can physically feel the blood rushing to his head.

“Excuse me?”

“Gguk, your friend wants to make the switch to Rare. Do you think you could help him out a
little bit?”

Much like their last meeting in Seokjin’s office, Jeongguk gapes at him. Jimin refuses to
make eye contact, fixing his eyes on a smiling Seokjin behind the desk.

“Me? Uh—help him how?”

Seokjin throws his arms in the air, barely holding back an eyeroll.

“You figure it out, you’re one of the best here, no? Show him what you do when you’re
called upstairs. The toys, the teasing, the seducing, that’s the ultimate object, no? To ensnare
them. When you’re in a room with the customers, you’re performing art.”

He leans back in his chair again, drumming his fingers against the desk. He and Jeongguk
look at him, stunned.

“I’ll give you access to one of the private rooms upstairs, Gguk. You can use it after your
shifts to teach him a thing or two. When you think he’s gotten the hang of it, report to me and
I’ll add another birdie to the catalogue. I expect it won’t take long.”

The wink he gives Jimin seals the contract. He wonders whether he’s just made the worst
mistake of his life.
9.
Jeongguk brings him upstairs the very next day.

It’s a Sunday, and there aren’t many customers around. Even rich businessmen and CEOs
work on Monday morning, and Jimin figures they’ve got to dedicate at least one night of the
week to have missionary sex with their wives.

“So. You aren’t booked for the night?” he asks Jeongguk while they’re both in the elevator.
He changed into his normal clothes while Jimin is still wearing the skintight pants he’d been
given for work. They’re so tight he doesn’t think his dick will ever function properly after
tonight.

“Sundays are chill,” Jeongguk answers curtly. He doesn’t look at him, he’s texting someone
on his phone. A strange, claustrophobic feeling overcomes him, and he wishes he were
anywhere else except stuck in this elevator with Jeongguk.

The elevator opens to a wide corridor lined with doors at either sides. The floor is carpeted in
deep burgundy, so their steps don’t make a sound. There’s an eerie silence that presses
fastidiously against Jimin’s eardrums, and he finds himself straining his hearing to catch any
sounds these massive wooden doors could be muffling.

Nothing. Either these rooms are all unoccupied, or they’re soundproofed to a T.

When he steps into the private room Seokjin designated for their private lessons, he’s
instantly impressed by how lavish it is.

A corner of the room is dedicated to a wide selection of wine and stronger spirits. Heavy
drapes cover the huge windows, and the lights overhead cast a warm, suffused glow on the
velvet couches arranged around the coffee table. There’s a few plants, and an enormous TV
screen mounted on the walls. A series of shelves on the far wall are full of sex toys of various
shapes and forms. There’s even a private bathroom. And lot of mirrors.

It sort of looks like a meeting room, but a very bizarre one.

“So. How come you want to switch to Rare?” Jeongguk asks, draping himself on one of the
sofas and putting his feet up on the coffee table. His black combat boots look like they weight
a ton each, no wonder he’s got thighs of literal fucking iron—but he’s derailing. Fuck. His
mind is already going haywire, and they haven’t even started doing whatever Seokjin wants
them to do.

Jimin takes a seat on another sofa, leaving some space between him and Jeongguk. Despite
being in such an airy, spacious room, the claustrophobia is back. He tries to ignore it as best
he can, knows he can get out of the room whenever he wants.

“I need the money.” He feels like he’s said those words a thousand times already. They’re
getting stale.
“That’s a given. Nobody goes to Seokjin because they’re passionate about the job,” Jeongguk
snorts. “What happened that made you change your mind? I’m surprised you asked Jin to
level up.”

Level up. Like in videogames. Common, Rare, Exotic—he realizes the hosts are even given
quality ratings like in mmorpgs, as if they’re some kind of loot. Jimin feels a slightly hysteric
giggle pull at his throat. He smothers it. This isn’t a game, sadly.

“Don’t think I’m good enough?”

“That, and I also don’t think you’d enjoy it much.”

“Cause you do?” Jimin challenges him. “You like being a prostitute?”

Jeongguk fixes him with eyes as cold as ice.

“I’m sorry, a high-end prostitute.”

“I don’t like being anything. I like the money.”

“I like the money too,” Jimin says, crossing his arms. His death glare makes Jeongguk desist
from questioning him further.

“Aright. First, a couple questions,” Jeongguk says, slipping into a more pragmatic tone of
voice.

“More questions?”

“You’ve never had sex before, correct?”

“You already know the answer.”

“What experience do you have?”

Jimin looks at him with a scowl. He knows he’s not doing a very good job at stopping the
blush he feels spreading on his face. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve clearly kissed someone before, yes? Was Taehyung your first?”

“Of course not,” Jimin says, scoffing. “I’ve been kissed before. I had—” a boyfriend, he
wants to say, but then again, the two-weeks relationship he had in high school doesn’t really
count as a real relationship. It was more like something that could’ve developed into
something else, had Jimin not freaked out at the slightest touch.

“You had… ?” Jeongguk leans forward slightly, eyebrows raised.

“Nothing,” Jimin mumbles. “… That’s it. Just kissing.”

Jeongguk nods as if he expected it. Jimin feels like he’s in a very weird, very unprofessional
therapy session with a doctor that a) intimidates him to high heaven, b) is ready to pounce on
him at any second. He thinks he knows what Seokjin meant when he asked Jeongguk to show
him how it’s done, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“So, you’ve never been touched before.”

“No.”

“Do you think you’d like it?”

Jimin tilts his head to the side, narrows his eyes. “Being touched by the customers? No. I’d
hate it. I think everyone here hates it.”

“Not the customers. Imagine it’s someone else. Someone closer to your age, someone you
actually like.”

Jimin stares at him, disoriented. “Like in a normal relationship? Then I—yes. I—I think so.
Yes?”

“A normal relationship doesn’t necessarily involve sex. Are you asexual?”

Jimin sits back, stunned. Now this has taken a completely different turn.

“I don’t think so. I thought I might be, years back, but I don’t think I fit the… criteria?” Jimin
says slowly, pulling his sleeves over his hands. “I’m attracted to people. I want—” He stops.

“You want… ?” Jeongguk trails after him, a neutral expression on his face.

“I want to be touched,” Jimin concedes. “Sometimes. When I’m with someone I trust.”

“And then what happens?”

Jimin feels himself tense up. It’s like his body turns to stone, and his thoughts take on the
texture of cotton.

He chuckles nervously. “Is this a therapy session?” He tries to play down the tense
atmosphere he feels weighing him down, down, down.

“I’m trying to understand you, Jimin. If I am to help you, I want to know your limits. No
matter how badly you need the money, if I see that you’re not fit for the job—” Jeongguk
shrugs. “I won’t tell Seokjin you’re ready.”

Jimin clenches his jaw, fingers flying to his bottom lip. He picks at the dead skin, it hurts, it
burns, and his fingertips come off stained with blood.

“I’ll show you I can do it.”

“Then answer my question.”

“I lock up,” Jimin finally snaps. “I don’t know if it’s a mental or physical thing. Maybe it’s
nerves.”
“Okay,” Jeongguk says. “What happens when you masturbate?”

Jimin looks everywhere in the room but at him, but feels Jeongguk’s heavy stare on him like
a boulder.

“Well?” Jeongguk pushes him. “It’s a simple question. You know you’ll be asked to touch
yourself a lot, right? That’s familiar territory, you’ll just have to put on a show for them. I can
help with that.”

Jimin shakes his head, a sudden wave of mortification sneaking up on him. “I don’t know
how to explain this, but I don’t—” he takes a big breath, counts to five. He can’t believe he’s
having this conversation with Jeon Jeongguk of all people. “I don’t masturbate… a lot.”

“That’s okay.” Jeongguk doesn’t seem fazed. “But you still do it?”

“No, I mean… it’s hard for me to touch myself,” he finally explains, and it’s such a painful
admission he almost feels like he wants to cry. “Has always been? Since I was a child. I don’t
masturbate often, and when I do, it’s not… I don’t do it normally.”

Jeongguk sits still for a while, his face a mask of composure. Jimin startles a bit when he sets
his feet down abruptly and leans forward, hands clasped between his knees.

“What’s normal masturbation?” he asks with a steady voice, a clinical voice. He’s asking him
the way a doctor would ask, where does it hurt? Except it hurts everywhere, and Jimin’s
particularly ashamed of this hurt.

“Y-you know, you stroke yourself until you come.” Jimin pulls his bottom lip in his mouth,
sucks the blood off. Bitter like his next words. “I can’t do that.”

“You can’t?” Jeongguk asks. “Have you tried?”

“Yes. I mean, I’ve done it a few times, but it doesn’t feel—I mean it feels good, but there’s
something in the act that just makes me feel…” Makes him think of other things, like that
time he was nine and walked on his stepfather pulling at his cock; makes him think that he’ll
grow up doing the exact same things as Daejung and like it, even—and the prospect of
enjoying sex or his sexuality with the same depravity his stepfather enjoys it repels him.

“It’s just some—mental bullshit I have. Like a block. I’m not saying I’m uncomfortable in
my body to the point I wish I were born differently though, I—I never thought that. Does it
make sense? I don’t know if it makes sense. I’m sorry, I’m treating you like you’re my
therapist and this is totally fucked up—”

He gets up, slightly panicked, eyeing the door. Jeongguk puts a hand over his and says,

“It’s not fucked up. Stay.”

It isn’t an order, he doesn’t say it with the sort of authoritativeness that Jimin’s used to hear
from him when they’re at rehearsal. It’s soft, almost like a plead, a gentle plead. Stay. So he
sits back down, bewildered, pulling the sleeve over the hand Jeongguk touched. It’s like the
brush of his fingers jolted him awake. Do you like being touched?
“So, you don’t masturbate the way most men do usually. That’s okay. How do you do it
usually?”

“Is it important?”

“Say a customer tells you to come on your fingers. Have you ever done it before? How many
fingers can you take? Do you know how to stretch yourself open without hurting yourself?
All a customer wants is to get off with a nice performance. What he doesn’t want to see is the
face of somebody who’s in pain or uncomfortable while doing it. Not exactly arousing—
unless they’re into that kinda thing, I guess.”

Jimin shakes his head. “No fingers.”

“No fingers,” Jeongguk says slowly. “I assume you’ve never used any toys?”

He shakes his head again.

“Okay.” Jeongguk draws a long sigh, leans back against the sofa. He rubs his face with both
hands, a little tiredly. “I’m not gonna lie—this will be hard. Are you sure you want to do this?
The customers will have a lot of requests for you.”

“I don’t know of any other job that could get me this much money so quickly,” Jimin says,
steeling himself.

“Is that a yes?”

“Isn’t it?”

“I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Jeongguk says. “Now get up and strip.”

Jimin gapes. He must have heard wrong. Auditory hallucinations, it happens sometimes.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Strip, take off your clothes. I need to see you naked.”

He blushes so hard his face feels like it’s on fire. “Why?”

“Seokjin hasn’t checked you yet, right? This means it falls on me to make sure you don’t
have any birth defects—you know, the usual. A micropenis, extra nipples, a gaping vagina on
the left asscheek…”

“W-what the fuck?” Jimin stutters. “You do this with everyone?”

“You think this is an elaborate scheme to get you naked? And then what?” Jeongguk asks,
raising an eyebrow.
His blush deepens.

“Strip.”

He gets up without another complaint. He understands the need to check the merchandise—
you gotta make sure the customers get exactly what they ask for. But it’s still weird as fuck.
And embarrassing.

The first thing he does is toe out of his sneakers. He kicks them to the side, ashamed of how
worn they look. They’re the opposite of Jeongguk’s expensive boots. You can see years of
dirt and grime stuck on the soles, gathering in the tiny interstices between the seams.

And there’s a hole in his socks, of course.

“Socks off.”

He pulls those off too, feels the carpeted floor beneath his feet. It’s warm and soft. He shrugs
off his hoodie, then the t-shirt he’s wearing underneath. He shivers even though the room is
warm, balls the clothes in his hands before throwing them on the sofa. He wants to say, as
you can see, no extra nipples. But the sarcasm dies in his throat when he hooks his thumbs
over the hem of his jeans.

“Are you doing a strip-tease?” Jeongguk barely holds back an eyeroll. “We don’t have all
night.”

Jimin grits his teeth and shoves down his pants. His underwear follow seconds later—he
figures it’s better if he does it quickly and without giving it much thought, like ripping off a
band-aid. Quick and painless.

He stands there, completely naked, cold as stone. He balls his hands into fists against his
sides and waits for the brunet to say anything. He doesn’t look at Jeongguk. He stares at the
bar at the host’s back, at the rows of expensive liquor bottles. He especially avoids looking at
the mirrors.

Jeongguk gets up, walks closer. Jimin instantly stiffens, the impulse to cover himself with his
hands stronger than ever. He digs his fingernails into the flesh of his palms, bites on his lip.
He assumes he’s the color of fresh tomatoes by now, considering how hot he feels his face
burning. Jeongguk walks around him, keeping a distance, assessing, but doesn’t touch or
comment on anything.

“You can put your clothes back on.”

Jimin dresses up quickly, almost furiously. Then he slows down when he thinks he probably
looks like an idiot. He isn’t certainly giving the impression he’s ready for any of this if he
shows how eager he is to put his clothes back on.

“You’re a little on the skinny side, but not to the point it’s unpleasant to look at.”

“Thank you?” Is that a compliment?

“Expect a lot of groping, a little bruising even. It won’t be easy for some customers to accept
the simple fact that your ass isn’t for sale, but remember to never, in any case whatsoever,
accept the extra money they’ll try to offer you for a little clandestine ride. If you do and
something bad happens, the club can’t protect you. And if you do and nothing bad happens
but Seokjin finds out, well—then something bad will happen for sure. Got it?”

By this point Jimin thinks the skin on his face will simply burn away, and he’ll be left with
nothing but muscles and bones, and then nobody will request him ever again—no matter how
hot his ass looks in tight pants.

“Yeah, got it.”

“Good. They can’t fuck you, always remember that. If anyone tries to finger you or put
anything in your ass, you remind them this isn’t what they’re paying for. if they keep at it,
you get the fuck out.”

“Has it happened before?” Jimin asks, worried. “Has anyone ever… fled from a room?”

Jeongguk waits a beat before answering. “Not often. We’ve got surveillance cameras.” He
points to a corner of the room. “Security intervenes if they see something’s wrong.”

“Oh,” Jimin says, looking directly at the tiny camera in the corner. Knowing he will be
watched by someone else he can’t see – and even recorded, maybe? – doesn’t help in making
him feel comfortable, but it’s at least some sort of guarantee the customers will behave.

“Plus, if they try anything they’ll be automatically banned from entering the Bird again. And
they don’t want that. And we don’t want that, too, so don’t make them think they can fuck
you. We don’t want to lose customers, we want them to possibly fall in love with you so they
keep coming for more.”

The look he gives Jeongguk is one of utter disorientation.

“I’m joking. But hey, customers who end up crushing on a host really do pay the bills. Just
saying.”

“Do you have one?” Jimin asks suddenly. “A customer who’s in love with you?”

Jeongguk snorts. “I wouldn’t call it love. There have been infatuations, yes. They’re always
fun.”

“If you say so.”

Jeongguk glances at the watch on his wrist. It’s one of those big, expensive ones, and Jimin
wonders whether it’s something he’s bought with his money or a gift from past – or current –
admirers.

“It’s not super late, but we’ve both got class tomorrow morning. Do you want to start your
little training tonight or another time? Your choice.”
 Jimin knows he should say tonight, knows he should appear eager to learn everything he can
in the shortest time possible. At the same time he’s feeling utterly exhausted, and wants to do
nothing more than go home and find out if people can drown themselves in the shower.

“Do you mind if we do this another day? I’m beat.”

He needs at least a few business days to recover from what he’s revealed to Jeongguk—both
with words and in a more literal way. He has no clue how he’s going to face Jeongguk from
now on.

“As you wish,” Jeongguk says, getting up with a knowing smirk. “I’ll let you know when I’m
free.”

Chapter End Notes

in this house we're very fast paced cause i dont want to linger on useless gross host club
scenes
 Chapter 3
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
1.
The first time his father took him to the theater, Jimin was eight.

By then he’d already left his mother to her own devices and built a new life in Busan, the city
he always held dear to his heart. He’d never lost his Gyeongsang cadence, and whenever he
was tired or angry he slipped further into it. Jimin liked it. Sometimes his father would speak
in satoori on purpose, a heavier, exaggerated version of it, just to make him laugh. He really
liked to hear his father talk. His voice felt like a rich, velvety red, the edges bleeding into
warm burgundy. Considering the annoyed look in his mother’s face every time she listened to
his dad talk during the last months of their crumbling marriage, she probably didn’t like it
much. Perhaps she didn’t like the color red, or perhaps she saw a different color she disliked
among her husband’s words. Her lips were constantly pressed into a thin, surly line, and
she’d cross her arms and tell his husband to speak properly.

Once, at bedtime, he remembers his father telling him that she had loved the way he talked.
That was another time, he’d said, a time when we were both falling in love. They talked a
little about love, that night. Jimin was too young to understand it, he didn’t like the feel of it,
or the way the word rolled off his tongue when he tried to speak it into existence. Love. That
was an emotion for girls. His father had frowned and flicked him on the forehead. It’s not,
he’d said. Only weak boys don’t feel love. You don’t wanna grow up weak, do you?

He figured he did feel love sometimes—he loved his father, that much he knew. He loved his
little brother. He loved his mother, even though she hurt him sometimes. He knew who he
didn’t love. Her boyfriend. He kept that thought to himself though, because he was afraid his
father would think him weak if he didn’t love everyone in his life.

When you fall in love with someone, you also fall in love with their little quirks, he’d told
Jimin that night. Sometimes when you grow out of love, you realize those same quirks drive
you crazy.

He remembers thinking, That’s weird. If you love something about someone, you love it
forever. Right? Isn’t love an everlasting feeling you get when you’re a little bit older, a
grown-up, and then you hold onto that person you chose for yourself until the day you die?
That’s what comic books and cartoons taught him. And that’s what confused him the most.
Did his parents never love each other? Was he born out of like and not love? It mortified him.
All the other children in his class were born out of love. He didn’t feel that same love in the
air when his father ringed the doorbell to surprise him, and his mother flung potted plants and
cutlery and whatever else she found around at him to make him go away. Her yells resonated
throughout the whole apartment complex. A banshee, gone mad with scorn and hate. Their
neighbors always popped their heads out to frown at the scene. The glances they aimed at
Jimin though, those were different. Softer. Something behind their eyes he couldn’t quite
place. Perhaps he didn’t know the word for it yet.

Back then, his father still cared enough to visit his sons once in a while. He rented a room in
a nearby goshiwon and took Jimin out on the weekend—sometimes Jihyun too, but his
brother had always been a little mama’s boy as a toddler and would always burst into
uncontrollable crying when his mother wasn’t around for long. So, more often than not, it
would be just Jimin and his father, and he preferred it that way. He loved his little brother, but
he knew he loved his father more. And when you’re an eight-year-old boy who misses his
father to the moon and back, you’re allowed to be selfish.

His little visits were always unscheduled. His father showed up at their door uninvited,
unexpected, and Jimin was on cloud nine every time. The same could not be said about his
mother. If Daejung was there, he proceeded to restrain her and force her to behave. If he was
away for work, there was no one around to contain her rage. It exploded like a nail bomb, the
shrapnel hitting whoever was unlucky enough to be around her—meaning him, his brother,
and his father. His mother had always had a talent for the theatrics. Jimin figured it was only
fitting.

One night, his father brought him to watch a play in Myeongdong Theater. Jimin had seen the
building in passing before. It was different from all the other buildings around, from the
skyscrapers in the distance and the colorful cosmetic shops dotting the street. He thought that
it looked nice, if a bit peculiar—he also remembers thinking that he was underdressed for the
occasion, and that only rich people who dressed in suits could step inside. But his father had
already bought two tickets, and nobody had complained about their casual attire. That was
when Jimin learned theater was for everyone.

He doesn’t remember what the play was about anymore. He remembers whining like a little
spoiled kid, balling his tiny hands into angry little fists and trying to drag his father to the
other side of the street because he had no intention to sit still for an hour to watch some silly
play. It wasn’t even a movie, he would have to watch real people pretend to be fake people,
and what was the point of that? His father had pointed out that movie actors did the same
thing, and that had shut him up. He hadn’t thought about that. Of course he knew movies
weren’t real, but somehow, deep inside his heart, he’d hoped they were.

So he swallowed back his stubbornness and followed his dad inside because he wanted to
show his dad he was a good boy, and maybe if he was enough of a good boy his father
wouldn’t wait four whole months to visit again.

He sat next to his dad, quietly, legs swinging and hands placed under his thighs. They were
seated in the gallery, and his dad had asked the staff for a couple of pillows, so that Jimin
could sit higher up in his chair and have a better view of the stage.

It started slow.

His interest had been an unlit candle, cold and hard, drops of wax frozen mid-fall on the
sides. He’d let his eyes sweep down toward the seating area, or wander through the people
sitting in the gallery opposite him. He remembers finding the audience more interesting than
the play at first. But then it changed.

The candle lit, a lukewarm flame too fickle and small to cast a big enough shadow over his
distractions. He’d kept swinging his feet, swaying slightly on his seat until his dad stopped
him with a hand on his arm. A warning. Watch the play, his eyes had said. It wasn’t an order
—more like a stern invite. I’m a good boy, Jimin had thought. He sat completely still and
fixed his eyes on the people on the stage.

He doesn’t know when, exactly, the candle fell and rolled over and gave life to an inferno—
but it happened, nonetheless. Jimin sat there, enraptured by the story, the twists and turns of
the plot, the emotions depicted in the actors’ faces, conveyed by an eccentric body language
that was just the slightest bit exaggerated to be a hundred percent realistic, but felt so natural
on that stage.

It took his breath away. And he remembers thinking, One day I want to knock the breath out
of people’s chests too.

Be the wind that carries sparks and embers to a faraway place, and light it on fire.
2.
“Why don’t you wanna give me a straight answer? I’m only asking for a detailed retelling of
how it is to kiss the Kim Taehyung.”

“Keep your voice down,” Jimin hisses. “God, Hoseok, I swear they’ll ban you from the
library one day.”

Shelving books in alphabetical order gets really complicated with Hoseok trying to extract
information on Taehyung. Mrs. Lee, the librarian, is already giving them dirty looks. Jimin
has a not-so-secret theory that she hates Hoseok’s guts and is looking for a reason to fire him,
so his friend wouldn’t have a reason to visit again. And he’d gladly resign himself, if not for
the fact that he’s not sure Jeongguk will give him permission to earn the extra money he
needs to live. Fucker.

“I already told you, it’s like kissing anybody else.”

“But I don’t believe it,” Hoseok whines. “How can it be? He’s otherworldly handsome.
People like him just kiss differently. Bet they fuck differently too.”

“For a straight guy, you are insanely obsessed with Kim Taehyung.”

“I’m not having this discussion again. I’ve already told you I’m just exceptionally perceptive
to objective, unbiased beauty.”

“Lots of fancy words just to say you’re gay as fuck.”

He scoffs. “If I were gay I’d be dating the hell out of you, Jimin. Why aren’t you hanging off
the arm of an Adonis already?”

“Don’t change the topic,” Jimin says, stacking books on the shelves.

“Maybe next time I should take you to the Black Bird instead of the Golden Peony.”

The book in Jimin’s hand falls flat to the ground with a loud smack. Mrs. Lee glowers at
them, her bushy black eyebrows bunched in a scowl.

“Stop talking nonsense,” Jimin mumbles, glaring at a giggling Hoseok. “Why would you
even go there.”

“If you’re not in the mood for girls, we can try some pretty boys.”

“Just say you wanna go cause you’re curious.”

“I’m curious to know if I can find your true love there.”

“My true love isn’t a prostitute. I’d like someone with a little more class,” Jimin huffs, well
aware of his own hypocrisy.
“Hey, don’t judge a book by its cover. Most of them are probably decent guys with a hard life
and a golden heart.”

“They can’t date their customers, you know that, yes? It’s against the rules.”

Hoseok chuckles. “Why, you seem to know a lot already. Checked their website?”

“It’s your standard host club rule.”

“If you won’t let me find a nice partner for you, at least try to hook up with someone hot in
your theater club. Like, I don’t know—Jeongguk’s a good-looking guy, isn’t he?”

The string of half-sputtered words that comes out of Jimin’s mouth makes him look like his
brain has short-circuited, which is sort of the truth.

“Y-you go out with him if you like him so much!”

“He’s not my type, too intellectual and pretentious for me.”

Jimin scoffs. “Oh, you know me so well. That’s exactly what I like in a man.”

“You like pretentious men?”

A voice drifts from behind him, and Jimin nearly jumps out of his skin. He slams his elbow
against the shelves at his side, and winces as Jeongguk looks him over and continues, “Guess
opposites don’t attract in your case.”

“Are you saying I’m prete—”

“Gguk, what’s up? We were just talking about you.”

“No we weren’t.”

“I’d love to come watch you guys rehearse one of these days. Are visitors allowed?”

Jeongguk smiles. “Not usually, but if you’re willing to sign an NDA I don’t see why not. I’m
joking, you can come.”

“Nice.”

“What’re you doing here?” Jimin asks, eyeing him suspiciously. They’re in the History
library, he’s never seen Jeongguk or his friends in here since the Lit Majors have their own
library in the Literature building. Plus, he hoped he could get a break from Jeon Jeongguk for
at least a couple days.

“Why, am I not allowed to see you outside work?”

“Work?” Jimin panics, glancing at Hoseok.

“Work, club, rehearsals. The play is kinda like a job, don’t you think?”
Motherfucker. “If you say so.”

“I came to remind you we have an extra meeting tonight, to discuss some scenes you have
with Taehyung? Remember, those we talked about last night?”

Jimin blinks a couple times. “What scenes? You didn’t mention anything last night—oh.”

Jeongguk drums his fingers on a bookshelf, amused. “You said you were in dire need of help.
I’m free to help you tonight.”

“Which scenes? Why do you need help?” Hoseok’s eyes bounce from Jimin to Jeongguk to
Jimin again. “Can I watch?”

Jeongguk doesn’t even try to hide how much the entire situation amuses him.

“What do you think, Jimin—can he watch?”

He feels the mighty need to slap Jeongguk in the face with the hard-cover copy of Korea’s
Place in The Sun—A Modern History he’s got in his hands. 600 pages of bloody history
smashing Jeongguk’s nose in, now that would give Jimin some satisfaction.

“No.”

“Why not? Gguk said I could watch.”

“Keep your voice down. There’s nothing to watch tonight, we’ll just talk about boring stuff.”

“Oh, we’ll definitely do more than just talking,” Jeongguk says.

“So you are rehearsing?” Hoseok asks, hopeful, at the same time as Jimin spits out a horrified
“W-what?”

Jeongguk smiles indulgently. “Relax. I’ll just give you some pointers. You’ll be fine as long
as you do as I say.”

“What’s wrong with Minie’s acting?” Hoseok asks, frowning. “He’s great, I bet he doesn’t
need any pointers.”

“He’s a—diamond in the rough,” Jeongguk concedes, tilting his head to the side. “Needs
some polishing.”

“And since when are you an acting instructor?”

“I’m not. But Jimin felt he wasn’t doing justice to the character I wrote, so he came to me
asking for help. Right, Jimin?”

The gall of this fucking brat.

“Yes.” His teeth are going to wear out if he keeps grinding them.

Hoseok frowns. “Oh. I thought your pride didn’t let you ask for help, Jimin.”
“Character development,” he growls.

Hoseok laughs and smacks his back, the sound like a whip in the silence of the library. Mrs.
Lee is probably fantasizing of dragging them out by the ears like she’s an elementary school
teacher and them a couple of hyperactive children.

“I’ll see you tonight at the usual place, alright? Be on time, and, uh—” Jeongguk’s eyes scan
him from head to toe, “—try to lose all this tension, okay? Do some stretching, go for a run.
Relax a little.”

He turns to take his leave. Jimin watches him exit the library with his cheeks aflame.

“He really cares about his character, uh? He looks very dedicated to the play.”

“Yeah,” Jimin mutters. “He really cares.”

He’d hoped to have a few Jeongguk-free days before their next session, but it seems the
universe doesn’t like to keep him idle.
3.
When Jimin arrives at the Black Bird that night, he finds Jeongguk waiting for him in the
lounge, his expensive streetwear clothes clashing starkly with the sumptuous lavishness of
the place.

“You’re five minutes late.”

“There was traffic.”

“I’m doing this in my free time.”

“I couldn’t tell the bus driver to drive faster.”

Jeongguk sighs, leading him to the elevators. The wrought-iron doors slide open with a rattle,
then the sleek elevator doors open to an empty stall.

“Why did you want to meet on a Monday?” Jimin huffs. “Neither of us work Mondays.”

“Do you prefer to have these little lessons after a nice, intense shift?” Jeongguk asks him
with a quirk of his brow. “Perhaps the lingering feeling of a dozen or so hands on you would
make the experience feel a tad more authentic.”

This shuts him up, and Jimin scowls at his reflection in the elevator’s mirror. Standing next to
Jeongguk with his ratty sweater, worn-out blue jeans and the fluorescent light casting an
unflattering glow on his face, he looks like a ghost—a poor, miserable ghost with bags under
his eyes and lips swollen and bloody. He picked at them for the whole duration of the bus trip
here, and now it looks like he’s been in a fight—or worse, that he’s got herpes. Yikes.

He catches Jeongguk staring at him from the mirror, probably thinking the same thing—how
the fuck could Seokjin allow such a disaster to host at the Bird? – but he averts his eyes and
stares down at his feet, refusing to think of the answer or about what awaits him in the private
room. If he had the ability to switch off emotions and thoughts, he wouldn’t think twice about
using it now.

Out in the hallway, Jeongguk opens the door with a card and enters first, leaving Jimin to
hesitate at the doorway. He drapes himself on the same sofa he sat on the previous night, and
looks at Jimin with raised eyebrows.

“Contemplating running away?” he asks. “Don’t need the money that badly after all?”

Jimin steps inside, shutting the door behind him. It closes with a soft click and a whirring of
mechanisms that suggests nobody is going to be able to open the door from the outside. But
he could, he could open it again and walk away, leave Jeongguk with his little mocking smile
and the satisfaction of being right—not about Jimin not needing the money, but about Jimin
not having the balls for this job.

He heaves a long sigh as he drops on one of the other sofas.

“So, what now?”

“Now we have fun.”

Jimin stares. “Fun?”

“Well, it would be considered fun for most people. Guess it’s not for me and you.”

He scoffs. “You’re telling me that watching me struggle doesn’t amuse you?”

“I wonder sometimes, do you think of me as some kind of nightmarish, Lovecraftian

monster?”

“That would mean I think very highly of you.”

“So what am I, just a random heartless guy?”

“Disappointed you don’t have your very own Wikipedia page?” Jimin asks, smiling a little
despite himself.

“It’s a blow to my self-esteem.”

Jeongguk smiles back. They stare at each other for a few more seconds, the tension between
them giving way a little. Curiously, Jimin finds he can breathe a bit easier now.

“Alright, let’s begin. Lesson number one: handjobs.”

“Riveting,” Jimin murmurs.

Jeongguk walks up to the colorful sex toy collection sitting on the shelves. His fingers dance
above the countless dildos and vibrators and god-knows-what other sex toys that borderline-
look like torture instruments. Jimin feels his stomach knot up.

“I have a question.”

“I love questions.”

“Will there be… ” he swallows hard, “… BDSM involved?”

Jeongguk doesn’t turn, but Jimin hears him chuckle lightly. He finally settles for one of the
more realistic-looking dildos.

“That’s for the Exotics, so you won’t need to worry about it for now.”

“So you do it?” Jimin blurts out, immediately regretting it. Jeongguk doesn’t seem to mind
the question. He sits back down with the dildo in his hands and says, “Not everyone does it.
You gotta give your consent, sign a fuckload of documents. There’s a lot more rules.”

“Oh. I guess it makes sense,” Jimin hums. He eyes the dildo with growing apprehension. His
hands are already starting to get clammy, and he wipes them discreetly against the fabric of
his jeans.
Jeongguk clears his throat and adopts a more business-like approach. “Let’s start with a very
basic human anatomy lesson. Do you know which are a penis’ most sensitive areas?”

Oh God this is so weird.

“Uh,” Jimin mumbles dumbly. “Isn’t it an erogenous zone per se already?”

“Yes, but as a Black Bird host, you’re expected to know how to handle a cock with a certain
finesse.” Jeongguk rolls his eyes. “You don’t mindlessly tug it until it ejaculates.”

“You don’t?”

“I’d normally ask you to show me how you touch yourself, but since you don’t usually do it,
I don’t expect you’re any good at it.”

It’s very weird to listen to Jeongguk explain the proper hand job technique as if it’s just a
topic like any other. Surreal. He sits there on the velvet couch, staring dazedly at Jeongguk as
he talks and points to different parts on the dildo. Is this real? Is this a nightmare?

“—so, the first thing you want to pay attention to is the pressure. When you fuck someone—
male or female—it feels good cause of the pressure and friction. When you’re giving a hand
job to a customer, try to remember that to them, it should feel like they’re fucking you,
alright? Like if they closed their eyes, there’d be no difference between fucking someone and
the feel of your hand jerking them off.”

Jeongguk stops and looks at him, waiting for a nod or any other sign that tells him Jimin’s
listening. Instead he gets a weirded-out stare that almost pulls another eyeroll out of him.

“It’s simple, really. Start stroking up and down the shaft with you hand—” he mimics the
motion on the dildo, “Start slow, with a little teasing, a lot of eye contact. Then find out if
they like it rough or slow, and follow the rhythm. Don’t just tug at it carelessly, twist your
hands, pay attention to the head and slit—” he replicates everything he says on the dildo in
his hands, and Jimin looks on, half horrified and half nauseated and half strangely aroused,
“and don’t forget to play with their balls, cause that’s always fun. Squeeze them, stroke them,
suck on them—anything’s good, really. If they like edging, you squeeze the tip to delay their
orgasm, otherwise just keep going. As the customer reaches climax, add a little more pressure
around the head, like this.” He shows him how on the dildo’s cockhead, his fingers moving
with practiced ease, almost effortlessly graceful, “and make them come. They’ll most likely
wanna come on your face, so keep your mouth open wide and remember to swallow.”

“W—what?”

“Swallow,” Jeongguk repeats slowly, “They don’t like it when you spit. Don’t pretend to
swallow and then spit in the toilet—I mean, you could try, but most customers can tell. Some
don’t like it if you lie.”

Jimin takes a big breath, exhales slowly. “That’s a lot of information all at once.”
“It’s just the beginning. Don’t worry, I’ll make you practice a little,” Jeongguk says, waving
the dildo around in a way that would be comical, but Jimin’s too wound-up to laugh. “We’ll
also work on how to hide that horrified expression on your face, and turn it into something
more—inviting.”

He immediately schools his expression into something more neutral, and Jeongguk laughs.

“Not exactly what I had in mind, but better.”

Jimin shifts slightly, trying not to think of the tightness in his pants. He isn’t fully hard, but
something stirred for sure. Should Jeongguk stroking a plastic cock make him feel like this?
He figures it’s a normal reaction. It’s not like he’s completely unattuned to his body’s needs.

“You try it.”

Jeongguk hands him the dildo. Jimin takes it hesitantly. It feels alien in his hands, and knows
he probably looks dumb as fuck—like someone who’s never seen a dick in his life. He
expects Jeongguk to crack a wise-ass joke like, what, never had a cock in your hands? Do
you pee sitting down like a girl?

But Jeongguk doesn’t say anything. He just watches him handle the dildo like it’s a
biohazard.

“Uhm. I’m sorry, this—I feel so fucking silly.”

“Aw, don’t worry. You won’t feel silly the day a customer slaps your face with his dick.”

“I can’t take any of this seriously,” Jimin huffs, staring down at the dildo. It’s uncannily
realistic—the shape, the curvature, the head, and it’s making him freak out a little.

“Well. If you don’t feel comfortable practicing on a dildo, I can think of something else we
can use,” Jeongguk says, cocking an eyebrow. “Yours or mine?”

“What the fuck?” Jimin sputters, blushing violently.

“Don’t feel silly anymore, do you?”

Jimin scoffs, clutches the dildo tightly in his hands. His heart is racing wildly. Was Jeongguk
joking? He hopes he was joking.

“Do I use lube?” he asks instead, jaw clenching. He can do this. He isn’t a complete newbie
to handjobs, even though it isn’t something he does often. He still remembers what he liked
and what felt weird, and he figures he can replicate the motions on this silicone cock without
issue.

“Unless they have a preference, do what you like. There’s always lube in the room, or you
can choose to spice things up a little and lube them up with their precome, or yours, or
whatever the fuck you can think about. Or you can do what I do, and just use spit.”
That little tidbit of personal information sends a heatwave sweeping across Jimin’s face.
Jeongguk likes to use his spit? Holy mother of God.

“Oh, uhm. Spit. Okay.” He swallows the excess saliva in his mouth. “Is that a good enough
lubricant?”

“It’s certainly not as efficient as water-based or silicone-based lube, but it does the job. Less
slippery, but it’s hot.”

Does Jeongguk find it hot, or is it an objective statement? And why is he fixating on this
detail? Move the fuck on. Make this dildo come.

He gulps. Holds the dildo tighter. This is so stupid, stupid, stupid. How hard can it be to give
a satisfactory handjob? Why does he need these idiotic lessons? Why the fuck did he choose
to join the ranks of Kim Seokjin’s birds? His thoughts are spiraling, the sweat on his back
freezes over. This is so, so stupid.

He looks at Jeongguk from under lidded eyes.

“Do I spit on it?”

Jeongguk shifts slightly on the sofa, shrugs, stares him back. “Do whatever.”

He doesn’t know why he does it, but he spits on his hand anyway. He figures that since he’s
got to take this seriously, it’s best if he commits to the whole thing. Show Jeongguk how
serious he is to make Rare.

It starts out awkwardly, of course. He feels silly again, feels clumsy and dumb. He tries to
focus less on Jeongguk’s heavy stare on him, and more on what Jeongguk told him minutes
before. Start slow, tease, find a rhythm. He spits again, figuring the slide would start to dry
soon on a real cock. He wonders how polished Jeongguk’s technique is. He strokes up and
down, twists at the tip. Wonders if Jeongguk likes to tease his clients mercilessly or if he
gives them everything they want when they want it. Up and down, up and down, then spits
again. This time he looks at Jeongguk when he does, and finds him staring at him with darker
eyes. He wants to ask him if he’s doing a good job, he wants to run straight to the toilet and
hyperventilate for ten minutes.

“Stop,” Jeongguk says abruptly. “You look like you’re doing a chore.”

“Well, it’s hard,” Jimin says defensively.

“Trust me, if that dildo was hard it would have gone flaccid in a heartbeat,” Jeongguk says
without missing a beat. “Give it to me.”

He clutches the dildo between his thighs and starts working it like—well, like giving
handjobs is his job. Jeongguk’s whole demeanor changes whenever he gives his
demonstrations, his stare gets more piercing and his eyes turn matte black. He looks like he’s
enjoying it, and Jimin is nearly jealous.
“This is how you’re supposed to do it,” he says, throwing the dildo on Jimin’s lap again. He
wipes his fingers on the sofa, and only then Jimin realizes that the dildo was still slick with
his spit. The thought makes him feel funny.

“It’s really not that hard. You can keep the dildo and practice at home, and I suggest you do it
in front of a mirror. Check your expressions, you gotta work on those. Nobody wants to get a
handjob from a person that looks disgusted out of his mind. And trust me, it’s going to be
harder with a real dick in your hands.”

“I know,” Jimin pouts. “I can do it. It’s just—this feels a little weird, you know?”

“Oh, it’s gonna feel real in a couple more sessions. I just thought we’d start slow.”

Jimin’s heart leaps to his throat, and he huffs out a nervous chuckle. “What do you mean?”

Jeongguk looks slightly amused. “Don’t worry, you won’t be touching me.”

“That’s not what I was thinking.”

Jeongguk crosses his legs and nods toward the dildo, discarded on the sofa.

“You have fifteen minutes to give that dildo the best handjob of its life, and to convince me
you’re enjoying it.” He stares at Jimin long and hard, every trace of hilarity gone. A shiver
snakes down Jimin’s spine. “Get on it.”
4.
“Jimin! Hey, Jimin! Min!”

“—and, uh—so yeah, I think when the seneschal enters the stage to whisper in the King’s ear
—”

“Jimin! Hey!”

“—maybe we should look a little more worried? Like, we could exchange a glance, or—”

“Jimin, is that your friend?” Taehyung interrupts him, eyebrows raised. “I think he’s trying to
get your attention.”

Jimin sighs, turns around, waves at Hoseok with the hand holding the script. Hoseok is
beaming at him from the second row, where he sits right behind a slightly pissed-off
Jeongguk. He wonders why Jeongguk doesn’t snap back at his friend, since he does it all the
time with him. Maybe it’s to keep his façade of super friendly chill guy.

Taehyung giggles. “He’s cute.”

“He has a crush on you.”

“Really?” Taehyung’s grin turns wider, and now he looks less like a golden retriever and
more like a fox. He turns to Hoseok again, waving politely back at him. Watching Hoseok
nearly fall from his chair is extremely funny.

“Yeah. Don’t tell him I say that though.”

He hears Namjoon’s voice boom across the theater, announcing the end of rehearsals. “Okay,
let’s end it here. Good job everyone.” Namjoon claps his hands once and everyone starts to
head offstage or climb down to the seating area. Jimin gives Taehyung a small smile before
climbing down himself to go meet Hoseok.

His friend waits for him with a smile that stretches from ear to ear.

“You were amazing! I knew you were good, but I didn’t remember you were that good? It’s
like you could be a real actor.”

He smiles at his friend’s compliments. “Don’t you think I looked a bit stiff?”

“Stiff? Nah, you were exceptional. My favorite part was your pissed-off monologue, that part
where you say fuck you to the king of Baekche’s emissary? Gold.”

“I don’t say—never mind. Thanks,” Jimin says. He notices Yoongi coming their way from
backstage where he’d been cooped up during the entirety of the rehearsal, working on the
play’s soundtrack and sound effects. The blond man looks around the theater until he spots
him, then walks over.
“Hey guys, how about—who are you?” Yoongi’s eyes pause on Hoseok when he realizes he’s
not someone from the club.

“Oh, Yoongi, meet my friend Hoseok. Hoseok, this is Yoongi, Oriole’s co-author and
composer.”

Hoseok scans Yoongi up and down, his expression frozen in place. Then blushes from head
to toe.

“H—hi? I’m Hoseok—well, you know that already,” he splutters, stumbling a little on the
words. Jimin glances at him with a frown.

“Oh. Hello. Nice to meet you,” Yoongi says politely, a little taken aback by Hoseok’s
fumbling self-introduction. “Did you enjoy the rehearsal?”

“Uh, yes! Gorgeous music. I mean, gorgeous story, the play, it’s—amazing. Did you write it?
It’s beautiful. Really engrossing.”

“Are you okay?” Jimin mouths at him from Yoongi’s back, but the split-second glance
Hoseok casts at him is one of pure terror. Jimin’s never seen him more flustered than this—
he’s never seen Jung Hoseok flustered, period.

“I helped a little. I’m a music major,” Yoongi says, shrugging. He turns to Jimin when
Hoseok’s answer is nothing but a nonsensical sputter, saying, “A few of us were thinking of
grabbing a drink together before heading home, since we finished a bit earlier. You in?”

Jimin really can’t be more eager to find excuses to stay clear from his house and his infernal
family, so he nods.

“Yeah, cool.”

“You can come too if you want, uh—Hoseok?”

Hoseok’s eyes go wide like saucers.

“M—me? Oh, uhm… yeah, why not? I love drinking. I mean, I’m free. Ah ah.”

Jimin cringes internally and prepares for an interesting evening of mercilessly teasing Hoseok
for something he’s yet to find out. Then Yoongi says the magic words that make his
enthusiasm vanish in an instant.

“Nice. Jeongguk knows a nice bar that’s real close, we’re going there.”

“Jeongguk is coming?” He’s a little disappointed, a little annoyed, and a little nervous. Their
second meet-up at the Bird is still etched in his mind, vividly.

“Yeah, of course.”

His shoulders sag. Maybe if they’re a large enough group of people, he won’t have to strike a
conversation with him and pretend he didn’t spend thirty minutes of his life giving a handjob
to a dildo while Jeongguk watched.

But then as Yoongi takes his leave, he spots Jeongguk turn his way and throw him one of his
trademarked arrogant looks—and decides that nope, he’s had his fill for the night.

“I changed my mind. I’m going home,” he deadpans to Hoseok, who instantly grabs his
elbow in a vise-like grip.

“What? No! Let’s go, you deserve to have some fun.”

“Hanging around Jeon Jeongguk for the whole evening isn’t my idea of fun.”

“But he’s such a good guy. Give him a chance.”

“A good guy?” Jimin scoffs, eyebrow raised. “We’re constantly at each other’s throats. He
drives me insane. You know those horror videogames where if you get close to the monster
for too long your sanity meter drops to zero? That’s me and him, and he’s the monster.”

Hoseok rolls his eyes. “What happens when you hit zero? Do you start thinking the earth is
flat?”

“Don’t make me spend another minute with him, please.”

“Face your fears, Jimin. You gotta be bolder to win at life.”

Jimin snorts. “This coming from the person who turned into a stuttering mess talking with
Yoongi. Speaking of which, what the fuck was that?”

“Nothing,” Hoseok blurts, blushing furiously.

“Nothing my ass. Did you puke on him at a random frat party?”

Hoseok glowers. “No. Really, it’s nothing. Let’s go, okay?”

He’s forced to change the topic when Taehyung approaches, smiling widely at Hoseok –
probably to try and fluster him a bit—but since meeting Yoongi, Taehyung doesn’t seem to
have a notable effect on Hoseok anymore.

“The conversation isn’t over,” he hisses at Hoseok, and they follow the others out of the
building and into the chilly November air.

The bar is a nice little place tucked behind a brightly lit alleyway filled with fried chicken
restaurants and noraebang places. It’s crowded and loud and there’s a live band playing a
mellow song in a corner. They manage to find two small tables at the back.
Before Jimin has the time to pick the farthest seat from Jeon Jeongguk, Hoseok takes a seat at
the table that Yoongi hasn’t claimed, which works fine with him. He sits next to his friend,
shrugging off his coat and draping it around the back of his chair.

They all gather round the tables, and after the waitress takes their orders Jimin turns to
Hoseok to whisper,

“Start from the beginning.”

Hoseok makes an annoyed sound at the back of his throat.

“It’s silly.”

“I don’t care. Do you know Yoongi from somewhere? He’s a nice guy. Why are you so jittery
around him?”

“I don’t exactly know him from somewhere, I never had a real conversation with him. I just
knew he was a music major. I didn’t even know his name.”

“But?” Jimin insists, raising an eyebrow at his friend. There’s clearly more to it, and the story
Hoseok’s reluctant to tell but will inevitably spill sooner or later might just help him get his
mind off things for the night.

“… but I met him before, and we had a really strange—uh. First contact, if you will.”

“Oh my God, Hobi, can you be any more cryptic than this?”

“So I went to this gay nightclub a couple years ago, alright? Freshman year, remember when
you used to ditch me every Friday night cause you had that terrible job with the weirdest
shifts?”

“A gay nightclub? With whom?” Jimin asks, amused. It really doesn’t get any better than this.

“A couple of dudes from an elective class I took first year, you don’t know them.”

“Why did you agree to go to a gay club if you’re straight, Hoseok?”

“Shut up, they dragged me there. We were supposed to have a couple of drinks and then head
home. Instead there we were, in a dingy little club with half-naked dudes swinging their ass
at me and I didn’t know how to politely bail.”

“Did you like the view?”

“No! I mean—they were really talented dancers, real handsome dudes too. But that’s beside
the point! Point is, I met Yoongi there,” Hoseok lowers his voice until it’s barely a whisper.

“And… ?”

“And he was shitfaced. Had a little too much to drink—and those cocktails were super
watered down, so I really have no idea how much money he spent to get that drunk. I
remember him vividly. He was this miniature guy with bleached blond hair and skin that
basically glowed in the dark.”

“He really made an impression, uh?”

“—and I don’t know if it was a dare or if he did it on a whim, but he came right at me and
kissed me in front of the whole club.”

“He did what?” Jimin wheezes, choking on his drink. The rest of their table throws him a mix
of worried and amused glances, and he waves a hand to let them know he’s okay. “The fuck,
Hoseok? Why haven’t you told me before? I’m supposed to be your best friend.”

“Well, nothing came out of it. We haven’t spoken since. Hell, we didn’t even speak then. He
just kissed me square on the lips, giggled, and left.”

“Giggled?” Jimin turns to look at Yoongi sitting at the end of their other table. He’s engaged
in a hushed conversation with Namjoon and another actor from the play. He tries to picture
him giggling. Cute.

“And then what happened? Did you meet him again?”

“A few times around campus, but he never recognized me. Or maybe he’s been pretending all
this time, but judging from his reaction when you introduced us, I really do think he doesn’t
remember shit.”

Jimin takes another sip of his drink, hiding his smile behind the glass. “So, that was your first
kiss with a guy, right?”

“It doesn’t count. I wasn’t consenting and it lasted like, five seconds tops.”

“Wished it lasted longer?”

“Fuck off.”

“Did he slip you the tongue?”

“No,” Hoseok growls, visibly annoyed.

“Now you know what’s it like for me to be constantly nagged by you.”

“I don’t nag you.”

“You asked me about a thousand times if we French-kiss on stage, and every time I say no
you don’t believe me. Orioles isn’t a movie, nobody’s gonna zoom in on our kiss. It’s a plain
stage kiss. It’s fake.”

“Well, what I got that night was also a fake kiss. Okay?”

“Alright. And what did you feel after he fake-kissed you?”

Hoseok looks taken aback. There’s a slight flush on his cheeks, but Jimin isn’t sure if it’s
from the alcohol, the warm temperature in the room, or something else.

“Nothing? It felt a little weird, but mostly because it was unexpected, you know? Someone
you don’t know kisses you out of the blue and, what’re you supposed to do? You just. Take
it.”

“Did you like it?” Jimin insists, crossing his arms on the table and leaning in to cast another
glance at Yoongi. He leans back when Jeongguk catches his gaze and smirks—does he think
Jimin is sneaking glances at him? Preposterous. He turns to Hoseok, who’s looking slightly
disgruntled.

“Do you think about it often? Is it the reason you’ve spiraled into this vortex of closeted
feelings the last couple years?”

“I did not—it didn’t turn me gay,” Hoseok huffs.

“Sure it didn’t.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

Jimin rolls his eyes. “Remember that day you suggested to make a tier list of the roundest
asses in the school’s football team?”

“I was a little drunk and bored,” Hoseok bristles, offended.

“I’m sure Yoongi was drunk and bored the night he kissed you.”

They spend the evening bickering back and forth until someone at the table eventually drags
them into their conversation, much to Hoseok’s glee. It feels nice to casually talk with new
people—rehearsals are always fun too, but they don’t always have much time to chit-chat as
Namjoon is always glaring from around the corner, keeping them on schedule. This feels
different, this feels like they’re a group of friends who have all the time in the world. Nobody
is following a script, nobody is suggesting he does things differently, nobody complains
because he said the wrong line or slurred his words or was too stiff or didn’t give off the right
vibe.

People who usually didn’t reveal much about their lives during rehearsals are laughing
together, drinking together, joking about stuff that doesn’t have anything to do with the play.
He lets go a little, careful not to glance at the wrong side of the table and break the spell—
because this is nice.

All the late nights, all those times he got home exhausted and ready to puke the night out of
his system—just a small price to pay, really, in order to hold on a little longer onto this
feeling of camaraderie. He feels a little less dirty and a lot warmer now, and maybe it won’t
last long—probably just until his next shift at the Bird—but he clings to this fragile feeling
and cherishes it regardless.
 As it starts getting late, people take their leave one by one until there’s more empty seats
than people. Jimin’s a little drowsy, but the thought of emerging into the cold November air
doesn’t sound very appealing. The bar is so warm and cozy, and he wants to chat with
Hoseok a little longer. It’s been a while since they’ve talked leisurely like this in a place that
wasn’t in the university’s campus.

“So, back to the elephant in the room. Do you intend to inform Yoongi that he drunkenly
kissed you once?”

“Nope,” Hoseok says, smacking his lips.

“So it’s something I can use against you next time you piss me off.”

“You’re a menace.”

Jimin giggles. They wave when Taehyung and a few other members say goodbye and take
their leave. Now there is only him and Hoseok sitting at one table, and Yoongi and Jeongguk
at the other. Uh. Now that’s a little awkward.

“Hey, wanna head home? I’m a little sleepy.”

Hoseok nods, throws back the last of his drink, and gets up.

“Toilet first, then we go. I think I’ve drank too much tonight, I’m gonna piss myself.”

“Maybe that would impress Yoongi to the point he’ll give you another kiss.”

Hoseok flips him off and heads upstairs, and exactly one second later Yoongi, of all people,
follows him up—guess he isn’t the only one who drank a little too much. Maybe something
will happen in the bathroom after all.

He’s still stupidly grinning to himself like a crazy person when he feels someone slide in the
seat next to his—not across the table from him, but beside him. He freezes the second he
catches the scent of Jeongguk’s familiar cologne.

“Don’t you ever relax?” Jeongguk snickers, toying with his half-empty glass. He gives him
an amused look. “Not even alcohol loosens you up, uh.”

“I’m relaxed,” he shoots back, forcing himself to unlock every muscle in his body. He’s not
very successful. “I’ve been relaxed all night long.”

“Then is it me?”

He scoffs. Yes.

“No,” he rolls his eyes to the ceiling, showing Jeongguk just how ridiculous he sounds.

Jeongguk hums and doesn’t say anything, just smiles with his most shit-eating smile and
stares back. Is he drunk? Why’s he staring at him like that? Fuck, he smells good. Is he
wearing more perfume than usual? Does alcohol usually enhance someone’s sense of smell?
Is Hoseok taking a dump upstairs or is he hooking up with Yoongi in one of the stalls? Can
he light up a flare to give a SOS signal for someone, anyone, to come rescue him?

“I think Yoongi likes Hoseok. He’s been sneaking glances at him all night. Is he single?”

Jimin blinks slowly, every trace of sleep long gone. “He’s straight.”

“Is he, though?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Right. Is he single?”

“He is,” Jimin concedes, “but his denial goes deeper than an internet rabbit hole.”

“Do you think they’re making out right now?” Jeongguk asks, glancing at the staircase
leading to the second floor.

“I hope Yoongi isn’t drunk this time.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Are you heading home soon?”

Jeongguk scratches the glass with his thumb, a little pensive.

“I should.”

He doesn’t look like he wants to, though.

Jimin cocks his head to the side, unsure whether to try making small talk or not. He finds he
can’t look at Jeongguk in the eyes for too long, because every time he does, the other’s gaze
seems to lock him in. “Do you live in the area?”

Why did he ask that? Does he really care to know? Perhaps his sanity meter has already
reached zero and he hasn’t realized it.

“No, I gotta take two buses to go home. It’s a hassle.”

“Why don’t you live on campus, then? Or find an apartment that’s closer. You’ve clearly got
the money,” Jimin says, raising the glass to his lips and throwing a cursory glance at
Jeongguk’s expensive clothes.

Jeongguk shakes his head, smiling. “Nah. I like living close to my family. Plus, my mother
needs me, and my brother is too young to properly take care of her.”

“Oh.” And now he feels like an ass. So maybe Jeongguk isn’t working as a host to feed his
passion for expensive streetwear. Well, he couldn’t have known that.

“Is she—is she sick?”

Jeongguk’s answer is a little evasive. “She needs someone to be there for her.”

“I get it. I’m sorry I asked, I didn’t mean to pry—”

“It’s okay. We all work at the Bird for a reason.”

Jimin nods, drops his gaze to the table. He’s still holding the glass up to his lips, even though
there’s barely enough liquid in it.

“How long have you been working as an Exotic?”

“Couple years.”

“Do you ever regret it?” he asks, holding his breath.

“Sometimes I think I do,” Jeongguk answers slowly, thumb scratching at the glass
incessantly. “Then I come home, and I see my family. And suddenly everything is worth it.
Just a couple years more and then I’ll find a proper job. One that pays well. And then it’s
over.”

And then it’s over. The finality with which Jeongguk spoke the words hits Jimin like a brick.
He sounds bitter, determined, and a little angry.

“I wonder how long will I…” Jimin trails off, doesn’t finish the thought. Too long, probably.
And he hasn’t even started yet.

“You’re providing for your family, right? That’s why you’re working with Seokjin.”

Jimin isn’t surprised that Jeongguk figured it out. Half the birds in the club probably have a
very similar sob story.

“Yes. My mom’s also… sick. Well, no, I mean—it isn’t an illness. It’s—she’s—she’s an
addict.” He gulps, pressing the glass against his bottom lip. His breath fogs the glass. “Heavy
drugs.”

Jeongguk nods, neither sympathy nor contempt showing on his face. Just a neutral sort of
understanding.

“What about your father?”

“My stepfather,” Jimin corrects him, then thinks of the right words to describe Daejung. “…
fucking sucks.” That’ll do.

“You don’t have it easy.”

He shrugs. “I guess nobody at the Bird does.”

“Kind of. There’s a few who genuinely enjoy what they do.”

Jimin snorts. “Are they Exotics?”

“They usually stop at Rare. Exotic isn’t always… worth it.” The way Jeongguk looks straight
into his eyes as he says the words makes him shudder.

“Do you think I have any chance to make Rare? Be honest.”

The sudden question makes Jeongguk laugh. “You want honest? Not from what I’ve seen.
Your approach to the job is that of a thirteen-year-old maid who’s lived her whole life
thinking she was going to become a nun after turning of age.”

“Wished I had that kind of life,” Jimin sighs. “I think she’d be better than me at giving
handjobs.”

Jeongguk laughs again, and the sound pools in the pits of Jimin’s stomach, warming him
from the inside out. It’s the alcohol, I drank too much.

“I know I’m a little hard to deal with, and I’m… sorry… to waste your time—especially
since, you know,” he gestures vaguely with his other free hand, “your situation at home and
stuff… but I just, I just ask for a little more time. I swear I can do it, I can get better, it’s just
—some shit in my head, I suppose? I just gotta deal with it. I just gotta force it down,
swallow it or whatever.” If he drank a shot for every time he said the word just, he would be
puking his guts out in the toilet upstairs, probably next to the stall where Yoongi and Hoseok
are having a steamy make-out session.

“So your plan is to bottle it all up? That doesn’t sound healthy at all.”

“I don’t know what else to do.”

Jeongguk sighs through his nose, leaning on the table with a hand buried in his black hair.
Jimin glimpses part of a tattoo on his clavicle, and his eyes linger there for a fraction of a
second longer than necessary. Aside from Jeongguk, the rest of the bar is just a blurred haze
at this point. It’s like taking a portrait picture of someone. The camera automatically focuses
on the person, blurring the background.

There must be something wrong with his eyesight.

“I never said you were wasting my time,” Jeongguk says, startling Jimin a bit. “I know what
it’s like to need money. I know working at the club looks like an easy solution, and not just
anybody gets asked to join Seokjin’s bird cage. I see a lot of desperate people—boys and
girls—who come knocking at his door. He doesn’t even bother with most if they don’t catch
his attention, and his attention is very… ephemeral. You never stay Seokjin’s favorite little
birdie for long.”

“Are you his favorite now?”

Jeongguk fidgets with the piercings on his ear, pulling at the lobe and tracing the hoops as he
ponders on Jimin’s question.

“Perhaps. It won’t last long, and it doesn’t mean anything anyway.”

“He’s always treated me kindly so far,” Jimin muses, “but… he’s got this air about him.
Gives me the creeps sometimes.”

“He’s a pimp, Jimin. What did you expect?”

“At least he looks like he cares about his people.”

Jeongguk chuckles darkly. “Oh yes. He cares about his customers very much.”

When he spots Hoseok and Yoongi again, part of him is grateful to put a stop to the
conversation. The bar stays blurred, but Jeongguk’s image stays sharper than anybody else.
5.
Jimin:
Dude, did you piss up yoongi’s butt? you were gone for a suspiciously long time

Hobi:
jimin I swear sometimes you have the mouth of a prostate
prostitute*
sorry im typing as im walking home

Jimin:
this is hilarious in ways I can’t even begin to explain
are you drunk?

Hobi:
I’m dandy
are YOU drunk? What did you talk about with prince charming

Jimin:
we were placing bets about who was taking it up the ass in the bar’s toilet

Hobi:
my ass took a chastity vow. Idk about yoongis tho

Jimin:
would u like to know?

Hobi:
I know he’s gay

Jimin:
I think he likes both

Hobi:
he’s bi?

Jimin:
no I mean he likes to switch. He’s a switch

Hobi:
uh
oka
 okay
why are you giving me this information??

Jimin:
to let u know you can choose to be whatever
but anyway
really what were you two doing in the toilet???

Hobi:
im sorry I forgot about your insanity meter
we didn’t hang in the toilet wtf
we went downstairs
but you guys were having a rly intense conversation?
so
yoongi said he knew the drummer of the live band? He introduced me
u guys just didn’t notice us
cause you were absorbed in your own little world : )

Jimin:
you were in the room all the fucking while??
You could have saved me

Hobi:
fuck off
you were having a nice time
jk was laughing and shit
u were looking at him like you’d just found your new favorite religion

Jimin:
you have a skewed perception of reality

Hobi:
I know what I saw
you had a bad case of the heart eyes

Jimin:
I know you’re crushing on yoongi

Hobi:
???? how
hw did u get to this cocnlusoon

Jimin:
“he introduced me to the band”
you didn’t even like their music
 Hobi:
I never said that

Jimin:
right you said it was shit
did you tell yoongi?

Hobi:
fuck no

Jimin:
didn’t want to ruin your chances with him? he’s a music major he might not want to date
someone who doesn’t share his music taste you know
friend him on spotify and stalk his playlists
foolproof plan to his heart

Hobi:
he sent me the link to one of his playlists already

Jimin:
he acts fast

Hobi:
I can never tell him I like edm

Jimin:
did he say the playlist made him think of you

Hobi:
jimin we literally just met

Jimin:
I believe in love at first sight

Hobi:
No u don’t

Jimin:
alright I gotta go to sleep but this isn’t over

Hobi:
he told me I can come watch the rehearsals any time

Jimin:
asdfghj
if he really doesn’t remember kissing you I’ll laugh for one hundred years

Hobi:
better this way or i can never be friends with him
 Jimin:
Friends he says
right
bye

Chapter End Notes

take a shot every time i make a videogame analogy in this fic

Chapter 4
1.
“So. How many handjobs have you given to the dildo I gave you?”

“Enough to feel uncomfortable answering your question.”

“Nice,” Jeongguk says, tossing Jimin another toy. They’re in the same private room as last
week, and Jimin feels the same weird anxiety swirling in his stomach. The toy Jeongguk
threw him looks identical to what Jimin’s got at home: hyper-realistic and silicone-made.

“Shall I show you how much I’ve improved?” he asks sarcastically.

“We’ll have time for that later. I’d like to start with something new tonight.”

“Oh. Okay.” Jimin swallows, straightens his back. They’re sharing a sofa this time, Jeongguk
opting to take a seat right next to Jimin. Not quite close that their legs could accidentally
brush or he could feel Jeongguk’s warmth, but not far either.

“What is it?”

“Blowjobs.”

Jimin nods, resigned to his fate, holding back a sigh. He expected it. Truth to be told,
blowjobs are the one thing he dreads the most, but he’s definitely not going to admit it in
front of Jeongguk.

“Wonderful,” he mutters, soaking every syllable of the word in distaste.

Jeongguk crosses his legs, turns his upper body toward Jimin and fixes him with his most
business-like gaze. “Got any experience?”

“None.”

“You’ve never blown anyone?”

“Nope.”

“Never been blown either?”

“No,” Jimin says, pulling the sleeves of his sweater over his hands.

“Ever tried sucking your own dick?”

Jimin bursts into laughter, and Jeongguk cracks a half-cocked smile. “What the hell? No. Of
course not. Who does that?”

“Autofellatio,” Jeongguk says, shrugging. “You’d be surprised to find out how many men end
up in the hospital because of it. It’s mostly teenagers who’ve never had their dick sucked and
want to know what it’s like, but there’s a lot of grown men too. It’s not that uncommon,
really. Some people can actually do it, all it takes is exceptional flexibility. I’m pretty sure the
ancient Egyptians wrote a poem about it.”

“How do you even know this stuff?” Jimin asks, laughing. “Do you use your extensive sex
trivia knowledge to get your clients all hot and bothered?”

“If they’re into erotic poetry, why not.”

Jimin crosses his arms, eyeing him with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re weird.” Although he does feel a little more at ease now. The tension overcoming his
shoulders and back has let on a bit.

“So, the perfect blowjob technique—”

“Are you gonna launch into the history of blowjob techniques since the Babylonians until the
modern times?”

Jeongguk gives him an indulgent smile. He probably knows he’s trying to stall for time.

“As riveting as that sounds, I’m afraid we don’t have the time. So, back to our lesson. What
do you think is the best way—” he takes the dildo from Jimin’s hands, “To suck a dick?”

“You put it in your mouth and suck?”

“Amateur. I can tell you’re horrible at it.”

“No one’s born the perfect dick sucker,” Jimin retorts, annoyed.

“Some people may argue sucking dick is a talent. I say it’s a skill that anyone can master,
even someone as hopeless as you,” Jeongguk says, tapping him in the arm with the tip of the
dildo.

Jimin scoots a little further down the velvet sofa. “Thank you for believing in me, I guess.”

Jeongguk smiles and continues with his lecture. “Different people like different things.
There’s clients who like to shove their dicks down your throat without much ado, those who
like a little teasing, those who like a lot of teasing, those who enjoy a little bit of teeth. As a
host, the most important thing is to always put on a show. I suggest starting real slow and
teasing your way to a nice and enthusiastic sucking session.”

Jeongguk’s words were probably meant to make him laugh, but Jimin doesn’t feel like
laughing anymore. He sits perfectly still, watching him begin to slowly stroke the dildo as he
continues.

“Never forget your hands, don’t just use your mouth. Begin with a lazy stroke, play with their
balls. Give them your attention before you focus on the shaft—they’ll turn to putty in your
hands, you’ll see—then start teasing with the tip of your tongue around here,” he thumbs the
silicone cockhead, “—play with their precome, they like it when it’s messy. If they’re heavy
leakers, smear it on their shaft and use it as lubricant, but as I said before, spit also works.
Most of our clients are circumcised, but if they aren’t they might not want you to use any—
foreskin is a sort of an alternative to lube already.”

“Okay,” Jimin croaks, cotton-mouthed, still staring at Jeongguk’s hand working at the dildo.
His hands have him mesmerized, completely unable to meet the other’s gaze now and
probably forever.

“Once you start going down on them, don’t just focus on the head. You gotta pay attention to
the entire thing. That means using both your mouth and hands at the same time. Oh, and, this
spot here,” he points to the spot where the head meets the shaft on the underside. “See here,
below the head? This is always a great spot. Rub it with your thumb, press on it with your
tongue, do whatever and it’ll send them to high heaven. Trust me.”

“I trust you.” Jimin’s voice is barely audible. This is a lot of information and his head is
already spinning; plus, he’s just noticed Jeongguk’s hands are really nice-looking and manly
and the fingers are long and tapered like those of a pianist and the way they move on the
dildo is nothing short of hypnotizing and he’s getting a little short of breath, not gonna lie.

“Perfect,” Jeongguk exclaims, tossing Jimin the dildo. It flops down on his lap, looking both
flaccid and hard at the same time. “Now you do it.”

“What, this?” Jimin says, taking the dildo in his hands and stroking it like Jeongguk did.

“Blow it.” Jeongguk spells the words out slowly, huffing in annoyance.

“You want me to put this dildo in my mouth?”

“What else, genius?” Jeongguk rolls his eyes at him like he’s being an insufferable child.
“Everything here is thoroughly washed and sanitized after every use, so stop being fussy.”

“I’m not fussy, I’m just—it’s a little embarrassing,” Jimin admits, feeling the familiar heat in
full bloom on both his cheeks.

“You signed up for an embarrassing job, Jimin. You knew that.” Jeongguk nods toward the
dildo. “Start sucking.”

Disgruntled, Jimin sighs dramatically, making sure to let Jeongguk know he’s hating every
second of this torture. Jeongguk’s face doesn’t betray a single ounce of sympathy. He
hesitantly brings the dildo up to his lips. Again, this feels fucking stupid. Worse than giving a
dildo a hand job, and that’s saying a lot. No, this is borderline painful for his pride. He
frantically tries to come up with a way to postpone the misery of sucking a dildo in front of
Jeon Jeongguk.

“You literally said one second ago that I shouldn’t straight-up start sucking.”

Jeongguk’s eyebrows crease in a scowl. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at him with
double the intensity. Mission failed.
Jimin stares at the dildo’s cockhead until he feels he’s going cross-eyed, then decides it’s
better to just go for it before his body auto-combusts due to sheer embarrassment. He gives a
tentative lick to the head, right where the slit should be, and tastes rubber. It’s okay, this isn’t
real. It looks real, but it isn’t. Not the best pep talk considering he’s going to have to suck a
real dick eventually, but for now it’s doing the trick.

Jeongguk’s words swirling in his head, he licks again around the head, hand holding the dildo
firmly at the base. His face burns so hot he’s afraid the skin is going to peel off. He presses
the flat of his tongue against the spot Jeongguk showed him, but it obviously doesn’t elicit
any kind of reaction out of the dildo because it’s just a fucking silicone dildo and this is
stupid, this is dumb, and he’s basically ridiculing himself in front of Jeon fucking Jeongguk of
all people and this is probably going to end up being one of those memories that he’ll lock up
in the darkest corner of his brain for the rest of his life until one day at forty-six years old
something random will accidentally trigger it, and it’ll be as if a goddamn frag grenade went
off in his brain—eyes watering, ears ringing, World War fucking II breaking out inside his
skull.

Bottom line, he wants to die.

But then he commits the grave mistake of looking up at Jeongguk while he’s still suckling on
the tip of the stupid dildo, and that’s when everything slows down to a stop.

Jeongguk is looking at him intently—looking at his lips, heavy-lidded stare unblinking,

transfixed. His own lips are the slightest bit parted. He looks like he’s holding his breath.

Jimin is one second away from giving up and saying I can’t do this, it’s just too stupid when
something in his brain—he must be developing a brain tumor of the gravest kind—stops him.

Unfamiliar tendrils of warmth uncoil deep in his belly. They travel up his spine, they travel
down to his groin. He isn’t stupid, he knows what it is—arousal. Jeongguk staring at his lips
as he gives a dildo the most mediocre blowjob of the world is making him hard.

He forces himself to keep going just a bit longer. He sinks a little more down the shaft,
engulfing the head with his mouth. The taste of plastic is strong, unpleasant, but is quickly
cast aside when he looks up again and sees how much darker Jeongguk’s eyes have turned.

It makes his head reel, it feels both unexpectedly flattering and uncomfortable. So, he slips
off the silicone cockhead with a soft pop and licks the spit from his lips.

It’s when Jeongguk doesn’t stop staring that Jimin feels really self-conscious—even standing
butt-naked in front of him didn’t make him feel this way—but the stare lasts only a moment
longer before Jeongguk is back to being his usual impassive self.

“Why’d you stop?”

His voice is slightly hoarse.

Jimin gives out a nervous chuckle. Part of him knows this is the perfect moment to say
something witty, get back at him somehow, maybe hint at the fact that he noticed he was
enjoying it too much, but Jimin’s brain is still fizzling. And he isn’t sure he’s allowed to take
the teasing to that level.

“Sorry. I felt stupid.”

“You were doing good,” Jeongguk says. He’s got this closed-off expression on, like a thick
curtain fell over his eyes. “Start again.”

Oh, fuck.

Jimin is staring at the dildo like a man stares at the noose when Jeongguk speaks again.

“Take more of it in. Don’t stop at the head.”

These feel less like suggestions or friendly hints and more like orders. His voice is strangely
neutral and controlled, but it holds a certain edge that makes Jimin reluctant to complain.

The top of the dildo is already wet with his spit, so he tastes both saliva and plastic as he
slowly inches down the shaft. The dildo isn’t massive, it’s a reasonable size for an average
erect penis, but it is quite long. He stops before his gag reflex kicks in, not wanting to make
himself puke all over the expensive velvet sofa. He looks at Jeongguk as if to say, is this
okay?

“Is that all you can take?” Jeongguk mocks him, raising an eyebrow. Jimin nods, and again
the ridiculousness of what he’s doing crashes down on him like a cold wave. He must look
dumb as shit, but Jeongguk isn’t laughing. Isn’t laughing at all.

“Well? Start moving. I didn’t tell you to cockwarm it.”

The words bring a violent blush to his face, and he bristles at the faint annoyance in
Jeongguk’s tone. He’s changed position and is now sitting with both his legs and arms
crossed, body locked in an unusual defensive stance.

Vexed, Jimin starts sliding up and down the shaft, now slick with his spit.

“Don’t thrust the dildo in your mouth. Hold it still, bob your head up and down.”

Jimin adjusts his grip and it’s a little harder now, because the dildo isn’t attached to a person
he can lever himself off. The room is silent except for the wet sounds his mouth produces
against the silicone, and it’s so mortifying Jimin wonders if people can die of embarrassment.

“Hey.”

He hears the sound of fingers snapping, and he looks up at Jeongguk.

“Eyes up here. Hold eye contact when you go down on customers.”

This makes him slide off the toy and say, annoyed, “But I’m not blowing you.”

Jeongguk spreads his arms wide and makes a big show of looking around the empty room.
“Do you see anybody else in here? No. There’s only me to practice with. So, unless you
wanna look at a mirror to practice your sultriest looks, you’ve gotta look at me.” He drapes
himself on the sofa, arms spread on both sides of the backrest, and smirks. “So yeah, imagine
you’re sucking me off. Now start again.”

The way Jeongguk is able to make him feel both extremely mortified and annoyed at the
same time surely violates at least half of the articles in the Universal Declaration of Human
Rights, but if there’s anything that Jimin hates more than giving Jeongguk the satisfaction of
watching him give up, is the thought of Jeongguk not giving him permission to earn the
money he needs.

He makes an ungodly effort not to think of Jeongguk’s cock when he gets back to the dildo,
because that’s dangerous territory and he isn’t sure his body wouldn’t betray him. It isn’t easy
when he’s forced to look Jeongguk in the eye, though. It isn’t easy at all. It’s—it’s fucking
hard.

But he thinks he’s got it under control, it isn’t like he’s popped a full-on boner. He shifts a
little on the sofa, subtly repositioning; imagines stuffing the dildo down Jeongguk’s throat,
choking him with it—but with malignity, not because he thinks it’s hot—though the mental
image is kind of hot, and fuck, now he’s made it all worse.

Jeongguk stares at him with features set in stone, the daze he previously fell in completely
lifted from his eyes. Right when Jimin begins to think his aura of indifference is getting to his
nerves, Jeongguk scoots closer.

“Do you think most of our customers sit still as they’re given a blowjob, Jimin?”

He stops abruptly, briefly contemplating whether to answer or not when the decision is made
for him. Jeongguk puts a hand on the toy, holding it in place with the cockhead still in Jimin’s
mouth.

“They don’t. And since your ass isn’t for sale, rest assured they’ll find other ways to fuck
you.”

Jeongguk pushes the dildo in with deliberate slowness, applying only the barest of pressure.
Jimin’s eyes go wide with surprise. His legs clamp together as every muscle of his body
tenses up.

“And they’ll want to fuck you, trust me,” Jeongguk mutters, staring at Jimin’s mouth
swallowing the dildo inch by inch. “They’ll use your mouth like a toy. It’s usually the first
thing they go for—especially with lips like yours.”

His gaze has been fixed on Jimin’s mouth all night, but now it’s different. Jimin doesn’t think
he can blush any harder, and yet he feels another heatwave sweep over him. He sits there, still
as a statue, listening to Jeongguk’s liquid black voice telling him things that set him ablaze.

And then Jeongguk slides the toy a little further down his mouth, and Jimin gags.
“Don’t,” Jeongguk warns him, leaning in to pin Jimin down with his eyes. “Don’t pull away.
Relax your throat.”

He pushes in again without a warning, but Jimin feels his throat close up instantly. He shakes
his head vigorously, feeling little tears gather at the corner of his eyes. Jeongguk doesn’t pull
out.

“You gotta take it,” Jeongguk says. “You know you have to, right?”

Jimin whines, a pitiful sound at the back of his throat. He shakes his head again, pleading
Jeongguk with his eyes. If Jeongguk pushes even the slightest bit in, he’s pretty sure he’s
going to puke. Cold sweat breaks out on his back.

“Jimin. Relax, and open your throat.”

Jimin doesn’t realize he’s got a hand wrapped around Jeongguk’s on the dildo until Jeongguk
moves his again, and he stops him. The look Jeongguk gives him is scorching.

“They won’t be gentle. They won’t ask you if you’re comfortable.”

Jeongguk pulls the dildo all the way back until only the tip sits in Jimin’s mouth, and just
when he thinks he’s going to mercifully pull it out, Jeongguk shoves it back in, shallowly
fucking it in and out of his mouth.

“They will use you until you bring them pleasure.”

It takes him by surprise. A strangled, muffled sound escapes him—he needs air, bad.

“—and they’ll get it one way or another.”

Jimin gags again as Jeongguk’s thrusts deepen. When he finally pulls it out, Jimin slumps
against the couch, gasping for breath, then falls into a coughing fit. His face is a mess of tears
and drool, and he wipes at it angrily with the sleeve of his sweater. Still panting, he watches
as Jeongguk tosses the dildo on the coffee table and wipes his hands on his sweats.

Jeongguk’s hard. The bulge in his sweatpants is unmistakable, and he doesn’t try to hide it.

“The sooner you get rid of that gag reflex of yours, the better. You need to practice.”

“Fuck you,” Jimin sputters, massaging his jaw.

“I’m trying to help you.”

“You tried to choke me. I wanted you to stop, and you didn’t.”

Jeongguk dips his body forward to stare intently at him. He recoils immediately, flinching.

“What do you think this is, Jimin? Where are you know?”

Jimin nearly growls. “Don’t treat me like a child.”

“I treated you like a Black Bird host. A host who’s gonna have his mouth stuffed full of cock
and is expected to pretend like he enjoys it. That’s how you earn the money you so
desperately need.”

Jimin breathes out a brief, bitter chuckle. He eyes the semi in Jeongguk’s pants and sneers.

“Do you get off on this, too?”

Jeongguk clicks his tongue and gets up, his back to Jimin. He stalks to the door, pushes the
doorhandle down, and the door opens with a whirring of mechanisms and a click.

“See you at rehearsal, Jimin.”

Jimin is left staring at the empty doorway, adrenaline still pumping in his blood. He was half-
expecting another fight, or for Jeongguk to make up some sorry excuse or snark at him. What
he didn’t expect at all was Jeongguk leaving like he had any right to feel offended.

He slumps against the sofa, the night weighing on him like never before. How’s he going to
face Jeongguk after tonight?
2.
The next week, rehearsals go unexpectedly smoothly. Jimin was convinced Jeongguk would
spend the entire afternoon glowering at him from the seating area, lingering at the corners of
his vision like the haunting presence of a sleep paralysis demon. Instead, he was presented
with a calm and collected Jeongguk who explained to him the afternoon’s schedule and
apologized when a problem arose that delayed the rehearsal of a very important scene by
fifteen minutes.

An unexpected turn of events, but one that he appreciated. He was able to breeze through
each scene with a spontaneity he didn’t think he could have achieved had Jeongguk been mad
at him the whole time. Jimin was still angry at him, of course—he never was the type to
forgive and forget easily—but wasn’t sure whether to feel offended because Jeongguk
seemed to have forgotten the whole ordeal, or relieved because he wasn’t actively trying to
incinerate him with his death glare.

So, when Namjoon calls for the usual break, he climbs down the stage with a jumble of
mixed feelings bottled up in his chest. His brooding is thankfully interrupted by an overly
enthusiastic voice calling out to him.

“Hey, Min! Great job as always. When did you learn to fight? Is that a real sword?”

Hoseok’s familiar grin nearly splits his face in half. He sees him sneak glances at somebody
at his back—he doesn’t need to turn to know that Yoongi is right behind him.

“No dumbass, it’s made of wood. And Taehyung knows this guy who’s a black belt in Kendo
or something. He agreed to teach us some tricks.”

“I’m pretty sure there aren’t any black belts in Kendo.”

“Whatever. When did you get here?” Jimin eyes him with suspicion, uncapping the water
bottle that Hoseok offers him. Being the play’s protagonist means that he’s in almost every
single scene—except the ones where the big baddies are scheming against him—so he’s
constantly parched.

“Only five minutes ago, just in time to see your amazing stunts with a sword. I hope it didn’t
hurt too much when you fell on your butt. Is that how Sadaham dies?”

Jimin kicks him in the shin and Hoseok jumps back, giggling. “I tripped on a prop, okay?”

“You tripped on nothing. Pretty clumsy for a hwarang, uh?”

He rolls his eyes. “Are you here to court Yoongi? He’s right there, go bother him.”

Hoseok blushes a pretty dusty pink. “No? You’re my friend, I came to see you.”

“He told you to come visit anytime, no?”

“And what about it?” Hoseok sniffs. “He knows how much I care to see you shine on the
stage.”

“Mmh, yes, very believable.”

“Anyway, what’s next? Are you guys rehearsing the scenes in chronological order?”

“Ah, no, we usually have a schedule we follow—” he looks around for his script but doesn’t
find it anywhere. “Where did I put my script? I have today’s schedule inside—”

“There you go.”

Jeongguk pops out of nowhere with a familiar, crumpled script in his hand and nearly gives
him a heart attack.

“Jesus fuck, where the hell did you come from?!”

Jeongguk raises an eyebrow at him. “I’ve always been here. You guys were talking right in
front of me.”

“You should stop wearing all black, you’re becoming one with the shadows of this place,” he
mutters, ripping the script from Jeongguk’s hand.

“We don’t need you for the next two scenes, by the way. You can go get a coffee if you want
to, you’ve got the time.”

“Oh. Okay,” Jimin says a little uncertainly, scanning the schedule quickly. It’s true, he doesn’t
have any lines for a while. “That’s a good idea actually. You want any?”

He doesn’t know what exactly brought him to ask Jeongguk if he wants coffee, it’s not like he
particularly feels like being Jeongguk’s maid. Perhaps it’s the way Jeongguk is talking to him
like he’s any other actor for once, and not the nemesis he designated for himself since day
one.

“Oh no, thank you. I don’t drink coffee,” Jeongguk says, smiling. A pause, like he’s
hesitating about something. “But a green tea would be great. Iced.”

“Iced? But it’s freezing outside.”

“We’re inside, are we not?” Jeongguk shrugs, hands him a slightly crumpled 10.000 won
note. “By the way, good job today. You did really good.”

Jimin can’t help but stare at him, mouth agape. The words roll in his head like tumbleweeds
in a desert, the typical cartoonish one with the cactuses and dunes. His own thoughts feel dry
and arid for a heartbeat.

“What? Are you serious?”

Jeongguk smiles enigmatically and turns away, leaving Jimin speechless and rooted to the
ground.
“Aw, he’s so supportive of you. He loves having you as Sadaham, see?” Hoseok coos, patting
him on the back. “I knew you were being overdramatic. The guy loves you.”

“He doesn’t love me,” he hisses, shaking away from his stupor and shrugging his coat on to
brave the freezing cold outside. He shoved a dildo down his throat two nights ago, and now
he says he’s done a good job. “He’s just—playing a weird game.”

“Stop being paranoid,” Hoseok says, rolling his eyes. “Not everybody’s out to get you.”

Whatever this new Jeongguk is, Jimin knows it’s suspicious. He’ll get him his iced tea, but if
he thinks one tiny compliment will make him forget he’s tried to choke him with a sex toy,
then he’s going to have one rude awakening.

“So, me and Yoongi have been texting—”

“You what?” Jimin exclaims, coffee burning the tip of his tongue. “When did you exchange
numbers? You didn’t tell me anything!”

“Jeez, I didn’t know I was supposed to tell you every detail of my life?”

“Excuse me? I’ve been your best friend since middle school. It’s common courtesy to tell
your friends about your crushes.”

“Excuse you, Yoongi isn’t a crush. He’s a chill dude with interesting music taste who’s trying
to convince me edm is the root of all evil.”

“Bad edm sure is,” Jimin concedes. “Did he write you a song yet? If the title isn’t Heart-
shaped Lips then it doesn’t count.”

Hoseok ignores him completely. “We’ve just been exchanging song recommendations. He
actually listened to the songs I’ve sent him, you know?”

“Basically a modern declaration of love.”

“He’s cool. Sort of like, effortlessly cool, you know? Like he isn’t even trying. It just comes
to him. I think he’s after your best friend position.”

“If you’re one of those people that calls their significant other their ‘best friend’ then sure,
why not.”

Hoseok makes a face at him. “Why don’t you go make out with Jeongguk and save all this
salt for your hate sex, uh?”
Jimin gasps and stops dead in his tracks, too outraged to formulate a coherent comeback.
Then he jogs up to Hoseok when his friend doesn’t even wait for him.

“Are you blind? What gave you the impression I want to make out with him? He aggravates
me to no end, he’s an insufferable prick, he’s given me a grand total of one compliment,” he
sticks out his pinkie finger to emphasize the one compliment, “over the course of
approximately a million weeks of rehearsals, and he sent me to buy him tea like I’m his
maid!”

“That was entirely your fault,” Hoseok says. “You volunteered, Jimin.”

“—plus, did you see how he popped out of nowhere? He literally spawned from the shadows
like a devil. He drowns his sulfur smell in an indecent amount of expensive cologne to hide
his true identity.”

“Now you’re just skirting horny territory,” Hoseok snorts. “That’s a pretty sexy fanart you
have of him in your head.”

“Fuck off.”

“You want to be dicked down so bad, it makes you look miserable, really. Just tell him, I’m
one hundred percent sure he will happily oblige.” Hoseok waggles his eyebrows at him
suggestively. “He said you were very good. Twice. He’s onto your praising kink.”

“I don’t have a—” Jimin blushes, stumbles on the words, “it’s not what you think. He’s surely
got some ulterior motive, like—like turning me into his personal maid every time we go on
break.”

“You think he’s one of those otakus with the maid kink?” Hoseok says, feigning skepticism.
He looks him over. “You’d look good in a maid outfit.”

Jimin makes a frustrated sound and stalks ahead, pushing the doors to the theater open with
Hoseok’s laughter ringing in his ears and Jeongguk’s iced tea freezing his other hand.

Instead of going back to his previous seat in the row behind Jeongguk and Namjoon, Hoseok
aims straight for the last seat on the first row, close to where Yoongi is stationed with his
laptop and equipment. Jimin rolls his eyes and makes a mental note to start a merciless
teasing war with his best friend once out of here, one that he has every intention to win.

“Got your iced tea,” Jimin whispers, slipping into the empty seat next to Jeongguk while one
of the actors on stage launches into a passionate monologue. He hands him the 10.000 won
note along with the cup and shakes his head at Jeongguk’s confused look.

“Buy me coffee next time,” Jimin says, and as he gets up to join Hoseok in his love corner, he
feels a hand on his elbow pulling him back on his seat.

“Wait,” Jeongguk whispers back. “I gotta tell you something.”

“Is it thank you?”

“Thank you for the drink,” Jeongguk says with an automatic voice. Jimin raises his eyebrows
and sits back down. “I have a room at the Bird tonight. With other Rares.”

“A room?” Then it clicks. With other Rares. “Oh. O-okay?”

“Are you working tonight?”

He shakes his head. He’s got nowhere to be after rehearsal, and he isn’t sure if it’s a blessing
or a curse. Maybe he’ll hang around the library until closing hours, then head to a 24/7 café if
he still doesn’t feel like going home—he can study the night away, like he’s done so many
times. Home feels like a battlefield these days.

“Then how about you come watch?”

He looks at Jeongguk, slightly perplexed. “Watch… what?”

“The room,” Jeongguk hisses vehemently, barely holding back an eyeroll. “You can’t be
allowed inside, obviously, but there’s cameras. You can watch from the security room.”

“Oh.” He feels a little stupid now. “Is that allowed?”

Jeongguk shrugs. “Nobody cares. As long as it’s not outsiders, everyone can take a peek.
What goes on in the rooms isn’t exactly a mystery.”

Jimin’s hand flies to his lip, where he begins to pick at the skin, a little anxious. To his
surprise, Jeongguk swats his hand away.

“Don’t do that.”

Jimin stares at him, stunned.

“It’ll bleed again. You work with your face,” Jeongguk points out, eyes lingering on his lips.
“Don’t ruin it.”

Jimin swallows thickly, not knowing what to say. He hides the hand between his thighs.
Every time Jeongguk stares at his lips, he feels that same warmth unfurling in his belly,
immediately followed by a strange fight or flight feeling—except there’s a third option buried
in there somewhere, and its pull becomes stronger by the day.

“Come to the Bird with me after rehearsal. Consider it another one of our lessons, except this
time you’re watching me in action,” Jeongguk says, finally dragging his gaze up to Jimin’s
eyes. “Five birds and four customers. I think it’s a business meeting of some sort, you
probably won’t see anything too extreme.”

“Then why ask for a private room?” Jimin asks in a hushed voice. He casts a quick glance at
Namjoon, who looks completely engrossed in the play. He’s whispering the lines under his
breath. “They could have just booked a booth.”

“You ask the wrong questions, Jimin. You don’t question why men want to spend more of
their money on you, you just smile and say thank you. And rich people like to do business
with a pretty boy between their legs. It’s a power thing, makes them feel important in front of
their business partners. Plus, climax allegedly leads to enlightenment or some shit.”

“I don’t really… like to watch,” Jimin says slowly. He feels for the bump of an old wound on
his bottom lip with his teeth. The urge to pick at it is almost overwhelming.

“You can go home at any time. I’m not telling you to watch from start to finish. If anything,
it’ll give you an idea of how it’s gonna be like, what to expect. And that might help.”

Jimin sighs, figures that instead of spending the night in the company of his history books, he
might as well witness the legendary Skylark in action. Through security cameras.

“Alright,” he says, as the lights on the stage dim and the set is exchanged for another one.
“I’ll go with you.”

“Great. Wait at the Starbucks next to the Law department after rehearsal. We’ll take the bus
from there.”

“You don’t want to be seen leaving with me?” Jimin huffs, a little irked.

Jeongguk cocks his head to the side. “Wouldn’t it be a little weird?”

Jimin gnaws at his lip. He’s got a point. Why would they leave together? It’s not like they’re
known to be friends.

He’s about to agree with him when Taehyung pops up from behind the scenes and calls his
name. “Jimin! Scene soon.”

“See you there.”

He takes his leave from Jeongguk without another word and gets up to follow Taehyung
backstage. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, not even to himself—but he’s a little curious to
see Skylark in action.
3.
The café is spacious and bursting with Law students in the middle of rather intense studying
sessions, the rickety tables completely covered by piles of books thicker than dictionaries.
Jimin observes them in silence, a small cup of coffee—the fourth of the day—clutched in his
hands. They all have a slightly crazed look in their eyes, and disheveled hair brushed back by
nervous hands every couple minute or so. Jimin sips his coffee and thanks God his parents
didn’t force him to study Law. Honestly, his parents couldn’t care less what faculty he picked
when he passed the entrance test; they barely congratulated him. He’s pretty sure Daejung
doesn’t even know what he’s studying—not that he’d think History would be a subject worth
majoring in, of course. His blood boils just thinking of the mocking words his stepfather
would spew his way if he found out.

His thread of thoughts breaks when he gets an unknown call on his cellphone. The vibrations
shake the table, catching him by surprise. He picks the phone up, frowning, thumb hovering
over the decline button, when on a whim he decides to take the call.

“Hello?”

“Jimin.”

He blinks. This voice is familiar even if the caller is listed as unknown, even if this person
has never called his name so close to his ear before—he doesn’t know why, but Jeongguk’s
voice through the phone sends him shivering.

“Jeongguk?” he looks around, scanning the small crowd to find him. “I’m in the Starbucks.”

“Come out. I’m at the bus stop. You know where it is?”

Phone calls, Jimin decides right then and there, can be quite an intimate thing. It might have
something to do with the proximity of Jeongguk’s voice to his ear, hearing him and only him
while tuning out the rest of the world in its entirety—like that time his vision tunneled to only
Jeongguk in the bar, blurring the background in a smear of unimportant colors.

“Uhm, I don’t think I’ve ever taken the bus from nearby here,” he says apologetically,
throwing his empty coffee cup in the trash as he exits the Starbucks. “My bus stop is on the
other side of campus.”

“Go outside and head to the left. It’s a little down the street, you’ll see it immediately.”

Jeongguk’s voice is usually deep, not as deep as Yoongi’s or Taehyung’s, but definitely
deeper than his own. Over the phone it sounds almost velvety, like if Jimin closed his eyes he
could feel the texture of it.

Not that he’d do it, of course. He’d look like an idiot walking down the street with his eyes
closed.

And then he would miss Jeongguk standing at the bus stop, waiting for him. There he is.
He lingers a little longer on the phone, not wanting to hang up yet and have Jeongguk know
he’s here. He watches him instead. He’s leaning against the lamppost, warm light overhead
weaving a web of silverish threads in his black hair. His shadow is long and dark against the
asphalt. Just a student on the phone with another student, on his way to a job the university
probably wouldn’t approve of.

“Did you get lost?”

“I’m right here,” Jimin says from behind him, and he feels a twisted sort of satisfaction when
Jeongguk whips around with his eyes wide like saucers.

“Don’t fucking do it ever again.”

“Now you know not to creep up on people.”

“I don’t creep up on anyone. You’re just too self-absorbed to notice me.”

If only that were the case, Jimin thinks, but he rolls his eyes at Jeongguk and lets him have
this win.

“So, which bus are we taking?”

“That one,” Jeongguk says, nodding to a bus that’s just rounded the corner. “It’s a twenty-
minute ride. Eleven stops.”

Twenty minutes, eleven stops with Jeon Jeongguk. If only he could check on the current state
of his sanity meter.

They get on the bus, Jimin following Jeongguk to the very back of the vehicle. It’s almost
empty, only a few older ladies on their way back from the market sitting in the first rows,
chatting loudly among themselves about the spike in the price of fish and fruit. In their eyes
Jeongguk probably looks like a punk, a dashing one with his black hair and black bomber
jacket and artfully torn skinny jeans and stupid black fucking stomper boots whose price
would make the eyebrows of many an older lady rise up to their hairlines. Even they stop to
glance at him appreciatively, and Jimin instantly knows they were the type to fall for the
school’s bad boy back in the day.

At least Jeon Jeongguk isn’t a bad boy. That would have been too much of a cliché, he
decides, sitting at the back of the bus next to Jeongguk, but not on the seat immediately next
to him, no, he leaves a nice little empty seat between them—just because.

Jeon Jeongguk isn’t a bad boy, he’s just his nemesis clad in expensive clothes, with a pretty
face and a velvet voice over the phone.

Who teaches him about sex stuff while sporting a boner of his own, and stares way too long
at his lips as he tells him – orders him—to choke on a dildo.

The bad boy persona might’ve been better.

“Who are the other hosts with you tonight?” he asks to get his mind off things.
“Uhm—there’s me, Nightingale, Sparrow, Dove, and… Swallow, I think.”

Things is of course Jeongguk, especially the very vivid memory of Jeongguk’s very evident
hard-on the other night.

“Must be hard to be a host nicknamed Swallow.”

“He gets a lot of shit for it, yeah.”

Jimin sinks further down the seat, tries to find a more comfortable position to face the
twenty-minutes, eleven stop ride ahead.

“Isn’t it crazy that Seokjin picked Oriole for me?” he says, staring straight ahead at the old
ladies guffawing and clucking among themselves. “Since I’m starring in a play of the same
name. I meant to ask you, did you tell him about it?”

“Nope,” Jeongguk says, bringing a leg up on the seat and hugging it close to his chest. “But
you were kinda dressed like one. With the orange hoodie and the black pants. And you’re the
perfect size.”

“Height jokes, how original. I was wondering when you’d strike.”

“I was saving mine for the right moment,” Jeongguk says, grinning. “To be honest I kinda
botched it, orioles aren’t even that small now that I think about it.”

“Can’t say I know much about birds,” Jimin says, and suddenly Seokjin’s words of a couple
months ago rush into his mind, uninvited – about the Italian word for bird being slang for
cock—and he almost chokes on a slightly hysterical laugh. He certainly can’t say he knows
much about cocks, too.

“I’ve been wondering, why did you guys call the play Orioles?” he asks Jeongguk. “There’s
no mention of birds in the story.”

“Are you sure you read the script from start to finish?”

Jimin shrinks under Jeongguk’s gaze. “Uh, I might—might’ve skipped the longer
monologues that aren’t Sadaham’s.”

Jeongguk sighs, but he looks more amused than anything at Jimin’s confession. “Well, if you
had taken the time to skim through the script—or at least pay attention to the scenes you’re
not in,” he glares at Jimin, but it’s softer, a stare with blunted edges, “—you’d have noticed
Mugwan mentions orioles in one of the very first scenes.”

“He does?”

“Yes. He recites part of a poem, the Hwangjo-ka.”

“—Orioles’ song,” Jimin mumbles, “I think I know it. I remember studying it in high
school.”
“It’s one of the earliest recorded songs in our literature, also considered the first lyric poem.
It’s about a king who reflects on his solitude, as he stares at orioles in the sky flying in pair.
They always fly in pair.”

“Oh?” Jimin quirks his eyebrows. “I didn’t know.”

Jeongguk shifts slightly, turning his whole body toward Jimin while tilting his head against
the seat. He stares at him briefly before closing his eyes.

“Flutter, flutter, orioles – male and female, cuddling together. How lonely am I, with whom
shall I return?”

Jimin stares, mesmerized, as Jeongguk’s eyes flutter open again. He fixes him with the same
dark eyes that bore into him so many other times before, but never quite with this kind of
intensity. It’s almost surreal listening to Jeongguk recite such an old, heartrending song in the
back of a bus, of all places.

“It sounds better in classical Chinese, but I don’t remember all the words and my
pronunciation is shit. Sorry.”

“No, it’s—it’s really nice. I mean, it sounded beautiful,” Jimin blurts, blushing a little without
really knowing why. “Male and female cuddling together, uh?”

“Mugwan recites it when he says goodbye to his village and the girl he thought he loved. The
first person he sees after reciting the song is Sadaham.” He casts Jimin a significant glance.
“The rest is, quite literally, history.”

“A different pair of orioles, then.”

“Some scholars argue that orioles have symbolized love in literature for a short while,”
Jeongguk goes on. “I liked it. But love is never the same, and sometimes even classical
poetry can be wrong about it.”

“You picked the title, didn’t you?”

Jeongguk’s smile is blinding. “Yes. Does it feel as pretentious as I am?”

A somewhat breathless giggle falls from Jimin’s lips. The bus is eerily silent, the old ladies’
constant chatter has dwindled down a bit, and Jimin hears every heartbeat pulse against his
eardrums.

“Don’t do that,” Jeongguk murmurs, eyes darkening abruptly like a midsummer sky. Jimin
stops with his fingers hovering over his bottom lip. Jeongguk stopped him from picking at it,
again. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it.

“Sorry.”

“Why do you do it?”

“It’s just a nervous tic,” Jimin shrugs, staring at the rows of lampposts flying by at
Jeongguk’s back. “I tend to do it when I’m anxious or stressed, I guess.”

“I’ve seen people bite their nails down to the cuticles,” Jeongguk says, head still leaning
against the plastic seat. “People biting their lips bloody. Tables shaking with how vigorously
people bounce their leg up and down. But never someone who consciously peels their lips
raw with their fingernails.”

Jimin huffs, feeling a little singled out. “It’s something my mom does a lot. When she’s—”
Angry. Anxious. In withdrawal. “It kinda rubbed off on me, I guess. I’ve been doing it since I
was little.” He glances at Jeongguk, whose eyes have never strayed from his face. “I know
it’s gross. Sorry.”

“It’s not that,” Jeongguk says. A pause. “Does it hurt?”

“It burns a little. You’re tearing the skin off. It’s kinda therapeutic for me, though? It’s a bad
coping mechanism, I know.”

Jeongguk’s doing it again—staring intently at his lips. It makes him terribly self-conscious.
His fingers itch. He licks his lips instead, and finds them dry.

“You have very pretty lips,” Jeongguk says in a whisper. His words are so hushed Jimin
thinks for a moment he’s dreamt them. “It’s a pity.”

Heart rabbiting in his chest, Jimin short-circuits for a few seconds, unsure how to answer
Jeongguk’s words—then the sound of a bell alerts them they’re nearing the next bus stop.

Jeongguk shakes his head, and it’s like a fog lifts from his eyes again. He looks around,
peering into the fluorescent night outside, then says, “We’re here. Let’s get off.”

As they step out of the bus, the frigid air slaps Jimin awake in an instant. Thoughts of poems
and pretty lips and birds flying in pairs freeze over, hidden behind a layer of ice, and he stares
with a frown at the imposing building ahead of them.

They cross the street and enter the Black Bird without saying another word.
4.
“Are you sure this is allowed?” Jimin asks with concern, looking at the door with the
“authorized personnel only” sign.

“They don’t mind. Come on.” Jeongguk knocks once and opens the door without waiting for
an answer.

The room is on the smaller side, nothing fancy like the rest of the building. There’s two small
desks, each with monitors mounted on it showing footage from the various rooms. Only one
is occupied at the moment.

A rather overweight man in a uniform is busy chuckling at some tv show on a small laptop—
Jimin suspects it’s his personal computer, and that what he’s watching isn’t a particularly
funny private room footage.

“Hey, man. Do you mind?” Jeongguk asks, already sitting down at the other empty desk.

The man only shakes his head no, eyes perpetually glued to the small screen. He’s
distractedly munching on some potato chips, crumbs already dotting the uniform stretched
across his broad belly. This isn’t what Jimin had imagined when Jeongguk assured him the
rooms were surveilled.

“Isn’t he supposed to, you know, do his job?” he says under his breath to Jeongguk, who’s
messing with the surveillance program on the monitor, looking for the right window to open
and enlarge.

“Yes, security is a little… lax sometimes,” Jeongguk says. “There are five different guys
watching surveillance on different days, some are definitely better than others. He’s… one of
the useless ones,” he whispers, casting the man a withering glare. “If he isn’t glued to that
shit tv show, he’s jacking off to the footage of the rooms. It’s kinda depressing, really.”

The thought that the men who are supposed to make sure the hosts don’t get harassed are
masturbating to what they see on camera is disturbing to say the least. Suddenly, working in
the private rooms becomes much less appealing than what he thought before.

“Does Seokjin know about this?”

“Oh, look, Swallow and Nightingale are already in.” Jeongguk cuts him off, pointing to two
figures entering the room. The screen shows a room much like the one they use for their little
private lessons, with lounge sofas, glass coffee tables, a bar, a large tv screen, and two pole-
dancing poles waiting for a warm body to grind against them. The two hosts make
themselves at home, one pouring himself a drink and another sprawling on the sofa, idly
zapping from channel to channel on the tv.

“What time’s the appointment?” Jimin asks nervously. He has to make a conscious effort not
to pick at his lips in front of Jeongguk.
Jeongguk checks the time. “In fifteen minutes. Shit, I gotta get dressed. I didn’t even do my
make up.”

He gets up in a hurry, turns to Jimin one last time. “You don’t have to stay until the end. Just
watch what you can, alright? Watch how the other hosts move, how they act around the
clients. We’re allowed to be way more forward in the rooms. Watch how the clients react,
how the hosts react. The quality is a little grainy but hey, it’s better than nothing. This is the
real shit, there’s no script.”

Jimin sits at the desk, back straight as a rod and eyes fixed forward on the screen. His hands
are already starting to feel clammy.

“Okay.”

“Okay. See you later. Or maybe not,” Jeongguk says, and after shooting him a quick, slightly
concerned glance, he leaves the room. And Jimin’s left alone with an overweight man
watching tv and snacking on smelly potato chips.

This is way more uncomfortable than he anticipated. A new height of uncomfortable-ness.

Achievement unlocked.

He stares at the room. Nothing exciting happens for a while. One by one the other hosts file
into the room, until Jeongguk’s the only one missing. Jimin figures that, being Seokjin’s
favorite bird – or at least that’s the impression he got from him—Jeongguk is probably
allowed to act a little like a diva. The minutes pass, and another host leads the clients inside
at precisely the time of the appointment. Four men in sleek suits, age ranging from fifty to
sixty—though it’s a little hard to tell since the quality isn’t the best. They take a seat around
the coffee table, unbutton their jackets, make themselves at home. The hosts immediately
swarm to them like bees to honey. It isn’t the men that go to them. It’s the hosts. The
customers sit there, making small talk among themselves, expecting the pretty boys in the
room to do what they’re there for: attend to them. They serve them soju or whiskey or red
wine or whatever their little rich hearts demand. And thus far, all good. It’s just like working
on the first floor. Jeongguk’s still not here. Perhaps showing up fashionably late is part of his
charm.

He’s just had the thought that the camera catches another figure entering the room. Jeongguk
is dressed in extremely tight leather pants and an animal-print shirt that looks more like
colored tissue paper than cloth from the way it doesn’t leave anything to the imagination. It’s
either torn at the collar or asymmetrical in cut, flowy and very flattering on him, see-through
enough to catch the shadow of his tattoo against his skin.

He looks very good. He looks like a host of the Black Bird should look, an expensive one, a
Rare, Exotic one. The five men all turn to look at him in unison and greet him—he wonders
if they’ve met before, if they’ve enjoyed Skylark’s services before—but Jeongguk heads
straight to the oldest man of the group and lounges next to him in an artfully constructed
pose, smiling angelically—or devilishly, he can’t really tell, and sometimes there isn’t much
of a difference with Jeon Jeongguk anyway.
It starts slow, as Jeongguk predicted. Jimin figures there’s a bit of business talk going around,
or maybe more small talk, or maybe they’re discussing which sexual acts to perform on the
hosts, he isn’t sure. Might be anything. What do clients talk about in the private rooms?
They’ve got beautiful boys eager to suck them off, staring up at them with languid eyes and
even more languid mouths. If you’ve paid for Rares, then use them already. Jimin’s getting
antsy. The anticipation is quite literally destroying him, it feels like he’s in the room with the
hosts, waiting for the storm to hit. If only they’d start soon, he could watch for a little while
and then finally head home to drown the cursed visuals in a marathon of silly movies that’ll
last till the morning.

But when things start to happen, he realizes he isn’t as prepared as he thought he was.

It begins subtly, someone pulling a host over their lap, another sliding a hand inside a host’s
pants. Then the performances begin. It’s only now that Jimin understands what Jeongguk
meant when he told him he’d have to put on a show. Because this is all a show, a big fanciful
performance, and Jeongguk’s the main character for sure.

He knows Jeongguk explicitly said to pay attention to everyone in the room—hosts and
customers alike, but he can’t take his eyes off Skylark. He vaguely registers one of the hosts
swaying sensually on the pole, ecstatic customers enjoying the show with their cocks in hand.
His attention is focused solely on Jeongguk perched comfortably on the old man’s lap, slowly
grinding down with a sensual rotation of his hips. The man looks completely lost in a daze,
legs sprawled apart, hands firmly cupping Jeongguk’s asscheeks. He’s staring up at
Jeongguk’s face with nothing short of adoration, and Jimin wonders if Jeongguk’s telling him
something. Maybe he’s dirty-talking. Maybe he’s listing the numerous things the man can do
to him if he takes him to the other private rooms, the ones with beds, for the modicum price
of a hell of a lot of money he surely won’t miss. Cause that’s eventually Jeongguk’s game,
Jimin realizes. Getting fucked five days to Sunday to leech money off the wealthiest men in
the city. Honest work.

Ugly work.

Which is getting uglier by the minute, and Jimin’s breaking in a cold sweat.

This is what’s expected of me, he thinks as Jeongguk falls to his knees. This is what’s expected
of me, he thinks as another host lets a customer push him down the sofa. This is what’s
expected of me, he thinks as Nightingale fucks a light-haired boy he doesn’t recognize – is he
Swallow? – with a dildo twice the size the one Jeongguk gave him.

This is what is expected of me, and amidst the familiar repulsion, the arousal, and the
uneasiness, another feeling slowly slithers up the pits of his stomach, curling around his liver,
his lungs, his heart with tendrils of smoke—so very faint at first, but rapidly becoming more
and more palpable with each passing second.

He doesn’t like to watch Jeongguk in action. This person—Skylark—is once again different
from the Jeongguk he meets in their private room at night. A third mask with thicker skin and
a single objective in mind.
He doesn’t like the way the old man touches him, and this time it isn’t because he’s
envisioning himself in Jeongguk’s shoes. It’s something other, unfamiliar, rather unpleasant,
leaves a bitter taste in his mouth he can’t seem to swallow down.

As if tethered to his thoughts, Jeongguk shifts to the side and stares straight at the security
camera. Jimin freezes, heart slamming in his chest for a few painful beats. Jeongguk is
looking right at him, and he knows he’s watching, he knows he’s paying attention.

The world seems to shift on its axis as Jeongguk keeps working at the man’s cock with both
hands and mouth, all the while casting furtive glances at the camera in the corner of the room.
The man is too far gone in the throes of pleasure to notice anything, slumped against the
backrest with his eyes closed and a hand buried in Jeongguk’s hair. It makes Jeongguk bolder,
his glances turning to full-on stares, and Jimin leans imperceptibly forward toward the
screen. This is for him. Jeongguk is putting on a show for him. What’s he trying to do?, isn’t
he supposed to focus all of his attention to the customer? Where’s the eye contact? This isn’t
what Jeongguk keeps drilling him on about. You do not get distracted by anything or anyone
while you’re with a customer. They pay you. And for the time allowed, you’re theirs.

Except Jeongguk is breaking all the rules.

Maybe he wants to show him how good he is, Jimin distantly thinks, his pants getting
uncomfortably tight the more Jeongguk keeps glancing up. He did say he’d get a
demonstrative lesson, and Jeongguk wants to be extra sure he’s got Jimin’s attention, that’s it.
There isn’t anything more to it.

A raucous laughter brings Jimin back to reality, and he whirls around, startled at the sound.
It’s the security guard, chuckling at the tv. His laugh sounds like the grunt of a pig, and his
fingertips are greasy with crumbs. The sight nauseates him.

Jimin turns to the computer screen, stomach churning and heart in his throat. From the corner
of his eye, he sees on the secondary screen at least a dozen other windows open to more
private rooms; more people undressing, twisting around, seducing, fucking. His head spins.
When Jeongguk sinks down the old man’s cock with practiced ease, nose brushing the man’s
pubes, he pushes abruptly off the desk and gets up on wobbly legs.

He doesn’t stop walking when he’s out of the security room, he doesn’t stop until he walks
past the dressing rooms, the other hosts stepping to the side to let him pass – “Jimin, you’re
working tonight?” “Where’d you come from?”—he doesn’t answer, eyes fixed ahead and
mind clouded by a vortex of familiar and unfamiliar emotions. He lets out a breath he didn’t
know he was holding as soon as he steps outside, when his sneakers hit the pavement instead
of the polished marble of the Black Bird.

Another mistake—not his first, and not his last.

5.
Turns out avoiding Jeon Jeongguk is harder than he’d thought.

After leaving the Black Bird that night, he headed straight home. He rode the subway with
his head a jumble of feelings and unwelcome visions, and sometimes those very same
feelings felt unwelcome, too. Jeongguk hadn’t contacted him, not even hours later, when
Jimin was pretty sure the business meeting slash orgy had long since ended. Half of him was
curious to know if they’d upgraded to the full service, the other half hoped to never know
anything about it ever again. He couldn’t sleep well that night, tossing and turning and trying
his hardest to ignore the raging boner in his pants. He alternated between bouts in which he
felt super fucking miserable, to moments where he didn’t want anything more than to get off,
and it was exhausting him. His brain was stuck in a loop, an ouroboros of constant misery
where the snake’s head was his arousal and the tail his own repulsion. They fed off each other
and drove him out of his mind.

The next morning, he woke up with a text from Jeongguk.

Unknown
hey. how much did you watch? minho said he saw you walk out at 11

Jimin tried to recall who Minho was. One of the guys who had seen him in the corridor, no
doubt. Perhaps he was Swan? He didn’t know Swan’s real name. He didn’t text him back.

When he got out of his second class of the day, Hoseok inanely rambling in his ear, he’d
spotted Jeongguk down the hallway. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, considering both
the History majors and Literature majors often shared this building’s classrooms, but the way
Jeongguk was scanning the crowd as if to look for someone made him spin 180 degrees to
hide inside the men’s toilets. Hoseok had followed him inside, laughing his ass off when
Jimin lied to him by saying he’d had a sudden bathroom emergency.

Jeongguk texted him twice that day. The first time to say, are you around campus? and the
second time,

Unknown
are you ok?
Jimin stares at the screen, unblinking. He’s been lying prone on his bed for so long that his
back is starting to protest. His neck too, he’s pretty sure he’s developed ankylosis due to
staring too long at the phone. When he finally switches positions to lay on his back, every
muscle and vertebrae screams in pain.

I’ve got the body of a fifty-year old. The thought brings back memories of middle-aged men
in a soundproof room. It makes him feel instantly worse.

He stares some more at Jeongguk’s text, the word Unknown bolded and black against the
white background. He hasn’t added him in his contacts yet because it would make everything
too real. He doesn’t know exactly why refusing to add Jeongguk in his contact list would
make Jeongguk less real on a physical and/or abstract level, but he stopped arguing with the
whimsical part of his brain a long time ago. It’s no use. If his brain tells him this could help
even just a tiny little bit in avoiding and forgetting what he’s seen and what he’s felt, then so
be it. He goes with the flow.

The piercing ringtone of an incoming call startles him and Jimin curses as his phone falls flat
on his face. He picks it up, scowling, rubbing at his nose, and stares at the Unknown on the
screen with a mounting sense of dread. He recognizes the number underneath. Has nobody
told Jeon Jeongguk you don’t ever, ever call anyone on the phone, unless you’re close to
them? What is this, the nineties? Stick to fucking texts. Tweet at him if absolutely necessary.
But for the love of anything sacred, don’t call.

He stares at the screen for the whole duration of the call, neither picking up nor declining.
When the screen turns black and the phone stops ringing obnoxiously, he switches it to silent
mode and gets up from the bed with a weary sigh.

He wonders if Jeongguk called to ask him are you ok? with the same velvety voice of the
other night.

In the kitchen, he fills a glass of water, then downs it in one go. The house is blissfully empty.
The clock ticks away slowly, and twilight tinges the room in pretty pink and orange hues.
This is a time where people find some sort of serenity staring at the horizon, but Jimin can’t
see the horizon from the third floor of their apartment. Only more gray buildings.

The front door opens, and time switches to normal speed again. Jimin waits to hear who
among his family members has come home. He thinks he’s got a pretty solid hunch. Daejung
is away for work, transporting cargo across the country in his truck. His mother hasn’t come
home in a few days, she’s probably collapsed in a stranger’s house somewhere.

“What’re you doing here in the dark? You gave me a fright,” Jihyun says, switching on the
lights. The lamps overhead take a few seconds to sputter to life, and one gives up after a
couple tries. When did twilight bleed into night? How long he’s been standing still in the
kitchen?

“Sorry. Where were you? Afterschool ends at seven.”

“What are you, my mom?” Jihyun huffs, unceremoniously throwing his bag on the kitchen
table. Jimin purses his lips. He’s yelled at him so many fucking times about not putting his
bag on the table. It carries around all the filth and grime of this soulless city.

“Just answer my question.”

“I was at a pc room. With friends. Happy now?”

“Squandering money, then.” He glances at the pile of overdue bills on the counter. “Can’t say
I’m happy about it, no.”

“Can’t you get off my back for one minute, dude?” Jihyun says, back turned to him as he
opens the fridge looking for food. It’s half-empty, since Jimin used his last paycheck to pay
the debt collectors before their metaphorical knocking at the door turned to a less
metaphorical tearing the door down its hinges.

“I’m not a dude. I’m your brother.”

The boy scoffs. “Yeah. I wish I were an only child.”

Jihyun kicks the refrigerator door shut when he finds nothing worth to snack on, then gets a
tube of pills from a pocket of his school bag.

“What is that? What are you taking?” Jimin asks, suspicion bleeding into his voice.

“Nothing. Jesus Christ, Jimin, it’s just painkillers,” Jihyun snaps when Jimin lunges at his
brother to snatch the tube from his hand. Unfortunately for Jimin, his brother is a little
quicker and side-steps him easily. “Not everyone in this house is a fucking junkie,” Jihyun
adds, staring at him in defiance.

This makes Jimin halt. “I’m sorry.”

Guilt pools in his stomach, permeates his thoughts in thick, black tar. He’s a terrible brother.
Has been for quite a while. Monster. Wish I was an only child. “I’m just looking out for you.
You know that, right?”

“Yeah, right,” Jihyun scoffs. “You’re never home. Never around when I need you. You think I
don’t know what you do when you’re not working? You prefer to wander around the city like
a homeless man rather than come home to your fucking family. Think I didn’t notice? How
much you despise us.”

“I don’t despise you,” Jimin murmurs, the echo of his brother’s words slashing deep into his
flesh and bones.

“You’ve got a real fucked-up way of showing it.”

The night bleeds even darker. Jihyun’s words are a palpable weight over his heart.

His phone vibrates. It’s a text message.

 Unknown:
I’m sorry.

Jimin grabs his coat and walks out into the soulless city of Seoul.
Chapter 5
1.
Working at the Black Bird is always draining. Weird how a job that isn’t physically
demanding in the least can leave him this exhausted—and dirty, like a used rag discarded on
the counter of a grimy bar. Every night he shows up for work, that same rag is used to wipe a
new set of even dirtier glasses, until he isn’t sure who’s filthier anymore. Him, or the men he
sells part of himself to.

Every time he steps out of a booth, every time he walks another customer to the front doors,
he feels a little part of himself break away and stay in that booth, or go away with the
customers. It’s thinning him out, or maybe it’s just desensitizing him. if he’s lucky, by the
time Jeongguk deems him ready to work Rare, he’ll be able to switch off any kind of feeling.
He should have learned how to do it by then, right?

He’s been successfully avoiding Jeongguk for three days already. In the campus, he hid
behind Hoseok or mingled in the crowd of students whenever he glimpsed him from afar. He
avoided studying in the school’s library, afraid Jeongguk would trap him in there to talk,
opting to hid away in one of the dozens coffee shops dotting the streets just outside the
university’s campus. He really thought he’d finally stumble into him tonight—it has to
happen sooner or later. He held his breath every time he rounded a corner or got back to the
dressing rooms, expecting Jeongguk to be there, waiting for him. So far, he hasn’t seen him
anywhere yet.

The wait is nerve-wracking. He knows Jeongguk is around somewhere in the club, and that
it’s a matter of hours before they stumble into each other and Jimin is forced to give some
sort of explanation for his bizarre behavior.

His stomach churns at the mere thought. He’s not good at explaining things, especially if
those things are his feelings. That’s why he hopes to quickly learn how to switch them off
altogether—if there’s a job that can teach you how to do such a thing, it’s hosting for Seokjin.
Right? How else can the other birdies fly so close to the sun without ever catching fire?

Feeling the tension rise nearly to a snapping point, Jimin heaves out a long, drawn-out sigh
and sags into the couch at the back of the dressing room. So far, he hasn’t been able to come
up with a reasonable excuse. Maybe it’s time he lets himself be found by Jeongguk and
just… go with the flow. Make up something on the spot.

Except that the longer he lingers in the dressing room, the more his anxiety coagulates into
restlessness. He keeps scrolling through his text messages, opening Jeongguk’s chat and
reading and re-reading the short texts he’d sent him. It’s probably better if he takes the
initiative, show that he’s ready to talk. He was the one ignoring Jeongguk for three whole
days, after all. He was the one who left without saying a single word.

He takes a big breath and types a quick, concise text.

Jimin:
I’m in dress room 3.

Maybe it’s a little cryptic? He stares at the screen, gnaws at his bottom lip. His palms are
already starting to feel sticky. He sends another one.

Jimin:
are you around?

He’s still working, he thinks. Or maybe he’s not even at the Bird. Maybe he doesn’t work
Thursday nights.

“Hey, does Jeongguk work tonight?” he asks to the boy closer to him. This one he’s seen
around multiple times before; he’s worked with him a couple times too. A sweet, seemingly
innocent little thing. The first time Jimin saw him he thought he was underage. Jeongguk
once told him he’s one of the most sought-after hosts. That made him feel uneasy.

“I’m not sure?” the host warbles, applying mascara to his already thick eyelashes and
scanning himself over in the mirror. “Ken, does Gguk work tonight?”

Another host answers while shrugging off his work clothes. His brown curls are on the right
side of unruly, and he’s got several hickeys scattered across his collarbones and neck.

“Jeongguk?” The lace shirt pools at his feet, and Ken kicks it away with a bare foot. “Why?”

Jimin shrugs. “Need to tell him something.” Like, sorry I acted like a thirteen-year-old. Sorry
my coping mechanism is set by default on Run Away mode.

“I didn’t see him around the first floor, but maybe he’s working upstairs,” Ken says. “You
should take a look at the cameras in the security room. Thursday nights are slow nights, there
shouldn’t be many customers in the private rooms. If he’s in there you’ll find him easily.”

“Oh, y-yeah?” His fingertips dance over his bottom lip anxiously. He has to make the
conscious effort to lower his hand, as if the limb has developed a mind of its own and it’s
hard for him to control it. “I’m not sure we’re allowed in there though,” he says, thinking
back to the security guard binging his tv shows and munching on his greasy chips. He
shudders lightly. “Maybe I’ll just wait here a little longer.”

“You could miss him. Unless you know how to be in four dressing rooms at the same time.”

Fuck, he’s right. Jeongguk might go back to one of the other rooms, change fast, and walk
out of the building without him noticing. On the other hand, if Jeongguk really isn’t working
tonight, he could end up wasting his night uselessly waiting for the other host to show up.

The fact that Jeongguk isn’t answering his texts might mean that he’s working, but it could
also mean he’s busy doing something else entirely.

Checking the security cameras might be the easiest way to find out.

“You know what, you’re right. I’ll go check the cameras.” It kind of feels like a punishment,
walking back to that cursed security room where he almost had a panic attack the other night.
He leaves the other hosts in the changing room, wishing them good night, and heads straight
for the security room.

A little peek will do. He doesn’t need to stay longer than strictly necessary. A single glance
will be enough to know if Jeongguk’s with a customer, and if that is the case he’ll just wait
for him somewhere in the building. Jeongguk will finish his business, check his phone, read
his texts and contact him again. And then they’ll talk. And then Jimin doesn’t know exactly
what he’ll say to him, except maybe some vague apologizing for having ghosted him. He
doesn’t have the slightest idea what Jeongguk might say to him, though. He draws a blank
every time he tries to imagine the scene—himself blabbering some poor excuse, Jeongguk
telling him… what, exactly? Is he going to address the way he stared right at him through the
camera, that night in the private room? Was that the reason why he texted him he was sorry?

He knocks at the security room door, a light rasp of knuckles against wood. No response. He
knocks again. He can hear muffled laughter coming from a TV on the other side of the door.
No response again. He ignores the sign forbidding him entry and walks in.

The overweight security guard isn’t at his desk tonight. In his place there’s another man,
decidedly thinner and lankier. It’s almost comical how this security guard is the total opposite
of his colleague. He’s got a tiny portable TV in a corner, tuned in to some trashy TV program
with a laughing track that plays every few seconds or so, but he isn’t paying any mind to it.
The guard is sprawled in his swivel chair, one leg propped up on the desk, busy completing a
puzzle in a magazine.

“Sorry, can I check the cameras real quick?”

The security guard lifts his eyes to flash him a bored look. He shrugs, mutters “Sure,” then
gets back to his puzzles.

It’s baffling. The Black Bird is one of the most luxurious clubs in Seoul, yet their security is
the worst Jimin’s ever seen. How the hosts feel safe working in the rooms is beyond him.
How he’s going to feel safe knowing the security guards don’t give a crap about their job is
beyond him.
He sits on the very edge of the chair in front of the other empty desk, the same one he sat at
the previous night. Ken was right, there aren’t a lot of occupied rooms tonight, Jimin counts
only five. There is a lot going on in the security footage, and Jimin feels his stomach tie in
familiar knots. He scans the screen quickly, trying to spot a familiar mop of black hair. And
he does. Jeongguk is in room number four.

He relaxes instantly once he realizes it’s safe to look. Jeongguk and the customer aren’t doing
anything yet. They seem like they’re just talking—no, like they’re having a discussion. A
rather heated one.

Perhaps Jeongguk knows the customer?

Jimin scoots closer to the monitor, leaning in over the desk to take a better look. He grabs the
computer mouse and maximizes room number four’s window.

Jeongguk looks like he’s explaining something, but everything about his posture screams
hostility. The look in his face is clearly an annoyed one. The customer doesn’t seem to pay
him any mind, though. He remains unbothered as he calmly unbuttons his shirt and pants,
without so much as a glance to the host.

Something in the scene unfolding before his eyes upsets Jimin. Scratch that—everything
about it upsets him. Perhaps he should go—he got what he wanted already, he now knows
Jeongguk is busy with a customer. There’s no need to keep watching. After all, Jeongguk has
never invited him to watch him work Exotic.

But when he sees Jeongguk try to open the door and the man forcibly drag him back inside
the room, a thousand alarm bells go off in his head.

His blood turns cold.

“Hey—” he whips his head toward the lanky security guard, “I-I think something’s wrong in
room four? Jeongguk—I mean, there’s a customer who won’t let the host leave the room.”

The security guard turns to him again, eyebrows raised, clearly annoyed. “Uh?”

Jimin gapes. “Dude—” he gestures toward the monitor, speechless. His next words are laced
with the subtlest hint of panic. “What the fuck?”

When he turns to the screen again, he sees the man grab Jeongguk by the waist, and
Jeongguk fighting back uselessly. He watches the customer drag him back by the hair, shove
him further inside the room—toward the bed—with mounting horror.

“Do something!”

The guard cranes his neck to glance at the monitor. Surely he will see, he will see there is
something seriously wrong with this customer—he can’t manhandle the hosts this way. This
isn’t in the rules.

But the security guard’s face pales immediately.

“Oh, four,” he mutters. “That’s—that’s nothing. They’re roleplaying.”

Jimin stares at him in utter shock. “Roleplayi—” He can’t believe it. He can’t believe it. Is
this real?

Panic, horror, then confusion. But fear—his fear is so strong it overwhelms him, turns him
dumb. He tastes bile at the back of his throat. The man in the monitor throws Jeongguk on the
bed like he weighs nothing, pins him against the mattress with his weight.

“They’re not rolepla—fucking do something, it’s your job!”

The security guard turns back to his puzzles.

“Hey!”

Jeongguk struggles on the bed, the man turns him around, presses both his arms against his
back—

“Hey! Asshole!”

—Jimin thinks he can hear the fabric of Jeongguk’s clothes tearing through the screen.

“Help him! You gotta do something!”

Dread cracks his voice, his heart is running a race in which there can’t be any winners—only
losers. He scrambles to his feet so quickly the chair falls backward, and that’s when he feels
the guard grab him by the elbow.

“Where do you think you’re going, kid?” the man drawls. His expression is much darker all
of a sudden, and very serious. “No interfering with the rooms.”

Jimin bares his teeth. “To ask for help, you useless sack of shit.”

He yanks his arm away, kicks the man between his legs and leaves him slumped over the
desk, face twisted in fury and pain.

Jimin’s heart isn’t in his chest anymore. He can feel it—no, he feels the absence of it, how his
chest feels hollow, cold. It’s switched position, and is now stuck halfway up his throat,
pulsating painfully, and it’s so hard to breathe around it. Now it’s in his trembling hands,
throbbing in each of his fingertips, making them shake to the point he doesn’t recognize his
own hands anymore. Now it’s just behind his eyes, tingeing his vision in desperation. Now he
feels it pulsing in his ears, roaring against his eardrums. A rush of adrenaline makes him run
to the elevators at the other end of the corridor with a speed he never thought he was capable
of.

He darts inside the first available elevator, rudely shoving away an old man and his escort. He
doesn’t stop to apologize. He hears the outraged “Hey!” from the receptionist, doesn’t care,
punches the button for the second floor, then slams another button to close the doors.
The doors slide closed, and the elevator starts its ascension with a slight jolt. Alone in the
cubicle, the only sound is his own ragged breath. The mirror shows him a man with wild eyes
and trembling hands. Jimin lets out a frustrated yell, slamming a fist against the glass. It
doesn’t break, and he doesn’t register the pain spiking through his hand. Slow. So
excruciatingly slow. Why the fuck does it take this fucking long to get from the first to the
second floor?

When the elevator doors ding open, he rushes out and nearly falls face-first on the floor. He
looks around, panicked, lost in a maze of anonymous doors and expensive carpets. Focus.
Room four. Room four. It’s been too long already. Too fucking long. He won’t make it. What
is he doing?

Then his brain sputters to life again, and he sees the numbers painted elegantly next to the
doors. One, two, three—four.

Jeongguk.

“Hey!”

He throws himself against the door, tries the doorhandle—to no avail. It won’t even budge.

“Hey! Open the door! Open the fucking door! Jeongguk—”

He chokes on his spit, coughs, this is wrong, this is all wrong, he shouldn’t have come here,
he should’ve asked for help, yes—help, why the fuck didn’t he ask for—”

“Jeongguk! Fuck—let him out! Hey! Let him the fuck out!”

He’s screaming his throat raw, and nobody hears him. The rooms are all soundproofed. There
is nobody else walking this corridor.

He’s kicking and punching the door with all the strength he can muster when he hears the
mechanisms whirr, the familiar buzzing of the door unlocking from the inside.

A man opens the door, his elegant custom suit perfectly straightened and buttoned up. He’s in
his mid-forties, sharp features, clean shaved. Raises an eyebrow at Jimin standing in the
doorway with his fist still in mid-air and a bewildered look on his face.

And then Jimin lets him walk past, lets him disappear behind the corner. The padding in his
head has thickened to cotton wool. He stands stock-still on the threshold, breathing hard,
shock rooting him to the ground. Brain lagging, cold sweat breaking on his skin. He’s done.

He hears it then, a sound like a sob. A single sob, faint, impalpable if not for the deafening
silence shrouding the room. Jimin breaks away from his daze and steps inside the room.

Jeongguk lies curled on his side, face buried in the sheets. He’s half naked, expensive clothes
torn to shreds, ruined. Jimin falters, looks away, feels like running to the nearest toilet to give
in to this—this nausea he’s felt bubble up his throat since the moment he saw Jeongguk in
the security footage. He fights it, tames it down, swallows thickly—his throat is dry, parched,
a desert, it hurts—and pads toward Jeongguk on the bed.
“Jeongguk, hey—” his voice is hoarse, the words feel glued to his palate. “Are you—”

What a stupid thing to ask.

Jeongguk stills immediately. His body tenses, he sees the muscles shift in his back, locking
up. There is blood on the pristine white sheets.

“Jesus, Jeongguk, you need to go to the hospital—”

“No.” Jeongguk sits up abruptly, winces, falls back on the mattress with a smothered
whimper. He lifts himself up with his hands, slowly. “No fucking hospital. No way in hell.”

“But—”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jeongguk yells, wiping at his face angrily. He climbs off
the bed and tries to cover himself up the best he can.

“I was looking for you, I was—I saw what he—”

The look Jeongguk flashes him is vicious. “You saw?”

“I tried to get help.” Not true. He didn’t try—he didn’t think. He was useless. “You need to at
least tell Seokjin. Who was that man? Did you know him? Maybe—maybe he’s still in the
building, maybe he can get him before—”

“Yes.” Jeongguk’s red-rimmed eyes widen like saucers, but there’s something very off about
them. “Yes, you’re right. Seokjin will fucking hear me this time. I’ll fucking tear him to
pieces. That motherfucker.”

Jimin recoils, surprised. Jeongguk paces the room like a caged animal, shaky hands running
through his hair until it’s nothing but a tangled nest.

“I’ll fucking kill the son of a bitch.”

He strides out of the room, leaving Jimin in stunned silence. He follows after Jeongguk a
moment later, eyes roving over him anxiously. He’s limping a little, and trying to cover it up
as best he can. The sheer fury rolling off his figure like thunder is almost palpable.

They take the stairs to Seokjin’s office, and Jimin mentally beats himself up for the hundredth
time. Had he taken the stairs, would he have gotten to Jeongguk in time? But then again,
there wasn’t much he could have done alone. He should have called for someone. The
security guard didn’t want to help, but maybe those stationed in the main hall—they could
have helped. Jimin ran right past them in his hurry to get to the elevators. Stupid.

Jeongguk slams open the door to Seokjin’s office without knocking once, storming the room
with all the force of a tornado.

“You motherfucker, piece of shit son of a whore!”

Sitting at his desk with his cellphone pressed against his ear, Seokjin has at least the decency
to look politely startled. He mumbles a quick, “I’ll call you later,” and hangs up to focus all
his attention toward a fuming Jeongguk.

“Jeongguk. What can I help you with?”

Jeongguk roars.

“Help? Is that what you think you do? Help people?”

Seokjin glances beyond Jeongguk to Jimin standing awkwardly on the doorway.

“Jimin, be a doll and close the door, will you?”

Jimin closes the door but stays inside the room. Seokjin rewards him with a quirk of his
eyebrows.

“One of your fucking customers raped me tonight,” Jeongguk snarls, hands slamming against
Seokjin’s desk with such force he sends a stack of papers flying. “And this is what you ask
me? How can you help me? How can you fucking help me?”

“Jeongguk, I’m sure there’s been a misunderstan—”

“His dick in my ass was no fucking misunderstanding,” Jeongguk yells, so impossibly loud
Jimin thinks he made the walls shake—or maybe he’s the one shaking uncontrollably. He
crosses his arms to hide the tremor, and stares at Jeongguk shouting in Seokjin’s face. “You
have cameras. You have people looking at the cameras. It’s their job. What they fuck were
they doing?!”

“I was there.” Jimin steps up timidly. Seokjin’s hard eyes immediately fall onto him.

“You were in the security room? What where you doing? You can’t go there.”

Fuck that. “I saw that man assault him,” he continues, steadying his voice. “Jeongguk tried to
leave, and he didn’t let him. The security guard took one look at the number of the room and
said they were roleplaying.” He swallows, hard. “Who was that with Jeongguk?”

“Who the fuck cares?” Jeongguk roars, enraged. “I want you to do something—fire that
fucking guard! Fire all of them! Fuck that, I’m not—I’m not taking any more customers until
—”

“Jeongguk, calm down. Sit. I said sit.” Seokjin is staring at Jeongguk like he’s a child
throwing a temper tantrum. “Let’s talk this out in a civil way. Shouting won’t get you
anywhere.”

The look Jeongguk gives him would have incinerated any other person, but Seokjin doesn’t
seem affected in the least. He points to the chair in front of his desk with a brisk nod of his
head, and waits for both Jeongguk and Jimin to sit down before speaking again.

“Jeongguk,” he starts, knitting his fingers together above the desk. “My little Skylark.”
“Don’t call me that,” Jeongguk snaps.

“Why? You don’t want me to remind you what you are? Your role in all this?” Seokjin says,
voice like sweet poison. “You are a Black Bird host, Jeongguk. Could you tell me what you
were paid to do in private room number four with our guest tonight?”

“I don’t need to tell you.”

“But you do. You weren’t in a booth. You were in one of our bedrooms upstairs. That means
the customer wanted to fuck.”

The crudeness of Seokjin’s words hits Jimin like a boulder. It’s just wrong, listening to such a
seemingly distinct man in his expensive office talk about fucking.

“And I was down to fuck, but things changed,” Jeongguk hisses. He digs his fingernails into
the padding of the armchair, scratching at the fabric. “He was saying some bullshit about—
you know what, I don’t need to explain myself to you. I didn’t like the things he said. I
wanted to leave. I had the right to leave.”

“He didn’t let him,” Jimin intervenes quickly, eyes cutting from Jeongguk to Seokjin. “I saw
it. He grabbed him, threw him on the bed. They were fighting. And then I tried to get help,
but—”

“Tell me, Skylark, how many times have you been grabbed and thrown on a bed?”

Jeongguk slams a fist on the desk. “This is different and you know it.”

“No, my little birdie, I don’t know it. I see a little arrogant host who was taken down a notch
by a customer and who’s complaining because he didn’t get his way. What is it, mmh? You
wanted to be on top? I think you’ve gotten the wrong idea, Skylark. You aren’t shit around
here. You’re just a host.” Seokjin leans on the desk to stare deeply at Jeongguk. “There is no
raping in my establishment. Better keep that in mind, little bird.”

“What do you mean, ‘there is no raping’?” Jimin huffs in disbelief. “I’ve seen it happen.”

“Have you seen the customer engage in sexual intercourse with Skylark?”

He hates how Seokjin refuses to call Jeongguk with his name.

“No, but I saw him dragging him—”

“—yes, yes, he shoved him on the bed, you said that already,” Seokjin says, condescending.
“Jimin, you’re new at this. You’ve never been in the rooms, you don’t know how these things
go.”

“What are you trying to get at, Jin?” Jeongguk says through clenched teeth. His jaw is set, his
mouth pressed in a seam. He’s positively livid.

Panic reels through Jimin again. “I saw what I saw. He didn’t want to be there anymore.”
“He gets paid for his service.”

“He didn’t want to be there.”

“Alright.” Seokjin sighs, takes off one of his rings. “Time for a little demonstrative game.
Take this pen, Jimin, will you? Come on, indulge me a little.”

Jimin cuts him a quizzical glance. Seokjin waits for him to take the pen he’s being offered
and then leans over the desk a little bit more, holding the ring between thumb and forefinger.

“See this ring?”

Jimin nods, confused. He flashes Jeongguk a worried glance. He’s still staring daggers at
Seokjin, silent as the grave, watching.

“Good. Now, stick the tip of the pen through the ring.”

“What?”

Jeongguk scoffs. “What’s that to do with—”

“I said, stick the tip of your pen through the ring, Jimin.”

Jimin obliges, a little weirded out by the unusual request, but Seokjin moves the ring slightly
to the left and he misses. He tries again, Seokjin jerks the ring down, and he misses again. He
tries a third time, misses again, and then he huffs in frustration, slamming the pen down on
Seokjin’s desk.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jimin yells, exasperated. What’s he playing at?

“You can’t do it, can you?” Seokjin gloats. “That’s the thing. How can you stick something
inside something else if it keeps moving, thrashing about? It’s not doable.” He slips the ring
on his finger again, then waves his fingers at them mockingly. “It just doesn’t work. You
gotta stay put. You gotta want it.”

Jimin stares at the man behind the desk in complete silence, unable to formulate a single
thought. From his periphery, he glimpses Jeongguk get up and walk out of the room.

He follows a few seconds later, but when he reemerges from Seokjin’s office Jeongguk is
nowhere to be seen.
Chapter 6
1.
Hobi:
so I met yoongi in the uni cafeteria today
and
we hanged around campus a bit

Jimin:
that’s nice

Hobi:
I didn’t know what to talk about so I just steered the topic toward music and let him do his
thing
he said he’ll lend me one of his favorite albums to listen to
not sure what I am supposed to do with it I don’t even know if my laptop can play it

Jimin:
pretty sure it can

Hobi:
anyway we just talked a lot
i mean HE talked a lot
I just
listened

Jimin:
did you remember to wipe the drool with a tissue

Hobi:
there was no drooling idk what you’re getting at
I told him he should consider doing asmr on youtube
his voice can make me confess to crimes I didn’t commit

Jimin:
I didn’t know that’s what asmr is for

Hobi:
no I mean it’s very smooth very compelling

Jimin:
u told him all that?

Hobi:
yeah but like as friends, it was a joke

Jimin:
that’s not gay at all
Hey
Random question but
Have you seen jeongguk around? like in class

Hobi:
nope, been a while
like a few days
why?

Jimin:
no reason
he skipped rehearsal today

Hobi:
maybe he’s sick
I’ll text him to ask if he needs my notes

Jimin:
Yeah u do that
tell me if he texts back

Hobi:
why????? Cant you call him??? I’ll give u the number
youre being SUSPICIOUS

Jimin:
it’s nothing.
2.
The times he’s picked up the phone, the times he’s opened Jeongguk’s chat. The times he’s
read his messages all over again, the times his fingers itched to type a text. The times he’s
locked his phone without sending none of his texts.

They make him feel sick to his stomach.

The times he’s chickened out on calling him. The times he was uselessly afraid of asking him
a simple—are you okay? The times he didn’t care. The times he cared too much, and the
times he never showed it. The times all of these thoughts drowned him in guilt and regret.

They’re consuming him.

“You’re a little out of it today.”

Taehyung’s words drag him back to shore.

“Sorry. I don’t feel well today, I might be coming out with something.”

“Mmh. You do sound a bit hoarse.”

That might be because of all the crying.

“I’m probably catching a cold.”

“You should be careful. Don’t want to lose your voice the day of the play, eh?” Taehyung
pats him on the back, playful.

Jimin huffs a small, unconvinced chuckle. “The play isn’t for another couple of months.”

They climb down the steps that lead to the seating area, joining the others as they wrap up
another rehearsal without Jeongguk.

“Go home and drink something warm, okay? Otherwise you’ll end up like Jeongguk.”

“Like—like Jeongguk?” he whips around toward Taehyung, eyes wide. “What do you
mean?”

“He’s caught a bad cold or something. Might be the flu? He texted me last night after I
threatened to kick down his front door because he was ignoring all of my calls. That guy
never takes care of his body, I swear.”

“He said he’s sick?” God, is he okay? Is he hurt? Is it because of—

“Yeah, but he had the nerve to refuse my help when I asked him if he needed anything.
Knowing him, he will just hole up in his apartment for a week waiting for some sort of divine
intervention. Bet he didn’t even buy meds.”
“Doesn’t he live with his family?” Jimin asks, frowning. He remembers something about
Jeongguk telling him he didn’t like the thought of living away from his sick mother and his
brother.

“They live in the same building, but Jeongguk’s got a smaller apartment either downstairs or
upstairs, I don’t remember.”

Oh. So he lives alone.

He taps his bottom lip with his fingernails. They itch to dig into the skin, rip, tear. He drops
his hand to his side.

“Taehyung.”

Taehyung turns to him. “Yes?”

“Can you tell me Jeongguk’s address?”

3.
It’s later than he thought. After rehearsals ended, he had a studying session with a few of his
classmates about a class project that dragged longer than he deemed necessary. Then, the ride
to Jeongguk’s place took another thirty or so minutes. From the dusty window at the very
back of the bus, he watched the sky bleed from blinding reds to bruised pink to purples
streaked with enamel blue. Any other day it might have been a pleasant sight, but tonight it
only made Jimin feel worse. He wondered at which stage of twilight he’ll find Jeongguk.
Will he be a bleeding red like the last time he saw him, or will he find him wrapped up in
blue?

As soon as Jimin got out of the bus, he spotted a pizza place next to the bus stop. His stomach
complained loudly. He hadn’t eaten anything all day. He wondered if Jeongguk ate already.
He got in on a whim and bought a pizza. Like pizza could resolve all of their problems. All of
Jeongguk’s problems.

Now that he’s standing in front of Jeongguk’s apartment complex, he realizes how dumb his
idea was. Here he is, a carton of the greasiest pizza he’s ever seen in hand, staring at the front
door like it’s whispering things to him. Things like, you fucking brought him a pizza, what is
he gonna do with a pizza? And, you’re useless, like always. Useless and awkward.

Now get your ass in here and ring him.

Jimin approaches the front door just when a family of three leaves the building. They hold
the door open for him, thinking he’s one of the residents. Jimin bobs his head in a polite bow
and slips in the foyer. The place is old, probably dating back to the seventies or eighties. The
architecture is just that particular kind of ugly. There is another set of door, glass doors, that
open to the elevator and a set of stairs. They don’t budge.

Jimin walks up to the intercom, scans the names written next to the individual doorbells. Jeon
Jeongguk. There he is. Eleventh floor.

His finger hovers over the button, uncertainty assailing him anew. This is—probably the
wrong thing to do, yes, he’s doing everything wrong. First of all, he’s almost a week too late.
He should have asked Taehyung or Namjoon or Yoongi for Jeongguk’s address when he
noticed he wasn’t coming to work anymore. Second, he’s basically barging in his house
without so much of a warning—with a pizza. Isn’t it weird? It’s definitely weird. They aren’t
even friends. They’re—coworkers. Acquaintances. They have this weird little arrangement
where Jeongguk teaches him about stuff, and sometimes they joke around, and sometimes
they tease each other mercilessly, and sometimes shit gets too serious and sometimes it isn’t
that deep.

He should have gone to the police. He should have headed straight to the police, and demand
to get Kim Seokjin arrested.

He rings the doorbell and waits for Jeongguk to answer.

One, two, three, four, five. Six, seven. Eight. Nine. Ten seconds without an answer. Maybe
Jeongguk’s not home. Maybe he’s got the wrong address. Maybe this is another Jeon
Jeongguk, maybe Taehyung pranked him. Maybe he’s freaking out, maybe he’s hoping
Jeongguk really doesn’t answer.

Jimin counts fifteen seconds, then turns his back to the intercom.

“Yes?”

Jeongguk’s voice comes out of the intercom along with a slight buzzing, like there’s a tiny
bug hiding inside the panel. Jimin’s heart skips several beats. He clears his throat, suddenly
very nervous.

“It’s—I’m Jimin. Hi?”

Silence. It stretches on for what seems like an eternity. Jimin holds his breath until he hears
Jeongguk speak again.

“What are you doing here?”

“I asked Tae for your address,” he says, even though that’s not the answer to Jeongguk’s
question. “I’m sorry I didn’t warn you. This is stupid, but, uhm—I—I brought pizza?”

He cringes internally, mouths Fuck under his breath. He’s botched it. He gets more silence as
a response. Jimin would think Jeongguk hanged up on him, if not for the fact that he can still
hear the faint buzzing.

“Pizza?” The buzzing intensifies for a moment. “What are you, a delivery man?”

“Are you letting me in or not?”

“I didn’t order any pizza.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s a—” Peace offering? A gift? A consolation gift? What the fuck is this?
What the fuck is he doing? “Listen, do you want it or not?”

“No. Fuck off.”

His heart sinks somewhere in his stomach, and he feels his face burst up in flames. He should
have expected it. He doesn’t even get mad, because he deserves it.

But he doesn’t want to go. He won’t leave Jeongguk alone again.

And he’s got this stupid pizza. The cheese has probably solidified into an entity with a mind
of its own by now. The grease, too.

“I don’t want to.”

More silence, again. The bug inside the intercom buzzes its displeasure.
“Don’t want to, what?”

“Fuck off. I won’t go away. I’m staying right here until you let me in.”

“And I’ll call the police on you.”

“Good,” Jimin says, “It’s what I should have done days ago. Call them, and I’ll tell them
everything that’s happened.”

“Nothing happened,” Jeongguk snarls through the intercom, and Jimin can just imagine the
vicious twist of his mouth.

“Open the doors.”

“No.”

“Did you have dinner already? I’ve brought you pizza.”

“Fuck you and your pizza.”

“Then I’ll be arrested for public indecency.”

He hears something like a huff, a single puff of breath—though it’s hard to tell with all the
buzzing.

“You’re weird, Park Jimin.”

He wants to think he made Jeongguk chuckle, and with this hope he pushes on.

“Let me in?”

Silence.

“I don’t want to see anyone right now.”

Jimin nods slowly, even though Jeongguk can’t see him. He looks around. There’s a lonely
bench next to the intercom, an old umbrella stand, and a vase with a withered plant in it. He
sets the pizza down on the bench and sits next to it, just below the intercom.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to see me. I can just sit here and talk to you.”

“What?” Jeongguk scoffs, surprise bleeding through the intercom. “You’re—what are you
doing?”

“Nothing. I’m just sitting in the foyer of your apartment building. It isn’t a crime, is it?”

“What the—”

Jeongguk cuts himself off abruptly. Jimin hears him mutter something under his breath.

“You’re nuts. You’re spending the night there, cause I won’t let you in.”
“It’s fine.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“I have a pizza. I can eat it to pass the time.” Jimin puts the carton on his knees, opens it.
Truth be told, the pizza doesn’t look too inviting. But he’s so hungry he could eat almost
anything now.

“Are you seriously eating my pizza?”

Jimin picks up a slice. The cheese slides off in a hard lump, falling on the carton in a rather
unappetizing way.

“It’s my pizza now.”

“You’re a lunatic.”

Jimin shrugs to himself, taking all the insults Jeongguk’s throwing his way. Whatever he
wants to say to him, he deserves it. Thinks he can let him win a couple rounds.

Jimin eats his slice in silence, and he was right—it’s terrible. He’s never eaten a pizza this
greasy before. And it’s not greasy in the good way either, it’s just a big, godawful lump of fat.
Tastes like cold plastic.

He finishes his first slice in complete silence. Then he takes another, because he’s absolutely
famished.

“Are you still there?”

Jimin startles. He’s grown so accustomed to the intercom’s buzzing that he thought Jeongguk
had finally decided to hang up. Now he hears it again, though, faint but very much there.
Like Jeongguk’s voice. Faint, but there.

“I am.”

“Is it good?”

“The pizza?”

“Are you having a three-course dinner in my foyer?”

“Tastes like ass. The pizza place across the street is terrible.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“It’s great if you want to get sick though.”

“It’s disgustingly greasy.”

“I think I need to drink some Windex.”

He hears Jeongguk scoff. “That’s for cleaning glass.”

“No, I think it’s also a degreaser,” Jimin says. “I hear it works wonders, you know.”

Another breathless huff on the other side of the intercom, then more silence. Jeongguk
doesn’t say another word, but the buzzing is still there.

Jimin takes another bite. It’s beginning to taste a little better. As if with the passing of time,
both the grease and cheap ingredients have undergone an alchemical reaction that somehow
works in their favor.

He chews slowly, listening to the light buzzing that announces Jeongguk’s listening to his
silence. They don’t say a word for a long while. Jimin finishes his third slice of pizza.

An old lady with a cane shuffles in the foyer and casts him a suspicious glance, then goes
ahead to unlock the glass doors. She scurries away to the elevator, glancing over her shoulder
at him.

“You still there?”

Jimin turns slightly toward the voice. Jeongguk still manages to sound pleasant, even through
a decades-old intercom.

“Yep.”

“I thought you’d take advantage of whoever came in and slip inside.”

“I’m not that vile,” Jimin jokes.

“No,” Jeongguk says. “You aren’t.”

He wants to ask Jeongguk what he thinks he’s doing glued to the intercom, why he’s still
talking to him, listening to his every silences. Eventually he realizes it’s not really his
business.

“Is there any pizza left?”

Jimin smiles. “About half.”

“Wow. You liked it a lot.”

“I haven’t eaten anything since this morning.”

“You don’t need to make up excuses.”

There’s another buzzing, but this time it sounds completely different. It’s short and loud, and
it’s followed by a soft click. The glass doors open slightly.

“Eleventh floor, second door to the left.”

And then he hears Jeongguk hang up, and the low buzzing is gone.
Jimin sits back, baffled. He didn’t think Jeongguk would actually let him in. He was
determined to stay as long as there was pizza to eat, but that’s all. He’d already made peace
with himself about having a stomachache tonight.

He pushes the doors open and heads towards the elevator. It takes a while for it to come down
—it’s much, much slower than the elevators at the Black Bird, and yet he thinks nothing
could ever beat the trip from the Black Bird’s first floor to the second floor the night
Jeongguk was assaulted.

Eight, nine, ten. Eleven. Ding. The doors open to an empty hallway, much like that night at
the club. Except there are no expensive carpets on the floor, and he can hear the faint sound
of voices and TVs through the other doors. The pungent smell of spices permeates the air.
Someone is cooking dinner.

The second door to his left is ajar. He glances at the name on the nametag—Jeon Jeongguk.
He knocks first, softly, a little nervous now that he’s standing in front of Jeongguk’s door.

“It’s open. Get in already.”

He does as told. He slips inside like a thief in the night, like Jeongguk didn’t just give him his
permission to come inside his home. He quickly toes out of his shoes, then shuts the door
behind his back.

Jeongguk’s place is small, a simple two-room apartment. Jimin stops to take it all in. The
place is buried under piles and piles of books—the walls of the living room slash kitchenette
he’s just stepped in are lined with bookshelves bursting with books—hard cover books,
paperbacks, notebooks, magazines both old and new. There’s a tower of old newspapers to
the left of the front door, and Jimin nearly knocks them over as he steps further into
Jeongguk’s house.

Jeongguk sits at a small table, wearing sweatpants and a gray oversized hoodie so big for his
frame he looks like he’s drowning in it.

He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

“Pizza.”

Jeongguk stretches out a hand. Jimin carefully side-steps the piles of books and sets the half-
empty carton of pizza down on the table.

“Can I sit?”

“Do whatever you want.”

He sits at the table, back straight as a rod. A new wave of anxiety and uneasiness reels
through him. Now he doesn’t know what to do. He’s been let in. He brought Jeongguk his
pizza. What do you say to someone who has been raped and told he’d wanted it? Time to
jump out of Jeongguk’s window, down eleven floors to a swift and merciful death.
No, this isn’t about him. Jimin grits his teeth. Stop being selfish. If it’s bad for you, imagine
how bad it is for him.

“You look—”

“Amazing as always,” Jeongguk says. “Thanks.”

He watches Jeongguk try to detach a slice of pizza from the carton, and it takes him a while
because half the topping has congealed into a disgusting blob which is now stuck to it. He
finally peels all the cheese off and takes a bite.

“This pizza is a biohazard,” Jeongguk mutters, grimacing.

“I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“You could have called me and asked.”

“I’m sorry.” For many things, not just the pizza. He hopes Jeongguk understands.

Jeongguk looks at him, chewing slowly.

“I know. It’s not your fault.”

He can’t do this. He can. He takes a big breath. “I tried to—”

“Call me to ask which pizza place I like?” Jeongguk interrupts him again, doesn’t let him
finish. He flashes him a significant glance, meaning he knows very well what Jimin was
about to say. “I get it. You wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Are you okay?”

There, he finally asked him. The words come out in a rush, glued together, nearly
undistinguishable.

“I won’t be after eating this shit.”

“You know what I mean.”

Jeongguk drops his gaze to the pizza. He breaks off a piece of burnt crust and inspects it
closely, like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.

“I have taken a shower,” Jeongguk starts slowly, “at least every two hours every day this
week. I can’t seem to… stop. I don’t want to. Just the thought makes me feel—” He searches
for the right word, shrugs. “I guess dirty sounds cliché, but fuck it. I feel dirty. Like I need to
scrub year-long grime off my skin. I stay so long under the spray that I fear my skin will soon
just… slough off.”

Jimin listens quietly, his fingernails pressed down his bottom lip.

“How long has it been now? Since the last shower.”

Jeongguk glances at the clock.

“Almost two hours.”

Jimin nods. “Think you can resist for a while longer?”

Jeongguk throws the rest of his slice on the carton and sighs.

“I’ll try.”

“How...” Jimin swallows around the knot in his throat. “How did—”

“Don’t. Don’t ask me how it happened. Don’t ask me why it happened. It just did. Nothing
else matters.”

“Did you go to the police?” he asks rather uselessly. He already knows the answer.

“The police?” Jeongguk scoffs. “Do you know who that man was? The one who raped me?”

Hearing Jeongguk say it aloud again, and so clearly—like it’s a line of a play, not pertinent to
his real life but just a part he’s playing—is another level of upsetting. Jimin shakes his head.

“Rumor has it he’s a very important person in Seoul,” Jeongguk goes on, voice laced with
heavy sarcasm. “One you don’t want to cross.”

“A politician?” Jimin ventures, trying to recall the man’s face—remember whether he’s seen
it somewhere on the TV or not.

“You know who Seokjin is, Jimin? Why he’s got so much money?”

He just shrugs. “He comes from a rich family?”

“Let’s say his family’s dealings aren’t exactly legal,” Jeongguk says, raising his eyebrows.
“And all his—friends, they’re cast from the same mold. Seokjin simply prefers another kind
of violence.”

He feels something cold and slimy slither down his spine, and he shudders. Of course. A
place like the Black Bird—he should have figured. He wonders if Seokjin’s got other brothels
in the city, less expensive and tucked in darker corners of Seoul, where people don’t have the
option to choose what kind of prostitute they want to be.

In a way, he’s lucky. Lucky Seokjin decided he was worthy of the Black Bird.

Jimin clears his throat. “What Seokjin said that night was—I can’t stop thinking about it. And
I don’t have any words to describe it. Disgusting doesn’t begin to cover it.”

Jeongguk huffs out a low chuckle. “Yeah, he’s a real piece of work. Original, isn’t he? And
he has a flair for the dramatic. I wanted to break a leg off my chair and stick it so far up his
ass he would’ve shat splinters for a week.”
“I would have assisted you.”

Jeongguk laughs again, this time a little louder, a little less bitter.

“You’re too pure to do something nasty like that. I can’t let you commit such crude acts of
violence,” Jeongguk says, a spark of the usual playful gleam in his eyes.

“I’m too pure?” Jimin repeats, perplexed. “I work at the same place as you. I think the time
for innocence and purity has long since passed.”

“You’re still a virgin. You blushed the first time I handed you a dildo.”

“Being a virgin has nothing to do with beating Seokjin with the leg of a chair.”

“That’s not what I said I wanted to do to him.”

“So?”

“So, you’re too pure to even repeat my words,” Jeongguk explains, grinning. “Too good.”

This isn’t how Jimin thought he’d find Jeongguk days after being assaulted. Part of his
behavior and appearance matches with the image he’d made of him in his head—him feeling
dirty, the slightly emaciated face, the bags under his eyes, the viciousness of his words—but
then there’s this other side. The jokes, the chuckles.

“And you are—”

What’s the right word? Is there a word that encompasses all that Jeon Jeongguk is?

“I am, what?” Jeongguk prods him. “A vicious son of a bitch? The devil incarnate? Tell me
what you think of me, Jimin. I’ve been curious for a long time.”

“… so strong. I wish I could be more like you.”

This catches Jeongguk by surprise, throws him off. The playful grin melts from his face.

“Don’t give me that ‘you’re stronger because of your trauma’ bullshit, Jimin, or I swear to
God I’ll kick you out. I’m serious.”

Jimin panics. “Wh—what? No, I don’t—I didn’t mean it that way,” he blurts, feeling himself
blush. “What I wanted to say is—you always take life head on, you’re never put off by
anything or anyone. Had what happened to you happened to me, I would have…”

He trails off, shivers, then looks away. The truth is he doesn’t know if he would have
survived it.

“I would rather be good than strong, Jimin.”

He lifts his eyes to Jeongguk. He’s staring down at the table, lips curled downward.

“This isn’t the first time it happened.”

His heart skips a painful beat. “You were—”

“Not me. But what happened to me is nothing new. It doesn’t happen often, but I’ve heard
rumors. Customers doing whatever they want with hosts. Some of us were never seen again,
others stayed and kept their mouth shut. I just…” He sighs, running his hands over his face.
“I wish we’d said something. I wish I had… said something. But I didn’t think it would
happen to me. I guess I didn’t really care, then. I might be strong, but I’m not—I’m not
good.”

Jimin listens to the clock ticking away. Jeongguk doesn’t seem to want to meet his eyes, or
maybe he can’t.

“You tried to do something,” Jeongguk goes on. “You acted. I wonder—would I have done
the same? Or would I have turned a blind eye, like always?”

“This isn’t fair to you,” Jimin says, scooting closer to Jeongguk. The chair scrapes against the
floor, a sound too loud and jarring for his thoughts. “You didn’t know when it was happening
to the other hosts. I saw it on cameras. It was nothing but a coincidence. Anyone—anyone
would have tried to do something. I wish I’d been smarter, though. I wish I could’ve actually
helped you.”

Jeongguk raises his eyes. The hands buried in his hair ball into angry fists.

“No one could help.”

“It shouldn’t have happened. This isn’t fair.”

“Welcome to the world.”

On the table, Jeongguk’s phone buzzes. Tense as he is, Jimin startles a bit, and Jeongguk
chuckles. He picks up the phone, stares at it for a few seconds, then locks it again.

“Any idea why Hoseok’s trying to send me a massive doc file on the messenger app?”

Jimin laughs despite himself. “I, uh—I think those are his notes? For the class you share.
Didn’t he text you about it?”

“Oh. Might be. I haven’t been checking my texts.”

“I asked him if he’d seen you in class, and he told me he would send you his notes.”

Jeongguk cocks his head to the side. “You were asking about me?”

Jimin shrugs, shrinking a little in his seat. “Well, you weren’t coming to work, you missed
rehearsals. I was worried.”

“You were worried?” The genuine surprise on Jeongguk’s face annoys him a little.

Jimin rolls his eyes. “Why do you think I’m here?”

Jeongguk ponders over the question for a while, and Jimin isn’t sure whether to find it
offensive or not.

“Thank you,” Jeongguk says finally, voice a little gruff. “For coming over. To… check on
me.”

His chest tightens at the words. “And I brought you dinner.”

“You tried to get me sick.”

“It was still dinner.”

“What made you think I needed food?”

Jimin scans Jeongguk up and down, eyebrows raised.

“Honestly? You look like you haven’t eaten in a while.”

“I had some instant noodles.”

“How long ago?”

“Like—like this morning. I think.”

Jimin’s heart does that weird spasm again—like a clenching, a light squeeze. He shouldn’t
have brought him pizza, he should’ve made a stop to the nearest grocery store and bought
Jeongguk something healthier, more durable.

“Is that pity?” Jeongguk glares at him. “Are you pitying me right now?”

“N—no? I just wish I’d brought you a better dinner.”

Jeongguk’s expression softens the slightest bit.

“You’re not my mom. Or my boyfriend.”

“Do I need to be either of those to be a decent human being to you?”

“I was under the impression you hated me,” Jeongguk shoots back. “Especially after the last
time we met at the Bird. Well—second to last.”

Oh, yeah. That.

When the Jeon Jeongguk in the security video wasn’t struggling to get out of a room, but
looking straight at him through the camera.

“I don’t hate you.” He recalls Jeongguk telling him nearly the same thing a while ago. Great,
now they’re even. They’ve both acknowledged the fact they don’t hate each other after all.

“You were avoiding me like the plague.”

“I was?”

“I texted you three times that night.”

Jimin swallows. I know.

Say it.

Say it now, say you didn’t know what to text back.

Say you didn’t know what to feel.

He gets up after staring a little too long at Jeongguk’s wide eyes; he gets up in a hurry before
he drowns in them and forgets how to swim to shore. Some oceans are too dangerous to
traverse for little fish like him.

“It’s getting late. I think I should go.”

“Wait,” Jeongguk jumps to his feet like a puppet with a spring. He wraps a hand around his
arm and Jimin freezes immediately, waiting. “Was I too forward?”

Jimin sucks in a sharp breath.

“What?”

Jeongguk doesn’t let go of his arm. “That night in the private room. Were you watching?”

“I was.”

“Did I upset you?”

His mouth is dry, his throat is parched. He’s a desert, barren and desolate like his thoughts—
all his attention is centered around the spot on his arm where Jeongguk is touching him.

“It was—” He racks his brain to find the right words. “A lot. There was a lot going on in that
room.”

Jeongguk steps the tiniest bit closer, hand still wrapped around his arm—but gently, the
sensation of Jeongguk’s fingers barely even there through the layer of clothes. And yet, it’s
all he can think about.

“Not the others. I mean me. Was I too forward?”

It’s like being encased in cotton wool. Cotton wool inside and out. Someone replaced all his
thoughts with stuffing, so much so even his own heartbeat sounds muffled to his ears.

“No?”

Jeongguk loosens his grip, steps closer again.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. You were, uhm, probably the best in that room.” Oh god, shut the fuck up.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. That’s why I texted you I was sorry.”

“You didn’t,” Jimin insists, frantically shaking his head. “I swear. It’s just, I told you I don’t
really like to watch—”

“I tried to make it more interesting. For you.”

The blush he previously felt creeping on his skin is now in full bloom. Jimin hides his face
behind a hand, chuckles nervously, feels his fingers press into his bottom lip.

“Your lip has healed,” Jeongguk says suddenly, eyes sliding down to Jimin’s mouth.

“It has?” He knows it has. He’s made the conscious effort not to pick at his lips since the day
Jeongguk told him he found them pretty.

“It’s not bleeding anymore.” Somehow, Jeongguk’s hand made its way up to Jimin’s face,
cupping his cheek. When did it happen? He must be losing fragments of time. Don’t blink.

“Oh. Yeah.”

How is he expected to say anything even remotely intelligent when Jeongguk’s thumb is so
close to his mouth?

Jeongguk’s voice drops to a whisper.

“You were bleeding right here, at the corner.”

His thumb swipes across the corner of Jimin’s bottom lip.

Then he presses down, opening his mouth ever so slightly.

“What are you doing?”

The question falls out of Jimin’s lips before his brain has the time to register what is
happening. Jeongguk freezes instantly, eyes widening slightly. He looks like a deer in
headlights. Jimin feels his hand pull away from his face so he covers it with his own, holding
it in place against his skin.

“You’ve been staring at my lips a lot lately,” Jimin says, surprised by how raspy his voice
sounds. “Do you like them that much?”

His eyes are so big, he muses as Jeongguk stares back with quiet surprise—surprise and
something else, something a shade darker, a shade warmer.

“I do.”

Jimin smiles. A spark of boldness spikes through him. He nuzzles Jeongguk’s palm, pressing
his lips to his hand. His eyes are trained on Jeongguk’s every reaction, and they don’t miss
how his eyelids flutter.

Jimin likes to think that he’s not an impulsive person. Most of the decisions he takes are
calculated, minutely thought through. But tonight, something’s not working the way it
should. He can’t think straight—he can’t think at all. That pizza must’ve altered the chemical
reactions in his brain in a tragically radical way. Tonight, he feels a little less cautious, and a
little more impulsive.

And Jeongguk admitting he likes his lips is a good enough reason to lean in and kiss him.

It’s crazy, but as soon as their lips touch, the first thought bursting in his head is that he was
convinced that to kiss Jeon Jeongguk he would have had to stand on his toes. Not that he’s
thought about kissing Jeon Jeongguk often, oh no, it’s something his subconscious dug up—
one of those intrusive thoughts that people randomly get as they go on with their lives, right?
—but he isn’t standing on his toes right now, all it took was leaning in and craning his neck
up a little. It’s probably because Jeongguk isn’t wearing his murder boots. He’s barefoot.

The second thing Jimin realizes is that Jeongguk isn’t answering his kiss.

And that realization washes over him like a bucketful of cold water.

He pulls back, horrified, cheeks stinging in shame and regret—so much regret. What the fuck
is he doing, taking advantage of someone who has just recently been assaulted? Is he out of
his fucking mind? How dares he?

“OhmygodIamsosorry—”

“Shut up.”

He’s pulled forward by the same hand that has been resting on his cheek all this time; the
hand that’s now tugging at his hair to tilt his head up.

Jeongguk kisses like a famished man—Jimin can physically feel the desperation, the
eagerness, the hunger. He kisses like someone who’s been thinking of kissing him for a
while, enthusiasm bleeding into raw need until the kiss turns urgent. It’s a sigh of relief and a
plea for more at the same time, and it makes Jimin’s head spin with a dangerous kind of high.
With Jeongguk’s lips on him he doesn’t feel like a desert anymore—he’s in full bloom.

He feels him lick at the seam of his lips, eager to deepen their kiss, and Jimin obliges. As
soon as he lets him in, Jeongguk lets out the softest of moans—Jesus Christ, this should be
illegal—and pushes him back until Jimin’s back is pressed against the edge of the table.

All of Jimin’s blood rushes down to his groin, but Jeongguk keeps swallowing each of his
breaths and so all his moans get stuck in his throat. It’s probably for the best, Jimin thinks in a
daze as his legs part naturally to accommodate Jeongguk between them—this way Jeongguk
won’t ever know how desperate he is. Except that now he can feel every inch of Jeongguk’s
body pressed against his own, and that means Jeongguk can very much feel how this is
beginning to affect him.
But Jeongguk doesn’t stop, doesn’t draw back to look him in the eye and tease him—as Jimin
expects him to. When Jeongguk breaks the kiss, it’s just to push Jimin’s jacket off his
shoulders, down his back, movements jerky and almost frantic. Spurred on by Jimin’s
breathless gasps, he pulls down the collar of his t-shirt to mouth at the exposed skin,
scattering open-mouthed kisses across his collarbone, his shoulder.

Jimin is rapidly coming undone, feeling every little piece of his armor splintering, then
shattering—and it feels good, it’s never felt this good, but once Jeongguk cracks the last of
his defenses he knows he’ll lock up, he knows he’ll back down.

The phone rings in his back pocket and Jimin’s eyes fly open, out of the daze and into reality
again. Jeongguk pulls back a little, lips red and swollen and glossy with spit, a wild look in
his eyes that’s rapidly decaying into something akin to disappointment when Jimin wiggles
his phone free and takes the call.

“Yes?” he breathes out, still panting. Jeongguk stares at him in silence, hot breath ghosting
over his lips.

“Is this Park Jimin? Are you a family member of Park Jihyun?”

“Yes, I’m his brother.” He frowns, pushes past Jeongguk to get more breathing room.

“Good evening, sir. This is Severance Hospital. Your brother has been hospitalized this
evening for a medicinal overdose. You were listed as his one and only emergency contact.”

And when reality crashes on him, it brings his whole world down.
4.
Jimin is convinced there are no working clocks in this hospital, and even if he sees them keep
track of the time, it doesn’t always mean they’re telling the truth.

He’s been sitting on this bench for God knows how long. It seems like a small eternity, which
might sound like an oxymoron but to Jimin it makes perfect sense. He knows it hasn’t been
an eternity, but he also knows it feels long enough to be one. It’s his own personal eternity.
His back aches. If he straightens up, he wonders whether he’ll hear the vertebrae crack. He
hides his face in his hands. These fluorescent cold white lights, he hates them with all his
heart.

Jeongguk sits next to him. Jimin doesn’t see him with the way he’s burying his head in his
hands, but he feels him. Feels the bench shake slightly because Jeongguk’s leg has been
bouncing up and down all night. It isn’t annoying. It’s strangely relaxing. Hypnotic, almost,
something to cling to while sanity slowly slips from his fingertips.

Jeongguk didn’t even want to go to the hospital. He’d said, quote, No fucking hospital. No
way in hell. Ah, but that was for another thing entirely. Right. This is about his brother. His
brother who’s hanging between life and death, or whatever fucking poetic bullshit movies say
in situations like these. Jimin wishes he hadn’t seen so many dramas with people that end up
in hospitals. A part of him keeps rehearsing the words he’ll say when the doctors come out to
tell him his brother didn’t make it. Like, is it better to cry quietly, hold back his grief, or wail?
What if he doesn’t make a scene and everyone thinks he doesn’t care about his brother? What
if they think he’s a horrible person? Jeongguk said he’s good, but is he, though? Jihyun once
told him he believed him a monster, that he wished he’d been born an only child. What if
Jimin is the one ending up without a brother after tonight?

“You’re thinking too much. I can hear your thoughts from here.”

“Then move away.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“I didn’t tell you to leave.” Jimin turns his head slightly to the side to look up at Jeongguk.
He’s still dressed in sweatpants and that ridiculously big hoodie. But now he’s got shoes on.
Plain shoes. Not the expensive kind. Just a standard pair of Nikes.

He wishes he could go back in time. Not to Jeongguk’s house, not to his study session. He
wishes he had gone straight home after rehearsal. He should have raided his brother’s room
the night he saw him guzzle down those pills.

He shouldn’t have left him alone in that house.

5.
When the doctor says he can go visit his brother – third floor, room 305 – hope blossoms in
his chest, readily squandered by the dread he feels about facing his brother for the first time
after their fight. He runs to room 305 among the disapproving stares of nurses and patients,
and stops dead at the threshold, hand on the doorknob.

“I’ll wait for you here,” Jeongguk tells him. He looks so out of place in this bright white
hospital, with the harsh lights overhead deepening the tired lines of his face. He looks
exhausted.

“Thanks,” he whispers back, and slips inside the room.

Jihyun is awake and looking like he just got dragged back to life, which Jimin figures it’s
what really happened after all. He goes to sit on the chair next to the bed, eyes fixed on his
brother’s pale face.

“You look like mom.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do.”

“It wasn’t heroin.”

“I know,” Jimin says. “They told me.”

Jihyun turns his face to the other side, embarrassed. Embarrassed of what? Of almost dying?
Of giving his brother the scare of his life?

“Where did you get those pills from?” he asks anyway, even though he thinks he knows the
answer.

“The Xanax and Fentanyl were mom’s,” Jihyun mutters. “You know, for her anxiety attacks
and stuff. The other stuff… Daejung got it for me.”

Jimin nods. “How long has this been going on?”

“Couple months,” Jihyun says sheepishly. He seems to want to add something, thinks against
it, then shakes his head and continues without looking Jimin in the eye. “You were never
home. And when you were, you always got mad. At mom, at Daejung, and especially at me.”

He feels like throwing up. He’s going to throw up.

“I’m sorry,” Jimin says through clenched teeth. Breathe through the nose. Swallow back the
bile. He doesn’t sound too sincere, he knows. But he is. God, he is.

His brother cocks his head to the side. “Are you okay?”
This makes him laugh, and the nausea ebbs away.

“You’re asking me if I’m okay? You just overdosed on a cocktail of drugs.”

“You look like you’re gonna puke on me.”

“You’d deserve it.”

“Ew, gross.”

Jimin’s smile slips away when Jihyun speaks again.

“Do mom and Daejung know?”

“I don’t think so. Do you… want me to call them?”

Jihyun half shakes his head no, half shrugs noncommittally.

“I’m not sure they’d care. But then again, I wasn’t sure you’d care,” he says timidly, biting at
his lip. “But you showed up.”

Jimin’s eyes widen. “Wait, you didn’t do it on purpose, did you? Jihyun, if you—”

“What? God, no!” Jihyun shakes his head frantically, sitting up on the bed. “I’m not, like, an
attention-seeker or anything. I’m not a child.”

“Good, cause I would have fucking killed you, Hyun. And then dragged you back to life
again.” He sniffs, feels a fastidious burn behind his nose and a weight wedged just at the back
of his throat. “And—of course I care about you. I’m here, aren’t I? I—I may look like I don’t
care, but I do. Fuck, I do.”

“Jimin.” His brother’s voice is hesitant.

“Yeah?” Jimin takes his brother’s hand in his.

“Where are you working now?”

Jimin freezes. Jihyun’s hand is very cold.

“I’m—at one of the libraries on campus.”

“That’s your only job? How did you pay the bills? I know mom and Daejung didn’t.”

He hadn’t thought of making up a job that would make sense with his crazy schedule, simply
because he wasn’t talking to anybody when he was at home—not even to his brother, since
they were hellbent on ignoring each other most of the time. So now that Jihyun asks, he
comes up with nothing.

“Just—it’s just random work.”

“My friend saw you in Gangnam one night,” Jihyun says. He doesn’t add anything else, just
watches Jimin with somber eyes.

“He did?” He splutters. “Hos—Hoseok brought me there.” That makes sense, right? Hoseok
comes from a well-off family.

“He said you were…” Jihyun hesitates. “Like. Dressed weird. And wearing makeup. Heavy
makeup. He said he almost didn’t recognize you.”

“That wasn’t me.” Good first instinct—to lie unabashedly and very, very badly.

“He said he saw you in one of those places where… men go… to seek the company of other
men.”

Jimin can’t help the incredulous chuckle that tumbles from his lips.

“He said those exact same words?”

“No. He was much more forward.”

“I’m just a host,” Jimin admits, pushing the truth out of his mouth with what he hopes is a
light-hearted tone. “It’s a host club. Not a brothel.” A half-truth burns less.

“Oh,” Jihyun says softly. “That’s… that’s a little better.”

“Yeah. It is.”

“Then he was lying.”

“People like to exaggerate.”

He wonders what kind of stories Jihyun’s friend heard. They’re probably all true.

“Hosts just… talk and entertain, right?” His brother is looking up at him with such a hopeful
face that Jimin feels his heart splintering.

“And pour a lot of champagne. I’m basically a glorified waiter.”

“Do you like it?”

Jimin tilts his head to the side, hopes Jihyun doesn’t catch the conflict in his eyes, his voice.

“It pays well. I won’t do it forever. Just long enough to get the hell out of that house.”

“You’re leaving?” Jihyun’s shoulders sag.

“I’m taking you with me,” Jimin says, squeezing his hand. It’s a spur-of-the-moment
decision, but it feels right, it feels the only logical decision. “I won’t leave you alone. I
promise.”
6.
When he walks out of Jihyun’s room with the promise of coming back the next day for his
discharge, he doesn’t expect for Jeongguk to actually be there, waiting for him.

“You’re still here?” Jimin asks, surprised.

“I told you I’d wait, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but—” he checks the time on his phone. “It’s really late.”

Jeongguk shrugs. “I can’t sleep anyway. Might as well be around.”

Jimin sighs deeply, running a hand over his face. Jeongguk pats the empty seat next to him.

“I can’t go on like this. Jihyun, too. This sucks,” he whines, sitting down.

“When’s he getting out?”

“Tomorrow, apparently. I can’t—I can’t take him home. He can’t be there. I don’t want him
to be there with… them.” He spits out the word with as much venom as he can muster.

“So, they’re not coming here?”

“He stole the pills from my mom and got the rest from my stepfather, Jeongguk. My fucking
stepfather. He calls him dad.”

“Do you guys have some other place to crash at?” Jeongguk asks after a moment of silence.
“Any relative or, I don’t know, a family friend’s house—”

“Family friends, that’s funny.” Jimin’s voice is watery. “I don’t have anywhere to send him. I
just know I don’t want him to live with mom and Daejung anymore. What if he doesn’t steal
mom’s meds next time? What if he becomes a junkie like her, a—a zombie?” He’s terrified of
the vision blooming in his head. “I can’t have that. He’s my only family.”

“It won’t happen, Jimin. Breathe.” Jeongguk scoots closer, massages Jimin’s back in soothing
circles as Jimin tries to regain a crumble of composure. “What if—what if I told you there’s a
room in my mother’s apartment? It’s my old room. Jihyun can stay there a while, until you
sort things out. If you don’t find anything better, of course.”

“What?” Jimin whips his head up in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“I mean, I’d have to ask her and my brother first, but I’m sure they won’t mind—”

His next words get smothered by Jimin throwing his hands around his neck, pulling him into
a hug that steals the breath from Jeongguk’s lungs. It lasts only a few moments though, as
Jimin hurriedly draws back with his face a deep red.
“It would mean the world to me,” Jimin admits. “I—I can pay you, you can rent him the
room—”

“What? No, we don’t need the money. Keep it.” Jeongguk’s eyebrows crease in a frown.
“Your goal is to get out of your family’s house as soon as possible, right?”

Jimin nods, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Find somewhere me and Hyun can
live together, yeah. It doesn’t have to be a big place, just—home. For me and him.”

Jeongguk brushes his knuckles against Jimin’s cheek, collecting the stray, traitorous tears that
have sprung free. “Save the money, then. You don’t owe me anything.” He leans in a little
closer, his eyes never straying from Jimin’s. “You know, you don’t have to… stay at your
mom’s. If you don’t want to,” he adds, biting his lip. “My apartment is small, but—”

“What?”

Jimin draws back abruptly when realization hits him. He shakes his head vigorously, his
blush deepening to a fierce crimson. “Don’t be ridiculous, I—I don’t want to impose. You
live on your own, and it’s your house, your life—”

“You wouldn’t—”

But Jimin is adamant. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re not a bother.”

“We can’t take over your lives,” he insists, still reeling from Jeongguk’s unexpected offer.
“Me and Hyun. This—it’s already hard for me to impose on your mother, and I know she’s
sick and all, and who knows when I’ll be able to afford a place all on my own—”

“Okay, okay. I got it,” Jeongguk says, raising his hands in defeat. “Just so you know, if it ever
gets too much—my couch turns into a bed. It’s a very expensive couch. Bought exactly for
these types of emergencies.”

Jimin chuckles. He feels his heart race a little. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

The smile Jeongguk gives him is one he’s never seen on him before—warm, and bright, and
so discordant with everything ugly going on in their lives.

“Jeongguk?”

Jeongguk looks at him expectantly.

“I need to make Rare.”

 Chapter 7
Chapter Notes

warning: potentially triggering content in part 5

1.
Taehyung’s hand is soft against his cheek. For such a tall, broad, intimidating man with the
most killer resting face Jimin’s ever seen in his life, Taehyung is exceptionally gentle.
Anybody who isn’t crushing hard on him is probably intimidated by him, and even then
Jimin bets there must be some underlying crushing going on. Kim Taehyung is just that
good-looking. He looks as if he was made in a lab, with only the best and freshest human
ingredients. The magnum opus of some mad scientist whose only goal in life was creating the
most attractive being in the universe. Jimin would gladly shake this scientist’s hand, bow to
him at 90 degrees like one does in front of the Emperor of Japan. And yet Taehyung could
bend him over a table with his tongue stuck in Jimin’s mouth and his hands roaming all over
his body, and Jimin wouldn’t remotely feel as hot and bothered as the night Jeongguk kissed
the absolute life out of him.

Jimin delivers his line with memories of Jeongguk’s mouth on his skin swirling in his head. If
he closes his eyes and focuses on the hand resting on his face, it’s like he’s back in
Jeongguk’s house, with Jeongguk’s hand stroking his cheek. It isn’t in the script, but he
decides right then and there that a little improv has never killed anyone. So he indulges in the
memory, nuzzles Taehyung’s palm just like he did with Jeongguk that night. His eyes are
firmly closed, the words he’s saying are very different and the person he’s saying them to is
totally a different person, but the intensity in his voice is exactly the same.

Taehyung goes with the flow. He doesn’t miss a beat, adjusts to Jimin’s little improvisations
in a heartbeat. His lines are delivered with precision, care, voice as deep as the ocean. Silk
instead of velvet. Sliding smoothly down Jimin’s skin, pleasant and cool, but not velvet.

The hand cupping his face and the breath ghosting over his skin feel the same. There, the
high he’s been chasing for so long. Jimin keeps his eyes closed even when the script
explicitly calls for an intense gaze. This is the most attuned to Sadaham’s feelings he’s ever
been in months.

“Okay, scene!”

Namjoon’s voice pierces the silence and Jimin’s eyes fly open. He’s instantly blinded by the
spotlights. Taehyung is smiling at him, a hundred times brighter than any artificial light.

“Damn, Jimin, you were really feeling it!”

“Very, very good, guys. I’m impressed. Jimin, that was so much better than all the other times
we did this scene.”

Namjoon climbs on the stage and pats him on the back. He looks genuinely impressed, but
without his usual exaggerated clapping and whistling and over-the-top appreciative
comments.

“Gotta say, when you changed the script a little bit… everything instantly got ten times more
intense. It was much more believable? It’s such a shame people aren’t gonna see all the
details from the seating area. Gguk, why didn’t we decide to shoot a movie? We lose so many
nuances in theater.”

“Cause shooting a movie costs a fuckton of money?” Jeongguk replies from the first row. Just
the sound of his voice makes Jimin shudder a bit. Get your shit together, Park. But the voice
in his head has begun to sound a lot like Jeon Jeongguk’s when he scolds him, and that’s a
hard no for his mental health.

This is a thousand shades of fucked up.

“Maybe we could, you know, get a camera—” Namjoon moves to the edge of the stage,
walking backward, and a girl has to grab him by the arm as to not let him fall off, “—put it
like, here, and zoom in on their faces, and then project it onto a screen at their backs? What
do you think?”

Yoongi pops out from backstage. “I think it’s too late to think of all that.”

“This is college theater, Joon, not Hollywood.”

“Isn’t your dream to shoot a movie?” Namjoon asks Jeongguk, a little disappointed because
everyone shot down his idea.

“To write one,” Jeongguk corrects him. “Let’s start with that. Directors are nobodies without
people writing their movies for them.”

“The unsung heroes of show biz,” Taehyung giggles. “Gguk, I’d star in any of your movies.
Promise me you’ll call me if you’re ever in need of a dashing protagonist.”

Jeongguk smiles, scribbling something on his script. “Alright.”

“Jimin, too. Hey, wouldn’t it be awesome if we all shot a movie together in the future? Like,
imagine Gguk makes it in the movie business. He writes a movie just for the two of us, cause
of our amazing chemistry, of course. That should be your first movie, Gguk. An ode to me
and Jimin’s romantic chemistry.”

Jimin laughs, sitting with his legs dangling down the stage. “But I don’t want to be an act—”

“But make it ten times more explicit, okay?” Taehyung says, waggling his eyebrows.

“I think you’re mistaking Hollywood with Pornhub.”

“Nah, ever watched any of Lars Von Trier's movies? He goes hard.”

“Of course I did,” Jeongguk scoffs.

Jimin frowns. “Is he the one that directed that film about the, uh—nymphomaniac woman?”

“Exactly.”
“But the actors had sex in front of the camera, like, for real,” Jimin says, holding his slightly
horrified expression in place even when Taehyung winks at him.

“Not true. They used body doubles,” Jeongguk says, glancing briefly up at Jimin.

“Well, maybe we don’t have the money to hire body doubles,” Taehyung says, grinning.

Jimin rolls his eyes. “Well, then maybe you find someone else to co-star with.”

“Are you saying there’s a small chance of you agreeing to do it?”

Jimin’s flustered answer is drowned by Yoongi emerging from the stage.

“Taehyung, the costumers are looking for you. They said you’re not going home until you try
all your costumes.”

Taehyung makes a face. “They’re just making up excuses to put their hands on me.” He
winks again at Jimin and disappears behind the stage with a spring in his step.

“Hey, Jimin, uhm—” Yoongi hovers over the empty space left by Taehyung, fiddling with his
hands. “Is your friend not coming to rehearsals anymore?”

“Hoseok?” Jimin says, holding back a smirk. “Why?”

It’s cute how Yoongi said your friend and not simply Hoseok, like saying his name would
physically manifest his crush for everyone to see.

“No reason. He said he’d come to watch you.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to watch me anymore.”

“What?”

“Are you talking about Hoseok?” Jeongguk asks, curious. “Last time I sat next to him in class
he couldn’t shut up about the work you’re doing on the play, Yoongi. And I know everything
about your work with the play. We literally work together. He couldn’t seem to understand
that.”

Jimin snickers. “This is all because you randomly kissed him in that bar, Yoongi. You broke
his fragile psyche, and now the closet isn’t big enough for all his feelings.”

“I did what?”

“Woah, you kissed already?” Jeongguk says, surprised.

“Oh. Fuck.” Jimin pales a little. “You—you really don’t remember? I thought you were
pretending not to.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Wait, you kissed someone and you don’t remember?” Jeongguk asks, laughing. “Literally
the opposite of a memorable kiss.”

“Were you really that wasted?” Jimin mutters, eyebrows shooting up.

“Hey, look, sometimes people drink too much,” Yoongi shrugs, the beginning of a blush
dusting his cheeks in pink. “And do stupid shit. I swear to God I don’t remember kissing
Hoseok, of all people.”

“You don’t believe in God,” Jeongguk says.

“Freshmen year, you kissed him in a gay bar, I think? He thought it was a dare or that maybe
you were shitfaced drunk,” Jimin rattles off quickly, hoping to nudge some little pieces of
memories in Yoongi’s mind.

“Nope, doesn’t ring any bells.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you kissed him. And you’ve been the cause of his decaying
mental health since then.”

Yoongi stays silent for a little while, brooding over Jimin’s words. “Is this why he’s so
nervous around me?”

“He’s scared you might kiss him again,” Jeongguk says.

Yoongi’s expression darkens immediately. “He is?”

“He’d love for you to kiss him again, Yoongi.” Jimin says, rolling his eyes. “Please do it
soon. I can’t stand any more of his longwinded messages about you.”

“He texts about me?”

“Are you playing at who’s more dense?”

“So, how—” Yoongi scratches his head, nervous. “How should I go about it? Should I tell
him I remember kissing him?”

To be totally honest, all this talk about kissing is making Jimin sweat a little—no particular
reason why. The conversation is taking unexpected turns, and – not that it means anything, of
course—it’s worth mentioning that Jeon Jeongguk is sitting right there, listening in.

Jimin cringes. “Uh—I’m not the best at giving love advice.”

“But you’re his friend.”

“Yeah, you’re his friend,” Jeongguk repeats, smirking. “Share a little of your wisdom with
the class. Is one kiss enough or should there be more?”

Jeongguk isn’t being vague at all, and Jimin has a hard time focusing on the matter at hand—
Yoongi and Hoseok, their kiss in a gay bar, et cetera. His kiss with Jeongguk, his back against
Jeongguk’s table, and FUCK—focus.

“Okay, listen, don’t—don’t tell him you remember kissing him. Uhm, pretend it didn’t
happen.”

“Nothing like a healthy dose of denial,” Jeongguk snorts.

Jimin blushes. “Listen, I’m not sure what Hoseok would prefer. He insists you’re just friends,
and refuses to tell me anything more. You’ll have to figure out how to crack him yourself.”

“I send him songs,” Yoongi says, hopeful.

Jeongguk hides his chuckle behind a hand, and Jimin cracks a small smile. Yoongi’s so
endearing with his old-fashioned way of wooing. “And that’s great. Keep sending him songs.
Choose the songs with the cheesiest lyrics you can find.”

“Are you sure it won’t fly straight over his head?”

“He isn’t dumb, just in denial. Some hidden part of him will know what you’re doing.”

“Oh. Okay then,” Yoongi sighs. “Thanks. He’s a little weird, you know. I hope he can relax a
little around me.”

“It’s just the trauma of your surprise kiss attack,” Jeongguk says rather unhelpfully. “More
kisses should balance that out.”

“What? No—you know what? Don’t kiss him out of the blue, it might push him further into
his shell. Let him ease into your… uh, whatever it is you guys have. This relationship.” He’s
panicking, he’s mixing things up. He doesn’t even know why he’s suddenly so passionate
about this.

“So… he shouldn’t take the initiative?” Jeongguk asks, looking at him with a strange
expression.

“I think Hoseok’s very confused. Jokes aside, he’s still figuring it all out himself—who he is
and what he wants. I give him shit all the time, but it’s not easy for him—especially since you
already kissed.” Jimin swallows, avoiding Jeongguk’s gaze like his life depends on it.
“Feelings are… complicated.”

Yoongi heaves a long sigh. “No shit. Okay, so love songs, no kissing, wait for him to do
something. Got it.”

“And don’t mention we talked, or that you remember kissing.” Jimin adds.

“For the record, I don’t think it was a dare. I get kissy when I’m shit-faced drunk,” Yoongi
says with a shrug, then leaves in a hurry when Taehyung starts playing random snippets of
the play’s soundtrack on his workstation, behind the scenes.

And he’s left alone with Jeongguk.

He looks around, racking his brain to come up with something—anything— to say. It’s
painfully awkward.

“So, uhm. Any comments on today’s scenes?” Jimin asks, clearing his throat. “Sorry I
haven’t memorized all the lines yet. I had a lot of homework this week.”

And like, other shit. Like a brother in the hospital. But he knows that already.

Jeongguk looks at him with a faint smile, and it’s ridiculous how incredibly hard it is to meet
and hold his gaze after everything that’s happened between them in the span of just a couple
days.

“Don’t worry. You’ve still got time.”

See, this is new, too. Since when does Jeongguk look at him – and talk to him— so affably?
Where’s the sarcasm, the ever-present annoyance in his tone?

“Is my brother being a nuisance to your mom?”

He’d taken Jihyun straight to Jeongguk’s apartment complex the very day of his discharge,
after hurriedly packing his clothes in a duffel bag and a very heated argument with his
mother. She’d relented earlier than he anticipated, but it might have been because the drugs
had started kicking in.

“My mom is just happy there’s a handsome young man keeping her company when she
watches her dramas after dinner. She says Jihyun likes her cooking a lot.”

“Oh. Yeah, he eats like a pig. Sorry.”

He has a hard time imagining Jeongguk’s mom. He didn’t want to intrude on their lives more
than he already was, so he’d left his brother at the front door with Jeongguk waiting beyond
the set of glass doors that had opened for him the night before. The night they kissed. The
night Jihyun overdosed.

The worst night of his life.

“By the way, no, I don’t have any complaints about your scenes,” Jeongguk says, tilting his
head to the side to study Jimin with smiling eyes. “You did well. I guess you were feeling
very inspired today.”

There’s a voice screaming don’t blush at the top of his lungs in Jimin’s head, but it drowns in
the burning sensation of a blush creeping across his face.

“Aha, yeah, I f-felt great.”

“Yeah? Did it feel great?”

Oh God, what’s he really answering to?

“Like—like any other time?”

“It’s not what you just said,” Jeongguk says, smiling.

He crosses his arms. “Taehyung’s a good kisser. I really can’t complain.”

Jeongguk’s expression slips just the tiniest bit.

“He takes his time with it, you know. He doesn’t go all in from the start,” Jimin adds,
recalling the desperation of Jeongguk’s mouth on his—it had made him feel wanted like
never before. “He teases. He lingers. He makes you work for it.”

It isn’t true, all their stage kisses are basic but exaggeratedly scenographic in a very fake way.
He has no idea how Taehyung would kiss in real life. He’s simply describing the exact
opposite of Jeongguk’s kiss that night—isn’t even sure why, he only knows he likes how
Jeongguk’s eyes darken at his words.

“He must have kissed you really well today. I’ve never seen you so out of breath before.”

That’s a lie, and Jimin decides to drop the conversation before it delves into dangerous
territory.

“Have you told the Bird I’m ready to work the rooms yet?”

Yeah, that’s a great change of topic that makes Jeongguk’s expression drop completely.

“Yeah. Seokjin said he thinks it’s a little early,” he answers with a clenched jaw. Seokjin and
Jeongguk’s first meeting after the assault didn’t go exceptionally well, but nobody was
expecting a warm reunion. Jimin wanted to smack Seokjin’s gloating smile off his face with a
baseball bat.

“Oh. So he doesn’t want—”

“But money is money and he’s already got someone who’s interested. Apparently there’s a
list of customers who were just waiting for you to move up the ranks,” Jeongguk goes on,
disgust webbed in the words. He’s never sounded so grossed out while talking about their job
before.

“That’s gross,” Jimin says. “But it kind of works in my favor.”

“Are you sure you want to do it?” Jeongguk looks at him with concern written in capital
letters all over his face.

“I can’t afford to rent out an apartment if I don’t do it. Wanting to do it has nothing to do with
this, and you know it better than me.”

Jeongguk sighs and walks up to the stage where Jimin’s still sitting, legs dangling. He leans
on his elbows right next to Jimin’s thigh, watching the other students drag props and sets
behind the scenes.

“I know. But my offer still stands.”

“I’ll keep it in mind for the day I kill my parents and need a place to hide.”

“Ah, no, the offer doesn’t stand for murderers,” Jeongguk says, smiling up at him.

He’s trying to come up with something witty through the static in his head when Taehyung
butts in the conversation.

“Hey guys, you’re not going home?”

Oh, yeah. Home. Everyone’s packing their bags and saying goodbye, and yet here they are—
staring into each other’s eyes and smiling stupidly.

“Shit. I think I missed my bus.” Jeongguk straightens up, looks at his phone with worry.
“Maybe I can make it if I run.”

“Godspeed,” Taehyung salutes him as Jeongguk grabs his bag and coat in a hurry and
disappears, leaving Jimin a little stunned.

“Hey, Jimin, you going straight home?” Taehyung turns to him lightning-quick, blinding him
with one of his maximum-wattage smiles. “Wanna grab a coffee together?”

“Uhh, yeah, why not?”

“Great. I know the perfect place.”

He lets Taehyung pull him by the hand out of the building, and thinks one last time of
smaller, darker smiles.
2.
The coffee shop Taehyung dragged him to is less a coffee shop and more a dessert shop,
since the counter is bursting with every kind of cakes and sweets conceivable to the human
mind.

“Order whatever you want,” Taehyung says, draping his jacket around the back of his chair.
“It’s on me.”

Jimin settles for something exceedingly chocolatey and caloric—even the cheapest cakes are
quite expensive. He feels a little guilty letting Taehyung treat him.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“Can’t I spend some quality time with my favorite co-star?”

“Okay. I’m flattered.”

“So, are you excited about the play?”

“It’s still weeks away.”

“And are you ready for fame to hit you like a truck?”

Jimin scoffs, digging his fork into the monstrosity in front of him. It’s almost nauseatingly
sweet.

“It’s just a college play.”

“You clearly haven’t gone to any of the club’s old plays. Last year’s actors had groupies
following them around campus.”

“I don’t want groupies,” Jimin says around the fork.

“Fans, then. Their popularity lasted for months.”

“You’re already popular,” Jimin says, frowning. “What more do you want?”

“I’m not doing the play for popularity,” Taehyung scoffs, a little offended. “I just think it’s
fun, and I’ve always wondered what’s it like to star in a tragedy. Gguk let me read the script
before it got selected for the play and I decided right then and there that I wanted to try it.”
He stirs his milkshake with the straw. “I know I’m… kind of popular already.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“But it’s only because of my appearance, not a particular talent,” Taehyung explains. “Like,
I’m not extraordinarily smart and I’m not the ace of the soccer team or anything. I’ve just got
a real symmetrical face.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being the university’s visual,” Jimin says, smiling. “Your face is
printed on every information leaflet we give out to high schools on orientation day.”

“I’d like to be remembered for something else too.”

Jimin gives up after eating two thirds of his slice. “I’m sure you’ll be memorable in the play.
Everyone will fall in love with Mugwan and wish he were the protagonist of the story.
Imagine the wailing when they see you die tragically on stage.”

“Heh, I wish I didn’t die of a banal sickness. I don’t understand why Jeongguk and Namjoon
didn’t change it for something more heroic—like, say, throwing myself in front of an attack
that was meant for you.”

“Cause you’re thinking about TV, and TV isn’t representative of real life,” Jimin says. “And
Mugwan really died of an illness.”

“Mugwan was also a teenager and did none of the stuff they wrote in.”

“Cause the story’s fictionalized, but everyone knows how they die,” Jimin says with a roll of
his eyes. “That’s the iconic thing. You die of illness, I cry for seven consecutive days and
then I kill myself. The end, cue sad flute music.”

“We do that part really well,” Taehyung says, grinning.

“We do,” Jimin smiles. “I think I’m pretty good at crying on command.”

“I don’t know how you do it. It’s magic, every time.”

“I just get really sad at the thought of you dying for real.”

“We should date for real,” Taehyung says off-handedly. “Give people something to gossip
about when they finish watching the play.”

Jimin stares at him, astounded. “What?”

“I’m serious.”

He laughs. “Publicity-stunt serious? Like, I’m Taylor Swift and you’re Tom Hiddleston and
nobody believes it?”

Taehyung doesn’t laugh at his joke.

“No, I mean we should date-date. I really like you, and we work well on stage.”

The smile slips off Jimin’s face at the speed of light. “But that isn’t real.”

“You don’t like me?” Taehyung pouts.

“Er—no, I like you. As a friend, I like you a lot.”

“As a friend,” Taehyung sighs, sipping his milkshake. “The dreaded three words.”
“Oh, come on. You don’t like me in that way. It’s just the play messing with your head.” He
never got the feeling Taehyung was crushing on him, so this is very unexpected.

Taehyung hums around his straw. “Maybe. It makes sense. We spend a lot of time in each
other’s arms.”

“See? You’re projecting your character’s feeling onto me, the actor.”

“Well, okay,” Taehyung huffs, not at all fazed by his sudden change of heart. “But I still think
you’re really cute and I do like you a lot. And we’d look good together.”

“We can be really good-looking friends,” Jimin suggests.

“What about pretend-dating? Just to mess with people’s heads.”

“No.”

“Is it because you’re already with someone? Would they get mad?”

“No, it’s because I don’t like it.”

“—or because you like someone and don’t want them to get the wrong idea?”

“Again, no—”

“Is it Jeongguk?”

Jimin’s fork clatters loudly on his plate. “What? No!”

“That’s a very theatrical answer. Suspicious.”

He throws his hands in the air. “How is it suspicious? I spent thirty seconds repeatedly saying
no to everything you asked me.”

“Just a gut feeling. I’m a very observant person.”

His eyebrows rise impossibly high. “And you didn’t observe how fake your crush on me
was?”

“There is something very odd in the way you two act around each other.” Taehyung finishes
the last of his milkshake and studies him attentively. “You were a little standoffish with him
at first—”

“Standoffish? I tried to be friendly and he acted like I was a nuisance.”

“He didn’t. He just doesn’t compliment people a lot.”

“He complimented you.”

“Once,” Taehyung says, holding up one finger. “It happened one time. He’s just stingy when
it comes to praise, and you accused it a little more cause you love praises.”
“Who doesn’t like to be praised?” His tone of voice turns louder, and the couple sitting next
to their table flash them a weird glance.

“I’m just saying you’re more sensitive to praise, I’m not cursing you and your whole
bloodline,” Taehyung laughs, amused. “He doesn’t say it out loud, but he likes your acting.”

Great, now he’s blushing for a hundred different reasons.

“You can’t tell me he was happy to have me as Sadaham. His precious protagonist,” Jimin
mutters, voice weighted down by sarcasm. He recalls Jeongguk’s mean words about his stiff,
emotionless acting—no, he definitely wasn’t happy about him.

“Alright, so he was a little skeptical—but I’m pretty sure he exaggerated his reactions to
offset Namjoon’s overwhelming excitement, which got a little ridiculous after a while.”

“Ah, that’s really mature of him, then.”

“Jeongguk isn’t even remotely as cool as people think he is,” Taehyung chuckles, but he has a
very fond look in his eyes. “But trust me on this—as rehearsals went on, you could really see
the change. Well, I guess you don’t see it because you’re on the stage, acting, but I see it
whenever I’m not in a scene. He’s always looking at you, really intensely.”

“Of course he looks at me, I’m the protagonist of his play,” Jimin shoots back, refusing to let
Taehyung’s words get to his head.

“You are—” Taehyung closes his eyes, takes a big breath, “—being really difficult, with no
apparent reason.”

“There is a reason,” Jimin huffs. “The reason is facts.”

“You know what? I don’t wanna date you anymore.”

“It was never going to happen anyway.”

Taehyung leans over the table to look him in the eye. “I’m never treating you to anything
ever again,” he says, but he gets up with a rather amused smile that matches the fondness in
his eyes. “Get your ass up. I’m walking you to the bus stop so people will think we’re
together—all good publicity for the play, of course.”

Jimin relents with a sigh. He tries his very best to ignore Taehyung’s words for the rest of the
night.
3.
Hobi:
hey
did yoongi ask about me at rehearsals?

Jimin:
uhm not today but he did last Monday

Hobi:
really?? What did he say??
why didn’t you say anything

Jimin:
I forgot
I have a life you know? I’m not thinking about your slapstick love story 24/7

Hobi:
I thought you wanted us to fall in love

Jimin:
yeah of course
have you yet?

Hobi:
what if I told you
I might?

Jimin:
are you serious?????
don’t fuck with me hobi you’re straight
you’re my straight friend

Hobi:
I know
it’s… a shock even for me
I can’t begin to imagine how you must feel

Jimin:
are you telling me I have to go find another token straight friend

Hobi:
if yoongi doesn’t reciprocate I’m back on being straight so don’t replace me just yet

Jimin:
uh, hello??? You haven’t told him yet??
 Hobi:
no

Jimin:
WHY
confess

Hobi:
you’re intimidating me into confessing to yoongi?

Jimin:
didn’t you say his voice made you want to confess to stuff or whatever?
well that makes it that much easier

Hobi:
it’s HARD

Jimin:
why?? You never had any problem asking someone out before

Hobi:
because
he isn’t a girl
and this is terrible cause I don’t know the RULES

Jimin:
oh my god what rules

Hobi:
the rules to your rainbow world

Jimin:
rainbow as in gay????

Hobi:
dude I liked girls until like yesterday, this is hard

Jimin:
an outright lie

Hobi:
I’ve been a ladies man all my life and you know it
I like boobs
so much
I’m a boob man

Jimin:
nobody told you to denounce your love for boobs
 Hobi:
yet I like yoongi so much??? I think about him every day??

Jimin:
wow.
let me take a screenshot

Hobi:
yoongi doesn’t even have any boobs!!!

Jimin:
he’s got nice legs though
perky butt

Hobi:
very true.

Jimin:
hobi this is great
I’m actually happy for you
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you yoongi asked about you
he seemed really sad you weren’t there
I think he likes being bothered by you
and that’s saying a lot cause he usually doesn’t like being bothered at all

Hobi:
thanks
but what did he say when he asked about me tho

Jimin:
that he missed you

Hobi:
WHAT

Jimin:
I’m sorry he didn’t say that
he just asked me why you weren’t there
come watch next time and make him happy

Hobi:
uhmm
yeah I think I’ll do that

Jimin:
great!! :DD

Hobi:
:)
4.

Jeon Jeongguk:
hey
are you still awake?

Jimin:
hi
yes
is everything ok?
is it my brother?

Jeon Jeongguk:
no no, everything’s ok
he’s at my mom’s
I think he’s playing videogames with my brother
sorry I didn’t mean to worry you

Jimin:
oh
no it’s ok
it was just a little unexpected
you texting me

Jeon Jeongguk:
I’ve texted you before, haven’t I?

Jimin:
yes

Jeon Jeongguk:
I know about tomorrow

Jimin:
ah
did Seokjin tell you?

Jeon Jeongguk:
no, the guys
minho told them
you’re working with him tomorrow
he’s one of the good ones
he’ll help you
Jimin:
yeah, I’ve been told it’s just me and another host
two customers

Jeon Jeongguk:
minho told me they ordered a lot of food so they’ll probably talk business for a long while
it might be just like working in the booths
this time

Jimin:
yeah

Jeon Jeongguk:
are you nervous?

Jimin:
a little

Jeon Jeongguk:
just a little?

Jimin:
our “lessons” were short-lived and they didn’t go very well

Jeon Jeongguk:
you were doing well

Jimin:
you’re lying

Jeon Jeongguk:
well, you can’t turn into me in just 3 weeks

Jimin:
I don’t think I can turn into you ever

Jeon Jeongguk:
good. I don’t want you to
ever

Jimin:
you don’t want me to be good at my job?

Jeon Jeongguk:
you’re not going to be a host forever, jimin

Jimin:
you neither
 Jeon Jeongguk:
why, but I love it so much
it’s my vocation
you’ve seen how good I am
customers simply cant get enough of me they gotta drag me back to bed for more

Jimin:
stop it

Jeon Jeongguk:
stop what?

Jimin:
don’t joke
about it
please

Jeon Jeongguk:
sorry
I’m sorry
it was a terrible joke im sorry
and you’re already worried about tomorrow
I shouldn’t have texted you I probably made you feel worse

Jimin:
no don’t
put words in my mouth
or in my texts, whatever

Jeon Jeongguk:
sorry

Jimin:
I’m glad you texted
I was really worrying about it
I’m not sure I’ll be good enough and I don’t know what to expect

Jeon Jeongguk:
if you feel lost look at minho
copy what he’s doing

Jimin:
what if he’s doing some sick moves on the pole? I don’t know how to pole dance
shit what if they ask me to pole dance idk the first thing about it

Jeon Jeongguk:
well
I think you’ve got enough strength in your thighs to at least attempt a little something on that
pole
Jimin:
?????

Jeon Jeongguk:
ok if minho is pole dancing you give your customer a dance without the pole

Jimin:
a lap dance?

Jeon Jeongguk:
see? You’re smart

Jimin:
don’t patronize me

Jeon Jeongguk:
how’s your dancing?

Jimin:
I used to dance a little, with Hoseok
he was part of this elite crew in high school, he taught me some moves
but I don’t think it’s the kind of dancing they like

Jeon Jeongguk:
just wiggle your butt in their faces and it’ll be fine

Jimin:
have YOU given a lap dance to anybody?

Jeon Jeongguk
‘anybody’ you say
like you normally give lap dances to random people

Jimin:
okay, customers

Jeon Jeongguk:
of course

Jimin:
you did?

Jeon Jeongguk:
yeah
when they ask
they don’t ask me often though
they prefer to ask other hosts
the more androgynous types
their loss cause I’m exceptionally good at it
Jimin:
oh. Wow
I’m kind of speechless

Jeon Jeongguk:
I’m sorry we didn’t get to the lap dance part of our lessons

Jimin:
aha
im… not

Jeon Jeongguk:
I would have showed you

Jimin:
a free lap dance from Skylark himself?
ah, damn
I lost my chance

Jeon Jeongguk:
did you?
we can still meet some time
I haven’t taught you everything I know, and if you need more help…

Jimin:
oh
uhm
I guess
I kinda forced you to tell Seokjin I was ready

Jeon Jeongguk:
it’s on you
if it makes you feel more confident in the rooms, I’m happy to help

Jimin:
thanks
I’ll
think about it

Jeon Jeongguk:
sure

Jimin:
I’m going to sleep now
thank you for
texting me
I’m not as worried as I was before
 Jeon Jeongguk:
that’s great
goodnight jimin

Jimin:
goodnight

Thanks
5.
Jeongguk wasn’t wrong when he told him it might just play out like in the booths.

And Jimin isn’t complaining at all.

When the customers walked in the private room, Jimin thought they didn’t look much
different than any other customer he’s had to entertain before. In their fifties, not particularly
attractive, an air of self-importance about them that grated at Jimin’s nerves. He could
already feel their hands on him, giant octopuses squeezing the life out of him, slimy,
disgusting, cold. Like a Hokusai painting, except Jimin isn’t going to wear an expression of
pleasure on his face.

But what they got was a little different.

The Black Bird staff brought up a lot of food, more than any other customer had ever ordered
before. The coffee table was completely covered in exquisitely cooked dishes, plus cakes,
fruit, whatever their rich hearts desired. And the two men did talk a lot of business—in fact,
Jimin begun to suspect it was the primary objective of their meeting, and was feeling slightly
annoyed they didn’t just book one of the booths in the main hall. This could have been a
normal evening for him, minus all the throat-constricting anxiety.

And yet, there was something a little off about their behavior.

It began like any other time: smiles, small touches, sitting way too close on the sofas. Heron
—real name Minho—took the client with the moustache and Jimin the slightly overweight,
bald one. He felt immediate repulsion as soon as he sat next to him. His cologne was
overpowering, and under it he smelled of sweat. The man—Mr. Choi, as he introduced
himself—was permanently covered in a thin sheen of sweat, no matter how many times he
dabbed himself with a little silken handkerchief. Nervous, Jimin proceeded to imitate what
Heron was doing—mostly sitting on his client’s lap and feeding him fruit—but his
customer’s preferences turned out to be a little different.

Mr. Choi was a peculiar man. Jimin soon realized he didn’t like to be excessively touched,
nor being fed, nor he didn’t like when little boys interrupted the grown-ups’ very important
conversation. Him and Heron had exchanged a couple of puzzled glances and remained
silent, just a couple of pretty marionettes waiting for their puppeteers to pick them up.

At least Heron’s client behaved a little more normally. He’d let him sit on his lap, he was
bouncing him up and down on his leg. He’d let Heron wrap one arm around his neck and
mouth softly at his jaw. That seemed perfectly normal behavior for a private room.

Mr. Choi’s thing was slightly different. Turns out he didn’t like to be fed, but he liked to feed
Jimin. So Jimin sat prettily on the sofa, one leg bent under him, the other dangling, opening
his mouth obediently every time Mr. Choi picked up a piece of meat with his chopsticks—or
with his fingers, and he always made sure to swipe at Jimin’s lips with disgusting sauce-
stained fingers every time.
This entire situation makes his stomach churn, but between this and Heron grinding down on
his customer’s crotch, he thinks he prefers the feeding kink.

Jimin leans back on the sofa, observing how Mr. Choi bends toward the coffee table to pick
what other delicacy to feed him. He isn’t eating anything, just feeding stuff to Jimin—it
reminds him of that one fairy tale about the evil witch feeding all sorts of delicacies to
children only to have them fat and juicy for the day she’d cook them. It makes him feel
uneasy.

He doesn’t listen to a word Mr. Choi’s saying—stuff about the fluctuations of the foreign
markets and inflations and South Korea’s national debt etcetera fly right over his head, as
he’s way too strung-out to follow the conversation. Honestly, he isn’t that interested to begin
with, and it’s not like hosts have a say in these types of conversation, the two men made it
clear from the very beginning.

He watches as Mr. Choi goes for the bossam and picks a particularly big piece of meat. He
dips it in sauce, places it onto a wide lettuce leaf, adds some more seasoning. Wraps the
morsel in lettuce.

That’s too big. He feels queasy at the thought of eating yet another piece of meat, he already
feels the fat coagulating into a tight ball weighing heavily on his stomach. But Mr. Choi
doesn’t look at him, he keeps his conversation with his friend going as if nothing could ever
disturb him. He just turns slightly toward Jimin and brings the wrap to his mouth.

Jimin gulps, tries not to let annoyance seep into his expression. He opens his mouth
reluctantly, a little less enthusiastic than the other dozen or so times.

“Open wider.”

That’s the first words Mr. Choi has said to him all night. Jimin looks at him in surprise. He
opens his mouth slightly wider.

“Wider.”

He obliges, part of him registering that the room has fallen silent and Heron and his customer
are now looking at them.

“I said wider.”

I can’t unhinge my jaw, he wants to shout, wants to slap his hand away and plunge his thumbs
into Mr. Choi’s beady black eyes. Instead, he sits straighter and tries his best to open his
mouth wider.

Mr. Choi stuffs the wrap in his mouth without a warning, pushing it inside with his fingers,
almost chocking Jimin with it. His startled sounds are drowned by Mr. Choi’s booming
laughter, and Jimin turns to the other side with a hand covering his mouth, humiliation and
anger bringing tears to his eyes.
“Don’t turn around,” Mr. Choi orders, commands. “I want to see you swallow it all down.
Like a good boy.”

Chewing is hard, the mouthful seems to get bigger and bigger in his mouth, no matter how
many times he swallows. He stares straight at the man as he swallows his pride along with
the meat, taming down the nausea rapidly building up his throat at the sight of Mr. Choi’s
sweaty skin.

“Good boy,” the man repeats slowly, like an owner praising his dog. He leans a little closer,
eyes glued to Jimin’s sauce-stained lips. “You’ve made a mess. You’re a messy eater.”

This man is fucking weird.

“Lick your lips.”

Jimin blinks, stares. The petty part of him doesn’t want to let him win, but he knows very
well how wrong it can get to say no to a customer. His tongue darts out to collect the sauce
on his bottom lip.

“Again.”

The room isn’t quiet anymore. Jimin vaguely registers soft moans and grunts. He glimpses
from the corner of his eye that Heron has straddled his client. His heartrate accelerates.

He licks his lips again.

“Again.”

The way Mr. Choi stares at his lips makes every hair on his body stand on end. He swipes at
his lips again, licks them clean, leaves them glossy and pink for Mr. Choi to admire.

He makes him want to puke.

“I love your mouth,” the man says in a gruff voice. There’s beads of perspiration dotting his
bald head, and his breathing has picked up a little. “It’s like a woman’s. You’ve got a
woman’s mouth.”

That doesn’t make any fucking sense. He’d love to roll his eyes, laugh at him. He doesn’t dare
to.

He doesn’t move an inch when Mr. Choi takes his chin in his greasy hands, though his first
instinct is to pull away. He feels his sticky fingers dig into his flesh, thumb pressing down his
lower lip until it almost hurts.

“Thick and red like a whore’s lips.”

He’s reminded of Jeongguk saying Your lips are pretty in the softest voice he’s ever heard
him use, and feels like crying. He gulps it all down, the tears, the disgust, the regret.
Mr. Choi smiles an ugly, slimy smile. “Are you still hungry? I can feed you more. I like to
watch you eat.”

Jimin shakes his head. He isn’t confident about the steadiness of his voice right now.

“No? You don’t want any of this?”

The customer nods toward the coffee table without tearing his eyes off Jimin.

Another shake of his head.

“I think it’s time you put something else in your mouth.”

Mr. Choi guffaws at his joke, laughter boisterous and asinine. Jimin’s heart drops to his
stomach, and he glances helplessly at Heron on the other side of the room. He averts his eyes
quickly when he realizes what they’re doing, but he can’t escape the sounds.

He watches dazedly as Mr. Choi unbuckles his belt, not with a little difficulty since it’s buried
under his swelling belly. This detail reminds Jimin of Daejung, and the thought alone
threatens to bring him to the brink of insanity. He must tune it all out. He must dissociate
from anything and anyone and think of the man beside him as just a lump of flesh. He’s not a
customer, he’s not a man, and he’s definitely not Daejung. He’s just meat. Yes, more meat.
He tastes bile in his throat, and this time it’s harder to swallow it down.

“C’me here,” Mr. Choice mumbles, pulling Jimin closer by the waist. He can see the outline
of the man’s cock in his briefs, can see how watching him eat has made him completely hard
already.

He swallows again when the man pulls his dick out. It’s short and thick, ugly, a swollen
worm twitching in his owner’s hand.

“Yeah, you like it, uh?”

Somehow, Mr. Choi mistakes his horror for eagerness, and Jimin doesn’t contradict him. He’s
certainly eager to get the fuck out of here and take his money. He’s not eager to put that thing
in his mouth.

He gets up from the sofa, kneels between the man’s legs without so much as a sound. His
mind is strangely empty of all thoughts, even the things Jeongguk taught him.

“I want to see you open wide,” Mr. Choi says, a hand already pushing his head down his
crotch. His pubic hair is thick and curly, as black as his shiny little pig eyes. “Open wide for
me, whore.”

He does as told and closes his eyes. He can almost hear Jeongguk click his tongue, the
disapproving tone of his voice as he says something like, You look like a man sentenced to the
electric chair.

His first taste of cock is traumatic, to say the least. Mr. Choi pushes inside his mouth with a
moan of pleasure, waits a second, then fists Jimin’s hair and presses him down his length all
at once.

Jimin gags, sputters, pushes off against the man’s knees to get away and breathe. Mr. Choi
doesn’t let him, pinning him against his crotch with both his hands, forcing him to take him
and swallow around his length. Jimin tastes sweat and precum and soy sauce and bile, and the
salt of his own tears.

And then his survival instincts kick in, and with strength he didn’t think he had, he shoves
Mr. Choi off him and gets up on wobbly legs.

“Jimin, what are you—”

He doesn’t even care that Heron’s called him with his real name, he doesn’t care about Mr.
Choi’s furious expression, he doesn’t care about the money when he dashes to the room’s
private bathroom and crouches next to the toilet bowl, vomiting until his stomach is empty
and his head emptier.
6.
“Do you understand the gravity of your situation? Do you know how much you have cost
me?”

Seokjin is livid. Jimin’s never seen him so furious before. His handsome features are
distorted by pure anger, his necktie is slightly crooked. Jimin watches him pace around the
dressing room as all the other hosts scurry out of the room with a mixture of horror and pity
on their painted faces.

“Jeongguk assured me you were ready. He told me you’d be exceptional at it. That you were
ready to give it your all.”

“I—I tried,” Jimin says, his voice still hoarse. His throat hurts like hell. “I was just—a little
sick, I didn’t—”

“And you didn’t say a fucking thing? You almost projectile-vomited on a client. It’s a
blessing that you managed to drag yourself to the toilet.”

“I was feeling well until—”

“Until you started doing your fucking job?”

“Seokjin? What are you doing here?”

Jeongguk stands on the doorway, his hand on the knob and eyes bouncing from Seokjin and
Jimin sitting dejectedly at the vanity table.

Seokjin huffs, eyes rolling so far back his head it’s almost comical—if it weren’t terrifying.

“Oh, great. Here comes the fucking cavalry,” Seokjin snorts. “Are you two a package deal?
Why is it that every time I’m with either one of you, the other feels compelled to butt in?”

“Has something happened?”

Jeongguk is staring straight at Jimin, ignoring Seokjin’s ranting. His eyes pierce him through
and through until Jimin has to look away, embarrassed.

“You guaranteed me he was ready to work the rooms,” Seokjin hisses, pointing an accusatory
finger at Jeongguk.

“I did,” the other says slowly. “Was I wrong?” He looks at Jimin again, realization slowly
spreading on his face.

“I had to deal with a very angry customer tonight,” Seokjin snarls. “Apparently, your
boyfriend here can’t keep a dick in his mouth for more than five seconds, which begs the
question: is he the same when he goes down on you or is it just on the job?”
“What happened?” Jeongguk repeats, louder this time.

“Nothing. I wasn’t feeling well,” Jimin answers, wringing his hands in his lap. “I left the
room early.”

“Mr. Choi has been a customer for over two years. Two years! If word gets around that my
boys are unprofessional, weak little things—”

“Tell Mr. Choi he can have me for free,” Jeongguk says, a hand raised as if to calm Seokjin
down. “Tell him it’s on the house. Just send me to him as an apology gift, whatever, I don’t
care—I’ll do it for free, whatever he wants.”

Dumbfounded, Jimin whips his head up to look at Jeongguk. The host is staring at Seokjin
with his chin jutted out in a challenge.

“You would?”

“Yes. Tell him it’s our way of apologizing for the… inconvenience.”

Seokjin raises an eyebrow. “So long as you’re consenting to this, right?” His tone of voice is
mocking.

A muscle twitches in Jeongguk’s jaw. “I am.”

“Great!”

Seokjin claps his hands once and regales them with one of his brightest smiles. “I’ll tell Mr.
Choi right away. I wish all my little birdies were as generous and reasonable as our Skylark
here.”

He turns toward Jimin at the vanity table.

“And you, my little Oriole. What should I do with you?”

“Don’t fire him,” Jeongguk blurts.

“Please, it was just one mistake. I should have told someone I wasn’t feeling well. But I do
okay in the booths, yes? Please.” He’s ready to beg Seokjin on his knees if he asks him to.

“I can’t let you work in the rooms, clearly.”

“No, listen, I was sick—”

“I don’t think you have what it takes, Oriole.”

“I’ll work on it. Give me a little more time, please. I swear I’ll do just as good as the others.”

Seokjin sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers. Jimin recognizes the ring he
used to demonstrate how rape isn’t real. He’s almost overwhelmed by nausea again.
“You’re clearly teaching him wrong, Skylark. I’d change methods if I were you,” Seokjin
says to Jeongguk, and walks out of the dressing room without so much as a look in Jimin’s
direction.
7.
“Are you sure you’re doing okay? Do you need anything from home?”

“No, Jimin, I’m fine. Stop fussing over me like—”

“—the mother you never had?” Jimin replies, eyebrows raised.

Jihyun scoffs. “I don’t need a mother. I’m fine on my own. With my brother.”

Jimin smiles when Jihyun doesn’t meet his eyes and turns away, a little flustered.

“Aww, cute. You’re so cute when you’re not trying to be edgy,” Jimin coos, tousling his hair.

“Jimin! Stop!” Jihyun swats his hand away, but the scorn in his voice isn’t real. “Gguk
doesn’t treat his brother like a child, and me and Jeonghyun are the same age.”

“Gguk?” Jimin repeats, surprised. He’s heard only Jeongguk’s closest friends call him that.
“Since when do you call him Gguk?”

“He told me he didn’t mind,” Jihyun says, blushing a little. “Why can’t you be as cool as
him?”

“And what, let you call me Min? No way. I’m your older brother.”

“I think I prefer Gguk as my older brother.”

Jimin laughs. “Oh yeah? Are you in love with him or something?”

“What? No. Are you?”

The question catches him off guard and he sputters, “Don’t be a brat!” while flicking Jihyun
on the forehead.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Cause you ask stupid questions.”

“You started it.”

Jimin gets up from Jihyun’s bed – Jeongguk’s bed, since this was his old room—and glances
at him over his shoulder.

“Don’t spend too much time playing games with Jeonghyun. You’ve got a bunch of tests
coming up.”

“I literally came back from the hospital like, one hour ago.”
“I’d force you to do math homework even if you were in the middle of another overdose,”
Jimin threatens him from the doorway. “I’m not saying to be the first in your class, just don’t
be the last.”

Jihyun rolls his eyes. “Gguk doesn’t care if Jeonghyun is last.”

Jimin makes a face and parrots Jihyun’s words with a mocking tone. “I’m not your pal Gguk.
I’m Park Jimin. And I know what’s best for you, and I want you to be smarter than
Jeonghyun and Jeongguk combined. Alright?”

“Why’s everything a competition with you? Do you compete with Jeongguk at work, too?”

Jimin stills with his hand on the doorknob.

“Who told you we work together?”

“He did,” Jihyun shrugs. Drops his gaze to the floor. “He… told me he’s a host too. And that
I shouldn’t worry cause he looks after you there.”

“He—he said that?” Jimin sputters, flustered. Jihyun nods. “He doesn’t look after me. He’s
not my babysitter.”

“Well, he’s a good friend. I’m glad he’s there with you.”

Jimin nods, a little stunned. “I’ll be going now. Say hi to Jeongguk’s mom when she comes
back. And help her around the house when you’re not studying,” he adds.

“Yes, I know, I know. Don’t worry, I’m not being ungrateful.”

“It’s just that I know you can be a brat sometimes.”

Jihyun walks him to the front door, pouting. “When do you think we’ll be able to move out
together?”

“Soon,” Jimin says, standing on the threshold. The landing is already much colder than the
inside of the house. “I promise.” It’s a very vague promise, but he can’t offer anything else.

Jihyun seems to understand, though. “Okay. Don’t worry. I’ll wait.” He smiles at him,
looking a little like the cheerful younger brother he once was.

When Jihyun closes the front door and he’s left alone in the landing, he sighs. Gripping the
banister, he begins to climb down the stairs, thinking back to his brother’s words. He’d
softened a lot, had even forgiven Jimin’s harsh words. He still felt like shit whenever he
thought about it. He isn’t sure he’s worthy of all this forgiveness, and will have to find a way
to make it up to Jihyun tenfold. Starting with earning enough money to rent out an apartment.

He’s a little jealous of the way he’d cozied up to Jeongguk, though. He even calls him Gguk.
He’s only heard Taehyung, Namjoon and Yoongi call him that. Maybe Hoseok once or twice.
Gguk. He tries the word in his mouth, blushes from head to toe at how weird it sounds
coming from him. He’s never calling him that. He doesn’t think he has the clearance to call
him that. Although Jihyun thinks they’re friends, he isn’t yet quite sure what they are. They
had shared a class last year. Classmates? Former classmates. They work together now,
though. Coworkers, then. They also kissed. Twice. Well, he kissed him and then Jeongguk
kissed back, so it can be considered as one single kiss. They kissed once, just once. So
what… does that make them?

He stops dead in his tracks, uncertain. He’s not looking forward to the ride home—it takes
almost forty minutes and he isn’t exactly eager to find an empty house, even though it’s better
than the alternative. He looks up. Four flights of stairs and he could be knocking at
Jeongguk’s door. He doesn’t have a pizza this time, though. Doesn’t have anything to bring
him. What’s his excuse? It’s just him. Jimin tightens his hand on the banister. It’s just to say
hi. And—now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t yet thanked him for what he did when Seokjin
yelled at him.

Maybe it’s time he said thank you.

He runs up the stairs, past Jeongguk’s mom’s apartment, up another flight of stairs. He stops
at Jeongguk’s door and waits for his heartbeat to slow down before knocking.

Counting in his head, he swears to himself he’ll never knock at his door again if Jeongguk
doesn’t open by the time he reaches ten.

The door opens to what seems to be a freshly showered Jeon Jeongguk, the faintly chemical
scent of musk and pine wafting out his door to Jimin’s nostrils. Ah, so Jeongguk is one of
those guys who prefers the more manly-scented bodywashes. It would be amusing if he didn’t
smell so good.

He sucks in a breath. “Hi.”

“Jimin?” Jeongguk stares at him, confused. “What are you doing here?”

“My brother lives here.”

“He doesn’t live in my house, though,” Jeongguk points out, looking at him like he’s lost it a
little—and maybe he has, because what the hell is he doing? “He’s downstairs, remember? At
my mom’s?”

“No, I know where he is,” Jimin huffs, flustered. “I just visited him. And then I thought—”

Jeongguk raises his eyebrows.

“—that, you know, you live here too. It’s polite to say hi.”

Jeongguk leans over the doorpost, gives him a once-over.

“No pizza?”

“Is pizza the toll I have to pay to come in?”

“Oh, so you want to be let in?”

Yeah, this was definitely a mistake. Not even a minute has passed since he knocked at
Jeongguk’s door and he’s already toying with him. But then Jeongguk steps aside with a big
grin, and he decides to let it go.

His house is the same—Jimin doesn’t know why, exactly, he thought he’d find it changed.
The bookshelves, the magazines piled precariously against the wall, the kitchen table with the
rickety chairs, the couch under the big window. Except now he can see the sunset from that
window, and the room is alight in soft golden hues. It’s nice, he thinks. Jeongguk can see the
sunset from his home. He’d like to live in a house where he can watch the sunset, too.

“Thanks,” he says, looking around like it’s the first time in his apartment. Like he doesn’t
recognize the table where Jeongguk had pushed him against just a few nights ago.

Don’t think about it.

“Want something to drink? You can sit wherever you like.”

Jimin opts for the couch this time because sitting at the table reminds him of that night, and
there’s stuff from that night he wishes he could forget, but it’s confusing sometimes, cause
some stuff he hated and some other stuff he liked a bit too much. His head is a mess, but the
couch is really comfortable.

“Uhm, tea, maybe?”

“You can have mine,” Jeongguk says, handing him an already steaming cup of green tea. “I’ll
make myself another.”

He accepts the mug with both hands, feeling the warmth immediately spreading to his fingers
and his palms. It’s scalding hot. He watches Jeongguk pour himself another cup of tea.

“So, you’ve said hi,” Jeongguk says, taking a seat next to Jimin on the couch. Ah, this is all
wrong. He thought Jeongguk would sit at the table again—that’s literally why he picked the
couch. Distance.

“What else brings you here?”

The way Jeongguk sits is very cute. One leg up on the couch, close to his chest. His body
completely turned towards Jimin, expectant eyes boring into his. His mug of green tea resting
atop the knee. Hair slightly damp from the shower, curling around his eyes and neck. That
doesn’t have anything to do with the way he sits, but Jimin can’t help but take it all in.

He looks really good bathed in the golds of his sunset.

“Why did you tell Seokjin you’ll take my place with Mr. Choi?”

“Do you want to try blowing him again?”

Jimin pales. “No. I don’t want to see that man again. He creeps me out.”

“You weren’t sick, were you?”

“I—felt sick. During.”

“During…?”

“With him next to me,” Jimin says, taking a sip of tea. The warmth doesn’t last long. “He’s…
really disgusting. He kept feeding me stuff, and he didn’t eat anything. Didn’t want to be
touched at all while he talked with his friend, and… then… he just—” Jimin gestures vaguely
with his hand, “told me to suck him off.”

He skips all the parts where Mr. Choi commented on his lips, doesn’t tell him how his words
had irked him, how they’d made him feel dirty.

“Was he rough?” Jeongguk asks, face neutral but voice soft.

Jimin just shrugs. “I had him in my mouth for all but five seconds before I couldn’t take it
anymore,” he says, mortified. His cheeks sting so much, he hopes the sunset flaring on his
skin is covering how hard he’s blushing. “It was—repellent. He had his hand in my hair, and
he kept pushing me down. It sucked.”

He chuckles, the sound a little watery. “I guess I didn’t suck the way he wanted, though.
Sorry, bad joke.”

Jeongguk is staring down at his mug, thumbing at a scratch in the porcelain. He lifts his eyes
to him when Jimin speaks again.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do it. I forgot everything you told me. My head was completely empty. I
couldn’t feel a thing.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“Well, I kinda failed you as a student,” Jimin jokes, drinking more of his tea and hoping for it
to warm him again. It’s already lukewarm. “And now Seokjin wants you to fix my mistake. I
feel really fucking terrible, you know?”

“Seokjin didn’t order me to do anything.”

“That’s even worse,” Jimin says. “That makes me feel even more like shit. Why’d you do it?”

“To help you,” Jeongguk says, the words falling so very easily from his lips that they catch
Jimin by surprise. “It was the first thing that came to mind. Customer angry, customer
slanders the Black Bird, Seokjin goes nuts on the hosts,” he counts to three on one hand, then
starts with the other. “I offer the customer a free lap dance, customer happy, Seokjin doesn’t
go nuts, you don’t lose your job. Everybody wins.”

“Except for you,” Jimin mumbles, perplexed.

Jeongguk waves a hand, dismissive. “Don’t worry about me.”

“You didn’t give him a lap dance, did you?”

Jeongguk doesn’t look away. “No.”

Jimin nods slowly. He looks at the yellowish liquid in his mug. It doesn’t smell as inviting as
before.

“Did he feed you as well? With his fingers?”

He doesn’t look up at Jeongguk, but hears his faint yes.

“It’s disgusting. It disgusted me so much.”

“He said—” Jeongguk hesitates, then shakes his head and pushes off the couch just enough to
set his mug down on the table. “Never mind.”

“No, I want to know. What did he say?”

“Forget it, it’s not important. You’re right, he’s just a pig.”

“Tell me,” Jimin insists, watching Jeongguk closely. “Did he say anything about me?”

I’ll fucking slash his pig throat if he did. Empty threats that make him feel a little better.

“He said he liked your lips better.” A pause. Jimin stares at him dumbly. “I’m sorry.”

“The fucking pig.” Jimin scoffs, tries to make it look like those very simple words haven’t
affected him as much as they have. He’s got to stop being so fucking sensitive. Everything
triggers him so much, all the time. It’s insane. He’s going insane. He swipes a hand over his
lips, forcefully, as if to clean them of Mr. Choi’s touch.

“You’ll never have to work with him again.”

But he will have to work with many others.

“Do you know of anyone that did a worse job than me their first time?”

Jeongguk looks taken aback by the question.

“Uhm—”

“Never mind, I don’t want to know,” Jimin huffs, annoyed. “This sucks. I can’t work like
this. I can’t work if my body sabotages me every single fucking time.”

“Jimin, it’s normal. It takes some getting used to.”

“How long?” Jimin shoots back, staring at Jeongguk with hard eyes. “How long did it take
you to suck another guy’s dick?”

Jeongguk opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “That’s different. I wasn’t working—”

“Did you get it right on the first try?” Jimin’s voice rises. “Did you feel dirty, did your body
lock up, did you throw up on your boyfriend’s shoes?”
“No,” Jeongguk answers, scowling. “I didn’t. But it was pretty bad, and I didn’t exactly love
it. Neither of us. It was really awkward, and I choked on his load. Happy?”

Jimin blinks. He sits back again, slumping against the couch.

“Really?” He didn’t expect such raw honesty.

“The first time a guy gave me a handjob, he didn’t use any lotion. My dick turned the size of
a small rocket launcher and I had to go to the hospital. My mom took me.”

“Oh, shit.” Jimin muffles his chuckle in the sleeve of his sweater.

“I cried the entire ride there cause I thought my dick would fall off and I’d have to live a
dickless life.”

“That’s a little funny.”

“After that day, I started to use so much lotion on myself that I couldn’t feel a thing while
jacking off. It was horrible. It was just… sad wet noises and a lot of disappointment.”

“How old were you again?”

“That’s classified,” Jeongguk deadpans. Jimin laughs, nearly spilling the rest of his tea on
himself.

“But you choked on your boyfriend’s cum the first time you blew him?”

“Oh, now you’re curious about that, uh?”

“I just find it incredibly funny,” Jimin giggles. “Sex-god Skylark beaten by teenage spunk.”

“I wasn’t a sex god at fourteen, but I’m flattered that you think I was.”

Jeongguk smiles at Jimin’s full-body laughter, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Jimin thinks
he feels his heart skip a little ahead.

“Now you know to always warn your partner first before shooting your load down their
throat. It’s the polite thing to do.”

“Did you swallow?”

Jeongguk cocks his head to the side, looking at Jimin with growing amusement.

“I didn’t. I spit it out.”

“That must’ve hurt his feelings,” Jimin says.

“I thought swallowing was gay. Yes, please, do laugh at me some more,” Jeongguk huffs with
a roll of his eyes, as Jimin snorts loudly into his tea. “I was a dumb teenager and a victim of
our society’s toxic masculinity. You can’t blame me.”
“Oh, man.” Jimin wipes at the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “I wish I knew you
as a teen. You were so much funnier.”

“You sure about that? I used to hit on all my friends back then. I would have hit on you, too.”

“Not a friend, then. What if I was just an acquaintance?”

“I would have befriended you.”

Jimin blinks slowly, the implicit meaning registering with a five-second delay. He blushes,
looking away and out of the window. The sun has almost completely set, leaving the horizon
bleeding and bruised.

“I really thought I’d gotten used to—” he swallows, keeping his stare fixed on the sky. “—
Touch. At the very least. When I work in the booths, I don’t mind when the customers feel
me up or sneak a hand under my shirt. Before I knew it, I wasn’t even feeling it anymore.”

“That’s good.”

“But then, in that room…”

He takes a big breath and turns to Jeongguk again. “I didn’t like his hands on me. I remember
thinking that if he had tried to shove his hand down my pants, I would have screamed.”

“And did he?”

“No. Guess he wanted a blowjob first,” Jimin says bitterly. “But I locked up completely. Even
before kneeling in front of him. I’m pretty sure that if he had tried to, I don’t know, push me
down the couch and spread my legs, I would have broken like a wooden doll.” He chuckles
nervously, avoiding Jeongguk’s gaze.

“You’re not comfortable with people touching you in a sexual way.”

Jimin’s blush deepens. “No.”

He’s still refusing to meet his eyes, but Jeongguk’s voice is not unkind.

“This will have to change if you want to work in the rooms, Jimin.”

“I know,” Jimin says, dragging his lip into his mouth and sucking on it nervously. “I don’t
know how though. I don’t know how to stop feeling.”

“Maybe you’re stuck on the wrong approach,” Jeongguk says, scooting closer. “Instead of
blocking out feeling, I think you should first try to embrace it, and then you can try ignoring
it altogether. You lock up also because you aren’t letting yourself feel anything; you aren’t
allowing your body and mind to learn what you like and what you don’t like. You curl up into
a tight little ball and show your quills, cause that’s the defense mechanism you chose for
yourself.”

Jimin stares at him, confused. “I’m a hedgehog?”

“Kind of. Whenever you feel nervous or threatened, you sting.”

He squints. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” Jeongguk says.

Have I stung you?, he wants to ask, but keeps his mouth shut.

“So, what are you suggesting?” Jimin ventures, a little perplexed.

He watches Jeongguk hesitate. He lifts a hand to Jimin’s face, slowly, very slowly, like one
does with a wounded animal you don’t want to frighten. Jimin feels it brush his cheek with
bated breath.

“I could help you,” Jeongguk’s knuckles drag across his cheek slowly, “—feel a little more.”

Jimin swallows. “You mean—touch me?”

“If you’re up for it.”

The little living room around the two of them is swept away by a new wave of heat. There is
just Jeongguk’s hand resting on his cheek, and Jeongguk’s eyes boring into his. Everything
else—empty.

“Touch me how?”

Jeongguk turns his hand around, lets a finger slide down Jimin’s jaw, his throat, his chest.
Even through the thick fabric of his sweater, Jimin feels the skin catch fire.

“How you’ve never touched yourself before, for starters.”

His breath has come back to him again, but now it’s shallow, quicker. His heart slams so hard
against his ribcage that he’s afraid Jeongguk will hear it.

“Yes or no?”

Jeongguk’s finger stops right above his navel, teasing, questioning. Jimin has to swallow
back the first yes because it feels a little too eager, a little too excited. A little too similar to its
absolutely terrified counterpart, no.

Fuck, which is it? Yes or no?

“Yes.”

A small smile slips onto Jeongguk’s lips, curving the corners of his mouth prettily. “Okay.
We’ll start slow. Relax.”

“Okay,” Jimin breathes out, seconds away from hyperventilation.

“You’re not relaxing,” Jeongguk laughs a little, the sound comforting and warm. “You’re the
opposite of relaxed. I feel like you’re going to punch me any second now.”
“I just might,” Jimin jokes, but is he really joking?

Jeongguk scoots even closer, his knee pressing against Jimin’s thigh. He wraps his other arm
around Jimin’s neck and starts playing with his hair, occasionally brushing the shell of his ear
while the other hand dips down, down, past his navel, skimming the hem of his sweater.

“My fingertips might be a little cold,” he warns him, then lifts the hem a bit and drags his
fingers across Jimin’s stomach.

Jeongguk’s hand might be cold, and Jimin inhales sharply as he feels ice slide against his
stomach – muscles contracting, body shivering—but his touch is seconds away from melting
his insides.

“Okay?” Jeongguk murmurs, fingers dancing around his navel, following down the sparse
trail of hair leading to his groin.

“Okay,” Jimin says, sucking in a breath. This is nothing his customers haven’t already done
to him countless times, yet it feels so much different when Jeongguk does it. Is it normal?

“You have such a pretty waist,” Jeongguk says, looking down. His fingers are pressing down
the visible V-shaped lines of his hips. “Do you know another name for these?”

“Uhm. V-lines?”

“Sex lines.”

This shuts him up instantly, and he bites on his tongue to avoid any embarrassing sound to
escape his lips. Jeongguk’s fingers inch dangerously close to his crotch, but just when he
thinks he’s going to touch him there they dance away, drawing circles on his inner thigh.

He’s a little disappointed. And he’s pretty sure Jeongguk can tell—at least by looking at the
bulge in his pants, if anything.

“Do you want me to keep going?”

This time Jeongguk puts his hand on Jimin’s thigh and squeezes lightly, fingertips an inch
away from brushing his cock. He dares to look down. Jeongguk’s hand is splayed wide,
fingers long and tapered and pale against the dark fabric of his jeans. There’s a vein that runs
along the side of his arm, disappearing beneath his halfway rolled-up sleeve.

It’s a—very fucking attractive hand, arm, fingers, whatever. The breath Jimin’s holding starts
to hurt his lungs.

The possessiveness with which Jeongguk is grabbing his thigh makes his head spin. He wants
nothing but for him to move his hand up a little.

“Yeah.”

Oh God, he sounds totally breathless. He’ll come in his pants if he doesn’t keep it together,
and then he’ll have to live the rest of his life with the very awkward memory of creaming his
pants just because Jeongguk said the words Sex lines to him.

“Yeah?” Jeongguk repeats, staring closely at his face. He’s leaned even closer, his other hand
stroking up and down his arm, hot breath ghosting the side of his face—tickling his ear.

“How do you think it’ll feel?”

Jeongguk’s impromptu therapy-session question brings him back to the world, lets him regain
some breath. He does a weird half-shrug, half-shake of his head, when in reality all he wants
to do is beg for Jeongguk’s hand to move.

“You don’t know? You told me you’ve touched yourself a few times. Why don’t you show
me?”

He looks at Jeongguk now, stunned.

“That’s—not the same thing.”

Jeongguk’s lips curve into a little mischievous smile. “You want me to do it?”

Between touching himself in front of Jeongguk and having Jeongguk touch him, he really
doesn’t know which could be more embarrassing. All he knows is that Jeongguk’s hand on
his thigh is warm and feels good.

“Yes. Please.”

With the same twinkling smile, Jeongguk moves his hand up his leg. Jimin bucks his hips
against him when the tips of his fingers brush against his clothed cock.

“So far so good,” Jeongguk comments, eyes glittering. Jimin’s so embarrassed he thinks he
could die, but he’s also incredibly aroused, and for once, he doesn’t feel scared of what’s
coming next, doesn’t have weird childhood flashes that make his stomach spasm with
disgust.

Jeongguk undoes his zipper slowly, granting him the tiniest bit of relief from the constraints
of his jeans. He pushes his pants down a little, and Jimin lifts his hips to help Jeongguk
undress him a bit more. He must be going crazy. He’s willingly offering himself up to Jeon
Jeongguk.

He’s just helping him.

Helping him feel.

Oh, and he feels a lot of things when Jeongguk’s gaze flickers down, and Jimin watches him
bite his lower lip softly as his fingers ghost over the outline of his cock—now quite visible
beneath his briefs.

Jimin doesn’t look down. He doesn’t want to see, as always. He’s staring straight at
Jeongguk, watching him drink him up with darkening eyes.
Then he remembers Jeongguk has already seen him naked. The thought makes him twitch—
remembering how Jeongguk’s eyes felt on him that first night in their private room. Jeongguk
notices his spike in arousal, of course he does. He cups him in his hand and presses down,
very gently.

“How are you doing?”

His voice has deepened to black velvet.

“Fine,” Jimin mutters, eyes drooping to half-moons.

“Just fine?”

He controls his voice. “What do you want me to say?”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer, he just smirks.

“Don’t you want to look down?” Jeongguk asks after a few heartbeats, voice incredibly close
to his ear. “Watch me take you in my hand?”

He shivers at the thought, but he shakes his head vigorously, eyes squeezed shut.

“No? Why not?”

“I don’t want to.” It’s all he can say. He thinks that if he looks, everything good Jeongguk is
managing to make him feel will vanish, sour, rot away.

“Alright.” He hears Jeongguk whisper against the shell of his ear. “Then don’t open your
eyes. Just feel.”

His hand strokes him up and down, up and down, light, teasing. Jimin hears the distant sound
of traffic outside, cars driving by, motorcycles revving up, life outside going on exactly as
he’d left it when he walked into Jeongguk’s apartment complex. He feels the shadows of the
night licking at his skin, feels the light retreating from the room, leaving it cold and a little
emptier than before. The lights in Jeongguk’s apartment are all switched off. He’s suddenly
very grateful for the night falling around him.

And then, above anything else, above his beating heart and quickening breaths and the way
his blood warms up in his veins, he feels Jeongguk’s hand on him, his breath near his face,
his presence—body solid and firm, emanating warmth.

And he likes it.

Jeongguk’s fingers hook around the hem of his briefs, tugging down slightly. Jimin breathes a
little quicker, his chest rises and falls faster, but doesn’t stop him. Just feel. He lets Jeongguk
dip his hand under his underwear and pull him out, and then he gasps, loud and shaky, a
single inhalation of breath followed quickly by a hand pressed against his mouth. His own.
Don’t let anything else out.

“How is it?”
Jimin doesn’t say anything, just nods. Frantically, holding his breath, not trusting his voice to
come out how he wants it—steady, true. He hears Jeongguk chuckle, amused, endeared. It
colors Jimin’s face in pink.

“I’m going to use my spit—”

“Oh fuck,” Jimin groans, letting his head fall back on the couch—now that is unbearably hot,
he’d been thinking about it since Jeongguk told him he preferred spit to lube.

“You don’t want me to?” Jeongguk asks, and Jimin can feel the smile in his words. “I can go
get lube.”

“N-no,” he blurts out, eyes darting open. Big mistake. He finds Jeongguk’s eyes immediately,
and they’re big and gleaming, staring right through him, reading his every thought. He knows
already.

“I—spit’s great. I mean, ‘s okay. Whatever.”

Jeongguk lifts his hand up to his mouth, never tearing his gaze away from Jimin. He watches
him spit on his palm, once, twice—the second time a little spit dribbles down his chin, and
Jimin nearly leans in to lick it away, to—what the fuck are you thinking? Close your eyes.

He shuts them as soon as he feels Jeongguk’s hand on his cock again, wrapping around his
length with just the right amount of pressure. He hasn’t jerked off the old-fashioned way in a
while, so he’s super sensitive, bucking into Jeongguk’s hand as soon as it closes around him.

He lets out a breathy moan when Jeongguk squeezes the head slightly, thumbing at the slit
and spreading precome all over it. It feels so dirty that the thought alone ties his stomach into
knots and brings him near the edge at the same time.

“Fuck, fuck, uhm—”

Jeongguk squeezes his base a little harder, stemming the flow of blood. He lets Jimin take
deep breaths, draws slow circles on his arm with his other hand to soothe him.

“Good?”

“Sorry, I—”

“Don’t apologize,” Jeongguk says. “You’re letting yourself feel. That’s good.”

Jimin nods, still keeping his eyes firmly shut. Jeongguk’s hand loosens around the base, only
to dip down to his balls, rolling them between his fingers. “I want you to feel good. If it
doesn’t, in any way, tell me and I’ll stop.”

“Please don’t fucking stop.”

Another chuckle. Must be funny seeing how desperate he feels, and sounds.

“I’m not.”
His fingers tease, press in places that make his toes curl, slide up and down the shaft with
ease. He hears him spit again, wetting his cock a third time, making the slide of his hand that
much easier, more pleasurable. Jeongguk’s hand around his cock feels like a miracle. His
own hand had never felt quite this way—there was always too much guilt, too much
uneasiness, too much inexperience and unwillingness to explore or listen to his body. But
Jeongguk listens to each and every of Jimin’s little responses: the smallest of twitches, the
shakiest of breaths. He listens closely and makes little adjustments, digging deeper into the
pits of Jimin’s pleasure to bring it to the surface, bare it to the world—their world, just theirs
and no one else’s, for now.

“You’re doing really well,” Jeongguk whispers, hot breath surprisingly close to Jimin’s lips.
“Really, really well. How does it feel?”

Jimin is lost in a cloud of dense pleasure. His very thoughts feel viscous. He thinks he
answers Jeongguk with something, some slurred utterance of yes or good or fine, he isn’t
sure. He just wants Jeongguk to continue, to pump his cock a little bit harder, a little bit
faster.

But then Jeongguk’s hand stops, and he lets out a small, involuntary whine.

“Wha—why’d you—”

He opens his eyes just in time to see Jeongguk dip his head down, down, down, mouth
dangerously close to—

“Woah, wait, wait, what are you doing?”

Jimin sits up and presses his legs together—though it doesn’t do anything to hide his arousal.

“I was going to blow you.”

“No, I know what you—I mean, you can’t do that.”

Jeongguk frowns. “Why not?”

“You—you don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to.”

The candid admission makes Jimin’s head spin. He stares at Jeongguk, flustered and
painfully hard, cock twitching at the seemingly innocent words I want to.

“I—I don’t want you to.”

Jeongguk tilts his head, studies him attentively. These five words are the hardest thing Jimin
has ever said in his life, for several reasons.

“I don’t think I can—” he clears his throat, stutters a little, “—not yet. Please.”

“Okay.”
Just like that, Jeongguk smiles and gives him a nod. He doesn’t ask why, he doesn’t comment
on how weird it is that he doesn’t want a guy to go down on him even as he’s holding his
painfully hard cock in his hand. “Do you want me to keep going? Just my hand?”

Heat flares across Jimin’s face again. He nods, cause he’s afraid of sounding just a tad too
desperate if he speaks.

“Do you think you can keep your eyes open?”

“What?”

“Look at me. Think you can do that?” He changes the rhythm of his stroke slightly, adding a
twist of his wrist that stokes the fire in Jimin’s belly. It makes it that much easier to slur,
“Yes,” even though he’d prefer to keep his eyes shut.

“So good,” Jeongguk coos, pressing closer against his side, hand tugging faster, black eyes
glued to his. “You’re doing so good.”

Jimin preens at the praise, turning his head to chase the sound of Jeongguk’s voice—or
maybe his lips. They’re right there, glossy and red because of how hard Jeongguk has been
biting them, but neither of them goes for a kiss.

“I want you to look at me when you come,” Jeongguk whispers against his lips. “When I
make you come.”

It’s enough to send him well over the edge, and Jimin comes in Jeongguk’s hand with a burst
of white-hot pleasure, every muscle in his body tensing and releasing at once. It seems
endless, this orgasm that doesn’t wane, and Jeongguk strokes him through all of it,
murmuring quiet words of encouragement, praise.

Then it all feels a little too much, and he hisses at the contact with Jeongguk’s fingers. He
immediately releases him but doesn’t draw back, still breathing in Jimin’s shallow breaths,
black eyes raking over his face.

They stay like this a while. Jimin just breathing, reeling from the most intense orgasm of his
life, and Jeongguk staring at him closely.

“Want to see what you’ve done?”

Jeongguk lifts his hand between them. It’s wet, covered in thick cum sloppily trickling down
between his fingers, down his wrist. Jimin’s eyes go wide, embarrassment burning every inch
of his skin.

“S—sorr—”

But Jeongguk brings the hand to his mouth, tongue out to lick at the mess. Jimin’s hand
shoots up to hold his wrist, cringing when he finds it wet.

The shake of his head is almost imperceptible, but he knows Jeongguk has seen it.
Jeongguk raises an eyebrow, smirks, and licks a fat stripe up the palm of his hand.

Jimin’s breath hitches. He releases Jeongguk’s wrist as if it burned him. He stares, transfixed
and slightly horrified, as Jeongguk licks the cum off his hand. He does it deliberately, eyes
darting to Jimin’s every time he sucks on a finger, daring, challenging.

“Did you like it?”

Jimin doesn’t answer.

“Did you feel it?”

He looks away.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

He brings his hand to Jimin’s mouth this time, raises both his eyebrows when Jimin doesn’t
pull back as expected.

“Want a taste?”

Jimin’s lips part on their own, and he licks them, nervous. Jeongguk takes it as a yes, and
slips a finger past his lips.

He thinks Jeongguk will simply press his finger down on his tongue, but what he says next
has him freeze over.

“Suck on it.”

His eyes widen. “I—I don’t—”

“It’s just my finger,” Jeongguk says. “It tastes like you.”

Jimin blushes furiously.

He licks tentatively at Jeongguk’s finger, swirling his tongue around the first knuckle. His
cheeks are bright red, he can feel it by the way they burn. When Jeongguk’s expression
unravels bit by bit and he sees him swallow thickly, Jimin takes more of it in his mouth, eager
to see how such a small thing can affect him.

And the answer is—a lot, it affects Jeongguk a lot. He starts thrusting his finger in Jimin’s
mouth, slowly at first, then progressively faster, eyes drooping and bottom lip trapped
between his teeth. It doesn’t take a genius to know he’s imagining his pretty lips stretched
around his cock, and Jimin finds he’s strangely okay with the thought.

He stops fucking his finger in Jimin’s mouth when it gets a little too much, and Jimin sees
him adjust himself through his sweatpants. He glances down. Either Jeongguk isn’t wearing
any underwear and he’s very fucking big, or he’s extremely aroused to an almost painful
point. Both thoughts make him feel a little funny.
 “Do you want me to, uh—” He waves vaguely to Jeongguk’s crotch. Jeongguk sits back,
wipes his finger on the couch, looks down at his very evident erection.

“Ah, don’t worry. You don’t need to. Next time, maybe.”

Jimin hurriedly tucks himself back into his jeans. “Next time?”

“Didn’t I help a little? With your problem?” Jeongguk smiles wide at him. The room is
almost completely dark by now, but Jimin can discern the white of his smile clearly. “You
didn’t punch me and you didn’t throw up. Progress.”

“….Yeah, I guess.”

This is the first time someone put their hands on him with the intention of getting him off and
he didn’t 1. shove them away, 2. headbutt them, 3. make up an excuse and flee. It’s definitely
a win.

“There’s still some things to work on, definitely,” Jeongguk goes on, his voice a little more
pragmatic – how the fuck does he manage to sound so lucid with a raging boner? – “But it’s a
good start. What do you say?”

“Uhm, what?”

He got lost a second staring at Jeongguk manspreading on the couch. His mind was wrapped
up around the very intrusive thought of sitting on his lap and grinding against him like a
Black Bird host in heat. “Sorry, I was… I have a bit of a headache.”

“You know what helps with headaches?”

“Paracetamol?”

“Jerking off. It’s true, try it—got something to do with blood flow and endorphins.”

“Uhm,” Jimin stammers, fidgeting with his sleeves. “I think I’m okay for today.”

“Well, if you liked this other approach to our lessons, we could keep it up for a while. If you
think it’s helpful, that is.”

And then it dawns on Jimin. Oh. Jeongguk means—actually using him as a way to help him
grow out of his issues.

“Ah, uh—yeah? I mean, it worked tonight,” Jimin says, blushing for the hundredth time. He’s
probably beaten some kind of record tonight—his capillaries have reached their breaking
point. One more blush and they’ll explode.

“Yeah. It did.”
That night, for the first time in a while, Jimin stares at his naked image in the mirror. And
what he finds underneath the layer of clothes doesn’t seem quite as scary as before.
Chapter 8
1.
“Okay, question—but you have to answer honestly. Would you prefer to kiss Yoongi, or for
Yoongi to kiss you again?”

“What kinda question is that?”

“Just answer.”

“Are you doing a survey on crushes and first kisses?”

“I was leaning toward Yoongi kissing you, but then I thought that if he kisses you and the
time isn’t right, it could deal you permanent brain damage this time.”

Hoseok sets his tray down on one of the tables in the university’s cafeteria with an
exaggerated roll of his eyes.

“I don’t know. I guess it depends on the moment.”

“So I was right. All it takes is for Yoongi to pick the wrong moment and suddenly you’re
freaking out on him.”

“I mean—a heads up would be nice, maybe?” Hoseok says, picking up a spoon.

“You could come up with some kind of code. Blink twice if you’re gonna kiss me.”

“That’s lame,” Hoseok says, the joke flying right over his head.

“Okay, so that means you want to take the initiative. Are you ready for that?” Jimin asks,
pushing lettuce around his plate. The food in the cafeteria isn’t the best, but it is cheap and
Jimin didn’t feel like wasting money on food. He’s actually really grateful Hoseok followed
him here, though he feels a little sorry since he’s making him eat mediocre food.

“I was thinking—” Hoseok stops, turns his head left and right as if to check that nobody is
listening in, “that I could confess through a song? Like, I send him a song and he checks the
lyrics and they’re, you know, super sappy and shit.”

Jimin snorts. If this is Hoseok’s way of confessing to someone, then Yoongi has already
proposed about a dozen times.

“Uh, yeah, why not? Make sure to pick a song with at least a few I Love You’s in the chorus.”

“You think Yoongi is that dense?”

“No, but if you want me to be honest I think a song doesn’t count as a full-on confession. Just
tell the man you like him, come on.”

“Big words coming from someone who hasn’t confessed to anyone before.”
“Wrong,” Jimin says, opening his can of coke. “I confessed to Kang Soonheng in tenth grade,
remember?” He was the boy Jimin accidentally headbutted when he tried to touch him—he’s
never told Hoseok that, though.

“Ohhh, Kang Soonheng. How it’d go with him, by the way?”

“Dude, you won’t believe it. We broke up.”

“You never told me how far you two went,” Hoseok says, eyebrows waggling suggestively.

“Ew. We were kids.”

“You were in tenth grade. Everyone is horny as shit in tenth grade.”

“Well, I’m not gonna tell you what we did,” Jimin snorts. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I
freaking headbutted him in the nose when he tried to move past kissing.

“Teenage romance,” Hoseok sighs. “Such a magical thing.”

“You know what else is magical?”

“What?

“Yoongi coming this way. Quick, get up and sing him a love song in front of everyone to
assert your dominance.”

Hoseok splutters. “Don’t make jokes when I’m eating! You know I always end up choking.”

“Hi guys.”

Yoongi’s familiar deep voice makes Hoseok perk up immediately. His ears blush beetroot-
red.

“Oh h-hey, Yoongi.”

“Can I sit here?”

“Oh, yeah, uhm—here—” Hoseok clears the seat next to him of the books he put there with
so much hurry that a few fall to the floor with a loud smack. “Ahah, sorry…”

Jimin snorts, hiding his smile behind the can. Hoseok is taking ages shoving the books in his
bag, he keeps dropping stuff and stuttering out apologies. The second-hand embarrassment
makes him feel like he’s watching a bad rom-com, but he’s actually witnessing the cringe
firsthand so he can’t skip forward to the less painful parts.

“I didn’t know you ate here.”

“This cafeteria is the closest to the music department,” Yoongi shrugs. “Food’s horrible,
though.”
“Yeah, gosh, it sucks. I feel like I’m gonna puke at any moment,” Hoseok says with a nervous
chuckle. “But like, not—not for real, though. I won’t puke on you or anything. S-sorry.”

God, this is painful.

Yoongi smiles indulgently. “Just remember to turn toward Jimin if you feel like throwing up.”

“Hey!”

“Oh. Okay?”

Yoongi chuckles, revealing his eyesmile. “There’s this place me and Gguk found a couple
days ago. It’s in Hongdae, a little removed from the main streets. A bar where they do live
music, but on Thursdays anyone can go up and sing. It’s great, there’s some really talented
people there.”

“Oh,” Hoseok perks up. “I love singing.”

He does not.

“Then why don’t we go this week? I’d love to hear you sing.”

Hoseok flushes from head to toe. “Oh—no, I meant that, uhm, I love to hear people sing.
Live. I don’t—I don’t sing. Maybe in the shower sometimes.”

Yoongi’s eyes glint playfully. “I look forward to hear you sing, then.”

“What?” There isn’t any difference between the color of Hoseok’s face and the color of his
spicy chicken soup now.

“You two are very cute together. Will it be a date?” Jimin says, endeared by the way Hoseok
fumbles his way through the conversation.

“Well, I was actually inviting you, too. I’m asking a few people if they wanna come along.
But if you want to go on a date…” Yoongi says the last part to Hoseok, brows raised in
question.

“A date?” Hoseok splutters, embarrassed. He does a weird thing between an eyeroll and a
shrug, which makes him look like he’s having a spasm. “Nah—the more the merrier, right?”

Hoseok is a delightful disaster. He’s having so much fun watching this.

“Oh, speaking of which. Gguk! Here.” Yoongi lifts his arms and waves them around like
uncoordinated windmill blades, and Jimin’s mirth instantly coagulates into terror.

“Hey, guys. What’s up?”

There, velvet. It makes goosebumps blossom all over his arms, the back of his neck.
“I was telling Hoseok and Jimin about the bar we recently discovered. Why don’t we all go
together, and maybe Hoseok could sing a little?”

Jimin sets down his fork, deaf to Hoseok’s stuttering complaints. “Oh. I don’t know. I have a
—uh, thing on Tuesday.”

“Well great, cause it’s on a Thursday.”

“I meant Thursday.”

“Can I sit here?” Jeongguk asks, but he’s already putting his tray next to his without waiting
for an answer.

Hoseok has caught onto Jimin’s weird mood shift and is now watching him closely, squinting
at him in a tremendously suspicious and up-to-no-good expression. Jimin makes a face at him
and steps on his foot under the table.

“It’s a really nice place,” Jeongguk says. “What are you doing Thursday night?”

Jimin hesitates. He knows Jeongguk is thinking that he doesn’t usually work at the Bird on
Thursday nights.

“Uhm—studying?”

He holds Jeongguk’s gaze for all of two seconds before dropping it down to his tray. His face
feels hot enough that he could use it to fry an egg.

“Aw, that’s a pity. Tae and a few guys from the club are gonna be there, you sure you don’t
have time?”

“The c-club?” Jimin stutters. Like, the Black Bird?!

Jeongguk kicks him lightly under the table, and Jimin jumps in his seat like he’s been
electrocuted.

“You know, theater club.”

Yeah, theater club, of course, god, he’s so dumb—but the memory of Jeongguk’s hand fisting
his cock is so strong that Jimin scoots a little farther from Jeongguk’s chair, because he
doesn’t like the way Jeongguk’s elbow is resting so close to his arm.

“Yeahofcoursethere’snootherclub obviously.”

Hoseok’s eyes skid from Jimin to Jeongguk to Jimin again.

“Aww, you two are very cute together. Why don’t you guys date?” he sniggers, parroting
Jimin.

“Because we’re waiting for you two to date each other first.” Great comeback. Wait—
“We are?” Jeongguk asks.

“It’s a joke,” Jimin scoffs. He kind of wants to disappear.

Hoseok hums, entertained at how the tables have turned in his favor. “Is it?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Oh, you can joke around but I can’t? Is this a dictatorship?”

“See? I told you. Like a hedgehog,” Jeongguk says to Jimin, absent-mindedly adding kimchi
to his fried rice.

Jimin burns a little more at the reminder of his and Jeongguk’s last conversation.

“I’m not a hedgehog!”

“Why are we talking about hedgehogs?”

“Sonic?” Yoongi says, confused.

“Cause he’s so sensitive all the time.”

“Oooh.” Hoseok nods his agreement. “That’s totally true.”

“I’m not sensitive, you guys just say stupid stuff all the fucking time.”

“Stop being so sensitive about being sensitive, Jimin.”

“I’m not!”

“Sorry, this is all my fault,” Jeongguk says, not sounding apologetic at all. “So. You still
studying on Thursday night?”

“Why do you want me to be there so bad?”

He decides at the last second to change his tactic, not realizing that it’s making him feel even
more self-conscious because the tactic consists in being forward and looking Jeongguk
straight in the eye.

“Maybe I want to get you drunk,” Jeongguk starts, eyes deliberately roaming everywhere
over Jimin’s face before settling on his lips—and Jimin swears he goes into cardiac arrest for
two seconds.

“…and watch you make a fool of yourself singing in front of a crowd.”

His heart reprises its beating, though it’s a little racier than before.

“Unfortunately for you, I’m very good at singing—even when I’m drunk.”

“Great. So am I,” Jeongguk grins.

Jimin smiles sarcastically, not really able to come up with anything witty.

“Oh look, I’m late for my shift at the library,” he opts to say instead, lying through his teeth.

“Don’t you start in twenty minutes?”

“Nope,” he says cheerfully, getting up and picking up his tray. “I’m super late. I gotta hurry.”

“Gotta go fast,” Hoseok whispers, snickering. The other two break into a fit of giggles.

“Oh, you’re so funny.”

He turns his back to them with a roll of his eyes and stalks away, the sound of their laughter
following him as he throws the content of his half-eaten meal in the trash and places the tray
back onto the counter. When he glances over his shoulder to glower at them one last time,
Jeongguk catches his gaze and throws him a little flying kiss.

That motherfucker.
2.
The night has been slow. Working the booths has become rapidly stale—but the good kind of
stale, meaning he can earn quite a bit of money doing something that doesn’t require for him
to be one hundred percent there anymore. Not many of their customers look for engaging
conversation with the hosts, regardless of what Seokjin likes to tell them. Most of the time
Jimin just goes into autopilot, letting old men feel him up and occasionally swatting away the
stray hand that tries to dip into his pants. You gotta pay a toll for that, Oriole always
whispers, with a glint in his eyes and a smile on his pretty pink lips. They always fall for it
and ask, how much? and then Oriole gets to tell them that he isn’t allowed in the private
rooms and they should pick another host.

One day, though. Soon. He hopes. He dreads.

The group of men he’s entertained tonight was a funny bunch at least, Jimin thinks as he
heads to one of the dressing rooms. Relatively young men, a few weren’t even bad to look at.
He could tell one of the attractive ones wanted to take him upstairs but kept getting cock-
blocked by Sparrow, who works Exotic and wanted to get laid and earn some extra money.
Jimin didn’t mind. It isn’t like he stole his money.

He sighs, eager to get home and dive into bed, maybe have an old movie play in the
background to lull him to sleep.

The dressing room is empty. No boys retouching their make-up, no one stripping naked right
in front of his eyes. He rummages in his bag to get his clothes out when someone walks in the
room, interrupting Jimin’s moment of quiet.

“Oh—I didn’t know you worked tonight,” a familiar voice drifts to his ears.

“Hey.”

Jimin greets Jeongguk with a bob of his head, then gets up with his clothes bundled in his
hands. He can’t help but scan his eyes up and down Jeongguk’s body, taking in the expensive
outfit and—fuck, Jeongguk is hard as a rock. Yep. Abort.

“Were you upstairs?”

“Yeah. Fucker didn’t let me finish,” Jeongguk says, voice a little whiny. It sounds cute, goes
straight to Jimin’s belly. “He wasn’t a very giving person.”

“Guess it’s just you and your hand tonight.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Jeongguk sighs, pouring some make-up remover on a cotton
pad.

“Do you want—” he stops the words from coming out of his mouth recklessly, turning
around to hide from Jeongguk’s gaze in the mirror.
What the fuck is he doing?

“Do I want, what?”

Jimin shakes his head, picks up a sock that’s fallen from his clothes and heads straight for the
bathroom to change in the privacy of a stall.

“Don’t be rude. Finish what you started.”

“I didn’t start anything.”

“Were you volunteering for something?”

Jimin scoffs, a hand on the doorpost. He just wants to hide in the toilet and change, and get
Jeongguk’s very visible hard-on out of his sight.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You clearly were.”

“I was asking you,” Jimin says in fake outrage, “—if you wanted any help removing your
make-up.”

Jeongguk spins around in the swivel chair to face him. He spreads his legs wide for Jimin to
get a nice, long look at his very evident boner. The fabric of his flimsy pants does absolutely
nothing to hide it.

“Sure.”

“But I changed my mind. I gotta change.”

He hears Jeongguk snort behind him as he pushes the door to the bathroom open.

“It’s just a cock, Jimin. I think you’re blowing things out of proportion,” Jeongguk says after
him, chuckling.

He snaps, which he knows it’s precisely what Jeongguk hoped to achieve. “What do you
want me to do, blow you?”

“Isn’t it what you were about to ask me?”

“No,” Jimin huffs, ears ringing. “I wasn’t offering… to touch you.”

Jeongguk scoffs. “Then, what? You’re offering a visual for me to jack off to?”

The thought of Jeongguk masturbating to him is almost enough to make his knees wobble.

“Lower your fucking voice! Okay, fine, I was about to ask if you needed any help with that
—” he gestures vaguely to Jeongguk’s crotch, “—but it was just a random thought, I didn’t
really mean it.”
“For the record, I would have said yes.”

“Yeah, no shit, you look like you’re in pain.”

“And also for the record, I think you need it as much as me.”

Jimin cringes. “I need to get you off?”

“You need the practice,” Jeongguk explains offhandedly. He spreads his legs further apart,
idly swaying on the swivel chair a little. “It can be a little impromptu lesson.”

Jimin swallows the excessive saliva in his mouth. He can’t stop staring at Jeongguk’s boner,
wondering how he looks like underneath those clothes.

But then Jeongguk closes his legs and spins toward the mirror again.

“It’s okay if you don’t feel up to it yet. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to
do.”

“I want to.”

“It’s okay, I won’t—what?”

Jeongguk turns to him, cotton pad streaked with glittered black in his hand.

Jimin holds his gaze, swallows again. His heart is thundering.

“I said I want to.”

Jeongguk makes a strange sound, half a scoff and half a chuckle. “I was joking, Jimin.
Relax.”

“I’m not. I do need to do it sooner or later,” Jimin goes on, surprised at how calm he sounds.
“If you’re offering, then I’m down. Better you than a sleazy old man who stinks of cabbage.”

“Are you serious?”

“It’s just another lesson, right?” Jimin says, shrugging. “It might help me again. I’m sure it
will.”

Jeongguk looks him over, licks his lips. “Yeah. It’s just a lesson.”

“Yeah, okay, I’m—I’m ready to learn,” Jimin blurts, throwing the bundle of clothes on a
nearby chair. “Where do we do it?”

He feels strangely electric. Adrenaline courses in his body, terror and euphoria and a slight
nausea overcoming him completely.

“Woah, okay—Jimin, wait a second,” Jeongguk laughs, raising his hands. “Not here, okay?
Someone could walk in.”
“Right.” Yeah, of course. Dumb. He’s so dumb. He’s so fucking nervous.

“There’s a dressing room we don’t use anymore, just a few doors down the hallway.”
Jeongguk bites his lip, looks at Jimin. “Want to go there?”

“Yeah. Whatever. You choose,” Jimin says, trying to calm his jitters.

“Follow me.”

Jeongguk leads him down the miraculously empty hallway. Jimin can hear voices and
laughter coming from the other dressing rooms, but the doors are all shut, and nobody sees
them slipping inside the room Jeongguk told him about.

“I’m going to lock the door, are you okay with it?”

“Uhm—”

“It’s just so nobody accidentally walks in on us. I can leave it open if you want, it’s nothing
the guys haven’t seen before.”

“Please lock it,” Jimin says, horrified at the thought that the other hosts could see him make a
super sloppy work at sucking Jeongguk’s dick.

He takes a seat on the very edge of the lonely couch in the room and looks around. It’s much
smaller than the other dressing rooms, and there’s a lot of dust around. There are only two
vanity tables against the wall, and one of the mirrors is cracked. A sign on the bathroom’s
door reads Out of order.

“Are you sure about this?” Jeongguk asks out of the blue, sitting next to him.

Jimin nods. Jeongguk didn’t turn on the main light, just the lights surrounding the two
mirrors. They cast a soft golden glow over the small room, playing with the shadows on
Jeongguk’s face.

“Okay.” Jeongguk hesitates before asking the next question. “What do you want to try?”

God, the things he wants to do to him. No, shit, wait. This is a little terrifying.

“Uhm, well. I thought I might…” Fuck, the words won’t come out. “Blowyouifyouwant?”

“What?”

“Blow you,” Jimin repeats slower this time, blushing so intensely he thinks he might start to
cast a light of his own. “I can… start with what you did to me last time and then… give you a
blow job.”

“Ah. Yeah. Okay, great,” Jeongguk says, wiping his hands on his pants. Is he flustered as
well? He can’t be. “This is your first time, right?”

“If you don’t count Mr. Choi,” Jimin says with a grimace.
“Remember, go slow. Forget everything you’ve seen in porn and stop if it doesn’t feel good
to you.”

“This isn’t what you told me a few weeks ago.”

Jeongguk ignores him. “And unless you’ve got a gag reflex of steel, don’t try to deep throat.”

He nods and watches Jeongguk’s hand sneak underneath his pants, palming at his cock.
Jeongguk’s body tenses immediately. It’s—very cute, how sensitive he seems to be.

“Give me your hand.”

Jimin does. Jeongguk takes it and puts it over his bulge, keeping it there, letting him know
how hard he is.

Jeongguk feels quite big, definitely bigger than Mr. Choi—without a shadow of a doubt.
Also, he’s pretty sure Jeongguk isn’t wearing any underwear.

Jeongguk wraps his hand around Jimin’s and guides his movements, making him feel the
length of his cock. Jimin’s eyes are glued to Jeongguk’s half-mast ones, his breath caught in a
web of gasps that Jimin traps inside his mouth. He won’t let out a sound. He can’t let
Jeongguk hear.

Then Jeongguk hooks his fingers on the waistband of his pants and pulls down. Jimin doesn’t
look down, even though he knows he should—that’s the point of their lessons, right? For him
to learn stuff and be more comfortable about things—but he thinks he’ll just stare into
Jeongguk’s eyes for a little longer, admire how they cloud over as Jeongguk puts Jimin’s
hand right on his cock.

And leaves it there.

“Take your time,” Jeongguk says, but his voice doesn’t come off quite as confident as Jimin
expected. It’s husky, much coarser than the usual velvet, a different kind of pleasant.

Blinking, half-remembering Jeongguk’s lessons and half-recalling how Jeongguk’s hand

moved on him the last time they were alone, Jimin wraps his hand around Jeongguk’s shaft.
He isn’t half-hard, this is a full-on, raging boner. His cock feels hard and solid in his hand, he
can barely wrap his hand around it. He wants to look down, he doesn’t. He’s trapped looking
at how Jeongguk’s eyelids flutter when he slides his hand up, squeezing lightly around the
swollen head.

“Ah, shit. Lube,” Jeongguk mutters, and as he tries to get up Jimin pushes him back down
with his other hand on his chest.

“Spit,” Jimin says, offering his hand to Jeongguk, palm up. A clear invite.

“What?”

“Spit on my hand.”
He presses the pad of his thumb down the cockhead’s slit, urging Jeongguk to hurry up. It has
the desired effect, and Jeongguk doesn’t waste another second spitting on his hand.

“Again.”

Jeongguk looks at him in surprise, spits again. A thin thread of saliva connects his spit-
slicked mouth to Jimin’s palm, before Jeongguk spits again and it breaks.

The slide is easier now, and Jeongguk moans softly when he feels both Jimin’s hands on him.
Jimin racks his head to recall all the things Jeongguk told him about hand jobs, what he did to
him when he gave him one, what he himself did the rare times he shoved his hands down his
pants. From the look on Jeongguk’s face it doesn’t seem like he’s doing a shitty job, but then
again—Jeongguk is extremely aroused; Jimin is pretty sure that a single, well-timed sultry
look from him could easily bring him over the edge. Not that he wants to seduce Jeongguk
into orgasming. Maybe another time.

“Jimin, I can’t—I don’t think I can last long right now,” Jeongguk pants, hand wrapped
around Jimin’s to make him stop. “So if you want to, uh—”

“Blow you?”

“Do it now.” It isn’t an order so much as a desperate plead. It makes Jimin smirk, abating the
anxiety he feels deep in his stomach. It’s nice to know Jeongguk wants it this bad. Maybe
he’s desperate enough to overlook how sloppy Jimin’s technique is.

He tries not to think about it and climbs off the couch, falling on his knees between
Jeongguk’s legs. They spread open for him eagerly, and Jimin gets his first good look at
Jeongguk’s cock.

Big is the first word that jumps to mind—he wasn’t wrong about his size, and suddenly he
understands why many of Jeongguk’s usual customers prefer to get fucked by him instead of
fucking him.

Pretty is the thought that follows, because Jeongguk’s cock is a pretty flushed pink shade and
there is not a single hair on him, he’s clean shaven like a—well, like an expensive escort.

The third thought is I want to put him in my mouth and How the fuck do I fit him in my mouth,
both at the same time, both belonging to two very different categories of feelings.

“You alright?”

Jeongguk is staring down at him, a slightly concerned look on his face. He’s flushed and his
eyes are sparkling, and Jimin finds he rather enjoys being looked down this way, while he’s
kneeling between his legs—something he didn’t enjoy at all with Mr. Choi.

“Yeah,” he says, breathless. “Uhm. Can you… tell me if I do anything wrong?”

“Of course. This is a lesson, right? You’re here to learn.” He sounds as breathless as him, if
not more.
“Yeah. Okay.”

He feels his own cock twitch when he takes Jeongguk’s in his hand again. Gives it a couple
more pumps, watching as the precome beading on the head spills down the shaft—dirty,
filthy, downright obscene, but this time the sensation in his stomach feels different. It’s way
less cold, and much warmer.

He shuffles closer on his knees, hot breath tickling the glistening cockhead. He wets his lips
before licking tentatively on the sensitive spot just below the head. He feels Jeongguk’s
whole body tensing like a bowstring, a small grunt falling from his lips. He licks again,
pressing the flat of his tongue on the same spot, butterflies fluttering in his stomach when it
elicits a louder moan from above. He kind of likes how Jeongguk sounds when he’s not in
control.

Spurred by Jeongguk’s reactions, he starts licking around the head with kittenish licks, tasting
him on his tongue. He’s slightly salty, and Jimin feels a little funny but also incredibly
aroused at the same time. Then he remembers what Jeongguk said about the balls—right,
don’t forget those, he thinks in a daze. He stops laving at the head abruptly—Jeongguk gives
a soft whine of protest—only to dive down to lick a fat stripe up the seam of Jeongguk’s
balls.

Jeongguk jolts, moaning really loud.

“Oh fuck, yeah—there.” Jeongguk’s hands are firmly planted on the couch at his sides,
digging into it with so much strength Jimin thinks he’s going to leave scratches on the
cushions.

“You can put your hand in my hair, you know,” Jimin says, looking up at Jeongguk with
heavily lidded eyes.

“S-sorry, what?”

Jeongguk blinks, staring down at him.

“I said you can put your hand over my head. I don’t mind.”

He sees Jeongguk lick his lips, thinking quickly. Then he feels a hand on the back of his head,
fisting around his hair. It feels right, Jimin thinks, his hand is big and warm and isn’t pushing
him down. For now.

He gets back to giving Jeongguk’s cock the attention it demands, hot and throbbing and
leaking like a broken faucet in his hand. He licks a few more times up the shaft, trying to
muster the courage to finally put it in his mouth. He wants to, but then he doesn’t. He’s dying
to, but then he thinks he might die if he does.

“Jimin.”

And then he hears him, pleading with a voice so broken with want that it’s just plain cruel to
ignore.
“Please—please, I wanna come.”

He decides to do it then, because fuck it—Jeon Jeongguk is begging him to make him come
and he can’t spend an hour licking his cock up and down like he’s licking a popsicle.

He pushes the tip past his lips and waits a couple seconds, hesitating. He suckles at the head
—teasing like he’d been taught—before sinking down a little more.

“Ah, shit—”

He feels Jeongguk flinch. Jimin immediately freezes, looking up at him.

“Teeth.”

Jimin blushes, mortification tinging his cheeks a deeper red. He opens his mouth a little
wider, this time careful not to let his teeth scrape him, tries again and looks up.

The string of unarticulated curses that falls out of Jeongguk’s mouth are worth the anxiety
and the insecurities, Jimin decides then and there, feeling how Jeongguk’s hand fists around
his hair but doesn’t push him down insistently, doesn’t move at all in fact. He expects
Jeongguk to thrust in his mouth, use it like he did with the dildo so many weeks ago, in
another room in this same building.

But he doesn’t. All he does is slump against the couch, head tilted back, black hair falling
over his eyes like a curtain. Wisps of hair caught at the corner of his mouth, blowing back
with the force of his shallow breaths.

Pretty.

He doesn’t think he can get more of it in his mouth, though. He tries, just to see Jeongguk’s
reaction if he swallowed more of his cock, but stops immediately when his gag reflex kicks
in. Nope. He’s reached his limit for now—if Jeongguk wants to be deep-throated he can find
himself another guy.

And this is a lesson anyway. He isn’t here to give Jeon Jeongguk the blowjob of his life.

He starts to bob his head up and down Jeongguk’s cock, taking what he can take, working his
tongue against the shaft, feeling him leak warm precome down his throat—he has to swallow
several times not to choke, and every time the taste gets more pungent, less salty and more
bitter.

Soon, the only sounds in the room are those of Jimin sucking on cock and Jeongguk’s breathy
moans, a heady blend of low and high sounds that turn him on immensely. He keeps his hand
around the base, fisting up and down to cover what he can’t take, waiting for the moment
Jeongguk will inevitably buck his hips forward to meet his mouth—and choke him; the
moment when everything will go to shit.

But it never comes. Jeongguk’s climbing up his high, eyes squeezed shut, and Jimin wonders
why he isn’t looking down, at him. Don’t guys like to watch someone suck them off? He
knows he’d like it, if only his brain would give him a reprieve from too many swirling
thoughts.

And just then Jeongguk looks at him, as if pulled by the invisible force of his thoughts. He
looks fucked out beyond imagination, lips bitten, face flushed, and as soon as his eyes find
Jimin’s mouth popping off his cock,

“Oh fuck fuck I’m coming—”

Ropes of white paint Jimin’s neck and jaw. He pumps Jeongguk’s cock through the orgasm,
feeling the warm come stain his hand. It lasts longer than he expected. His cock is still oozing
white when Jeongguk slumps back onto the couch, spent and staring at the ceiling with half-
lidded eyes.

“How did I do?”

Jimin’s voice is a little coarse. He can still feel the weight of Jeongguk’s cock on his tongue.
The taste is definitely still there, thick and bitter.

It takes Jeongguk a while to answer.

“Uhm.” He clears his throat, still staring at the ceiling, “Good.”

The word hangs in the room, hazy and a little uncertain, until it vanishes in silence.

Oh, so he hated it.

“Didn’t you say it’s polite to warn someone when you’re about to come?” Jimin asks
sarcastically, feeling underwhelmed by Jeongguk’s dry response. He isn’t even looking at
him. Jimin wipes a hand over his mouth, chin, and neck, and it comes out sticky and wet.

“Uh. I, I thought I had it under c-control,” Jeongguk stammers, finally looking at Jimin who’s
sitting cross-legged on the floor. He knows he’s hard, and he knows Jeongguk can see it, but
he seems to be too busy staring at Jimin’s puffy lips to notice it—probably remembering how
he almost made him bleed with his fucking teeth.

Jimin blushes. “Is it all gone?” he asks him, swiping at his lips again. He’d rather not walk
out of the room with Jeongguk’s come on his face, thank you.

“Uh, uhm—” Jeongguk hurriedly tucks himself back in, blushing, “You’ve got—a little—”

He points to his neck, and Jimin huffs and goes to stand in front of the mirror. There’s a half-
empty box of tissues on the table and he tears out a few, wiping every trace of Jeongguk from
his skin.

He wonders just how harder Jeongguk comes when he does enjoy a blowjob. He dabs the
skin a little more angrily, vexed at his own thoughts.

“Stop staring at me,” Jimin snaps when he catches Jeongguk staring at him through the
mirror. “You want to say something? Say it.”
He’s being snippy and disagreeable, he knows, but he can’t help it when he basically showed
Jeongguk a side of him he’s tried to lock away for so long and he won’t tell him anything—
tell him what? praise? Oh Jimin, you did so well, you did amazing, I can’t get enough of your
mouth—God, he’s so pathetic. He throws the soiled tissues in the wastebin. He’s angry as
shit.

And he’s hard as fuck and he fucking hates it.

“You want some help with that?” Jeongguk asks, and Jimin sees him pointedly looking down
at his crotch.

“No, I think I’ll manage.”

“Are you s—”

“Please, god, shut up!”

His face is on fire and his jaw kind of hurts and he’s unbearably hard and he’s given the worst
head Jeongguk’s ever gotten and he almost bit his dick off and Jeongguk hated every second
of it, so much so he refused to even look at him when only a few weeks ago he was preaching
eye contact.

"Good" my ass. He’s just too polite to tell him the truth.

He goes to open the door, realizes it’s locked, remembers Jeongguk locked it and feels stupid
for having forgotten, twists the key the other way and finally, finally walks out in the hallway.
He slips inside the dressing room, face red as a tomato and hair a mess, gathers his clothes
and stalks to the toilet without deigning anyone in the room of a single glance, clothes
bundled up over his crotch.

He’s never looking Jeon Jeongguk in the eye ever again.

 Chapter 9
Chapter Notes

it's easter. please enjoy this sin-free chapter that pope francis would surely approve of

See the end of the chapter for more notes

1.
“Taehyung. You gotta find your light. If you don’t stand in your light, the audience can’t see
you.”

“But I’m standing in the light.”

“No you aren’t. You’re never in your light.”

“Look, it’s hard, okay? I can’t concentrate on my lines if I’m busy looking for the goddamn
light.”

Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose. “You don’t need to look for it, you learn where it is.
That’s what rehearsals are for. You learn where to fucking stand.”

“It’s warmer when you stand in the light,” Jimin says.

“What? Warmer? I don’t feel any warmer.”

“That’s cause you’re never in the light!”

Namjoon makes a frustrated sound. Yoongi pats his back and looks over to the stage.

“Look, we’re all a little tired, okay? It’s the end of the week, I’m stressed, Tae’s stressed—
let’s wrap it up here, shall we?”

Namjoon grunts, displeased with this development. Taehyung stomps backstage without a
word. Jimin sighs, thanks the technicians for their hard work, then climbs the steps to the
seating area. The closer they get to the night of the play, the higher the tension between them.
He can’t really blame Namjoon for being a little frustrated, though. Half the actors haven’t
learned all their lines yet, and some of the techies have made a mess with their cues. Not to
mention their costumes are late.

“Hey, Jimin?”

He turns upon hearing his name called. His face falls when he realizes who it is.

“Good job today,” Jeongguk tells him with a tight smile.

He won’t blush. He won’t. And he doesn’t—the pink that dusts his cheeks isn’t there because
of embarrassment, it’s mostly just lingering anger. Oh, so now he’s trying to compliment him.
For his acting. Well, at least this seems to be something he’s good at.

He turns his back to Jeongguk without deigning him of a word and marches straight to his
bag. He doesn’t want to say another word to Jeon Jeongguk. His pride has been hurt one too
many times. There’s just so much that he can handle.
And let’s be brutally honest—what happened between them was utterly embarrassing and
whenever he gets flashes of that night he feels like stabbing himself in the eye with the
nearest sharp object.

“Jimin, wait—”

A hand on his elbow, and Jimin whirls around and yanks his arm away. Unfortunately, he
stumbles on one of the chairs and trips, arms flailing like windmill blades. His script falls to
the floor, and he almost follows it down. Jeongguk grabs him just in time, pulling him up at
the last second. His own bag falls next to Jimin’s script, some of its content spilling on the
floor.

Great, a fucking mess, and now everyone’s watching.

“Jesus, are you okay?”

“Let go,” Jimin hisses. He picks up his script and dusts it off. Jeongguk hastily bends down to
shove books and papers in his bag.

“Why are you being so prickly?” Jeongguk asks, sounding a little miffed himself.

“Me? Prickly?”

If Jeongguk dares make another hedgehog joke he’ll slap him in front of everyone.

“Yeah. You’ve been in a terrible mood since the last time we saw each other at the Bird.”

“Don’t fucking—” He lowers his voice down to a whisper, accusing finger pointed at
Jeongguk’s chest. “—mention that night. Ever again.”

Jeongguk frowns. “Why?”

Jimin scoffs and rolls his eyes.

“Are you embarrassed because of what happened, or…” Jeongguk adjusts the strap of his bag
on his shoulder, hesitating. “You didn’t like it?”

At this point it’s useless to try to hold back his embarrassment.

“What do you think?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Jeongguk says, a little on the defensive. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“I thought you were giving me lessons. You’re the teacher. Why don’t you give me
feedback?” Jimin spits, feeling his ears on fire. God no, don’t give me feedback. Why did he
say that? He knows Jeongguk hated it. It doesn’t mean he wants to hear him say it to his face.

Jeongguk blushes, opens his mouth, then closes it again. Repeat. He looks like a fish out of
water.
“Yeah. Okay. Very eloquent, Jeongguk.”

Jimin sighs through his nose, closing his eyes a few seconds to regain his composure. “I
know I’m not cut out for the job, but at least tell me if I’m going to be a disgrace for the Bird
—before some other customer complains to Seokjin.”

“What?” Jeongguk finally says, scrunching his eyebrows in confusion. “What are you talking
about? What disgrace?”

“I sucked,” Jimin hisses, throwing his bag on a chair in frustration. “I sucked, just say it. Tell
me I need to suck a hundred thousand dicks before I can even dream of stepping into a
private room again, I swear I won’t get mad at you.”

“That’s why you’re in a bad mood?” Jeongguk asks, incredulous. “Cause you think you’re
bad at giving head?”

“Well, it’s supposed to be my job and I suck at it.” And you didn’t like it. He scraps the
thought from his mind to keep his sanity.

“Jimin, you—you were—”

Jeongguk shakes his head, chuckles, drops his gaze to the floor. Jimin stares, heart sinking in
his stomach. Jeongguk hated it so fucking much, he doesn’t even have the heart to look him
in the eye now.

“You did really well. Fumbled a bit at the start, true, but—for your first time, you did…
really, really well.”

Jimin blinks, stunned. The words reach his brain with a delay of about five seconds, and
bounce around his skull until he’s finally able to absorb them. Jeongguk is looking at him
now, head slightly bowed and tilted to the side, black hair falling over his eyes. The tips of
his ears are red—but that might be the lights. Even though they aren’t on the stage, but
further down in the seating area of the theater. Yes, it’s definitely because of the lights.

“You’re not just saying that, are you?”

“No. Why would I?”

“Cause I’d kill you.”

“I’m serious.”

“You didn’t hate it?” Jimin insists, hand flying to his mouth to pick at his bottom lip.

“Jimin.” Jeongguk says his name in a low warning tone, before gently taking his wrist and
lowering it. “No, I didn’t hate it. I liked it. A lot.”

His skin tingles at the contact. His heart is slamming almost painfully against his ribcage. Is
he having a stroke?
“Oh. I didn’t—are you sure?”

Jeongguk laughs. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure. I thought you could tell that I liked it.”

“You just said ‘good’, but you didn’t sound convinced.”

“Well I’m sorry, I was a little out of it in that moment,” Jeongguk says, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, okay. Uhm, now I feel a little stupid.”

“You’re a touch insecure, aren’t you? Just a touch.” Jeongguk flicks him under the chin and
smiles. “Next time I’ll make sure to write you a stellar review.”

“Next time?”

“So, are you coming with us or not?” Jeongguk changes the topic at the speed of light and
looks at him expectantly.

“Uh— where?”

“The bar with the live music? Where I’m going to get you drunk to hear you sing terribly,
obviously.”

“Oh, that.” Jimin looks around, a little lost. Everyone is going home, and he had honestly
forgotten about Yoongi’s invitation. Now that he thinks about it, that’s probably the reason
why Hoseok looked so bright and starry-eyed when he saw him slip inside the theater during
rehearsal. He accepted Yoongi’s invitation.

“I’m actually a little tired—”

“Oh, come on. Hoseok is coming, too. Him and Yoongi are gonna be ridiculous all night.”

He looks at Jeongguk, sighing in defeat. “Okay, but I’m not staying until late.”

And he swears he sees Jeongguk’s eyes glitter for a moment, but then again—it’s probably
just the stage lights.
2.
He imagined the bar to be a cozy little place, but it looks much trendier than he thought. The
interior design is on the minimal side, mostly black furniture, and the lights are dim and a
little dreamy. The majority of people who muster the courage to sing do so softly, voice
weaving gently among the little tables of the bar. It blends nicely with the chattering and
laughing of the other customers. Jimin likes it. He would never sing in front of this crowd,
though. His voice is good, but he’s an amateur. These people can sing.

He’d said he didn’t want to stay late, but as always, going out with Hoseok means losing
track of time and adjusting to his friend’s schedule. Though he has to admit, he quite likes
watching Hoseok make a fool of himself in front of a totally smitten Yoongi. Except for the
times Jeongguk leans in to whisper something in his ear and he suddenly locks up, Jimin
thinks he’s having a good time, all in all. He just has to avoid Hoseok’s inquisitive eyes every
time Jeongguk tries to fluster him again.

Unfortunately for him, Jeongguk seems to like whispering in his ear a little too much. It’s not
like the music is too loud and he’s afraid of not being heard. And it’s not like he’s saying
anything scandalous or private, either. Just small things, random comments to their
conversations, stuff like that. But real close to Jimin’s ear.

And he can see Jeongguk is thoroughly enjoying the look on his face every time he does it.

By the end of the night, the only people remaining are him, Jeongguk, Hoseok, Yoongi,
Taehyung and Namjoon. They huddle together around one table, tossing back what’s left of
their drinks.

“You know, it feels like someone’s missing,” Hoseok says, words a little slurred, as he
sweeps the table with his eyes.

“What?” Jeongguk chuckles. “Who?”

“I don’t know…?” Hoseok muses, perplexed. “Like a seventh person….? Well, never mind.
I’m drunk.”

“How drunk are you on a scale from one to randomly kissing strangers on the mouth?” Jimin
asks, hiding his smirk behind the glass.

“Fuck you.”

“I’d kiss someone on the mouth,” Yoongi says stupidly. “Like, right now.”

“Are you that drunk?”

“No. I’m actually sober.”

“Well, I think someone isn’t sober enough for a kiss.”

Jeongguk elbows him in the side.

“What?”

“Let Yoongi kiss him,” Jeongguk whispers, rolling his eyes.

“What if Hoseok doesn’t remember it tomorrow? I don’t want their second kiss to be another
disaster,” Jimin whispers back, outraged.

“What are you two whispering about?” Hoseok slurs, slamming his drink on the table. He
squints at them, lips puckered in a cute pout. “You’re always whispering. Whispering,
whispering… even after rehearsals ended, you were whispering in the dark. What’s up with
you?”

“Yeah, what’s up with you, I wonder.” Taehyung leans over the table with a smirk, head
balanced on the palms of his hands.

“Nothing’s up,” Jimin snaps. “Shut the fuck up.”

“There’s the hedgehog.”

“Stop with the fucking hedgehog!”

“What hedgehog?” Namjoon asks.

“You’ve got a mouth on you,” Taehyung says, delighted. “Right, Gguk? It’s filthy. Like a
sailor’s.”

Jeongguk finishes his drink, smirks, “You have no idea.” Then he flashes Jimin a knowing
look that makes his face burst up in flames.

“You’re a son of a bitch.”

“The filthiest mouth.”

“Stop playing their game,” Jimin whines, growing more flustered and irritated by the second.

“What game?” Jeongguk says innocently. “I’m just saying that yes, it’s true, you swear a lot.”

“Who, Jiminie? This is the first time I hear him swearing,” Namjoon says, still a little
confused.

“Oh, trust me, he isn’t the sweet little angel he pretends to be,” Hoseok says, waving his
empty glass around and barely missing Namjoon’s face by an inch. “He’s more like a—a—
like the dudes with the horns, you know? The evil dudes. What’s their name.”

“A devil?” Yoongi says, chuckling.

“Yes but like, with a softer side. And you—” Hoseok points a finger at Jeongguk, who
freezes. “I know what you’re doing. I see you. You’ve been flustering my Jiminie all. night.
long.”

Taehyung snickers, ecstatic at the new turn of events. Yoongi sits back and enjoys the show,
Namjoon looks from Hoseok to Jeongguk with the same confused frown etched between his
brows. Jimin stares in horror as a very drunk Hoseok decides this is the right time to shame
his best friend to death.

“Me?” Jeongguk says, amused. “I’m not doing anything.”

“No, I know what’s up. Jiminie hasn’t told me yet, but he doesn’t know that I know. I know
what’s up. You’re fishy, and you’re my classmate, and Jimin’s my best friend, and you
haven’t asked me how to win him over once. You think you can woo him without my help?”

Hoseok snorts, tries to drink from his glass, finds it empty and tosses it unceremoniously on
the table. Taehyung almost falls off his chair from how hard he’s laughing.

“Heh. You don’t know him. He’s a fortress. Impenetrable. You can’t win his heart if you
don’t pass through me first, little guy.”

“Hoseok, you’re drunk, please shut up,” Jimin groans, hiding his face in his hands. “Guys—
Yoongi, do something. Kiss him senseless so he’ll shut up.”

“You said I can’t.”

“I give you permission now.”

“Wait, so you guys really need each other’s permission to be with someone?” Namjoon asks
with a serious tone.

“I think your best friend is old enough to decide on his own whether to open the gates to his
impenetrable fortress or not, don’t you think?” Jeongguk says, smirking.

“Is that an elaborate metaphor for having sex?”

Hoseok blanches. “You guys aren’t sleeping behind my back, are you?”

“What the fuck?” Jimin slams his hands on the table, exasperated. “No. Of course not. And
you stop leading him on!” he shouts to an extremely amused Jeongguk.

“I’m not leading him on. He’s already made up his mind.”

“You’d tell me, Min, right? You never tell me when you hook up with someone. I tell you
every single time. Why are you so secretive? I’m your best friend!”

Jimin has never wished for the ground to open up and swallow him whole with this much
intensity before in his life.

“Come on, Hoseok. That’s private stuff. Don’t be an asshole,” Jeongguk says, unexpectedly
having Jimin’s back in the argument—even though he knows very well why he’s never told
Hoseok about any of his hook-ups.
“I don’t believe you. Something is going on. Something you—” Hoseok glares at Jimin, “—
aren’t telling me about. You’re mean!”

“Okay, that’s enough. I’m going home and you’re coming with me,” Jimin declares, jumping
to his feet.

“But you haven’t heard Gguk sing yet.”

He turns toward Yoongi, surprised. “Is he singing?”

“I’m singing?” Jeongguk repeats, eyebrows shooting up.

Yoongi huffs. “Why do you think I’m here? I want to hear you sing.”

“Is this part of your scheme to get me to make a song with you?”

“What’s the point of coming here if none of us is going to sing?”

Hoseok shushes Yoongi and leans over the table, staring at Jeongguk. “Tell you what—I’ll
give you permission to date Jiminie if you sing us a song. A nice love song. A ballad. I love
when guys send me ballads,” he sighs dreamily, then blushes a violent red. “I—I mean when
people send me ballads. People, like in general. Like—girls. Girls send me songs all the
time.”

Jimin rolls his eyes. “This is ridiculous—”

“Alright, I’ll sing you a ballad.”

He whips his head toward Jeongguk so fast he thinks he hears an ominous crack.

“What the fuck?”

“What? He’s drunk, he’s not gonna stop until someone caves in,” Jeongguk says, shrugging.
“You said it yourself, he's not gonna remember anything tomorrow. Relax. Don’t you want to
hear me sing?”

He shoots Jimin a charming smile, one laced with a little bit of amusement and a little bit of
arrogance.

“Whatever, I don’t care.” Jimin makes a big scene of rolling his eyes, then wonders about
what black velvet would sound like if it could sing.

“Such enthusiasm. Seems like I’ve got a tough crowd to please.”

“Gguk, Gguk—tell the band you want to sing! The song is about to finish,” Hoseok chirps
enthusiastically, glancing at the girl who is currently singing a peppy song about summer and
oceans and salty skin—not really fitting for the season, but her voice is quite good.

Jeongguk shoots his drunk friend an indulgent smile and walks up to the band, waiting
patiently for the girl to finish her song. Hoseok seems to have completely switched
personalities, turning from a petulant and slightly paranoid child to a hyperactive one,
swaying on his seat and talking Yoongi’s ear off about filming Jeongguk singing and sending
the video to some TV program where he’ll be recognized for his talent, scouted, and turned
into an idol by the end of the year.

The song finishes and Hoseok whoops very loudly, making a few heads turn in the direction
of their table. Jimin is sinking deeper and deeper into his chair, wishing for Jeongguk to sing
the shortest ballad in Korean history so that he could grab Hoseok and get his drunk ass
home. He’s ready for the night to end, and doesn’t listen to a single word the others are
saying as they wait for the next person to sing. He lets his gaze sweep over the bar, sliding
from the couples holding hands in the corners to the more boisterous tables where college
students are drinking the night away.

Then the music starts again, a softer, slower melody that Jimin doesn’t recognize. Hoseok
claps and sits up straighter, craning his neck to get a glimpse of Jeongguk on the other side of
the room. The others do the same, and Jimin glances up, curious.

Jeongguk sits on a stool in front of the mic, back straight, head cocked to the side a bit, eyes
closed to listen for his cue. He looks softer enveloped by such heartrending music, sharp
edges eroded into rounder ones, dark hair framing the face of a boy rather than the painted
face of a man with glitters on his eyelids and smeared lipstick.

Jimin’s heart skips a painful beat. He drops his gaze to the table and thinks he’s really
reached rock bottom if the sole sight of Jeongguk sitting on a stool with no make-up on has
the power to make him feel this—this weird way.

He couldn’t be more wrong.

It’s when Jeongguk starts to sing that he perks up again, eyes immediately finding Jeongguk’s
face. He sings with his eyes closed, body leaning slightly forward, mouth close to the
microphone. Jimin doesn’t know the song, he’s never heard it before—just like he’s never
heard black velvet bleed into the warmest shade of gold in the color spectrum. That’s what
Jeongguk’s singing sounds like—an explosion of warm yellows and oranges first blending
into solid colors, then breaking into a rainbow of golden shades; and Jimin sees amber, he
sees honey, he sees lemons and he sees sunflowers, and even though the song is sad and
Jeongguk weaves sighs between the words, Jimin’s heart feels both heavy and light at the
same time, and so, so very warm.

And he gets it then—ah, so this is what I’ve been feeling all this time.

This definitely feels like—

3.
Coming home that night feels like coming home as another person. This is still his house, his
mother and stepfather are drowsily zapping channels on the TV in the living room, but he
feels like an alien in his skin. He toes out of his shoes, pads to his room in silence, careful not
to be heard. Props his bag against the leg of his desk, then falls on his back on the bed. Stares
at the ceiling while everything around him is silence, shadows, stillness.

What a strange night.

He doesn’t feel strange, though. Maybe he’s been nursing this feeling inside his chest for way
longer than he’s allowed himself to realize tonight, and strangely enough the thought doesn’t
upset him. He listens to the clock slowly tick away. His head is still padded with soft yellow
stuffing. He wonders whether, if he were to cry now, he’d see golden tears streak his cheeks.

He doesn’t feel like crying though; this isn’t one of those nights. He feels both a little empty
and a little full, full of this new emotion that has been taking roots inside his chest,
smothering his internal organs like so many golden flowers blooming quickly one after the
other, like in one of those time-lapse videos where everything is sped up.

He’s become a garden of yellow flowers. Buttercups, daffodils, marigolds. He can almost
smell the earthy scent of damp soil and dew in the air. Intoxicating, and a little numbing.

He sighs and looks at his phone. Late, it’s very late. He should sleep, he knows he won’t. All
the exhaustion he felt in the bar washed away as soon as Jeongguk swapped his black for
gold. If he closes his eyes now, he knows the darkness will become suddenly brighter,
blinding. He knows better than to sleep. He needs something to get his mind off colors.

He zips his bag open to get his script out. Since he can’t sleep, he might as well memorize
some more lines. He fluffs up his pillows, turns on the lamp on the nightstand and opens the
script to the first act.

This is not his script.

The words Jeon Jeongguk are written tidily on the top left of the first page, above the title
and the names of the two screenwriters, plus Yoongi. Jimin stares at the words, stunned,
unable to comprehend how this could happen on a night such as this one.

When did they swap scripts? Oh—might have been when he tripped and almost fell on his
ass. Jeongguk helped him up, but dropped his bag in the process.

Well, whatever. The script is still the same, it’s just that his lines aren’t highlighted and the
margins of Jeongguk’s pages are filled with notes on cues and stuff.

He shoots Jeongguk a quick text to let him know of the exchange.

Jimin:
hey Jeongguk
just texting to let you know I’ve got your script and you’ve probably got mine
I think we swapped at rehearsal without realizing

He throws his phone on the mattress and jumps straight to the third act of the script, looking
for the lines which have given him the most trouble. He doesn’t expect Jeongguk to answer
him anytime soon, he’s probably already asleep and will see the texts in the morning—but the
screen of his phone lights up and a soft ping announces that he’s got a new text.

A reply from Jeongguk. That was fast.

Jeon Jeongguk:
what?? are you sure wait
wait

Wait for what? Jimin frowns. Then his phone lights up again with an incoming call and Jimin
stares at the Jeon Jeongguk on the screen, frozen.

He’s calling him? Now? At two in the morning, after they spent the night—almost the entire
day, actually—together?

… for a script?

He panics, he doesn’t know what the hell to do. Does he answer? His parents might hear, but
then again, they’ve never cared about a single thing in Jimin’s life, so it isn’t like they’re
going to eavesdrop or anything. And Jeongguk is probably just calling to confirm he’s got his
script—why the fuck is he calling him for that, didn’t he get the memo that their generation
doesn’t like to be called, especially without a warning?

He’s overthinking. His phone has been ringing for twenty-five seconds. Jeongguk must really
want to talk to him. He swallows back a totally new kind of nervousness and takes the call.

“Uhm, hello?”

“Why did it take you so long to pick up?”

“I was—”

“Don’t read my script.”

“Huh?”

“Did you read—did you open it?”

“I was about to memorize some of my lines…?”

“You don’t need to. You know all your lines.”

Jeongguk sounds—nervous. Anxious, almost.

“Why?”

“There’s—there’s post-its and pieces of papers in there and I don’t want you to make a mess,
lose them, or— there’s a, uhm, a certain order to that stuff. It’s important. Don’t open it.”

“Jesus, okay, I won’t read your precious script,” Jimin replies, annoyed, closing the script and
throwing it onto his desk. It falls on the floor, and a couple of notes do slip out from in-
between the pages. Ops.

“I’ll give you yours tomorrow when I see you.”

“Okay.”

His voice has gone back to black, he thinks distractedly. He doesn’t mind it, he’s always liked
it. Especially through the phone, with Jeongguk’s voice so close to his ear. Just like in the bar,
but alone in his room with just silence as their background music, it feels more intimate.

“What are you doing still up anyway?”

“I told you. I was learning my lines. I can’t sleep.” Too much gold, and now it got stained in
black. “What about you?”

“I can’t sleep either. Haven’t been able to for a while.”

“Oh.” He thinks he knows why. Does he ask? “Do… you want to talk about it?”

“You didn’t tell me if you liked the song,” Jeongguk talks over him, doesn’t reply to his
question. “You and Hoseok had already left when I got back.”

“He wasn’t feeling well,” Jimin lies. “Begged me to take him home.”

“Oh. Got it.”

“I stayed for the whole song, though. I mean, we both did. It was good.” It was more than
good. Do I tell him that?

“Thanks. Glad you liked it.”

It was more than good, dammit.

“No, sorry, it wasn’t—it wasn’t just good, it was… really good. I really liked it.”
He hears Jeongguk smile on the other side.

“Thank you.”

He doesn’t tell him about the gold and the flowers and the garden in his chest, because that’s
just in his head and it is really weird.

“You know, I’ve got chromesthesia.” Fuck.

“Is that lethal?”

“No, it’s—it’s a sound-to-color synesthesia. Ever heard of it?”

“Yeah, I have,” Jeongguk says, chuckling. Now that he’s heard him sing, he thinks he
glimpses subtle gold veins in the jet black of Jeongguk’s laughter.

“Well, to me, your voice has always been a consistent black.”

“Might be because of the way I dress.”

“No, it doesn’t work like that. It’s about sound; you talk and I see black in my head.”

“That’s… kind of depressing.”

“It’s actually very soothing,” Jimin says, drawing circles on his duvet with a finger. “A
reprieve from the other… louder, brighter voices.”

“Are you saying you went totally blind as you listened to me singing? That’s kinda cool,
though definitely not what I was going for.”

He hesitates. “No. That wasn’t black. It was very different from the other times.”

“Can that happen?” Jeongguk asks, sounding interested. “Can a voice change color?”

“Sometimes. Yours did.”

“Then what’s my other color?”

Jimin pauses before speaking again. “It’s… like, a palette of yellows and golds. Sometimes a
bit of orange. It changes according to your singing, but it’s generally a very bright gold, I’d
say.”

Silence on the other side of the phone.

“Don’t tell me gold is your least favorite color.”

“No, I don’t—” another laugh, a bit more uncertain, a bit breathless. “I don’t have a strong
opinion on colors, to be honest.”

“Doesn’t come as a surprise.”

“… but I like gold. I like that you saw gold when you heard me sing.”

Jimin smiles at how soft Jeongguk sounded just now.

“I like both the black and the gold.”

“And what color is your voice, then?” Jeongguk asks after a beat.

“My voice? Oh, that’s a little more complicated. I’ve never gotten a strong color from my
own voice. It’s… more like clear water. Transparent. Like water when it’s very clean? That’s
what I get when I focus on it.”

Jeongguk hums. “Then, can I give you a color?”

Jimin shrugs, realizes Jeongguk can’t see him and says, “You don’t have chromesthesia, so
it’s a little like you’re cheating, but go ahead.”

“You said water. I kinda like it. Let’s go with blue. Baby blue.”

“Baby blue?” Jimin repeats, blushing.

“Yeah. You know, like pastel. I think it fits you.”

“You think water is baby blue?”

“It is when you’re in art class in elementary school.”

“Baby blue is for the sky. The sea is navy blue.”

“This is my chromesthesia, not yours.”

“You don’t have it.”

“You might be the only voice that brings it out for me.”

Jimin rolls his eyes, sinking into the pillows at his back. It’s really late, but he doesn’t want
to hang up just yet.

“Aren’t you sleepy?”

“No,” Jimin breathes out. “I’m very awake.”

He hears Jeongguk sigh—a long, drawn out sigh. “Can I tell you something?”

He likes the way Jeongguk’s voice has deepened into even darker black.

“I can’t stop thinking about our last lesson.”

His heartbeat skips ahead, accelerating dangerously. His skin tingles at Jeongguk’s words and
the meaning behind them.
He swallows. “Yeah?”

Another sigh, a little shakier this time. “I think I like these lessons more than I did the old
ones.”

Jimin huffs a small laugh, feels the tip of his ears burn. “You do?”

“When do we do another?”

“Whenever you want,” Jimin says, feeling a little shocked at the boldness in his tone.

“I’m thinking right now.” Jeongguk’s voice is so low, Jimin feels it reverberate in his
stomach.

“Now?” he stutters. “What—how?”

“Are you still dressed?”

Oh, fuck.

“I am,” Jimin says, slowly.

“Take off your pants.”

Jimin’s breath hitches. He waits a few heartbeats to make sure his voice comes out steady,
then says, “And then what?”

“Then I’ll tell you what else to do.”

Jimin swallows again, feels his heart jump to his throat. He snakes a hand down to his jeans,
unbuttons them, undoes the zipper slowly. Then he holds the phone to his ear by pressing it
between his cheek and his shoulder and uses both his hands to peel his jeans off.

The air in the room is cold, but he doesn’t mind the shiver that travels down his spine.

“I took them off,” he says, voice gruff.

“Now your underwear.”

Jimin glances down. He’s getting hard. Every shade of Jeongguk’s voice is traveling straight
to his groin, like liquid fire slowly making its way to his cock. He sucks his lip into his
mouth. He wishes Jeongguk were here—everything would be simpler, somehow.

“Are you going to make me touch myself?”

“I’m gonna make you come,” Jeongguk says slowly, “but you’re not touching your cock.”

“W—what?”

“Do you have lube?”

He doesn’t, but his parents do. He’s seen it somewhere in his mother’s room.

“Uh—wait a minute. Wait, okay?”

Jimin throws the phone on the bed and walks out into the dark hallway, in just a hoodie and
his briefs. He hopes he doesn’t stumble into Daejung or his mother—especially Daejung—
because that would be embarrassing, and it would also kill his boner instantly. Heart rabbiting
in his chest, he pads to his mother’s bedroom and opens all the drawers, looking frantically
for the bottle of lube he’d glimpsed the other day and at which he’d scoffed at—cringing hard
at the unwelcome mental image flashing in his head.

Now he isn’t thinking of anything but the things Jeongguk might make him do with it. He
doesn’t care who used it, he doesn’t care what his mother and Daejung did with it, he only
cares about doing what Jeongguk tells him to do. And it scares him to death, and it excites
him immensely.

He finds it on the fourth try.

Bottle in hand, he hurries back to his room. It’s already three in the morning. His parents
have probably fallen asleep on the couch. He still hears the TV in the background, quiet
dialogues and loud music.

He has never been more awake in his life.

“Jeongguk?”

“Did you find it?”

His voice sounds a little breathless, a little airier.

“Yes.”

“Look down. What do you see?”

Jimin frowns, looks down. Sees the lube in his hand, the tent in his briefs. He feels himself go
hard at the sound of Jeongguk’s breathy voice.

“Tell me what you see. Are you hard?”

A pause. “Yeah.”

“Do you want to touch yourself?”

His breathing turns shallow. “I—I don’t know.”

He wants to feel something. He wants to feel what Jeongguk made him feel last time. He isn’t
sure he can do it, though.

He feels his cock throb trapped inside his brief, sees it straining against the fabric, screaming
for attention. Stroking himself would be so easy. Like he did with Jeongguk—why is it easier
for him to touch Jeongguk than to touch himself? It’s fucked up. He’s fucked up.

“It’s okay. Just feel it. Feel how much you want it,” Jeongguk whispers. “Now take off your
underwear. Don’t touch anything. Just feel, and look.”

Jimin hooks his fingers on the waistband of his briefs, pulls down a little. Sees the trail of
fine hair leading from his navel to his crotch, disappearing under the fabric. Jeongguk is
completely clean shaven, but he isn’t. Jeongguk is pretty everywhere, he— he has never
thought of his cock as pretty. Just as something that’s there, and reminds him of things he’d
rather forget.

“Jimin,” Jeongguk sighs into his ear, “take it off. Tell me what you see.”

So he does, because Jeongguk tells him so and this is another one of their lessons, right? He
can’t do his job if he’s afraid of his own body.

He pulls his underwear down, gets up, steps out of it and kicks it under the desk. When he
falls down on his bed again, he’s got only his hoodie on and nothing else.

“I’m naked from the waist down,” he tells Jeongguk, voice detached, almost mechanical. His
heart beats so hard against his ribcage he’s afraid it might carve its way out of his chest.

“God, I wish I could see you,” Jeongguk moans into the phone, startling him a little. He’s
never heard Jeongguk sound so turned on, except for the day he went down on him. But even
then, he’d never said things—things like that.

“Tell me what you see,” Jeongguk insists. “Tell me. In detail.”

Jimin blushes, his voice dying in his throat. How can Jeongguk expect him to describe how
his cock looks like? This is beyond embarrassing. He can’t do this.

“Jimin.”

“I’m hard,” Jimin blurts out, finally looking at himself. There it is, in all its glory—his cock.
Hard and leaking without anyone having touched it. It’s embarrassing, really.

“Fully?”

“Yeah,” he admits, swallowing hard. “I’m—I’m flushed and leaking.”

The sound Jeongguk makes on the other side spikes right through his belly, makes his cock
twitch against his stomach.

“How cute,” Jeongguk chuckles. “Now tell me what you want.”

“I wanna come,” Jimin says, closing his eyes to focus on the sound of Jeongguk’s voice.

“Jimin.” Jeongguk says his name like it’s something delicate, something fragile. “Have you
ever fingered yourself?”
Jimin takes in a sharp breath. No, but he’s thought about it. He could never do it, though—he
always clammed up, body opposing fierce resistance, until he relented because it just felt
wrong. Like he already knew that going through the mess of guilt and insecurities and shame
in his head simply wasn’t worth it.

“Never.”

“That’s gonna change soon.”

This stokes up the fire in his belly, makes him feel both aroused and scared. He doesn’t know
what to expect.

“O-okay.”

He takes a breath, changes position on the bed.

“Don’t rush. Don’t go straight for your rim.”

Jimin tilts his head to the side. “No?” he whispers back. A pause. “How would you do it?”

Jeongguk laughs, evading the question.

“Tease yourself a little first. Enjoy the anticipation. Trail your fingers down your crack, over
your ass. Squeeze it. Spread your cheeks.” Jeongguk’s words add gasoline to a wildfire.
“Pretend it isn’t you touching yourself. Pretend it’s someone else."

“Who?” Jimin murmurs, reaching behind him with his hand, fingers cold and hesitant over
the flesh of his ass. He keeps his eyes closed.

“Whoever you want. Whoever you wish could be there with you now.”

You. He keeps it to himself, for another time, for he doesn’t know when—probably never.

“Are you doing what I told you?”

“I am.”

“Tell me. What are you doing?”

“Squeezing my ass,” he says, blushing hard. “Spreading my cheeks.” God, how he wishes his
hand belonged to Jeongguk. It would be so much bigger and firmer and strong.

“Fuck.” Jeongguk’s voice on the other side darkens. “Lube up your dominant hand.”

Jimin’s eyes fly open. He eyes the bottle on the mattress, uncertainty freezing every muscle
in his body. He takes a breath, drops the phone on the bed, then uncaps the bottle of lube. He
pours a generous amount on his fingers. It’s cold, so he warms it between his palms. When
his hands are a sloppy mess of slightly warmer lube, he wipes his left on the duvet and picks
up the phone again.
“Done.”

“Rub it over your rim with the pads of your fingers. Slowly.”

The authoritativeness in Jeongguk’s voice makes him shiver like a leaf. He does as told,
bottom lip trapped in his mouth as he slips his fingers between his cheeks, finds the rim, and
tenses up.

He can’t do this. His fingers are cold, so fucking cold, and they’re short and chubby and not
the fingers he’d rather feel on him right now. Perhaps if Jeongguk were to do this, it would be
different. Perhaps he’d clam up the same way. Perhaps it’s time to hang up and go the fuck to
sleep.

But he’s painfully hard, oozing precum on his duvet—making a mess, really—and
Jeongguk’s breath this close to his ear is driving him insane.

“Circle it slowly. Tease it. Are you doing what I’m telling you, Jimin?”

Jimin moves a single finger around the rim, feeling how tense he is—everywhere,
everywhere. He spreads more lube around his hole, hissing at how cold it feels.

“Y—yeah.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Yeah. Fuck.”

“They’ll ask you to do this kind of thing often,” Jeongguk says, his voice switching to
something a bit more detached. ‘They’ meaning the customers at the Bird. Jimin doesn’t want
to think about them. Not now. Not like this.

“They like it when hosts fuck themselves on their fingers. They can’t touch, but they can
look.”

“Do you like it?” Jimin asks, blurting out the first thing that jumps to mind—anything,
anything to make Jeongguk shut up about the goddamn customers. “To watch?”

A pause. “Yeah. I prefer to help out, though.”

Jimin moans, rubbing a little more insistently around his rim.

“Yeah? How would you do it?”

Jeongguk chuckles lightly. “Just like I’m telling you to. Now push a finger in.”

His breath catches. His finger stops.

“Just the tip. Then the first knuckle.”

Jimin is biting his lip so hard he thinks it might bleed again. Focusing on the deep black of
Jeongguk’s voice, he obliges.

It’s tight, but the tip slips inside easily. He feels himself clench immediately around the
knuckle, a grunt falling from his lips at the foreign sensation.

“Very good, baby. You’re doing good.”

Jimin preens at both the praise and the unexpected pet name—since when Jeongguk calls him
baby? Never, he’s never called him that, he likes it, he loves it to death. He’s panting, trying
to relax around his digit—without much success.

“Push it deeper in. Can you do it? Can you do it for me, baby?”

Jeongguk’s voice sounds so good, so breathy and low and turned on. Refusing him would be
a sin.

“Yeah, I—I can—can try.” His eyes are squeezed shut. “Feels weird.”

He pushes deeper in, up to the third knuckle. The lube helps a lot.

“It’s gonna feel good soon. Now move your finger a little, in and out. Go slow.”

He follows Jeongguk’s instructions and thrusts in and out, whimpering at the sensation. It
doesn’t seem like it’s doing much to loosen him, but maybe he’s just too tense. He’s
clenching around the digit, so he tries to relax—although it’s very hard not to be a nervous
mess with Jeongguk listening in to the sounds of his hitched breathing and soft moans.

“Push another finger in for me, okay?”

Arousal thickens his words. Jeongguk’s breathing has gotten heavier, and his voice sounds
breathy. Jimin’s cock twitches uselessly against his stomach, head glistening with precome.
He inserts another finger past his rim. This time it doesn’t feel just weird—it burns a bit. He
flinches as the pain pulls a little yelp out of him.

“Slow, baby. Ease it in. Does it hurt? How does it feel?”

Jimin nods, forgetting that Jeongguk can’t see him. He waits a bit before speaking again, to
let his body adjust to the sensation. He’s now acutely aware of the two fingers stretching up
his rim.

“Better, now. I think.”

“Think you can take another finger?”

A third finger? Fuck. Jimin pushes his two fingers a little deeper in, panting, pondering.

“Yes.” He doesn’t know if he can, but it sounds hot as fuck and he wants to try—and
Jeongguk wants him to, he can tell by his tone.
“Ah—fuck.”

Jeongguk’s curse sounds more like a moan. His control is slipping away, slowly but surely.
“Wish I could see it. Wish I could watch you stretch yourself open on your pretty fingers.”

Jimin blushes all over, goosebumps bloom all over his body, and his cock begs for attention.
He clenches around his fingers, imagining they aren’t his own, imagining they’re longer,
more confident in the way they’re opening him up.

But he’s all he’s got, so Jimin swallows his frustration and presses the tip of a third finger
past the tight circle of his rim.

“Ah, Christ—”

His legs almost give from under him. With three fingers everything is different; three fingers
—he feels them. He pants into the phone, his heavy breathing blending with Jeongguk’s on
the other side.

“You’re doing good, baby. So good. So good.”

Jeongguk purrs in his ear, lavishes him with praises; they feel like silk over his heated skin,
soothing, comforting, yet arousing.

“I think you know what to do now, Jimin.”

Jimin shakes his head, but doesn’t speak a word. Three fingers up his ass, his desperation and
arousal draping heavily over the room, testament to the mess Jeongguk has made of him—
and now he locks up.

“I wanna hear you fuck yourself on your fingers,” Jeongguk says, voice hoarse, thick with
lust. “Want to listen to you come. Hear all your pretty sounds.”

Jimin moans Jeongguk’s name unintentionally, totally lost in his haze, in a want that feels so
primeval, so feral—it scares him a little. He’s shocked at how broken and needy he sounds.
Jeongguk, on the other hand, seems to enjoy it immensely. Jimin isn’t sure how jacking off to
him masturbating on the phone would count toward their lesson, but he doesn’t point that out
—part of him wants to tease Jeongguk for it, tell him he knows what he’s doing, turn him into
a flustered mess like Jeongguk has done with him so many times; the other part can’t bring
himself to say anything and is just focused on three fingers up his ass. And the need to move.

So he does, curling his fingers against his walls, trying different angles to see how it feels
like. Soft moans fall from his lips and he tries his best to muffle them, trap them behind his
teeth, his bitten-off lips.

“Let me hear you,” Jeongguk whines. “Louder. Louder.”

He can almost hear what Jeongguk’s doing on his side, and it makes the rhythm of his fingers
pick up just a tad faster.

“I can’t. My—parents… are in the other room.”

His words are slurred, it’s getting difficult to formulate coherent thoughts.

“Don’t care. Let them hear you,” Jeongguk pants, sounding every bit as breathless as him.
“Are you fucking yourself, Jimin? How does it feel? Tell me.”

“I’m—fuck!”

He curses—the word ringing way too loud in his ears—when his fingers brush against his
prostate for the first time. Little white stars burst just behind his eyelids, and he forgets what
he was going to say. He rubs his fingers over the tight muscle, amazed at how good it feels,
berating himself for not having the guts to do this sooner.

“Does it feel good, baby?” Jeongguk asks, chuckle webbed into the words. “Good. You’re
doing amazing.”

“Yes, God, yes—” Jimin moans, tilting his head back, fucking his fingers in and out of his ass
—faster, harder, ignoring the burn and focusing only on the pleasure. His legs are trembling
and his body is on fire and he’s getting sloppy, and he gets frustrated when he can’t always
hit the right spot. He needs longer fingers, experienced fingers, he needs—

“Now imagine someone’s fucking you, Jimin.” Voice black as tar, sticky, viscous; poured in
his ear, burrowing in his brain. “Imagine I am fucking you.”

“Oh god, please—yesyesyesyesfuckme—”

“You’d like that, Jimin? Want my cock?”

“God please yes—”

“You liked my cock, did you? How’d it taste?”

He can’t think straight, he’s going insane—lust filling every crevice of his body, his mind, his
soul.

“Liked to have it in your mouth, huh?”

“Yes, so much, so much, so much—” A broken litany comes out of his mouth, wet in spit and
soaked in moans.

“Liked it so much you wanna feel it in your ass?”

He can’t answer that, he can’t, can’t—did he? did he already?

“I’ll show you how it’s done, Jimin. Fuck you so good you won’t want anyone else.”

I don’t want anyone else.

“Just me. Just my cock. Like it should be.”

Jimin’s left without breath, without voice, without a sanity to cling to—not anymore. He lets
the phone fall on the mattress and he falls too, face hidden in the duvet, the hand that held the
phone going to pull at his cock to bring him that much closer to what he needs.

He comes with Jeongguk’s words ringing in his ears. They cloud his mind until everything
colors in the deepest shade of black, and then gold stars burst in his vision, fireworks against
a starless sky.

He’s so out of breath, he thinks he won’t be able to draw another breath again in his life.

Panting, body shaking, Jimin descends back from his high with a trembling breath. He grabs
the phone, hand sticky with lube.

And he just breathes into the phone, waiting.

“Hey.”

Clarity of mind assails him. His mind runs wild to recall what he said in the heat of the
moment. His head is a mess and his head while Jeongguk was saying those things to him was
even more of a mess and—

Oh God, but he does remember what Jeongguk said to him.

“Hey.”

“You okay?”

Almost a chuckle. Almost. “Yeah?”

“How was it?”

“It—it felt good.” It felt incredible.

“Did you come untouched?”

Jimin blushes.

“No.”

“Another time, then.”

His blush deepens. He turns on his back, head dangling from the edge of his mattress. His
dirty blond hair falls back, limp, damp with sweat.

“Another lesson.”

Is Jeongguk telling him he wants to fuck him part of their lessons, as well?

“Yeah.” Jeongguk’s voice is gravelly. “I—I gotta go now. I’ll bring you the script tomorrow.
Goodnight.”
 “Yeah. Goodnight.”

Jeongguk hangs up first. Jimin listens to the silence for a while. It’s as black as his voice, but
empty.

He sighs, lungs filling with the scent of his lingering arousal. He should throw his duvet in
the hamper, he’s made such a mess. Instead, he gets up to collect Jeongguk’s script from the
floor.

He opens it at random, notices a few yellow post-its stuck to the pages here and there,
Jeongguk’s tidy handwriting filling the space with notes. He browses the script quickly,
distractedly, still reeling from his orgasm, until a few pages in the second act catch his eye.

He sits at his desk, flattening the spine of the script with a hand. Jeongguk doodled something
on the edge of the pages, filling the margins with black ink. Jimin turns on the desk lamp to
take a better look.

He stares dumbly for a long time before realization dawns on him. It’s eyes, and lips, and the
vague profile of a man.

And he recognizes the drooping eyes, the full lips, the serious profile of the man. It’s him.

Jeongguk has been doodling pages full of him.

It’s mostly his lips, Jimin realizes as his eyes scan the pages repeatedly. Sometimes they’re
just sketches, other times they’re drawn more realistically, with subtle, distracted attempts at
chiaroscuro. Some lips are bitten off at the corners, a little swollen. Others are scribbled over.

When he finally goes to sleep that night, it’s with a different ache than usual—a simmering of
blood both scary and exciting.

Chapter End Notes

X

X
 Chapter 10
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
1.
“Can’t you come up, Jimin? What’s wrong with coming up? It’s cold outside, I don’t wanna
meet you in a creepy park.”

“It’s not a creepy park, it’s literally a children’s playground—”

“It’s a creepy playground. You know I can see the swings move on their own at night? From
my window. I’m not meeting you there.”

“You are incredible, Park Jihyun.”

“You’re a weirdo, Park Jimin.”

Jimin hesitates. “But it’s such a nice day.”

“It’s rained all day.”

“But it’s stopped, right? And the air’s so fresh, so clean—”

“You’re being very rude to Mrs. Jeon, you know? She thinks you don’t like her.”

“That’s not—I do like her!”

It’s true, he’s met her only once before to thank her for the hospitality and she was nothing
but friendly with him. Looked a lot like his son, though. Especially her bunny smile and the
doe eyes. Jeongguk definitely got the innocent-looking part of him from his mother. Jimin
was actually kind of relieved his father wasn’t in the picture anymore.

“She’s crying now, thinking you hate her.”

“What?!”

“I’m kidding. She’s not here, she went to the hospital with Jeonghyun for a check-up.”

“And Jeongguk, too?” he asks, a little hopeful.

“No, I think Jeongguk was busy with something. Dunno where he is.”

“He isn’t there, is he? With you?” he asks again, suspicious.

“Unless he’s hiding under the beds or in a closet, no, he’s not here,” Jihyun scoffs through
the phone. “Why? Did you guys have a fight?”

“No, I was just—wondering.”

“Hmm.”
“Yeah, like… I see his stupid face at rehearsal and at work, I’m kinda tired of having him
around all the time,” he mutters, lying straight through his teeth. Luckily, his brother can’t see
him blush like crazy.

“I see you standing there like an idiot from my window, Jimin, and I’m not coming down. Get
your ass here.”

Jihyun hangs up, and Jimin sighs in defeat. He’d rather not be in the same building as
Jeongguk for the day. Not after their last phone call.

He handed Jeongguk’s script to Hoseok the morning after, asking him to take it to Jeongguk
and swap it for his, then he fled home with his tail between his legs and a vague excuse about
feeling sick. He also skipped rehearsal that night, for the first time in months. He just didn’t
feel he could look Jeongguk in the eyes—or hear his voice, or feel him close, or feel him
anywhere in the same room as him—without feeling his temperature rise and then explode
like a supernova, leaving only a black hole of embarrassment and agony behind.

But his brother could be as stubborn as him—more, even—and he won this round. So Jimin
walks inside the building and rings Mrs. Jeon’s doorbell.

“Did you make a quick stop to Antarctica on your way here?”

“Shut up. The elevator’s stuck somewhere in the building and I had to take the stairs.”

“Yeah, it happens—this apartment complex is old as balls. I swear it makes the weirdest
noises at night, it gives me the creeps.”

“You’re a scaredy cat,” Jimin says, plopping down on a chair around the kitchen table. The
room is as tidy and organized as Jeongguk’s living room is chaotic and just generally a mess.
“First the playground, now the building is haunted. Is there a monster living under your bed,
too?”

“Aha, you’re funny.” Jihyun pours tea in two cups and hands one to Jimin, who takes it
gratefully. His hands are frozen because he stood outside for so long waiting for Jihyun, and
true—the swings did move a little on their own, even though there wasn’t any wind.

“How is school going?”

“Fine. How are mom and Daejung doing?”

Jihyun sits at the table with his gaze fixed on the teacup, unable to look at him.

“You’re still worrying about them?”

“She’s still my mom,” Jihyun says, scowling.

“And she doesn’t care whether you live or die. Has she called you to know how you’re
doing?”

Jihyun fidgets with his mug. “No.”

“Has she texted you to ask where you are?”

“No.”

“Did Daejung apologize for—”

“No, okay? Jesus Christ. I get it, she’s a bitch and he’s a scumbag. I know you hate them. But
they are the only parents I have ever known.” Jihyun sniffs, wipes his nose angrily with the
back of his hand. “I wasn’t there when dad was around. Or, well, I was too young to
remember. She’s… always been like that, but I couldn’t help to love her all the same.
Daejung, too. He’s always been sort of… there.”

“He’s not your father.”

“I know. I know he sucks. I’m not an idiot, I know he’s shady and violent and a sack of shit,
but he was all I had.”

“And now you’ve got me. And as your only older brother, I’m gonna protect you from the
ghosts haunting the playground and the monsters living in the attic.”

“We don’t have an attic. Jeongguk literally lives upstairs.”

“Maybe he’s the monster living in the attic.”

“What do you have against Jeongguk?” Jihyun inquires, suspicious.

“Nothing. He’s cool.” He shrugs, brushing the hair out of his face. His brother glances at his
leg bouncing up and down under the table. Jimin stops immediately.

“Yeah, he is. Cooler than you.”

“You have a crush on him.” Perhaps pushing his feelings toward Jeongguk onto his brother
will make them evaporate like mist in the morning.

“And what about it?”

Jimin chokes on his tea, sputtering everywhere. “W—what?!”

“Nah, I’m fucking with you. I like girls,” Jihyun says, chuckling. “You should have seen the
look on your face. Hilarious. Is it because you don’t want me to date a host?”

“Uh, pretty sure Jeongguk wouldn’t date you.”

Jihyun scoffs, offended. “Excuse you, I was voted fifth most attractive guy in my grade.”

“You’re a minor,” Jimin says, scowling. “Stop talking about dating Jeongguk. It’s creeping
me out.”

“You always—”
Jihyun’s complaint is interrupted by the loud sound of the doorbell. Jihyun gets up to answer
the door, rolling his eyes at his brother.

“Are they back yet?” Jimin asks, referring to Mrs. Jeon and Jeonghyun.

“Uh, no, I think this is—” Jihyun opens the door and his tone of voice changes completely.
“Hey, Gguk!”

Oh fuck no, abort this shit immediately.

“Hey. I brought groceries, is mom back yet?”

“She’s still at the hospital with Jeonghyun. But my brother’s here.”

Despite the absolute clusterfuck of emotions crashing on him with all the force of a 1.000-
foot tsunami—it kind of feels like his heart is trying its damnedest best to hammer its way
out of his ribcage to escape the flood—Jimin goes instantly rigid.

He remains seated there, at the table, hoping with every fiber of his being that Jeongguk will
just hand Jihyun the groceries and scram.

“Jimin’s here? Where?”

He hears Jihyun shuffle back into the kitchen, watches him place a heavy bag on the table.
Jeongguk walks in a few seconds later, still clad in his thick bomber jacket, scarf wrapped all
around his neck. He’s carrying another bag, and his hands and nose are dusted with red from
the cold.

He looks nothing like the guy who made him come two nights ago via phone.

“Hey, Jimin. How are you feeling?”

Jimin has blushed a hundred thousand times in his life—he’s got sensitive skin and he’s very
prone to blushing, it’s something he can’t help. Since knowing Jeon Jeongguk his skin has
been tested many, many times. There were days he felt it burn so much that he thought it
would downright melt off his face.

But he’s pretty sure the way he’s blushing now—as if all the blood in his body has flown to
his face and neck and ears, all at once, running hot and fast and dangerous—sets a new record
entirely. Jeongguk is looking him in the eye and asking him how he’s feeling—cue heavy
sarcasm—knowing very well he’d reduced him to nothing but a whimpering mess only two
nights ago.

The motherfucking sly son of a bitch.

“Jimin? Hoseok told me you were sick. Are you okay?”

Oh. The thread of Jimin’s murderous thoughts breaks, and he jolts back to reality—which is
Jeongguk staring down at him with a sort of concerned frown.
Oh, right. His fake sickness.

“Y—yeah, good. I feel good. I mean—better. I feel better, thanks.”

One and a half seconds of eye contact, yep, he thinks he can make it.

“We had Namjoon play Sadaham last night. It was a complete disaster, Taehyung couldn’t
stop laughing and missed half his lines,” Jeongguk tells him, unpacking the groceries and
passing them to Jihyun to store them in the fridge. “It was great. Wished you were there to
see it.”

“Then I would have played Sadaham like always.”

“Oh. Right. Well, Yoongi recorded it on his phone so you can watch Namjoon making a fool
of himself whenever you want.”

“Great,” Jimin mutters, staring intensely at the table. He can glimpse from his periphery
Jeongguk unpacking the grocery bags, picking up stuff and setting it on the table with the
very same hands he’d wished would be all over him but two nights ago.

This isn’t working. He’s getting flustered by watching Jeongguk handling groceries.

Him and Jihyun finish unpacking in silence, and Jimin realizes only belatedly that he didn’t
even lift a finger to help—he just sat there, frozen and completely useless.

“I think I’ve got everything mom told me to buy,” Jeongguk mumbles, skimming over a list
on his phone. “If there’s anything missing, text me and I’ll get it tomorrow.”

Jihyun nods. “Wait, are you going already?”

“Yeah?”

“I was thinking—since you’re here, and Jimin’s here… I don’t know, we could do something
together? Like, watch a movie, or…? I’m bored on my own,” Jihyun says, bashfully. It dawns
on Jimin in that moment that it must be hard for his brother to be alone in a house that
doesn’t belong to him.

“Oh, uhm—” Jeongguk’s eyes move restlessly around the room until they settle on Jimin.

“Thanks for the invite, but I’ve got work tonight.”

Liar. Jimin is at least ninety percent sure that it’s just an excuse.

Jihyun seems to deflate, and his shoulders droop. “Oh, okay. Another time, then…”

“But you go ahead and have fun.”

Jeongguk shoots them a small, tight-lipped smile, eyes brushing over Jimin one last time
before his hand finds the front door’s handle. “See you around, Jimin.”
The front door closes, leaving Jihyun and Jimin alone in the house. The silence is suddenly
heavier.

“Dude, are you sure you don’t have a crush on Jeongguk?”

God he sucks at acting.

2.
Sometimes, when the house is empty and Jimin’s only company is his own shadow on the
wall cast by the setting sun, he feels like he could call this place home.

It’s the house where he grew up in, and despite everything, it still reminds him of a few
happy childhood memories time hasn’t yet been able to erase completely. He remembers little
of the time before Jihyun was born, when he was still mommy’s favorite and his dad’s pride.

He’d been proud of his firstborn son whom he would proceed to abandon a few year later.
Jimin isn’t sure exactly what there was to be proud about, but he cherishes the smile in his
memories regardless. His father was tall, strong, broad—or maybe he remembers him this
way because Jimin was small, fragile, and weak. His father was the one who took care of his
mom whenever she felt sick. And she felt sick often, but not quite as often as the days after
he left them to go back to Busan.

Every time his mom turned into a person he didn’t recognize, Jimin run to his dad to hide
behind his legs, bunching up the fabric of his pants in his little fists and staring anxiously at
his mother from a safe distance. Sometimes his dad didn’t get mad, sometimes he did. After
Jihyun was born, he started to get angry more often. And the more he got angry, the less
Jimin was able to recognize his mom. Then, one day, his father walked out of the house
without looking back, and they were left alone.

Jimin turns the letter in his hand, reading and re-reading the very short message. It’s the same
every year, “hi Jimin, happy birthday! I can’t believe you’re one year older. You will always
be my little boy.” Et cetera et cetera, “I’m good, how are you, Busan is beautiful in the winter,
I wish you could visit, give my love to Hyun.

Dad.”

It’s nice that he still remembers, though. It’s nice that after all these years, he still keeps up
with their little tradition of sending each other letters. There used to be a lot more letters
when Jimin was in middle school, but then they got sparser and sparser, until eventually
Jimin received only one letter per year—generally around his birthday.

This year, his father’s letter is nearly two months late. He can see that he didn’t send it in
October. No matter. It’s still precious to him. He deserves to be forgotten—after all, it’s been
years since he stopped sending his dad letters.

But his father never stopped sending him late birthday wishes.

The front door opens, and Daejung walks into the kitchen as the last of the winter sun sets
behind the buildings. He’s got a cigarette in his mouth, the tip gleaming bright red as he takes
a drag. Jimin instinctively hugs his arms to his chest. He’s never liked cigarettes, or cigarette
breath, or the smell of smoke, or people that smoke. It reminds him of a time in elementary
school when Daejung used to put out cigarettes on his arms. He stopped doing it when
Jimin’s teachers begun to notice the burn marks on his skin, and his mother got called to the
principal’s office. She hadn’t been happy with him, told him he shouldn’t be around Daejung
when he smoked because that meant he wanted to be left alone.

“You here alone?”

Jimin nods. He fidgets with the knife he used to slice his father’s letter open, watching his
reflection in the silvery metal.

“Your mom?”

“Dunno.”

“That woman’s never at home,” Daejung grumbles, opening the fridge to look for food. He
settles for a beer and sits at the kitchen table, next to Jimin.

“What the fuck is she doing all day, uh?”

“You know very well what she’s doing,” Jimin snaps, hard eyes staring daggers into Daejung.
Drugs cost a lot of money, and her boyfriend doesn’t deal hard drugs.

Maybe him and his mother aren’t so different after all.

Daejung stares at him in silence, then he seems to get it. He chuckles a little around the
cigarette.

“You don’t give a fuck?”

“About what?”

“That she’s whoring herself out to get her fix,” Jimin snarls.

“She gets insufferable when she’s not using.”

“I can’t fucking believe it. You’re despicable.”

Daejung takes another drag, shakes his head. He’s wearing half a smile on his face.

“I’ll tell you what I can’t believe. I can’t believe someone would bang your mom. Skinny as
she is, it’s like fucking a broom.” He laughs again, snorting through his nose. Like a pig. He
looks Jimin over, leery eyes scanning him up and down.

The hair on Jimin’s arms and the back of his neck stand on end.

“Y’know, you look a lot like your mother,” Daejung says, scooting closer, his hand splayed
on the table right next to Jimin’s arm. “When she was younger and had meat on her bones.”

Jimin is lightning-quick. He picks up the knife and points it at Daejung, menacing.

“Don’t you dare,” he hisses, eyes round and voice low. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Daejung laughs. “Relax, I was jokin’. I’m not a faggot like y—"
Jimin stabs Daejung’s hand with the knife, driving the point deep into the flesh until he hits
the wood—pinning him to the table.

The scream Daejung lets out echoes throughout the house, rattling in Jimin’s skull. Jimin is
breathing heavily, staring wide-eyed at Daejung’s bloody hand twitching helplessly against
the table.

When Daejung’s screams bleed into obscenities and slurred curses, Jimin runs to his room
with his heart in his throat. Gets his bag, gets his coat. Grabs his phone and shoves it down
his back pocket as Daejung’s yelling turns into pathetic whimpering.

He’s out of the house before Daejung gathers enough courage to pull the knife out of his
hand. He’s out of the house and into the streets, running mindlessly, bumping into people,
cold wind lashing at his face.

And when his heart slows its race and his breath finally comes back, he wishes to hear
nothing but black.
3.
He stares at Jeongguk’s name on the intercom, head still reeling from his hasty escape.
Should he buzz Jihyun or Jeongguk? He can’t tell Jihyun he stabbed their stepfather. He’ll
think he’s going insane, he’ll think he’s a little crazy, like their mother. He can’t let Jihyun
see him like this—disheveled, jittery, upset, a runaway.

He buzzes Jeongguk.

“Who is it?”

“Jimin,” he blurts out, glancing over his shoulder as if he were expecting to see Daejung
running after him with the bloodied knife. He’s only distantly surprised when Jeongguk
opens the doors for him moments later without so much as a what are you doing here?

Jimin goes through the glass doors, calls the elevator. He feels things as if from behind a
layer of bubble wrap. Yes, like there’s bubble wrap, the thick kind, shielding his brain and
mind and thoughts and heart from understanding and feeling things. Does it make sense?
He’s not sure. Everything is detached from him, and seems farther than it is.

This until the elevator doors open to Jeongguk waiting for him in the hallway, and everything
rushes back with the strength of a river overflowing, and there goes the bubble wrap.

“Jimin? Do you need something?”

He’s in his usual sweatpants and hoodie, a familiar sight that brings back another flood of
memories.

“Hi. Sorry for the intrusion,” Jimin says a little guiltily, following Jeongguk inside the
apartment. The door shuts with a soft click.

“Is something the matter?”

Jeongguk looks at him with worry. Genuine worry. It isn’t a mask he’s wearing for the sake
of appearing polite to the person who just barged into his house unannounced. Jimin isn’t
sure why, but his heart swells a little at the sight.

“No. Everything’s good. I stabbed my stepfather.”

“You did what?!”

Jeongguk freezes as he takes Jimin’s coat from him, eyes going round and wide.

“No, I mean—I didn’t stab him in the heart or anything. Just his hand.”

“You stabbed him in the hand?” Jeongguk repeats, astonished. When Jimin offers no other
explanation, he dumps Jimin’s coat on the closest chair and runs a hand over his face. “Okay.
From the beginning. Tell me why you stabbed your stepfather in the hand.”
“Can I sit?” Jimin asks, eyeing the couch. They both sit down on Jeongguk’s couch, Jimin
with his back straight against the backrest, Jeongguk sitting on his leg, upper body
completely turned toward him.

He always sits this way. Always turned to face him. Like sunflowers chasing the sun, like the
sunflowers in his singing voice. Except he’s no sun.

“Uhm. Nothing happened, really. I think I overreacted.”

“Shit, are you—” Jeongguk seems to suddenly realize something, and he scoots closer,
looking Jimin over in a slight panic. “Are you okay? He didn’t do anything to you, did he?”

“Oh, no, I—I believed he would, but no. I think I just… mindlessly freaked out. If that makes
sense.”

“As opposed to someone who purposefully freaks out?”

“He said some slimy shit about me looking like a younger version of my mom and I—I didn’t
like it, and I thought he was gonna do something, but I don’t—maybe I just overreacted,”
Jimin says again, wringing his hands in his lap. “Fuck, is he gonna call the police on me?”

“From what I know about your parents, they don’t look like the type to call the police. And
what do you mean you overreacted? Fucking bastard could’ve put his hands on you. Should
have stabbed both hands,” Jeongguk says, looking positively livid. “You should call the
police on him, if anything.”

Jimin shakes his head. He hates Daejung, the man is a walking, breathing nightmare, but he
had never tried to touch him in all the years they’ve lived under the same roof. And knowing
Daejung’s sick sense of humor, Jimin is pretty sure he was only trying to crack a bad joke.
Probably trying to poke fun at Jimin being gay and looking like his mom—a woman.

Guess the fucker bit off more than he could chew this time.

“Jeongguk, can I, uhm. I’m sorry to ask you of all people, but, uhm—can I crash here for a
few days?” Jimin asks, ears burning. “Just until my stepfather cools off? I want to be sure he
doesn’t stab me back as soon as I walk past the front door.”

Jeongguk scoffs and rolls his eyes. Jimin is almost sure he’s going to tell him to go find
another place when Jeongguk says, “I told you already, you can stay as long as you like. You
should have come here days ago.”

“Right. Maybe I should have,” Jimin jokes, relief flooding him. “Thank you.”

“Yeah. It’s not a problem.”

They stay in silence for a little while, a little while that feels like an eternity and in which
Jimin tries his best not to think of the fact that he’s going to stay at Jeongguk’s for a few
days. Thinking back on it, it feels like a stupid decision. He can already feel the seed of regret
starting to take root in his brain. He wonders if Jeongguk is also regretting saying yes so
quickly.
But then again, where would he go? He doesn’t have the kind of money to waste on a hotel
room or a goshiwon, and Hoseok already shares his apartment with his sister.

He shivers, but this time it isn’t because of how close he feels Jeongguk next to him—though
that’s something that’s messing with his head a little—but because when he ran away, he was
only wearing a t-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans. In his rush to flee from the house, he forgot
to grab a sweater. Or any clothes at all.

“Are you cold?”

Jeongguk jumps to his feet like he couldn’t wait for Jimin to give him a reason to do anything
but stare at the floor in complete, embarrassed silence. “You didn’t bring any clothes with
you, did you?”

“It kinda… slipped my mind?”

“Wait here. I’ll bring you something warmer to put on.”

Jeongguk disappears in the adjacent room that Jimin presumes is his bedroom. Fuck, his
bedroom. Jeongguk’s bedroom. Where he sleeps. On his bed.

And like, where he keeps his clothes, obviously. That’s a much safer thought.

“Is this okay?”

Jeongguk comes back with one of his enormous hoodies in his hands. It’s black and the fabric
is soft and thick, and it smells like Jeongguk’s laundry detergent—slightly citrusy.

“It’s perfect. Thanks.” He takes the hoodie Jeongguk is offering him and sits back, taking a
moment to just look at it. He’s pretty sure he’s seen Jeongguk wear it at rehearsals before.

Jeongguk raises a single eyebrow. “Well? Aren’t you gonna put it on?”

In front of him? Jimin startles a little, cringes internally, and nods. He puts it on over his t-
shirt. It’s very warm. Almost too warm. He kind of wants to pull it off already. He might have
to, if Jeongguk doesn’t stop looking at him in the next ten seconds.

“Thanks,” Jimin mumbles, rolling the sleeves back a bit. The hoodie is huge on him.

And the way Jeongguk keeps staring at him sends the butterflies in his stomach in a frenzy.

“You look…”

Jimin blushes, heart skipping ahead. “I look…?”

“…like a gnome wearing the clothes of an NBA player.”

“That’s an oddly specific comparison,” Jimin mutters.

Jeongguk smiles and falls back onto the couch, still in the same casual pose as before. It’s
endearing how he almost never sits properly.

“You want some pants, too?” Jeongguk asks suddenly, eyeing the tears on Jimin’s pants. He
catches Jimin nervously pulling at the frayed threads, coiling them around his finger.

“Ah, no, thanks. I’m good.” He clasps his hands tight to stop fidgeting. “So, uhm. What were
you up to before I barged in?” Jimin asks, looking for a topic—any topic—to break the weird
tension between them. They could address the elephant in the room, but they could also very
well ignore it.

“Just revising notes. Nothing special. Boring night.”

Jimin hums, eyes wandering everywhere in the room and never settling on anything.

“You? Aside from, you know, stabbing your stepfather, obviously.”

“Nothing much, really. The stabbing was the most exciting part of my day.”

Jeongguk breathes out a small laugh. Jimin feels himself smile faintly.

“You must think I’m deranged. If I were you, I wouldn’t want me in my house.”

“You’re not deranged. I would have done the same. I wish I could have done the same when
—” Jeongguk’s expression darkens before clearing again a second later. He lets out a slow
breath. “No knives around, though. Maybe we should include knife play in the rooms.”

Hearing Jeongguk joke about the assault is something Jimin doesn’t think he will ever get
used to. Maybe it’s Jeongguk’s personal way of coping—dark humor. But he doesn’t smile at
the joke, nor does he scowl.

“This was supposed to be a quiet night,” Jimin sighs instead. “I wanted to rehearse my lines,
go to bed early. Now I can’t even sleep in my bed.”

“You can still have your quiet night. I have the script, I could help you with the lines.”

Jimin’s eyebrows shoot up. “I thought I wasn’t even supposed to breathe in the general
direction of your script.”

“I have a spare one,” Jeongguk says after a beat.

“Of course you do.”

He watches Jeongguk rummage through a pile of notebooks on the table until he finds what
he’s looking for.

“Here. Untouched, unread, un-whatever. Pristine. All for you.” He hands Jimin a script. This
one is definitely less used than Jeongguk’s was, and Jimin bets it doesn’t have any drawings
of familiar lips in it.
“Thanks.”

“Which scenes are you having trouble with?”

“Uhm.” Jimin opens the script at random and begins to skim the scenes distractedly.
Jeongguk is looking pretty relaxed, but it’s getting harder for him to pretend nothing weird
happened last time they talked on the phone, and a script was involved. To keep the
memories of that night at bay is like trying to hold water with his hands. He can’t, and they
seep into his head and thicken his voice ever so slightly.

“There’s this part at the end of the first act.”

He opens the script at the start of the last scene.

“When you and Mugwan talk about the war?”

“Yeah. I have a small monologue at the end. It’s a little tricky to memorize.”

Jeongguk nods. “I remember. I wrote it.”

Jimin chuckles, skimming over the monologue. “Yeah. I know.” He nervously toys with the
rips on his jeans again. Jeongguk’s gaze drops to his thigh a couple times before cutting back
up to his face.

Suddenly self-conscious, Jimin sits up straighter and puts the script on his lap to cover his
thighs. Maybe he should have borrowed a pair of Jeongguk’s sweatpants after all. Maybe he
should toss this pair of jeans in the trash—ripped jeans are out of style anyway. Right?

“So, the monologue.”

“Yep.”

“We can do the scene together if you want,” Jeongguk offers. “I’ll give you the lines.”

“Mugwan’s lines?”

“Is there anyone else in the scene?”

“No,” Jimin says, nervous. “Just Mugwan and Sadaham.”

“Then I’ll play Mugwan.”

Jeongguk steals the script from Jimin’s hands and scoots closer in case Jimin wanted to
glance down at his lines. “This scene is pretty intense.”

He nods, not really trusting his voice to come out the right way. Having Jeongguk say
Mugwan’s lines to him sounds—weird, a little intimate, something they shouldn’t do.

But there’s already so many things they shouldn’t have done.

Jeongguk clears his throat, glances up, and gives him his first line. He doesn’t try to sound
like Taehyung, he doesn’t try to sound like Mugwan would—a little pompous but ultimately
good-hearted, a dashing, intelligent member of the Hwarangdo. He says his lines simply but
with a certain spontaneity that makes Jimin respond in a different way compared to what he
usually does with Taehyung.

The scene they’re rehearsing is a pivotal one where Mugwan and Sadaham discuss about the
war brewing between the Kingdoms, and the need to rise in the face of adversities. They’re
both eager to serve their Kingdom, and scared to lose their lives. It’s a good scene, one of
Jimin’s favorites. Their back and forth about war and death is an elaborate metaphor about
the two hwarang’s unspoken love for each other. It culminates in one of Sadaham’s shorter
but intense monologues.

He tries to recite said monologue from the start for the third consecutive time. So far, he’s
failed every time. Turns out it’s even harder to remember the words when Jeongguk is staring
intently at him.

“—shit, I always forget to say that. This is too hard, why’d you make it so hard?”

“It’s not. You’re just a bit distracted.”

“I’m not distracted. I’m focused.”

“You stabbed a man and ran away. Of course you’re distracted, Jimin.”

That, plus Jeongguk is sitting extremely close to him with his arm and leg brushing against
his, and it’s giving him a hundred thousand tiny heart attacks. And Jeongguk is saying those
lines with extra black and extra velvet in his voice, and it’s just doing things to him that he
doesn’t want to currently acknowledge.

This isn’t going to work. Jeongguk is staring at him with such a soft look in his eyes, and he
simply can’t connect this visual with the things he whispered in his ear just a couple of nights
ago.

“Okay. I’ll try this one more time. I’m not gonna look at the script. And then I’ll go to sleep.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jeongguk says.

Jimin takes a big breath, closes his eyes. Imagines to be on the stage, imagines Taehyung is
the one giving him the lines. He exhales the scent of citrus detergent and Jeongguk’s cologne
out of his lungs. Then takes it a step further. Now he’s Sadaham, he lives in sixth century
Silla, and he’s talking to his friend and companion, Mugwan.

And he starts.

It’s easier this way—with his eyes closed, focused only on the words rolling out his tongue,
the meaning behind them. He glides through his monologue and feels his voice rise to fill the
empty space around him as if he were on a real stage. Before he knows it, he’s reached the
end of the monologue, and he hasn’t skipped a single line. It feels finally complete.
His eyes fly open.

“I did it!”

He turns to Jeongguk, beaming, expecting to find him exactly where he left him before
closing his eyes—patiently sitting at his side, watching him with a quiet sort of amusement.

Except he isn’t.

“You did.”

The next thing Jimin registers is Jeongguk’s breath hot against his lips. And a second later,
Jeongguk leaning in to kiss him.

It’s a slow kiss. Much, much slower than their first. It starts with a gentle press of lips on lips,
lasting but a few stretched-out seconds in a time that has already frozen. Then he feels
Jeongguk move.

Jeongguk takes his time exploring Jimin’s lips with his own—and he does so thoroughly,
confident to have all the time in the world. It’s like the kiss flips everything he knows about
Jeongguk upside down, and maybe he should have seen it coming, or maybe he’s been blind
to the little things of Jeongguk’s personality all this time.

Because this feels like the exact opposite of what happened back then; the very antithesis of
their first kiss. While Jeongguk had been frantic on that night, almost desperately so, he now
is unhurried and attentive. Almost uncharacteristically attentive—no.

The little things. He’d missed them all.

Jimin is pushed back into reality when he feels Jeongguk playfully nibble at his bottom lip,
then pull it into his mouth. It’s all he can do to answer Jeongguk’s kiss in a daze, his mouth
not as confident, not as bold. He lets Jeongguk take charge of the kiss until it ends way too
soon, sooner than he expected—wanted.

“This isn’t in the script,” Jimin breathes out, lungs exhaling all the breath Jeongguk locked
within his chest.

Jeongguk hums, reluctant to pull back. Jimin feels the pads of Jeongguk’s fingers skim over
his cheek, lightly, so lightly.

“Maybe I should write it in.”

A chuckle, his own, then Jeongguk opens his eyes to look at him.

“I prefer this version.”

They surge forward at the same time, lips crushing in a more urgent kiss, tasting each other’s
need on their mouths. Jeongguk cups his neck to pull him close, deepening the kiss with a
push of his tongue past Jimin’s lips. Jimin hears a moan—most likely his own, but he doesn’t
care, he doesn’t care—and opens his mouth wide for Jeongguk to lick inside, to suck on his
tongue—everything, anything Jeongguk wants to do to him, he will let him do gladly.

But Jeongguk merely chuckles at his eagerness, biting softly at his upper lip as Jimin moans
again, growing restless.

Jeongguk draws back slightly. His thumb digs into Jimin’s plush bottom lip, rubbing it
incessantly. He stares as their combined spit coats Jimin’s lips like gloss.

“Aren’t you a little too eager?”

Jimin doesn’t let Jeongguk’s confidence deter him—panting, flushed, and extremely aroused,
he hasn’t forgotten that Jeongguk is just the same as him.

So he counterattacks—it’s the same old game between them, this tug of war. To the winner
go the spoils—the other. He realizes now they’ve always been each other’s prize.

“How long have you wanted to kiss me?”

Jimin’s question comes out a little breathless, a little cracked, but he takes pride in watching
Jeongguk’s eyes widen in surprise.

“I saw your script. I know what’s in there,” Jimin continues, slowly pushing Jeongguk
against the couch at his back. “You have a thing for lips.”

He puts an arm against the back of the couch, climbing over Jeongguk to straddle him. Leans
in closer, closer, face an inch away from Jeongguk’s.

“And eyes.”

Jeongguk doesn’t waste time in pulling him closer, placing both his hands on his waist.

“Wrong. Your lips, and your eyes,” Jeongguk mumbles, looking up from under dark
eyelashes. “You shouldn’t have looked.”

“After all those things you said to me?”

“You’ll have to be more specific. I say a lot of things,” Jeongguk smirks, jostling him on his
lap. Jimin bites his lip, legs sliding a little farther apart—he feels Jeongguk’s crotch press
against him, insistent, demanding.

He can’t believe Jeongguk is trying to make him say it.

“Answer my question first,” Jimin whispers, rolling his hips once—just an experiment,
nothing more, except it’s everything more and beyond.

Jeongguk laughs, hands sliding from his waist to cup his ass. He rolls his hips again, this time
a little more insistently, dragging a moan from the both of them. All this teasing and slow
circling around each other is turning him crazy.
“Long,” Jeongguk answers, whispering. He looks flustered. “You were always touching your
lips. Driving me insane.”

Jimin buries a hand in Jeongguk’s hair, tugging it downward to tilt his head up. “I stopped for
you. Cause you liked them so much.” He’s staring down at Jeongguk’s lips now, parted and
slick and pink, the lower lip fuller and glossier. “So why did it take you so long to kiss me?”

Jeongguk smiles. “You said you prefer Taehyung’s kissing.”

“It’s a stage kiss,” Jimin scoffs, blushing. “It’s not real.”

“Not what you said that day.”

Did his own tactic backfire so bad? Shit, he only meant to tease Jeongguk, maybe make him
a little jealous. He didn’t really mean what he said. Taehyung sucks at kissing compared to
this—Jeongguk could quite literally eat his face, spit in his mouth, or simply lick his lips for
two hours straight and he wouldn’t complain once. That’s how desperately he wants to be
kissed by him.

“Well, then,” Jimin huffs, drawing back. “Maybe I should have gone to Taehyung’s tonight.”

He feels Jeongguk’s hold turn to steel, and his hands pressing into his back to pull him close
again.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

He kisses him again, different shade of the same powerful need. It’s possessive and
demanding and it lights every fiber of Jimin’s body on fire. He lets Jeongguk dictate the pace,
enjoys the way he finally, finally licks into his mouth. Messy and wet and warm, he doesn’t
think he’s ever felt more turned on by just kissing. Feels he could stay like this for an eternity,
lazily grinding against Jeongguk’s cock, listening to him groaning softly in his mouth.

But then Jeongguk pushes both his hoodie and t-shirt up, splays his hands against his skin—
he shivers violently at the contact—and suddenly, eternity feels wasted on just kissing.

“Gguk—”

He never called Jeongguk Gguk, what’s wrong with him? feels too intimate, like they’re close
friends, they’re not close friends, they’re co-workers and former classmates and Jeongguk is
bucking his hips up against his ass so maybe they’re something more now, are they? are
they?—

“The night you called me. On the phone.”

Just mentioning it makes Jeongguk moan loudly into the kiss, press his fingers deeper into
Jimin’s skin.

“You told—you told me to—” he can’t think straight and Jeongguk keeps stealing all his
breath, kissing him senselessly, grinding up against him. “T-told me to imagine someone was
fucking me. Remember?”
Jeongguk nods, peppering kisses across Jimin’s jawline, mouthing at the skin until he starts
biting softly just behind his ear.

“Wanna know who—ah, fuck—”

Can’t finish his sentences, can’t focus properly. His own hands are buried into Jeongguk’s
hair, keeping him locked against the crook of his neck, eyes squeezed shut as Jeongguk sucks
a mark on the skin.

“Wanna know who I was t-thinking of?”

Jeongguk’s head whips up. He’s panting, a downright mess, and they haven’t even taken their
clothes off. Is this normal?

“Tell me.”

It’s Jimin’s turn to bury his face in the curve of Jeongguk’s neck. He feels himself turn bright
red, but it doesn’t matter—by now, Jeongguk knows every single shade of red his skin is able
to turn into.

“You,” he breathes in Jeongguk’s ear. It’s instant—he feels Jeongguk shudder, his breath
hitch. “You taking me from behind. Your fingers inside me, and then—all of you.”

He blushes harder than ever just by whispering the words to life. Jeongguk tenses, his hands
grip him so strongly that Jimin thinks he’ll have the imprints of Jeongguk’s hands on him for
weeks. He licks along the shell of Jeongguk's ear with just the tip of his tongue.

“You said you’ll show me how it’s done.”

“Jimin.”

His name falls from Jeongguk’s lips wrapped in a moan, thick with built-up lust. “Fuck,
Jimin—do you mean it?”

Jimin nods against his neck, suddenly shy. Too embarrassed to say a proper yes.

“Are you sure?”

Jimin draws back a little then, stares right into his brown eyes. Seeing how much his
confession has affected Jeongguk spurs him on.

“Jeongguk. I want you to fuck me. And I don’t want it to be another stupid lesson. I want it to
be real.”

Jeongguk’s mouth falls open, surprise momentarily replacing lust. It comes back in full force
a second later, darker than before, eclipsing Jeongguk’s irises with pure black.

“I never thought I’d hear you say it.”

Before Jimin has the chance to say anything back, Jeongguk grabs the back of his thigs and
stands up from the couch, lifting Jimin up almost effortlessly. Jimin yelps, both surprised and
a little—scratch that, a lot—turned on at the sudden display of strength, and immediately
latches both legs and arms around Jeongguk’s body. He laughs as Jeongguk carries him to his
bedroom, kicking the door open and dropping him down on the mattress.

His breath catches in his throat. He’s lying on Jeon Jeongguk’s bed, was nearly thrown on it
by the man himself, and now Jeongguk is going to fuck him.

Holy fucking shit. This is the worst and best nightmare—dream?—of his life.

How in the hell did it come down to this?

He watches, stunned, as Jeongguk hastily undresses for him—first his sweater, then his
sweatpants, then his socks—until he stands in nothing but his black briefs.

The tattoo Jimin noticed the first time he met Jeongguk at the Black Bird is in full display
now, black against the skin of his pectoral. It’s a flower with three wide petals alternating
with another set of three smaller petals on the inside, all spread out across his left clavicle and
a bit of his shoulder. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen such a flower before.

He also doesn’t think he’s ever thought of someone’s body as gorgeous before. Jeongguk
looks so good, it makes his head spin for a moment—where’s the repugnance he always felt
toward naked bodies?

His reverie breaks when Jeongguk slides his hands up Jimin’s legs, hesitating when he
reaches Jimin’s crotch area. He waits to see Jimin nod before helping him out of his jeans,
peeling them off him and throwing them carelessly on the floor. Jimin takes care of the rest
himself, first shrugging off Jeongguk’s hoodie, then pulling off his t-shirt over his head.

Jeongguk stares, eyes roving all over Jimin’s body like he still can’t quite believe who is
sitting on his bed, almost completely naked. He closes the distance between them, hooks two
fingers around the waistband of Jimin’s underwear, then looks at him.

“Off.”

Jimin licks his lips. “You first.”

Jeongguk obliges. His cock bounces free from the constraints of his underwear, hard and
proud, every bit as inviting and intimidating as Jimin remembered it.

“Like what you see?”

Jimin’s eyes cut back to Jeongguk’s face. He blushes furiously, having been caught openly
ogling at Jeongguk’s cock—but then again, they wouldn’t be in this situation if Jimin didn’t
like the sight of it.

So he opts to say the truth, try it out once in his life.

“You’re beautiful.”
That’s the second time Jeongguk is surprised by something he says. He sees him blush in all
the prettiest places, chuckle a little breathlessly.

“That’s my line.”

“We don’t have lines. There is no script to real life.”

Jeongguk tilts his head to the side, stroking Jimin’s cheek with the back of his hand.

“Is that why you’re so tense?” he asks, voice soft. “Cause you don’t know what comes next?”

“I know what comes next,” Jimin replies, pushing the hem of his briefs down a bit.
Jeongguk’s eyes flit down immediately.

Jimin peels his underwear off slowly, savoring every little twitch on Jeongguk’s face as he
watches him undress completely. The slightly widening eyes, the tongue darting out to lick
his lips, the muscle in his jaw clenching and unclenching. Jimin scoots back on the bed and
Jeongguk follows suit, crawling up to him not a second later—looking like he’s going to eat
him, swallow him down in one gulp. Jimin feels suddenly bashful again under his gaze, legs
pressing together to hide what he’s always been ashamed of.

“Do you?”

It’s completely unexpected—Jeongguk grabs him by the waist and turns him over suddenly,
as if he were a ragdoll. Jimin muffles his whimper in the pillows, fisting the sheets as
Jeongguk’s whole body presses against his own. He gasps when he feels the entire length of
Jeongguk’s cock rub against the cleft of his ass.

Jeongguk starts slowly grinding against him, making sure Jimin feels every inch of his body
moving against his own. And it drives Jimin crazy, and it turns him into a writhing mess—his
own cock rubs against the sheets in a way that’s so familiar to him, but the sensation is
amplified tenfold by Jeongguk trapping him under his weight. He starts wishing Jeongguk
would grind a little faster, a little harder, suddenly desperate for more friction.

“You like this?”

Jimin hides his face in the pillow. “Yeah.”

“Want more?”

No answer. No need to—his body speaks for itself.

“Want it from behind? Don’t wanna look at me?”

Jeongguk picks up the pace a little, driving the length of his cock a bit deeper in. Then he
leans in close to Jimin’s ear, whispering,

“I don’t think you know what comes next.”

His mind is late to tie the words with their stilted conversation—everything is lost, senses
attuned to pleasure only. He nearly whines when Jeongguk pulls back, the pressure on his ass
disappearing abruptly. Jeongguk sits back on his knees, chuckling.

“Ass up.”

It doesn’t feel authoritative enough to be an order, but it’s certainly not a polite suggestion
either. Regardless, these two very simple words burn themselves onto Jimin’s mind, making
him anticipate and dread what’s coming next.

Jimin lifts himself up on his knees, and pushes his ass out to Jeongguk.

Jeongguk moves his hands all around his ass, playing with it for a while, drawing soothing
circles on the soft flesh with his thumbs, then squeezing lightly. It feels good—he’s never
rough, but he’s not too delicate either.

“Fuck, your ass, Jimin…”

He hears Jeongguk laugh breathlessly, voice as dark as the night bleeding into the sky
outside. “You know there’s people who would pay hard cash to give it the attention it
deserves, right?”

Jimin lets his smile seep into his voice. “And here I thought all those men at the Bird wanted
me for my personality.”

Jeongguk spreads him apart without a warning, Jimin squirming under his grip. He lets his
head fall back onto the pillow, suddenly very embarrassed.

“Such a pretty hole,” Jeongguk mutters, amazed. “Can’t believe nobody fucked you before.”

“If I’d known you had a virginity kink, I would have set a price on my ass.”

Jeongguk laughs. “Oh, you’ve got jokes tonight. Means I’m not doing my job right.”

“Which is?”

Jimin barely finished huffing the words out that he feels his asscheeks being spread even
wider, and then Jeongguk breathing hot air over his rim. He jolts, a noise like a strangled
moan mixed with a panicked yelp tumbling past his lips. He didn’t expect that, at all.

“What are you doing?!”

“Rimming you,” Jeongguk says, blowing a second time on his puckering hole. “I’ve wanted
to eat your ass since the day you stripped in front of me.”

“What?” The words spiral around in Jimin’s head, and he’s left reeling. “Are you serious?”

“Jimin, I swear sometimes you sound like you’ve never looked in a mirror.”
That’s—not exactly untrue. He never was a fan of looking at his naked reflection in the
mirror.

“You don’t have to—”

“I think it’s time to shut you up.”

Jeongguk dives down on him again, effectively shutting him up as he starts kissing his way
up Jimin’s crack, very close to his hole—too close for comfort. His hands keep massaging
him uninterruptedly, spreading him and squeezing him lightly, and Jimin melts into the touch,
legs trembling when Jeongguk licks up his perineum.

He can’t believe he’s letting Jeongguk do this. He didn’t even let him blow him that one time.

“Jeongguk, you really don’t ha—”

“I can stop if you want,” Jeongguk says, breathing hotly against the sensitive skin. He mouths
softly just under his rim as he waits for Jimin to give him an answer, make up his mind.

“Uhm, I—”

It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair how Jeongguk is so innocently asking him if he wants to stop with his
tongue so close to his fucking butthole.

“Just—go slow, okay?”

“I’m always slow.”

Jeongguk blows on the rim again, making Jimin clench around nothing. He begins slowly
placing kisses around it, then licking with the tip of his tongue. Moans build up Jimin’s
throat, and he lets them out only one at a time, pausing in between breaths as to not sound
overly eager—desperate. Face hidden between the pillows, he unconsciously spreads his legs
wider for Jeongguk to continue. He startles when he feels the flat of Jeongguk’s tongue
gently pressing against him, but it’s not unpleasant.

“More?”

Jimin nods into the pillow, sheets bunching up in his fists. Jeongguk teases his rim just like
he teased his lips before, by sucking and licking all around and never delving in. Despite his
best effort to keep himself in check, Jimin rapidly becomes a whimpering mess, pushing his
ass back on Jeongguk’s face to urge him to make him feel more.

“Needy.”

It’s a word and then a push, and the tip of Jeongguk’s tongue is inside him—oh God, it’s
inside him. Jimin mutters a Oh, fuck softly, keeping it under his breath, hoping Jeongguk
didn’t catch it. Feels Jeongguk push in a little deeper, stretching the rim a bit more with his
tongue.

It feels—hot and warm and really fucking good, to be honest.

He certainly doesn’t have the experience to say it, but to him Jeongguk eats ass like a pro—
which doesn’t come as a surprise, given his resume. He doesn’t shove his tongue deep into
him like he’s trying to fuck him, doesn’t try to spell the alphabet on his asshole, doesn’t force
a fast and hard pace. It’s just as he said—he always goes slow. So, he takes his sweet time
kissing the skin around his entrance, nibbling softly, licking over the rim with the flat of his
tongue, occasionally pushing the tip inside to make him beg for a little more.

Which Jimin does, in the end.

“Fuck you’re great at eating ass,” Jimin exhales all in one breath when Jeongguk pulls back
and turns him on his back again. He laughs heartily at that, wiping the spit coating his chin
and mouth with the back of his hand.

“Thanks. You’ve got no one to compare me with.”

“No, I really feel—like, I really feel this is as good as it gets,” Jimin says, dazed, giggling.
“Can you fuck me now?”

“You’re not prepped,” Jeongguk says, amused. “My tongue isn’t the same size as my cock,
you know.”

“Fuck.” Arousal spikes throughout Jimin’s body just from hearing the words.

“You sound a little desperate.”

Jimin’s eyes fly open. Jeongguk sits between his legs, smirking.

“You’ve been desperate since the day I stripped in front of you,” Jimin retorts, throwing
Jeongguk’s confession back at him shamelessly. Jeongguk blushes, and Jimin feels a jolt of
gratification at being able to fluster him—it sure feels like a little victory, like he’s regaining
control.

“Rude. And to think I’ve been patiently waiting for you all this time.”

“Y-You have?”

Jeongguk shoots him a slanted smile, then the mattress creaks under his weight as he climbs
off the bed to go rummage in a drawer. Jimin stares at him with his mouth agape, reeling both
from Jeongguk’s answer and the way he looks prancing naked around the room—not to
sound like a total goner, but to him Jeongguk looks like he’s been sculpted from the purest
Carrara marble by a Renaissance-era Italian artist. He almost finds it unfair, like Jeongguk
should belong to a museum and not to a gawdy host club that sells him off to the highest
bidder.

“What are you staring at?” Jeongguk asks, climbing back to bed with lube and a packet of
condoms. His cock stands proud against his stomach, hard and leaking, and he gives it a
couple tugs while staring down at Jimin splayed under him.

“Nothing,” Jimin says in a hurry, blushing. Jeongguk shakes his head, smiling knowingly. He
pours a very generous amount of lube on his hand and warms it up between his palms.
“Can I?”

As an answer Jimin spreads his legs farther apart, feeling a little shameless as he does.
Jeongguk slips one of his pillows under his hips first, then traces two wet fingers up Jimin’s
shaft.

It’s the first time Jeongguk’s touched his cock tonight, and even the lightest of touches makes
him gasp. He tosses his head back into the pillows, lip trapped between his teeth. When did
he become so sensitive? He’s so hard he could burst at any moment, but Jeongguk doesn’t
seem to care. He thumbs at his slit and collects the precum on his finger, then stares right at
Jimin as he licks it off.

The same finger goes to trail down his perineum, until it stops just shy of the rim, teasing. He
feels Jeongguk spreading lube over his entrance, and he flinches a bit at the sudden coldness.

Noticing the tension in his body, Jeongguk dips down to press a kiss on his lips, and Jimin
keeps him in place with a hand wrapped around the brunet’s head. Jeongguk complies, hand
still rubbing over Jimin’s hole.

Jeongguk deepens the kiss as he slips the first finger in, slowly but steadily. Jimin clenches
around it—it feels a little better than it did when he fingered himself. Perhaps Jeongguk’s
rimming helped, or perhaps he’s just hornier.

“Another. Put another.”

Jeongguk pushes another finger in, going slower this time, one knuckle at a time. He starts
fucking them in and out and curling them against Jimin’s walls. They do feel longer than
Jimin’s, and so much more skilled.

“Yes, yes… another, please, I’m ready.”

At this point he doesn’t care if it hurts, he just wants to feel how much bigger Jeongguk’s
cock feels compared to his tongue, that’s all.

Jeongguk waits a little longer before stretching him with three fingers, and Jimin tenses up
immediately when he feels the third digit join the other two. He hisses, trying to relax and
focus only on how good they feel scissoring him open.

It takes Jimin a while, but he eventually eases into it. Jeongguk is nothing but patient,
whispering sweet words in his ear, mouthing at his jaw, kissing down the column of his
throat. Jimin loses himself in the sensation of Jeongguk’s fingers readying him for what
comes next. The thought alone makes him salivate, and he turns his head to meet Jeongguk’s
mouth, trap it into his own in a wet, sloppy kiss.

“Want you inside,” Jimin mumbles, pushing back on Jeongguk’s fingers. “Do it.”

Jeongguk whispers a low Fuck. His cock presses deliciously against Jimin’s thigh, and it feels
great and all, but Jimin wants it in him, deeper, deeper.
“Okay.” Jeongguk pulls back, eyes the condoms and lube haphazardly thrown on the
mattress. “Uhm, this might sound weird, but I—I’m—I’m clean, actually. And I haven’t had
sex since…” he bites his lip, looking down at Jimin with a strange expression.

Jimin freezes. He cups Jeongguk’s face in his hands and whispers,

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. You don’t want to?”

“No! No, it’s not—I’m saying my tests came back negative. You know, I had them done after,
uhm—”

“Oh. That’s—that’s good.”

Jeongguk slips his fingers out of him, and Jimin sighs, clenching around nothing, waiting.

“So, you know… we could—”

Jimin’s eyes go wide with realization. “Oh. Oh!”

Oh, fuck, Jeongguk wants to fuck him without a condom.

“If you feel up to it.”

“Yeah—I mean, I’m clean, obviously,” Jimin chuckles, a little breathlessly, a little nervously.
“And you are, too.”

Jeongguk’s head falls against the hollow of Jimin’s throat, where he feels him sigh.

“I haven’t done it in a while.” Jeongguk kisses him there, sweet and slow, and Jimin hugs
him close. He feels him kiss his way up his throat, past his mouth, up the jaw, until Jeongguk
whispers in his ear, reverently,

“Gonna fill you up with cum.”

Jimin’s eyes fly open and he moans loudly, bucking up his hips against Jeongguk. Fuck—he
wasn’t expecting it. How can Jeongguk say the filthiest things so nonchalantly, so sweetly?
The contrast drives him insane.

He watches as Jeongguk quickly lubes up his cock, which has leaked all over Jimin’s
stomach—the precum mixing with his own. Jeongguk sees him glancing at the mess, smirks,
then runs a lube-coated finger through the precum and presses it against Jimin’s mouth.

“Want a taste?”

Jimin opens his mouth. He sucks on Jeongguk’s finger until the taste of lube and cum
disappears.

Satisfied, Jeongguk takes a hold of Jimin’s thighs and pulls him flush against his cock, and
fuck—that’s hot, the harsh pull ripping a moan from Jimin’s mouth. His head spins the more
he thinks about what’s going to happen next.
Jeongguk leans over him again, pushing Jimin’s thighs up against his chest, nearly bending
him in half. Jimin lets him, enjoying the look in Jeongguk’s face when he realizes just how
flexible he is.

“How do you want it?” Jeongguk murmurs, soft breath ghosting over his lips. “You choose.”

“How do you want it?” Jimin says back, mind fogging up instantly when Jeongguk guides his
cock to Jimin’s entrance, feeling as the head rests against his rim—so warm, so close.

“I want to fuck you in a million different ways,” Jeongguk sighs, rubbing the cockhead over
Jimin’s rim and watching him writhe under him. “And I think I will, eventually. But this is
your first time, so you call the shots.”

Jimin blushes at the words—Jeongguk wants to fuck him a million times, and he thinks he
wants to indulge him. The fact that he’s letting him dictate the pace makes his heart swell,
and beat just a little faster.

“I trust you,” Jimin whispers, lifting his head a bit to peck at his lips. Jeongguk’s eyebrows
shoot up in surprise.

He lifts a hand to Jimin’s face, tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. The look on his face is
reverent, sweet, not a trace of the arrogant, insufferable asshole Jimin met a few months ago.
He built this callous version of Jeongguk on his own anyways, he knows, or at least he
inflated it to fit all of his ugly feelings.

“This will feel a little different from your fingers.”

That’s the only warning Jimin gets before Jeongguk pushes the head past his rim, and Jimin
tenses up immediately, clenching around the tip as he holds his breath.

“Ohmygodyou’rebig,” Jimin blurts all at once, suddenly hyper-conscious of the limitations of

the average human body.

Jeongguk laughs. “You really do know what to say in bed.”

He pushes deeper, slow and careful, and Jimin squeezes his eyes shut against the burn of the
stretch. It’s definitely different from a tongue and both of their fingers. Feels like Jeongguk is
spearing him open, but with an excruciating slowness that makes his head spin and his toes
curl.

He likes the way Jeongguk is trying his hardest to keep himself in check. Makes him want to
tease him a little—but then Jeongguk bottoms out with a slap of his balls against his ass—
obscene, that’s obscene, he both loves it and hates it at the same time—and Jimin moans,
hands frantically clutching the pillow at either side of his head.

“Good?”

Jeongguk stops, giving him time to adjust to his girth. Jimin is panting and sweating like he’s
just finished running a marathon and he underestimated how much stamina it would take. But
it also feels like he’s won the marathon.
“I feel—” so full. “Y-you feel—” everywhere.

“Feel what?”

Jeongguk rolls his hips experimentally. Jimin sucks in a breath, eyes rolling to the back of his
head.

“Oh god yes do that again.”

“You like it?”

Jeongguk circles his hips again, driving his cock a little deeper in. When Jimin gasps, eyes
fluttering closed as he tunes in to the feeling of having Jeongguk buried deep inside him—he
swears the thought alone is bringing him over the edge—Jeongguk starts moving.

Slow at first, but not hesitant. Not as if Jimin was made of glass, and Jeongguk was afraid to
break him. Jeongguk fucks him with deep, precise thrusts, the slow drag of his cock against
his walls undoing each of Jimin’s tight knots, the ones in his mind where he was always
afraid of sex, and the ones in his body—a body which had always felt both like a betrayer
and an accomplice to Jimin’s needs.

His meets Jeongguk’s thrusts to feel him deeper, hissing every time his cock rubs against
their bodies. He wants to touch it so bad, like he’s never wanted before. Wants Jeongguk to
touch it and make him come.

“Fuck, Jimin. You feel so good. You’re doing so good.”

Jeongguk’s words are barely there, barely felt against the shell of his ear, barely heard over
the erratic thumping of his heart. Jeongguk picks up speed, spurred by Jimin’s moans and the
way he wraps his legs around his body, pulling him closer. He hates the rhythmic smack of
flesh against flesh, he loves it to death. He tries to drown it beneath a string of broken curses
when Jeongguk angles his hips a little differently, fucking inside him with renewed vigor,
then traps his moans behind gritted teeth to better listen to the sound of Jeongguk fucking
him senseless. He’s in heaven and in hell, and they’re starting to feel a lot like the same
place.

He grabs his cock when he feels like he can’t take it anymore. Tugs at it a couple times
before Jeongguk slaps his hand away, pinning it beside his head. He shoots him a ravenous
look, coming to a stop inside of Jimin with his cock fully buried in.

“Am I not enough?” Jeongguk whispers. “No touching. You come on my cock. Like it should
be.”

The words alone almost make him come, and he whines his disappointment, not trying to
hide how turned on he feels. Jeongguk shifts again on top of him, one hand coming to grab
his hip to lock him in place. He pulls out almost completely, with just the tip buried within,
teasing, watching Jimin turn into a whimpering mess—asking for more, asking him to fill
him again—then inches back inside, savoring every second.
Jimin’s moans hitch higher and higher, back arching off the mattress as Jeongguk’s cock
brushes against his prostate. He holds tight to Jeongguk’s arms, a litany of Yes there there do
it again please do it again please god god god tumbling out his bitten-off lips. He sees the
sweat beading Jeongguk’s forehead, sees it trickle down the column of his neck, wants to lick
it all away, wants to bite his neck and suck it and leave it bruised yellow and purple.

Instead, he searches for Jeongguk’s mouth and finds it there, waiting, hungry and expectant.
The kiss is more like an exchange of hot breaths and soft sounds, teeth getting in the way,
tongues colliding, curling in each other’s mouths, wanting, wanting.

Jeongguk keeps the pace slow and languid as their kiss turns frantic. With each thrust he
drives his cock deeper, angles it better, continuously rubbing against Jimin’s prostate. It feels
nothing like his fingers, nothing like humping a mattress—it sends Jimin higher and higher
until his body gets tighter and tighter.

“Want you to come, Jimin.”

Jeongguk says the words against the corner of his lips, nose pressed against Jimin’s cheek as
his cock throbs, close to its release.

“Want you,” Jeongguk mumbles again, and then again, like a litany shattered by broken
moans and ragged breaths, “I want you.”

Jimin grasps his face between his hands, breathless, high off his mind on Jeongguk’s
everything.

“You have me already.”

He comes first, untouched just like Jeongguk wanted—his body tensing, releasing, singing—
body electric, body euphoric for the first time in his life.

He’s never come this hard before, ever.

Jeongguk whispers praises in his ear, now chasing his own orgasm, faster, deeper, thrusts
losing rhythm. Jimin watches in rapt wonder Jeongguk’s muscles ripple with a shiver so
intense he makes the both of them quiver—and then Jeongguk spills inside him.

Jeongguk’s moans sound so pretty so close to his ear, seeping into Jimin’s head and coloring
it a black night dusted with golden stars. He holds him closer, hands splayed against his
strong back, legs crossed to drive him deeper in even if he’s all sensitive now, even if it hurts
a little. He thinks he can feel it—Jeongguk’s cock throbbing, twitching as it releases.

Jimin waits patiently for Jeongguk to come down from his orgasm, panting and flushed and
disheveled and so, so beautiful. Looks him in the eyes as he feels him softening inside.

“Holy shit.”

Jeongguk’s head falls forward, setting his foreheads against his. He laughs, a puff of hot
breath on Jimin’s lips.
“Thought I was going blind. Holy shit.”

He winces when Jeongguk carefully pulls out. Stares at him as he falls back to the bed, on his
side, cock limp and spent, slick with lube and cum. Jimin can feel it trickle out of his ass,
warm and sticky, staining Jeongguk’s sheets. He’s sticky all over with sweat and cum.

They stay like that for a while, breathing in the scent of sex and sweat—their sex, their sweat.
It feels almost empty without Jeongguk inside him. He averts his eyes. Jeongguk’s breathing
next to him is the only thing that reminds Jimin that he’s still there, and he’s not alone.

“Did you like it?” Jimin asks, eyes trained on the popcorn ceiling.

“Did I like it?” Jeongguk laughs, turning to look at him. “Did you like it?”

Jimin rolls on his side to face Jeongguk, look at him with eyes finally clear again.

“Thank you. I loved it.”

Jeongguk blushes, runs a hand over his face. He’s laughing again, he can see it from the
shake of his shoulders.

“Wow. First time I’ve been thanked for fucking anyone.”

“I’m very polite.”

“Well,” Jeongguk says, scooting closer and throwing an arm over Jimin’s waist, “Thank you
for—”

“Spreading my legs for you?”

“—kindly accepting my advances.”

Jimin giggles, endeared.

“I didn’t have a wide selection of suitors to choose from.”

“Are you kidding? I know for a fact Taehyung asked you out.”

“What? How?” Jimin says, frowning.

“He told me,” Jeongguk says, smiling. “He also said your heart belonged to someone else.
His words, not mine.”

“He wanted to date me for the publicity,” Jimin scoffs, opting to ignore the way Jeongguk
smiled around the second part of his answer.

“Smart move.”

“It’s college theater.”

“You do know I wrote the play, yes? You just fucked the head writer.”
“I’m not saying I don’t like it. I love it. But me and Tae aren’t Hollywood actors,” Jimin says,
rolling his eyes.

“No,” Jeongguk says, fingers trailing up Jimin’s back. “I think you’re better.”

“Post-coital compliments are invalid.”

Jeongguk scoffs. “Says who?”

“It’s like when people say I love you in the middle of their orgasm. Your brain isn’t making
you say the words, your cock is,” Jimin explains matter-of-factly. “Also, might I remind you
that you told me I was too stiff and unexperienced to play the role you wrote?”

“I might have teased you a little, but it was all in good faith, okay? To push you into giving it
your best. You know that, right?”

“You said I acted like, and I quote, someone out of a b-rated soap opera or something.”

“It’s not a quote if you don’t remember what I said word for word,” Jeongguk points out,
grinning as he watches Jimin roll his eyes again. “And I said that to ruffle your feathers. It’s
so easy to rile you up, sometimes I just can’t help it.”

“You couldn’t help being an asshole?”

Jeongguk’s expression falls. He bites his lip, gaze dropping to somewhere around Jimin’s
heart. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so harsh. You didn’t deserve it.”

“Did you mean it, though?” Jimin swallows thickly. “What you said to me.”

Jeongguk’s hand retreats from around his waist, and he buries it under the pillow.

“I… thought you were really good. I’m serious. You belong to the stage. When you
auditioned, I thought you were perfect. There were just… small things. Trivial things. Like
tiny imperfections on an otherwise perfect painting, and I hated how I could glimpse them, I
did. It wasn’t how you played the character—it was something in you, holding you back. I…
wanted to nudge you in the right direction. Just to see what would happen. I think I pushed
too hard, though. I didn’t mean to make you fall.”

“Well, I fell.”

Jeongguk lifts his eyes to him this time.

“But I got up.” Jimin runs a hand through Jeongguk’s hair, soft under his fingers. “You were
there again. And I pushed you back.”

“Maybe I fell, too.”

Jeongguk takes Jimin’s hand and brings it to his lips. He kisses his knuckles, very softly, lips
barely brushing the skin. Jimin stares with his heart on fire.
“What’s, uhm—” he clears his throat, tries again. “What’s the name of the flower? Your
tattoo?”

“This?” Jeongguk brushes the tattoo with his fingertips. “It’s my birth flower. Tiger Iris, or
Tiger Flower.”

“Oh.” Jimin follows with his eyes the slow dancing of Jeongguk’s fingers on the tattoo. “It
suits you. Does it have a meaning?”

“Please love me,” Jeongguk says.

Jimin stiffens, body and mind petrifying at once while his heart picks up speed.

“Wh—what?”

“The flower. The meaning behind Tiger Irises is please love me.”

Jimin breathes again, body of stone softening into flesh and blood. Warm again, warmer.

“Oh. That’s a very straightforward message.”

Jeongguk shrugs. “Everyone deserves to be loved, and everyone wants to be loved. Don’t
you?”

“I… have never thought about it. I guess I do.” He plays with a corner of the pillow,
stretching the fabric. “Do you really think everyone deserves to be loved?”

He thinks back to his mother and the love she couldn’t give, thinks back to his brother yelling
at him that he was a monster, that he wished he’d never been born.

Jeongguk stops to think for a while. “Okay, maybe not everyone. Like, the guy who invented
the stock market probably deserved to die.”

Jimin smiles. “Who do you want to be loved by?”

Jeongguk shoots him a slanted glance. “I don’t know. Just—people, I guess. My family, my
friends.”

“But they already love you.”

“—not someone who tells me they love me when I’m balls deep inside them, I suppose?”
Jeongguk says, grinning. “Since you ruined that for me.”

“A confession like that is never genuine, it just makes people feel miserable. Could you
imagine if I said it to you tonight?” Jimin says, laughing nervously. “It would be so awkward.
The thought alone makes me cringe.”

Like Jeongguk abruptly saying Please love me made him cringe. Heart racing in his chest and
all.
Jeongguk’s lips stretch into a tight smile. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at him in silence
until Jimin can’t bear his gaze anymore and the silence stretches on, a little less comfortable
than before.

“Uhm, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t like you, you know.” Jimin stares at the sheet between
them, feeling his face heat up. “Because I do? I mean, you’re… fun to be around, I guess, one
just needs to… learn how to look past the, uhm. I don’t know, your asshole-ish side?” The
more he talks, the more Jeongguk’s frown deepens and the more he feels like dying. “What
I’m saying is that you’re a good person—deep down.”

“Shit, Jimin. That’s so sweet of you.”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh, we’re being serious? Well then, you’re shit at giving compliments,” Jeongguk huffs, but
he’s smiling into the words. “All I’ve got from your mumbling is that you like me.”

“Wha—I didn’t say that.”

“Of course you did. It’s literally the first thing you said—“It doesn’t mean that I don’t like
you, because I do.” Word-for-word. And that, Jimin, is how you quote someone.”

“You’re insufferable. You’re actually the same as the first day I met you—arrogant and
condescending.”

“I was arrogant and condescending the day we met?”

“Sure you were. You glowered at me and scoffed when Hoseok told you I was gonna
audition.”

Jeongguk lifts himself up on his elbow, offended. “I did not glower. I even told you I hoped
to see you at the audition.”

“Yeah, you scoffed when you said that. And you forgot my name the second Hoseok
introduced me,” Jimin says, lifting himself up to level his stare with Jeongguk.

“I’m bad with names! So what? Who even remembers the names of people they just met?”

“Uh—normal people?” Jimin says, voice rising along with Jeongguk’s. “That was very rude
of you, you know?”

“So you basically built the foundations of the contempt you’ve had for me since day one on a
two-minute conversation where you made up half of my reactions?”

“No, the contempt came much later, when you said I was frigid.”

Jeongguk climbs over him, pinning his wrists against the pillows at either side of Jimin’s
head and staring deep into his eyes.
 “You’re not frigid. On the stage, and off the stage. You’re the most passionate person I know.
And you’re very responsive—” he dips a hand down, toward Jimin’s crotch, “—to touch.”

Jimin gasps when he feels Jeongguk cup him in his hand. He closes his eyes, relishing in the
warmth of Jeongguk’s fingers.

“Your—your touch,” Jimin corrects him, blushing.

“I didn’t cure you, Jimin,” Jeongguk whispers, nosing up his jaw. “You held the keys to all
your locks.”

Jimin exhales when Jeongguk finally draws back, sitting on his knees. He looks down at him
with half a smile and a well of fondness in his eyes.

“Want to take a shower?” Jeongguk’s eyes flit down to the dried cum on his chest.

Jimin stares back, a little stunned. “Yes, please.”

“You know what I like most about my shower?”

“That there’s no mold in it?” Jimin ventures, thinking back to all the times he had to scrub the
mold off the corners of the shower at home. God, he really hopes Jeongguk’s shower isn’t
moldy.

Jeongguk smiles. “That it’s big enough for two.”

Chapter End Notes

listen
Chapter 11
1.
When Jimin wakes up the next morning, it’s with the disorienting feeling of being in a place
he doesn’t recognize and with the residual threads of a very intense dream tickling his
consciousness.

He rolls on his back, staring at the ceiling in momentary confusion. It clicks as soon as he
realizes he’s in a bed a little bigger than what he’s used to. Then it all rushes back to him.

Okay, so that wasn’t a dream, then.

He covers his face with both his hands and whines. He can’t believe he slept with Jeongguk.
He honestly thought he’d be a virgin forever—but now even that feels beside the more
pressing point. He never thought he’d sleep with Jeon Jeongguk, of all people. Okay, things
between them started becoming a little more intense during the last few weeks, but fucking?
In Jeongguk’s apartment, in Jeongguk’s bed—in his shower? Holy shit.

His mind is still reeling from the implications when he notices a piece of paper next to his
pillow, with Jeongguk’s neat handwriting on it.

I have a morning class, didn’t want to wake you. I made coffee and there’s food in the fridge,
help yourself to anything

—JK

Short and to the point. Jimin isn’t sure what he expected—perhaps to see Jeongguk waiting
for him in the kitchen, wearing an apron and baking croissants for him? That’s stupid. They
fucked. Then fell asleep. And then Jeongguk got up to go to class.

Jimin sits up and winces. He’s a little sore, but it’s nothing unbearable. Jeongguk was sweet
and careful with him last night, albeit not excessively so—he didn’t treat him like he was
made of porcelain, and he wouldn’t have wanted him to—but it was enough to fill Jimin’s
stomach with the proverbial butterflies. He was considerate, careful to make him feel good,
careful not to hurt him. A hard knot swells up in his throat and he feels frustration claw at the
edge of his mind, because he knows he won’t be able to express this feeling—whatever it is
—to Jeongguk once he comes home.

What’s he going to say? Thank you so much for fucking me considerately? For holding me
close and making me feel safe? While fucking? Is there even a better word, a more suitable
word to describe what they did last night?

Probably not.
He treads to the kitchen, famished as though he just came back from the most intense
workout session of his life. He’s drinking the coffee Jeongguk left him when his phone rings,
breaking the blissful silence of the apartment.

Jimin turns his head towards the sound, surprised. He forgot he left his phone on the kitchen
table last night. He glances at the caller. The screen reads Hobi. Oh, fuck. Hoseok never calls.

“What’s up?”

“There’s an emergency.”

“Are you okay?”

“Not for long. Yoongi wants to go on a date.”

“With you?”

“No, with my seventy-year-old Modern Lit professor.”

“I guess congratulations are in order, right? I’m really happy for you.” Jimin smiles into the
words, genuinely surprised that Yoongi gathered enough courage to ask him out. “So, what’s
the emergency?”

“This is the emergency. I don’t know what you guys do on dates.”

“You guys as in…”

He hears Hoseok scoff. “When a guy takes another guy out for a date, Jimin. It’s ten in the
morning, keep up.”

“So, you wanna know what gay guys do on dates.”

“Well, yeah.”

“This might come as a surprise, Hobi. You might wanna sit down.”

“Oh my god, do I have to put out on the first date?”

“What? No. There’s no rules to dating other guys, Hoseok. You do what feels comfortable.
It’s exactly like dating girls. You just hold hands and go places, do stuff.”

Another scoff. “What stuff?”

“I don’t know—stuff.” He rolls his eyes. “Listen, why don’t we meet somewhere? I just woke
up. We could have breakfast.”

“I had breakfast three hours ago, Jimin.”

“Whatever, I don’t have class today. I’ll text you the place, okay?”

“Yeah, okay, but don’t pick a shitty place. I might want to get a third breakfast.”
“A third breakfast?” Jimin repeats, gathering his clothes from the floor and heading towards
Jeongguk’s bathroom.

“I had a second breakfast between lectures this morning.”

“Second breakfast? You’re like a Hobbit.”

“Well great, Hobbits saved Middle Earth. See you later.”

Jimin throws the phone on the bed and sighs. He’s going to have to wear the same clothes as
yesterday. He glances at the hoodie Jeongguk lent him last night. To be honest, it’s a little too
cold to meet Hoseok in just a t-shirt. Will Jeongguk mind if he wears his hoodie outside? He
stops on his way to the shower, pondering whether he should text him to ask permission, then
decides he can’t annoy Jeongguk with such trivialities—he’s probably in the middle of class.

He jumps in the shower, gasping when the cold water hits his skin. He waits for the water to
slowly turn into a bearable temperature before taking in a big breath. He’s been in Jeongguk’s
house for one night only and already there’s places in this apartment that bring back
memories. Like when Jeongguk had him in this shower just a few hours ago.

He shivers under the hot spray. He’s not sure whether to dread or anticipate the moment
Jeongguk will come home from his classes. Dread, because—what the hell is one supposed to
say after they fuck for the first time? He definitely isn’t an expert in the field. Anticipation,
because he kind of already misses the warmth of Jeongguk’s body against his own.

And he absolutely doesn’t want to tell him that.

When Jimin walks inside the designated coffee shop, Hoseok is already sitting at a table with
one of the biggest slices of rainbow cake Jimin’s ever seen in his life.

“Celebrating your coming out of the closet with a slice of the gayest cake available?”

“Shut up. I’ve always loved rainbow cakes.”

“Just like you’ve always loved dick,” Jimin says, suave, sliding into the seat opposite
Hoseok’s.

“I will courteously pretend I didn’t hear you say that,” Hoseok chirps, eating his cake with a
lot more enthusiasm than what rainbow cakes deserve. “So, o omniscient bisexual person, tell
me your secrets.”

“I really have no idea what you want from me, Hobi. To be honest, I asked you to meet up
cause I want to keep teasing you a little longer.”

Hoseok leans forward, arms framing the enormous slice of cake in front of him. His
expression turns somber and his voice low.
“I’ll ask you a question and I need you to answer me truthfully.”

“Sure.”

“Do I need to wax my asshole?”

“Excuse me?”

“Like, is this a thing? Is it expected when you, you know…” Hoseok hand-gestures vaguely,
blushing a very intense crimson. “… bottom for a guy?”

“Uhm, I don’t—” Jimin pinches the bridge of his nose and draws a sigh. “I don’t know what
to say. I guess it depends? Are you, uhm, particularly hairy down there?” He feels a little
mortified just asking the question, but Hoseok doesn’t seem to be all that bothered.

“Well, I don’t think so. I checked online and I’m almost one hundred percent positive I have
a pretty standard asshole for an East Asian young male.”

“Then it’s great,” Jimin shrugs, eager to change the topic. “See? Problem solved. Internet
beats best friend one to zero. I’m sure Yahoo Answers holds all the answers you seek, Hobi.”

“Not sure if I wanna have sex on the first date, though.” Hoseok picks at a corner of his cake,
brows bunched up in thought. “I don’t want to give off the wrong impression.”

“I don’t think Yoongi expects you to, unless he’s taking you to a love hotel for your first
date.”

Hoseok’s head snaps up. “Oh my god, is he taking me to a love hotel for our first date?”

“I don’t know, is he?” Jimin huffs out. “Has he told you what he has in mind?”

“No, we were just texting and then—completely out of nowhere—he asked me out. Just like
that.”

“I don’t know Yoongi that well, to be honest. We’ve hanged out a few times, but I’m not sure
about his preferences when it comes to dating. Maybe you should ask, uhm, Jeongguk?” he
ventures, scratching the back of his neck as he feels the tell-tale signs of a blush creep up his
face. “Aren’t you classmates? They seem like good friends.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Hoseok mumbles, sucking on his spoon. “We have a class together
first thing tomorrow. I’ll ask him, then.” He takes a quick sip of his drink and shoots Jimin a
curious glance. “What did you do on your first ever date with a guy? Do you remember?”

“You already know I’m not a fan of dating,” Jimin answers evasively. “The whole movies-
and-dinner thing isn’t for me.”

“So what did you guys do?”

“I think we just hanged in his room?” Jimin says, shrugging. “Playing videogames. He was a
big fan of war games. I found them boring, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him.”
Hoseok chuckles. “So, what, you just watched him play? That’s sad.”

“No, I played a little. Fed his ego as I kept losing. He seemed to like that.”

Hoseok winces. “He doesn’t sound like a nice guy.”

“No, yeah, it was a horrible first date. But, like, we were sixteen? I guess he just wanted a
blowjob while his mom was downstairs. I’m pretty sure that was the reason he cranked up the
volume at some point.”

“A teenage blowjob to the gentle symphony of gunshots and grenades going off,” Hoseok
snorts, amused. “Was that another first for you?”

Would have been if I hadn’t freaked the fuck out.

“Uh—sure.”

“How was it?” Hoseok sets the spoon down and fixes him with big, round eyes—ready to
hang from his every word.

“Uhm. Wet.”

It’s the first word that jumps to mind—together with the vivid image of Jeongguk’s heavy
cock dripping precum down his hand, his real first experience at blowing someone.

“Wet,” Hoseok repeats, slowly. “That’s hot, I guess?”

“Yeah, I mean, if—if it isn’t at least a little wet then you’re doing something wrong, right?”
Jimin splutters, breaking into a nervous giggle. Hoseok frowns.

“You’re always so stingy with details. It’s really no fun being best friends with you, you
know?”

“I’m just private about my sex life, you know that,” Jimin retorts, piqued. “I’m not like you.
Carefree and libertine.”

“Expect a five-page essay on all my sexual exploits with Yoongi, my friend. Bet you’ll learn
some new stuff.”

“Please don’t.”

“Please do,” Hoseok huffs. “Hey, speaking about blowjobs. I’ve always wanted to ask you
—”

He’s saved by Taehyung walking through the sliding glass doors of the café. Jimin waves him
over frantically, calling his name to catch his attention. Anything to put a stop to this misery.

Taehyung’s face lights up like a Christmas tree when he spots them. He heads toward their
table as Jimin shoots Hoseok his most convincing apologetic smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to
interrupt you.” He turns immediately to Taehyung and says,
“Hey, Tae. What’s up?”

—in a much too bright a tone. Hoseok’s onto him for sure.

“Hey, did you know Yoongi asked Hoseok out?”

“What?” Taehyung’s head snaps to Hoseok, who’s still glaring at him like he just watched
him murder his firstborn son. “Congratz, man. I didn’t know Yoongi had the balls.”

Hoseok sniffs. “Yoongi’s got plenty of balls.”

“Sure, he’s a man of many balls. So, where are you going on your first date?” Taehyung asks,
sitting down at their table.

“He hasn’t said. I actually don’t know if he expects me to come up with something or if he
wants to plan the date himself.”

“You guys take dates way too seriously. Just hang around someplace, order a pizza, then
make out the rest of the night. Easy,” Jimin says, finishing the last of his drink.

“Hey, first dates are important.”

“First dates are overrated, like dates in general.”

“That just means you’ve never been treated to a nice, well thought out date before in your
life, Jimin,” Taehyung says, smiling. “See, if you had agreed to date me, I would have
planned a date so unforgettable, so special, that it would have put all your future dates to
shame.”

“Then I’m glad I didn’t date you,” Jimin mutters, eyes nearly rolling to the back of his skull.

“Where would you have taken him?” Hoseok asks, curious.

“Can’t say it, it’s lost forever.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“I can tell you Yoongi doesn’t share my same inclination to plan magnificent dates, though.
So, expect something boring like, I don’t know, going bowling or dinner at some restaurant.”

“That’s fine with me,” Hoseok says, shrugging.

“Great! Then you’re soulmates.”

Hoseok finishes the last of his cake, chewing slowly. “So, if he’s the one who asked me out
on a date… does it mean I have to kiss him first?”

“Where are you getting these weird rules from?” Jimin asks, baffled.

“I just want to be sure I do everything right.”

“There is no right or wrong, dude,” Taehyung chuckles, patting Hoseok’s back. “There’s just
you and Yoongi, and whoever pops a boner first drags the other in a public toilet to kiss him
silly.”

“No, you don’t—you don’t have to make out in a public toilet, Hobi.”

“No, I know that,” Hoseok says a little impatiently. “I think I want to try sucking his dick,
though? Like, I’ve been wanting to for some time?”

Taehyung bursts into a boisterous laugh. “Yeah, why not? You can kiss him anywhere else
that isn’t on the lips, that works too.”

“Won’t it give the wrong impression, though? I don’t want him to think that I’m like, in a
phase. Or that I just want to experiment with my sexuality,” Hoseok says, dramatically air-
quoting the words.

Jimin grabs his friend’s hand, suddenly very serious. “Hobi, trust me when I say that nobody
who’s ever met you or listened to you talk thinks this is just a phase.”

“Yoongi isn’t like that. He’ll be thrilled to know you want to suck his dick.”

“Well, okay then. Thanks, guys.” Hoseok leans back on his seat, visibly more relaxed.
“You’re really helping in making the confident gay in me bloom.”

“Well, as much as I would love to stay and discuss what this achievement means for you,
Hoseok, I’ve got class in fifteen minutes and it’s on the other side of campus. I’ll see you at
rehearsals?” Taehyung asks, rising to his feet.

“Wait. I’m coming with you,” Hoseok says, grabbing his bag. He freezes suddenly, staring at
something on Jimin’s chest.

“What? What is it? Did I spill coffee on myself?” Jimin asks, panicked—he’s wearing
Jeongguk’s hoodie, he can’t ruin it or Jeongguk will kill him.

“No, but… since when do you wear such expensive clothes?” Hoseok asks, eyeing the logo
on Jeongguk’s hoodie.

Fuck.

“Oh, no, this is a knock-off,” Jimin says, dismissing Hoseok’s suspicions with a vague hand
waving. “I got it last week in Myeongdong.”

“You hate knock-offs.”

“It was on sale,” Jimin retorts.

Hoseok squints at him, then just shrugs. “I don’t have time for this. I’ll text you later, okay?”

Jimin nods and watches them exit the café with a strained smile. He sinks deeper in his seat,
grabbing Jeongguk’s hoodie where his heart beats erratically. Keeping this secret from his
best friend is going to pose an entirely new challenge. He didn’t mean to hide the truth—but
then they started talking about Yoongi, and one thing led to another, and he didn’t really
know how to breach the topic of—hey, by the way? I fucked Jeongguk tonight. Or, Jeongguk
fucked me. Semantics, aha. Knowing his best friend, he’s pretty sure Hoseok would have let
out a shriek so inhumane, half the campus would have gone deaf.

Sighing again, Jimin gathers his stuff and exits the café. Outside, Seoul greets him a little
warmer and brighter than usual.
2.
When he comes back to Jeongguk’s apartment that evening, Jimin finds Jeongguk already
home, lounging on the couch and reading a book.

“Oh, hey. You’re home,” Jimin says, a little surprised. He immediately cringes after realizing
it sounded a bit like Jeongguk’s apartment is his home, too. Like they’re a couple who’s been
together for years.

But Jeongguk simply lifts his eyes from the book and smiles.

“Hi. You had class?”

“No, I met Hoseok and then went to the library,” Jimin mutters, hanging his coat. “Uhm, I
hope you don’t mind but, I, uh. I borrowed your hoodie.”

Another smile, broader this time. “You look good in it.”

“I don’t look like a dwarf anymore?”

“A dwarf who looks good,” Jeongguk precises, sitting up. “What… did you and Hoseok talk
about?”

Jimin stands awkwardly next to the table, nervous fingers drumming on the wood. He thinks
he knows what Jeongguk is referring to.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t told him about… us.”

“Us?” Jeongguk raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell your best friend that we slept together?”

Warmth flares on Jimin’s neck. “Uh, no? That’s, uhm—private. For now.”

“For now,” Jeongguk repeats slowly. He seems to brighten up a little, then he pats the cushion
next to him.

Jimin sits down, a little relieved. “What are you reading?” he asks, more to swerve the
conversation towards safer waters than anything.

Jeongguk shows him the cover of the book.

“Selected poems by Emily Dickinson,” Jimin reads out loud in English. “Wow. I didn’t know
you speak English.”

“I’m taking an English literature class as an elective this year.”

“Oh, is Miss Robinson teaching it?” Jimin asks, curious. “I took her class last year. She’s a
very good professor.”

Jeongguk lifts the book. “So you’ve read this?”

Jimin shakes his head. “Last year’s program was different. It focused on novels.”

“We’re doing poetry this semester,” Jeongguk explains, dropping his gaze to the book. “I like
her poems. They’re very… raw.”

Jimin hums. “Are they?”

Jeongguk nods, shifting slightly to sit on one of his legs. It’s going to go numb soon and then
Jeongguk will grumble that it hurts, but he will never learn his lesson. Jimin keeps his smile
inward, hidden.

“I don’t always like what she makes me feel, though. But that’s okay.”

“Isn’t feeling good the whole point of reading poetry?”

“I don’t think so,” Jeongguk says, pensive stare lost in the words of a page. “Poetry shouldn’t
feel cozy. It should… feel like the words are clawing at your heart, or like they’re rending it
to shreds. You know, the way really powerful emotions make you feel.”

“Powerful emotions. Such as?” Jimin asks, eyebrow arched. “Anguish?”

“Love,” Jeongguk says, turning to look at him. “Love should feel this way.”

Jimin smiles a little sadly. “Ouch.”

Jeongguk smiles, too, then shifts closer.

“Listen to this one.” He clears his throat and reads aloud,

“Wild nights—Wild nights!

Were I with thee

Wild nights should be

Our luxury!”

Jimin’s blush darkens. “That’s, uh, really—”

“Futile—the winds—

To a Heart in port—

Done with the Compass—

Done with the Chart!”

“Very nice metaphors,” Jimin says, suddenly feeling very warm. Is poetry supposed to make
him feel this way?

“Rowing in Eden—
Ah—the Sea!

Might I but moor—tonight—

In thee!”

“Sounds like a really good time,” Jimin blurts, seconds away from combusting.

Jeongguk lowers the book and grins.

“Did it make you want to rip your heart out?”

God, he should really stop listening to Jeongguk recite poetry. It’s a health hazard.

“You picked this poem on purpose, didn’t you?”

Jeongguk puts a hand over his heart. “Whatever do you mean? It just happened to be on the
page I was reading.”

“I don’t think I’ll let you moor anywhere near my port anytime soon.”

“That’s cruel.”

“It’s what you get for being—” Jimin gestures with his hand, struggling to find the right
word.

“—romantic?”

Jimin scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“You know what? I read you the wrong poem. There’s another one who really made me think
of you, in a way—it’s called I am afraid to own a body.”

“Fuck off!” Jimin hisses, trying to shove Jeongguk from the couch with both his hands. The
other man laughs, doesn’t move an inch—solid as stone.

“Let me recite it to you. I am afraid to own a Body—”

“I’m gonna fucking slap you.”

“Kinky. I am afraid to own a Soul—”

“I’m not!”

“Profound—precarious Property—” but at this point Jeongguk’s voice is breaking into

laughter, and he’s unable to continue with Jimin’s foot planted insistently against his side.

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop. It was just the first stanza anyway. The rest doesn’t really apply to you,
unless you identify with a nineteenth-century American female poet living with her parents.”
“I am not afraid to own a body!” Jimin grumbles, crossing his arms and staring daggers at
Jeongguk from the other side of the couch.

“You aren’t now. You were before, though. Weren’t you?”

Jimin gasps. “You are—” too perceptive for your own good. “—insufferable.”

“If I gained experience points for every time you called me that, I could cast Magic Missiles
by now.”

“You don’t gain experience for something someone else does.”

“Can we address the elephant in the room, please?” Jeongguk sighs, bringing his legs up and
leaning back against the armrest. “I think I warmed you up enough to talk about it.”

“You what?” Jimin screeches, outraged.

“So, we fucked. Did you like it? Do you wanna do it again? Please be honest.”

Jimin stares, mouth agape and mind spiraling into nothingness. “D—do you want me to fill
out a survey?”

“Consider this an oral interview.”

“I already told you I liked it,” Jimin mumbles, embarrassed. “Do you expect me to wax
poetry about your dick? Want me to write my own rendition of Wild nights based on last
night?”

“That’s a great idea.”

“Pay me.”

Jeongguk makes a face. “Here I thought I was special because you gave yourself to me for
free.”

“Can you not say shit like that?” Jimin groans. “I didn’t give myself to you. I’m not some sort
of virgin maiden you deflowered after a few months of courting.”

“That is literally what happened.”

“Okay, but I didn’t give you shit. You don’t own me.”

“Of course I don’t,” Jeongguk says, brows knitted into a frown. “That wasn’t what I meant at
all. I know what you’re doing, you know.”

“Yeah?” Jimin says, vexed. “What?”

“You’re making a scene because you don’t want to talk about it seriously.”

Jimin blushes crimson. “Talk about what?”

Jeongguk seems to take pity on him, his frown fading to an expression of soft understanding.

“Jimin, let me be clear. You can crash here as long as you like, and most importantly, I don’t
want you to think you owe me anything,” he emphasizes the word heavily, and Jimin
instantly gets the meaning behind it—sex, “for letting you stay. If you don’t want a repeat of
last night that’s fine, I won’t—I won’t try anything, I’ll give you space, whatever you want to
make you feel comfortable. But I also know that what happened might make things awkward
between us, so… if you want to go, I won’t… you know. Hold you back.”

He stares as Jeongguk clears his throat, fidgets with the hem of his sleeves, and finally drops
his gaze to the strip of empty space between them. Jimin exhales the breath he didn’t know
he was holding.

“I don’t want to go.”

Jeongguk seems to relax a bit. “Okay. Good. I’m glad.”

“And, I want—” This is harder to say. “I think I want... that again.”

Jeongguk’s eyes widen imperceptibly. “Want what?”

Jimin swallows. “You?”

“Why does it sound like a question?” Jeongguk says, laughing, after a moment of stunned
silence. “You don’t sound convinced.”

“I am.”

Jeongguk clicks his tongue. “I don’t think so.”

Jimin scoots over to Jeongguk’s side of the couch and slots between his legs, leaning forward
to meet Jeongguk’s gaze.

“Then I’ll prove it.”

He doesn’t get the chance to go for a kiss that Jeongguk grabs the back of his neck and
pushes him down to meet his lips. He falls on top of Jeongguk with a soft, startled sound and
melts into the kiss a second later, enjoying the feeling of Jeongguk underneath him—his body
thick and solid, hips bucking up when Jimin moans into his mouth. He looks so good, already
eager and flushed, pretty dark hair a mess, pretty dark eyes a fog of lust.

Wild nights.
3.
Hobi :
This seminar is boring as SHIT

Jimin:
aw I’m sorry

Hobi :
like seriously this guy is at least a thousand years old
he also looks like he tried to animorph into a rat but got stuck halfway through the process

Jimin :
impressive

Hobi :
y are u not indulging me??

Jimin :
I’m in class??? Taking notes???

Hobi :
where??

Jimin :
a5 building

Hobi :
we’re a5 building, too
me and jk

Jimin :
yeah I know

Hobi :
wanna grab lunch later??

Jimin :
ok but now please let me focus on my lecture

Hobi :
nerd
Jimin sighs and rolls the pencil between his fingers. He lifts his eyes to the professor giving
the lecture, then to the screen at the professor’s back. The slides show different pictures of
parietal paintings in Koguryeo burial chambers, a riveting topic that Jimin’s already studied
thoroughly in his first year because he took Korean Art History 1 as an elective class.
Regardless, he gets back to hanging from the professor’s every word like they’re divine
nectar—he is hellbent on taking the best notes ever taken on Mr. Kim class, so that he can
sell them on the internet for some quick cash.

There are always desperate students looking for good notes out there.

His phone buzzes again. Jimin swipes up to open the chat with a roll of his eyes.

He almost yelps when he realizes it isn’t Hoseok texting him—in fact, what he’s just received
isn’t a text at all.

It’s a picture.

Of a dick.

A very familiar one.

The blush that assails him feels like a whole heatwave. He scrambles to pick up the phone
and lock it, hastily looking around to make sure nobody saw the chat. The students around
him keep taking their notes, their attention focused on the screen ahead. His heartbeat slows
down. Nobody seems to have noticed.

Nobody seems to have noticed that Jeongguk sent him a picture of his half-hard cock.

He sets the phone down on his notebook, leaning over the desk to shield it from view. He
opens the chat again, and yep—there it is, Jeongguk’s cock, undeniably halfway hard,
familiar hand wrapped around the shaft.

Jimin :
wha t the fukc are you doing???

Isn’t Jeongguk supposed to be in the same classroom as Hoseok? What the fuck is he doing
sending him dick pics in the middle of a seminar he’s supposed to pay attention to?

JK :
I know youre having class in the same building as me
come in 3rd floor toilet

Jimin :
gguk jfc im in the middle of CLASS
 JK :
jimin jfc I’m in the middle of a raging boner
come here

Jimin :
don’t look like it’s raging yet

JK :
it is now

Jimin :
deal with it yourself

JK :
I cant

Jimin :
use your right hand jk
I bet you’re good at that

JK :
your bet is invalid you know very well I’m good with my hands

Jimin :
fuck you jeon

JK :
fuck me yourself

Jimin takes a sharp breath. He’s joking, right? He doesn’t mean it. It’s just a snide way to
answer his text. Fuck, he’s kind of getting hard. In the middle of a lecture on burial parietal
paintings.

He feels very nervous all of a sudden.

His phone lights up with another notification. From the preview, it seems like Jeongguk sent
him another picture. Fuck. Sighing again, Jimin opens the chat and braces for the worst.

The worst being another dick pic, this time of Jeongguk’s cock stiff and leaking, precum
beading at the tip. What the fuck. This is wrong on so many fucked-up levels. They’re in
class. His professor is droning on about mummified corpses, and now he’s horny.
Jimin :
well, I can see you’re close
I don’t think you need me at all

JK :
cant come without you

Jimin :
that sounds like a you problem

JK :
you’re living in my house rent free

Jimin :
excuse me???
after everything you told me
I should have known those were LIES
this is sexual extorsion

JK :
then go to the police and show them this chat

Jimin :
why are you even hard right now

JK :
boring class
I was thinking about you

Jimin :
don’t think about me without my permission jeon

JK :
and about last night
and the night before that
and the night before that night

Jimin :
maybe I should move out
it’s been three days already

JK :
best three days of my life
jimin come pleae
I’m close

Jimin :
yeah I know you’re upstairs
 JK :
jimin
come here
I wanna cum in your mouth

It’s the last straw—what makes Jimin twitch in his pants, arousal spiking to new heights. He
presses his thighs together instinctively, dragging his bottom lip in his mouth and biting hard,
hoping for the pain to ground him. It doesn’t. Jeongguk turned him on so much that he would
need a bathtub filled with ice to finally cool down.

He gets up, back hunched, making himself as small as possible and shoving his hands in the
front pouch of his hoodie as to cover the slight bulge in his pants. He walks out of the
classroom with his head bowed and the nape of his neck burning, shame and arousal
simmering in his veins. He feels a little better when the door closes, muffling the professor’s
voice. He’s on the fourth floor. Jimin takes the stairs and hurries to the men’s bathrooms on
the third floor.

He pushes the door open and finds it blissfully empty. Classes are still ongoing, and everyone
is sitting in their classrooms paying attention to their lectures, which is what Jimin—and
Jeongguk—should be doing now, what Jimin was doing until Jeongguk sent him a dick pic
out of the fucking blue. The only dick pics he’d gotten until now were from random guys he
messaged on Grindr—anonymous appendages of people he was likely to never meet. He’d
never gotten one from a guy he knew personally. Most of all, he never expected Jeon
Jeongguk to be the type of guy who sent dick pics in class.

Guess it takes sleeping with someone to get to know someone better.

“Jeongguk?” he whispers tentatively, fingers brushing against the first door.

The door to the last stall opens with a creaking that makes Jimin whip his head around
immediately. Jeongguk pulls him in for a hasty kiss as soon as Jimin slips inside the cubicle,
pushing him against the door with one hand and locking it with the other.

“You took your sweet time.”

“I didn’t want to come,” Jimin hisses, but it’s hard to stay mad when Jeongguk grabs his hand
and wraps it around his cock, moaning a breath away from his lips.

“Well, I do.” He starts peppering Jimin’s jaw with little wet kisses, his hips insistently
bucking into Jimin’s hand to convince him to move. “Make me come. Please. I’m so hard for
you, Jimin, you have no idea—”

“I do, actually,” Jimin breathes out, as surprised as he is amused. “Get any harder and your
dick will fall off.”
Three nights since the night they first slept together, three mornings in which he woke up in a
bed that wasn’t his own with either Jeongguk lying next to him or a handwritten note left for
him on a pillow. And he still can’t wrap his head around the fact that Jeongguk wants him.

“Did you come here to make fun of me?” Jeongguk whines, lips puckered in a pretty pout
that makes Jimin want to coo at him. “I’ll get you off if you get me off.” Jimin startles when
Jeongguk grabs at his crotch, squeezing lightly.

“Fuck. Okay, but—don’t ever send me dick pics ever again.”

“But you liked it.”

“Not when I’m in class.”

“That’s the best time to get dick pics,” Jeongguk whispers, smiling. He groans when Jimin
starts moving his hand up and down the shaft, dropping his head on Jimin’s shoulder to
muffle his moans.

“Fuck, can you—please, can you suck me off?” he whispers, lips pressed against the column
of his neck.

“In here?”

Jimin looks around. The stall looks pretty clean, but the idea of kneeling on the bathroom
floor isn’t very appetizing. Plus, his jeans are ripped at the knees. Ew.

“I’m not asking you to lick the floor.”

“No, just your cock.”

“Jimin,” Jeongguk whines pitifully, humping against his hand with more insistence.

“Isn’t this enough?” Jimin’s hand slides down to cup his balls, eliciting small, soft sounds
from Jeongguk. He feels him shake his head stubbornly against his shoulder and breathe into
his ear,

“Wanna feel your lips on me. Please, they’re so beautiful—ah—when they—fuck—when

they stretch around my cock.”

He can feel the eagerness in those words, can feel Jeongguk twitch in his hand at the thought
of having him on his knees. It’s both flattering and a little overwhelming. He knows
Jeongguk is really close, just a few more strokes and he’ll probably come all over himself. He
could do that, could let him come in his hand.

“Please, Jimin. You’re so good with your mouth. Wanna feel how good you are with your
mouth.”

Jeongguk’s words are broken by sighs, but they hit home. Jimin’s skin stings with a familiar
burn, his body singing at the sound of Jeongguk’s praise.
Jeongguk had never asked for another blowjob after Jimin’s first and last time at the Bird. He
tried to give Jimin one, but Jimin pressed his legs shut, shy, still reluctant to offer that part of
him to anyone—even if it that person was Jeongguk. Jeongguk didn’t insist. He didn’t ask
him why there were still parts of him that were off-limits even after sleeping together, didn’t
ask Jimin to give him head instead—he just looked at him with those big doe eyes of his and
leaned in to kiss him, very very gently.

That was probably the slowest kiss they’d ever shared, and he didn’t miss the way Jeongguk
propped himself up on his elbows and knees, careful not to press him against the mattress
with his weight—something he hadn’t been ashamed to do in the middle of sex before—as
though trying to respect an invisible boundary. It felt different, like Jeongguk was trying to
give him space, making him focus on the way their mouths slotted together instead of all the
other sensations coursing through their bodies. It felt—really nice.

“Tell me if I hurt you.”

Jimin drops to his knees. Jeongguk’s hand flies to his cock, squeezing the base as though the
visual of Jimin falling to his knees threatened to push him over the edge. He looks positively
ravished as he murmurs a litany of, “You won’t, you won’t, you’re so good Jimin, so good—”

At this point Jeongguk is rambling, eyes rolling to the back of his skull as soon as he feels
Jimin’s hot breath against himself. Jeongguk is a throbbing mess of precome and spit, the
head swollen and red and already so, so sensitive.

Still so pretty, Jimin thinks brazenly, blushing head to toe. He’s thought about blowing him
again many times, but never mustered the courage to actually ask him if he could. Take last
night, for example—they were both sitting at Jeongguk’s kitchen table, the TV playing
peppy, cheerful pop songs in the background as they chatted and munched on the myriad of
bagged potato chips Jeongguk had bought on his way home from class. They ended up
making a tier list of potato chips brands – since Jeongguk had quite literally raided the 7/11
across the street, his excuse being “I didn’t know your tastes so I bought a few,”— and were
in the middle of a heated discussion about salt-and-vinegar Lays when Jeongguk unwrapped
a lollipop and started licking it, you know, as one does with lollipops. He allegedly needed to
“rinse his palate” to keep rating the other chips, but by that point Jimin’s head had already
fallen into static, many an intrusive thought pushing toward the very appealing idea of
sucking Jeongguk’s dick just how he was sucking that damn lollipop.

But he didn’t know how to tell him, and when their debate ended with Jeongguk shoving him
against the wall because of a strong disagreement in opinions about honey barbecue chips,
kissing him stupid to make him shut the fuck up, it was already too late. One thing led to
another, and Jimin missed his opportunity.

But mostly he had no fucking clue how to breach the topic.

Nothing to breach now though, Jimin thinks as he grips the shaft and prepares to give the
second blowjob of his life. It’s as terrifying as it was the first time. Nothing has changed,
except that he remembers the weight of Jeongguk’s cock in his mouth and how he had tasted.
So maybe something has changed, and maybe this time will be a little less embarrassing.
He glances up at Jeongguk, suddenly insecure. He’s looking down at him with his eyes
glazed, lip trapped between his teeth, one hand buried in Jimin’s hair and the other splayed
against the door. Knowing that he’s got his full attention makes him feel a little woozy.

Jeongguk takes notice. He wraps his hand around Jimin’s, guiding the head of his cock to his
lips.

“Don’t you want to, baby?”

His voice is hoarse, a thick whisper marked by need. “I see how you look at me. I know you
like my cock. You like it, don’t you? Want to suck me off all the time but don’t know how to
tell me?”

Jimin’s eyes cut to Jeongguk’s. His heart races ahead, he isn’t sure if Jeongguk is just teasing
or if he really means it. Was he that transparent? Oh, fuck, did he express his desire to suck
Jeongguk’s dick as he slept next to him or something? Fuck, fuck, fuck.

But Jeongguk’s eyes don’t betray anything. He simply smirks and says, “Open up,” his other
hand coming to rest on Jimin’s cheek.

His words sound like an order, but his body language tells a different story. The hand stroking
his cheek is much too gentle, and he isn’t trying to shove his cock down in his throat. He
simply watches him with hooded eyes, and waits.

So Jimin swallows once and parts his lips slowly, just a little, just enough to make Jeongguk’s
cock twitch in anticipation. He lifts his eyes to Jeongguk’s and opens a little wider, enough
for him to try to push through, then stares up expectantly—inviting him in.

Jeongguk moans, pushing his hips forward. He nestles the head in Jimin’s mouth, another,
much louder moan falling from his lips, then stops, holds a little, and slides a little more
down Jimin’s wet mouth.

Jimin grabs the back of Jeongguk’s thighs, holding on in case Jeongguk decides to pick up a
rough pace like he expects him to—he did offer him his mouth quite shamelessly, after all.
But he doesn’t. Jeongguk pulls out slowly until only the tip rests on Jimin’s tongue, then
pushes back in with excruciating slowness, and it’s as much a torture for him as it is for
Jimin.

All the while Jeongguk is staring down at him, ecstasy blowing up his pupils at the spectacle
of his cock slow-fucking Jimin’s mouth. He switches angle, pushing against Jimin’s cheek,
the hand cradling his face coming to stroke the point where the cockhead bulges out
obscenely.

Jeongguk looks enraptured and extremely turned on—Jimin can tell by the constant throbbing
in his mouth—but somehow manages to keep his cool. By now Jimin imagined Jeongguk
would be fucking his mouth relentlessly, and the new, unexpected pace makes another kind of
warmth blossom in his stomach—it sends a wave of shivers down his spine, the very good
kind.
That’s when they hear the door to the bathroom open and close.

Jeongguk freezes with half his cock buried in Jimin’s mouth. Jimin’s eyes widen with panic
and he tries to push off him, uncertain, but Jeongguk just looks at him and shakes his head.

They hear the student push the zipper of his pants down, whistling as he does. Jeongguk licks
his lips, eyes finding Jimin’s again. He gives an experimental push with his hips, and Jimin
digs his fingernails into the flesh of Jeongguk’s thighs as a warning.

It doesn’t work. Jeongguk flashes him a devilish smirk and rolls his hips forward, pushing
more than half his length into Jimin’s mouth. Jimin gags, the sound muffled by Jeongguk’s
cock plugging his mouth. He looks up at him with a mixture of outrage, disbelief and
resentment.

“Is there someone there?”

The question comes unexpected, and they both startle. Jeongguk’s head whips up.

“Are you okay in there?”

This time the voice is much closer. It sounds like the guy has walked up right to their stall.
Fuck, Jimin thinks, he heard me gag and now he thinks someone’s feeling sick.

“Uhm—” Jeongguk clears his throat, but his voice still comes out thicker, raspier. “Yeah, I’m
—I’m good. It’s nothing.”

Jeongguk stilled inside him to answer the student, and Jimin has half a mind to get revenge.
So, he presses the flat of his tongue flush against the underside of Jeongguk’s cock, hollows
his cheeks, and sucks.

Jeongguk’s dragged-out groan can’t be mistaken with a gag anymore, and the shaky breath
that results from Jimin sinking a little deeper on Jeongguk’s shaft makes it crystal clear that
whoever is locked inside this bathroom stall isn’t feeling sick at all.

“Uh—alright, dude. Have fun.”

As soon as he hears the student scurry out of the bathroom, Jimin tries to slide off his cock to
poke fun at Jeongguk—but he doesn’t let him. Jeongguk locks him in place with a hand
tangled in his hair and whispers,

“Do that again.”

There’s a fire behind Jeongguk’s eyes that Jimin can’t ignore, so he obliges. Jeongguk keeps
still as he lets Jimin do all the work, whispering words of encouragement sprinkled with the
occasional obscenity that makes Jimin moan around his cock.

He starts to really appreciate Jeongguk’s self-control—when he walked into the stall

Jeongguk looked on the verge of blowing his load all over himself, and now he’s powering
through what is, according to Jimin’s humble opinion, a very thorough blowjob.
When his jaw begins to hurt, he keeps only the cockhead wet and warm as he works at
Jeongguk’s length with his hands. He glances up, locking eyes with a completely fucked-out
Jeongguk, remembering what Jeongguk told him about eye contact. He keeps his eyes on
Jeongguk’s as he nurses at the tips, feeling the salty flavor of Jeongguk’s precome turn
stronger the closer he gets to his orgasm.

Jeongguk comes with a strangled moan a couple pumps later, eyes latched onto Jimin’s and
body spasming his relief inside his mouth. It isn’t as bizarre as feeling Jeongguk come in his
ass—he couldn’t feel it every time, but when he did it was quite nice—but it’s surely more
intense. He gags a little, coughs, almost choking on Jeongguk’s cum, but he swallows it all
down with a symphony of Jeongguk’s whispered praises and sighs swirling in his head.

“Fuck, Jimin. You could’ve warned me you wanted to swallow.”

Jeongguk pulls off Jimin’s mouth, spent. He looks positively glowing, all the restlessness and
clinginess of before vanished like mist in the sun.

“I’m kinda proud of you, you know?” he whispers, amused, as Jimin gets up on wobbly legs.
“First time someone came in your mouth, and you didn’t even think of spitting it out in the
toilet that is literally behind you.”

He swipes at the cum smearing the corner of Jimin’s lips and grins. Jimin feels himself blush.

“I did it because it’s you.”

Fuck. Now why the fuck did he say that.

Jeongguk’s thumb on his chin stills. Then he presses down slightly, staring in fascination as
Jimin lets his mouth hang open at the pressure.

“You got a soft spot for me, Jimin?” Jeongguk whispers, voice low and husky as though he
was the one who spent the last few minutes on his knees with a cock in his throat. “A little
bird told me you liked me, even.”

“I—I like your cock.”

This statement alone takes a massive amount of guts to say, and Jimin’s face goes up in
flames. He wonders if telling the truth wouldn’t have been simpler, but between him and
Jeongguk, he isn’t the one who’s good with words. Never was.

“I already know that,” Jeongguk replies, arching an eyebrow. “Though it’s nice to hear you
say it.” He smiles a tiny smug smile that Jimin wants to kiss off Jeongguk’s stupid little smug
face.

“Yeah. That’s all I have to say.”

He already kind of admitted he liked Jeongguk the first time they slept together—post-nut
clarity gone terribly wrong, if you ask him, because he had no intention to ever tell Jeongguk
something like that, ever, and yet—so why did Jeongguk always have to push him into saying
it again? Annoying.
“Mmh. I’ll drag the words out of your mouth again one day, even if it means fishing them out
with a barbed fishhook.”

“You have very disturbing kinks.”

“I bet you’d let me try anything on you,” Jeongguk says, suave. “You like me that much.”

“Maybe it’s you who likes me a little too much. Ever thought of that?”

Jeongguk’s whole demeanor shifts, and his expression falls into a darker, heavier look. He
cages Jimin against the wall at his back, pinning him with the intensity of his stare.

“Oh, I have. Every day. I like you more with each passing day, Park Jimin.”

Jimin opens his mouth, closes it, swallows air. Doesn’t know what else to say. The sheer
honesty in Jeongguk’s words washes upon him like a tidal wave, and the undertow drags
away all the sarcasm he planned to answer Jeongguk with. Now he just looks like a fish out
of sea.

So he does the next best thing—run away.

He walks around Jeongguk—who keeps perfectly still, a slightly amused curve to his lips—
and opens the door to exit the stall, all without saying a single word. His brain isn’t
functioning properly right now. Maybe he should try to turn it off and on and see if it resets.

“Oh…? Jimin? What are you doing on this floor?”

Jimin shuts the door with a loud bang, pressing against it with all his body. He turns toward
Hoseok with what he hopes isn’t a totally freaked out look on his face.

“Hi! The toilet upstairs is clogged.” Wow, quick thinking. Very good.

“Have you seen Jeongguk? He went to the toilet, like, ages ago.”

“Jeongguk? Like, Jeon Jeongguk?”

“Uh, who else?”

“I don’t know, there’s other Jeongguks around,” Jimin points out, nonchalant. “I know a
few.”

“You don’t know anyone, Jimin.”

“Rude? I know people.”

But Hoseok isn’t listening anymore, instead opting to glance inside each of the empty stalls,
as if he hopes to find Jeongguk hiding in one. Which is exactly what he is doing.

“I told you he isn’t here,” Jimin huffs, keeping one hand firmly planted against the door
behind which Jeongguk waits. He just hopes Jeongguk doesn’t give himself away doing
something stupid—like tripping on his feet and falling over the toilet. Or laugh.

“I swear, if the fucker left without telling me…” Hoseok shakes his head, muttering,
checking his phone for any text messages. He sniffs when he finds none. “He can kiss
goodbye to my notes.”

Jimin glances at his phone. His lecture is almost finished, there’s no point in going back to
the classroom—he doesn’t feel like being scowled at by his professor.

“Well, I’ve still got half an hour left. I hate these seminars, they drag on for an eternity,”
Hoseok complains, sighing. “I’ll see you for lunch?”

“Ah, no, I’m heading home for lunch. I’ve got, uhm, stuff to do.”

“Alright.” Hoseok shoots him a last smile before disappearing into the hallway.

Jimin slumps against the door, heaving a long sigh. Then he feels a slight push and hears
Jeongguk’s voice saying, “am I allowed to come out now? Or do you want to keep me here
forever?”

“Oh! Sorry,” Jimin stutters, opening the door to let him out. Jeongguk stares at him with both
eyebrows raised, a look of mild annoyance pasted on his face.

“Do you know the story of the French woman who was kept in a locked room for twenty-five
years without ever seeing sunlight?”

Jimin frowns. “What? You’re so dramatic.”

“Why did you shut the door to my face?”

“Because,” Jimin starts, looking at Jeongguk like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and
he’s dumb for not getting it, “—because. It’s you.”

“Very eloquent.”

“Oh, come on! It’s Hoseok we’re talking about.”

“Your argumentation skills keep getting better and better.”

“He saw me come out of the stall, how was I going to explain—” he waves his hands wildly
in front of himself, gesturing to Jeongguk. “—this?”

“Hoseok’s a grown man, Jimin. He’ll put two and two together.”

“I don’t want him to!”

“You don’t want to tell him that you slept with me, ever?” Jeongguk presses him, a frown
creasing between his eyebrows. “He still doesn’t know that you’re sleeping at my place?”
“I didn’t tell him I stabbed my stepfather, no,” Jimin huffs out, scoffing. “I don’t want him to
think I’m a lunatic.”

“He’s your best friend, Jimin. You told me but you didn’t tell him?”

Jeongguk has a point, a point Jimin has been trying hard to ignore for the past few days. Had
this whole mess happened last summer, he wouldn’t have hesitated to pack his things and go
to Hoseok’s for a while. But no, he had to ring Jeon Jeongguk’s doorbell instead. Smart.

“You’re—” You’re what? What is he? “You’re different. I knew you wouldn’t judge me.”

Jeongguk looks surprised.

“And you didn’t. Hoseok, he is… he lives a different life.” He swallows. “… from me and
you.”

“Where are you going at lunch?” Jeongguk inquires, narrowing his eyes to slits. “I know for a
fact you’re not going home.”

Jimin leans on the sink at his back, worrying at his lip. “Actually, I am. I need to get some
stuff. Like, clothes, for example?” He says, pulling at the hem of the sweater he borrowed
from Jihyun. His brother was reluctant to lend him his clothes, Jimin knows how much he
hated sharing his stuff—even with his own brother. “And books and notes too. Just—stuff.”
His eyes widen when he realizes how it all sounds like. “It’s not like—I’m—I’m not moving
to your apartment, that’s not what this is. I’ll just bring back a bag with some of my stuff in it,
nothing too cumbersome, I swear you won’t even notice it.”

“Jimin, you could bring a pet python in my apartment and I wouldn’t mind,” Jeongguk says,
sighing, and though he’s joking, the sentiment behind the words sounds sincere. “Are you
sure you want to do this? What if you meet your stepfather?”

“He won’t be there,” Jimin assures him. “I know he’s working this week. He shouldn’t even
be in Seoul right now.”

“He shouldn’t,” Jeongguk repeats, stressing the word. “But he’s got an injured hand.”

“He can still drive his truck,” Jimin says, uncertain.

Jeongguk shoots him a weird glance. “I’ll come with you.”

“I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“You stabbed the guy. What if he’s holding a grudge?”

“I’ll just stab him again,” Jimin says with a roll of his eyes, but he feels ice melting in the pits
of his stomach.

“Then I’ll be there to hold him down while you do it.”

“I don’t want you to meet Daejung,” Jimin hisses, looking at Jeongguk with a scowl.
“You said he should be working anyway, so I probably won’t. Just let me come as back up,
okay? In case shit goes down—which I hope it doesn’t, but better safe than sorry.”

The bell signaling the end of classes rings. Jimin draws another long sigh, dragging it into an
annoyed groan to let Jeongguk know he isn’t happy about the situation.

“Fine. But you stick with me, don’t go snooping around the house and don’t touch anything.
Got it?”

Jeongguk nods and shoves his hands into his pockets. He looks strangely gleeful about the
prospect of visiting his parents’ house, especially since he knows that house is a nest of
vipers.

“Great.”

They hear people exiting the classrooms, footsteps just beyond the bathroom door, laughter
and voices and whispers of students heading home or to another lecture.

“Text me where to meet after class. See you later.”

Jeongguk pecks him on the lips a second before the door bursts open and students walk inside
the toilet. He shoots him a cocky smile and disappears among the throng of students in the
hallway, leaving Jimin there, against the sink, with a hand on his lips and about a thousand
fluttering butterflies in his stomach.
Chapter 12
1.
The house seems empty when Jimin opens the front door with his heart jammed in his throat.

The days have grown shorter and shorter, and the suffused light of dusk swathes the
apartment in dusty shadows. Everything is dark. All the windows are shut, the blinds pulled
down.

“Mom?”

Jimin lingers on the doorway, squinting at the dark hallway. No one answers. There’s no
sound except for the slow ticking of a clock.

“Come in.”

Jimin motions for Jeongguk to follow. They take off their shoes and make their way down the
hallway in complete silence.

“See? Nobody’s home. You shouldn’t have come.”

“I’m curious to see where you grew up,” Jeongguk shrugs. “It’s not a waste of time for me.”

Jimin heads straight to his bedroom. He doesn’t remember how he left it the last time he was
home; he remembers going home immediately after a long day of classes, throwing his bag
on the floor, then heading to the kitchen to sort out the mail. That’s when he noticed his
father’s letter. Then, Daejung walked in.

Turns out past Jimin didn’t leave his room as messy as he thought he had. He retrieves the
books and notes he needs, tosses them on the bed in a messy heap. When he turns around to
open his wardrobe, he sees Jeongguk standing on the threshold, looking around with piqued
interest.

“So, this is your room?”

“Yep,” Jimin mumbles, throwing a bunch of clothes on the bed. “This is where the magic
happens. And by magic, I mean nothing. Nothing ever happens in this room. I just sleep and
study.”

Well, that was awkward. What’s he supposed to be doing in his bedroom? Jeongguk already
knows he certainly isn’t in the habit of bringing people home, because he’s never hooked up
with anyone except him.

When he turns around again, Jeongguk has materialized next to the narrow bed already. Jimin
watches him sit down next to the pile of books, take one, and thumb through it distractedly.
Then, Jeongguk plants his hands on the mattress and bounces up and down slightly.

It creaks under his weight.

“Bouncy.”

It’s the only comment he makes, and Jimin’s face prickles with embarrassment. He huffs,
shaking his head disapprovingly as he tries to focus back on the clothes he would need.
Pajamas. He needs his pajamas. Or more like, the old, oversized t-shirt and sweats he uses as
pajamas.

“I like your room. You’ve got lots of books.”

He walks to the bookshelves. Jimin isn’t a serial hoarder like Jeongguk, but he’s got a small
collection of mostly second-hand books he bought in street markets. Why spend money on
expensive, pristine books when Jimin learned how to pirate them since the age of fourteen?
He doesn’t have that kind of money to waste, and before going to university and being
swarmed by academic duties, he’d been an avid reader. He simply couldn’t afford to walk in
a Kyobo and buy all the books he was interested in reading.

He does own paperback or hard-cover editions of a few of his favorite books, though.
Jeongguk scans the titles, picks one of the most weathered tomes with arched eyebrows.
Jimin recognizes the worn-out cover. Pride and Prejudice. The English edition that he used to
stubbornly learn English by himself in eleventh grade. His distinctly eighteenth-century
English vocabulary had perplexed his professor many times during that year.

“What? I like the classics. If you say Jane Austen is for girls I will kick you out of the
house.”

“I wasn’t going to. Why would I?”

“It’s just—I know how you are,” Jimin harrumphs, squinting at Jeongguk. “You jump at
every opportunity to tease me.”

“I wouldn’t dare judge another person’s taste in books. That’s sacred,” Jeongguk says,
carefully putting the book back on its shelf. He glances at the others. “A lot of classic
romance novels and… Lovecraft? That’s an unusual combination. I love it.”

“Thanks?”

“There’s a lot of books in English. Why didn’t you pick English as your major?”

“I don’t know. I don’t feel confident when I speak it. And I’ve always liked history, so.” He
shrugs, folding his clothes with hasty movements.

He looks around for a large bag in which to stuff the books and clothes. He’s pretty sure
there’s one somewhere. He looks under the bed. Just a little dust and an old candy wrapper.
Gets up, looks around. There it is, he threw it on top of the wardrobe to save space in his
room, to not have it lie around uselessly. Now he curses himself because he doesn’t think he
can get to it without climbing on a chair, and he’s reluctant to do that in front of Jeongguk.

“Do you want to teach history in schools?”

Jimin hears him but doesn’t really listen. He’s eyeing the half-hidden duffel bag on top of the
wardrobe. Decides to give it a go, steps closer, flattens entirely against the wardrobe and
stretches his arm up. Almost. Almost. His fingers brush the fabric.

He nearly strains a muscle.

He falls back onto his heels, disappointed.

“Need a hand?”

“I don’t need anything,” Jimin huffs, voice a little strained as he tries again. No luck.

“Do you want a hand?”

Jimin sighs loudly, knowing he’s been defeated by the wardrobe. He turns, Jeongguk is
looking at him with a weird mix of several badly concealed expressions pasted on his face.
At least one of them is amusement. Jimin gestures for Jeongguk to give it a go and steps
back, rolling his eyes.

Jeongguk gets the duffel bag effortlessly, barely stepping on his toes. His t-shirt rides up a
little, showing a strip of skin and the FILA band of his underwear. Jimin’s pride hurts a bit,
but he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t enjoy the visual—though he’d rather be found dead in a
ditch than have Jeongguk catch him ogling.

“There you go.”

“Thanks.”

He stuffs his neatly folded clothes inside, then buries them under a pile of books. Jeongguk
goes to sit on his bed again, his smug grin proof enough that he noticed Jimin sneaking
glances.

“Why are you staring?”

“Can’t I?”

“I didn’t ask you to stop,” Jimin counters. “Just why.”

“I like to watch you move around your room. You look comfortable. More comfortable than
at my apartment.”

“That’s because despite everything that’s happened, this is still my bedroom.”

“But I thought you hated living here.”

“I do,” Jimin admits. “I did.”

Jeongguk watches him stuff the last of his books inside the bag.

“I hope you can be as comfortable in my house as you are here—someday.”

Jimin looks at him in surprise.

“Someday? How long do you plan on having me stay?”

Jeongguk smiles. “As long as you want.”

As long as you want. Not as long as you need. What does he want, though?

Jimin drops his gaze to the bag, nibbles at his lip. Misses the way Jeongguk’s expression
softens when he reaches for his hand.

“I like having you around.”

Jeongguk kisses his knuckles with featherlight lips, like a man of eighteenth-century England
would do. “I like having you all to myself at night.”

The words are innocent enough, but hide a hungrier truth. Jimin wets his lips, hesitant, his
heart pulsing with a whirlwind of contradicting emotions, his thoughts as murky as stagnant
water.

At night, Jeongguk holds him tight, pulls him close to paint little red stars across his neck and
collarbones, then marvels at the constellations of love bites the next morning, when sunlight
finds them tangled in a mess of limbs under the sheets.

Not for the first time, Jimin wonders if it is the novelty of him what Jeongguk likes the most,
or if the roots of his interest burrow a little deeper. If Jeongguk enjoys having him around
exactly because he’s so hesitant and new and hollow still, ready to be molded around some
thing Jeongguk might like best, or if there’s another reason, too.

He wonders if the praises and kisses Jeongguk uses to fill the cracks in his soul will stop the
day he’ll inevitably turn into yet another birdie in the sky.

Old and known, and not exotic anymore.

Not as exciting, either.

“I know,” Jimin blurts out, a little too late. “I know you do.”

And he doesn’t have to dig deep inside his heart to know he likes the way Jeongguk holds
him at night, likes how he pulls him close to paint those stars across his skin or how the next
morning he marvels at the sight. And he likes how Jeongguk responds to his hesitancy and
molds him into something different, filling all the empty spaces with praises and kisses until
Jimin’s heart soars in the clouds, like a bird taking flight for the first time.

He draws back when Jeongguk looks up at him questioningly.

Too observant for his own good.

“I’ll get my stuff from the bathroom. Stay here, okay?”

Jeongguk quietly nods. Jimin leaves him behind in his bedroom, even though he’s a little
flustered at the idea of having him there.

He pushes the door of the bathroom open, rummages around for his old toothbrush, a bit of
makeup that hasn’t seen a lot of action, a couple of skincare products he’s almost always too
lazy to use in the morning. Jeongguk keeps a lot of those in the cabinet above the sink, each a
specific product for a specific purpose, and now he kind of gets why his skin always looks—
and feels— so smooth.

He’s treading back to his bedroom when he notices someone standing at the door with their
back to him.

It’s not Jeongguk.

It’s his mother.

He freezes, about to shout her name in indignation when he hears her speak. Her voice is
gravelly, as dense as the smoke of her cigarettes.

“You the one who’s been fucking my son?”

The creaking of an old bed. Perhaps Jeongguk getting up, walking closer.

“Maybe it’s your son who’s been fucking me.”

He hears the arrogant smile in Jeongguk’s tone, the taunt in his words. Leave it to Jeongguk
to make fun of his mother like that.

His mother scoffs, seemingly unaffected.

“Doesn’t have the balls for it. He always was a little princess. Spoiled, he was. Still is.”

She takes a drag of her cigarette, lets the smoke curl around her frame. It drifts back towards
Jimin’s nostrils, almost making him sneeze.

“You don’t know Jimin very well, do you?”

“I’m his mother.”

“That doesn’t mean shit, Mrs. Park.”

That’s enough.

“Mom? Where the fuck did you come from?”

His mother turns around. She’s not surprised to see him standing there, seething.

Nothing gets a rise out of his mother lately—she’s like a malfunctioning doll with her
features set in droopy plastic. She’s either too stoned or too drugged to have any normal
human reaction.
“Jimin.”

But tonight is a little different. Her mother’s features scrunch up, her forehead creases, her
eyes narrow and focus—actually focus —on him. She’s suddenly furious, but her reaction is
delayed, like the brain behind her vitreous eyes is lagging.

“You ungrateful little shit of a child. Where the fuck did you take my son? Where is he?”

She’s a river overflowing, she’s a long-dormant volcano that suddenly starts to vomit smoke
and lava. Maybe she’ll cover him in ashes and he’ll be left petrified in this house, the house
he grew in, the house he grew to hate, for men of the future to dig up and put in museums.

“Where the fuck were you when he overdosed on your pills? Whoring yourself out to some
drug dealer under a bridge?”

Fuck it. He doesn’t want to be petrified forever. He doesn’t want to let her mother’s words
seep into his heart, act like the poison that will immobilize the prey. He’s done being the prey.

“I told you he’s somewhere safe—safer than here. You won’t see him again unless I say so.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” her mother snarls, red creeping into the white of her eyes.
Jeongguk appears at the threshold, face darkened by a scowl.

“You’re my son. You listen to me. I’m your parent, I’m your mother, give me my son back!”

Jimin catches her wrists when she throws herself at him, kicking and wailing and trying
desperately to scratch at his face—her nails long and sharp and eager to break skin.

It’s almost too easy. She’s weak, her bones hollow like a bird’s. Yellowed skin that he’s afraid
will flake away at the lightest touch. But Jimin isn’t careful, he isn’t gentle. He wraps his
hands around her mother’s wrists and viciously yanks them away from his face.

“You’re destroying this family! You’re destroying my family! First you take away my son,
then you stab my husband? What the fuck are you doing to this family?”

Jeongguk grabs her by the waist to pull her away, and she yells and kicks Jimin in the
stomach, hard. He winces but doesn’t let go, ears mutilated by her mother’s maddening
shrieks.

“—you came out of my womb, I fed you, I held you in my arms, and you repay me like this?
Ruining me? Ruining us? You’re no son of mine!—”

“I stopped being your son after dad left you,” Jimin yells, emotion shaking his voice. “I don’t
have a mother. And you don’t have any children.”

Her mother wails. She flails her arms around helplessly, kicks her leg out. Jeongguk is still
struggling to keep her away, iron-vise grip around her waist.

Her curses turn into incoherent yelling. Anger bleeds into desperation. She sags into
Jeongguk’s arms, doll with her strings cut, dead weight that nearly makes him lose his
balance.

“—please, Jimin, please. I can’t… I can’t go on like this.”

“Should have thought about your kids before sticking a needle in your arm.”

Jeongguk releases her; she collapses on the floor. Wheezing, she slowly gets up on her fours.
Crawls forward, head bent, long stringy hair draping over her gaunt face. She’s pale, very
pale, skin almost translucent. Bluish veins bulging out of her neck.

“—money, give me—please, give me some money. I can’t live like this… I need—”

Shock courses through Jimin’s veins, the same shock he sees flashing on Jeongguk’s face.
But his fades quickly, replaced by something hard and bitter. Should have known. Should
have known she was begging for something else entirely.

He circles her like a vulture.

“I won’t feed your addiction. You’re on your own. Beg on the streets if you need money to
kill yourself.”

He leaves her there, keeling on the floor, small sobs falling out of discolored, cracked lips.
Jimin grabs the duffel bag on his bed, then walks to the front door without sparing another
word. When he hears Jeongguk follow him down the hallway, he exits the apartment first and
runs down the stairs.
2.
Jeongguk puts a steaming mug of hot chocolate on the table. Jimin grabs it with a mumbled
thank you, feeling the warmth of it seeping into his fingers. It doesn’t thaw the ice around his
heart, not even when he takes a sip and the liquid burns his tongue.

Jeongguk sits opposite him, shrugging his bomber jacket off and draping it across the back of
his chair. He scoots closer to the table, wrapping red hands around the hot drink he ordered
for himself. Green tea. Again. With the amount of green tea Jeongguk ingests daily, he should
be the proud owner of the most detoxified body in existence.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

There is hardly anyone on the first floor of the café, the tables around them are all empty.
They’re back on campus because Jeongguk has one last class in the evening, and Jimin
promised Hoseok they’d meet somewhere to have dinner together.

He’s still trying to figure out whether he wants to talk about it or not when Jeongguk speaks
again.

“Gotta say, your mother’s a lovely lady. Don’t know why you haven’t introduced me earlier.”

“You shouldn’t have been there. I didn’t want you to see her.”

“Are you ashamed of her?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“What I saw…” Jeongguk scratches the floral motif on his mug with a thumb, hesitating. “I
saw a woman who’s more of a ghost than a person. In need of help.”

“Nobody told her to be a ghost. You know what ghosts do? They haunt people. Me.” Jimin
takes another sip. Buried under all that whipped cream, the chocolate is almost unbearably
bitter. “Me and Jihyun.”

“Did she ever try to go to rehab?”

“Rehabilitation programs are expensive. The cheap ones do more harm than good. She’s gone
into rehab a few times, never ended well. She always runs away, and then some nurse finds
her in a police station more dead than alive. She doesn’t want to be helped. She wants money.
For drugs. You heard her.” He clasps the mug tighter, knuckles whitening out. “I hate her, but
I won’t be complicit in her death. She can die with someone else’s support.”

“Does your father know about this?”

Jimin rattles out a breathy giggle. He rummages inside his coat pocket. He stuffed his dad’s
letter in there when he saw it rumpled on his desk, forgotten. He slides it to Jeongguk.
“My dad’s got another family in Busan.”

He watches Jeongguk lean over the table to scan the letter quickly. “As you can see, we have
a very tepid relationship. He doesn’t even get my birthday right.”

Jeongguk frowns. “When’s your birthday?”

“Not in December.”

“So when is it?”

Jimin shrugs. “October 13th.”

Jeongguk squints. “But it’s already passed. You didn’t say anything.”

Jimin gives him a puzzled look. “Should I have hosted a ball?”

“No, stupid. But the people at the club would have liked to know. They like to throw parties.”

“The people… at the Bird?”

Jeongguk rolls his eyes. “No, the theater club.”

“Too many clubs. I can’t keep up.”

“You should have said something. We could’ve had cake.”

“I don’t like to celebrate my birthdays.”

“Everyone likes to celebrate birthdays. Even people who want to be edgy about it secretly
wish somebody would throw them a surprise party.”

Jimin huffs, shakes his head lightly. He doesn’t want to give Jeongguk the satisfaction of
knowing he is right. He loved birthdays, but was always let down some way or another.
Hoseok is the only one who always remembers, his brother too—though they don’t always
celebrate birthdays together, especially during periods when they fight a lot. They just
pretend they don’t know which day it is, and hurt each other more.

“I don’t like surprises. They give me anxiety,” he lies.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“You’re a very carefree person. Easygoing, always chill. The kind of person that reads poetry
under the shade of a cherry tree at sunset. Nothing bothers you because you’re above
everything. Of course it doesn’t make sense to you.”

“I am not the heir to the Samsung empire you believe me to be, Jimin.”

Jimin sighs and hides his face in his hands. He digs the heels of his palms against his eyes,
hard, until dark spots bloom in his vision.
“Sorry. I know. Fuck, I sound like an asshole. I know you don’t have it easy. I know. I’m a
jerk.”

“You’re not. Stop being so hard on yourself. You had a shitty day and feel like shit, it’s
understandable. Plus, I know you don’t like the hot chocolate I ordered you, and that’s
entirely my fault.”

“What?” He drops his hands to stare at Jeongguk. “No, it’s good. I like it.”

“It’s too bitter. I see the way your face scrunches in disappointment every time you take a
sip.”

“My face doesn’t scrunch.”

“’Course it does. It’s really cute.”

Jimin holds eye contact and takes another sip. He schools his expression into the most neutral
one he can muster.

“Ah, you ruined it,” Jeongguk says, smiling. Then he leans over the table with a more serious
expression and adds, “I’ll tell you something that’ll make you feel better. I’m not supposed to
tell anyone because Namjoon wanted to give the announcement next week, but whatever.”

“What is it?”

“Namjoon signed us up for a contest—I mean the theater club, the play. Orioles. We thought
we couldn’t join because we missed the deadline. Turns out it was postponed to this week.
They’re going to film the play, and a few members of the jury will come watch it in person.”

He leans forward, little stars sparkling in his eyes—or maybe it’s just the lights overhead
reflected in the irises. The excitement he reads in Jeongguk’s face is very real, though.

“Kim Daewoo is part of the jury, you know? He’s one of Korea’s rising stars in the movie
industry. He actually graduated from our university, so there’s a chance he might come. Isn’t
it amazing?”

It’s clear that entering the contest and having someone the caliber of this Kim Daewoo watch
Orioles means a lot to Jeongguk. As for him, the name doesn’t ring any bells, and to be
honest he’s completely clueless as to why someone in the movie industry would want to keep
an eye on college plays.

“Who’s Kim Daewoo again?”

“He worked his way up the industry ladder until he managed to write and produce his first
movie last year, and it was a complete success. Even the critics abroad loved it. He’s mainly a
screenwriter; rumor has it he signed to work with a foreign director next year already. He’s
awesome, all kinds of famous people want to work with him. Shit, I’d love to meet him,”
Jeongguk says with a sigh.

“Well, what do you know? Maybe you will.”

“You don’t seem very excited,” Jeongguk huffs, squinting at him.

“I mean, I am—” He meditates on the right word. Scared to be seen acting by people who’re
going to judge him? “— something. But Taehyung will probably be ecstatic. He wants to be
an actor, right?”

“You could be an actor too.”

“I don’t think I have what it takes.”

Jeongguk rolls his eyes. “Why do you sell yourself short every time? People have loved you
from the first time you stepped on the stage. Namjoon’s constantly telling you how great you
are.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure Namjoon’s praises count. He’s so easily impressed.”

“I’m not,” Jeongguk counters. “You know that.”

“You’re biased.”

Jeongguk’s eyebrows shoot up. “I am not.”

“You are. You only say that because…”

He shrugs, gaze dropping to the half-empty mug on the table. He stirs the liquid with the
paper straw, hesitant.

Say it.

“Because?”

Say it.

‘Because we’re fucking.’

“…you know, cause we’re friends.”

When he looks up again, Jeongguk is staring at him with a weird look in his eyes that Jimin
can’t quite put a name on. There’s a hint of resignation, a soft curve to his lips that speaks of
amusement, and a crease between his brows that suggests he can’t quite believe Jimin’s
words.

He slaps a hand on the table. “You know what? As your friend, I am in my right to celebrate
your birthday even though I’m two months late. Don’t you agree?”

Jimin stares, befuddled.

“What?”

“I know a place that’s great for surprise parties. I swear it won’t give you anxiety— well.
Maybe just a bit. How scared are you of abandoned places?”
Jeongguk is talking a little too fast, as though he wants nothing more than to put distance
between him and their previous conversation topic by using lots of words. Confused, Jimin
watches him put on his bomber jacket, get up and look down at him expectantly.

“ Abandoned place—Jeongguk, what the fuck? You have a class now.”

“No I don’t,” Jeongguk says, zipping up his jacket. “It’s your birthday today. Come on.”
3.
He had to shoot Hoseok a text to get a rain check on their dinner-date. Hoseok was supposed
to tell him all about his woes regarding not knowing what to wear on the day of his and
Yoongi’s date, but after Jimin said he’d treat him to dinner, he didn’t seem as distraught
anymore.

Jimin watches the buildings fly by in a blur of colors. Jeongguk refuses to tell him where
they’re going, so he only knows that it’s some sort of abandoned place, apparently located in
the suburbs of the city. They’re riding the subway, but this part of the journey takes them
aboveground.

He stares at the horizon bleeding through Seoul’s skyline. Sunsets look prettier aboard a half-
empty subway train with Jeongguk sitting quietly at his side, leg pressed against his thigh,
taking him nowhere.

“You really wanna keep me in the dark?”

“Yep,” Jeongguk says, popping the p. He can see he’s looking at Naver maps on his phone,
fingers enlarging an area with a zig-zag route from point A to point B.

“Are you sure you know where we’re going?”

“Don’t you like the mystery?”

“The mystery of not knowing whether you’re gonna get us lost?”

“Trust me. I’ve been there before. Years ago.”

“Years ago?” Jimin asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“I just hope it’s still abandoned.”

Jeongguk turns to him, smiling brightly. His smile could rival the sunset outside—in terms of
warmth, it already beats it one hundred to zero.

He scoffs. “God forbid there’s actual people there. Making sure we don’t… end up dying,
alone in the cold.”

“You’ll like it. Trust me.”

“I do trust you,” Jimin mumbles, not sure Jeongguk heard him through the automatic voice
announcing the next stop. Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe it’s better Jeongguk never knows
how much he trusts him.
Turns out the subway doesn’t bring them right at the doors of this supposedly abandoned but
amazing place. They get out at the last stop, and suddenly they aren’t in the city of Seoul
anymore. It looks like another dimension entirely, one where the sky is turgid with rain
clouds and the buildings are much sparser and older, almost decrepit. There are many
construction sites, some already closed for the day and some still with workers operating
machinery inside. The rest is fields, fields sprinkled with knee-high, unattended vegetation,
and a few trees.

“Where the hell have you taken me, Jeongguk?”

This time he sounds much more aggravated than in the subway.

“I swear it’ll be worth it. And don’t you like to see Seoul’s less glamorous side? I thought
you liked horror. Here, you can admire construction sites in all their unknowable cosmic
horror.”

“Right.”

Jeongguk leads him onward, a spring to his step. After five minutes of bickering while
following the main road, they take a left and dive into the dense vegetation, leaving the
construction sites at their backs.

“Great,” Jimin mutters, stepping on a particularly thorny brush, “now we’re both gonna die
out here in mysterious circumstances, nobody’s gonna find our bodies for months, and when
they do, people will make true crime documentaries about us for years.”

“You don’t trust the police to find out who murdered us?”

“If I have to die in this godforsaken place, I want it to be interesting. Let millions of people
wonder what happened and write lengthy reddit threads about it.”

“I say it’s UFOs,” Jeongguk states, glancing over his shoulder with a smile.

“You can’t speculate about your own death,” Jimin says, stifling a shudder. “And I hate
aliens. They’re creepy. I prefer a middle-aged man with an axe.”

“That’s a nasty way to go. An axe?” Jeongguk stops to hold the low branch of a tree above
Jimin’s head as he lets him pass under it. “That shit hurts.”

“Okay, then how would you want to die?”

“In my bed, of old age?”

“No, I mean—out here. In this really nice field you chose as the location of my belated
surprise birthday party.”

Jeongguk laughs. “First of all, we’re not there yet. Second, I didn’t know you were so
morbid.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Jimin mutters. He steps on a muddy puddle and
grimaces. The place Jeongguk’s bringing him to better be Eden on fucking earth.

“Then tell me about it.”

“What?”

“The stuff I don’t know about you,” Jeongguk says, clearing yet another path through the
scrub. The sky is bruising in patches of deep blue and gray, rain clouds looming closer on the
horizon. There’s a strange, suffused light bathing Jeongguk’s face.

“I’m curious, I wanna know.”

“There’s nothing to know,” Jimin blurts, taken aback. He follows him through a small patch
of woods, eyes trained on Jeongguk, oblivious to what lies just ahead of them.

“You just contradicted yourself,” Jeongguk chuckles. Then he turns to look ahead and says,
“we’re here. Happy birthday.”

The strange, suffused light filtering through the trees is the almost blinding beam of a nearby
construction site. It bathes the abandoned carnival ahead of them in eerie white light, and for
a moment it seems like the ponies and horses of the merry-go-round are sneering at him.

“What is this place?”

He walks past Jeongguk with his mouth agape, round eyes bouncing from ride to ride—the
carousel, the house of mirrors, the Ferris wheel. Everything gleams under the construction
site’s beam. Nature is claiming back what’s hers by growing thorns around the calves of the
carousel horses, enveloping the rides in thick, thorny vines.

“It’s an old amusement park,” Jeongguk says matter-of-factly.

Jimin whirls around. “How did you know it was here?”

“A lot of people know about it. We’re lucky we’re the only ones here tonight,” Jeongguk
says, shrugging. He eyes the rainclouds. “Don’t know why, it’s perfect weather for an
outdoor trip.”

“Have you been here before?” Jimin asks, walking to the carousel. He puts a hand over the
closest horse. The colors are washed out by time and white artificial light, but it still looks
kind of pretty. A mysterious, nostalgic sort of pretty.

“Yeah, once.”

“Was it someone else’s birthday?” Jimin asks slyly. “You’re recycling presents?”

Jeongguk hops on the carousel and crosses his arms over the horse’s back, leaning forward.

“No. It’s all yours. It’s old and abandoned, but you strike me as the type who knows how to
appreciate a nice, decadent amusement park lost in a field. Urban horror at its finest.”
Jimin laughs. “It’s nice. I like it. And I love carousels. They make me nostalgic.”

“Favorite ride as a child?”

“I rode it once. With my father, back when he was still with us,” Jimin says, moving to the
next horse. He takes his time picking the one he likes best—a white horse with a discolored
red harness and a magenta mane. Even faded as they are, the colors clash abysmally.

Jeongguk treads after him, his footsteps loud against the metal platform.

“Carousels are so fucking eerie. Imagine being murdered in an abandoned amusement park.
Doesn’t get spookier than this.”

“Perfect setting for a murder, right? I hope our killer is taking notes,” Jimin says, climbing on
the white and pink horse. It’s still stable enough to sustain his weight.

Jeongguk hides a smile. “Looking good. Want me to take a picture?”

Jimin tries to kick him in the chest, but misses.

“Yes, please.”

He tames his expression in what he hopes it’s his most solemn face as Jeongguk crouches
down to take a picture with his phone. It’s hard to hold it because Jeongguk keeps giggling,
and Jimin straightens his back and pretends to gaze at something on the horizon, like a knight
looking over a battlefield.

“I’m thinking new profile picture,” Jeongguk chuckles, showing him the photo. “Should’ve
had Sadaham ride a horse in the play. You look like you belong on this horse.”

“I belong on a carousel horse with a hot pink mane?”

“We could come back another day with the rest of the club and take it with us. Maybe the
techies and art people can turn it into a nice, realistic prop.”

“That would be vandalism.”

“It’s called having an adventure.”

“It’s too late anyway. Play’s just a couple weeks away,” Jimin says, thumbs digging into the
deep scratches on the horse’s head.

Jeongguk tracks his fidgeting with his eyes.

“Are you nervous?”

“Now that we’re entering a contest, yeah—you could say that.”

“It’s a great opportunity to be recognized for your talent. And not just for the actors,”
Jeongguk adds, leaning against the horse.
“Yeah, I know, Lee Daewoo will be there and stuff.”

“Kim Daewoo,” Jeongguk corrects him.

“I hope he notices you,” Jimin blurts. “I hope he realizes you are the one that brought these
characters to life, not us. I hope he goes looking for you backstage and shakes your hand and
asks you to be his assistant on all his next projects until the day he helps you produce your
first movie.”

Jeongguk freezes, stares at him with lips slightly parted and eyes big and round. Jimin clears
his throat, suddenly embarrassed. He isn’t sure where all of that came from—right now, he
just knows Jeongguk looks beautiful with the white light turning his skin to flawless marble.

“I’m rambling, don’t—don’t mind me.”

Jeongguk leans in and kisses him deeply, and he eases into Jeongguk’s warmth until every
muscle loosens and the tension of the day retreats like a low tide. He finds he likes to be
kissed by Jeongguk on a broken carousel, with threats of rain looming over their heads and
the owls’ lonely cries cutting through the silence.

“Thank you,” Jeongguk whispers when he pulls back. It’s sincere and heartfelt, and
something funny swells in Jimin’s chest.

“Uhm, why don’t we—huh, let’s check out the Ferris wheel, shall we?”

He hops off the carousel, grabs Jeongguk’s hand and leads him toward the wheel at the very
back of the carnival. Jeongguk’s kiss left him a little woozy. He can’t believe a single kiss can
still affect him so much—it isn’t like it’s their first time kissing, or their second, or their third.
He shouldn’t feel this way. Or perhaps feeling this way is the whole point. The whole point
behind the butterflies going crazy in his stomach. Every time, every time.

They stop in front of the Ferris wheel. Jimin cranes his neck to look up, take it all in.

“This is the world’s smallest Ferris wheel.”

“It is a little on the smaller side, yes.”

“Was this a kids park? Like, little kids?”

“Didn’t the miniature merry-go-round give it away?”

“What? I thought it was the right size for an adult.”

“That’s cause you’re short.”

Jimin huffs. “You’re not even that much taller than me,” he mutters under his breath. He
watches Jeongguk walk up to the lowest passenger car, pop his head inside, look around.

“Wanna get in?”

“And then what, you're gonna push the wheel for me with your brutish strength?”

“That would be very romantic, but no—I’m not strong enough, unfortunately,” Jeongguk
says, smiling through the words and offering him a hand.

Jimin draws a dramatic sigh and climbs inside the passenger car, accepting Jeongguk’s hand
and feeling a little like they’re role-playing some silly period movie, one where Jeongguk is
some kind of gentleman helping him get on a carriage, and him the smitten protagonist who’s
trying hard not to blush at the simplest physical contact.

Like in an Austen book, Jimin thinks for a second, and he knows instantly Jeongguk had his
same thought when he climbs after him and shoots him a smug grin. He did just find out
about his romance novels weakness after all, and Jimin is sure he’s now using it to his
advantage. Using it to breach Jimin’s impenetrable defenses to make him weak in the knees,
probably oblivious to the fact that he had shot them all down with cannons the very day he
kissed Jimin back.

“This is real cozy,” Jimin mumbles, looking around the rusty cabin. There are vines snaking
their way inside the car and intertwining on the walls. The window to their right side is
broken in, shards of jagged glass crunching beneath their sneakers.

“It’s actually kind of nice,” Jeongguk says, peering out the broken window. They climbed a
platform to reach the cabin, so there’s a little elevation at least.

“What happens if we’re too heavy and the cabin falls cause it’s all rusted?”

Jeongguk shrugs. “We die,” he deadpans.

“We most definitely do not,” Jimin says, glaring. “Well. I hope you aren’t heavier than you
look.”

“We’ve talked about death all this time, and now you draw the line at a boring ride accident?”

“I don’t want to die because of a rusty Ferris wheel. It’s embarrassing.”

“Do you believe in reincarnation?” Jeongguk asks suddenly, sinking into the seat until his
knees bump against Jimin’s.

“What?” Jimin looks at him, laughs. “You ask the most random shit.”

“I’ve watched this TV program once. They talked about people—kids, mostly—who have
memories of past lives. A dude in the States remembers how he died. He was a pilot. Was
shot down by the Japanese during the war, fell into the sea. He swore he remembers thinking,
fuck, I’m gonna die.”

“That’s… unsettling.”

“Imagine the whole Ferris wheel collapses on us and we die. You wake up one day, a white
kid on the other side of the world, with the vivid recollection of dying a stupid death. All for
the sake of the esthetics of an abandoned park in the woods.”
“I’d try my damn hardest to remember who took me there,” Jimin says, eyebrows arched, “so
I’d know who to blame.”

“Good luck looking for my reincarnation.”

“If you could pick who to be in your next life, who would you choose?”

Jeongguk hums, hugs a leg to his chest pensively. Outside, a gentle drizzle has begun to cover
the world in a luminescent sheen. Jimin can see every single drop of rainwater falling from
the sky, illuminated as they are by the beams of the construction site.

“I don’t know. Someone who makes a difference in the world?”

“Such as?”

“I wouldn’t complain if I were to be reborn as the dude who invents the cure for cancer.”

“What if they’re a woman?”

“Even better,” Jeongguk says. “A nice change. What about you?”

“I’d be happy to be reborn as a very ordinary person,” Jimin says, snaking a hand out the
broken window to feel the rain hit his skin. The gentle pitter-patter of raindrops against the
cabin is pleasant to the ears, and he shivers lightly. This feels good, it feels right. He feels
strangely content.

“Boring job, boring family, boring personality. Just generally gray. Safe.”

“You think boring is safe?”

“Isn’t it?” Jimin asks, sitting up. The cabin sways a little, creaks ever so slightly. “That’s the
whole point of wanting a boring life.”

“Does it mean you don’t feel safe?” Jeongguk asks, breath pluming in front of him. It’s
getting colder, the hissing of the rain a little louder. Wind from the sea lashes at the top of the
trees, makes the cabins sway a bit from side to side, soft cacophony of rusty hinges bringing
back memories of old horror movies he watched as a child.

“Right now? I do feel safe.” With you. “In general? Not so much. Do you?”

“Well, the wind might topple over this Ferris wheel at any moment, and we might crash
against the house of mirrors and be trapped under the debris for months, I guess,” Jeongguk
says, glancing out the window to the starless night. “Then you’d get your boring reincarnated
life and I’d set out to win the Nobel prize for medicine.”

“I don’t think we’d be friends in our next lives.”

“Yeah, I don’t feel like dying tonight.”

Jimin grabs the handle to the side to steady himself and slides into the seat next to Jeongguk.
He pecks him on the cheek, and Jeongguk stares at him, stunned.

“What was that for?”

“To say thank you. For bringing me here. In the middle of nowhere.”

“You’re welcome,” Jeongguk mumbles, rubbing his cheek. He looks a little dazed, staring at
Jimin as if he isn’t sure the person who just kissed him on the cheek is the same Jimin who
rarely displays any kind of affection.

It makes Jimin feel a little sad.

“I’m sorry about today. It’s not that I didn’t want you to see my mom. Not really.”

“Then what is it?”

Jimin hides his mouth behind his fingers, old habits kicking in as he lets his fingertips skim
over his lower lip.

“I don’t like who I am in that house. Always angry, and sad, and paranoid. I hurt people
there, and I don’t mean the time I stabbed my stepfather. I hurt my brother. I said things to
him that I didn’t mean. It’s like the house brings out the worst in me. Everything ugly I’ve
ever felt stagnates in there. And I wallow in that misery, soak in it, until I turn into this person
that I hate, and everyone else hates. That’s what I didn’t want you to see. I didn’t want you to
see me.”

“But I didn’t hate what I saw,” Jeongguk says, voice soft and gaze softer, shifting on his side
to turn completely towards Jimin. “And what I saw isn’t the kind of monster you’re painting
yourself to be. I saw a man who’s exhausted all his options and is trying his best to just—
survive. I saw a man who fought his mother off because she wanted to, what, probably claw
his eyes out? Her nails were fucking long. And I saw a man who refused to feed his mother’s
addiction.

“I also saw you run at your brother’s bedside the very moment the hospital called you. I saw
you taking up tons of shifts at the Bird to make up for the medical bills. I saw you trying to
get out of your comfort zone to bring in more money and afford a place to live in with your
brother. I saw all of that and more, and I liked every single thing I saw.”

“You did?”

“Yes,” Jeongguk says, faint smile pulling at his mouth. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“What is obvious?”

“That there’s many things I like about you, Jimin,” Jeongguk sighs, tucking a strand of hair
behind Jimin’s ear.

Outside, the storm has quieted down, and another, more vicious storm has started in Jimin’s
chest. Heart hammering like heavy rain against iron.
“Like what?”

Sheltered as they are inside the cabin where wind and rain can’t get to them, Jimin feels like
he’s hiding from the world. Jeongguk’s breath on his lips is enough to send sparks of
electricity down his spine, make the hair at the back of his neck stand on end.

“Like… your smile,” Jeongguk murmurs, and when the corners of Jimin’s lips twitch up he
giggles and says, “that one. I like it a lot.”

He’s suddenly very self-conscious. He tries to will his smile away, but it just won’t go.

“Okay.”

“You always hide it behind your hand. I don’t know why. It’s very pretty. I like your chipped
tooth.”

Jeongguk’s thumb is stroking his cheek now, the palm of his hand warm against the skin.

“I like your sense of humor. I like that you read romance novels and Lovecraft and that you
probably write fanfictions about falling in love with eldritch horrors in your free time.”

Jimin laughs. “That’s—not what I do with my free time. At all.”

“I like to see you outshine everyone else on the stage. I like to see you blush every time I flirt
with you.”

“I don’t blush every time.”

“You’re blushing right now.”

“How do you know? It’s too dark, you can’t tell.”

“Your face is so hot we can fry an egg on it.”

“Then stop touching it,” Jimin huffs, swatting Jeongguk’s hand away listlessly.

It just pulls a laugh out of Jeongguk.

“No. I like touching you.” Jeongguk pinches his cheeks like one does with pudgy children,
chuckling when Jimin scowls at him. “I like your cheeks. They’re squishy.”

“Okay, you can stop now,” Jimin mumbles, voice distorted by Jeongguk playfully pulling at
his cheeks.

“But I don’t want to. There’s so many other things I like, I want to let you know about all of
them.”

“Maybe we should head back to the station,” Jimin says half-heartedly, not really wanting to
leave just yet but trying to swerve the conversation to safer waters.
“For example, I like how you try to change the topic when you get flustered.” Jeongguk
grins, goes on with his list like he didn’t even hear Jimin’s suggestion. “And I like the look
on your face when you realize I can read right through you.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Jimin whines, a little afraid of what Jeongguk’s answer
might be.

“Because you deserve to know. Because you think so little of yourself, and because I’m
pretty sure you’ve made up a whole alternative narrative of what is going on between us in
your pretty little blond head.”

Jimin giggles nervously, heat devouring his face and neck.

“Wh—what is going on between us?”

Jeongguk just smirks and leans close to his ear.

“I also like when you wrap your legs around me,” he whispers. “And push me deeper inside
you. It drives me crazy.”

A shiver courses through Jimin’s body even as heat unfurls in his stomach. He didn’t expect
Jeongguk to go there.

“I like when you try to hold your moans back, and I like when you let them all out.”

A hand snakes up his thigh now, torturously slow, possessive.

“I like when you drag your nails down my back when it all gets too much for you.”

“I’m s-sorry.” He blushes. Why is he apologizing for something Jeongguk just told him he
enjoys? He feels light-headed, he feels tight in his pants. He feels Jeongguk’s hand inch
closer to his crotch and he feels like going a little insane.

Then the hand stops, and he almost whines in disappointment.

“What do you like, Jimin?”

Everything. Of course he can’t say it. He’s rendered speechless by Jeongguk’s brazen words
and the hand on his thigh, so close and yet so far from where he needs it.

“It—it doesn’t matter what I like.”

His voice comes out breathless. He hopes Jeongguk doesn’t notice how desperate he is.

“It matters to me.”

Jeongguk’s fingers drum against the fabric of his jeans, a little impatient, a little teasing. He
won’t continue unless he gets an answer, Jimin knows.

“I—like—”
There’s so many things he wants to say—I like your eyesmile, I like the mole under your lip, I
like when you sit with your legs tucked under you on the couch and I like that you bring me to
abandoned amusement parks and I like how safe you make me feel.

“I like how you fuck me.”

Of course that is what comes out of his mouth. It’s somehow a thousand times worse than
what he had in mind, but still serves the purpose of misdirecting his real feelings.

But Jeongguk just chuckles, a little surprised.

“Yeah? You like that?”

Jeongguk keeps tracing circles on his thigh. Perhaps it wasn’t a good enough answer to make
him move his hand up.

“You like it nice and slow? Like to feel me deep?”

Jimin just nods, too overwhelmed to say anything back. A mix of embarrassment and arousal
overcomes him. He can’t do anything but pant against Jeongguk’s lips, eyes fluttering closed
when he feels fingertips grazing his crotch.

Just a little closer.

“In and out, slow and deep,” Jeongguk whispers in his mouth. “Taking my time with you. Is
that what you like?”

“Yes.”

Jimin’s eyes are closed now, brow furrowed as he focuses on Jeongguk’s words. His voice is
gruff, goes straight to Jimin’s belly to ignite an inferno within him.

“Does it feel good?”

“Yes, yes it does.”

His hand clasps Jeongguk’s bomber jacket, squeezing hard like it’s his lifeline, mind going
back to all the nights Jeongguk fucked him in his bed, in his apartment. Jeongguk’s fingers
flutter over the bulge in Jimin’s jeans.

“You should see how good it looks. My cock sliding in and out of you.”

The fine thread tethering Jimin to his sanity breaks, and then he just acts on instinct. He
pushes Jeongguk against the back of the grimy seat and straddles his legs, trapping his mouth
in a needy, hungry kiss. He grinds down on Jeongguk’s cock, feeling for himself how hard
and wanting he already is.

“Perhaps I should show you,” Jeongguk stammers, “film it with my phone. Would you like
me to? Wanna see yourself all stretched around my cock, Jimin?”
Jimin moans, head falling on Jeongguk’s shoulder with a hard shiver. He wants to do nothing
but rip Jeongguk’s clothes off, but they’re in the middle of fucking nowhere. He hates
Jeongguk’s bomber jacket. He hates clothes. He hates pants and zippers that dig
uncomfortably down his growing erection.

“Tell me how you’d fuck me, Gguk,” he whispers instead, pressing kisses along the column
of Jeongguk’s neck. He just wants to get off, he doesn’t care if he comes in his pants—that’s
a problem for future, not-horny-out-of-his-mind Jimin.

“I’d take you on your hands and knees.”

Jeongguk thrusts his hips up to meet Jimin’s, fingers deftly slipping underneath pants and
underwear to palm at Jimin’s bare ass.

“Spread you wide, fuck you on my fingers first. You like my fingers, Jimin?”

“I love your fingers,” Jimin pants, out of his mind with the pleasure building up in his belly.
He’s got one hand buried in Jeongguk’s hair and one clamped around his arm, grinding down
on him like his life depends on it—and it kind of feels like it does, it kind of feels like he
needs to let go of the desperation coursing through his veins.

“But I love your cock more.”

Bold words, brazen admissions, his thoughts spiraling as Jeongguk groans in his ear and pulls
him closer, the hands shoved down Jimin’s jeans kneading the flesh of his ass.

“You love it, uh?” Jeongguk chuckles, a hint of something Jimin can’t quite place bleeding in
his tone. “Never thought I’d hear you say you love something about me.”

But Jimin’s too far gone to stop and think. He whines and pushes his ass back into
Jeongguk’s hands.

“I’m gonna hate you forever if you don’t make me cum, Jeongguk.”

He gasps when Jeongguk palms at his cock through the jeans, squeezing lightly. His hips
buck forward into Jeongguk’s hand on instinct, eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head.

“Look at you, all worked up and panting. Who are you, and what have you done to the Jimin
I know?” Jeongguk whispers, knowing smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “The man
who doesn’t want to have his cock sucked?”

Jimin stills.

“I’m not asking you to do that.”

“What if I want to?”

Jimin blinks. “Now? H—here?”

“Would you let me?”

Fuck, he’s hard as a rock. But no matter how hard he is in his pants, no matter how badly he
wants to come, the thought of Jeongguk giving him head terrifies him. It doesn’t make any
sense, he gave everything to Jeongguk already—he let him come in his ass the very first
night they had sex, after all. But in his head, that feels different. It’s the one part of his body
he’s always felt self-conscious about, simply because it’s there and he’s supposed to use it.

“I don’t—you don’t have to—”

“You always say that. I know I don’t have to, no one’s forcing me to do anything. I’m asking
you if you’d let me.”

Jimin swallows. Reality slowly creeps back in, the world colors once again in shadows and
artificial light. The rain has stopped.

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“I let you fuck me, I suck your cock. Isn’t it what everybody wants?”

Jeongguk winces.

“Everybody? We’re not hosts when we’re together, Jimin. I’m not using you to get off.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I want you to feel good too,” Jeongguk says, a little frustrated, hands slowly coming to rest
on Jimin’s waist.

“But I already do.”

Jimin slides off Jeongguk’s lap and sits at his side again. It’s colder without Jeongguk’s arms
wrapped around his middle.

Jeongguk sighs. “It’s just—I’d like you to be comfortable around me.”

“I am,” Jimin says. “More than I’ve ever been with anyone else.” Please don’t push it.

And like so many other times, Jeongguk seems to read his mind.

“Alright. Well, there goes my birthday present for you.”

Jimin raises his eyebrows. He’s relieved that Jeongguk let the matter go so gracefully, and
grateful of his ability to lighten the mood no matter how tense things get, but this makes him
freeze on the spot.

“Your present for me was a blowjob? I thought it was the amusement park.”

“A blowjob at the amusement park, inside one of the Ferris wheel’s rusty cabins. It was my
plan all along,” Jeongguk says, clearly joking.
“Well, save it for some other occasion.” He blushes when Jeongguk’s eyebrows shoot up. “—
or someone else.”

“There is no one else I’d rather blow,” Jeongguk smirks.

Jimin flicks his forehead and climbs out of the cabin. The air has indeed turned colder, and
everything is ten times darker than when they arrived. He can barely distinguish the rides.

At least the cold helps with calming down his raging boner a little.

“Let’s go home, alright? I’m starving. Why don’t you buy me dinner as a belated birthday
present?”

“Dinner?” Jeongguk says, following him out. “That’s for another date.”

“What?”

“What?”

“This isn’t a date,” Jimin says in mild outrage. Is it? Was it a date and he didn’t know it? It
wasn’t even planned. Jeongguk just took him here on a whim. No it isn’t a date.

“Oh no, yeah, this is just, like—an outdoor trip. You’re completely right.”

Something in the way Jeongguk delivers the line in a deadpan way makes Jimin squint in
suspicion. Jeongguk just shakes his head and leads him down the same path as before—the
one they basically cut for themselves through the bushes.

“Wanna hold hands on the way back? The night is dark and full of terrors,” Jeongguk quotes
with a shit-eating grin, glancing over his shoulder at Jimin trudging behind.

“Fuck off.”

“Too date-ish for your tastes?”

“Watch where you’re going or you’ll trip on a root and break your nose. And trust me, your
nose doesn’t need to get any bigger.”

“Okay, first of all, you don’t break your nose by just falling face-first on some dirt,”
Jeongguk huffs, ducking to avoid the branches of a tree. “Second, my nose is the perfect size
for my face. Third, you get awfully prickly when you’re teased. You’re not a hedgehog,
you’re a porcupine.”

“Fuck roots, I’m going to break your nose myself.”

“—and noses don’t suddenly get bigger after you break them? That doesn’t make sense.”

“They swell and look bigger! Wanna bet? I can show you right now.”
Jeongguk halts abruptly, Jimin bumps into him, mumbles Ow! and staggers back, rubbing his
nose with a hand.

“What’d you do that for?”

“That,” Jeongguk giggles, pointing at Jimin’s nose. “Want me to kiss it better?”

He doesn’t let him answer that he’s already taking a hold of Jimin’s wrist, pushing his hand
away as he dips forward to place a chaste kiss on Jimin’s lips.

“That’s not my nose,” Jimin says, flabbergasted.

“My bad. Your nose is so small I can barely see it at night.”

Jimin shoves him. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m beginning to think that’s the only word you know,” Jeongguk chuckles as they head
towards the road. There are headlights ahead, the sound of cars speeding by.

“Did you know that if you look up the word insufferable in the dictionary, you can find your
picture next to it?”

“Is it a nice picture?”

“No, it’s a picture I took of you while you were sleeping with your eyes half-open.”

They finally reach the road. Jeongguk hops on the sidewalk and turns to Jimin, looking
offended. They can finally see each other’s faces after what felt like an eternity spent in
almost complete darkness.

“I don’t sleep with my eyes open and you know it.”

He does know that, he wakes up every morning next to Jeongguk, in his bed. The thought
alone makes him feel a little funny—a little fuzzy inside. Like warm, prickling static, like the
sound of white noise in an empty room.

“You do.”

“Well, you drool in your sleep.”

Jimin gasps.

“That’s not true!”

He doesn’t, right? Hoseok would have told him if he did—they had countless sleepovers
during the years.

“It is. You’ve drooled all over my sheets. Why do you think I keep changing them?”

He panics. “That’s cause we have sex every fucking night!”

A middle-aged woman on the sidewalk throws him a nasty glance, then scurries away into
the night, outraged. Jeongguk snorts through his nose, then breaks down into laughter.

“You’re an asshole. I hate you.”

Jimin sniffs, embarrassed, plunging his hands in the pockets of his coat. He feels bad, but he
also feels something else—that same fuzzy feeling in his chest has expanded to his head, his
limbs, everywhere. “You know what? You can keep your precious sheets for the rest of the
week, I’m sleeping elsewhere.”

“I’m not the one who keeps making a mess when he comes,” Jeongguk says mischievously.

“You think all that come stays in my ass when you pull out?” Jimin hisses in his ear, pulling
Jeongguk closer by the sleeve as they enter the station. “You should see a doctor cause it’s the
fucking Niagara Falls every single time we fuck.”

“Babe, that’s so hot. If you don’t quit your dirty-talking I’ll drag you to the toilets,” Jeongguk
says, and were it not for the uncharacteristic babe he’d think Jeongguk was for real.

They get on the train—Jeongguk still giggling like a schoolkid—and the seats on their
carriage are almost all taken, except for two spots opposite each other. They sit down and
Jimin scowls at the big grin splitting Jeongguk’s face in two.

“Shut up,” he mouths at him. Jeongguk just smiles wider and shrugs, as if to say, I’m not
saying anything. But Jimin can hear.

Can hear him say it over and over again, date, date, date. He knows what this looks like—the
teasing, the giggling, the knowing glances. Jeongguk staring at him fondly with his head
tilted back against the window, Jeongguk who brought him to a deserted amusement park in
the middle of nowhere because he knew he was feeling weird, and there’s nothing better than
more weird to cure weird. Jeongguk, who whispered in his ear I like when you wrap your legs
around me, but also I like your sense of humor. Jeongguk, who’s going to fuck him into the
mattress again tonight, and he will let him do it, gladly, head blissfully empty when he comes
all over Jeongguk’s stupid sheets. Head that isn’t empty when they’re not fucking and
Jeongguk just stares at him like he hung the moon and the stars in the sky, even if there is no
moon and stars outside, just like tonight—only clouds, and even they have stopped their
crying.

What the fuck is wrong with him? Why can’t he just take this, accept that he deserves it, that
it isn’t temporary?

They get off the train when the subway is almost closing. Rain doesn’t smell pleasant in
Seoul, especially in the part of town where Jeongguk lives. There is no earthy scent, no sound
of raindrops falling on grass. Rain brings forth the smell of sewage.
The stink also brings a little clarity.

Jeongguk doesn’t like it when Jimin says they fuck. He sees it on Jeongguk’s face every time
he speaks the words, every time he alludes to the fact that this is what they do—they fuck.
Jeongguk never used that word to describe what it is they do. He always uses euphemisms
like we slept together, you slept in my bed—sleeping, sleeping, sleeping when sleeping isn’t
what they do, at all.

That’s what happens that night, regardless of what Jeongguk wants or doesn’t want to say.
They fuck. And it feels good, and it feels meaningless, and it feels a thousand different things
left untold. Perhaps someone should tell them.

Perhaps it’s scarier to hear someone say them to his face than to speak them to life.
Chapter 13
1.
It’s strange to have lunch with a normal family. Parents who aren’t too comatose to
acknowledge his presence, an adolescent brother whose standard teenage angst doesn’t
border on genuine existential anxiety. It’s strange, in a way. It’s nice. It’s very, very loud, but
in a good way.

“—and I said I would rather eat cardboard than watch a Fast and Furious movie.”

“But you don’t even know what’s it about!”

“Oh, I know what it’s about. It’s about dudes with stupid cars who go fast and get furious.”

Jeongguk’s brother scoffs. “No, see—you don’t. It’s all about family.”

“I’m not watching Fast and Furious with you tonight.”

“But it’s just come out, everyone’s watching it!” Jeonghyun groans, throwing his hands in the
air. “Do you even know how hard it was for me to pirate it?”

“Hard? Please. What’s hard is believing you’re an eighteen-year-old who barely knows how
to pirate movies in 2021.”

“It’s good. You’ll like it. It’s an action movie—you like superhero movies, you watch those!”

Across the table, Jeongguk points his chopsticks at his brother menacingly. “Don’t you dare
compare the two.”

“Jihyun likes it,” Jeonghyun says, looking at Jimin’s brother in the hope he’d help him rope
Jeongguk in on their movie night. “And he likes Marvel movies, too. Trust him.”

Jimin snorts in his glass. “I wouldn’t trust my brother’s taste in movies.”

Jihyun kicks him under the table, and Jeongguk’s mother admonishes him with a stern, “I
saw that, young man. No fighting in my kitchen.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jeon.”

“—but we haven’t watched a movie together in ages. And Jimin wants to watch a movie,
right, Jimin?”

“Jimin doesn’t like Fast and Furious.”

“How do you know that?”

“There’s no romance in the—”

Jimin slaps the back of Jeongguk’s head and says, “All I will say on the matter is that if a
public toilet could tell a story, it would be much more compelling than the plot of any Fast
and Furious movie.”

“Thank you,” Jeongguk grumbles begrudgingly, massaging his scalp.

“You’re welcome.”

As she’s cleaning the table, Mrs. Jeon perks up. “Oh, since we’re talking about toilets—"

“We’re really not.”

“—Jeongguk, since you’re here, would you mind checking the tank lid on our toilet? I think
it’s broken; it budges a little.”

“Mo—om, we’re still eating, can you not talk about toilets—”

“Sure, that’d be 50.000 won.”

Mrs. Jeon ruffles Jeongguk’s hair on her way to the kitchen counter, a precarious pile of
plates in her other hand. “My son thinks he’s so funny,” she says, winking at Jimin.

A burst of heat sweeps Jimin’s face. He springs to his feet and hurries to help Jeongguk’s
mom clean the table.

“Oh dear, you don’t have to help me. Sit back and relax, Jeongguk told me you’re working
yourself to the bone at the club? You must be tired.”

The club that Jeongguk’s mom thinks is just a host club, and nothing else. His heart splinters
when he looks her in the eyes.

“It’s not a problem. I’m used to doing everything back home.”

The same hand that ruffled Jeongguk’s hair now strokes Jimin’s cheeks, the motherly gesture
so unexpected and tender that Jimin freezes on the spot.

And then Jeongguk’s mother simply smiles at him, and turns away.

His brother corners him in the living room the second Jeongguk disappears to fix the toilet lid
and Jeonghyun dips in his room to get the movie for the night.

“So, what’s up between you and Jeongguk? Did you hook up or something?”

Jimin’s brain does a weird thing where it tries to twist on itself and then spasms painfully. His
ability to speak regresses to Neolithic-period standards before he finally stutters out, “W—
what—how—why?”
“So yes,” Jihyun gloats. “I knew it. Why are you hiding it?”

“I’m not—we’re just—how do you know?” He’s sure the look on his face is an utterly
terrified one as he suddenly remembers Jeongguk mentioning how thin the walls of their
condo are.

But Jihyun shrugs. “Just vibes. You’ve been acting a little different ever since you moved in
with him.”

The relief that washes over Jimin nearly makes him black out for a second. The mere thought
of his brother somehow hearing what goes on inside Jeongguk’s apartment shaved a couple
years off his lifespan.

“We’re just—having fun,” he says lamely. Jihyun arches his eyebrows. Jimin swallows.

This is weird; he has never shared any details of his love life – if that’s even how he could
call it – with Jihyun before, and it’s not like he’s always been particularly supportive of
Jimin’s sexual orientation in the past—the one time his brother called him a homophobic slur
still rings vividly in his memories, and the fight that followed it, too.

“Listen, I, uhm…” Jihyun takes a big breath and holds it, a little embarrassed by the situation
as if he were reading Jimin’s thoughts, “I know I said shit in the past that, uhm… hurt your
feelings and stuff… and I certainly haven’t won an award for best little brother—"

“Do you see me holding a best older brother award?”

Jihyun relaxes a bit. “No. I don’t think our family was even nominated for the awards.”

“Oh, they won some. Worst Fucking Asshole of the Year is one of them. The statuette is just a
giant golden hairy asshole. I hear the details on it are incredible.”

Jihyun smiles. “Oh, we could sell it for good money, then.”

“It’s invaluable. Can’t put a price on it, it’s so fucking rare.”

“Damn,” Jihyun snickers, staring down at his hands. “Here goes my chance to go to college.”

Jimin’s own smile blinks out. “We’ll find another way.”

But Jihyun shakes his head, suddenly resolute. “Don’t worry about that. I’m not here to talk
about my sorry future. I’m here to nag you about you and Jeongguk.”

Jimin rolls his eyes. “What do you want to know?”

“Are you together?”

“We live together.”

“And…?”
“And we’re two adults who live in a very tiny apartment.”

“So that means…?”

“Yes, we see each other’s faces every single day.”

“But do you—”

“Yes, we also share a bathroom.”

“Yes but do you sleep together?” Jihyun stage-whispers, the shadow of a blush creeping on
his ears.

“We… sleep,” Jimin says intelligently.

“Together.”

“Well. At night, we sleep at the same time.”

Jihyun makes a frustrated sound at the back of his throat. “Then what did you mean by we’re
having fun?”

“He’s… you know, a funny guy—”

“For fuck’s sake, Jimin, do you fuck or not? I’m not a clueless idiot, I’ll be eighteen in a
month.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, lower your voice,” Jimin curses, glancing over his shoulder at Mrs.
Jeon in the other room.

“Do you, or don’t you?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing, I just wanted to say—just wanted you to know it’s alright. I like Jeongguk, he’s
cool. He’s, like, a good friend, so, you know, I think he’d be, like, a good—a good boyfriend,
too.”

Jihyun’s ears are so red that they rival Jimin’s blush. Turns out that talking relationships with
family is awkward as hell, and Jimin swears to himself that this is the last time it’ll ever
happen, for the sake of his mental and physical health.

“That’s a big word.”

“What—boyfriend?” Jihyun looks confused. “What is he, then?”

Jimin sighs. “Can’t he be just Jeongguk?”

“What do you mean—”

“You know what? Fixing a toilet lid shouldn’t take this long. I’m gonna check on him in case
he drowned in the toilet bowl.”

He leaves Jihyun on the couch and power-walks towards the small bathroom at the end of the
hallway. He spots Jeonghyun in his bedroom, cursing loudly as the video player on his laptop
plays a movie that most definitely doesn’t look or sound like the new Fast and Furious.

He slips inside the bathroom and knocks gently against the doorframe.

“Does it take an engineering degree to fix a toilet lid?”

Jeongguk glances up, wrench in hand. “Oh, hey. Is this the start of a bad porno?”

Jimin snorts and closes the door with his foot. Jeongguk arches an eyebrow. “Don’t forget to
lock it.”

“Your mom’s in the next room.”

“And you’re here with me, and I’m on my knees.”

“You’re kneeling over a toilet bowl,” Jimin points out, amused. “It’s not very sexy.”

“An exciting twist to the boring cliché.”

Laughing, Jimin leans against the sink with his arms crossed. “Nice try, but no.”

Jeongguk closes the lid on the bowl and taps it. “I’m done.”

“Good job. If screenwriting doesn’t work out for you, you have a plan B.”

“You’re sarcastic today. Did someone tick you off?”

“What do you mean?” Jimin scoffs, “I’m always sarcastic.”

Jeongguk sits on the toilet and pulls Jimin closer by the arm. “Is it my brother? Did he say
something?”

“What? No. Your family is so nice, all the time. I really don’t understand how you fit in.”

“Nice joke. Original,” Jeongguk says, sliding his hands up Jimin’s legs. They rest on Jimin’s
ass and squeeze. “I’m nice to you all the time, too.”

“Are you, now?” Jimin says, fingers combing through Jeongguk’s locks.

“You don’t want me to?”

“Want what?”

“Me to be nice to you?”

A thrill ripples down Jimin’s spine. His fingers stop caressing Jeongguk’s hair.
“No,” Jimin says, uncertain. “I like nice.”

He takes a step back as Jeongguk gets up, and for a moment he stands so tall, nearly towering
over him, before Jimin blinks and everything re-sizes. They’re almost the same height, but
sometimes Jimin feels so small.

“Your brother has downloaded the wrong movie.”

“He wouldn’t recognize a legit pirating website if it slapped him across the face.”

“Maybe you should go help him,” Jimin suggests.

“Maybe I should stay here with you,” Jeongguk says.

Jimin huffs a chuckle. “And do what?”

“You?”

Jeongguk has already dipped his hands inside Jimin’s jeans. He backs him against the wall,
caging him between the tub and the washing machine.

“No. They’ll hear us.”

“You just have to be quiet.”

“They’ll know what we’re doing.”

“Not if we’re quick.”

“We don’t have lube,” Jimin retorts.

“We can use—ow. This is domestic abuse,” Jeongguk yelps as Jimin smacks his shoulder. He
doesn’t budge. “Okay, no sex.” But his hand inches dangerously close to Jimin’s crotch.
“What about this?” He lightly pushes his palm down on Jimin’s bulge, appraising his
expression.

“You really wanna jerk me off in your mother’s bathroom?”

“This was my house, too. Do you know how many times I jerked off in the shower?”

“Don’t wanna know, thanks,” Jimin says, strained, because Jeongguk’s hand is doing a
marvelous job at working him up.

“Just a quick one,” Jeongguk insists, “you don’t want to go back there sporting a semi, do
you?”

“This is you being nice to me?” Jimin hisses, tilting his head back against the wall when
Jeongguk finally frees his cock from the restraints of his jeans.

Jeongguk grins, drags a fingertip along the curvature of Jimin’s shaft, then unzips his fly to
pull his cock out. He’s already half-hard, cockhead turgid and drooling.
“Better take your shirt off if you don’t want cum stains on it.”

“You always know how to set the mood,” Jimin quips, quickly shedding his t-shirt on the
floor.

Jeongguk does the same, and Jimin traces the bulging of his arm muscles hungrily before
taking in a shirtless Jeongguk in his entirety.

He feels himself hardening at the sight.

Without further ado, Jeongguk pumps a generous amount of lotion in his hand, then grasps
both their cocks together and strokes up once, base to tip.

Jimin’s fingernails scrape the wall at his back, the surge in pleasure making him gasp for
breath. He watches with hooded eyes as Jeongguk builds a fast rhythm from the get-go,
pumping them in tandem, occasionally thumbing at the heads to collect the precum. It’s a
mesmerizing, utterly obscene sight—his cock flush against Jeongguk’s, head rubbing against
head, both drooling precum as their pleasure spikes to impossible heights.

Jeongguk comes first, spurting thick ropes of cum across Jimin’s stomach. He muffles his
groans and growls low in his throat, grinding his hips against Jimin, hand doubling in speed
as he milks his orgasm to the last drop. White dollops of cum dribble down Jimin’s shaft and
wet Jeongguk’s hand, and the sight is more than enough to tip Jimin over. He comes with a
shudder, a sigh on his lips, his release mixing with Jeongguk’s.

Jeongguk’s pace has slowed down to a languid stroke. He swipes the cum off their slits and
smears it on the tip of his tongue, then surges forward to feed it to Jimin, still heaving against
the wall. He takes it all, sucking on Jeongguk’s tongue and tasting the saltiness of their
bodies. His head spins.

“How was it,” Jeongguk pants on his lips. His eyes are closed, his breathing erratic.

“Fuck you, Jeon Jeongguk,” it’s all he manages to say, but he says it from the bottom of his
racing heart.

Jeongguk smiles. “You’re welcome.”

What a spectacular mess he’s gotten himself in. He wonders when it will all blow up in his
face.
2.
Tonight, clients feel particularly sticky.

He’s been working almost every day to make up for Jihyun’s medical bills and save up
money for a place. Living for free in Jeongguk’s house has started to feel like a strange
dream. Or someone else’s life. A life he isn’t supposed to be living, and sometimes he feels
like an imposter, like he’s skipped to an easier part of the game using cheat codes. Sooner or
later, this game is going to crash.

Jimin welcomes the end of a hard day of work with a sigh. From the windows lining the
Black Bird’s main hall he glimpses a patch of night sky—with the city lights and all the
smog, the stars are invisible to the naked eye. He says goodnight to the customers with a last
plastic smile, then scurries to the dressing room to change into his casual clothes.

Usually, the dressing rooms are bursting with hosts walking to and from the main hall,
adjusting their outfits in the mirrors, re-touching their makeup, exchanging small talk and
jokes. Walking down the hallway, Jimin hears several voices clashing, a burst of laughter, the
sound of racks sliding across a coat hanger. The door to the last dressing room opens and
three hosts walk out, clad in see-through fabrics and pants so tight they leave almost nothing
to the imagination. Jimin greets them with a tired smile and slips into the empty room.

Someone gets the door when he tries to shut it behind his back. Jimin turns around to see
who’s following him inside, and he’s immediately met with a pair of smoldering eyes lined
with kohl, so dark and sultry they pierce right through his heart.

“Gguk. Are you done for the night?”

The nickname rolls out of his tongue easily, like he’s been calling Jeongguk Gguk for an
eternity already.

“Hey handsome,” Jeongguk purrs back, immediately caging him against the wall. “How
much for your services?”

Jimin snorts and pushes him back half-heartedly. He’s not surprised to see that Jeongguk
doesn’t move an inch.

“For you? Like a million won. You can’t afford me.”

Jeongguk traps his lips in a searing kiss, hands coming to rest possessively on his hips.

“You look good tonight,” Jeongguk murmurs, black eyes roaming over Jimin’s outfit and
taking in the smudged makeup around his eyes, the glossy sheen of his lips. “You always do.
These clothes suit you. Make up suits you. You look hot as fuck.”

“You don’t look bad yourself,” Jimin says a little breathlessly, feeling how Jeongguk’s
leather-clad thigh pushes up against his crotch.
“Yeah? You like when I dress like a slut?”

Jimin squirms. “We’re both dressed like sluts. That’s kinda what we are.”

Jeongguk groans and latches his lips onto Jimin’s neck, laving and sucking at the skin with
sudden enthusiasm. Jimin yelps, fingers lost in Jeongguk’s dark hair.

“Gguk, what the—what’s gotten into you?”

“I saw you in the booths,” Jeongguk drawls, voice thick with need. “Fluttering around your
clients dressed like this.” He hitches Jimin’s already very short top up his chest, fingers
immediately finding one of his nipples. “Looking like you were so ready to spread your legs
for them. I had to remind myself you’re an incredible actor about a thousand times tonight.”

“It’s all a game of pretend,” Jimin gasps, sucking in a breath. Jeongguk rubs the pads of his
fingers around the nub, teasing him mercilessly. “You know that. You do the same.”

“I hate to watch you work.” Jeongguk’s voice drags into a low whine. “Hate to watch old
men touch you everywhere. I hate when you sit on their laps. I hate that you laugh at their
stupid jokes. I hate that you look at them, talk to them, smile at them.”

With each new word Jeongguk’s voice bleeds into darker tones. He keeps pressing him
against the wall until Jimin’s body molds around Jeongguk’s sharper one.

“But it’s my job—”

“I should be the only one,” Jeongguk cuts him off, breathing the words right into Jimin’s
parted mouth, “to touch you, smell you, taste you. They don’t have the right to own you.”

Jimin’s mind is getting all fogged up, and thinking straight becomes a complicated feat when
Jeongguk is doing his utmost best to work him up.

“Did you drink too much champagne?” Jimin chuckles nervously, pushing him a little harder.
Jeongguk does look a little drunk, but drunk on something that isn’t quite alcohol. “This is
our job. I need the money, you need the money. It’s what we do.”

He slips from under Jeongguk and takes a seat at one of the vanity tables, leaving Jeongguk
slumped against the wall, looking a little defeated, with heavy-lidded eyes tracking Jimin’s
every move.

“You shouldn’t be working here. This was a mistake.”

“Maybe I should have joined a gang and robbed a bank to get the money I need,” Jimin
scoffs, squirting make-up remover on a cotton pad and methodically wiping away the glitters
on his eyelids. “Or would you prefer me taking a ton of jobs in different parts of the city, and
lose my sanity trying to juggle them with class and rehearsals? Cause I don’t see any other
option, Jeongguk.”

Jeongguk scans him up and down, but it’s a different kind of look—there’s no more lust in
his gaze. Jimin knows very well that with the make-up off, he can’t hide how tired he looks.
“You’re overworking yourself—”

“You’ve taken up new shifts too,” Jimin shoots back, annoyed.

“—and I hate to see you always so tired, Jimin. You can’t keep hiding your dark circles with
the make-up you steal from the dressing rooms.”

Jimin’s face flares up, his ears bright red under the harsh lights of the vanity table.

“Well then, maybe I’ll beg Seokjin on my knees for a few appointments in one of the
bedrooms upstairs,” Jimin spits out, anger swelling his voice. They had this argument before,
but now he’s done repeating the same things over and over and over again. As if Jeongguk
were a jealous boyfriend, and not simply someone who enjoyed fucking him.

“You’ve fucked me a few times already, no? Loosened me up for others to try me out. I’ll just
tell Seokjin I’m not a clueless virgin anymore, that you showed me the way—just like he
wanted you to. It can’t feel that much different, right? I know what to do, now. Just lie on my
back and let them fuck me stupid. Easy.”

He feels his temper rise like an unrelenting tide, all the exhaustion and frustration and doubts
of the past days breaking onto him like waves shattering against rocks, and they never stop
coming. He knows it’s unfair to vomit all his worries over Jeongguk and let them turn into
frothing poison on the way out, but he can’t stop.

And the way Jeongguk’s expression falls into muted anger tells him he’s hit jackpot.

“I don’t want you to work in the rooms, Jimin.”

“You sound like a broken record, Jeongguk. You want and don’t want a lot of things from me,
don’t you think? You don’t want the customers to touch me. You don’t want me to smile at
them. You want me to quit my fucking job. Who do you think you are, Jeongguk? Perhaps
you think you are the only one who has the right to own me?”

“I have never said that,” Jeongguk snarls, taking a few steps forward. Jimin ignores him. He
keeps angrily wiping at the make-up only to smudge it onto his face.

He’s livid—they both are.

“For the hundredth time, Jimin—don’t put words in my mouth.”

Jeongguk stops by the vanity table and stares at him, but Jimin refuses to look up.

“I’m not sure why it’s so hard for you to accept that all I’m trying to do is help you. I’m not
trying to monopolize you, I’m not trying to force you to quit your job. Just—do me one favor,
okay? Don’t work in the rooms.”

Jimin slams a bottle of concealer against the table. “So now I can’t take more shifts and I
can’t work in the rooms. How the fuck am I gonna earn enough money to move out of your
fucking house?”
“You don’t need to move out, Jimin,” Jeongguk yells, exasperated hand running through his
hair. “You can stay with me as long as you like, Jihyun too—”

“That’s your house, Jeongguk, not mine. And your mom can’t keep my brother around for an
indefinite amount of time, it’s just ridiculous.”

“Why? You guys are having money problems, we’re just trying to help—”

“We are a family, me and Jihyun. We can’t be a family if I live upstairs with you, and he
sleeps in your old room in another fucking apartment.”

“You can see him whenever you like!” Jeongguk bursts, eyes frantically searching for
something in Jimin’s stubborn expression.

“We can’t leech off you forever!” Jimin yells, jumping out of his seat so quickly the chair
falls back to the floor. “I refuse to!”

“You’re not leeching off me,” Jeongguk counters, outraged. “And if you really want to repay
me in some way, you can—I don’t know, wash the dishes or—”

“I am not your fucking housewife,” Jimin growls, furious, hands balling into fists at his sides.
He feels red licking at the edge of his vision.

“N-no, I know!” Jeongguk stutters, panicking. “I didn’t mean to say—I just—”

“I need the money, Jeongguk. I don’t want to be your little charity project for the semester,
and I can’t stay in your house forever.”

“But we’re doing so well,” Jeongguk tries again, voice laced with a twinge of desperation. He
takes one of Jimin’s hands in his, rubbing over his knuckles as if to comfort him. “I know my
apartment is small, but we’re doing great, don’t you think? I really, really don’t want you to
work in the rooms, Jimin. I’ll—I’ll start working Rare again. I’ll split the money with you.
How does that sound?”

“Are you shitting me? After what happened to you? Absolutely not.”

“I won’t have sex,” Jeongguk says, serious like he’s never been before. “I promise. I’ll take
large groups with other hosts.”

“I should be the one doing extra work, not you,” Jimin says. What Jeongguk is pushing for
doesn’t sit well with him, the way Jeongguk looks so ready to take on more work for his sake
doesn’t make him feel better at all. Quite the opposite.

“Please, Jimin. You’re already working yourself to the bone. You’re here every single night,
and you think I don’t know that you don’t have classes in the afternoon? I know you come
here. We live together and I barely even see you.”

Jimin yanks his hand back. “We don’t live together. This is temporary, Jeongguk—I’m just
crashing at your apartment for the time being. We don’t live together.”
“I’m asking you to.”

“We can’t,” Jimin says forcefully. “It’s not right. We aren’t even…”

“What?” Jeongguk nudges him, frowning. “We aren’t even what?”

“—together,” Jimin finishes weakly. He can’t look him in the eyes. He’s staring at the door at
Jeongguk’s back, hoping for a host to walk in and interrupt a conversation he has no desire to
delve into.

“Jimin.”

It’s a single word, his name—uttered with a gravelly voice, coated in mild disbelief.

“We sleep in the same bed. You let me come inside you every fucking night.”

“It’s not the same,” Jimin insists, thoughts spiraling out of control. This isn’t good. They
can’t talk about this stuff at work. Anyone could hear them. They wouldn’t care. This is an
excuse. He doesn’t want to hear Jeongguk speak his mind. He doesn’t think he can take it—
doesn’t know how he should take it.

“You said you liked me.”

Jimin’s eyes flit to Jeongguk. Find him honest, and hurt, and angry.

“I do, you’re—you’re a good person, Jeongguk.” Damage control for something that feels
way out of his control. “You’ve helped me a lot, you’ve—changed me, in a way. And I’m
grateful, I swear I am.”

“Because you think I cured you from your alleged frigidity?”

Jimin blushes furiously. “No, I—”

“Because I make you come every night?”

“Jeongguk. Stop being a fucking asshole.”

Jeongguk’s words are accusatory and sharp, meant to provoke him, jolt him awake—he
knows what he’s doing, he won’t fall for it.

“Isn’t it what I am, though?” Jeongguk asks, taking a step closer, crowding him. “From day
one. You said so.”

“Nobody even knows we’re fucking, Jeongguk.” Jimin squares his shoulders, holds
Jeongguk’s gaze in a challenge. This romantic fantasy Jeongguk has got going on in his head
—it’s just that. A fantasy.

“Cause for some reason you don’t want to tell anyone.”

“It isn’t easy—”

“What isn’t easy? Telling your friends you’re crashing at my house?” Jeongguk sneers. “Your
‘friends’ being just Hoseok? Come on. If admitting you like me is such a blow to your pride
that you can’t even tolerate the idea of telling your best—your only friend, then I think
you’re doing something wrong. Which is having sex with me. Every night. In my bed.”

“That’s kind of inevitable since we’re staying in the same tiny ass apartment and your hands
are all over me the second I come home!”

And now he’s just yelling, and the shame that’s been burning him from the inside out spills
over his voice to inflame the words.

But Jeongguk pulls at his own hair and lets out an exasperated growl.

“Stop pretending to be dense!”

“I’m not pretending to be anything!”

“No, Jimin—listen to me. You can’t be this fucking stupid. There’s a limit to how clueless
you can be,” Jeongguk snaps, his nose mere inches from Jimin’s face. “I’m not buying it.”

“Oh, great. This is great. Now you’re insulting me?”

Anger makes his voice quiver. The slamming of his heart against his ribcage is borderline
painful, deafening to his ears. Can’t Jeongguk hear it? Can’t Jeongguk see he’s coming
unraveled, and there’s layers and layers of protections and defenses and masks and suits of
armors peeling off his flesh, leaving him naked and pink and tender and raw and it fucking
hurts?

“Why are you so scared of expressing your feelings, Jimin?” Jeongguk shouts, frustrated. “I
know them already, I see them every day. You just have to say the words—they’re just words,
they can’t hurt you.”

“Well, you can!” Jimin blurts. His eyes and the back of his nose prickle with a very familiar
feeling. He swallows thickly, watches how his words mar Jeongguk’s face with disbelief and
hurt. He feels like he should say something, explain himself better, do anything but pull back
and feel for the door handle with his hand, or run away and leave Jeongguk standing in the
dressing room, alone.

It’s already too late when he realizes it’s exactly what he’s done, and Jeongguk didn’t follow
him out.
3.
What the fuck am I doing.

Is what he thinks, standing in all his half-naked, slutty glory—with his skimpy little crop top
and jeans torn to shreds at the thighs—in front of Hoseok’s front door. Staring at the doorbell,
contemplating whether to turn back and take the bus home—his real home where the
monsters live, and with monsters he means the lurking shadows of his guilt and resentment
and hatred—or look for the neighborhood’s hot springs in which to spend the night, hoping
he doesn’t chance upon a sleazy old man trying to cup a feel.

Fuck it.

It’s been a long time coming anyway. He rings the doorbell, then knocks at the door for good
measure.

Hoseok appears a minute later, clad in what seems a satin robe with pretty floral motifs
around the sleeves and waist.

“Jimin? Did I forget you were sleeping over tonight?” he asks, a little confused. His frown
deepens when he takes notice of Jimin’s unusual outfit. “Uh—why are you dressed like this?
And is that make-up smudged all over your face?”

“Can I come in?” Jimin mutters, hugging his arms to his chest.

Hoseok opens the door wide.

“Sure. You look like shit, by the way. Is everything okay?”

“I, uh. Ran away from home?” he says tentatively, taking his shoes off and proceeding to
throw himself on Hoseok’s leather couch. He pulls a blanket closer, drapes it all over his
body and up to his ears. “Can I stay here a while? I promise I won’t bother you. I just want to
lie down somewhere and stare at the ceiling until my brain rots away.”

“You don’t have permission to die on my couch, if that’s what you’re asking,” Hoseok says.
His friend pads to his favorite armchair—the one he always curls up in whenever they hang
around Hoseok’s living room watching movies or talking the night away—and looks at him
with concern. “Can you tell me what happened? Did you have a fight with Daejung or your
mom?”

“I—”

He gulps. How much of the truth does he want to say? No, scratch that—how much of the
truth does he have to say?

“I guess you could say I had a fight with Daejung. Like, a few days ago.”

“Okay,” Hoseok says slowly. “Did it degenerate tonight? That’s why you’re here?”
“Do you promise not to think any different of me if I tell you what happened?”

“Oh my God, Jimin, fucking hell. Did you kill the man?”

“No, I just—I just stabbed him a little,” Jimin mutters, looking owlishly at Hoseok from
behind the blanket like it can protect him from his friend’s stare.

“You stabbed him a little?” Hoseok squeaks, almost falling off the armchair in surprise. “You
killed a man just a little?”

“I didn’t kill him,” Jimin hisses. “Keep your voice down or your neighbors will think I
murdered someone.”

“Did you or did you not?”

“No, I just stabbed him in the hand. Cause I thought he was coming onto me—”

“He was what? That motherfucker—”

“But I’m not sure, I don’t know, I was a little on edge—I don’t remember my thought process
anymore,” Jimin mumbles, sitting upright on the couch, blanket pooling around his waist. “It
happened last week. Then I went—uhm, living somewhere else.”

Hoseok looks at him, bemused.

“Where?”

Jimin hesitates.

“At Jeongguk’s.”

Hoseok blinks once, twice, three times. Silence.

Then, “I’m sorry, where?”

“At Jeongguk’s,” Jimin repeats a little louder, feeling his ears burn. “I asked Jeongguk if I
could crash at his apartment, and he said yes.”

“His apartment is very small,” Hoseok says intelligently.

“It is.”

“It’s literally two rooms and a bathroom.”

“Yes.”

Hoseok nods slowly, eyes never leaving his. “Perfect living arrangements for someone who
claims to detest Jeon Jeongguk.”

“We fucked,” Jimin blurts out, figuring it’s now or never. “In his bedroom. On his bed.”
Somewhere else too, like on the couch and in the shower, but Hoseok doesn’t need to know
the details.

“You’re shitting me,” Hoseok squeals, jumping on the couch. “You stab a man and then
immediately go fuck your nemesis? Dude, that’s hardcore. When the fuck did you become so
metal? I like this new you.”

“This isn’t being metal, this is me freaking the fuck out and sticking a knife in Daejung’s
hand and then freaking out more and ringing Jeongguk’s doorbell cause he’s the only one I
could think of when it comes to—” sexual harassment, or alleged sexual harassment, but he
can’t say that to Hoseok.

“Excuse me, I’ve been your best friend since middle school? Why didn’t you come here?”

“Yes, but I—I didn’t want you to know I stabbed Daejung.”

“But you wanted to tell Jeongguk?” Hoseok asks, eyebrows arched in disbelief. “Where did
that come from? Is that a weird power move? Did you want him to know who’s boss? Was
showing up at his doorstep all crazy-eyed and sexy and with a bloodied knife part of your
scheme to seduce him?”

“No, you idiot, I didn’t bring the knife to his house,” Jimin huffs, throwing a pillow at
Hoseok. “And I didn’t mean to have sex with him. It just… happened.”

“His dick just happened to be inside your ass?”

Jimin rolls his eyes, blows a strand of hair out of his face and scoffs. He’s still dressed in his
stupid Black Bird clothes, and he’s cold, and he’s covering himself with the blanket again
because Hoseok’s eyes are piercing right through him.

“How many times have you had sex?”

Jimin shrugs nonchalantly.

“A lot,” he mumbles finally.

This makes Hoseok laugh, a hand running through his already disheveled red hair.

“Jesus Christ. When I teased you guys about you two hooking up, I didn’t think it’d happen
for real.”

“You didn’t?”

“No. I thought you were too wrapped up in your stupid pride to even consider it. You’d
decided you hated Jeon Jeongguk, and well—you can be pretty stubborn, Jimin.”

“He isn’t a bad person,” Jimin mutters. “He’s… cool, I guess.” Was cool. Is cool. This is
confusing. Who is he mad at? Jeongguk, or himself?

“Okay, so if you stabbed Daejung last week, and you’ve been living with Jeongguk since that
day, then what… are you doing here, this late at night, dressed like a… I don’t even know
how to describe you. An idol trying out an extremely slutty concept?” Hoseok’s eyes roam
over his face. “And what’s up with all that make-up? You don’t usually use that much. Where
were you?”

Jimin sighs again. He rubs his forehead, feeling the beginning of a headache seeping through
his brain.

“You’re not gonna like this.”

“Is it worse than stabbing Daejung in the hand?”

“Way worse,” Jimin groans, “like a hundred times worse.”

“Oh my God, Jimin, speak.”

“Remember that stupid host club? The Golden Peony?”

Hoseok frowns, then nods, then his eyes start to go round and wide. He catches on quickly.
Maybe he doesn’t even need to say the words.

“You did not.”

“I needed money. Bad.”

“Jimin!”

Hoseok jumps up and throws himself next to Jimin on the couch, one arm draped around
Jimin’s back.

“I could have lent you money. You didn’t have to go work as a host, for fuck’s sake.”

“It’s not that bad,” Jimin lies, burrowing deep into the couch. “I don’t do anything illegal.” I
tried. It didn’t work out. “I just… pour champagne and let them grope me a bit.”

“I can’t believe I took you to that host club. I feel horrible. I’m a horrible person.”

“That was before I took the job,” Jimin says. “And you were nice with those girls.”

“Are your clients not nice to you?” Hoseok asks, horrified.

“Y—yes, they are!” Jimin stutters, feeling strangely guilty. “There’s so many regulations, and
—and surveillance everywhere. If you don’t agree to do, uh, more explicit stuff then you’re
nothing but a glorified waiter, really. Always pouring drinks and filling plates, aha.”

And sitting on people’s laps and feeling their dicks rub against his ass, but he keeps that to
himself.

But Hoseok is looking at him with an expression that’s half pity and half doubt, so he adds,
“We also talk a lot, you know. Most of our customers just want to have a nice conversation,
they’re so lonely. The hosts are almost all broke college students, they want us bright and
beautiful.” He gives Hoseok a tight smile.

“So you just came from the club?”

He can’t say Jeongguk works there, too—it’s not his place to disclose that information.

“I was at the club, yes. Then I went back to Jeongguk’s house, and we kind of had a fight.”

“Oh,” Hoseok’s mouth forms a perfect little circle. “Lovers’ quarrel?”

“We’re not—”

Hoseok arches an eyebrow.

“Just a quarrel,” Jimin says.

“What about?”

Jimin pulls at his bottom lip, debating the pros and cons of telling Hoseok the truth about
their fight. He doesn’t even know if he can be honest with himself about it—he figures that’s
why Jeongguk was so mad at him.

Jimin had never seen him so angry before.

“Does he know you work as a host?” Hoseok asks gently.

“Yes. That’s not it. He just—I’m not sure what he wants from me?”

“What do you mean?” Hoseok sits up and stares. “He’s not—he’s not making you have sex
with him in exchange for a place to stay at, right?”

“God, no. I’m not that desperate, and he’s not evil.”

“Good, cause I would have stabbed him in the dick.”

Jimin shakes his head, laughing. “Please don’t. I like his dick.” He blushes a little at the brash
confession. “I kinda… like the rest of him, too.”

“You don’t say?” Hoseok huffs, a glint in his eyes. “And what does he say about this whole
arrangement?”

Jimin grabs another pillow and brushes his fingers across the sparkly paillettes. They turn
from polished black to bright gold, just like his thoughts do when he thinks of his favorite
voice.

“He says a lot of things. I don’t know if he means them all.”

“Dude, Iet me tell you something about Jeon Jeongguk. He’s a pretty straight-forward guy,
you can rest assured he always speaks his mind.” Hoseok clicks his tongue. “You, on the
other hand. I’ve known you since we were kids, and I never know what you’re really thinking
about. Do you mean the things you say?”

It feels like he’s suddenly being exposed, like both Hoseok and Jeongguk have ripped the
elaborate mask he’d had glued to his face all these years to reveal the liar underneath—and
he’s so small and insecure, a quivering little man who hides behind a little sarcasm and a lot
of venom.

“It’s complicated.”

“You want it to be complicated so it’s easier for you to ignore… what? Your feelings? Am I
close to the truth?”

Jimin stares at him, mouth slack.

“Since when are you so good at this?”

“Jimin, I’m not your best friend for nothing. If I didn’t learn how to deal with your intricate
little mind, you’d have been left friendless, cold, and alone in the world.” Hoseok sighs and
stretches his legs across Jimin’s lap. “So. Who caught feelings first? You or Jeongguk?”

“I didn’t… catch—”

Hoseok glares.

“Just a little feeling. A sprinkle.”

“Everything is ‘a little’ with you, uh? Stabbing someone a little? Falling for someone a little?
What’s next? I can’t wait to hear it.”

“Listen, I know I’ve already said it, but it’s complicated. I’ve never had such an intense…”
he wanders off, frustrated, kicking a foot against Hoseok’s coffee table.

“Come on, say it. Say the word, my child.”

“—relationship before,” Jimin says through gritted teeth, the word sounding alien to his ears
like it’s a foreign word and he’s pronouncing it wrong. “But I mean it in the broader sense of
the word, not like—like we’re romantically involved.”

“Of course.”

“But anyway, it’s complicated.”

“You said that once or twice already, yes.”

“And I don’t know what to do with all these…” Jimin waves his hands around, vaguely
gesturing to nothing in particular.

“In your own words, Jimin.”

“Stop patronizing me!”

“Jimin, you’re being a little ridiculous,” Hoseok says, mocking him. “As much as it is
entertaining to watch you struggle, it’s also a bit sad, and I am your friend, so I guess I have
an obligation to tell you when you’re being stupid.” He gathers his legs under himself and
fixes Jimin with serious eyes. “You and Jeongguk have developed some kind of friendship
prior to sleeping together, right?

Jimin chews the interior of his cheek. “I guess.”

“It was pretty clear from the way you acted around each other.”

Jimin bristles. “Then why did you ask?”

“To let you get used to speaking the truth,” Hoseok scolds him. “You’ve had a few months to
get to know each other. You met several times per week for rehearsals, spent time together.
That’s more than enough to develop a crush on anyone, Jimin. Can you admit to that? Can
you bring yourself to say you’re crushing on Jeongguk—a little bit?”

Jimin stares at his friend in resignation. Everything Hoseok is saying makes perfect sense,
and he knows for a fact that he developed a crush on Jeongguk somewhere along the way. He
can’t pinpoint the exact time or moment when he realized he liked him—sure, something
clicked the night he heard him sing at the bar, but that was different. That was already too
late. That was when black streaked with gold forever, that was when he realized he was
already in too deep—when he suddenly knew all the things he’d been feeling up to that
moment were turning into something bigger than him.

“Yeah,” Jimin murmurs, licking his lips. They’re dry, much like his throat.

“Why do you look so sad? It’s a good thing! You like someone. It should make you feel
electric, euphoric, like you’re on cloud nine! Don’t you feel the butterflies in your stomach?”

Hoseok throws himself at him and tickles his belly with a surprise attack that makes Jimin
squirm and flail helplessly.

“Stop it—I’m ticklish, you know that!”

“What did you do with the butterflies, Jimin? Where are they? Why aren’t you happier about
this?”

“Maybe I digested them!” Jimin yells, kicking Hoseok in the chest to put some distance
between him and Hoseok’s hands.

“Bullshit,” Hoseok snorts. “You mean to tell me you shat them out already? All it took was
fucking Jeongguk a couple times? I don’t believe you. You still like him. Otherwise, you
wouldn’t be here—looking like a kicked puppy with slutty make-up streaked on your face.”

“I more than like him,” Jimin groans, shoulders sagging in defeat. “There’s no fucking
butterflies in my stomach because they evolved into something else. Something monstrous,
like a corrupted, glitchy version of a fucked-up legendary Pokémon. It terrifies me.”
Hoseok gives him a long, hard look. “I don’t think it’s a Pokémon yet. I think it’s a larva
waiting to evolve into something beautiful—if you let it. But you aren’t letting it, you’re
leaving it to rot. If you don’t address your feelings soon, they’re gonna start to smell really
fucking bad.”

“There’s a larva in my stomach?” Jimin grimaces. “I think I’m gonna puke.”

“You’re the one who said it’s a disgusting butterfly monster,” Hoseok quips. “What did
Jeongguk say? Did he talk about his feelings?”

Jimin drops his gaze to the blanket. It’s fuzzy and smells lightly of lavender detergent. A
comforting smell.

“Did you know he has a please love me tattoo on his shoulder?”

“Really?”

“Well, it’s not words. It’s the meaning of a flower. His birth flower.”

“That’s very sweet,” Hoseok says.

“It’s not please be my friend. Or please crush on me. Or please like me. It’s please love me.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I see the problem here. Are you seriously letting Jeongguk’s tattoo
intimidate you?”

“I don’t know!” Jimin yells, sinking into the couch. “I don’t know! Am I? Am I this stupid?
Am I being pressured into liking Jeongguk more than I already do? Am I acting like a
douchebag? Is a weird Pokémon going to burst out of my stomach? Is it the physical
manifestation of all my fucking issues? I don’t know. I’m a mess and I don’t know.”

“I think you’re blowing this way out of proportions.”

“No shit, Sherlock! It’s what I do! It’s how my mind works,” Jimin whines, rubbing his
temples like he wants to dig his fingernails into the flesh and rip his brain out.

“Listen, it’s all very simple. Do you feel good when you’re with him?”

“Yeah?”

“You feel all warm and nice and fuzzy?”

“Well, not all the time, sometimes he’s very annoying and—”

“And you feel the same way you felt about him the first time you met him? Like, if you had
the chance, would you stab him in the hand?”

“What? No!”

“Does he make you laugh? Do you think he’s the funniest person in the world?”
Jimin scoffs. “He’s not. He says the weirdest shit sometimes. There was this one time when
he told me that—”

“So yes. Does he make you come?”

Jimin glowers at him and clenches his teeth. “Yes.”

“Speaking of sexual intercourse, would you consider him an upgrade compared to your
previous partners? Personally, I don’t think you should consider getting involved with him if
he’s worse than anyone you’ve had before,” Hoseok says matter-of-factly, like he’s
discussing the weather.

Jimin hesitates. He certainly can’t compare Jeongguk to someone that doesn’t exist, but that’s
a conversation he will save for another day.

“He’s good.”

Hoseok nudges him with a foot. “Is he big?”

Jimin shoves Hoseok’s foot off the couch.

“He doesn’t have a monster cock, if this is what you hoped for. He’s alright,” he mutters,
embarrassed. Still hugging the pillow, he flicks a loose paillette a couple times, red in the
face, then mumbles, “Girthy.”

Hoseok throws him a glance that’s a little amused, a little impressed and also a little
concerned.

“Does he fit?”

“Hoseok, oh my God,” Jimin moans, covering his entire face with the pillow. “He’s not a
porn actor! He’s a guy with a nice dick, leave me be!”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say a guy you dated had a nice dick,” Hoseok says,
sounding a lot more impressed now. “That’s literally a first. Jeongguk must hide a jewel
down there.”

“Can we please stop talking about Jeongguk’s dick?” Jimin mumbles, voice muffled by the
cushion still pressed against his face. He wonders if his skin is going to scorch the fabric—
he’s burning up.

He hears Hoseok chuckle. “Okay. Last question. Did you notice people saying you got a lot
better at acting the romance scenes lately?”

Jimin blinks and lowers the pillow.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just answer the question.”

He gives a little shrug. “Yeah, I’ve gotten a few compliments. Like, around the time I—” He
shuts up abruptly.

“Okay, as a disclaimer I want to say that I’ve always liked your acting, and I’ve always
thought you felt incredibly real, but I do think you got a lot better at pretending to be in love
a couple months after the start of rehearsals,” Hoseok says, studying him attentively. “I don’t
know if it’s a thing—but maybe you projected a little of your feelings for Jeongguk onto
Taehyung’s character? Is that possible? And that made you, like, literally glow on the stage.”

“Does it mean I’m a terrible actor who can’t act how to be in love unless I experience it
firsthand?” Jimin asks, mildly horrified.

“So you admit you’re in love with Jeongguk?”

“I didn’t say that.” Jimin points an accusatory finger at his best friend, who’s now snickering
like the lame antagonist in a 90’s children’s cartoon. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“You said ‘unless I experience it firsthand’. Are you a little in love with Jeon Jeongguk after
all?”

“This is idiotic. I can’t be in love with someone I’ve met just a few months ago. What even
are a few months? Nothing. A blink of an eye. You can’t know if you love a person in just a
few months. Hell, I think it takes years. Like, at least seven.”

“You want to be with a person for seven years before saying I love you to them?” Hoseok
asks, eyebrows rising so high they almost hit his hairline.

“You can’t say those words lightly,” Jimin says, looking at Hoseok like he’s gone mad. “They
mean something. You can’t say them to the first person you meet on the street.”

“You didn’t meet Jeongguk on the street. He’s not a random stranger who confessed his
undying love for you out of the blue. You two have been working together at this play for the
entire semester. You went from hating his guts to turning to him in times of extreme distress
—namely, when you stabbed a guy and decided to knock at his door instead of telling your
best friend first,” Hoseok says, glaring at him from the other end of the couch. “I think it’s
pretty telling, don’t you? And what the hell is this cringey philosophy you got going on, that
love is a bottle of wine and you gotta wait, what, a hundred years to pop it open? That’s
bullshit. You’re afraid of committing to a relationship because, let’s be honest, you never had
one that lasted more than a couple weeks. At some point I even suspected you weren’t much
into romance and stuff, despite you being a total goner for movies like, I don’t know, Gone
with the Wind or some shit.”

“I didn’t say love takes a hundred years to grow,” Jimin says lamely, voice as thin as paper.

“Jimin. You’re young. Life is too short to keep words to yourself,” Hoseok says, brushing
hair off Jimin’s face. “You still haven’t told me the reason you and Jeongguk had a fight, but
I think I’m smart enough to figure it out. Jeongguk isn’t expecting a marriage proposal, he
probably wants to know if you reciprocate his feelings. Am I right?”
“He doesn’t love me. He can’t love me,” Jimin says, shaking his head. There’s unease
pooling in the pits of his stomach, mixed with doubt and something warmer. “He doesn’t
know me that well.”

“Love means a thousand different things, Jimin. I’ve said I love you a bunch of times in my
life, and each time it meant something a little different. Did I ever mean it in the most
absolute, purest of meanings? Have I felt unconditional love for every partner I’ve ever had?
Not likely. But did I lie to them? I don’t think so. I loved my high school sweetheart. Do you
remember her? We were together for three years. Three whole years, and it’s a long time at
that age. I’m pretty sure I loved her. Are we still together? Hell no, I’m dating Yoongi now.
Or, well, I will be starting next Tuesday.”

“I forgot your date is next Tuesday. I’m a terrible friend.”

Hoseok waves a hand dismissively. “Point is, you can’t fixate on words. If what you feel goes
deeper than a crush, if you feel like the words I like you aren’t enough to translate the
horrifying Pokémon monster-emotion living rent-free in your chest, then just say the next
best words. Nobody is going to judge you; nobody is going to say you’re embarrassing—
especially since you’re not confessing to a random stranger but to a person you’ve come to
see as someone you trust when you’re at your most vulnerable. At the end of the day, Jimin,
love is just a man-made word, and it’s a very nice word. You might as well use it.”

“You have a strange sort of wisdom, Hobi,” Jimin says, weighing his friend’s words against
what he’s thought all his life. “I’m not sure I agree with you one hundred percent. Still, your
point of view is somewhat… refreshing, to me at least, and… comforting.”

“That’s cause you turned the word love into some kind of gargantuan boulder dragging you
down to the depths of the Mariana Trench.”

“I guess so.”

“So, are you gonna call Jeongguk now to tell him you might love him after all? Bet he’d be
thrilled to hear it.”

“Of course not, I’d look stupid. We had a fight, like—” he checks his phone, “—two hours
ago.”

“And now you’re gonna reconcile in the best of ways. With a declaration of young love.”

“Can I stay the night?”

“’Course you can, baby.” Hoseok rubs Jimin’s leg soothingly, his heart-shaped lips puckered
in a pout. “But you gotta go back to Jeongguk tomorrow and sort everything out, alright?
Promise me.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jimin nods, rising to his feet with the blanket draping his shoulders like a
superhero cape. “Lend me a pajama?”
Hoseok squints at him and gets up with a sigh of his own. Jimin waits for him in the living
room as Hoseok rummages inside his wardrobe, fidgeting with the hem of his blanket. He
already misses the warmth of Jeongguk’s bed, the scent of his laundry detergent, the almondy
notes of his shampoo mixed with a hint of sweat whenever Jeongguk buries his face in the
crook of his neck as he pushes in deeper—

Before he knows it, his mind is already straying to dangerous territory and he blushes, feeling
the stirring of want deep in his belly. He falls down on the couch and hides his face behind
his hands, groaning.

“Everything okay?” Hoseok asks, coming back with a fresh pajama and some extra blankets.

“Yeah, everything’s great. Thanks Hobi, I promise I won’t wake you up tomorrow morning.”

“Why, you’ve got places to be?”

“I have an early morning class.”

“No you don’t. Tomorrow is Saturday, Jimin.”

Jimin blinks a couple times. “Saturday. Right. Fuck, you’re right. Oh God, the play is in
seven days.”

“Exactly,” Hoseok says. “So do yourself a favor and make up with Jeongguk. You need to be
madly in love on the day of the play, not heartbroken.”

“Except at the end. Bet I could play that one scene brilliantly now.”

“So you admit to being heartbroken over Jeongguk now? That’s a deep sentiment.”

Hoseok expertly avoids the second flying pillow of the night and vanishes in his room, his
laughter still ringing loudly in Jimin’s ears.

He flops on the couch, arranging the blankets the best he can and bundling deep into them.
There’s still a lingering coldness licking at his insides, waves of a freezing ocean that crash
onto him and ebb away, crush onto him and ebb away, again, and again, and again.

Perhaps at dawn, the ocean will start turning warm.

4.
But when Monday afternoon rolls in two days later, Jimin’s cold ocean has crystallized into
thick, solid ice. He’s like a walking, breathing iceberg, except his edges are harder than the
point of a diamond.

Hoseok had breakfast with him that morning. He complained for the third day in a row that
he still hadn’t sorted things out with Jeongguk, and then slammed the door to his face
shouting You’re being impossible today. He almost wanted to reply, I feel impossible every
single day of my life, but that would have made him sound like a nobody-gets-me kind of
asshole, which wasn’t his goal.

He does feel particularly impossible to deal with today, and considering the way all the
theater members kept their distance throughout rehearsals, Jimin is pretty sure they shared
Hoseok’s opinion.

Even Taehyung isn’t being his usual golden retriever-puppy self with him today.

And then there’s Jeongguk—indifferent, quiet, tepid Jeongguk. Just having him at the
periphery of his vision makes Jimin’s blood run slightly colder.

Jeongguk didn’t talk to him all day. He watched every scene carefully, pencil tucked behind
an ear as per usual. Leg bouncing a little in between scenes, like he couldn’t wait for the
techies to hurry up and switch the settings. Like he couldn’t wait to bolt home as soon as
possible.

His home. An empty home.

Without Jimin.

That’s when a million angry thoughts flood his head. Who the fuck am I to think he was going
to miss me? Why was I so sure he would have wanted to talk to me? Angry, furious thoughts,
each and every one of them icy cold. Sharp and pointy, like icicles pointed straight at his
heart, surrounding it from all sides. The barest movement, and it’s over for him.

Jimin breathes out, exhaling the long day out of his lungs. He’s surprised when his breath
doesn’t plume in front of him.

Despite his belligerent nature, Jimin hates to fight, so much. He’s not the type that likes
confrontations. He doesn’t know how to admit that he’s wrong, and when he’s right he
doesn’t know how to tell people he’s been hurt by them.

Sitting backstage in front of the mirror—a cheaper, much less expensive version of the vanity
tables at the Black Bird—Jimin wipes the makeup off his face with slow, tired movements.
He finishes wiping one side and stares at what’s left on the right part of his face.

The stage makeup sits heavy on his skin. It exaggerates his features almost grotesquely. He’s
gotten used to seeing this warped version of himself in the mirror, but there’s nothing he can
do about the itchiness when he’s on the stage. The makeup melts slowly but steadily under
the stage lights. It’s not his favorite feeling in the world. Sometimes it’s so thick and cakey
that he fears his face will fall off in front of everyone, weighed down by all that crap.

He’s always the last one in the dressing room because of his stupid makeup. It’s heavier on
him because he’s the protagonist, because he must have the most recognizable face on the
stage. He hates it. He never had to wear this much makeup on a play before—but then again,
his previous plays weren’t exactly as big a production as Orioles is supposed to be.

He thinks about the fact that there’s going to be cameras, and people are going to film his
performance. There’s a contest Namjoon, Yoongi and Jeongguk are dead set on winning, each
for their own reasons—Jeongguk for best screenwriting, Namjoon for directing, and Yoongi
for his work on the soundtrack—and as much as he wishes for them to bag all those awards,
he feels the slightest hint of dread whenever he remembers that the jury will also judge the
actors’ performances.

Perhaps he’s not made for the spotlight. Perhaps he should just stick to his history books.

He’s just finished wiping most of the makeup away when the door opens again. It’s Yoongi
and Jeongguk, and they appear to be deep in conversation, oblivious to Jimin sitting all by
himself by the mirrors.

“—I’ve heard that the plot is very convoluted and the protagonist is supposed to act this one
scene half-naked, like, I think pretty much the whole thing is a little explicit, but the rules of
the contest don’t allow for nudity scenes—trust me, I checked—so I’m not sure if they’ll let
them participate this year.”

“A nudity scene? Wish I’d thought of that.”

“Do you want to win or not?”

“It was a joke.”

“Oh, hey Jimin.” Yoongi realizes they’re not alone and shoots Jimin a small smile. “I didn’t
see you there. I thought you already left.”

Jimin looks at the two men through the mirror, eyebrows raised.

“It takes me forever to remove all the makeup.”

“Ah, it is quite heavy. But you look good in it, if it makes you feel better,” Yoongi says,
smiling. “Hoseok didn’t come today?”

“No, he had a family dinner or something,” he mutters, eyes inevitably sliding over to
Jeongguk’s distant gaze in the mirror.

“Ah. Uhm, did he tell you we’re going on a date tomorrow?”

Jimin looks back at Yoongi, lets a small smile tug his lips upwards.
“Of course. He’s very excited. Where are you guys going?”

His voice comes out false, shrill with fake enthusiasm that grates at his nerves. He doesn’t
want to sound like he’s pretending to be excited about Yoongi and Hoseok’s date because he
is happy they’re finally going out, but at the same time it’s hard to act like everything is okay
with Jeongguk just standing there, cold and still as a monolith.

“Don’t tell him, but I was thinking maybe my studio? I want him to listen to… some stuff…
that I’ve been working on lately,” Yoongi says, blushing a healthy pink. “I’ve been feeling,
ah, inspired lately. A bit.”

Jimin’s heart clenches. He remembers Hoseok telling him that love is just a little word for
something that doesn’t have to be bigger than himself to have a right to exist in the world.

Sometimes it’s in the small things, like making a song inspired by heart-shaped lips.

“I think it’s a great idea and he’ll love it,” Jimin says, sincere. He feels Jeongguk’s eyes on
him, remembers the tone of his voice when he indirectly called their trip to the abandoned
amusement park a date.

“I hope so,” Yoongi mumbles, breaking into an endearing smile. He pats Jeongguk’s shoulder
and adds, “I gotta go home and fix the sound effects in today’s scenes before I forget again.
See you tomorrow, guys.”

“Bye, Yoongi,” Jimin says, watching Jeongguk nod once and then slide his hands in the back
pockets of his jeans.

He seems to debate whether to follow after Yoongi or stay in the room.

Jimin peeks at Jeongguk’s reflection, mouth pressed into a line to make sure he doesn’t say
anything he’ll regret later. He tosses the dirty cotton pads in the trash bin under the table.

Jeongguk is still there, quiet as the grave.

And then he moves towards the door to walk out without a word.

Hell, no.

“You don’t want to know where I’m sleeping?”

Jimin peers into the mirror again, not daring to turn around. As if the Jeongguk in the mirror
were the real one, and the one at his back just an uncomfortable shadow making the hair at
the back of his neck stand on end.

Jeongguk stands very still in front of the door, body rigid, unnaturally stiff.

“Why?” he finally asks. He doesn’t turn around. “Why do you want me to care? You said
we’re not together.”

“So you care only if I say we are?”

Now Jeongguk turns to meet his eyes in the mirror.

“I’m really tired, Jimin. I don’t feel like playing your mind games tonight.”

“I’ve never played mind games with you,” Jimin snaps, whipping around to finally face
Jeongguk. “Never.”

Jeongguk snorts. “You play mind games with yourself all the time, Jimin. It’s exhausting,
even for me. Don’t you ever get tired?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

He knows exactly what Jeongguk is talking about.

Jeongguk seems to think the same, and just shakes his head. He’s disappointed.
Disappointment looks dark and bitter on Jeongguk, and it’s a punch in the guts for Jimin.

“Whatever. I see you’re still playing dumb. I gotta go.”

He takes a few steps towards the door, stops again with a hand on the door handle. The grip
Jimin has on the armrest of his chair turns to steel, knuckles whitening out in the effort of
holding himself back.

“By the way, I know you’re sleeping at Hoseok’s—so I wasn’t worried. But all your stuff is
still at my place, so, you know, whenever you want to get it back… just tell me beforehand.”

Jimin stares, mouth agape, eyes wide in stunned surprise. It feels like someone dunked an
entire bucket full of iced water over his head. That sensation of having his clothes all wet and
stuck to his skin, weighing him down—he feels that, somehow. Heavy. Cold. Shivering—
mad? Sad?

He doesn’t remember getting up.

Jeongguk squints, eyeing him up and down.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

Jimin scoffs. He gets it now. He’s mad at himself for being mad. He shouldn’t be. Just say
sorry. Say you were scared. Of feelings out of your control, his feelings, your feelings,
everything.

“Like what?”

“Like you expected me to say something else instead,” Jeongguk says, hand retracting from
the door handle. He folds his arms over his chest. “I won’t ask you to come back, Jimin.”

Jimin doesn’t react, but something in his expression pulls a chuckle out of Jeongguk.

“I’m sorry, did you want me to? Did you want me to knock at Hoseok’s door and beg you to
come back? Maybe apologize for—for what?” Jeongguk shrugs, looks at him expectantly
before pushing on, “tell me, Jimin, in this little scenario of yours that you expected me to act
out, exactly what did you want me to apologize for?”

Jimin sets his jaw. “I never said I wanted an apology.”

“Then why are you mad at me? What did I do? I thought you liked what we had.”

I did. Jimin bites the inside of his cheek to trap the words behind his gritted teeth.

“I thought we were having fun?”

We were. He tastes copper in his mouth.

“—even despite all the shit in our lives, I thought we were doing pretty fucking great
together. And for you to suddenly pretend like all of this means nothing—”

Jimin’s head snaps in the direction of the door—there are faint voices on the other side,
people walking down the narrow corridor leading to the dressing room. He was sure he and
Jeongguk were the only ones left.

And Jeongguk is still talking.

“—waking up with you next to me every day—”

“Keep your voice down,” Jimin hisses, eyes bouncing from Jeongguk to the door to Jeongguk
again. The voices have gotten closer.

“—waiting for you to get back from work to go to bed togeth—”

“Jeongguk, shut the fuck up!”

He smacks a hand on Jeongguk’s mouth, effectively shutting him up. Jeongguk glares at him;
he swears there’s smoke coming out of his eyes. If looks could kill, Jimin would be a little
mound of ashes on the floor.

He doesn’t pull back though, and keeps his hand firmly pressed against Jeongguk’s mouth.
The voices on the other side get louder before finally drifting away again. Jimin recognizes
them—it’s the costumers. Seems like a couple of them stayed behind to fix a problem with
one of Taehyung’s scene costumes.

Jeongguk waits for them to exit the building before angrily tearing Jimin’s hand off himself.

“We can’t even talk now?”

“You were literally shouting! What if they heard?”

“Have you even listened to a word I said?”

“I did!” Jimin shouts, angry.

“I don’t think so!” Jeongguk yells.

“I don’t know what to say, okay!”

“Then what’s the point of us talking right now?”

Jimin rakes his hands through his hair, frustration climbing its way out of his throat with a
mangled groan.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Jimin, for fuck’s sake, anything—say anything!”

It’s when the words he wants to say die out at the tip of his tongue and he can’t do anything
but stutter, voice lost, that Jeongguk scoffs and turns away. Jimin is no longer sure which runs
deeper—the disappointment in Jeongguk’s eyes or the anger he feels towards himself,
because despite everything Hoseok said to him and the things he’s realized by himself, he
still can’t bring himself to speak the words that would make Jeongguk stay.

He never was good with words, after all. That’s Jeongguk’s domain. He’s the writer and
poetry reader, the gifted student who writes the heart-rending love stories where the
characters wear their hearts on their sleeves, he’s the one with the Please love me tattoo on
his skin. Words, words, so many words, whereas Jimin is nothing but a jumble of feelings
he’s too scared to put a name on.

So he does what he does best when his head is a mess and his plans don’t work out the way
he wants to—act on impulse.

He grabs Jeongguk by the elbow and kisses him.

Jeongguk makes a startled sound as he stumbles backwards, but his hands fly immediately to
Jimin’s waist as if on autopilot. They don’t pull him closer. They just rest there, uncertain but
present, lingering even after Jimin draws back.

“Why did you kiss me?”

“Because I’m not good with words?”

Jeongguk peers at him, confused.

“So you just kiss me?”

A low buzzing in Jimin’s ears. Jeongguk is still holding him at the waist, but he looks so far
away.

“We’re fighting,” Jeongguk enunciates calmly. “You can’t do that when we’re fighting.”

Jimin snorts, challenging.

“I can do whatever I want. If I want to kiss you, I’ll kiss you.”

“What is this?” Jeongguk asks, pulling back. “What are we doing?”

Jimin takes a small step forward to close the distance again, eyes zeroing in on Jeongguk’s
lips.

“Fighting, obviously.”

“Then you’re way worse at words than what I believed, cause this isn’t what fighting means.”

There’s a warning in there somewhere, buried deep in the thickness of Jeongguk’s voice.

“You can keep yelling at me if that’s what you’re into.”

Jeongguk squints, opens his mouth, tries to say something, thinks against it. It would be
endearing and a little funny, were Jimin not busy trying to tame the wild beating of his heart.
What the fuck am I doing?

“You’re acting weird.”

“And don’t you like weird?”

He grabs Jeongguk’s crotch and squeezes, eliciting a startled gasp.

“Jimin—”

“I thought you would miss me,” Jimin whispers on his lips. “I was sure of it. But you don’t
look bothered at all. It hurts my feelings a little.”

“What feelings, Jimin?” Jeongguk quips in what would be a tired, mocking tone, but Jimin’s
hand squeezing down his crotch thickens his voice considerably. “Looks to me like you ran
away from all of ‘em.”

The proximity of their bodies fogs Jimin’s head, sends familiar shivers down his back. This is
wrong, it’s all wrong; he should talk with Jeongguk, not fondle him in a dressing room.

“Then maybe I need something else to fill the void they left behind,” Jimin teases. “Any
suggestions?”

Jeongguk shoots him an almost reproachful look.

“I thought you needed space. To think. That’s what I was giving you—space.”

It’s not what Jimin wants to hear.

If he could go back in time, he would do anything in his power not to be in the same dressing
room as Jeongguk last Friday night at the Bird. Jeongguk demanding words from him, him
freaking out.

“Why don’t you give me something else?”

These are not his words and these are thoughts that don’t sound like him; these are the wrong
words and the wrong feelings and the wrong place to express the absolutely wrong kind of
feelings. This is what happens when his brain short-circuits and he’s smelling Jeongguk’s
familiar cologne but Jeongguk is still demanding words and he isn’t pulling away, he isn’t
getting angry, isn’t shouting at him like he should, because he should, because Jimin deserves
it.

His fingers find Jeongguk’s fly and zips it down. Jeongguk grabs his wrist with a last warning
look.

“Is this all you want? For me to fuck you and make you feel normal?”

“Don’t pretend like you haven’t enjoyed having me as your little pet project.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“The blushing virgin with the weird body issues and sub-zero confidence? The little birdie
Seokjin tasked you with teaching all you know about sex? Oh, how you loved to watch me
squirm. Finally fucking me must have felt like a hard-earned accomplishment.”

Jeongguk shoves him against the vanity table at his back, caging him in with both his hands
planted at Jimin’s sides.

“Sounds like you know how to use your words when you want to sound like an asshole.”

“How long until the excitement wears off and I start to bore you?” Jimin snarls, face an inch
away from Jeongguk’s. “Until after the play? Let me guess, you want to be absolutely sure I
can play your character like you want me to, that I don’t mess it up? And then what?”

He pushes off the table, but Jeongguk doesn’t budge. They’re breathing the same hot, angry
air.

“Tell me. What happens after the lights go out?”

These fetid, festering thoughts are his most well-kept secrets. Now he’s dug them all out,
exposing them to harsh daylight, and the sun does nothing but shine light on the rot.

“Nothing happens,” Jeongguk says, staring deeply into his eyes. “Everything stays the same.
Why are you so determined to paint me like someone I’m not?”

“So we go home and fuck?” Jimin asks, laughing bitterly. “Or maybe it happens behind the
scenes, because my performance of a character you have written got you all worked up. One
last fuck before I get too… stale.” He presses against Jeongguk and curls one arm around his
neck, pushing his head down.

“Want to rehearse that tonight? I promise I’m still fresh.”

He licks over Jeongguk’s lips, filthy and languid, and Jeongguk lets him in almost too
willingly. He can feel the anger radiating off Jeongguk in waves, can almost taste the conflict
raging inside his head. To give in or to not give in—part of Jimin wishes he’d push him away,
refuse to play his game. The other part is too desperate for Jeongguk’s touch to ever let him
go.
When they both come up for air, he knows Jeongguk has chosen to stay. But his anger hasn’t
bled into lust, no, it’s very much still there, burning up behind his eyes. Mixed in with need,
and it’s an intoxicating blend.

It makes him painfully hard in a matter of seconds.

“Fuck me.” Whispered words, breathless and wrong. “Here. Now.”

Jeongguk grabs his arms and yanks them off himself. He’s changed his mind, is what crosses
Jimin’s mind the moment before Jeongguk spins him around roughly and pushes Jimin’s hips
up against his ass.

“How else am I gonna get rid of this?”

Jeongguk grinds against him, making sure Jimin feels every inch of his growing hardness.

Jimin’s eyes close and he moans—loud, shameless. If he were to open his eyes he’d see his
reflection in the mirror, but he doesn’t dare.

It’s all downhill from there. Jeongguk fumbles with Jimin’s fly, hands frantic and eager. He
presses wet kisses along Jimin’s neck, but they’re not soft. They burn when Jeongguk starts
biting and sucking on the skin. He yanks Jimin’s jeans and underwear down like he wants to
tear them off his body.

They don’t waste any more time. Jeongguk bends him over the table with a possessive hand
splayed over his back, kneading his ass cheek with the other. Jimin yelps in surprise, falling
onto his forearms and finally meeting his own gaze in the mirror. He looks flushed, lips all
swollen and red, eyes big and pupils blown-out by arousal. This is everything a sick, twisted
part of him wanted to get out of Jeongguk tonight, and everything he thought he would never
have the courage to ask for.

And he wants to feel like shit because he dragged it out of Jeongguk when he clearly
shouldn’t have—but his eyes flit to Jeongguk’s reflection as he shoves his pants down and
grabs his cock, and Jimin’s mind whites out in an instant.

“I don’t have lube,” Jeongguk says, rubbing the full length of his hard member against the
cleft of Jimin’s ass.

“I don’t care,” Jimin mumbles, looking at him in the mirror with eyes already glazed over.
“Use your spit.”

He thought Jeongguk would protest; he expected him to say, but Jimin, I don’t want to hurt
you in that worried tone of his, with big puppy eyes round with concern. But he severely
underestimated how angry Jeongguk is.

Jeongguk doesn’t hesitate one second. He spreads Jimin’s ass cheeks and stoops to blow hot
air on his rim.

This time, it’s not to pleasure him. Jeongguk doesn’t go slow, and doesn’t tease his way to a
rim job like the last time. It’s clear the objective isn’t to make Jimin come on his tongue, but
simply to make him wet and loose enough to facilitate the slide of his cock.

Jeongguk licks over his entrance only a couple times before pushing the tip of his tongue past
the ring of muscle, then pushing deeper and deeper. He swirls his tongue around almost
ferociously, dragging a staccato of broken whines out of Jimin. It doesn’t stop there. When
Jeongguk pulls back, it’s to spread him wider and spit right on his hole.

When Jeongguk adds his fingers to the mix, Jimin jolts, banging the top of his head against
the mirror. He tries to steady himself by clutching the edges of the table, knuckles turning
white with the effort, panting and moaning like he’s never done before—putting on a show,
like Jeongguk taught him during their lessons. Jeongguk opens him fast and efficiently, with
deft fingers scissoring him wide, and it’s so rough and detached that Jimin feels like crying.

Jeongguk doesn’t seem to care about his squirming—doesn’t seem to feel much of anything,
except maybe for the need to ravish him. When he deems Jimin loose and wet enough for
him, he simply straightens up and locks Jimin’s hips in place.

The sheer assertiveness with which he does so turns Jimin’s blood to liquid fire.

They’ve never fucked without lube before. Jeongguk always used a very generous amount to
make the experience as comfortable as possible for Jimin, sometimes even at the expense of
his own pleasure. There’s no trace of this special care tonight, and Jeongguk’s hands on
himself feel heavier than ever.

Panting, Jimin meets Jeongguk’s gaze in the mirror and holds it. Even with spit and drool
coating his chin, Jeongguk looks insanely handsome. Perhaps it’s the resentment nestled in
the brown of his eyes.

Jeongguk wipes his chin with his sleeve before taking his cock in his hand and tugging at it,
still holding eye contact, still expressionless and cold.

He’s rock hard, that Jimin can tell. Jeongguk always enjoyed prepping him, but maybe it’s all
the pent-up anger and frustration what chubbed him up to full hardness in record time. He
allows himself to drink in the sight of Jeongguk’s cock—heavy and drooling profusely, it
looks just about ready to split him open, and he can’t wait for it.

Jeongguk spits on his length one last time. Not once he smiles at Jimin in the mirror, not once
he bends down to whisper in his ear, Are you sure? Maybe we should just talk. He’s given
him many opportunities to talk, and Jimin pulled away every time. This Jeongguk doesn’t
want to talk anymore. This Jeongguk that he drove into a corner until he cracked just wants to
let go of his frustrations, and fuck him raw.

So when Jeongguk pushes in without so much as a heads up, each of Jimin’s senses turn ten
times sharper.

He bites down on his lip to stifle a whimper. Jeongguk has his eyes cast down, glued to
Jimin’s asshole swallowing him whole, inch by inch. The drag is excruciatingly slow but
steady, with Jeongguk feeding more of his cock to him without caring to ask if it hurts.
And it doesn’t, and it does, and it’s never burned so bad and he’s never felt so snug around
Jeongguk’s cock before, and maybe that’s why Jeongguk doesn’t care to look up, because
he’s enjoying it, too.

The thought alone threatens to strip away the last of Jimin’s sanity. He feels frail, so frail,
about to shatter—about to explode, too full, too full, too good. It hurts but doesn’t want it to
stop; he watches Jeongguk’s expression morph from a deep scowl to a look of near reverence,
broad strokes of unadulterated pleasure painted all over his face.

He bottoms out with a downright obscene moan, pressing down on Jimin’s back dimples with
his thumbs—a habit developed on nights where he’d been sweeter, softer, obsessed with
every nook and cranny of Jimin’s body.

“Three days apart and you’re already so fucking tight,” Jeongguk grunts in between breaths.
A serrated, raucous laugh. “Fuck. I’m not gonna last long.”

It’s the only warning Jimin gets before Jeongguk pounds into him, building a pace that’s fast
and rough.

All the breath is knocked out of his lungs—it’s almost like being repeatedly punched in the
gut, except it’s Jeongguk mercilessly rearranging his insides to his liking. His thrusts are
quick and powerful, the smacking sound of balls against the soft flesh of his ass positively
deafening and near mortifying. He knows what it looks like, him bent over the vanity table
clinging to dear life, Jeongguk fucking into him with his jeans halfway pushed down his ass.

It looks pornographic.

And it looks soulless.

Jimin gasps, sucking in air with every harsh thrust jostling him forward. All of his moans and
mewls perch at the back of his throat—he doesn’t have enough breath to let them out; he’s
left voiceless, powerless.

Jeongguk is so rough with his thrusts that soon, Jimin is made to stand on his toes. His breath
fogs the mirror, his legs start to quiver. Dopey. His brain is goo. Jeongguk doubles his efforts,
and Jimin lets out the first moan of their—session.

And it’s when Jimin has to brace himself with a hand against the mirror so as not to slam into
it, that Jeongguk bends to whisper in his ear,

“This what you want me to be?”

He stops then, fully sheathed inside Jimin.

Jimin’s first answer is a gurgled moan. He can’t concentrate on the right answer with
Jeongguk’s cock filling him so nicely, warming him up from the inside out—burning him,
burning him. He clenches around it, and the hissing escaping Jeongguk’s lips elates him.
When Jeongguk cants his hips again, much slower this time, rolling them against his ass to let
Jimin savor all of him, it feels as if they’re back in Jeongguk’s apartment again.
All it takes is words, and he can have that again.

“No,” Jimin breathes out, eyes fluttering shut. “Yes. I don’t know. I want everything.”

At his back, Jeongguk laughs.

“Are you sure you’re ready for everything?” He doesn’t sound amused. “Open your eyes.”

Jimin shakes his head. He knows Jeongguk will be staring at him through the mirror,
searching for all the answers Jimin can’t give him yet, but reading them in the brown of his
irises regardless.

“Open your eyes.”

Jeongguk angles his hips differently and slams back in, hitting his prostate with deadly
precision. Jimin’s eyes fly open with a curse. Jeongguk stops again and stares at his
reflection.

“I want you to look at yourself as I make you come,” Jeongguk says, hand snaking under
Jimin’s sweater to pinch his nipple. “I want you to know this is what I do to you.” He licks
along the shell of his ear, pulling the lobe in his mouth, biting it. “I want you to remember it
as long as you live.”

He pulls back and resumes fucking into him, but this time his hands lock him in place with
such strength Jimin is sure they’ll leave bruises behind. There’s a new urgency to his thrusts,
a primal need to chase the climax and paint Jimin’s walls in white. Soon enough, the rhythm
of his hips begins to stutter, and after a couple shallow thrusts Jeongguk buries his cock deep
into him with a last, hard shove, and releases with a grunt.

Wrapped in his own heat, Jimin admires every little shift in Jeongguk’s expression—urgency
then desperation then ecstasy then bliss—before he also tips over the edge, and spills his seed
all over the table.

Jeongguk grabs his chin and makes sure Jimin watches it all—the climb, the high, the slow
descension from pleasure. He pants against his ear and whispers words that drown in Jimin’s
moans. Jeongguk’s eyes stay glued to his, searing black as his mind whites out.

And this is how it all ends, with Jeongguk pulling out with a wet squelch and Jimin panting
against the mirror.

Still woozy, he watches Jeongguk grab a few wipes from the table, clean himself up. Feels his
come dribble down his perineum, wetting his balls, trickling down his inner thighs. Warm
and sticky, familiar. Jeongguk grabs another handful of wipes and takes a step forward, ready
to clean him up like he’s always done.

“No,” Jimin grits out, still sprawled on his stomach. Half the stuff on the vanity table has
either rolled away or fallen off. “I’ll do it.”

Jeongguk gives him a long look. Then, he sets the wipes down on the table and tucks himself
inside his pants, wordlessly.
This feels different from all the other times they had sex. Jimin doesn’t feel good. It felt good
but he doesn’t. He feels like utter shit. As if he just won a game he never truly intended to
win, and now he’s stuck with a shitty reward he never wanted in the first place.

Most of all, he feels ashamed.

“Can you go?” he asks weakly, hiding his face behind his arms.

“What?”

“I said—can you go? Can you leave first?”

A long pause. The back of his eyes starts to sting.

“Are you sure—”

“Can you please go? Please.”

Jeongguk doesn’t sound mad. Perhaps his anger vanished the moment he spilled inside him.
Is that really all it takes for Jeongguk to forgive him? Is it that easy—a quick fuck behind the
scenes of a theater, with the risk of being caught fueling their lust? Or is he reading too much
into it again?

Should he just turn and say I’m sorry?

His mind is a maze and he’s getting lost in it again.

He hears Jeongguk walk closer, and he tenses up. He’s still very much naked from the waist
down, sticky, and cold.

Jeongguk places a kiss on the back of his head and then draws back.

“Okay.”

He leaves the room a moment later. Jimin is alone again. Still half-naked, still cold, with
Jeongguk’s come drying on his skin as a reminder of how dumb, how useless, how cruel he
can be.

He cleans himself up as best he can, dresses up quickly. His ass is sore, sore like it’s never
been before. He flinches when he sits down on one of the chairs to tie his shoelaces. If he
closes his eyes, he thinks he can conjure up the feeling of Jeongguk’s cock dragging in and
out of him, hard and hot and relentless. Walking to the bus station is going to be a bitch
tonight. He kind of feels like taking a bath in iced water, maybe submerge himself in the
water completely until his lungs start to protest and he doesn’t care about anything.

That’d be nice. Cleaning. Cleansing.

Nice lie.
When he comes back to Hoseok’s apartment, he finds that his friend isn’t home. Better this
way, Jimin thinks, heading to the bathroom to take a shower. Walking inside, he realizes that
Hoseok does have a bathtub—a really nice one at that.

He turns on the faucet, letting freezing cold water fill the tub. Watches the water rise slowly,
then when it’s only halfway full he strips naked and gingerly steps inside.

It’s positively gelid, the water freezing the bottom part of his legs as soon as he steps in.
Holding his breath, Jimin slowly lies down in the tub, hissing when the cold water licks at his
chest.

He’s still sore, but he’ll be numb soon. First his body, then his head.

Lying in the half-empty bathtub, staring at the water rising all around him, Jimin waits for the
last of his thoughts to freeze over.
Chapter 14
1.
The next morning, Jimin slides in the seat next to Hoseok in one of the very last rows of the
lecture hall. The professor drones on about iambic pentameters and poetic closure and
Hoseok looks positively bored, doodling potted flowers all along the margins of his
notebook.

“I did something extremely stupid,” Jimin whispers to a startled Hoseok, who then looks up
at him confused.

“What are you doing here? You don’t have this class.”

“Jeongguk isn’t here, right?”

“This class is for seniors.”

“Good,” Jimin says, sniffing. “I fucked up.”

Hoseok arches an eyebrow. “More than you already have?”

“I was going to talk to him, say something that finally made sense. Solve the situation. Well, I
made it ten times worse instead. And now it’s awkward as fuck.”

Hoseok groans. He throws a glance at the professor, sighs, and closes his notebook. No more
flowers for his literature notes.

“What did you do this time? Tell me you haven’t stabbed him, too.”

“I stabbed one man out of sheer panic and now it’s my fundamental character trait?”

“No, but it helps put everything in perspective. What you did can’t be worse than stabbing
Jeongguk in the hand, right?”

Jimin lowers his voice to barely even a whisper.

“We had sex backstage last night.”

“That’s way better than stabbing him in the hand, Jimin.”

“No, you don’t understand. I baited him into having sex with me,” Jimin continues, nervously
checking that no one is eavesdropping on them. There are empty seats all around Hoseok and
him, and the few people sitting close by are either staring off into distance or discreetly
listening to music with their air pods on.

“Like—you forced him to?”

“No—what the fuck? No!” Jimin splutters, agitated. “He wanted it too. He very much wanted
it.”
“Then, what’s the issue?”

“He was angry. We were fighting? And I just—threw myself at him, like it would solve all
our problems. I missed him and I didn’t want us to fight and I did a very stupid, very
immature thing.”

“So you had hate-sex,” Hoseok hums, thrumming his fingers against his chin.

“Well, we don’t hate each other. I think—he doesn’t hate me, does he?”

“Have you given him any reason to hate you?” Hoseok shrugs. “Did you tell him you didn’t
feel a thing cause his dick is the size of a thumb?”

“No. But I asked him to go away as soon as we were done.”

“Ah.”

“That’s bad, right? I just felt like trash afterwards. Not because it wasn’t good—cause it was,
my god, it was insanely good, even though it physically hurts to sit in this chair now—”

“Wait, like, for real?”

“—I just needed a minute to think about how big of a piece of shit I am.”

“Jimin, I think you like to soak in your misery juices a little too much,” Hoseok sighs. “Less
wallowing in regret and more action, darling.”

“I know, I fucking suck. I hate myself,” Jimin groans loudly. A girl a couple of rows ahead
flashes him a dirty look over her shoulder. He ducks his head, lowering his voice back to a
whisper.

“But I will set this straight. Once and for all, tonight. After rehearsals.”

“Tell me you have a better plan than seducing Jeongguk again.”

“I’m gonna talk to him. Really talk to him. With real words.”

“As opposed to fake words?”

“And tell him that I don’t want him to hate me. And that I don’t hate him, despite acting like
an asshole half the time.”

“That’s a great start for an apology, if a little slow.”

“I’ll tell him that I don’t want to be a burden for him, that I’ll find a room for me and Jihyun
in some cheap goshiwon in the area.”

“Wait, Jihyun too?” Hoseok asks, confused.

“It’s a long story. Anyway, wish me luck and pray I don’t get possessed by the demon of
abysmal stupidity again.”
“More like the demon of sex in public spaces.”

“That, too.”

Jimin sighs and runs a hand over his weary face. He hasn’t slept a wink last night, and he’s
still got a long day ahead of him. A class after lunch, then rehearsals—which are getting
progressively more hectic as Saturday approaches—and then work at the Bird. He wishes he
could go back to Hoseok’s house and crawl back in bed—which is just a couch, but it’s better
than nothing.

“Sounds like you’ve got a plan. Just remember that I have my date with Yoongi tonight,
okay? You haven’t forgotten, right?” Hoseok quirks one eyebrow. “You promised me you’ll
help me pick my outfit.”

Jimin nods, a little guilty because he did forget that tonight is Hoseok’s date night. Luckily,
he’s been told he’s a very good actor.

“I better get going. You should pay attention to the lecture, you know?” Jimin nods toward
the professor. He thinks back to Jeongguk on the couch with his nose buried in poetry books,
reading aloud the ones he liked the most. “It seems really interesting.”

He slinks out of the lecture hall unnoticed, hearing Jeongguk’s black velvet voice recite Wild
nights! Wild nights! in a little secluded corner of his mind.

He swallows around the lump in his throat.

2.
He planned to hunt down Jeongguk after rehearsals and drag him to some coffee shop to
finally let words spill out of his mouth and talk everything out like the adults they’re
supposed to be, but Jeongguk decides to make things difficult for him.

He simply gathers his stuff and leaves an hour before the end of rehearsals. From backstage,
Jimin watches him whisper something in Namjoon’s ear before surreptitiously walking out of
the theater. He knows Jeongguk has work, but he never starts his shifts this early in the
evening. That means he’s either got something else to take care of first, or that he’s taken an
earlier shift today.

More work. Knowing him, Jimin supposes it’s the latter.

He has to wait until the end of rehearsals before jumping off the stage and hurrying back to
his belongings. He stuffs the script in his bag and throws a glance at the big clock on the
opposite wall. If he hurries, he can be at the Bird in thirty minutes.

Jimin doesn’t have work tonight, but since a certain someone decided to take extra shifts on
the day he made up his mind to talk things out, he will have to chase Jeongguk all the way to
the other end of the city. But he’s determined to solve this. He’s determined to finally tell
Jeongguk that—well, he didn’t prepare a speech. He’s not good at monologues, like
Jeongguk is. But he’s confident he’ll figure something out. He’s watched hundreds of movies,
read hundreds of books. He knows how moving, heartfelt speeches should sound like. He’ll
recall those that stuck to him the most, and build up from that, and eventually something
decent and sincere will come out. Right? Or perhaps he’s just chasing after the next inevitable
disaster. Perhaps surprising Jeongguk at the Black Bird is not a good idea at all.

Thing is, Jimin is pretty sure he hasn’t gotten a good idea in months, so what the hell. Hoseok
is right—the worst thing he could do is stab Jeongguk in a fit of blind rage. Chances are they
end up fucking if things really do get out of hand, so Jimin figures he shouldn’t worry about
that too much.

“Hey, Namjoon?”

He waves Namjoon over to a corner of the theater. He waits for a couple of techies to walk
past them before asking, “Why did Jeongguk leave early?”

If he’s to go to the Bird, he wants to make sure he will find Jeongguk there. Depending on
what Jeongguk has told Namjoon, he’ll decide whether it sounds like an excuse, or the truth.

“You two don’t talk anymore?”

“We usually don’t talk a lot.”

“I thought you guys were a thing.”

“Us? A thing?” Jimin stammers, hitching the strap of his bag up his shoulder, suddenly
nervous. “What makes you think that?”

“Didn’t you guys hook up?” Namjoon asks, frowning.

Did Jeongguk tell Namjoon? God, he’s going to kill him.

He decides to play it safe. “Do we look like we hooked up?”

Namjoon shrugs. He waves at the people filing out of the theater, takes off his glasses and
wipes the lenses on his shirt.

“I assumed you guys had at least kissed—since Jeongguk’s script is 80% sketches of your
lips and 20% words.”

Jimin blushes viciously.

“Y—you saw that?”

Namjoon gives him an indulgent smile. He looks a little like a father who’s just told his son
he already knows about his “secret” boyfriend.

“I sit right next to him during rehearsals, Jimin. Jeongguk isn’t nearly as sneaky as he thinks
he is.”

“We switched scripts once, by accident. That’s how I found out,” Jimin admits, shuffling his
feet.

“Jesus. Did it creep you out?”

Jimin huffs out a breathless chuckle. “I certainly didn’t expect it. But they were nice sketches,
so I forgave him.” He gives a half-hearted shrug. “It’s not like he’s got a wall of pictures of
me at the supermarket or at the laundromat like a creepy stalker psycho person.”

“That would be bad. Have you checked?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

“So you did hook up,” Namjoon says, grinning.

He rolls his eyes. Since he’s going to set things right with Jeongguk tonight, he might as well
come clean to the others, starting with Namjoon.

“It might have happened once or twice.” Or several times.

“I knew it. I noticed a shift in your relationship,” Namjoon says, looking rather pleased with
himself. “You guys looked cute as shit last week, all furtive glances and wide smiles. You
almost didn’t need a light on the stage, you glowed all on your own.”
The skin on Jimin’s cheeks tingles with fierce embarrassment, but he gives out a big scoff
regardless.

“So, what happened?”

“We had a fight. It’s stupid.”

“You were in a really bad mood yesterday. Taehyung almost cried when you yelled at him
cause he missed his cue.”

“He did?” Jimin says, concerned.

“Well, no. But he got a little upset. I guess everyone’s a bit sensitive lately, what with the play
being so close and everything. You have your personal issues as well. Being in a fight with
one of the screenwriters and having to work with him almost every day can’t be easy.”

“I’m trying to set it right,” Jimin says, fidgeting with his bag. “It was kind of my fault.”

“Well, Jeongguk told me he’s taken on a translation job for a foreign clothing website and the
deadline is due tonight, so he needed a little time to finish it. Maybe you can find him at his
apartment?”

Translation job for a foreign clothing website—that’s one hundred percent code for extra shift
at the Black Bird. He’s going there.

“I’ll see if he’s home, then. Thank you, Joon.”

“No problem. Oh, and, for what it’s worth, Jimin, I think you and Gguk have really nice
chemistry. And we really need you at your best for Saturday, you know that, yes?” Namjoon
casts him a sly glance. “So I hope you guys make up soon. Don’t get your heart broken,
alright? It doesn’t fit with the theme of the play.”

“Mugwan dies at the end.”

“At the end,” Namjoon says, eyes glinting. “The journey there is what’s important.”
3.
He arrives at the Black Bird a little over forty minutes later because of rain and crazy traffic.
He slips inside using the entrance reserved to the staff, as usual. A few hosts greet him with
wan smiles and tired eyes while heading to their own destinations—some to the main hall
where the booths and tables are, others to the elevators to work in the rooms upstairs.
Sometimes it’s hard to tell a Common from a Rare or an Exotic, their eyes start to look the
same in the late hours of the night. Tired and murky.

He’s not allowed to access the main hall unless he’s working, so he can’t take a peek to check
if Jeongguk is working there—though chances are he’s probably attending to some old man
in the booths, given that ever since the accident, he’d decided to take a break from working
upstairs.

Accident. The word always leaves him with a bitter aftertaste.

There were times where Jeongguk woke up with a jolt in the dead of night, inadvertently
waking him up as well. Jeongguk always refused to tell him what his nightmares were about,
but he could tell what they were from the way Jeongguk turned to the other side and scooted
a little closer to the edge of the bed, and a little farther from him.

Those were the times Jimin turned on his side and stared at Jeongguk’s back in the dark, quiet
like the shadows slowly ebbing away from the room. He always fell asleep a while later,
listening to the sound of Jeongguk pretending to sleep, his dreams contaminated with the
shadows of Jeongguk’s nightmares.

Don’t think about that.

He’s still deep in his thoughts when the last door to the right – dressing room number three –
slams open, and Jimin catches several alarmed voices before an agitated host walks out, looks
around in confusion, then spots the water cooler at the end of the corridor and makes a
beeline for it.

“Minho?” Jimin asks, frowning in confusion. Minho startles and almost spills water on
himself. “What’s going on?”

“Jimin? You don’t work tonight.”

“Are you okay?”

Minho’s movements are hurried, frantic. He’s already running back to the dressing room with
a glass of water in his hand when he looks at Jimin over his shoulder and says,

“Jeongguk’s having a panic attack.”

And then he disappears behind the door again.

Jimin runs.
His boots skid over the polished floor when he reaches the dressing room’s door, and he
nearly yanks the door handle off when he bursts inside the room.

The scene before him is a rather strange one. Jimin didn’t know what he expected—he’s had
a few panic attacks in his life, mainly when he was a teenager and still didn’t know how to
deal with his mother’s sudden bouts of withdrawal-induced anger—but he had always been
alone, curled up in a ball in a corner of his bedroom or locked away in the bathroom, with his
mother’s footsteps closing in.

There had certainly never been a crowd of half-naked people touching him everywhere and
trying to drag him up to his feet, breathing in his space, each yelling a different thing in his
ear.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

His voice fills the room, drowning out the myriad of empty calm down! and Jeongguk,
everything will be alright bouncing ineffectively all over the room, high and shrill and
useless, so useless.

Every single host turns to look at Jimin in bewilderment. The voices quiet down.

Silence falls.

Then he hears it. The sound of Jeongguk, sitting on the floor with his back to the far wall,
hand gripping over his chest like he wants to claw his heart out, hyperventilating—with no
room to breathe in.

“Get the fuck out of this room!” Jimin shouts, feeling incredible anger taking hold of himself.
“Can’t you see you’re the reason he can’t breathe?”

He yanks the glass of water from Minho’s hand and rushes to Jeongguk. The other hosts—
Jimin counts at least a dozen of them, all crammed inside the narrow dressing room—take
several steps back in tandem, as if pulled by an invisible rope.

They don’t all get out, but they do free some space around Jeongguk and hang back, still
staring unabashedly. Jimin recognizes a few hosts, those who look the most shocked at his
outburst. Blushing, inexperienced, insecure Oriole shouting at the top of his lungs at a room
full of hosts, many of them older by him by a few years, and yelling orders like he owns the
place. He spots a couple of resentful looks, but he’ll have to deal with those later.

“What did they do to him?”

Something must have triggered it. Someone must have done something—and Jimin’s anger
flares at the thought.

“We don’t know, he was with us upstairs and then—I think one of the customers asked him to
get a private room?” Minho answers quickly, the words rushing one after the other like in a
sprint race. “I saw them walk out, but when I left the room with my client they were still in
the hallway, and Jeongguk was acting strange. I think he’d changed his mind?”
Jimin kneels in front of Jeongguk, who’s still gasping for breath and shivering in cold sweat
—except now he’s looking up at Jimin as if he were a ghost from his past. His makeup is
smudged and running down his cheeks, black and heavy against the pasty whiteness of his
skin. His forehead is beaded with perspiration.

Very gingerly, Jimin lifts a hand to Jeongguk’s face.

“Jeongguk? Can I touch you?”

Jeongguk snatches his hand and squeezes it, hard, to the point that Jimin winces. Jeongguk’s
hand is warm and clammy, and his dark eyes are pleading, frantically looking for an anchor
to ground him.

“Let’s take big breaths together, alright?” Jimin says, squeezing Jeongguk’s hand back. “In
and out, okay? Can you do it?”

Jeongguk nods with a jerk of his head and they inhale together, though Jeongguk’s breathing
is still a lot quicker and shakier than Jimin’s.

“Does anyone here have sour candies?” Jimin asks abruptly, back to a more authoritative
tone. “Or like, peppermint gum or anything spicy—”

“I do.”

A boy whose name Jimin doesn’t know rummages through the back pocket of a bag. He
hands Jimin a couple of sour candies wrapped in brightly colored foil. It’s exactly the kind
Jimin detests because the pungent taste makes his eyes immediately well with tears, and that
makes them perfect.

“Suck on one of these,” he says to Jeongguk, quickly unwrapping the candy. “It tastes
horrible, but you’ll feel a little better.”

Without questioning him, Jeongguk pops the candy in his mouth and tilts his head back
against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut in a grimace against the sour taste. Jimin watches his
face scrunch up, his Adam apple bob up and down as Jeongguk swallows the excess saliva.
His breathing begins to slow down.

“Good,” Jimin mutters to himself, relieved.

“Not good,” Jeongguk croaks, his voice crumbly like old, yellowed paper. “Bad. Tastes like
shit.”

Jimin huffs out a small, relieved chuckle.

“I know. They suck. You can’t spit it out, though.”

Jeongguk groans, still with his eyes closed, still sucking on the candy. A bit of color bleeds
back onto his face.

Jimin sighs and turns around.

“Okay, nothing to see here anymore. You can get back to work.”

There’s some mumbling and a couple of whispers, some curious stares thrown their way, but
eventually the hosts all leave the room one by one, each getting back to their business. Some
pat Jimin’s back on their way out, but he doesn’t turn to exchange any more words.

Alone in the dressing room, Jimin offers Jeongguk the half-empty glass of water.

“Want some?”

“Thank you.”

Jeongguk takes the glass and downs it in one big gulp, shivering lightly.

“Are you still sucking on that candy?”

“I swallowed it.”

“You weren’t supposed to swallow it yet. Sour things shock your system and help you focus
back on what’s outside your head when you get a panic attack.”

“I’m okay now,” Jeongguk murmurs, exhausted.

“You don’t look okay. You look like shit. You scared the crap out of me.”

“I’m sorr—”

Jeongguk’s sorry drags into a breathless oof when Jimin throws his arms around his neck,
pulling him into a crushing hug. He buries his head in Jeongguk’s shoulder, breathing in
familiar cologne and sweat.

“You said you wouldn’t sleep with them anymore,” Jimin scolds him, voice muffled and
strained. “You said you’d only work in the booths. You promised.”

He feels Jeongguk’s hands pulling him closer, stroking up and down his back like he’s the
one who’s in need of comforting.

“I guess I suck at keeping my promises.”

Jimin draws back with a scowl.

“You were going to have sex with a customer, weren’t you?”

“That… was the plan.”

“Why?” Jimin insists, “money? I thought you said money wasn’t going to be a problem for a
while. That you could take some time off from working in the rooms.”

Jeongguk just stares back, dejected. Perhaps it’s the way Jeongguk looks at him with infinite
sadness in his eyes that helps Jimin finally understand.
“No,” Jimin says, shaking his head. Imperceptibly at first, then with more determination as
Jeongguk’s gaze doesn’t waver. He pushes him away, and Jeongguk slumps against the wall
like a doll with his strings cut.

“You didn’t. Tell me it’s a joke. Tell me you weren’t doing it for me.”

“I wasn’t doing it for you,” Jeongguk answers robotically.

“Liar. You’re a liar.”

“You and Jihyun need the money. I thought I could help.”

“I treat you like shit and you decide you want to help me by doing the thing you dread the
most?” Jimin asks, horrified, guilty to the point he nearly chokes on his words. There is
something heavy and painful jammed underneath his sternum, right beside his heart, and it’s
taking him everything he has not to break down into tears.

“Dread the most? I’ve been doing it for ages. I’m used to it, I’m not afraid.”

“A man raped you upstairs, Jeongguk!” he hisses, shaking Jeongguk by the shoulders as if to
wake him up from a bad dream. “What the hell were you thinking? Going back to the rooms
for—for what? Me? Are you shitting me? It’s not worth it! I’m not worth it! I’m nobody! I
don’t want your money, Jeongguk, I don’t want—I don’t want money if it means you’re
going to sell yourself off to the highest fucking bidder!”

He lets him go because his hands are shaking badly. He’s mad and disappointed at himself,
because he could have seen the signs—Jeongguk has been taking so many more shifts
without any apparent reason, working himself to the bone even with the play just around the
corner.

“When did you go back to Rare?”

“Recently,” Jeongguk mutters. “I was going to give you the money after the play.”

“And do you think I would have accepted it without asking where it came from?”

Jeongguk’s gaze slides to the floor.

“You saw me taking extra shifts.”

“You were working Rare. That’s too much money. I’m not an idiot, Jeongguk.”

“I know that!” Jeongguk snaps, eyes flitting back to Jimin. “I did it because I care about you.
Because I want to see you happy, because I want you and Jihyun to have a place to call home,
and since that can’t be my place, I wanted to at least help you find one. So, sue me.” His
lower lip trembles, but his eyes look dark and angry and bitter and lost. “And I was an
asshole to you, too. I said things I shouldn’t have. I was constantly driving you into a corner;
I made you feel uncomfortable even though I’m fully aware you’re not the type of person
who opens up easily. But I didn’t care. I wanted everything from you and I wanted it quick. I
was selfish and pushy and a fucking idiot.”
 “Well, I—I—” Jimin stutters, trying to get a hold of his racing thoughts and racing heart, “I
behaved like a child. And, fuck, when I came here tonight to apologize, I didn’t think I’d find
you hyperventilating in a corner of the dressing room with half the Bird’s hosts hovering
around you like vultures.”

Jeongguk grabs his hand and breathes out a tired chuckle.

“I thought I was going to die.”

He goes silent for a while, rubs his thumb over Jimin’s knuckles. Lost in thoughts.

“Jin is going to skin me alive.”

“I stabbed a man before and I can do it again.”

“You didn’t kill him, though.”

“I killed a succulent once. That’s not an easy feat.”

Jeongguk shakes his head, smiling faintly. “Park Jimin against a mob family, I wonder how
it’ll end.”

“What do you mean, you wonder? It’s a happy ending, for sure.”

They smile at each other. Then Jimin’s face drops again.

“Can’t you just—leave the Bird?”

“Jimin, my mom’s got a chronic illness. She’s okay now, but we don’t know when or if she’ll
relapse. Seokjin and the Bird are the fastest way to make a lot of money, you know that.”

“Yes,” Jimin sighs. “I do.” And it sucks, and it isn’t fair, and he wants to punch someone in
the face—preferably Seokjin.

“Well, I think we spent enough time sitting on the floor,” Jeongguk says, dragging Jimin up
by their intertwined hand. “I’m glad you found me when you did, Jimin.” His hand tightens
around Jimin’s like he hasn’t got any intention to ever let go.

Jimin swallows, heart swelling at the words. Words. Jeongguk’s always been good with those.
His turn, now.

One more thing left to say.

“I actually came here to tell you something important,” Jimin starts out, uncertain.
“Jeongguk, I—”

“Don’t.”

He slaps a hand to Jimin’s mouth, effectively shutting him up.

“Don’t say it. It’s okay. You don’t need to say anything.” Jeongguk sighs again, his breath
tickling Jimin’s nose as their foreheads touch. “You being here tonight is enough.”

Jimin’s eyes prickle, and he swallows around the familiar lump in his throat. He doesn’t
know what to say anymore, doesn’t know if he should say anything still, or even if Jeongguk
would want to hear it.

He shifts slightly and presses his face in the hollow of Jeongguk’s throat, pulling him closer,
feeling him solid and warm against himself, his breathing deep and steady—not fast and
panicked anymore.

They stand in the middle of the room, breathing, hugging, listening to silence. He came here
bringing words; turns out Jeongguk doesn’t want them anymore. But they’re all still there,
buried under his tongue, restless, begging to come out, afraid to come out. He hopes
Jeongguk can feel them all, even though he can’t hear them.

“Hey, uhm—so, do you want to get out of here?” Jimin asks, pulling back and swiping a hand
over his eyes.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“Great,” Jimin huffs, sniffing a bit. He hopes with every fiber of his being that Jeongguk
didn’t notice him tearing up.

He pulls out his phone to check the time, and curses.

“Shit, fuck fuck fuck—I forgot about Hoseok’s date.”

There’s about a dozen text messages from a really annoyed Hoseok and a few missed calls
that scream furious best friend staring at him from the screen.

“Oh, right, it’s today?”

“I promised Hoseok I would help him get ready. Shit, I’m the worst friend in the whole
fucking world.”

“I wouldn’t say that. You just helped me handle a panic attack.”

“But I’m not your friend,” Jimin counters, glancing up with raised eyebrows. “Am I?”

Jeongguk just smiles. That’s when Jimin notices the glister in his eyes, right before Jeongguk
blinks and they go back to matte black.

“I guess you’re also something else.”

To cover up the way his face catches fire, Jimin glances down at his phone. Hoseok sent him
several texts, even after his date with Yoongi started. He scrolls through all of them,
skimming them quickly.

“Okay, so Yoongi brought him to his studio like he told us.”

“You found his idea incredibly romantic, didn’t you?” Jeongguk chuckles, shedding his host
clothes on the floor. He strolls about the room, half-naked, in search of his belongings.

“Well, you can’t deny that it’s a cute idea. Hoseok is Yoongi’s muse, isn’t it sweet?”

“Want me to start sending you songs that remind me of you?”

How easily they’ve slipped back to their usual banter. It’s almost like nothing ever happened
between them, like Jeongguk didn’t try to prostitute himself an hour ago to pay for Jimin’s
housing only to accidentally give himself a panic attack instead.

But Jimin sees in the way Jeongguk moves that he’s tired, and his hands are a little shaky
when he ties the shoelaces of his boots.

“Well, I wouldn’t hate it.”

“What if they’re all love songs?”

Jimin takes a seat. He feels like he can’t have this conversation standing up.

“I’ll accept them graciously.”

“You won’t run away screaming the next time you see me?”

He blushes. “No. I draw the line at serenading, though.”

“Here I thought I could win your heart over by showing up outside your house with a
boombox and a love song on my lips.”

“I don’t even have a house right now,” Jimin snorts, “you’d be standing outside Hoseok’s
building like an idiot. Serenading about a hundred different people.”

“Or you could come back to my place,” Jeongguk suggests, standing up. “Your brother’s
been asking why you left. I ran out of excuses.”

“Yeah, he sent me about a hundred thousand texts over the weekend,” Jimin sighs, scrolling
to Hoseok’s very last text. “Hobi says they’re headed out to grab a drink. He sent me the
name of the bar.” A smile spreads on his lips, slow like a broken yolk. “What do you say we
follow them?”

“You want to spy on your best friend and his date?”

“His date is Yoongi and we’re all friends. Come on, let’s do something fun to get our minds
off… things.”

“And naturally, spying comes to mind.”

“We’ll be discreet,” Jimin says, jumping to his feet. “It’s just to make sure their date is going
smoothly. What if Hoseok decides he’s uncomfortable and wants to bail? I’m his best friend,
I’d know the signs.”
“Well, I’m not Jung Hoseok’s best friend, and I can tell you for certain he won’t be feeling
uncomfortable at all—he’s probably waiting for Yoongi to take him to his apartment.”

But Jimin is already pushing Jeongguk out of the dressing room, a mischievous gleam in his
eyes.

“You can complain on our way there. We’re doing this, and we’re going to have fun doing it.”

“You have a very bizarre idea of fun.”

“You took me to an abandoned amusement park for our first date.”

Jeongguk glances at him over his shoulder. “So you admit it was a date.”

He drags Jeongguk all the way to the Black Bird’s back door, and waits to be out in the
brightly lit streets of Gangnam to look Jeongguk in the eye again. Right now, with
Jeongguk’s hand clutched tight into his, he feels like he’s glowing brighter than any other
light on this sparkling street.

“The best date I’ve ever had.”

4.
They’ve just emerged from the subway station to the bustling street outside when Jeongguk
grabs Jimin’s arm and drags him behind one of the many food stalls dotting the street.

“There they are,” Jeongguk stage-whispers, eyes fixated on another food stand on the
opposite side of the street. Jimin follows his line of sight and spots Hoseok’s mop of red hair
instantly. The blond figure next to him is paying for corn dogs.

“Damn. Stalking people is way easier than I thought. We’re really cut out for this job.”

“A lucky coincidence.”

“It’s like fate wants us to tail them.” He looks back at Jeongguk. “Put your hood up. We don’t
want them to recognize us.”

Jeongguk rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as he pulls the hood of his sweater up to hang low
over his eyes.

“You’re really taking this seriously.”

“Look at him. I’ve never seen Hoseok look so tense. It’s like all the muscles in his body have
locked up. It’s uncanny, really.”

“Reminds me of someone,” Jeongguk snorts. “It’s his first date with a guy, it’s normal.”

Jimin flattens his bangs over his eyes. He looks around the busy street, immediately zeroing
in on a knick-knack store across the street.

“You stay here and keep watching them, okay? I’ll be only a minute.”

“Where are you going?”

Jimin dismisses the question with a wave of his hand and heads straight to the shop. He
comes back not thirty seconds later with a black baseball cap lowered onto his eyes.

“Blond hair attracts too much attention.”

“You think a hood and a hat are enough of a disguise?” Jeongguk asks, amused. He brushes
Jimin’s bangs from his eyes with a look that could only be interpreted as fondness, and it
sends the butterflies in Jimin’s stomach aflutter.

“This is going to be a disaster.”

“Other people wish they had such an exciting and original second date. So, stop complaining
and let’s follow them.”

“I really can’t keep up with you. You go from one extreme to another in the span of a couple
days. Yesterday I was no one, and today I’m your date? What’s next? You planning to stop by
another cheap store to buy me a plastic engagement ring?”

Jimin hides his vicious blush by pressing his cap lower on his head. He doesn’t think it’s
working.

“I’m very fickle. I thought you knew.”

“Yeah, now I know. Tell me if you see a drug store around cause I need to buy muscle
relaxants for the whiplash you just gave me.”

“Why is Hoseok not eating? He’s just awkwardly holding that corn dog,” Jimin mutters,
eyeing his best friend from afar. Yoongi is passionately talking about something, waving his
corn dog around and occasionally taking a bite. Hoseok listens quietly—which is already
weird in and of itself—while surreptitiously glancing at his snack with a slight frown
creasing his brow.

“Maybe he’s not hungry.”

“I bet you fifty thousand won he’s worrying about how to eat that corn dog in the least
suggestive way possible.”

“It’s a corn dog, not a popsicle. You take a bite. You don’t bite a dick.” Jeongguk makes a
face like he’s remembered something that disproves what he just said. “Unless you’re Park
Jimin and it’s your first time giving a—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll bite you so hard you’ll wear a cast on your dick for months.”

Jeongguk laughs and takes his hand, giving it a little playful squeeze. It’s a little unexpected,
but maybe not that much. Maybe he should not be surprised that not-so-veiled threats bring
Jeongguk’s affectionate side to the surface. They both can be a little strange.

“Look, he’s finally eating it. Wait… Is he breaking it into pieces? Jimin, your best friend
doesn’t know the socially acceptable way of eating a corn dog.”

“Told you he was self-conscious about it.”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe he does need a little help,” Jeongguk concedes, looking deeply
perplexed.

“Nah, he’s alright. Let’s just keep watching.”

They mingle with the crowd, hiding behind groups of tourists and following Hoseok and
Yoongi from a safe distance. Carts selling every possible kind of street food line the street,
and Jimin notices Jeongguk starting to lag behind him, throwing willful glances at the food
on display. He tugs Jeongguk’s hand a little—they’re still holding hands. The street is very
crowded, they don’t want to lose sight of each other, right?

“Gguk, we can’t stop for food. We’ll lose them.”

“But I’m hungry,” Jeongguk whines. “I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch. And I fainted
at the Bird.”

“You didn’t faint, you had a panic attack. Don’t twist the facts.”

“I want a corn dog too. Buy me one?”

“Buy it yourself.”

“So I can have one?” Jeongguk’s eyes glimmer. “It’ll just take a minute.”

Jimin holds back a sigh. It’s like being with a capricious child. He remembers that Jeongguk
is indeed younger than him—and maybe because he’s an older brother himself, he can’t seem
to resist Jeongguk’s doe-eyed, starry stare.

Or maybe the reason he’s so weak lies in some other and definitely less brotherly feeling.

“Hurry up.”

Jeongguk pecks his cheek, lightning-quick, and proceeds to drag him towards one of the food
trucks. Jimin follows, stumbling on his feet. He presses a hand on his cheek. He’s burning up.

Jeongguk pays the old man and takes his corn dog. It looks the same as Hoseok’s and
Yoongi’s, except that Jeongguk knows how to eat it without looking like an idiot.

“See? We didn’t lose them. They’re still looking at the window of that music shop. I wonder
when Hoseok’s brain will explode, Yoongi’s been yapping away since forever.”

“I thought he was your close friend.”

“He is, it’s just that he can be a little long-winded sometimes. You learn to tune him out after
a while.”

“Wow, what a great friend you are. You tune me out too?”

The corners of Jeongguk’s lips tug up in a charming smile.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Jimin scoffs, quickly looking away towards the crowd that’s forming around a street
performer. Sometimes he feels like he’s got to look away from Jeongguk, or risk being caught
in the web of his luminous eyes forever.

But he’s starting to think that maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

“Weren’t you starving?” he asks him instead. He watches Jeongguk blow on the tip of the
corn dog to cool it down before bringing it to his mouth. Then he immediately looks away
again when sneaky, stupid, inappropriate little traitorous thoughts cross his mind—seriously,
it’s all Hoseok’s fault. He’s much more mature than this, and really—a corn dog? You gotta
have a lot of imagination to jump from a corn dog to a—
“What?” Jeongguk huffs out, laughing at Jimin’s sudden bashfulness. “Oh my god, Jimin.
Are you for real? You’re a grown man.”

Fuck Jeongguk and his perceptive nature.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You looked at me and wiggled your eyebrows.”

“I didn’t,” Jimin scoffs in outrage. “I raised an eyebrow, I didn’t wiggle it. That’s crass.”

“You were thinking of me sucking dick.”

“I wasn’t. I’m not Jung Hoseok.” Well now he’s certainly thinking about it.

“You were. He corrupted your innocent mind.”

“I was never innocent in the first place,” Jimin snorts. “Was that a fantasy of yours?”

Jeongguk doesn’t break eye contact and wraps his lips around the corn dog in a distinctively
allusive manner.

“Jeongguk, what the hell? Now you’re just doing it on purpose!”

“Do what?” Jeongguk asks, waving the stupid corn dog around, his doe eyes bright with
mirth. “I’m just eating my corn dog.”

“Fucking bite it like you mean it, then!”

“So you like it rough and really painful, got it.”

He blushes. “You’re impossible. Between us, the teenager is you.”

Jeongguk chuckles and finally takes a proper bite.

“There. A circumcision gone very wrong. Want a bite?”

He’s not particularly hungry, but he nods all the same—if anything, because sharing food is
such an intimate thing and he’s never shared food with anyone that wasn’t Hoseok before.
And he really wants to make the corn dog look a little less phallic-shaped for the sake of his
sanity, so he leans in and bites the side.

It’s good, but then he realizes they haven’t been keeping an eye on the lovebirds for a hot
minute and panics. He’s totally forgotten they’re on a mission.

The street is so crowded that he can’t spot Yoongi and Hoseok anymore. They’re not standing
in front of the music shop, and they seem to have vanished into thin air.

“See? You distracted me and now we lost th—”

He doesn’t have the chance to finish his thought that Jeongguk tips his face up and kisses
him, licking slowly over his upper lip.

“You had ketchup on your lips.”

“Oh.”

That was painfully, unbearably cliché. Can it happen again?

“Were you saying?”

Jimin shakes his head, inhaling deeply to catch a little of the cold winter air in his lungs. He
feels strangely weightless, like he’s floating on a cloud. The faces of people all around them
merge into a blur, eyeless, featureless, inconsequential, not as real as him and Jeongguk are,
mannequins walking by—nothing but a hazy background to his whirlwind of emotions, and
to the feeling of Jeongguk’s hand sliding back into his again. He wants to push Jeongguk’s
hood down, he wants to bury his hand in his hair and kiss him silly until they both need to
come up for air.

What were they doing again?

“Earth to Jimin. Are you okay?”

Jeongguk’s voice yanks him back to reality. No mannequins around, just people hurrying by,
eating, laughing, chatting. Other couples walking past them hand in hand, lanky boys in long
coats and petite girls with cute earmuffs and lips stained in soft pink. He wonders how he and
Jeongguk look like from the outside. Probably a little shady, what with Jeongguk’s hood and
his baseball cap pressed low on his eyes.

“Fuck. Where are they?”

“They walked inside that arcade room.” Jeongguk points with his half-eaten corn dog. That
fucking corn dog. The bane of his existence.

“Great. Let’s follow them inside.”

“That’ll be a little obvious though, don’t you think?” Jeongguk asks, letting Jimin pull him
inside by the hand. “They’ll see us.”

“We’ll be fine. Just keep your hood up.”

“Jimin, it’s a hood—not an invisibility cloak.”

“Dude, have you seen the way they’re gazing at each other? They won’t notice you or me or
even if a giant Kaiju from Pacific Rim starts stomping its way to downtown Seoul.”

“You don’t need to say giant Kaiju cause it’s redundant.”

“Whatever, Mr. Know-It-All.”

His eyes are immediately assaulted by colorful posters of a multitude of 90’s games, bright
pink and blue neon lights mounted on the walls, and the flashing screens of idle consoles
waiting for a player. The sound of overly enthusiastic automatic voices announcing scores
welcomes them in, and Jimin feels a slight pang of nostalgia. He hasn’t entered an arcade in
years. He recognizes some of the games, but most are completely new to him.

“Now what?” Jeongguk huffs, gulping down the last of his snack. Jimin looks around and
spots the couple easily. He tugs on Jeongguk’s sleeve until he follows him behind a row of
colorful console machines.

It’s a little like holding a puppy on a leash, a puppy that sometimes tries to get away because
he’s sniffed something interesting on the other side of the street.

“Now we watch.”

Jeongguk slumps on a stool in front of one of the game consoles. “Are you secretly a
voyeur?”

“What? No!”

“You sure? Cause you’re checking all the requirements on the list.”

“I’m just curious how their date will develop,” Jimin says, taking a seat next to him and
stooping a bit to keep a low profile.

He watches Jeongguk shake his head, amused, and start up the game. The game console
warbles to life. It’s one of those silly cooking games where the player has to prepare some
kind of food to perfection or else their career as a chef is on the line—the lore is very vague.
The first level is about pancakes. The game starts up with a trill and a series of ear-shattering
jangles that proceed to burrow deep inside Jimin’s brain with all the intentions to cozy it up
in there for the rest of the week.

“I didn’t know you liked these kinds of games,” he comments off-handedly, eyes flickering to
Hoseok and Yoongi across the room every once in a while. He nods to the console. The
player—Jeongguk—is being aided by cute bunnies and kittens wearing heart-shaped aprons.
“This one’s very cutesy.”

Jeongguk hums in agreement, eyes glued to the monitor. They’re so big and wide that Jimin
can see the screen reflected in them, bunnies and kitties and pancakes and all.

“Cute games for a cute guy,” Jeongguk says with a lopsided smile.

It’s nice to see Jeongguk unwind a bit, just mindlessly playing a cooking game and cursing
under his breath whenever a little unidentified gremlin steals his pancake batter. He looks
relaxed, comfortable even, if a little tired.

That’s when realization seeps in, and solidifies into certainty. He doesn’t want to see
Jeongguk broken ever again. It happened twice already, and right now, as he watches
Jeongguk punch buttons and flicking levers with the sort of confidence that only comes with
years of arcade experience, Jimin is one hundred percent positive that a third time would
simply drive him mad. All of a sudden, he has the weird urge to pray to whatever god is out
there to please have nothing else bad happen to Jeongguk, ever again—to spare Jeongguk
and focus on him, instead.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts by the high trill of Jeongguk’s console. Blinking the screen’s
intermittent lights away, Jimin glances at Hoseok and Yoongi. They seem busy playing some
sort of zombie apocalypse game, their backs to the rest of the room. Still in their own little
heart-shaped bubble, it seems. Bless their hearts. Drawing a short sigh of relief, Jimin leans
forward with his face propped up on his arm, peering at Jeongguk’s monitor.

“You kinda look like this bunny here,” he says to Jeongguk, pointing to a black bunny with
sparkly golden eyes. “Same teeth.”

The off-handed comment distracts Jeongguk, and a batch of pixelated pancakes fall with a
splat. The bunnies all make sad faces and one kitty bursts into tears.

“That’s very dramatic.”

“My teeth are perfectly normal. Standard size for my face.”

Jimin makes a noncommittal sound. “Eh, they’re a little on the big side.”

“Says the guy with the chipped front tooth.”

Jimin cups a hand over his mouth. “Wow. Mean.”

“I’m joking. I think it’s very cute. It suits your personality.”

Jimin stares at the monitor. Jeongguk won the round, and happy bunnies are hopping all
around his stack of pancakes.

“A chip on my front tooth suits my personality? How?”

“Well, it’s hard to explain. Don’t ask a guy to explain a compliment, just take it and go.”

“You’re supposed to be the one who’s good with words.”

Jeongguk frowns lightly at the screen, thinking. “It’s unexpected. You can barely notice it,
but it’s there, and once you do notice it, it’s very endearing.” His lips twitch into a fond smile.
“It’s like a metaphor for the perfect facade you always try your hardest to cling to. But, if you
ask me, all your scratches and bruises add character to your personality, I think.”

A memory Jimin hasn’t thought about in a long time washes up to the shores of his mind. His
father, sat on his bed, telling him that when people fall in love, they end up falling in love
with the other person’s everything, quirks and all.

Until the day those same quirks turn into flaws.

“It’s a flaw.”
“I like flaws. Nothing truly and thoroughly perfect stays interesting for long,” Jeongguk
points out, starting up another game.

“Will my flaws interest you forever, then?”

Jeongguk turns to look at him.

“Forever is a long time.”

Jimin blushes. That was a silly question. He doesn’t expect Jeongguk to be interested in him
for such a long ass time, of course. That’s childish of him.

“Funny you would bring up forever when you’re so scared of commitment.”

Jeongguk’s words are teasing, playful. But at the same time, they have an ever so slightly
sharp edge to them, and maybe Jimin gets too close because they end up grazing him.

“Yes, well. I’m not sure forever exists.”

Jeongguk nods like he understands what Jimin’s talking about—thing is, Jimin doesn’t even
know what he is talking about anymore. He glances at Hoseok and Yoongi. They’ve switched
to another game.

“There’s long forevers and small forevers. Which one would you prefer?”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“You have all the time in the world to figure me out,” Jeongguk says. He smiles. “Forever, if
you will.”

“We don’t have forever.”

“Then why did you ask me if I’d find you interesting forever?”

Jimin groans in defeat. He gives himself a slight push with his feet to spin round and round
on the stool, like he used to do as a kid. He loses Jeongguk’s knowing smile in the blur of
colors and pulsing lights and the wave of nausea that climbs up his throat. He stops abruptly.

“My brain hurts. Let’s change the topic.”

He doesn’t want to have this conversation in a crowded arcade, with the threat of Hoseok and
Yoongi potentially spotting them looming over their heads. Jimin begins to think he should
have addressed the elephant in the room when they were still at the Bird, but it didn’t sound
like a good idea at the time. Jeongguk was still very shaken, and probably didn’t feel like
listening to Jimin monologuing about his messed-up feelings. To be honest, Jeongguk just
looked like he needed a distraction.

And a distraction he provided.

“Wanna beat my high score?”

“I’m not much of an arcade gamer. It’s been ages since I stepped in one.”

“Really?” Jeongguk cocks an eyebrow. “What’d you do in your free time as a high school
student?”

“Hoseok had every possible console available to humankind at his disposal, so we always
holed up in his room to play games. Videogames.”

Jeongguk clicks his tongue in fake disapproval. “Must be nice to be a rich guy’s best friend.”

“I haven’t been in an arcade since I met him in middle school. I really didn’t need to.”

“Then why come to an arcade?” Jeongguk asks, glancing at their friends across the room.
“Why didn’t he just invite Yoongi to his apartment?”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to give him the wrong idea. Remember the corn dog thing? It
literally happened five minutes ago.”

“Yoongi isn’t that kind of person.”

“Well, he doesn’t know that yet,” Jimin says, looking at the two lovebirds. They seem like
they’re having a grand time, laughing and chatting while shooting random aliens in the face
—Hoseok missing half the time, his roars of frustration pulling giggles out of a very smiley
Yoongi.

“Yoongi should let him win. It’s the sure-proof way of winning Hoseok’s heart.”

“He already has it on a silver platter, ready to eat.”

“Hobi is spectacularly bad at that game.” He winces as Hoseok dies for the fifth or sixth time
in a row. “I don’t think Yoongi is impressed.”

“I can hear him laughing his ass off from here, so it’s good,” Jeongguk says distractedly,
making pancakes after pancakes after pancakes appear on screen. Jimin really doesn’t get the
deeper meaning of this game. It’s just stirring batter and piling pancakes on top of each other
to form a Leaning Tower of Pancakes, all with an audience of bunnies and other cutesy non-
descript animals cheering you on.

Jimin drums his fingers on the stool, pensive. “Would you have let me win, if we’d gone to an
arcade on our first date?”

“Jimin, darling, if you want to win any game against me, all you gotta do is: one, git, and
two, gud.”

“I really don’t know why I asked.”

Jeongguk wins another round, then turns to Jimin with an all-too familiar smirk. “Why don’t
you sit on my lap, and I’ll teach you everything I know about Sweetest Pancake Challenge
3000?”
“Yeah Jimin, why don’t you do that?”

They whip around so fast that Hoseok bursts into a boisterous laugh.

“What a coincidence, you guys. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Hoseok! We, uhm, we—”

“Just hanging out after rehearsals. You?” Jeongguk says, somehow managing to retain a
neutral expression. Meanwhile, Jimin is so mortified at being found out that he’s just short of
spontaneous combustion.

“Well, me and Yoongi are on a date. He didn’t tell you?” Hoseok bobs his head towards
Yoongi, who’s still hanging out at the back of the room with a faint smile on his lips. He
waves.

“Oh, yeah? Must have slipped my mind.”

Hoseok hums, swaying on his feet. He throws Jimin a very pointed glance.

“Rehearsals ended hours ago. You’ve been hanging out since then?”

Jimin sees Jeongguk glance at him briefly before opening his mouth to speak again—
probably to make out another lie.

“It’s okay, Hoseok knows. I told him about us.”

Jeongguk’s surprise runs so deep that his eyebrows nearly disappear up in his hairline.

“Uh, duh? I’m his best friend,” Hoseok says. “So, have you guys made up? Did Jiminie say
the magic words?”

“What magic words?”

“Ah. Never mind.”

“We’re good now,” Jimin says quickly. He gives Hoseok a tight-lipped smile that says, Don’t
insist.

“Well, that’s great! I’ve always thought you guys were a match made in heaven. Granted, all
those months of courting and dancing around each other must’ve been hell, but wasn’t it
worth it in the end? Be honest.”

“What are you talking about. Stop spouting nonsense,” Jimin huffs, rolling his eyes. “Go
back to losing your game.”

“So you were aware that we were in the same arcade room?”

“No! I mean, no? I took a guess,” Jimin stammers out. “Cause, you know, you suck at
games.”
“You suck too.”

“Didn’t you guys spend all your teenage years playing videogames at your house?” Jeongguk
asks Hoseok.

“That’s different.”

“—totally different.”

“Wow. Maybe you should have switched to another hobby.”

“It’s not about winning, it’s about having fun.”

“Well, it’s a little about winning too,” Hoseok admits.

“What are you guys bickering about?” Yoongi asks, walking closer and loosely wrapping one
of his arms around Hoseok’s waist. His eyes bounce from Jimin to Jeongguk a number of
times, as if he were watching an invisible ping pong match. “Are you guys here on a date?”

Jimin doesn’t need to turn to Jeongguk to know he’s looking expectantly at him, waiting.

“…Yes.”

Yoongi’s expression drops. “What—I was joking. It wasn’t a serious question.”

“Well, you got a serious answer,” Jimin says, shrugging. He can physically feel the weight of
Jeongguk’s stare on him, heavy but warm. He dares to glance back. Jeongguk is beaming.
Fuck. The look on his face is enough to melt all of Jimin’s internal organs into goo.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”

“No, I very much wanted your answer,” Yoongi chortles, amused. He slaps Jeongguk’s
shoulder really hard, and Jeongguk nearly falls off the stool. “You dumbass. Didn’t tell me a
single fucking thing. Since when?”

“Huh—it’s recent?” Jeongguk answers, evasive, looking up at Jimin with his eyebrows
arched in question.

“This is just our second date,” Jimin says, grateful that Jeongguk is letting him have free rein
over the details of their messy up-and-down relationship. “It’s, uhm. A new thing we’re
trying out.”

Yoongi snorts. “Why, what was the old thing, then?”

Jimin waves a hand, words jumbling in his brain. “You know—texting. We were texting for a
while.” He certainly can’t say they had a period of very intense foreplay that took place at a
host club.

Hoseok grins. “Sexting, you mean?”

Jimin just sighs. They did have phone-sex that one time. Not the same thing, but close
enough.

“Sure. That, too.”

Hoseok squeals. Yoongi looks vaguely impressed.

“You know, at the start of the semester I thought you two genuinely disliked each other. I’m
actually impressed you managed to set aside your humongous egos to give yourselves a
chance.”

“I’m not the one with the humongous ego.”

Jeongguk scoffs in disdain. “Are you sure you know what humongous means?”

Jimin looks back at Yoongi. “Case in point.”

“Aw, you’re adorable. You know what we should do? Go on a double date. But one in which
both couples know they’re on a double date and nobody is following the other around like
creeps,” Hoseok says, looking at the two of them with a tight smile.

“Are you planning to tell the others?” Yoongi asks, curious. “Like, the club? They’re gonna
see you acting all lovey-dovey at rehearsals, they’ll ask questions.”

“We’ve never done that so far.”

“But you just said it hasn’t been long since you started dating.”

“Oh. Yes. No, you’re absolutely right. Uhm—I don’t think it’s their business, though?” Jimin
stutters, a little nervous. “We’ll probably tell Namjoon and Taehyung. The others can figure it
out on their own.”

Jeongguk cocks his head to the side, still looking at him. “Are you sure?”

“Well, Taehyung will kill us If we don’t. And Namjoon is one of your closest friends, right?”
He shrugs again. “The play is less than a week away. Everyone will be too busy to notice us,
but if they do, it’s okay. It’s not like—I don’t want to—I mean, I don’t think we should hide
it. But at the same time, I still want it to be something… private.” He shrinks in his stool,
feeling the three pairs of eyes weigh down on him like boulders. “I don’t know if it makes
sense.”

There’s a moment of silence in which only the cheerful jangle of game consoles is heard, then
Hoseok erupts in a loud aww and proceeds to stroke Jimin’s hair like a doting mother does
with her child.

“Oh, Minie. You’re adorable. Of course it makes sense. Anything you want, baby.”

“Don’t call me baby, please.”

“You mean Jeongguk has the monopoly on the word now?”

“Tell you what,” Yoongi starts, “we go on with our date, you do the same with yours. We all
forget the incredible coincidence that brought us together in the same arcade room. And if
you wanna compare dates, we can text later tonight. What do you think?”

“Jimin might not be available later tonight,” Jeongguk says with a straight face. Jimin slaps
him in the chest with the back of his hand.

Hoseok pretends to gasp, but then he and Yoongi eventually make their way towards another
game and wish them a good night.

“Well, that went well. Never rope me into another one of your secret missions again, cause
you suck at it.”

“You can say you had fun, you know,” Jimin huffs. There’s a smile across Jeongguk’s face
that mirrors his own, and he wonders if Jeongguk’s feeling the same kind of flooding relief
throughout his body, too. Like an enormous weight has been lifted—maybe it’s just him,
maybe it’s just the way Jeongguk looks at him with all the fondness of this world. Maybe it’s
the jangle of Sweetest Pancake Challenge 3000 that has taken permanent residency in his
brain.

“It was an original second date, I’ll give you that.”

“I’m relieved. I spent the whole weekend thinking of what could ever top our first.”

Jeongguk chuckles. “That’s what you were doing at Hoseok’s, huh?”

“Yeah, of course. I was pretending to be mad.”

Jeongguk links his hand with Jimin’s.

“Wanna go home?”

And Jimin knows he means their home.

“I’d love to.”

That night, when Jimin walks inside Jeongguk’s apartment and finds everything exactly like
he left it, the knot at the base of his throat grows two sizes bigger. He doesn’t know why he
feels like he’s choking up on too many feelings, since it’s not like he’s spent a lifetime with
Jeongguk in this apartment. But somehow, what little time they did spend together here feels
like a small eternity. It doesn’t matter that Jimin has been away for just a handful of days,
because this tiny, tiny apartment—with the precarious towers of books, the old magazines,
the collection of teas in the kitchen cupboard—has already found a place somewhere in his
heart.
Just like Jeongguk has.

“It’s nice to be here again.”

Jeongguk flicks the lights on, and the lamp overhead flickers to life with a sputter. A warm
glow embraces the room, tired golden over worn-out, familiar furniture—fills him with gold,
too.

“It’s nice to have you here.”

Jeongguk crosses his arms around Jimin’s waist, leaning in to set his forehead against
Jimin’s. His sigh is one of relief and content, ticklish on Jimin’s lips.

“I don’t want to go back to Hoseok’s. Can I stay tonight?”

Jeongguk chuckles. “You’re not going anywhere,” he says, pulling him closer. To Jimin’s
surprise, he doesn’t go for a kiss. He moves to the side at the very last second, slotting his
face in the curve of Jimin’s neck, breathing him deep.

“I’m not letting you go, ever.”

Even though Jeongguk can’t see him, Jimin nods. He brushes Jeongguk’s hair back slowly, a
gesture he’s done countless times already, at night under the covers. So intimate, so
affectionate. He’d never questioned it. Whichever feelings hid behind the movement of his
fingers sliding through Jeongguk’s hair had never scared him—so why does talking scare
him?

“It’s going to be a little tricky to walk around with you glued to me like this.”

“Just like Siamese twins.”

“Sometimes I can’t believe they’re really a thing,” Jimin says, leading Jeongguk to the
kitchen by the hand. “When I was younger, I thought Siamese twins existed only in literature
or horror movies. I didn’t think nature could be so cruel.”

“Nature’s the cruelest mother,” Jeongguk states solemnly, watching Jimin set two mugs on
the counter to make some tea. “And she’s got a twisted sense of humor.”

“Why do all mothers suck?”

“Not all mothers suck,” Jeongguk says. “Hashtag Not All Mothers.”

Jimin chuckles. “Sorry. You’re right. Your mom is pretty awesome. I should make her a
statue for everything she’s done for Jihyun.”

“By the way, I have a message from her. She said she will throw your brother out if you two
don’t stop paying for the groceries.”

“That’s the least we can do,” Jimin says, pouring hot water in the mugs.
“You need all the money you can get. Don’t waste it.”

“I’m not wasting it. I’m repaying people’s kindness with it.”

“Jimin, I already know you’re a wonderful person, alright? You can stop trying to impress me
or my family. We’re all pretty much in love with you already.”

Jimin freezes with the teapot in mid-air.

“W—what?”

But Jeongguk just seizes one of the mugs and giggles. He half-drapes himself all over the
couch, dunking the teabag in his hot water a few times with the residue of a smile pasted on
his lips.

Who, exactly, did Jeongguk say loves him? That’s too many people. Too many people, and
the implications of Jeongguk being among those people makes the butterflies in Jimin’s
stomach whirl around like a bunch of driftwood in a tornado.

He follows to the living room, taking a seat in the cramped space Jeongguk left for him.

“I want to split the rent with you.”

“No chance in hell. I’ve got money set aside to pay for this apartment, you don’t even have a
home.”

“Let’s split the bills, then,” Jimin insists. “And the groceries. Please. I can’t stand the thought
of leeching off you, Jeongguk, I hate it.” He clutches the mug in his hands tighter, resolute to
set things straight. “I have some savings. I’m not completely penniless. Please, let me help.
Let me feel useful in some way. I don’t want to be… dead weight.”

“You’re not dead weight,” Jeongguk says in a whisper. He sets the mug on the coffee table,
scooting closer to Jimin on the other side of the couch. “Listen, I don’t mean to make you
feel uncomfortable in my house. But I want to help you save money for your own place.”

“You know it would take me longer to afford a place if I split the living expenses with you,
right?”

“That’s exactly why—”

“So maybe you just don’t want to have me around?” Jimin jokes, “I thought you liked it.”

Jeongguk makes a face that’s halfway between outraged and impressed.

“You manipulative little shit.”

Jimin hides a tiny smile. “I mean—it’s your choice. Your apartment, your privacy. I
understand if you want to get rid of me quickly, I won’t take any offense.”
“Jimin, I need you to understand something simple,” Jeongguk starts, sitting up to look Jimin
dead in the eyes. “You could literally move in with me starting tomorrow and I’d be over the
moon. I want you here. I like having you here. And I know my place is tiny and there’s only
one bedroom and we’ve only been doing this—” he gestures vaguely to the two of them, “for
a little over a week, but I—I don’t know. I feel like we’re good together. I feel like we can
pull it off. I feel like—like maybe we’d butt heads a few times and, and, I know you’re
probably the type who breaks plates when he gets mad—”

“I’m sorry?”

“—but hey, that’s people, right? No relationship is perfect. I’m willing to try if you are, too.”

Jimin sighs, placing his mug next to Jeongguk’s.

“It’s not like I don’t want to try. It’s that my brother needs a home. And I want to give it to
him, and I want to be there for him when he feels… lonely. Like he’s felt all this time in my
mother’s house, and that was also because of me. I’m sorry.”

Jeongguk’s shoulders sag, but he nods in understanding.

“Your brother’s really lucky to have you.”

Jimin chuckles bitterly. “Not sure he’d say the same. It’s kinda my fault he ended up in the
hospital.”

“It’s not.”

“He didn’t feel like he had anyone to talk to,” Jimin insists. “That’s on me.”

Jeongguk sighs and scoots closer. Jimin watches, a bit taken aback, as Jeongguk lies on his
back with his head on Jimin’s lap.

His hand moves automatically to Jeongguk’s thick, dark hair. It’s gotten a little longer since
September. It’s now long enough that Jeongguk could probably tie it in a little ponytail. Jimin
wonders how it would look on him. Pretty fucking good, probably.

“You know you have someone you can talk to, yes?” Jeongguk asks, taking Jimin’s other
hand and keeping it aloft to stare at their intertwined fingers. “I’ll always listen to you, Jimin.
You can tell me anything, and I’ll listen.”

He knows Jeongguk would listen. The problem is whether words would ever leave his mouth
or not.

“About that… I actually went to the Bird to find you. To tell you something.”

“I already said it’s okay, Jimin. You don’t need to apologize for anything.”

“It’s not that. It’s something else.”

Jeongguk’s gaze doesn’t stray from their hands.

“I know it’s something else.”

“I really like you, Jeongguk,” Jimin says, holding onto Jeongguk’s hand like it’s his only
lifeline, like feeling Jeongguk’s palm pressing against his would help him put his feelings
into words. “I—I guess you know that already. It’s not like I hid it from you. And I, uhm.
Well, I guess that wasn’t really what I wanted to say. What I want to say is, I—I care about
you. A lot.”

He glimpses the faint outline of a smile on Jeongguk’s face, and blushes furiously. Jeongguk
doesn’t look up yet. He’s still intently staring at their hands, as if their fingers slotting
together so perfectly fascinated him.

So Jimin lets it all flood out, even though his confession sounds jerky and awkward and
cracked to his own ears, and he’s not sure this is what Jeongguk expected—wanted from him.

“It’s just, you make me feel… ah, I can’t really explain it. I’m sorry. It’s something…
something I’ve never felt before. To be honest, I don’t know what it is. I’m not sure. I just
know it’s very intense, and very warm, and it’s always with me even when you’re not around,
and when I look at you, it… it blooms.”

His cheeks are on fire. But he keeps his gaze fixed down on Jeongguk, whose smile grows
steadily bigger with each fumbling word.

“It blooms, huh?” Jeongguk repeats, slowly turning their hands around to press a kiss on the
back of Jimin’s hand.

And it leaves Jimin breathless. “Sometimes it’s fast and overwhelming, so strong it almost
hurts. Like a sudden swell. A sudden bloom. Like those time-lapse videos of flowers
blooming. Ever seen one?”

Jeongguk’s eyes crinkle as he chuckles. He whispers, lips brushing Jimin’s hand, “yes.
They’re beautiful.”

“They really are.” Jimin is a little lightheaded, a little woozy. “I… think what we have is
really beautiful, too.”

His eyes slide from Jeongguk’s face to his shoulder, where he knows the tattoo of the tiger
flower rests against his skin. Please love me. If Jimin were to tell him I love you, would
Jeongguk answer thank you?

But then Jeongguk lowers their interlocked hands on his chest, placing Jimin’s hand over his
heart. Jimin thinks he can feel the rhythm of Jeongguk’s heartbeat, or maybe it’s his own
erratic pulse he feels thundering in every single cell of his body, miniature thunderstorm
inside of him.

“I bloom for you, too.”

Chapter 15
1.
Outside the Literature building, Jimin waits for Hoseok with two cups of piping hot coffee in
his hands, eyes trained on the few students in shorts playing basketball in the court across the
street. It’s so cold Jimin’s whole face stings. Walking outside in shorts in this kind of weather
should be a health hazard, and yet there they are, alive and kicking. Literally kicking a ball
around.

He spots Hoseok among the crowd and waves, narrowly avoiding spilling coffee on himself.

“Thank you for the coffee, friend.”

“What are you so happy about?”

Hoseok is beaming and almost skipping as they make their way to their usual hangout spot.
It’s a secluded corner of the campus park, with a few benches surrounded by jasmine bushes.
In the summer months, the bushes explode in a myriad of fragrant little white flowers,
although it’s nothing but a mass of entangled twigs and dead leaves now.

“The real question is: why aren’t you happier today?” Hoseok retorts, taking a seat under one
of the secular pine trees. “You made up with your boyfriend and now you’re happily living
together again, as a couple, in the open. You should be vibrating at a frequency that instakills
all the bats living on campus.”

“I’m very lowkey about my happiness.”

“You’re boring,” Hoseok huffs, sipping his coffee. “I hope Jeongguk isn’t the insecure type
that constantly needs to be reminded he’s loved, cause he’s not gonna get much from you.”

“Excuse you? I’m not that emotionally impaired. I show him love,” Jimin says, piqued. “He’s
never complained so far.”

“You had a huge fight because you couldn’t admit you had feelings for him.”

“And then I did. And now everything’s okay.”

“Did you, really?” Hoseok asks, arching an eyebrow. “You still haven’t told me how you
guys made up. Did you apologize like I told you to? Did you thoroughly confess your
feelings, heart on your sleeve and all?”

“I told him I care about him.”

“Did you say the L word?”

Jimin removes the lid to blow softly on his coffee. And to take time.
“What is love, anyway?” he finally says, pushing on even as Hoseok groans and rolls his eyes
dramatically. “I read an article recently detailing how the portrayal of romance in post-
modern society has completely skewered our perception of love. This over-saturation of
overly accentuated aspects of love in media has corrupted the original sentiment, basically
plasticizing it. Would we be as obsessed with love as we are today if not for the incessant
bombardment of television and radio? Would most of us even fall in love at all without the
constant reminder of what true love should look like? Do we really need to eat chocolate on
February 14th? Do we? Do you? I don’t think so.”

“Jimin, I didn’t ask for a PowerPoint presentation on the post-modern idea of love. I asked
you whether you told Jeongguk you love him.”

“I think I made my feelings pretty clear. Ask him if you don’t believe me.”

His face starts to sting with something else along with the cold.

“Okay, I believe you. I won’t insist.”

He’s relieved, in a way. Bearing his heart to Jeongguk wasn’t easy, and he knows he didn’t
exactly confess the orthodox way. Yet somehow, that confession felt rawer than saying the
words I love you aloud, and he didn’t expect that. And somehow, Jeongguk seemed to be
okay with it as well. Jeongguk, who loved words, and loved to express himself and the world
around him with words, had accepted his inability to say three very simple words—accepted
his way of hiding them behind other words. Perhaps he found it romantic. Jimin is not sure.
He just knows his bumbling confession made Jeongguk smile so big that everything around
them disintegrated for a moment, leaving only the two of them behind, blooming in unison.

“So, uhm. How did your date with Yoongi go?” Jimin asks, shaking thoughts of last night
from his fuzzy mind.

“I’ll cut straight to the juicy part. He took me home.”

Jimin raises his eyebrows. “Did you invite him upstairs?”

“I did, but he said no. I think he wants to go slow?” Hoseok says, swirling his coffee in the
cup. “He did kiss me goodnight, though.”

“He did?” Jimin coos, delighted. “Oh my God. Was he sober this time?”

“Of course he was. I wasn’t going to let him kiss me a second time and forget about it again.”

“How was it? Did he slip you the tongue? Just the tip, maybe?”

“Now you sound like me.”

“That’s exactly the point. A taste of your own medicine.”

“He used a little bit of tongue, yes, okay?” Hoseok huffs, downing the last of his coffee. He
gets up to throw the empty cup in the recycling bin nearby. “It didn’t last long. All in all, it
was a very chaste kiss.”
“But…?” Jimin presses, sensing a but.

“… but it was pretty fucking amazing and I want to shove my tongue down his throat next
time we do it again.”

“And when’s again?” Jimin asks, amused. Watching Hoseok talk about his date with a guy
after years of listening to him yap about his straightness feels strangely liberating. “You got
plans?”

“Where did you and Jeongguk go on your first date, by the way? You never told me.”

“Oh, uhm. It wasn’t planned, or anything. Pretty low-key.”

“Everything’s low-key with you.”

“I’m a low maintenance kind of boyfriend.”

“You know, I still can’t quite believe you’re dating Jeongguk,” Hoseok hums, sitting back on
the bench. “You’re his boyfriend. And he’s yours. You’re boyfriends who live together. When
the fuck did all that happen?”

“That’s only temporary though,” Jimin blurts, blushing from head to toe. Hearing Hoseok call
them boyfriends sounds weird as fuck, but it also triggers a chain reaction in his body that
involves a lot of warmth, wads of cotton stuffing his head, and a swarm of butterflies aflutter
in his stomach. “Until I can find a place for me and Hyun.”

“Right, right. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re living together,” Hoseok says. “Most people
date for a few months before moving in with their partner, but hey—I’m happy for you two. I
hope you don’t kill each other in that tiny-ass apartment.”

“Yeah, well, our situation is a little… complicated,” Jimin says evasively.

“You know you could have moved in with me after that incident with Daejung, right?”

“You share your apartment with your sister,” Jimin points out.

“She’s hardly ever home! Always traveling for work. And you know that very well,” Hoseok
exclaims, jabbing a finger at him. “Just say you went straight to Jeongguk’s because you feel
at home with him. I won’t be offended. It’s love, after all.”

He elbows Hoseok in the ribs and hears a low ow, but doesn’t bother apologizing because
Jeongguk is climbing the steps to the park and making a beeline towards them, customary
half-cocked smile in place.

“Hey,” Jimin greets him, smiling nervously. He doesn’t know why, but he’s been feeling a
little more self-conscious around Jeongguk since last night. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Hello, Jimin. I go to school here.”

“No, I know that. I mean around—around this part of campus.”

“Jimin, the Literature building is around the corner.”

“Oh my God okay you win,” Jimin exhales in a single breath, cheeks heating up against the
cold. He crosses his arms and refuses to look at Jeongguk as the man takes a seat next to him
—Jimin can feel his smug grin without even looking at it, he’s that predictable.

“Alright. What do I win for stating the obvious?”

Hoseok snorts. “Would you mind delaying the flirting for, like, ten minutes or so? I’m still
here.”

“Hey, Hoseok. Did anything exciting happen with Yoongi last night?”

Hoseok casts a sideways glance at Jimin. “Well, we kissed, but that’s it. We’re taking it
slow.”

“Nice. Slow is good,” Jeongguk says, smiling.

“Yeah. You see, nobody has asked the other to move in just yet.”

Jeongguk laughs, but his gaze sharpens. “Must be nice to have daddy pay the rent.”

Hoseok’s cheeks tinge in pink. He turns to Jimin, crestfallen, “I—I didn’t mean—I’m sorry
—”

“Jeongguk, don’t be a dick,” Jimin sighs. “It’s fine. It was just a joke.”

Hoseok nods, still a little red. “Did you, uhm, did you guys tell the others yet? Tae and
Namjoon?”

“I think Namjoon knows,” Jimin says, burrowing his hands in the pockets of his coat to keep
them warm. “And maybe Taehyung gleaned something already. He’s strangely observant.”

Jeongguk looks at him in confusion. “You think Namjoon knows? What makes you say
that?”

“Remember your script?”

“Ah.”

“Yeah, you’re not as slick as you think.”

Hoseok gapes. “What are you guys talking about?”

“Nothing,” Jeongguk blurts, the tip of his ears a fierce beetroot red. “Turns out Namjoon
doesn’t respect people’s privacy, that’s all.”

Jimin licks his lips, pensive. “We could all go have a drink together one of these nights, or—
or invite them to dinner, maybe after rehearsals. Just to chat and hang out, and, you know, tell
them we decided to, uhm, date.”
Hoseok makes a sound of agreement. “Make sure to wait until they finish eating or they’ll
choke on their food.”

“It really won’t be the fun surprise you expect it to be.”

Jeongguk brushes his leg with his hand, touch featherlight. “Are you sure you want this?”

“Yeah, why not?” Jimin answers, looking back at Jeongguk. He wants to let him know he’s
okay with it, that he’s not running away this time. “We gotta tell them sooner or later. They’re
our friends, aren’t they? You’ve known them for years, it’s only right.”

Jeongguk shrugs. “Yeah, sure. Dinner sounds good.” He smiles then, turning the cold winter
air around Jimin into a lovely spring breeze.

“Then it’s settled. I’ll text them later. The sooner we do this, the better I’ll feel about it,”
Jimin says, determined.

“Your mental wellbeing is my number one priority,” Jeongguk says, grinning up at him as
Jimin hoists his bag over one shoulder and gets up with an eye roll.

“Ah-ah. See you guys later.”

They say their goodbyes and Jimin makes his way to the History building, his mind already
going over a hundred different ways of breaking the news to Taehyung and Namjoon.

This is going to be hard to explain.

2.
Sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of instant spicy ramen in front of him, Jimin frowns at
his phone, eyeing Taehyung’s profile picture with his bottom lip trapped between his teeth.

“What do you think I should text Taehyung?” Jimin asks, glancing up as Jeongguk takes a
seat holding a similar cup of ramen in his hand.

Jeongguk stirs the noodles with his chopsticks and shrugs. “Dunno, just tell him whatever.”

“You’re not very helpful.”

“Tell him the truth.”

“Yes, I mean—that’s a given,” Jimin says, worrying at his lip. “I’m just not sure how to
breach the topic, I guess. You know Taehyung can be a little… intense, sometimes.”

“Not as intense as Hoseok, though.”

“Now that I think about it, we’re really lucky Yoongi snatched Hoseok before Taehyung had
a chance to make a move. Can you imagine those two together? It would be like looking at
the sun during a solar eclipse. You’d burn your retinas.”

“Why, was there something between them?”

Jimin gives a noncommittal shrug. “Hoseok had a small crush on him when the semester
started. I might have told Taehyung along the way, but it was already too late. Yoongi beat
him to it.”

“Well, they go way back,” Jeongguk snickers. “Didn’t Yoongi’s magical kiss turn him gay?
Just like in fairy tales.”

“I don’t remember kisses turning people gay in fairy tales.”

“That’s because your parents were reading you the wrong kind of bedtime stories.”

Jeongguk’s phone lights up with a text message.

“What did you tell Namjoon, by the way? Is that him?”

He watches Jeongguk swipe at the screen. “Yep. It’s him.”

“So, what did he say? What did you tell him?” He leans in to take a look at the screen, but
Jeongguk locks the phone and puts it away with a grin.

“He’s happy for us. I told him that if he tries to look through my stuff again I will personally
castrate him.”
“He never looked through your stuff. You sat next to him every week at rehearsals, Jeongguk.
You weren’t exactly being sneaky with your obsession with me, you know.”

“You never noticed anything.”

“I did when I picked up your script by accident. What if I had been creeped out by your
sketches? Ever thought of that?”

Jimin throws Jeongguk a playful glance, finds him pouty and red in the face and staring at the
depths of his cup like he has half a mind to drown himself in it.

“You weren’t supposed to see it. Nobody was. It was private.”

Jimin laughs. It’s nice to see Jeongguk flustered once in a while. “I wonder what else you
sketched. Have you perhaps got a journal I don’t know of in the house somewhere, Gguk?”
He makes a show of looking around the room, as though searching for a big notebook with
the words Jeongguk’s diary-do not touch printed on it in bold letters.

But Jeongguk just scoffs, brushing off Jimin’s insinuation with a half-shrug. “Guess you’ll
never know.”

“Did you ever sketch me nude? Be honest. I promise I won’t freak out.”

“Jimin, what the fuck?” Jeongguk sputters in his cup of noodles, the blush on his cheeks
turning a wonderful shade of vermillion. “I’m not a creep. I just sketched your lips a couple
times, that’s all. I’m not a freaking maniac.”

Jimin cocks his head to the side, still smiling. “Eh, more than a couple times, I’d say. And
there was also a side profile, if my memory serves me right.”

He laughs as Jeongguk rolls his eyes at him, exasperated and a little embarrassed. Since
Jeongguk looks so cute and Jimin’s having the time of his life teasing him, he pushes on.

“I don’t know if I should believe you.” Jimin pulls one leg up on the chair, hugging it close to
his chest, the phone long forgotten on the table. “I wonder how those nude drawings came
out. Will you show me one day?”

“Can’t show you something that doesn’t exist,” Jeongguk enunciates slowly and clearly.

“Did you give me abs? A rounder ass? Gosh, I hope I didn’t disappoint when you finally saw
me naked.”

“Jimin, I don’t—”

“Oh, wait.” Jimin’s smile wanes as he knits his eyebrows together. “I forgot you saw me
naked months before we started sleeping together.”

Jeongguk looks at him with an expression that Jimin can only categorize as utterly
indecipherable.
“Well, yeah. The day I had to inspect you.”

“I kind of forgot about that,” Jimin mumbles, scratching at his neck as memories of that first
night in the private room float back to the surface. “I tend to suppress particularly traumatic
experiences.”

He lowers his gaze to the table, picking at one of the scratches in the wood. It’s an old,
rickety table, fairly worn out, like the rest of Jeongguk’s furniture.

“Kinda crazy how this whole thing started out, right? Like, I guess we rushed into things,
skipped some of the usual steps along the way.”

“Thing?” Jeongguk repeats, eyebrow quirked.

“Our relationship,” Jimin explains. “Not many people can say they’ve seen their partner
naked before they even considered dating.”

“What about when you hook up with a stranger? And then fall in love later,” Jeongguk says,
setting his empty cup down on the table.

“But we didn’t hook up that day. We never hooked up.” Jimin picks his phone up again,
stares at the chat where he started typing his text message to Taehyung. “I guess that’s why
it’s so hard to answer people’s questions when they ask how we got together.”

“It is a little complicated to explain,” Jeongguk admits. “But you don’t owe them an answer.
You don’t owe them anything. They’ll have to settle with whatever you want to tell them.”

He glances at Jeongguk, skeptical. “For all they know, we only saw each other during
rehearsals. Where we fought a lot.”

“We didn’t fight that much,” Jeongguk corrects him. “Only at the beginning, really.”

“That doesn’t really explain our change of heart. From their point of view, I guess It’s just not
realistic.”

“We’ve been practicing a lot these past few months,” Jeongguk points out.

“I’m not sure either Namjoon or Tae will buy into the ‘we fell in love during rehearsals’
thing.”

Jeongguk’s eyes narrow. “Do you think it would never have happened, if you hadn’t asked
Seokjin for a job?”

The question takes him by surprise. “Well. Everything would have been… different.”

“That’s what you think,” Jeongguk says, staring at him long and hard. “But I think you’re
wrong.”

“Am I?”
Jeongguk runs a hand over his face. He looks a little tired—they both do. Juggling classes
and rehearsals that have become progressively more frenetic as the day of the play
approaches hasn’t been easy for Jimin, and he imagines the same goes for Jeongguk as well.

“All the shit that went down at the Bird has… obviously played a big part in what happened
between us,” Jeongguk starts, carefully picking his words. “The Bird has been a catalyst. But
I don’t want you to think that stripping naked in front of me that one night is the reason why
you’re sitting at my kitchen table tonight.”

Jeongguk’s eyes wander about the room before finally settling on Jimin again. He tucks a
lock of hair behind his ear before adding, a bit sheepishly, “I would have noticed you anyway.
On the stage. Off the stage. In the hallways, around campus…” His lips curve into a half-
cocked smile. “I probably would have nagged Hoseok for your number if you hadn’t
auditioned for the play.”

It’s like someone wrapped a rope around Jimin’s heart and was now squeezing it so tightly
that he nearly felt his heart burst. And yet it’s not unpleasant—quite the opposite.

“I—that’s very flattering.”

“You don’t seem convinced.”

“Yeah, no, I don’t think you would have given me the time of day.”

Jeongguk looks offended. “Hoseok is our mutual friend. We would have met sooner or later.”

“Hoseok’s been our mutual friend for a while. We never spoke once.”

“You sat behind me in a lecture once,” Jeongguk says abruptly.

Jimin’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “You remember?”

Jeongguk laughs quietly. “Yeah. You had a different hair color back then. Orange, I think it
was? It looked orange-ish.”

The telltale signs of a blush creeping on his neck and face makes Jimin drop his gaze to his
lap. “Yeah, I, uhm, that was a mistake. It was supposed to be red. Didn’t work. I was stuck
with orange hair for like, a whole month. The orange never truly went away,” Jimin
mumbles, coiling a strand of blond hair around his finger and almost going cross-eyed to
glare at it.

“I thought it looked good on you,” Jeongguk states, much to his surprise. “I didn’t know who
you were, but since I’d never seen you in any of my classes before, I figured you weren’t in
my year. You stopped attending class after a few weeks.”

“Oh, yeah. Had to let it go because it clashed with my work schedule.”

“I remember wondering what had happened to the orange-haired guy in my class,” Jeongguk
hums, chin resting on the palm of his hand. “I didn’t even realize you were a friend of
Hoseok’s.”
“He’d already taken that class the year before. It’s one of the reasons I picked it as elective,
cause he was going to pass me his notes.”

“Opportunist.”

“Did you fill your notebooks with sketches of orange-haired guy?” Jimin asks, very
seriously. “Is that a thing you do when someone catches your eye?”

Jeongguk doesn’t bite. “Ah-ah. No. I was too busy paying attention to the lecture.”

Jimin collects the empty ramen cups and gets up with a long, exaggerated sigh. “See? Maybe
I would have never caught your attention, after all.”

Jeongguk’s laughter follows him into the tiny kitchenette, where he rinses off the cups and
throws them in the bin below the sink.

“You wanna send Seokjin a bouquet of flowers to thank him for setting us up?”

Jimin’s expression darkens as he treads back to the living room.

“No. I want to send him a nondescript box with a venomous snake inside.”

Jeongguk seizes his wrist and pulls him closer, looking up at him with a grin that never
wavers, never spoils. Not like Jimin’s does whenever Seokjin is mentioned.

“I think he’s immune to snake venom.”

“Because he is also a snake?”

“Imagine how many enemies a man of his caliber and with his connections must have. If he’s
smart, he’s spent half his life building immunities to a number of poisons.”

“You watch too many movies.”

Jeongguk just shrugs, drawing lazy circles on the back of Jimin’s hand with his thumb.
“That’s what I would do if I was in the mob.”

“I’m glad you aren’t,” Jimin says, any trace of hilarity gone from his face. “People like him
are the scum of the earth. Every time I see his face or hear his voice there’s a chance I might
flip out and punch him in the face.”

“And the next day I’d find your organs on the black market.”

“That’s not what Seokjin deals in,” Jimin points out. “…right?”

Jeongguk draws him closer still. He leans his forehead on Jimin’s lap, sighing.

“You should let it go.”

Jimin buries his hand in Jeongguk’s hair. Feels how soft it is beneath his fingertips, how silky.
Imagines how many men have yanked his hair back, have pressed his face down a mattress to
keep him still. Jimin’s dormant anger swells, spark to flame to raging inferno.

“No. I can’t. I hate him, and I hate what he did to you. I’ll hate him forever and there’s
nothing you can do about it.”

“I don’t want you to act carelessly around Seokjin.”

“I won’t. I was joking,” Jimin assures him, back to stroking Jeongguk’s hair. “I haven’t done
anything so far, have I? I’ve got great self-control. Doesn’t mean I can’t fantasize about
cutting his dick off.”

He hears Jeongguk chuckle, but it’s so fleeting and soft he thinks he’s imagined it.

“He’s not the one who hurt me, though.”

His hand stills again, lingering at the base of Jeongguk’s neck. Jeongguk peers up at him with
sad eyes, and it breaks his heart, and it makes him angrier.

He cups Jeongguk’s face. Tilts it up to stare in his dark eyes, now black as midnight. He’s not
sure what he finds there, but it’s not burning stars anymore.

“I won’t let them hurt you again. I’ll never let you out of my sight, I promise.”

Is it an empty promise? What can he do against Seokjin and his empire? The night Jeongguk
was assaulted, he couldn’t even get a security guard to open the door. He couldn’t do shit.
He’s useless. These are empty promises, and they sound fake, plasticky, even as they fall out
of his lips.

But Jeongguk smiles, nonetheless. It’s a little watery smile, tentative, unsteady. He covers
one of Jimin’s hands with his and draws a small sigh.

“I know. I know I shouldn’t be, but… I’m glad you’ll be there.” He tugs the hem of Jimin’s
sweatshirt. “Get down here and kiss me.”

Jimin obliges, laughing into the kiss when Jeongguk hums appreciatively and whispers,
“tastes like spicy chicken.”

“You taste like stale kimchi.”

“I think that ramen had expired.”

Jimin straightens up, laughing, but Jeongguk doesn’t let go. His other hand sneaks under
Jimin’s sweatshirt, and Jeongguk’s cold fingertips trailing up his abdomen send a wave of
pleasant shivers up Jimin’s spine.

“Was it that traumatic to strip in front of me?”

“What?” Jimin laughs again. He didn’t see that question coming. “You mean that night at the
Bird? When you checked me for—I think your exact words were ‘gaping vaginas on my
asscheeks’.”
“That would’ve been awkward as fuck. Kinda cool, though.”

“For you, maybe.”

“Wanna answer my question?”

It’s hard to think of a proper answer with Jeongguk’s hands on himself. His brain is like a
lighter that has been used one too many times and can’t spark anymore. It keeps trying to
produce a flame of a thought, only to sputter and disappoint again, lifeless.

“Considering that nobody had seen me naked since the last time my mom bathed me as a
child, yes. It did feel a little off.”

“I’m sorry. I was an asshole. That was unnecessary.”

Jimin frowns. “You mean I didn’t have to strip?”

“Oh, no—that’s standard procedure,” Jeongguk says, “But I... I could have spared you the
humiliation. Nobody would have known.”

“It’s okay. It didn’t last long anyway, and it didn’t feel… as invasive as it could have been. I
guess.” He doesn’t know how Seokjin inspects his merchandise usually, but he has a feeling
he doesn’t just stop at looking respectfully from a distance.

Jeongguk closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. I really wasn’t that much
different from the man that raped me.”

“Would you stop saying bullshit, please?” Jimin huffs, his voice losing in softness and
gaining a much harsher edge. “Never, ever compare yourself to that man ever again. You
heard me? You didn’t do anything I didn’t agree to. I took my clothes off, I let you do your
job. You didn’t lay a finger on me that night. Nor the night after. Nor any other night we met
at the Bird. Jesus Christ, Gguk, it took you forever to ask me if you could touch me. Do you
have any idea how long I waited for you to do that? Even if it was under the pretense of
giving me sex lessons, the night you finally did ask me, it felt like my heart was going to stop
from how fast it was beating. You were always so controlled, so careful not to lay a single
finger on me. And I was so touch-starved I thought I was going crazy.”

Jeongguk stares up at him with slightly parted lips, an utterly dumbfounded look pasted on
his face.

“Really?”

“I kissed you first, remember?”

Jeongguk cracks a smile. “Yeah. Hard to forget.”

“Admittedly, I could’ve picked a better time to do it—”

“No. No better time than that night. I held on to the memory of our kiss for weeks, it was the
only thing that kept me sane. You, and the play, and—that kiss. Everything else faded away.”
A wave of warmth floods Jimin anew. The back of his neck tingles, as do his cheeks, his ears,
his heart.

“I wasn’t that good of a kisser.”

Jeongguk shakes his head. “I don’t think you understand. You could have spit in my mouth
and I assure you that I would have obsessed about it for days.”

“Well, yeah—I believe you. That’s kind of hot.”

“The point being that you had me in the palm of your hand from the get-go.”

“Still, you were very vulnerable that night,” Jimin mumbles, averting his eyes. “I should have
waited.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Agree to disagree,” Jimin sighs. “I guess we both did stuff that we think of as mistakes, even
though we don’t agree with each other. I think that makes us even?”

“Sounds about right.” Jeongguk’s smile turns into an impish smirk, and his hand resumes
tracing Jimin’s skin under the sweatshirt. “You said you were dying for me to touch you,
right?”

Jimin rolls his eyes. “And you said you wanted me to spit in your mouth.”

“Not true. I said you could have, and maybe I wouldn’t have complained.”

Jimin isn’t totally sure where the impulse came from, but the mischievous gleam in
Jeongguk’s eyes makes him yank Jeongguk’s head back by a fistful of hair.

“You wanna test that?”

The hand sweeping across his chest stills abruptly. Jeongguk’s eyes are pools of black ink,
widening ever so slightly.

“I’m—I’m joking.” He loosens his hold on Jeongguk’s hair, blushing.

“Oh.” Jeongguk swallows. “That’s a shame.”

Jimin just stares back at Jeongguk, who’s sitting right at the edge of the chair like he’s ready
to jump on his feet.

“I didn’t know you were into that sort of thing.”

“I can think of a few things I’m into that you don’t know of yet,” Jeongguk counters. His
voice has turned lower and raw, rousing heat in Jimin’s belly. Matte black instead of glossy.

“Yeah? Like what?”

He wonders what color has filtered into his own voice. He can’t tell. Maybe it isn’t clear
waters anymore, like Jeongguk once told him on the phone. Maybe it’s the foamy crest of a
wave before it crashes against a golden shore and kisses it a deeper shade of ochre.

“It’s no fun if I spill all my secrets. You’ll have to find out on your own.”

Jeongguk hooks two fingers around the hem of Jimin’s jeans and pulls him closer.

“Say, where did you want me to touch you the most?”

“I think you already know.”

Jimin knows what’ll probably come next, it’s not hard to read Jeongguk’s intentions. The
anticipation is always thrilling, but this time, something else bleeds into his growing
excitement.

Jeongguk’s eyes slide down to his crotch, appraising the bulge in his pants. If Jimin weren’t
standing in front of him fully dressed, he would feel Jeongguk’s breath against his skin.

Too close.

A tinge of unease. That’s what it is. He’s got half a mind to wiggle out of Jeongguk’s grasp
and hide away.

He shivers when Jeongguk trails a finger down his crotch. This is nothing they haven’t done
before, but their placement makes him nervous. He wishes he were the one sitting, and
Jeongguk the one standing. That, he could do.

“Can I?” Jeongguk murmurs, fidgeting with the zipper. Jimin just nods, sucking on his
bottom lip as his mind spirals away, out of control. Maybe Jeongguk wants to jerk him off,
that’s all. Maybe he’s reading too much into it.

Jeongguk pops the button and zips down his flyer. He does so with deliberate slowness,
giving Jimin the time to back away at any moment. When Jeongguk pushes his jeans down
enough to reveal the outline of his erection through his briefs, Jeongguk’s breath against the
fabric sends him shivering again.

“You asked me what else I’m into. I can tell you I’m really into this right now,” Jeongguk
says in a whisper. “Are you?”

I don’t know, what are you trying to do?

The proximity of Jeongguk’s mouth to his clothed cock pushes his brain into overdrive.

“Yes.”

What’s he saying yes to?

Maybe he’s overthinking. After all, Jeongguk has never tried to go down on him since the
day he told him he wasn’t comfortable with it.
“You sure?”

If he had a cent for every time Jeongguk asked him that question.

“What do you want to do?”

Jeongguk’s hands slide to his thighs.

“I want to repay you for everything you do for me. I want to make you feel as good as you
make me feel.”

“You already do,” Jimin says in a breath. “Trust me, you do. I don’t need anything else.”
Does he sound a little desperate? Does he sound a little panicked?

“What if you could feel more?” Jeongguk insists. “Something different. With me.”

“Jeongguk, I’m serious—you don’t have to. There’s no need.”

Jeongguk harrumphs. “This again. I know I don’t have to. I want to. I really do.”

Jimin holds back the instinct to squirm away, pull up his pants and go hide under the covers.

“I—I don’t—it’s hard for me to have you… do this,” he stammers out, frustrated with the
conflicting feelings swirling in his head. “I mean, it’s okay if I do it, but if I’m on the
receiving end… I don’t know, it feels like I can’t—I don’t know if I could watch you do it.”

Not the most eloquent he’s ever been, but Jeongguk will have to make do.

“You don’t have to watch if you don’t want to,” Jeongguk says instead, patient as ever.
“Remember the first time you let me touch you? We were sitting on my couch having one of
our lessons—” he air-quotes the word, “—and I was pretending that I didn’t have any ulterior
motives.”

Jimin giggles, endeared. “Of course I do. Nobody had ever touched me like that before.”

“You had your eyes closed. Remember? And you were able to let go.” Jeongguk cocks his
head to the side, watching him with pensive eyes. “That was a big step, wasn’t it? You
focused on what you felt, and not on what was going on. No distractions. Just you and me,
and the back of your eyelids.”

They’re nice words, pretty words even. They’re lost on Jimin, on his defective brain.

“I feel like this is different, though? I’m sorry, I know it’s weird because we’ve already had
sex and you probably think I’m being difficult for no reason—”

“It’s not weird. You’re not weird. You’re you. And I love everything that makes you, you.”

Jimin’s cheeks bloom burgundy red. Jeongguk draws back a little, now indecisive, then rises
to his feet.
“I won’t make you do anything you aren’t comfortable with yet. Don’t worry.”

“Wait.” He grabs Jeongguk’s hoodie. His head is still spinning; the room is slightly tilted.
He’s hot and freezing cold.

Bunching the fabric, he pulls Jeongguk closer.

“I can try.”

“You can, but do you want to?”

Yes and no, how much is no and how much is yes?

“I want to.”

“Are you sure?”

He huffs, nearly rolling his eyes at Jeongguk, but he’s smiling. “You keep asking me, are you
sure about this, are you sure about that. Yes, I’m sure.” Before Jeongguk’s still skeptical
expression, he adds, “I’ll squeeze my eyes shut extra hard. Who knows, it might really help.”

Jeongguk purses his lips. “I might have something better for you.”

“What?”

“Wait here.”

Jeongguk disappears in his bedroom, leaving Jimin to stare after him in confusion. He hears
the sound of drawers being opened and closed, hears rummaging. A few moments later,
Jeongguk comes back with a navy blue strip of cloth in his hands.

“What is that?” Jimin blurts, pointedly staring at what looks like a blindfold.

“A blindfold.”

“Yeah, no, I got that.”

“Then why are you—”

“I mean, why do you have it?”

“I’m the world champion of blindfold tag,” Jeongguk deadpans. “Kids hate me.”

“Right.”

“I think you can guess the answer using a little imagination,” Jeongguk smirks. “You did ask
me what I was into.”

Jimin eyes the silky fabric apprehensively. “Is that for you, or for others?”
Jeongguk cocks an eyebrow. “I’m quite versatile.” He tugs at the blindfold, lifting it up to
eye-level. “Too much?”

“You want to use it on me?”

“That’s the idea. You said it’s easier if you don’t look.” He tautens the cloth between his
hands. “Wanna try?”

“I’m not sure I want to be—that vulnerable,” Jimin admits, nervous. Yet he can’t seem to tear
his eyes away from the piece of blue cloth. “Like, I wouldn’t be able to see—anything. With
that on.”

“That is the point of a blindfold, yes,” Jeongguk grins. “But you can take it off anytime. And
it’s not like you’ll be completely blind, you can still see shadows, kinda.”

Jimin sinks his teeth so hard on his bottom lip that it hurts. Jeongguk’s eyes flicker down.

“You’ll bleed again.”

“Sorry,” Jimin mumbles. “Uhm, okay. Let’s try it.”

Jeongguk beams at him. “Really?”

“Wow, your face lit up like a Christmas tree. Are you that eager to blindfold me?” Jimin
snorts, allowing Jeongguk to push him down on the couch. Jeongguk takes a seat next to him,
blindfold stretched between his hands.

“I promise I won’t fasten it too tight,” Jeongguk says, ignoring his taunt. Jimin sits stock-still
as Jeongguk places the cool cloth against his eyes, leaning closer to tie it at the back.
Suddenly his vision darkens, all his other senses sharpening at the same time. He’s hyper-
aware of Jeongguk sitting beside him, leg pressed against his thigh, how warm he is, how
light his breathing sounds.

He soon realizes that the world feels very strange when he can’t see anything and he’s alone
in a room with Jeon Jeongguk.

“How is it? Comfortable?”

Jimin touches the blindfold. It’s tied snugly around his head. He tries to look around, even
though he can’t see anything but vague shadows. He must look like an idiot.

“Uhm, yeah, it’s alright.”

“How’s it like so far?”

He can hear the smile in Jeongguk’s words. Can imagine it in vivid detail, how it curls the
corners of his lips in that charming grin that is so unapologetically him.

And most of all, he can see the black in Jeongguk’s voice. Not because it’s all he sees with
his eyes blindfolded, but because it stains each of Jeongguk’s words. Just like the first time
Jimin heard him on the phone, the color of Jeongguk’s voice bleeds a rich velvet black, and
suddenly it’s as if Jeongguk’s very own voice wrapped around his head to shield his eyes
with palpable darkness.

There’s a depth to this black he’s eager to explore, and maybe get lost into.

“Good. A bit weird, but good.”

He feels Jeongguk shift closer. Jimin turns his head towards him, blind.

“What are you doing?”

“If I tell you, it defeats the purpose of the blindfold.”

A hand on his thigh, warm breath against the shell of his ear. A ripple of shivers again.

“Still good?”

Jimin croaks out an affirmation, then clears his throat, embarrassed by how rough his voice
sounds. A piece of cloth and a hand on his thigh and he’s already a goner. With his eyes
blind, Jeongguk’s presence is warmer than ever.

He feels something hot and wet softly trail up his ear—the tip of Jeongguk’s tongue. His
hand kneads the flesh of Jimin’s thigh, slowly, carefully, testing the waters.

“How is it?”

“I thought you wanted to blow me.”

He hears a faint chuckle. “Wow, straight to the point.” Jeongguk scoots even closer, warmth
radiating off him in waves.

“Didn’t I teach you anything?” he continues, breath playing against Jimin’s lips now. “I think
we should take it slow.”

But the slide of Jeongguk’s hand up his thigh is so torturously slow that Jimin feels himself
unravel like an ancient, frayed tapestry. He doesn’t say anything back. Each of his senses are
tuned to Jeongguk’s voice, hyper-focused on the hovering presence at his side.

“I think you want it slow.”

The words are pressed right on Jimin’s open mouth—he didn’t even realize he was ready to
welcome Jeongguk in. A moan slips out of him when Jeongguk licks into his mouth, the kiss
deep and filthy from the very beginning. He answers in kind, already panting, growing
excited by the second. His hand finds Jeongguk’s neck, and he curls his fingers around it,
drawing him closer.

It doesn’t last long. Jeongguk pulls away to mouth at his jaw and down the column of his
neck, pushing the collar of Jimin’s sweatshirt to the side to litter his collarbone with little
featherlight kisses. He’s had Jeongguk kiss him everywhere—almost everywhere—several
times before, but it’s never quite felt like this. This feels more, this feels like a lot—almost
unbearably so. This feels like he doesn’t know what he should do if Jeongguk’s lips were
ever to pull away from his skin; feels like electricity sparking through his veins and coursing
straight to his heart, his brain, the pits of his stomach.

And then he feels Jeongguk move and slide down the couch, warmth gone at his side, as he
glimpses Jeongguk’s shadow crouch between his legs. He tries to close them instinctually, but
a pair of strong hands holds them apart at the knees.

That’s when Jimin almost—almost—panics.

“I wish you could see how beautiful you look right now.”

Jeongguk’s voice is black tempera, viscous and sticky and thick with need. It coats Jimin’s
panic with indelible paint, blotting it out until it turns into something other, unrecognizable,
new.

“From down here,” his palms travel slowly up Jimin’s thighs, “you look stunning.” A pause.
A chuckle. “I’ve dreamt of this moment so many times, it’s honestly embarrassing.”

Jimin laughs too, breathless. “Is it better than watching me suck you off?”

“I’ll find out soon.”

Jimin blushes deeply, feeling the urge to close his legs again, clam up like he did so many
other times. Jeongguk’s hands go up and down, up and down, never really reaching where
Jimin wants them the most.

“Let’s take these off,” Jeongguk murmurs, pushing the hem of his jeans down. Jimin lifts his
hips to help Jeongguk take them off. Then, Jeongguk’s hands are back on him again, gently
rubbing the flesh of his thighs.

“Cold?”

“No,” Jimin pants, “okay.”

That’s all he manages to say. Okay. Good. I’m not really ready to have your mouth on my
cock. He doesn’t say that. He doesn’t want him to stop. He does. He’s not sure. Okay. Good.

Please do something already.

But Jeongguk keeps rubbing his hands up and down his thighs in tandem, applying slightly
more pressure each time. “You’re tense. Are you nervous?”

That’s when Jimin realizes he’s sitting up with his back as straight as a rod, muscles tensing
painfully. He makes the conscious effort to relax, forcing himself to exhale through his nose.

“A little.” A euphemism. His first time sleeping with Jeongguk didn’t feel as nerve-wracking
as what is about to happen now, and that’s saying a lot.
“Sit back. Relax. This is for you.”

He hears Jeongguk shuffle a little closer. He starts kissing up one of his thighs, open-mouthed
kisses that are more tongue than lips.

Jimin can’t help but wonder if he’s getting the Skylark service tonight. He wonders if this is
how Jeongguk starts off his blowjobs with his customers. The thought threatens to sour his
mood and stir up darker feelings, but then Jeongguk chooses that particular moment to start
sucking a mark on his inner thigh and Jimin gasps, head emptying immediately.

“Sensitive?”

“It’s just that I don’t know what to expect.”

“That’s why it’s fun.”

He feels Jeongguk’s fingers reach up, up, tease the hem of his underwear. When the first
finger grazes his clothed cock, Jimin has to restrain himself from shoving Jeongguk’s hand
inside his briefs.

“Can you please… touch me?”

“I am touching you,” Jeongguk says, voice gravelly. “Here.” He kneads the flesh of his
thighs. “Here.” His hand slides to Jimin’s sides. “And here.” The hands resume their up-and-
down motion.

“You know what I mean.”

“But I really like your thighs.”

Another groan. Jeongguk chuckles. Then, unexpectedly, Jeongguk grabs his legs and pulls
him forward.

“What’re you—”

The question dies in his throat when Jeongguk cups him in his hand, and he lets his head fall
back onto the couch, hissing softly. Jeongguk doesn’t do anything for a bit, just keeps his
hand against Jimin’s bulge for what seems like a small eternity. Then he starts palming him
gently, little circular motions that drive Jimin a little more insane with each passing second.

“You know—you know what I’m thinking about?” Jimin manages to say, eyes closed behind
the blindfold.

“What are you thinking about?”

He croaks out a laugh before answering. “That night you showed me how to give head. You
never mentioned any of this.”

“Well, why would I have done that? You were about to be my competition,” Jeongguk quips,
a tinge of gold seeping into the black.
“I could never compete against you. You’re Skylark.”

“This little Skylark got his wings clipped,” Jeongguk murmurs. His voice is indecipherable;
Jeongguk’s hands on him make it hard for Jimin to think of a proper answer. “But I can still
fly for you, Jimin.”

He feels hot breath on himself, and that’s when he knows Jeongguk is right between his legs,
a breath away from his cock. He squirms a little, but Jeongguk’s hold on his legs is steely.

“You okay?”

Jimin gives a shrug that could pass as a particularly strong shiver.

“You know what I like most about you? Your eloquence.”

Jimin chuckles, “yes, oh my God. Yes.” His muscles knot up in anticipation, or anxiety, or
nervousness. It’s a mix of everything, really. A cocktail of emotions that has him drunk on
need.

Jeongguk hooks two fingers on his briefs, tugs a little, ever teasing. Jimin isn’t sure if he’s
being careful or playful. Knowing Jeongguk, it might be the former masked as the latter.

He digs his fingernails into the couch when he feels what seems like Jeongguk’s lips on
himself. He’s never had anyone’s face so close to his cock before. Anyone who tried got
Jimin’s trademarked Freaked-Out Treatment. He might even be considering freaking out a
little right now, if not for the fact that freaking out requires breath to stammer out excuses and
also hyperventilating, and Jimin doesn’t have the luxury of breathing right now—all his
breath seems to have vanished from his lungs.

He’s in apnea.

“Can I take these off?” Jeongguk asks, brushing his underwear, oblivious to Jimin’s inner
turmoil. Jimin nods, blushing furiously. He’s grateful for the blindfold now—he wouldn’t
bear to watch the look on Jeongguk’s face as he strips him down to nothing but his
sweatshirt, his face so fucking close to his crotch.

So he just leans back and lets Jeongguk do it, pressing his lips in a tight line when Jeongguk
resumes his place between his legs.

Every inch of Jimin’s skin is on fire, and it kind of feels like his face is melting away.

“You’re really pretty, Jimin,” Jeongguk whispers reverently. Clouds of dusty black sweep
across Jimin’s mind, bringing forth warmth, not rain. “You’re pretty everywhere. I want you
to know that. I wish you could see it one day.”

Shyness overcomes him, and he turns his head to the side, away from Jeongguk. He slings an
arm on his face for good measure, to add more black to the black brought by the blindfold, by
the back of his eyelids. It doesn’t make anything easier though, because black is what he
associates Jeongguk with—and now he’s shrouded in it.
One finger runs the length of his shaft, and Jimin jolts, hyper-sensitive. He feels Jeongguk
breath against the tip. The finger trails down to his balls, and Jeongguk gives them a little
playful squeeze.

“Nothing we haven’t done before, yes?”

It doesn’t take Jeongguk long to get him to full hardness. He feels himself twitch eagerly in
Jeongguk’s hand, hears Jeongguk whisper soft encouragements as he slowly lets himself feel.

He can almost convince himself that this is just a bit of their usual foreplay. Jeongguk will
turn him over any second now, slip inside him and pump him full of come. Except this isn’t it,
and he knows what’s about to happen when Jeongguk takes a hold of his cock and the breath
on his sensitive skin grows hotter.

Jeongguk doesn’t take him in his mouth all at once, like some porn star eager to flaunt his
blowjob game. Actually, he doesn’t take him in his mouth at all, period. The first thing Jimin
feels is something warm and wet pressing down at the base of his cockhead. His reaction is
instantaneous, and he lets out a moan despite his best attempts at holding everything down.

Jeongguk alternates between stroking him with his hand and licking all around his shaft,
never really swiping at the tip. He feels him shuffle closer and dive down to suck his balls
into his mouth, and for a moment it almost becomes too much—Jeongguk’s nose brushing his
lower abdomen, the flat of his tongue pressed against himself, the wet sounds—before
Jeongguk slides back up and presses the tip of his tongue down on his slit.

“Oh, fuck—fuck.”

He feels himself twitch, but Jeongguk’s tongue is glued to him, lapping up his precome. The
mere thought of it is so pornographic that Jimin’s head nearly splits open—but Jeongguk is
relentless in his ministrations, doesn’t give him room to breathe. Deep down, Jimin knows
that if Jeongguk were to ask him whether he’d like to stop or keep going, the shame that’s
long since nested in his brain would make him say stop.

Except the warmth swelling in his belly is slowly outgrowing the shame, and it doesn’t feel
like a bad thing, after all—it doesn’t feel bad at all.

“Give me your hand,” Jeongguk orders. He takes it before Jimin has the time to compute the
question, places it at the back of his head. “Hold on to my hair. Tug if I do something you
don’t like.”

Oh, fuck.

This time Jeongguk puts the tip in his mouth, and Jimin’s hand instantly clamps around his
hair. Jeongguk doesn’t seem deterred, but he also doesn’t sink lower. All he does is swirl his
tongue around, gently sucking at the tip as he pumps the spit-slicked base with a hand.

There’s just one word to describe the sounds filling the room: obscene. It’s one thing when he
sucks Jeongguk off—he’s got used to it by now, and he’s usually in control of everything.
But this is very different, and now he’s slumped on the couch with the head of his cock
buried in Jeongguk’s mouth and the wet, slurping noises are driving him nuts. It’s a blessing
he’s been blindfolded—what an amazing idea, the best Jeongguk’s ever had, truly.

He’s already on the brink of an orgasm and Jeongguk isn’t even halfway down his cock yet.

“Fuck, uhm—stop, s-stop for a second,” he pants, tugging Jeongguk’s head back. For a
moment he wishes he could see him right now, lips red and wet with spit and precome, and
fuck if it isn’t hard not to come all over Jeongguk’s face right in this fucking instant.

“Do you want me to slow down?”

Jesus Christ, any slower than this and Jimin’s head will explode.

“No, it’s—it’s perfect. You’re perfect. I just need… uhm, to gather my thoughts a little.”

He hears Jeongguk laugh. “That’s what you do wrong, Jimin. You’re too much in your head.
What’s there to think about?” He gives another kittenish lick around the head, ever teasing.
“Don’t think. Just feel.”

“You’re really good at this.”

“Baby, I haven’t even started yet.”

Jimin’s giggle sounds almost hysterical. “Fuck, I’m fucked.”

“Not this time. But you can fuck my mouth if you want.”

He can’t help but moan out, “you’re not making it any easier.”

“What? I’m just giving you an idea of what you could do with me.” Jeongguk’s mouth is
around his cock the second he finishes speaking, taking him deeper. He sinks to half of his
length and sucks once, and Jimin’s head flies back, mouth open in a soundless moan.

“That’s not—that’s not—I told you to wait,” he whines, chest heaving with the effort of
holding himself back. “Fuck you.”

But his hand tightens around Jeongguk’s hair, hips canting up when Jeongguk doesn’t move
again. He hears him hum then, the low vibrations traveling up his cock driving him wild.
Perhaps Jeongguk wants to say something back—reply to his breathless fuck you, maybe—
but all he does is bob his head up and down instead.

That’s when it dawns on Jimin, finally—Jeongguk is blowing him. Someone is giving him a
blowjob, and he’s letting them do it. He isn’t freaking out—okay, he is a bit—he hasn’t
broken into a sweat yet—maybe just a little?—and he isn’t kneeling Jeongguk square in the
face, in typical Jimin fashion.

No, in fact, Jeongguk is slowly taking him all in, and the incredible thing is that Jimin feels it
—feels it all. The tightness in his belly increases, leaves him throbbing in Jeongguk’s mouth.
When he feels the tip grazing the back of Jeongguk’s throat, his whole body tenses and he
holds his breath, bracketing Jeongguk between his thighs. Jeongguk must like it a lot,
because a loud, throaty moan slips past his lips—and next thing he knows, Jimin is spilling
down his throat.

It’s a long orgasm, longer than his usual. His vision blooms with white-hot bursts of pleasure,
and his body tightens unbearably before releasing all that tension he built up since Jeongguk
first brushed a finger down his cock. He feels himself free-falling like so many other times
before, except now he doesn’t feel Jeongguk’s cock throb inside himself, because he is the
one feeding Jeongguk his come, down to the very last drop.

And Jeongguk takes it all, opening his mouth slack to let Jimin fuck the last of his orgasm
deep into his mouth. Not once does he cough or sputter, and if he gags, Jimin doesn’t notice.
When he’s done painting Jeongguk’s throat in white, he slumps back into the couch, drained.

“Jesus fuck.”

Profanities are the only things that seem to fit the mood.

Jeongguk swallows one last time around his cock, then slips off. He mouths at the head and
chuckles when Jimin squirms. His next words are spoken in a deep, rough voice.

“Tell me you loved it cause I’m willing to suck you off every single day of the week.”

Jimin laughs and pushes the blindfold up. He blinks a couple times, allowing his eyes to
readjust to the dim light. He peers down at Jeongguk and finds he wasn’t ready to see how
fucked-out he looks.

Hair a mess, lips red and swollen and slick with every kind of fluid he can think of, panting
and smiling up at him with a lazy, lopsided grin—he thought he’d seen all of Jeongguk’s
expressions before, but this is new, and so very fucking hot.

“Do—do I pay you now? I feel like I should pay you.”

Laughing, Jeongguk climbs back onto the couch. “I mean, I never say no to money.
Especially if I earned it doing what I love.”

Still dazed with the lingering residues of one of the best orgasms of his life, Jimin forgets all
about his usual post-coitus embarrassment.

“Well, if you want—if you want to do it again some other time, I may not have anything
against it?”

Jeongguk licks his lips, dark eyes boring into his. Jimin can’t help but fixate on his mouth—
there’s a bit of come smearing his chin. His come. He wonders if this is how he looks to
Jeongguk after he blows him. It must be. It’s both embarrassing and exciting.

“You look hot with that blindfold,” Jeongguk says. “But next time I want eye contact.”

Now he starts feeling self-conscious again. He pulls the hem of his sweatshirt down on his
crotch, feeling himself blush for the millionth time.
“I’ll try my best.” He glances down at his lap. “Did… did you really like it?”

Jeongguk nuzzles his neck, nose rubbing against his throat like an oversized kitten, or a
slightly below-average tiger, more like. The only thing missing is the purring.

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re used to pleasuring people,” Jimin whispers. “I don’t want to use you, though.
You should do what you want to do.”

Jeongguk tilts Jimin’s face towards him with a slender finger. “I think I know when I’m
having fun doing something, and when it feels like a chore instead. Did you like it?”

Jimin nods. “Thank you for insisting.”

Jeongguk shrugs once, but he’s got his sempiternal smug face on. “Thank you for
consenting.”

Jimin throws a perfunctory glance at Jeongguk’s very evident hard-on.

“Well, that was fun. I think I’ll go have a shower now,” he says cheerfully, pushing off the
couch with a smirk of his own.

Jeongguk grabs his arm, eyebrows raised. “Want me to join you?”

“Not really, no.”

He scoffs. “Really?”

“What?” Jimin laughs, amused, “isn’t sucking me off a reward in and of itself?”

Jeongguk shakes his head. “You’re a dick.”

“Well, it’s apparently one of the features you like most about me.” He slips away from
Jeongguk’s grasp and heads into the bathroom.

He hears Jeongguk’s voice drift over. “This is my house, you know. My shower you’re getting
into.”

Jimin shrugs off his sweatshirt, turns on the water in the shower box and waits a beat for it to
turn warm. He pops his head into the living room again, finding a slightly disgruntled yet
amused Jeongguk sitting exactly where he left him. Jimin raises an eyebrow.

“Then do something about it.”

He dashes back to the shower when Jeongguk springs to his feet, laughing as Jeongguk’s
arms circle round his waist. He still manages to drag him under the spray, giggling when he
gets him completely drenched.
“You’re a dick and a tease,” Jeongguk sputters, pinning Jimin against the glass walls of the
shower box. Water streams down his face, plastering dark hair over his skin. He swipes at his
eyes, blinking out the water. “These are all valid reasons to throw you out, you know?”

“And who will keep you warm at night?”

“I’ll crank up the heating.”

“Can the heating do this?” He dips his hand under Jeongguk’s pants and squeezes. The
change in his expression is already very rewarding.

“N-no, but my right hand can.”

Jimin scoffs and shoves him away, but Jeongguk doesn’t even budge. His clothes are soaking
wet as water runs down his back. His white t-shirt is completely see-through, plastered all
over his chest, and it’s getting very hard to pretend that it’s not distracting.

“Fuck off and let me shower in peace, then.”

“You should know by now, Jimin,” Jeongguk says, casually removing the shower head from
its fixed place overhead, “peace is never an option for us.” He aims the spray straight at
Jimin’s face.

He backs into the glass again, half-laughing and half-shouting in outrage, wrestling a
giggling Jeongguk for the shower head. It’s in this moment that Jimin thinks that maybe he’s
finally found out what true happiness feels like, and it’s hot and wet and hits his face at rapid
speed and gets in his eyes and stings and drowns him a little. But above all, he realizes
happiness is in the sound of Jeongguk’s laughter, and the feel of his lips on his mouth.
Chapter 16
1.
Day before the play.

Kneeling on the center of the stage with all eyes on him, the warmth of the spotlight
penetrates through Jimin’s costume, beading his forehead with perspiration. He delivers his
ending monologue flawlessly, throwing each word out into the empty theater with just the
right amount of sorrow behind them. Mugwan’s body is heavy, Taehyung a dead weight in
his arms. The blood dribbling down his chin looks almost real.

It’s easy to drown in the character, easy to imagine that a real friend—no, a lover—is dead in
his arms. Yet something is amiss. He finishes his speech, bows his head, pulls Mugwan’s
body closer. He should cry. He knows the others don’t expect him to actually cry. He knows
he’s not required to. He should just pretend. Fake it, mime Sadaham’s pain with his whole
body, shoulders shaking, chest heaving, features twisting in despair. Nobody cares if he sheds
tears or not, nobody will see them anyway. But something’s wrong. He doesn’t feel like he’s
doing a good enough job. Grief is something he’s not entirely familiar with.

He tries to conjure memories of when his grandfather died. What did he feel, back then? How
did grief feel like? He trawls through old, yellowed memories. He remembers an empty bed
and the smell of his mother’s cigarettes. He comes up with nothing else.

His thoughts inadvertently wander to Jeongguk. Holding Taehyung reminds him of all the
times he’s held Jeongguk in bed, and it’s not exactly a sad thought—doesn’t help him get in
the mood, for sure. He ends the scene with the specter of a smile on his lips, his artificial
grief already put aside for the day. He knows he’s kind of botched it. But the curtains close on
him regardless, and nobody speaks a word of complaint.

Then it hits. Oh, shoot. He forgot to fake the sobbing. A few weeks ago, he would have
berated himself for having forgotten. Moped for the rest of the day. Today, Jimin doesn’t
really care, because as soon as the lights go out and Taehyung shoots him two thumbs up,
Jimin rips his wig off and heads downstage straight to where Jeongguk sits.

“How was I?”

Jeongguk jolts, looking startled. “Did you teleport here?”

“I wasn’t really feeling the sadness of the scene.”

“Nonsense,” Jeongguk chides. “You were great. You’re always great.”

Jimin narrows his eyes. “Are you just saying it because I’m dating you?”

“I’m honestly offended by your question.”

Jimin huffs, discarding the wig on an empty seat. “I can do better.”

“Well, I have seen you grow on the stage, so I have no doubt you’re on the cusp of unlocking
your full potential. But seriously, you did good. You’re just nervous because the play is
tomorrow.” Jeongguk says, scribbling something on his script. “Second-guessing oneself is
normal at this stage.”

“Okay,” Jimin breaths out, somewhat relieved. He’s still not one hundred percent convinced,
but he’ll figure it out later. He’s been feeling a little distracted lately—a little too happy.
Maybe it’s the reason sometimes, on stage, he catches himself slipping. It’s the happiness.
Too much of it.

“You should go change or we’ll be late for dinner.” Jeongguk glances at Taehyung. “You
promised you’d tell Tae before going to the restaurant.”

“We’ll just tell him there.”

“If he’s the last one to find out, he’ll get pissed.”

“He’ll have to deal with it,” Jimin says, sniffing. Being in a public space such as a crowded
restaurant means Taehyung can’t really make a scene. Right? “You know, maybe we
should’ve invited them over to the apartment,” Jimin muses. “Cook something together.”

Jeongguk raises his eyebrows. “You cook?”

“You don’t?”

He snorts. “Ever seen me cook?”

“Well, no. Doesn’t mean you don’t know the basics of cooking, though.”

“Bold of you to think I know how to fry an egg when my mom lives downstairs.”

“Jeongguk, it’s really not that hard. Want me to teach you?”

“We already decided to eat out,” Jeongguk says. “But if you want to cook something next
time, be my guest. You’ll have to borrow pots and pans from my mom though, cause I only
have, like, one non-stick pan, and it doesn’t do its job well.”

Jimin laughs, pulling at the fabric of his Sadaham costume. It’s heavy and a little itchy
around the neck and arms, and he can’t wait to finally take it off.

“Stop stressing so much. They’re our friends,” Jeongguk says, watching him fidget with the
collar.

“Yeah, I know, it’s just—I’m a little nervous,” he admits, looking over at Namjoon and
Taehyung discussing some last-minute details with the techies. “You know they’ll want to
know everything, right? Down to the very last detail. Especially Tae. He’ll bombard us with
questions. I can see him trying to cross-examine us to see if our answers match.”

“We’ll come up with something.”

“On the spot? Sounds dangerous.”

But Jeongguk rolls his eyes, amused. “Dangerous? What do you think we’re doing, lying to
the National Intelligence Service? It’s just Taehyung.”

“I’m only saying we should go in with a plan.”

Jeongguk stuffs his script in the bag and sighs, “what do you have in mind?”

“We can’t tell them about the Black Bird, that’s out of the question,” Jimin whispers, looking
around surreptitiously to make sure nobody is eavesdropping. “Hoseok only knows I’m a
host because I showed up at his doorstep dressed like a freaking prostitute, but he doesn’t
know about you. And it’s better this way.”

“So what do we say?”

Jimin’s shoulders droop. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. New plan: we don’t say anything at all. And if they care enough to ask, we tell them
we got into a fight one day after rehearsals, and as things got heated, you jumped on me and
we made out.”

Jimin balks. “Why does it have to be me?”

“Hello? You kissed me first. That’s literally what happened.”

“And then what? We hate-fucked in the dressing room?”

“That also happened, coincidentally,” Jeongguk says, grinning wide. “See? We’ll be telling
them half-truths rather than making something up. Isn’t it nice?”

“I still think they won’t buy it.”

“You think too much,” Jeongguk huffs out, “it’s your major character flaw.”

They both turn when Namjoon claps his hands and announces, “okay, good job, everyone.
You deserve a good night’s rest, so don’t stay up late tonight, alright? I want you all in perfect
condition tomorrow. We have a play to perform, a contest to win, and lots of important
people to impress. Who knows, you might get scouted or something.” Namjoon throws a
pointed glance at Jeongguk, who looks nonplussed. “Do as you’ve always done in rehearsals
and it’ll be fantastic. Now shoo.”

“I should take this off,” Jimin mutters, pointing to his Sadaham costume. He catches
Hoseok’s attention and waves him over. “Help me out of this thing, please?”

Hoseok gives him a once-over. “Why, I thought it was your attire for tonight.”

“Just give me a hand, man. I’m sweating like crazy.”

“Why don’t you have your boyfriend do it?” Hoseok grins, looking for the hidden zipper at
the back.

“In front of everyone? Taehyung’s right there.”

“You still haven’t told him?”

“Lower your voice,” Jimin scolds him. He scoops Hoseok by the elbow and drags him down
the seating area, away from prying eyes and ears. “He’ll find out soon anyway, okay? Like,
tonight.”

Hoseok frowns as he watches Jimin step out of the costume. “You’re not naked under this
thing?”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t have undressed in the middle of the theater if I were, don’t you
think?”

“I thought I was indulging a new exhibitionist streak of yours.”

Jimin shivers in his thin t-shirt and leggings. “I’m going backstage to change into warmer
clothes. Wait here.”

Jeongguk perks up. “But your ass looks great in those leggings.”

“Don’t look at my ass in public.”

“But it’s right there.”

“You guys are adorable,” Hoseok coos, following after them. The techies and actors have
gotten so used to seeing Hoseok around that they don’t even notice him trespassing anymore.

“Since you’re a couple now, can I ask you guys a few questions? It’s for science.”

Jimin rolls his eyes as he exchanges his leggings and t-shirt for a pair of jeans and a hoodie.
“We’re not gonna be your mentors on gay sex, Hoseok.”

“Why not?” Jeongguk grins, eyes like crescent moons. He turns to Hoseok with open arms.
“Ask me anything and I shall answer.”

“Thanks, but that’s not what I had in mind,” Hoseok says. “It’s about me and Yoongi’s thing,
okay? We had one date so far, which isn’t a lot, I know. You’re all busy with the play and he’s
working nonstop on last-minute improvements, so we haven’t had time to see each other a
lot. We mainly text. We text a lot. Like, a lot. Like until-the-middle-of-the-night a lot.”

“Aw, that’s sweet.”

“Yeah, right? I’m sure you had the same phase.”

Jimin glances at Jeongguk, who nods solemnly and says, “every night.”
“Right? So, like, when did you, uhm—” Hoseok starts blushing, “when did you start spicing
things up a little?”

“What do you mean?”

“He means when did we start to sext, Jimin,” Jeongguk explains, infinitely amused. Jimin
goes back to remove his make-up, which fortunately covered a good portion of his blushing
face.

“We’ve been texting for a while already, and I feel like I’m ready for the next step, you
know? Like, I’m ready for some excitement,” Hoseok says, determined.

“And that’s sexting?” Jimin arches an eyebrow at Hoseok’s reflection. “The next step is
sexting?”

“Don’t act like you’ve never done it before.”

“Hoseok’s right. Don’t act like you’ve never done it before, Jimin.”

Jimin snorts loudly. The truth is that they jumped that phase altogether—like so many other
phases, especially at the start of their relationship—and he doesn’t really feel like telling
Hoseok of that one time Jeongguk made him come over the phone. Some things should stay
very private, best friends or not.

“Just flirt with him next time you’re texting late at night.”

“That’s it? Just flirt?” Hoseok’s frown deepens. “But we do that all the time already.”

“I guess you could ask him if he wants to sext, but it’s not very sexy.”

“I was thinking I should maybe send him a dick pic.”

Jeongguk bursts into laughter. “Absolutely do not send Yoongi a random dick pic.”

On his swiveling chair, Jimin whirls towards Hoseok with nauseating speed. “Hoseok, what
the fuck? No. You don’t drop an unsolicited dick pic on someone. That’s very bad etiquette.”

“Yoongi did kiss you without your consent, though,” Jeongguk points out. “I guess you could
get him back.”

“What—Hobi, don’t listen to him. Do not send him a photo of your dick out of the blue. It’s
too forward.”

“Is it, though?” Hoseok drums his chin with his fingertips, pensive. “What if he doesn’t like
how my dick looks the first time we try having sex? Nowadays dick pics are sort of like, you
know, a way to check out the merchandise before committing to buying. They’re almost
expected.”

Jeongguk makes a weird, strangled sound before schooling his expression in something more
lukewarm. “Yes. Yes, that’s exactly what they are. One hundred percent. You’re right.”
“Would you stop enabling him, please?” Jimin chides, flashing Jeongguk a stern look. “Don’t
send unsolicited dick pics. That’s the rule. Chapter closed.”

Hoping to have put an end to the topic, Jimin turns back to the mirror. He’s making peace
with the fact that he’s going to have dinner with residues of stage makeup on his face when
Hoseok speaks again.

“Did you ever send each other dick pics?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Of course we did.”

In the mirror, he glares at Jeongguk grinning charmingly at him from behind his back.
Hoseok beams. “I like your boyfriend.”

He rolls his eyes for the millionth time that night. “I’m starting to think I don’t like him after
all.”

“I sent him a dick pic when Jimin was in class, once. But we were already together, so it was
cool.”

Jimin whips around, sputtering, “we were?” at the same time as Hoseok asks, “when did you
guys start dating, by the way? You never said.”

This time, he beats Jeongguk to the answer. “The lines are a bit, er, blurred on that one.”

“What do you mean? I sent you a card asking to be my boyfriend, the yes-no-maybe kind.”

“You didn’t, and if you had, I would have checked maybe.”

“That hurts my feelings.”

Hoseok clicks his tongue. “You should really set an official date, just so you can have
anniversaries and fight when one of you forgets about it.”

Jeongguk pretends to consider it. “I don’t know. Sounds like a very straight thing to do.”

“Anniversaries are nice for everyone. You get gifts and real great sex on the same day.”

Jeongguk grins. “I always get real great sex.”

“Okay, TMI much?”

“I’ve got half a mind to call off the dinner,” Jimin groans, rubbing his temples.

He feels strong arms engulfing him from behind, sees Jeongguk’s broad figure dwarfing him
through the mirror. Jeongguk pecks his cheek and says, “sorry. I promise I will behave
tonight.”

“You better.”
When Jeongguk pulls back, he notices Hoseok staring at them with a soft smile.

“What are you looking at? What’s that face?”

Hoseok shakes his head lightly, chuckling. “Nothing. I’m just glad my best friend has finally
found someone he can trust completely.”

“Saying I trust Jeongguk completely is taking it a little bit too far.”

“We’re halfway there,” Jeongguk says to Hoseok.

Hoseok’s smile wanes. “I hope it works out between me and Yoongi, too.”

“Of course it will,” Jeongguk says. “He’s crazy about you, he just acts very low-key about it.
Trust me. All the secret conversations you and Jimin had about me? I can assure you Yoongi
has had them all, with me.”

“I never had those kinds of conversations with Hoseok,” Jimin retorts.

“Oh, you did say a little something to me a few nights ago,” Hoseok says, slyly. “When I
made you confess your feelings. You see,” he turns to Jeongguk, “it’s thanks to me if Jimin’s
acting a little less emotionally constipated lately. I helped him realize his feelings and guided
him through a wonderful journey of self-discovery and healing.”

Jeongguk nods appreciatively. “Was that the night me and him fought?”

“Exactly that night.”

“Was it your idea to seduce me in a dressing room without actually solving anything?”

“Jeongguk!”

Hoseok raises his hands. “Unsurprisingly, that was all him.”

Jeongguk grabs his stuff and smirks. “I had a feeling. I’ll wait for you outside, Taehyung and
Namjoon are probably wondering where we are.”

He walks out of the dressing room with a last gloating smile tossed over his shoulder. Jimin
turns to the mirror one last time, throws the dirty cotton pads in the bin, and follows him
outside with Hoseok.
2.
He eyes Taehyung nervously as he takes the seat right across from him. He’s not sure why he
feels this stressed already—maybe it’s the whole telling-Taehyung-he-was-right thing that
rubs him the wrong way. After all, it kind of feels like losing. Like they’d made a bet, and
Jimin lost spectacularly.

And he’s always been a sore loser.

Taehyung glances down at the menu. “You guys already tried this place? I hear the spicy
chicken’s really good.”

“Once or twice,” Jeongguk comments, skimming the menu. He doesn’t seem fazed by any of
this—and why should he? Taehyung’s his friend, and his approach to their relationship is
probably a hundred times healthier than Jimin’s—scratch “probably”, Jimin knows it just is.
Not for the first time, Jimin wonders what’s it like to be a normal person with no hedge
mazes snaking through his head.

“It’s really nice to have dinner together like this, on the last day of rehearsals,” Taehyung
sighs contentedly. “I really need it. I feel like I’m going nuts with the play and schoolwork.
All this pressure is crushing me. Let’s not talk about either tonight, alright?”

“Hmm, I wonder what we could talk about,” Hoseok hums.

“Actually, there is something I wanted to tell you,” Jimin starts, finally gathering enough
courage to breach the topic. He casts a sideways glance at Jeongguk, but he’s too busy
reading through all the options in the menu, or pretending to.

“Shoot.”

“Well,” he closes the menu and slides it to the center of the table, careful not to meet
anyone’s gaze. He hates to be the center of attention. Which is strange, since he loves it
onstage. But when it’s about him, real him, he loathes it.

His neck prickles.

“Me and Jeongguk, we… are… dating.”

No need to beat around the bush, right?

He glances up at Taehyung. Everything happens a bit like in slow motion: he watches him
blink, then raise both his eyebrows, scoff loudly, and finally cross his arms. Then he shifts his
gaze to Jeongguk.

“You motherfucker.”

“Thank you for the support,” Jeongguk says.

“How long have we been friends? And how long has this been going on?” Taehyung sputters
indignantly, pointing to the two of them sitting side by side. He gasps. “Am I the last to
know? You’re all paying for my dinner tonight. And for drinks.”

Jeongguk shrugs. “Fair.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“Jimin wanted to keep it on the low,” he says defensively. “Take it up with him.”

“Way to throw your boyfriend under the bus,” Namjoon chips in.

Jimin raises his hands. “Look, man, you were right all along, okay? Guess Jeongguk really
was crazy about me after all.”

Jeongguk glowers at Taehyung and growls, “what did you say about me?”

“Your infatuation with our protagonist wasn’t the secret you think it was, Gguk.”

“I love this so much,” Hoseok whispers to Yoongi.

“The only person who hadn’t noticed was your boyfriend Park Jimin here, who might
actually beat you in terms of sheer obtuseness. Seems like you finally met your match.”

Jimin makes the split-second decision not to take any offense and says, “Tae, I’m sorry. It’s
my fault, I told him not to say anything. I didn’t know if I wanted to, you know, commit or
—”

“So you what, hooked up first? And then had a whole drama around it?” Taehyung’s body
language screams fervent outrage. He jabs a finger at Jeongguk. “You know how much I love
drama. How could you do this to me? I could have helped in so many ways, I could have
been your cupid.”

“I don’t think they needed a cupid,” Yoongi says, but it’s lost on Taehyung, who has the look
of someone whose trust has been betrayed forever.

“I can’t believe I’m the last to know. You guys already look so cute together, it’s unbearable.
I can’t look at you, it makes me sick.”

“Look, man, you’re free to go.”

“I don’t understand, are you mad at us or…?”

“You guys are perfect for each other,” Taehyung whines loudly, slamming a hand on the table
for emphasis. Jeongguk startles, and Jimin covers his face with a hand, embarrassed. “The
perfect mix of pretentious, and smart, and insufferable and idiotic. I made a vow that if you
didn’t kiss at least once before the day of the play, I would have grabbed you by the back of
your heads and forced you to.”
“You know what else would have been really fun?” Hoseok leans in to look at Taehyung with
a sly smile. “You courting Jimin and driving Jeongguk crazy by flirting with him right in front
of his salad.”

Taehyung snaps his fingers. “You’re a genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Namjoon snorts. “That only happens in movies.”

“It’s actually one of the most common tropes in shojo manga,” Hoseok says.

“You read shojo manga and you still thought you were straight?”

Jeongguk claps his hands once. “Okay, now that you all know what’s going on, can we order
our food? I’m starving.”

“Oh, there’s something else you should know,” Hoseok adds nonchalantly. “They’ve been
living together in Gguk’s apartment since things went tits up in Jimin’s house.”

“Hoseok!”

“Now you’re up to date with everything.”

“You. Are. What?”

Jimin rubs a hand over his face. This conversation already feels like it has robbed him of at
least five years of his life, and there’s more to subtract still. Fortunately, the waitress chooses
that moment to swoop in and ask for their orders, but he doesn’t miss the way Taehyung keep
flashing him and Jeongguk impatient glances.

Jimin steels himself for a night of merciless teasing.

3.
When they get back to Jeongguk’s apartment building, the moon is already high in the sky
and Jeongguk’s breath smells like the cherry flavored lollipop he found in a pocket of his
coat.

“I’m just saying it could have been hiding in there for god knows how long. It might have
expired.”

“Lollipops don’t have expiration dates.”

He rolls his eyes and Jeongguk giggles. His cheeks are dusted in delicate pink. He’s drunk a
little more than Jimin because I’m not an actor, I don’t have to give the performance of my
life tomorrow. He’s not exactly drunk, but he’s certainly tipsy. Jimin watches him waddle
towards the elevator and punch the call button with a mischievous smirk stretching around
the bright pink lollipop.

“Want a taste?”

“No thanks, cherries aren’t in season.”

“My mouth is always in season.”

Jimin laughs and shoves him, but not too hard—he doesn’t want Jeongguk to fall on his ass.

“Who said I was talking about the lollipop?” He grins stupidly at Jimin, waving the candy in
his face. Jimin seizes his elbow and pushes him into the elevator.

“Come on, big boy, it’s sleepy-time.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m drunk,” Jeongguk harrumphs. “I’m in possession of all my
faculties.”

“Sure.”

“And the night is still young.” He bonks Jimin on the nose with his lollipop. “I have big plans
for tonight.”

“Put that sticky thing away.”

“Not what you said last night.”

Jimin groans. “That’s a terrible joke. An all-time low for you.”

“You’re not my boyfriend cause you like my jokes.”

“Actually, it’s very much why I’m your boyfriend.”

Jeongguk stops to stare at him. “I like when you say it.”

From the mirror at Jeongguk’s back, Jimin sees himself blushing.

“Say what?”

“Your boyfriend,” Jeongguk enunciates slowly, transfixed. “That you’re mine.”

“It’s a figure of speech. I’m my own person,” Jimin says jokingly. “But I guess I can be yours
once in a while.”

“I can be yours any time you want.”

Jimin squints, suspicious about the sudden switch in Jeongguk’s demeanor. His gaze is so
piercing it cuts right through flesh and bone, carving a space for itself directly into Jimin’s
skull. Even tipsy and sloppily sucking on a lollipop, Jeongguk manages to be… intense.

Jeongguk pushes off the mirror and stalks closer, unblinking eyes glued to his. The loud
whirring of the elevator making its way up fades to a murmur.

“What do you think?” Jeongguk whispers, tapping Jimin’s lips with his spit-slick lollipop.
“Like the idea?”

Jimin licks his lips. The chemical taste of cherry is barely there.

“What do you mean? I already have you.”

Jeongguk chuckles. He sucks on the candy, eyes still brazenly boring into Jimin’s, then pops
it out and says,

“I can give you more of me.”

The elevator dings and the doors slide open with a rattle. An elderly lady waits on the other
side, black trash bag swinging from one bony hand.

“Good evening, Mrs. Choi,” Jeongguk says pleasantly, stepping out of the elevator. Jimin
bows politely and scurries out. The old lady scowls before disappearing behind the sliding
doors.

“She’s a raging homophobe,” Jeongguk explains. He unlocks the door and shrugs off his coat,
lollipop stuck between his teeth. Jimin leans against the door to toe out of his shoes.

“Has she ever given you trouble?”

“What for?”

“Being gay?”

Jeongguk snorts. “I don’t think she knows. We never spoke. Might begin to suspect
something now, though.” He looks over to Jimin. “Why did you think she’d know?”

“Well—haven’t you ever brought people over?”

Jeongguk rattles out a laugh. “You mean my dates?”

“Dates, hook-ups…” Jimin feigns nonchalance. “Men.”

“Nah,” Jeongguk says. “These walls haven’t seen a lot of action. I was always too busy to
date, and had plenty of sex already. Working at the Bird kind of ruins it for you. Sex
becomes… lackluster.”

“Oh.”

Jeongguk seems to know what’s going on inside Jimin’s head. He hooks a finger through one
of the belt hoops of Jimin’s jeans to pull him closer.

“Not with you, though. Never with you.”

“I’m not that exciting to be with.”

“That’s what you think,” Jeongguk chides. “To me, you’re the most exciting thing that
could’ve happened to me.”

“Should I be offended because you called me a thing, or should I be flattered?” Jimin retorts,
breathing in Jeongguk’s cherry breath. It’s so strong that he can’t smell the alcohol anymore.

Jeongguk seems to look him over, amused. Then, he pops the lollipop back into his mouth
and sucks, hard and loud. Jimin feels his insides ignite. He’s one minute away from throwing
that fucking lollipop in the trash because it’s doing nothing but things to him.

“You’re not being very subtle,” he says instead.

Jeongguk slips the candy out with a wet slurping sound that borders indecency.

“No?” he teases. “Then, what am I thinking?”

“You want to suck me off.” And this time, you want me to watch. The thought is both thrilling
and uncomfortable.

“Close.”

“Close? There’s more?”

Jeongguk pushes the lollipop past his lips with deliberate slowness. His mouth is stained in
red, glossy with spit.

Close my ass. He’s definitely thinking of blowing him to high heaven.

“You want to fuck me.” That’s a given. Jeongguk always wants to fuck him—he’s not sure if
it’s because they’re still in whatever is the equivalent of honeymoon phase for unmarried
couples.
But Jeongguk just grins devilishly. “I mean, if you bent over and spread your cheeks for me
right now I wouldn’t say no—”

“I love how romantic you can be.”

“—but no, I wasn’t thinking that.”

“You want to eat me out.”

Jeongguk’s hand grabs his ass and squeezes. “Now I want to.”

“I give up.”

“You’re so unoriginal,” Jeongguk laughs. “So vanilla. It’s so cute that you really can’t think
of anything else I might do to you.”

“Sorry if I haven’t got the entire Kamasutra memorized.”

“But it’s okay, cause what I have in mind isn’t something I do to you,” Jeongguk whispers,
swiping the lollipop across Jimin’s mouth. He presses it down Jimin’s plush bottom lip,
forcing him to open up for him. “Quite the contrary.”

He expects Jeongguk to push the lollipop inside, so he opens his mouth obediently, but then
the taste of cherry disappears.

Jeongguk takes Jimin’s hand and wraps it around the lollipop’s plastic stick. Then he guides
the candy back to his mouth.

Jeongguk closes his mouth around the candy, sultry eyes like embers about to spark a fire.
Neither had bothered switching the lights on, opting to go by the faint sensor light above the
door which flickered on when they got inside.

Jimin can’t do anything but stare. It’s allusive to say the least, a whole innuendo, and it’s
working just fine—perhaps Jeongguk’s trying to say he wants Jimin to watch as he takes him
in his mouth, or perhaps he’s alluding to wanting to have his mouth fucked. He’s not sure.
Both thoughts leave him reeling.

But then the candy pops out and Jeongguk says, orders him even,

“Fuck me.”

Jimin’s thoughts shatter like glass.

He scrambles to gather the fragments in his hands, to place them together and build the single
thought Jeongguk just spoke into life. He can’t. They’re too many and too sharp, cutting
through his fingers. He gives up, and they disperse into nothingness. That’s what he’s left
with—nothingness. Void. If Jimin’s brain were attached to one of those beeping machines
that record brainwave activity, his line would be flat.

“…I’m sorry?”
“I want you to fuck me,” Jeongguk says again, louder. He grabs the back of Jimin’s neck and
pulls him closer until their foreheads touch. “Please fuck me, Jimin.”

A heatwave, then a ripple of frigid water down his spine. Jimin stutters.

“I—I—what? I can’t—”

“Why not? You’re a man. You’ve got a cock.” Jeongguk reaches down with his hand, and
Jimin moans despite himself. “A nice one, too. I want you to use it.”

“I can’t.”

“Bullshit.”

“I don’t know how,” Jimin says, terrified.

“Is it because of what your mother said?”

His mind rushes back to the cursed day he brought Jeongguk to his apartment. His mother
asked Jeongguk whether he was the one who was fucking her son. Jeongguk joked around—
Jimin believes his exact answer was maybe it’s your son who’s been fucking me?—and then
his mother scoffed. He doesn’t have the balls for that.

“No.”

And it’s true. It’s not her. It’s something he’s been thinking about himself for years. The
reason why at some point, he stopped pursuing girls. Deep down, he’d always known he
attracted the kind of guys who liked to be in charge, so he thought he’d just choose the easy
way out.

What a fucked-up thing to choose. What a fucked-up thing to be.

“Then what is it?”

Jimin swallows. Huffs out a small, bitter laugh. “There’s always been something… broken in
me. That doesn’t let me think I’m a—real man.”

“Jimin, what do you mean? You are a man.” As soon as he speaks the words, panic blooms in
Jeongguk’s face. “Wait, I mean—unless you don’t want to be, but that’s perfectly fine—”

Jimin shakes his head. “It’s not what you think.”

“Oh god, I thought I said something horrible for a moment.”

“No,” Jimin chuckles, “you misunderstood. I’m comfortable being who I am, to an extent, I
guess.” He frowns. He’s never given much thought to his issues, never spoken them aloud to
anyone, not even to himself. Putting what he feels into words is harder than he’d thought.
“It’s, just—like I’m still learning? Who I am, or want to be. There were some parts of me I
didn’t like to think about, and, well—you changed that. Being with you changed that.”
The alcohol seems to have evaporated from Jeongguk’s system. He stands perfectly still,
holding Jimin’s hand in his, listening to him talk in complete silence.

“It’s been slow, gradual. You know already. You’re the one dealing with all my issues.”

“It’s never been a problem.”

Jimin laughs. “That’s cause you’re so patient. And wonderful. And perfect.”

Jeongguk looks away. “I’m not perfect.”

“Perfect for me,” Jimin says.

Takes a big breath.

“I’m scared of giving in to that side of me,” Jimin admits for the first time in his life. “I’ve
always been scared of giving in to sex. It’s weird—I, I wanted to have it, I wanted to have it
with you so fucking bad. And I love it every time. This, though…” he gnaws at his lip. “…
feels like I should become a different person.”

He thinks back to the first time he saw people fucking. His stepfather taking his mom from
behind, the door left wide open, him just a clueless child. If he closes his eyes, he can still
hear the slapping sounds, the moans, the grunts. Smell their sex and sweat in the stifling
summer air.

Sometimes, Jimin thinks he doesn’t want to be touched by anyone ever again. Then he wakes
up with Jeongguk curled beside him, and everything changes. Anyone but him.

“I don’t know if I want to become him.”

“When you say him,” Jeongguk starts, frowning lightly, “who are you talking about?”

Oh, he knows. Jimin doesn’t speak the name out loud. There’s no need.

“You’d still be you, Jimin. You don’t go away; you don’t get switched with someone who
isn’t you.” Jeongguk smiles faintly, cupping a hand around Jimin’s cheek. “I’ll make sure of
it. I’ll hold you tight, keep you with me.”

He chuckles. “Now I feel better about it.”

Jeongguk’s smile dwindles. “I won’t insist. We do what you’re comfortable with, always.”
His eyebrows crease slightly. “Tell me just one thing. Do you think I change when we have
sex?”

Jimin blinks, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Do I become a totally different person, in your eyes? Someone you don’t know, someone
I’m not?”

“No,” Jimin says, baffled. “You’re you.”

Jeongguk pecks his lips. “Then, you can be yourself, too.” He leaves the half-eaten lollipop
on the table and pads to their bedroom.

“Were you serious?”

“About what?”

“Do you really want me to…?”

Jimin leaves the words hanging between them, in the dark.

Jeongguk quirks an eyebrow. “Fuck me? Yeah. I’ve been wanting you to do it for a while, but
you never seemed… prone to the idea. I thought you simply didn’t want to.”

“I wish it were that simple,” Jimin says bitterly.

“Hey. Do I think it’s hot to have you fuck my brains out? Sure. Will I pressure you into doing
it? No. Relax.”

“Y—you think it’s hot?”

Fuck. The room is getting very warm all of sudden. And how many times has Jeongguk
thought about Jimin fucking him? And how long is ‘for a while’, exactly?

“Are you kidding? Everything you do is hot. You could dance the tip-tap in my
grandmother’s clothes and I would still think you’re hot as shit.”

“You don’t—” Jimin swallows, scratches his neck. Should he say this? “You don’t think it
would… trigger… unpleasant memories?”

Jeongguk stares at him for a long time.

“Trigger me, or trigger you?”

“I’m already constantly triggered,” Jimin tries to joke. “You.”

“Jimin, I asked you to fuck me. I won’t let one motherfucker who hasn’t learned the meaning
of the word no ruin sex with you.”

“Okay. Sorry I brought it up.”

“No, thank you for bringing it up,” Jeongguk says, stepping closer again. “I’m serious. I
don’t want you to have any doubts when it comes to us. If that was an additional reason that
made you hesitate, then know that it doesn’t matter. Really. It doesn’t change anything. I still
want you, and I’ll still wait for you.”

“How does it feel?”

Jeongguk’s whole demeanor shifts.

“How does what feel?”

Jimin licks his lips. “Being inside someone.”

He can see Jeongguk going through a whole journey inside his head, reflected by the subtle –
often comical – shifts in his expression. Then, it settles.

“It feels nice.”

“Just nice?”

He follows Jeongguk with his eyes as the younger man drops to the couch with a heavy sigh.
Then he goes to sit at Jeongguk’s side, feet tucked under his legs.

“How did my mouth feel?” Jeongguk asks abruptly.

Jimin blushes. “Really good.”

“It’s kinda like that. A bit, huh, tighter. Less spit involved.”

“What do you like more?” Jimin asks sheepishly. He doesn’t have the courage to look him in
the eyes—his stare is fixated on Jeongguk’s lap, and then he realizes he could give the wrong
impression and quickly looks away. A whole room around them, and Jimin doesn’t know
where the hell to look at. His cheeks sting in shame when Jeongguk chuckles.

“I like both. I’ve been with people who weren’t great at fucking, and just plowed into me for
ten minutes straight until they came. That doesn’t feel as great, I guess. The trick is not
thinking of yourself as if you’re some kind of porn star with a huge dick and something to
prove. What you see in porn isn’t the norm. Contrary to popular belief, mindlessly ramming
in and out someone’s butthole isn’t as pleasurable for your partner as they want you to
believe.”

Jeongguk rests his head on the couch and turns to look at Jimin.

“Even when having rough sex, you want the other person to feel good, yes? You pay attention
to their body, the subtle shifts in their expression. And you go from there. You adjust. And
make your partner come.”

“You’re great at it.”

Jeongguk smiles coyly. “Thanks. You’re great, too.”

“I don’t do anything. I’m just there and let you do all the work.”

“That’s not true. If I wanted to fuck an inflatable doll I would have bought one off the
internet already,” Jeongguk says, huffing. “You’re very responsive. There’s so many little
things you do that just… drive me crazy.”

“Jeongguk?”

“Mmh?”
“Can I ask you something else?”

“You’re full of questions tonight,” Jeongguk giggles, moving closer.

“When did you first thought of me fucking you?”

The question stops Jeongguk from stealing a kiss from him. He freezes, and Jimin sees
Jeongguk’s dark eyes cut from his lips back to his eyes.

“Why do you want to know?”

Why does he want to know? Perhaps he just wants to make sense of all this. He’s always
thought of himself as someone rather passive, someone who doesn’t like to take charge—and
who shouldn’t, because god knows what he would become if he dared to.

So, what made Jeon Jeongguk—the cool Jeon Jeongguk, the smart, effortlessly funny,
slightly intimidating Jeon Jeongguk think: God, I wish he’d fuck me right now?

He clears his throat. “I’m just curious.”

“Remember when Taehyung’s friend showed up to teach you how to fight with a sword, for
the play?” Jeongguk asks suddenly. “You’re a fast learner. You disarmed Taehyung in like,
ten seconds.”

“Oh my god. The homoerotic sword fight did it?”

Jeongguk cracks a smile. “It’s always the homoerotic sword fights. I love those. I wish we
had one, too.”

“You want me to beat your ass with a sword that bad?”

Jeongguk’s eyes glitter. “I like to think that, in a parallel world to this one, you already did.”

Jimin snorts loudly, and Jeongguk’s smile stretches even wider. “Yeah. I wish sword fights
were still a thing. Like, you got a problem with me? Swordfight, stat. We would’ve kissed
much earlier if we had one, and that’s a hard fact. Spared a lot of drama and pining, too.”

“Stop it,” Jimin huffs, hitting Jeongguk with his sleeve.

“You wanted to know,” Jeongguk points out. “Now you know the truth. I watched you beat
Taehyung’s ass in three seconds and thought, Jesus Christ. I sure want his sword up my—”

“Don’t,” Jimin shouts, giggling and punching Jeongguk in the shoulder—not hard, of course,
just enough that Jeongguk budges. And he does, albeit barely.

“—if you know what I mean. ”

“No, I don’t know. That sounds painful.”

“I like a bit of pain,” Jeongguk says cockily. Jimin hopes the shadows in the room hide the
intense blush setting on his face.

“That was—so early on,” Jimin sputters, setting his feet down on the floor. “Back then, I still
thought of you as an irritating brat.”

“Imagine the power you would’ve had over me if you ever found out. You could have bossed
me around. Had me at your beck and call. I could’ve been your slave.”

“Are you… hinting at something?”

“Nope.”

Jimin squints, eyeing the amused expression adorning Jeongguk’s face with suspicion.
There’s something else he wants to ask. He’s not sure if he should.

“What did you…” He clears his throat nervously. Watches Jeongguk tilt his head to the side
like a cute puppy. It doesn’t make it any easier. “How did you… imagine me… doing it?”

Jeongguk sheds the puppy look for a more wolfish one.

“You’re very curious tonight.”

“You don’t have to answer,” Jimin blurts, blushing.

“I like when you’re curious,” Jeongguk whispers. A single finger trails up Jimin’s thigh,
featherlight. “Well, you know me. I like to work with my imagination.” He flashes Jimin a
sly smile. “I imagined calling you backstage one day, to push every single one of your
buttons until you snapped.”

Jimin makes a big show of gasping, even though he’s dying inside. “I also imagined
punching you in the face so many times.”

Jeongguk chuckles, but the tension doesn’t let out. “In this scenario, you don’t punch me. You
grab me and pin me against the wall—”

“A little hard for me to do with my noodle arms.”

“—and I let you,” Jeongguk concludes, cocking an eyebrow. “Stop raining down on my
parade. It’s my daydream.”

Jimin snorts out a chuckle. He’s already regretting asking that question, and now he’s
desperate to get rid of this weird tension. Except Jeongguk isn’t giving up.

“Sorry.”

“Do you want me to go into more detail?”

“There’s details?”
“You kiss me hard because you don’t want to hear me talk. You shove your tongue down my
throat. Then I push my pants down and you turn me around.”

Jimin makes a strangled sound at the back of his throat.

“Fuck.”

The little knowing smile across Jeongguk’s lips tells him that Jeongguk is well aware of what
kind of effect he’s having on him.

“You feel me up with your fingers,” Jeongguk whispers, leaning closer. “I’m too tight for
your cock. You open me up with your spit. One finger first, then two, then three.”

Jimin sniffs nervously. “And nobody sees us?”

“I’m moaning so loud you shove your fingers in my mouth to shut me up.” Jeongguk
brackets him against the couch. “That’s when I feel you. Hot and hard.” Jimin blinks and
Jeongguk is suddenly straddling him, settling down on Jimin’s lap like it’s his rightful place.
“You tease me. Spread me wide, rub your cock up and down my ass.” His arms are around
Jimin’s neck, his breath hot on Jimin’s lips. “I grow impatient. I say something to rile you up,
and you push it all in.”

Jeongguk is sitting right on his growing erection. He begins to slowly gyrate his hips,
rubbing his ass down Jimin’s semi.

“It feels so good. You fuck me slow but steady, and when I beg you to go faster, you slow
down. You reach deeper and deeper, fill me up so nicely.” His hands slide to Jimin’s chest,
feeling him through the fabric. He mimics riding Jimin’s cock, and Jimin can do nothing but
stare in rapt attention as Jeongguk tosses his head back, lost in his reverie.

“How do you think this story ends, Jimin?”

Jimin’s mouth is arid, not a drop of saliva left. He licks his lips. It’s like sandpaper on
sandpaper.

“I come inside you?”

Jeongguk strokes his cheek with the back of his hand, so tenderly.

“Would you like to?”

Jimin gulps.

“Yes.”

“I’d let you do it,” Jeongguk whispers. “Anything you want.”

He beams down at Jimin before he tries to sit back at his side—but Jimin doesn’t let him. He
wraps his arms around Jeongguk’s middle and holds him there, staring up at him with quiet
determination.
“Jimin?”

“I don’t know if I can live up to your imagination.”

“Jimin—”

“But I could try.”

Jeongguk closes his eyes for a moment, then opens his mouth to speak.

“Don’t ask me if I’m sure,” Jimin warns him.

“That’s exactly what I should be asking you.”

“I’m never sure of anything until I try,” Jimin remarks. “The day I showed up with that
terrible pizza? I wasn’t sure I could kiss you—I wasn’t sure I had it in me to even ring the
bell. I wasn’t sure I could let you touch me until the moment I did. I’m never sure about
anything, Jeongguk—but I’m sure about you.” He takes a big breath and digs his fingers just
the slightest bit deeper into Jeongguk’s sides. “I think I liked your story a little too much.”

Jeongguk laughs, a little golden twinkle amidst the darkness. His laughter always sounds
more like his singing voice, and Jimin loves that. Bursts of gold inside the black.

“Should we turn the lights on?”

Jimin shakes his head. He likes the shadows, they’re comforting. They give him courage.

“Well, then. Let me get what we need.”

Jeongguk takes Jimin’s hands and gently unwraps them from his waist, then slides off him
with feline grace. Jimin stares after him as Jeongguk pads towards the bedroom, quick and
silent like a shadow.

He comes back with a familiar bottle of lube.

“What do you think?” He waves it around before settling on Jimin’s lap again.

“Yeah. I think it’ll be better.”

“I can’t believe I’m about to take your virginity a second time,” Jeongguk muses, throwing
the bottle of lube on the empty space next to Jimin. “How did I get so lucky?”

“Maybe you were a Buddhist monk in your previous life,” Jimin says, head filling up with
cotton as Jeongguk undoes his zipper. He registers Jeongguk’s laugh as if from very far away.

Jeongguk makes quick work of their pants, and traces the hem of Jimin’s briefs with a finger.
“Have you ever thought of doing this before? With me.”

“No.”

He glimpses Jeongguk’s pout through the veil of shadows.

“The idea you have of me in your head is no fun at all.”

“It felt strange to think of you underneath me.”

Jeongguk shifts, and a streak of silvery light hits his face to reveal a smile.

“I can stay on top if that’s more to your liking,” Jeongguk whispers.

“I don’t know what I like yet.”

Jeongguk tugs his underwear down and Jimin’s cock springs free, slapping his stomach with
a wet smack.

“Well, one thing is clear. You like it when I sit on your lap.”

Jeongguk places a finger at the very base of his shaft, and slowly trails the prominent vein
running up his length. Jimin shudders.

“And you like teasing.”

He swipes at the bead of precome gathering on the swollen tip. Lifts his finger up to their
faces.

“Me or you?”

When Jimin doesn’t respond—he’s having technical difficulties in managing the process of
turning thoughts into speech—Jeongguk just chuckles.

“Breathe, baby. This is nothing we haven’t done before.”

Jeongguk sucks on his finger like he did with the lollipop before—that damn lollipop now
left drying on the table, forgotten, discarded, the blasted thing that started all of this—and
stares at him with heavy eyes.

“I know. Sorry. I’m a little nervous.”

He’s so fucking nervous he feels like he could go soft at any moment. And that would be bad.
He can just imagine the shock on Jeongguk’s face, the disappointment. He’s good only to be
fucked. He can’t satisfy Jeongguk in any other way. He’s just a hole.

That’s his role in this play.

“It’s okay. I expect you to be a little nervous.”

But then Jeongguk looks at him with such wanting eyes, his voice laced with all the care in
the world. His words clash with the lust in his gaze. He’s supportive and careful and warm—
and his eyes are bold and demanding and hot. The contradiction leaves him breathless.
Everything about Jeongguk knocks his breath out of his chest.

And he’s so fucking turned on.

He twitches in Jeongguk’s hand, and he’s rewarded with a playful squeeze. Jeongguk spits in
his hand and starts pumping him slowly, disregarding the lube completely.

“I must be the first man on earth that’s more nervous about sticking his dick into someone
than taking it up the ass.”

Jeongguk laughs heartily. “Stop being funny. I’m trying to get us in the mood.”

“I think you can already feel how deep in the mood I am.”

“I think it’s time to shut you up,” Jeongguk states, but his eyes glint playfully. He slides a bit
down his thighs and bends ever so slightly towards his crotch. He keeps eye contact until he
can’t anymore, and Jimin doesn’t stop him. Just holds his breath throughout Jeongguk’s slow
descent toward his cock.

When he feels him take him in his mouth, he moans. A full-on moan, one of those
pornographic sounds you expect to hear in a very bad porno. He slaps a hand against his
mouth and tenses up, mortified.

Jeongguk slips out and says, “Fuck, that was hot. Do it again.”

Jimin shakes his head vigorously, hand still glued to his mouth. This is not going well.

“Fine. I’ll just make you.”

He takes him in his mouth again and slides all the way down—effectively deep-throating
Jimin in the blink of an eye. He fists Jeongguk’s hair, cursing out loud, spikes of pleasure
piercing through his belly.

In all of this, he still hasn’t had the courage to look down. He’s grateful for the shadows
swathing the room in semi-darkness. The streetlamps outside and the full moon cast a gentle
light inside the living room, but their little space on the couch just below the window is in
relative darkness.

It makes glancing down a bit easier. Or so he thinks.

So he peeks.

Jeongguk is working at his length with both mouth and hand, enthusiastically giving him the
blowjob of his life. Jimin doesn’t have the time to indulge the rather appealing thought of
coming in his mouth that Jeongguk straightens up, satisfied with his work.

“Ready?” he asks, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. The other rests at the base of
Jimin’s cock, squeezing lightly.

“I might be a total disappointment.”

“Failure is normal.”

“The worst you’ve ever had.”

“Jimin, I’ve had a lot of worst,” Jeongguk huffs, raising his eyebrows. “Remember what I do
for a living?”

“I could beat them all.”

“Unless you drunkenly fall asleep inside me, then no, you won’t be the worst. Trust me.”

“Fuck, that happened?”

“More times than you’d think,” Jeongguk snorts, quickly getting rid of his underwear. He
resumes his spot on Jimin’s laps and kisses him.

“Now, Jimin—listen to me. Tonight, there are no parts to play. You will be you,” Jeongguk
murmurs, arms tightly wrapped around his neck. “Gentle and careful and—probably a little
afraid of losing control. That’s okay. I’m with you, I’ll guide you through it.” He sets his
forehead on Jimin’s and sighs. Cherry breath, sweet and comforting. “You’ll be my best.” He
sighs again. “My very best.” Another sigh, a little shakier this time.

Jeongguk has his eyes closed, eyebrows bunched up in a deep frown. There’s something
wrong with the way he’s breathing, and it dawns on Jimin: he’s not sighing, he’s taking deep
breaths.

“Jeongguk, are you—are you okay?”

Jeongguk does a weird shake of his head, as if he started to shake his head and then changed
his mind halfway to nod.

“Yeah,” he mutters. He’s breathless. “Just give me a minute.”

Jimin panics. Jeongguk looks like he’s on the verge of another panic attack, and he’s
panicking.

“Oh, fuck—Jeongguk, I’m so sorry, I’m—”

“Just hold me,” Jeongguk breaths out, eyes painfully squeezed shut. “Can you—can you hold
me, please?”

Jeongguk, who’s always putting up a brave front—Jeongguk, who didn’t want to go to the
hospital, who didn’t want to denounce Seokjin, who didn’t want to quit his job, or talk to
someone, or cry it all out—

Jimin swallows all the things he wants to say and wraps his arms around him, hugging him.
Jeongguk’s head falls on his shoulder; he feels him breathe against his ear. Quick and ragged
at first, then slow and steady again.

Then, a chuckle.

“We’re a fucking mess.”

Jimin hugs him tightly. “Twisted works of art, I’d say.”

“Therapists hate us,” Jeongguk says, drawing back. The corners of his lips curl upwards.

“They’d love us if we started going to therapy,” Jimin says. A pause. “We don’t have to—”

“Oh, how the tables have turned,” Jeongguk sighs. “Look at us. We’re both sad and horny.
It’s unacceptable. We’re young and beautiful and half naked, we should totally take
advantage of it.”

“And have very sad sex?”

“The kind where one of us cries post-coitus.”

“That bad?”

“No, it’s what happens when you have very emotional sex,” Jeongguk says, swatting his
shoulder. “Sad as in emotional. Not sad as in—like, miserable.”

“Okay…”

“You know when sex feels so liberating and amazing and everything you’ve ever wanted?
That kinda thing.”

Jimin frowns. “Am I the one who cries, or are you?”

Jeongguk makes a face. “Boy, that’s hard to say. Could be both.”

Jimin stifles a giggle. Jeongguk shifts on top of him, his cock brushing against Jimin’s. He
watches him grab the lube and pop off the cap.

“It occurred to me that you still haven’t kissed me tonight,” Jeongguk says, pouring a
generous amount of lube on his fingers and warming it up between his hands. “Care to
remedy that?”

Jimin grabs the back of Jeongguk’s neck and pulls him down for a fierce kiss. He hopes to
convey everything he’s too choked up to say—it’s okay, I’m here, you’re here, there’s only us,
nothing else matters.

And most important of all,

—I won’t hurt you.

Just like you have never hurt me.

He gasps in the kiss when he feels Jeongguk’s lube-slicked hand spread the liquid down his
length, hissing as he starts to pump him back to full hardness. It doesn’t take long, and soon
he’s a throbbing mess twitching in anticipation in Jeongguk’s hand.

When Jeongguk breaks the kiss to pour more lube on his fingers, Jimin knows what’s coming
next. He sits back with his hands digging in the meat of Jeongguk’s muscular thighs,
watching with heavy lidded eyes as Jeongguk reaches a hand behind to finger himself open.
Jimin observes the curve of his mouth and pinpoints the exact moment when the first finger
slips in, followed by Jeongguk’s lips parting in a little gasp.

His eyes slide from Jeongguk’s pretty lips down to his thighs, to muscles bulging out with
strain. He lifts the hem of Jeongguk’s hoodie to gingerly wrap a hand around his cock.

“Oh, fuck,” Jeongguk moans, nearly falling forward. He levers himself off the couch with
one hand planted on the backrest, next to Jimin’s head. He can tell Jeongguk started fucking
himself faster by his raggedy breath and the rhythm of his hips.

A thrum of electricity jolts through Jimin. Watching Jeongguk pleasuring himself is already
incredible in and of itself—he never imagined Jeongguk could look any prettier than he
already is—but knowing he’s opening himself up for him is… unbelievable.

He’s wired. He’s terrified. He’s thrilled.

He tugs at Jeongguk’s cock until a string of curses falls out his bitten-off lips.

“Fuck, stop, stop. I want to come with you inside,” Jeongguk pants. He crawls closer,
completely disregarding the star-struck expression on Jimin’s face.

Jimin could come with those words alone.

“I’m ready.”

Oh, fuck.

No no no.

Yes.

Shit.

Jeongguk cages him between his thighs, lifting himself up as he takes a hold of Jimin’s cock
and tugs it a few times for good measure. Jimin’s protest dies in his throat, and he tosses his
head back, completely slack, hair fanning on the couch.

“You look fucked out already,” Jeongguk snickers, aligning himself with Jimin’s swollen
cockhead. “It’s a good look on you.”

Jimin is breathing hard. He looks up at Jeongguk like he’s his savior, his personal devil.

“Cat got your tongue?”

Jeongguk lowers himself down on his cock, slow and languid. He feels the tip breach the
tight ring of muscle—and he hisses, fingernails digging deeper into the flesh of Jeongguk’s
waist, underneath the hoodie.

His whole body tightens up, the growing pressure around his cock pushing at the seams of his
self-control until it nearly shatters. He resists the urge to fuck up into the heat, allows himself
to feel every inch of Jeongguk’s torturous descent while Jeongguk adjusts to the intrusion. He
focuses his attention back on Jeongguk’s face. He’s got his eyes closed; his strong brows are
creased. Bottom lip trapped between his teeth, and Jimin wishes he could kiss him right now.

“God, you feel good. You feel so good. Better than I’d imagined.”

He doesn’t know if Jeongguk’s making stuff up to stroke his ego, but he appreciates the
praise nonetheless—he’s too far gone to second-guess it. Jeongguk feels deliciously warm
and tight around his cock—not even having his dick sucked could prepare him for the
sensation.

When Jeongguk bottoms out, he does it with a long, drawn-out moan directly next to Jimin’s
ear. He falls forward on Jimin, head tucked in the curve of his neck. They stay still for a few
heartbeats, both too overwhelmed to say anything.

“Good?” he hears Jeongguk whisper.

“G-good,” it’s his stammered response.

That’s when Jeongguk clenches his muscles around him, and Jimin bucks his hips up in a
knee-jerk reaction, moaning pornographically.

“Now it’s better,” Jeongguk grins. He draws back and fixes Jimin with glossy eyes,
moonlight pooling in his pupils. Placing his hands on Jimin’s shoulders to steady himself, he
begins to slowly grind against him.

“Talk to me,” Jeongguk urges, “how does it feel?”

Jimin slides his hands down to Jeongguk’s ass, kneading the flesh and spreading his ass
cheeks wider.

“Better than my mouth?”

Jimin laughs. How he manages to laugh when he is so breathless, he doesn’t know. The
sound comes out as a croak.

“I think if you move, I might lose my mind.”

“Who needs sanity?” Jeongguk drawls, stooping to meet Jimin’s gaze. “We don’t need it. We
only need each other, sane or insane.”

Jimin chuckles again. “That’s a good line.”

“I’ll put it in my next screenplay.”

Jeongguk lifts his hips up abruptly and slams back down, building up a pace that’s neither
fast nor slow—just the right amount of urgent. Jimin closes his eyes and lets Jeongguk take
the reins, completely engrossed in the feeling of Jeongguk bouncing on his cock.
When Jeongguk starts to quicken the pace, Jimin drags him down by the collar to trap him in
a bruising kiss, the telltale warmth pooling in his belly a signal he’s rapidly getting close to
his climax. Jeongguk must notice it too, because he suddenly slows down until he’s just
sitting on his lap, cock buried deep inside his ass. He kisses Jimin back with abandon, slowly
rolling his hips until he comes to a complete stop.

“What’s wrong?”

“Fuck me back,” Jeongguk mutters, hot breath mingling with his. Perhaps he sees a glimpse
of doubt cross Jimin’s face, because he clenches around his cock to wipe out every trace of it
from Jimin’s mind.

“Fuck into me, Jimin. Let yourself do it. I wanna feel it.” He basically moans out the last
sentence, a high whine, a needy whine. “Please. I want to feel you fuck me.”

He nearly comes with Jeongguk’s words alone because of how desperate he sounds. Jimin’s
never seen him like this—begging him for cock. Jeongguk doesn’t beg. It’s not him. Until
tonight.

He thrusts up experimentally. Stares as Jeongguk arches his back and curses once, a single
muttered fuck that sounds oh-so-broken to Jimin’s ears.

“Again,” Jeongguk says. Demands.

Jimin holds Jeongguk’s hips and thrusts into him again.

“Again.”

Jimin growls and thrusts his hips up again and again and again. Before he realizes it, he’s
fucking Jeongguk in earnest, exactly like he begged to be fucked.

He’s not sure what brings him to do it—he’s too wrapped in Jeongguk’s heat to think
rationally, and when he snaps back to reality it’s only to focus his attention on Jeongguk’s
expression, to make sure he’s doing everything right. And apparently, when Jimin suddenly
and very unexpectedly grabs Jeongguk by the waist to push him on the couch—him on top of
a breathless, slightly shocked Jeongguk—his boyfriend enjoys it immensely.

“God, yes,” Jeongguk moans, enthusiastically throwing his hands around Jimin’s neck to
bring him closer. He links his legs behind Jimin’s back, pressing down his ass to feel him
deeper. Jimin latches onto the soft skin of Jeongguk’s neck and sucks a mark, slowing down
when he feels himself giving in to a more animalistic side of him.

But Jeongguk notices, and isn’t having it.

“No, don’t—don’t slow down. I’m not—I’m not made of fucking glass, Jimin.”

Jimin meets his eyes, panting, nearly to the brink of his pleasure. He forces himself to slow
down to a halt, all the while staring deep into Jeongguk’s eyes. He can barely see the white of
his eyes in the darkness.
“Why’d you stop?”

He thinks back to what Jeongguk told him—his little fantasy of having Jimin fuck him fast
and dirty, but getting something else instead.

He shifts slightly, grabbing one of Jeongguk’s legs to spread him wider. Starts pushing in and
out of him, slower than before, trying another angle until Jeongguk’s confused expression
blossoms into one of pure ecstasy.

He follows up with deep and powerful thrusts, each hitting Jeongguk’s sweet spot and pulling
the sweetest of sounds out of him. Then he quickens the pace, rubbing himself against his
prostate until Jeongguk’s moans fill every crack in Jimin’s thoughts.

He pulls at Jeongguk’s cock for good measure, pumping it in tandem with the movement of
his hips. He feels himself tip over the edge and slams into Jeongguk one last time, grinding
against his ass until Jeongguk’s whole body exhales, and he comes in his hand.

He empties himself inside Jeongguk, his moans mingling with Jeongguk’s in a symphony of
pleasure. Jeongguk crushes their mouths together, a kiss that’s mostly teeth and sloppy
tongue. Jimin doesn’t mind—he doesn’t think he reacts at all. He just lies there, mouth slack,
breathing hard, as Jeongguk has his way with him. Licking the roof of his mouth, digging his
teeth into his lips—the kiss lasts long after Jimin finishes spilling into him, like Jeongguk is
reluctant to let him go.

But then it ends, like all good things eventually end. Jeongguk sighs and breaks the kiss,
seemingly content. Jimin slips out, cock spent between his legs, and slumps on top of
Jeongguk. They stay like this for a while, exhausted, listening to each other’s breathing.

“Did I hurt you?”

Jeongguk takes a while to answer. Suddenly, Jimin wishes he could see his face clearly.

But then he hears a huff. He feels Jeongguk’s chest bob up and down, and for half a second
he thinks he made Jeongguk cry.

“Jeong—”

“Are you kidding me?” Jeongguk bursts into laughter. He’s laughing so much he almost can’t
breathe. Perhaps he’s still a little drunk, after all.

“That was—that was—” He sees Jeongguk wipe his eyes with the shadow of a giddy smile
plastered on his face. “God, I needed that. Thank you so much, Jimin. I loved it.”

“You did?”

“Did I stutter? I think my brother downstairs heard how much I enjoyed it.”

Jimin winces, embarrassed.

“I thought you were exaggerating. You know, putting on a show. For my sake.”
“What the fuck?” Jeongguk nearly shoves him off the couch. “No. Who did you take me
for?”

“Well—”

“Don’t answer that,” Jeongguk scoffs. He kisses Jimin’s palm. “I loved it. I love that you
chose to have sex with me. I love that you’re my boyfriend. I love—”

“Don’t say it.”

“—your cock,” Jeongguk finishes with a huge grin. “What did you think I was gonna say?”

Jimin hides his face in the curve of Jeongguk’s neck. “Nothing.”

Jeongguk laughs again. Hugs him tight.

“You told me you don’t believe in post-coitus confessions.”

“I don’t. They feel cheap.”

“So you’re not getting one,” Jeongguk says, giggling. “Your rules, not mine.”

“Good,” Jimin mutters.

“Can I say something else?”

“Depends,” Jimin says, voice muffled against Jeongguk’s skin. “Is it embarrassing?”

“No?”

“Then yes.”

“Thanks for the good quality cock.”

Jimin groans, lifting himself up on his palms. “I hate you.”

“Why? It’s a heartfelt thank-you.”

“I’m taking a shower. You’re not allowed to follow me,” Jimin says sternly over his shoulder,
padding to the bathroom. “We gotta wake up early tomorrow morning.”

“Last rehearsal before the play,” he hears Jeongguk say with a sigh. “Are you excited?”

“No, I’m taking a shower.”

“You changed after fucking me, Jimin.”

He hears the melodramatic tone of Jeongguk’s voice and giggles. Maybe something in him
has changed, indeed. Maybe he feels a little better about himself, not because he proved to
himself he can be a man who fucks—cause that’s honestly bullshit—but because once again,
he managed to break through the walls in his mind, shattering the pre-conceived image of
himself that had weighed him down for years.

He doesn’t feel dirty. He doesn’t feel filthy. He doesn’t feel like an animal merely driven by
instinct, and the face he sees reflected in the mirror above the sink belongs to him and only
him, not his stepfather.

And his eyes, his eyes are full of love.

 Chapter 17
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
1.
The end begins with the opposite of a lucid dream.

Jimin knows he’s awake. Knows it very well. But everything is dampened down, dulled. The
lights are dim, the shadows washed out. A strange veil overlays his perception of reality, and
suddenly it feels like someone has put a filter over his world.

That’s why it’s not like lucid dreaming, but kind of the reverse. His is a sort of dreamy reality,
but with nightmarish accents.

He knows he’s living the nightmare the moment the phone rings in the middle of the night.

And beside him, Jeongguk stirs, then bolts up, awake and alert.

“Is that your phone?”

It’s Jimin’s phone. Jimin has answered enough calls in the dead of night to know it’s never
good news.

“Yeah.”

The phone keeps ringing. Jimin lies on his side, staring at the thing as it inches ever so
slightly closer to the edge of the nightstand with each new vibration.

“…are you gonna answer it?”

Jimin picks up the call, and that’s when the weird dream starts.
2.
Up until stepping foot in one, Jimin thought that morgues looked like the ones people see in
crime TV shows.

Always metallic and stark, with brutal white light whirring overhead. In the TV shows, the
low hum would drive the victim’s family crazy. The blinding cold light would get in their
eyes, instantaneously drying out any tears left and burning away their tear conductors at the
same time. That is, up until the infamous white shroud gets unzipped, and the dam bursts.
Tears, snot, uncontrollable sobs, the old hand-on-forehead thing as someone crumples on the
floor. Jimin thought that was reality. He’d seen it countless times on TV. That must be how
it’s done. Must be how it’s acted out.

Turns out reality is very different, even when it’s stained with the fingerprints of a dream.
There’s fog in his head but he can’t shake it away. It’s trapped in the inside of his skull,
strangely heavy and warm and damp, when the rest of him feels light and cold.

Where are the rows of freezers, the strategic ambient lights, the surly coroner with the black-
rimmed glasses? This place isn’t camera-ready. The lights are a warm golden and the
furniture isn’t as austere as what it usually looks like in the movies.

Nobody’s wearing glasses.

Jeongguk gently pushes him with a hand on the small of his back, urging him forward. Jimin
shakes his head. The haze is still there. For a second he thinks it’s tears clogging his brain and
pushing to be let out, but his eyes are dry. They’re so dry, he has to blink several times to
moisten them.

“This way, please.”

The morgue attendant leads them down a quiet corridor. On the walls, nondescript paintings.
Vague, abstract. Can’t make out the meaning. Can be anything or nothing. Jimin spots a few
landscapes. This one’s nice. It’s of rolling hills, wildflower fields. The colors are strangely
muted. There can’t be too much life in a morgue. It’s the rule. A preemptive defense screen
for the psyche of the bereaved. And it’s working, it’s working well. A splash of life, a
sprinkle of death. The hum in Jimin’s head intensifies, or maybe it’s the led lights on the
ceiling.

The attendant sits at a desk. He gestures for them to take a seat. Jimin sits down. Jeongguk
stands at his back, hovering like an anxious bodyguard. He might have placed a hand on his
shoulder, but Jimin is not totally sure, nor totally aware of his surroundings. The fog is
closing in, and it’s like a poisonous gas, it makes him even dizzier than before. Now that he’s
sitting down, his body is going numb. His mind goes a million miles per second, so fast he
can’t keep up. It’s a bit like holding water in your hands, except he’s trying to hold the
Niagara Falls.
He wonders if he should let the waterfall wash over him completely. The thought alone
terrifies him. So, he builds a dam. That’ll do. For the moment, a dam will do.

“I’m going to show you a photograph now. It’s going to be face down. When you feel ready,
flip it. Take your time. There’s no hurry.”

He nods. The coroner slides a picture towards him. It is face down, like he said. Jimin already
knows what’s on it. Everybody in the room does.

“Can’t I do it?” Nervousness sharpens the edges of Jeongguk’s voice.

“I’m sorry. A relative must do it,” the attendant says. “Now, I’m going to briefly explain what
you’re going to see in the photograph to make the identification process as non-traumatic as
possible, Jimin. The photograph shows—”

The whirring in his head drowns the droning monotone of the morgue attendant’s voice.
Face, bloating, river, time. Words that Jimin never thought to associate with death before. A
face is just a face, a river is just a river. The attendant seems to be explaining something very
patiently, as if with a child. Jimin makes the effort to listen. He understands what those words
mean when he flips the photograph on the table.

He stares. For an indecipherable amount of time, for a small eternity, for a few broken
heartbeats, he stares. This is the moment where people collapse, Jimin thinks. Do something.

They’re watching.

His eyes are still dry. So dry, they’ve started to itch like hell. He should buy some drops on
the way home. They itch so much he wants to gauge them out, rinse them nice and clean,
then put them back.

Jimin slides the photograph back to the attendant.

“It’s her,” he says, distant, distant. “It’s my mother.”

3.
The theater is brimming with people.

Jimin can hear the low murmuring and chattering of the people outside as they find their seats
and fan themselves with the explanatory leaflet, waiting for the curtains to rise. He closes his
eyes and pictures the different degrees of curiosity stamped on their faces, the faces of adults
and students and faculty members and curious passersby and members of the jury, yes, the
members of the jury, the contest Namjoon signed them for at the very last minute, the contest
Jeongguk hopes to win.

Jimin focuses on the slow beating of his heart. One heartbeat, two heartbeats, three
heartbeats. Slow and steady. Lazy. Passive. Detached. It’s so slow, he’s afraid it might just
stop. Just like that, abruptly, like being alive one second and being dead on the ground the
next. He wonders if that’s how death feels like. A jump into the void, one heartbeat leading to
nothingness forevermore. Like small waves lapping at a body that’s too exhausted to get
itself to shore. Like being unable to find a lighthouse to guide you home. Like heartbeats
extinguishing underwater.

His own lungs fill with water. He holds his breath.

He feels lightheaded.

The whispering on the other side of the curtains fades away.

But it’s different for him. His lungs explode with life. Jimin steps onto the stage.

The scene is set. The actors are acting. The stage lights are bright and kind, a kindness that
borders on stifling. It’s too warm under these beams. He can’t see the crowd. They told him
he wouldn’t. They’re all shadows and outlines, a hand here, a leg there. But the eyes. The
eyes are all there. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Infinite eyes. They multiply the more Jimin
thinks about them. They’re all on him, warmer and brighter than any stage light pointed at
him, and they make him sweat. Cold sweat, trickling down his spine. Beads of perspiration
forming on his face, catching the light and reflecting it back. Like diamonds on his skin. He’s
made of diamonds. No, he’s made of glass. If he topples over, he’ll break. And then he’ll be
swept away for good, each shard of him a fragment of a dream or a hope or a heartbeat that
will be tossed away with the trash.

The crowd looks on, silent as the grave. How apt. Jimin can’t bring himself to laugh at the
irony, can’t bring himself to care about the nervous looks the other actors shoot at him. His
first line is very simple. It’s lodged somewhere at the back of his throat. He pulls it forward.
It perches at the tip of his tongue. What if he doesn’t say it? All would be for naught. He
hears coughing at his side, near the curtains. He turns.

The person coughing discreetly is Jeongguk. Of course. It’s like a spray of frigid water hits
him square in the face. Selfish, a voice whispers, selfish and ungrateful. It sounds uncannily
like the voice of his dead mother.

The image of her flashes in his mind. Sneering, yellowed teeth bared at him menacingly. Her
face is blue and bloated, but still recognizable enough. In his mind, Jimin turns the polaroid
the other way.

She’s right. Sometimes, his mother would be right, and Jimin would ignore her.

He says the first line and drowns in Sadaham.

He goes down, sinking deep into character. When he’s backstage, he doesn’t dare resurface.
Glimpses the light above, knows breaking the surface would do him no good. Selfish.
Ungrateful. His mother’s lips open and close as they speak the words, fish and maggots
slipping out of her mouth with each drawn-out syllable. Jimin keeps himself underwater with
both his hands, pushing down, smothering the part of him he doesn’t need for tonight.
Drowning it like his mother had drowned in the Han River.

He makes eye contact with Jeongguk; he’s been sitting by his side the whole time, waiting
with him until his next scene, watching. His lips are bitten red. How the tables have turned.
Perhaps now he should be the one brushing Jeongguk’s lips saying, don’t do that. You’ll
bleed. But that’s not who he is tonight. Tonight, he’s a product of Jeongguk’s imagination,
everything he’d dreamed his character to be. Tonight, he’s Sadaham and his lover isn’t Jeon
Jeongguk, but a warrior named Mugwan. He has pretty brown locks and a boxy smile.

Selfish. Ungrateful. He won’t be selfish or ungrateful tonight. For the right person, he won’t
be selfish or ungrateful. Maybe it’s too late not to be. Maybe it’s hypocritical of him. Maybe
it’s a dirty way to clean his soul, his conscience, his thoughts. No matter. It’s all he can do.
Drown Jimin, and push Sadaham to the surface. Drown his mother, choke her underwater,
only to bring her back just to hear her whisper selfish in his ear whenever he feels weak
again.

He doesn’t meet Jeongguk’s gaze when he steps back onto the stage.
It is so quiet around him.

The lights have dimmed down to a pale, gentle gold. They’re no longer hot on his skin, no
longer robbing him of his breath.

His breath, it comes out in short puffs. He kneels on the stage, Mugwan’s body in his arms.
His body feels one thing – warmth, life, Taehyung’s chest imperceptibly rising and falling –
but his mind tells him something else. He’s transported through time; he’s reached the end of
Jeongguk’s imagination. Toeing between history and fantasy, Jimin sits there, hugging a body
close to his chest. It’s the end of the play. It’s the end of so many things. He can stop
drowning now. He can stand up, take big gulps of air, state I am alive, I have not been selfish
tonight.

His eyes have been dry and itchy for the entire day.

Jimin caresses Mugwan’s face with the back of his hand. The words of his last monologue
come out as if pulled by an invisible hook, and he knows Jeongguk is right there, hidden
behind the curtains, shrouded in shadows, fishing them out of him with his presence alone.
He clutches the body to his chest, and lets someone else’s grief speak for him.

That’s when he feels it first: As he speaks words that are too pretty to belong to him and
breathes life into feelings he’d always felt distant up to this moment. He rocks back and forth,
clinging to a body that should be lifeless but is warm. The contradiction hits him, and his
voice breaks. It’s higher and unnervingly unstable, but he pushes each word out with all the
strength of his lungs. Blue lips, gray skin, a photograph on a table. Flip it to burst into tears.
Flip it to close a chapter. Flip it to find out guilt is where he lives in. Flip it to find out she’s
there, trapped in a photograph, drowned by a river, and he’s still there, and he’s not ungrateful
anymore.

Hugging Mugwan close to his chest, Jimin speaks the last words of Jeongguk’s monologue,
and cries for his mother.
4.
His eyes are still puffy when Jeongguk gently knocks on the door.

“I’ll be ready in a minute,” he says, wiping his cheek for what must’ve been the millionth
time that night. He eyes himself in the mirror. On stage, the makeup had concealed the dark
circles and bags under his eyes, but now his exhaustion is plain for all the world to see. And
he can’t do much about the redness. He looks like he’s been punched in the face repeatedly.

Not his best form, definitely.

“Actually, it’s not—there’s, uhm, someone to see you.”

Jimin turns. Jeongguk is standing on the threshold, the door ajar.

“I kinda don’t want to see anyone right now.”

“Jimin, I think you should see him.”

“Him?” Jimin sniffs and turns to look. “Who?”

Jeongguk opens the door wider. There’s a man in his late thirties or early forties standing
behind him, dressed in casual but effortlessly elegant clothes. Jimin doesn’t recognize him,
and although a tiny piece of him tells him to panic because maybe he should, another, more
prominent part of Jimin just shrugs and stares.

“Jimin, this is Kim Daewoo. He’s part of the jury who’s going to assess our play for the
contest. He asked if he could have a word with you.” There’s hesitancy in Jeongguk’s tone, as
if he himself isn’t sure whether this would be the right time or even a good idea. It takes
Jimin but an instant to grasp the meaning behind his words. Do you want to?

Jimin’s brain sputters to life, old cogs and wheels groaning with the effort of fishing out the
memory of that name. He’s heard it somewhere, he’s sure. Then it clicks. He’s the famous
guy that Jeongguk adores. The screenwriter, director, movie producer or whatever the fuck
dude. He can’t be all three things at once, can he?

“Oh,” Jimin croaks out, trying but failing to put a more gracious façade on. “Right. I
remember. Come on in.”

Truth is, he wants to be left alone for the remainder of the day, but there’s so much hope in
Jeongguk’s eyes that Jimin can’t bear to say no.

“Jimin,” the man smiles broadly and steps inside the dressing room with all the confidence of
a renowned celebrity. “A real pleasure to meet you. You were extraordinary on the stage
tonight. A pity there isn’t going to be another showing tomorrow, or I would’ve gladly
watched Orioles a second time.”
“Oh,” Jimin mutters intelligently. It seems to be the only thing his brain has been rewired to
say. Maybe the tears have washed out all the other words out of his mind.

“He’s not feeling very well,” Jeongguk says, eyes bouncing anxiously from a beaming Kim
Daewoo to a nearly apathetic Jimin. His smile is a little strained. “The play put us all under a
lot of stress.”

“Sure, sure, I understand completely,” Mr. Kim says affably. His eyes are locked onto
Jimin’s, and he appraises him with the interest of a famished wolf. Jimin knows a thing or
two about wolfish stares, but this one is different. A searching, scrutinizing gaze, and Jimin
feels as if he were on the stage again.

He bows stiffly when Mr. Kim nods at him. “Pleasure to meet you.” He wipes his face for
good measure. His skin feels tight and dry, to the point he’s afraid it will flake away at any
moment. “I’m sorry, I don’t usually… cry after a performance. But then again, I don’t usually
perform for a crowd.”

“Yes, I was told. Gotta say, it’s hard to believe after seeing you on the stage,” Mr. Kim says,
still smiling. “It seems like you’re a natural, Park Jimin. And I don’t say these things lightly.
Also, between you and me, I really shouldn’t be here backstage talking to you—” he winks,
“cause you know, I’m part of the jury. But I just couldn’t let it go tonight. I’ve seen plenty of
talented young men and women give their best on the stage, but it’s rare to stumble into such
raw, unpolished talent. It’s like hitting a gold mine, and I just so happen to be incredibly
drawn to everything that glitters under the sun.”

“All that glitters is not gold,” Jimin says, unsure whether to feel offended or flattered that the
Kim Daewoo called his talent in acting unpolished.

Mr. Kim laughs. “True, true. But I know gold when I see it.” He cocks his head to the side,
pondering. “You delivered an incredible spectrum of emotions out there, Jimin. I’ve never
felt more touched watching a college play before. I came in expecting to watch an ordinary
performance, but by the end of the night I had actual tears in my eyes. Do you know how
hard it is to move people’s hearts, Jimin?”

Astonished, Jimin looks at Jeongguk. He’s leaning against the vanity tables with his arms
crossed and a serious expression on him, but as soon as Jimin’s eyes touch his, his entire face
lights up with a smile.

Mr. Kim fishes something out of his pocket and hands it to him. “I know you’re tired—you
look positively exhausted—so I won’t take any more of your time. I just wanted to
congratulate you for the excellent performance.” Seeing that Jimin is still too stunned to grab
the card he’s being offered, Mr. Kim slides it onto one of the vanity tables. The words Kim
Daewoo and a phone number are etched on it in golden filigree. “I’d like you to take my card,
and think about what you showed us tonight. Then, if you feel like it, you can call me on that
number.”

On his periphery, Jimin notices Jeongguk slightly shifting his weight from one foot to
another. He frowns. “Why?”
Mr. Kim’s sempiternal smile widens imperceptibly. “I might have an offer for you, but I’m
not sure you want to hear it just yet.”

“I do,” Jimin blurts. “I want to hear it.”

Mr. Kim’s pleased grin is that of a man whose plan has worked out in his favor.

“There’s a movie I was head writer for, that is planned to start filming abroad in six weeks,”
Mr. Kim starts. “A very ambitious project, if I say so myself. The cast is comprised of the
most part by young, hidden talents. I’ve been helping with scouting the actors for the past
year. Unfortunately,” his mouth takes a slightly bitter turn, “one of our lead actors had an…
unfortunate accident about a month ago. We were recently told he will be unable to fulfill his
contract. Ergo, we need an equally talented new actor to take his place.”

A rush of blood hits Jimin’s face. “Oh.” Mr. Kim is going to think he’s a dimwit if he keeps
speaking through utterances.

“From what I’ve seen tonight, you’re a perfect candidate for the part. Of course, we’re still
searching for new talents, but you… you have something that caught my eye. Being the head
writer of the project, if I were to, well, name you as an eligible candidate to the cast director
—” he smiles again, “—then rest assured he’d take my suggestion very, very seriously.”

For a moment, Jimin can’t breathe. He’s left in apnea, staring wide-eyed at the man whose
name had been but a smear on his memory only ten minutes ago.

“…what do you want me to do?”

Jeongguk straightens up, alert and listening.

Mr. Kim shoves his hands in his pockets. “It’s very simple, Jimin. You’ll be sent a script from
which you’ll have to act out a short scene. If you do as good as tonight, and the casting
director likes you, the part is yours.”

“I don’t even know what kind of movie we’re talking about.”

There is a sudden burst of noise – chattering, whooping, loud laughter – outside their
dressing room. Mr. Kim nods to the card. “Give me a call, and I’ll give you all the
information you need. If you accept, all you have to do is learn a few lines. And I’ll fix you
an audition.”

The voices grow louder. Jeongguk’s eyes grow dimmer before bursting with light again.
5.
“There you are,” Jeongguk says, swinging the little rusty gate open. He walks inside the
playground and huddles up in his winter jacket, shivering lightly as the breeze plays with his
hair.

“How did you know I was here?”

Jeongguk looks at their apartment complex across the street.

“I can see the playground from my old room’s window. There’s not a lot of blondies in the
neighborhood.”

“Ah,” Jimin mutters, fingers combing through the strands of hair falling limp over his eyes.
“I might have to dye it back to black.”

“For the movie?” Jeongguk asks, taking a seat on the other swing seat next to Jimin.

“I don’t—” Jimin starts, unsure, then stops himself. Some part of him sighs inwardly, but his
body doesn’t let it out. “He said it’s very likely that I’ll get the part.”

“He said?” Jeongguk sweeps an inquisitive glance over him. “Kim Daewoo?”

“He saw my audition. He said he liked it.” Jimin sniffs, brushes the tip of his nose with the
back of his hand. It’s freezing cold, an icicle in the middle of a face. “…a lot.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? That’s great news,” Jeongguk says, planting his heels on the
ground to stop the lazy swinging. “Christ, Jimin, are you going to be in a freaking movie?”

“I don’t know,” Jimin murmurs, wishing he could shrink to nothing but a speckle of dirt on
his swing seat. “The cast director hasn’t made up his mind yet. I might not get it.”

“But you might also get it,” Jeongguk shoots back. “And then what?”

Right. And then what?

“…and then I think about it.”

“Oh, hell no.”

Jimin turns to him, surprised. Jeongguk is staring at him with eyes that might as well be
smoldering embers.

“What’s there to think about, Jimin? This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. We always joke
about being scouted by some big director with the guys at the Bird, and now that it’s really
happened to one of us, you want to think about it?”

“There’s a lot going on right now,” Jimin replies weakly.

Jeongguk clutches the chains of the swing and leans in.

“Jimin,” his breath plumes ahead of him, “there is nothing else going on for us. You hear me?
Nothing. Nothing is as important as your future.”

“There’s you.”

Jeongguk scoffs.

“And classes.”

“Jimin, it’s just one movie. You’ll go abroad for—what, like a month? Everything’s paid for,
and the money is a lot. And it doesn’t come out of Seokjin’s pockets, how incredible is that?”
Jeongguk huffs out, kicking dirt. “Don’t worry about classes. Don’t worry about me. Worry
about you, and your future, and Jihyun’s future.”

“But I care about you,” Jimin blurts, twisting on the swing to confront Jeongguk with his
whole body. The rusted chains groan slightly. “I don’t want to leave you alone at the Bird. I
don’t want to leave you, period. This—fuck, this wasn’t supposed to happen to me.”

“Who was it supposed to happen to?”

“You,” Jimin almost yells, exasperated, knuckles whitening out around the chains. “You were
the one he was supposed to scout.”

Jeongguk smiles thinly. “Writers don’t get scouted.”

“But people still recognize their talent.”

“It was just a silly play, Jimin. Oriole wasn’t even a fully original screenplay. I don’t care if I
don’t get acknowledged for it; everyone knows these contests are for the actors.”

“But it’s not fair.”

Jeongguk’s voice softens. “But it is. It’s so fair. Why shouldn’t it happen to you? All the
bullshit you had to go through, why do you still feel that you’re not worthy of this chance?”

Jimin lowers his gaze to the dirt at their feet. Little white dots cover the ground, and he raises
his eyes to the sky. It’s started to snow.

“Cause you deserve it more,” he whispers finally, watching the snowflakes twirl around them
both.

“This isn’t a game of who amassed more misery points,” Jeongguk says, rolling his eyes.
“You’re an amazing actor. You’ve been scouted, not me, not Taehyung, not anyone else. You
love acting. You need the money. You need to have a decent future or so help me God, I’ll
slap you with that movie contract the second Kim Daewoo calls you to tell you that you got
the part.”

“That’s domestic abuse.”

“You know what wouldn’t be fair? You refusing the part because of me. I’d feel so fucking
shitty, I wouldn’t want to see your face for days.”

“Are you trying to guilt me into accepting something that will potentially change the course
of my entire life?”

Jeongguk shakes his head, digs his heels against the dirt, and fixes him with a serious stare.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you’re okay with paying your tuition with Seokjin’s dirty
money. Tell me you’ll be okay having a boring life teaching history in schools. You told me
once that you’d be happy to have a boring, uneventful life. You know what I think? I think
you’re full of shit. I think it was a lie.”

Jimin swallows around the lump in his throat. “That’s not true—”

“Do you wanna know how I know you’re full of shit?”

Jimin doesn’t reply. His mouth is arid.

“Cause if you were so content with the prospect of leading a boring life, you wouldn’t have
joined my play in September. You wouldn’t have joined a theater club in high school. You
wouldn’t be obsessed with movies and novels; you wouldn’t waste hours and days and weeks
of your life impersonating the life of another person. You wouldn’t pour all that heart and
love and dedication into changing into someone else. You wouldn’t. But you did. You do.
You don’t want a boring life, Jimin. And you don’t deserve one, either.”

Jimin blinks a couple times, stunned into overwhelming silence. The cold around him turns
progressively warmer, until it’s a hot blaze sweeping across his body.

He sits very still.

“Jeongguk?”

“Don’t you dare tell me I’m wrong.”

“I love you.”

Around them, the snow covers the world in pristine white.

6.
His flight leaves in one hour and if he could sell his soul to whatever devil resides at the core
of the earth, he would, if only to cling to Jeongguk’s hand a little while longer.

“Your palm’s all sweaty.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m nervous as fuck. I think I’m gonna vomit.”

“Turn the other way, please.”

He squeezes Jeongguk’s hand tight. Busy people with luggage bigger than what Jimin’s ever
seen hurry past them, calling one another’s names and dashing towards the gates. Beyond the
enormous glass walls, an aircraft takes flight.

The sight makes him queasy.

“You’re not gonna crash. Relax.”

“I know.”

“And even if you do, you spent the last two months reading a hundred thousand articles about
surviving in a forest on your own. You’ll be fine.”

“What if the plane doesn’t crash on an island? What if we fall into the ocean?”

Jeongguk shrugs. “Then you have nothing to worry about.”

“Thanks for the reassurance.”

Jeongguk shoots him a disarming smile and interlocks their fingers. “Nothing will happen on
your flight. You’ll land safely and your agent will pick you up at the airport. No surviving on
a deserted island, no spelling S.O.S with rocks on a beach, no stumbling into top-secret
underground bunkers in the jungle with a weird Frenchman trapped inside.”

“I’ve never finished watching Lost,” Jimin mumbles nervously.

“Good. The ending sucks ass,” Jeongguk deadpans.

“If something does happen to me, please look for my reincarnation.”

“I definitely won’t. I have no interest in being reunited with the soul of my dead boyfriend
reincarnated into a child.”

“I meant kill yourself and find me.”

“You’re so romantic,” Jeongguk says with a slanted grin. “So sweet. I could put you under
my tongue and you’d melt.”
Jimin eyes the people queuing to access the gates on the other side of the airport.

“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

“Jimin, you’re not going to war.”

“I’ve never been abroad, I’ve never taken a plane and I’ve never starred in a movie before,”
Jimin blurts, listlessly. “I am leaving you in charge of my only brother and you’re currently
still working under a man I utterly despise. Forgive me if I’m a little antsy.”

“I can’t believe my boyfriend is an actor.”

“Did you listen to a word I said?”

Jeongguk blinds him with the most charming smile in his already over-powered repertoire
and says, “I’m so sorry, Jimin. Every time you open your mouth I just hear my superimposed
voice going, my boyfriend is an actor, he’s one of the protagonists in a Kim Daewoo movie,
he’s just won an Oscar.”

“That’s taking it a bit too far.”

“Fake it till you make it.”

“This movie could flop,” Jimin points out.

“It won’t. You’re in it.”

“Will you call me every night?”

Jeongguk laughs at the sudden change of topic. “I’m afraid you’ll have to call me. I don’t
know your schedule. You’re the busy rising star, I’m just the nobody boyfriend.”

“You can call me a rising star without putting yourself down, you know,” Jimin says,
frowning. “I’ll tell Kim Daewoo about all your ongoing projects. I’ll slip copies of your
works in his briefcase when he’s not looking.”

“Please don’t.”

“I won’t stop until he acknowledges your talent, too,” Jimin says stubbornly.

Jeongguk takes his face in his hands and smiles. “You don’t have to do that for me. I’m still
an amateur, I have no clue what I’m doing half the time. At least wait until I get into a
screenwriting master program to pimp me to fucking Kim Daewoo.”

“Alright,” Jimin sighs in defeat. “But Oriole was pretty fucking good, and you won a prize
for it.”

“That’s just college theater,” Jeongguk laughs. “It’s nothing.”

“I was in college theater.”

“But you’re so much more,” Jeongguk says. “You’ve always been. And not after taking
acting classes. You’re it, right now.”

Jimin holds a hand up to Jeongguk’s. “I wish you could come with me.”

“I know. I’ll Zoom you every day.”

“It’s not the same.”

“You already know I’m great at phone sex.”

“That’s not what I mean!”

Jeongguk chuckles. “I know.”

His flight leaves in fifty minutes and if he could brand the image of Jeongguk’s face on his
retinas, he would, if only to feel less alone while he’s on the other side of the world.

“I’m standing right in front of you and I already miss you.”

Jeongguk snorts softly, but Jimin doesn’t miss the way he tries to hide his blush.

“It’ll pass. Once you’re there with your crew, and your fellow actors, and the overworked
interns bringing you coffee, you’ll forget about it.”

“One doesn’t simply forget about you,” Jimin huffs, head tilted to the side. “You’re
memorable like that, Jeon Jeongguk.” He feels his smile drip away as he stares up in
Jeongguk’s eyes. “Things will be different once I come back. I promise. No more birds. No
more Skylark. Just us and our dreams.”

Jeongguk sets his forehead against his and sighs, eyes closed.

“That sounds nice.”

Jimin clutches Jeongguk’s hoodie in his fist.

“Wait for me, okay?”

“Every day,” Jeongguk whispers.

Every day. He plays the words in his mind over and over and over again, breathing in
Jeongguk’s breath, the smell of his cologne and the faint scent of their laundry detergent. He
hopes to breathe enough of him in to store in his lungs, to take away with him to the other
side of the world.

He takes another big breath, and that’s when he senses it. Excitement, his. Contentedness,
Jeongguk’s. Heartache, theirs. A strange tingling spreads out from each of Jimin’s limbs, a
webbing of sparks weaving through the synapsis of his brain and the nerves of his body till
he can feel it coagulate into something big and warm and exhilarating around his heart. He
 hugs Jeongguk tighter and finds his lips on instinct, feeling as powerful and right as he’s
never felt before in his life.

His heart, burning.

His mind, electric.

And his body, euphoric.

Chapter End Notes

⚠⚠ ‼‼ Remember that I CAN read the comments you leave on your

BOOKMARKED FICS if your bookmarks aren't set on private. This means I can
read the rating you've assigned to my fic (or any fic), the things you liked or
disliked about it, and all the other criticism that maybe you wouldn't want the
author to know. Sometimes fic writers will check the bookmarks because some
readers are too shy to leave comments and they leave nice notes there instead. But
other times, we happen to read rather unpleasant things on a fic that has been
offered in good faith for free, & written in our own spare time.
Please, if you mean to rate this fic or give your unsolicited criticism, put. your.
bookmarks. on. private.
Thank you. ‼‼ ⚠⚠

thank you for reading body euphoric through to the end (and to those who've followed
the fic as it came out, for bearing with my mood swings.) i know this ending doesn't
touch on every single character or storyline i've put in the fic, but truth to be told, it was
actually never my intention to write about, say, jimin and jeongguk single-handedly
bringing down evil seokjin's empire, or the many stages of hoseok and yoongi's
developing relationship. maybe this makes me a bad 'writer', idk, but there's a strange
sort of relief in realizing that i don't really mind leaving some things to the imagination
of others. after all, this has never been a story about punishing evil people, and it's never
been a story about yoongi or hoseok or jimin's family either.
i'm really glad many of you liked BE jeongguk. i had a lot of fun writing him, and
although some of you may argue that he's kinda the same as some of my other JKs, i

keeping the core of how i like to write him 😂

think i did a fairly good job at setting him apart from the others while fundamentally
(I tried to go for a mix of Creatures JK
and Frailties JK, for those who know what im talking about lol)
but as much as i liked reading about your crushes on JK, nothing beats reading that you
loved BE jimin. this jimin is very dear to me; he's many things i wish i could be and
many others i wish i werent, so writing him has felt both cathartic and challenging at the
same time.

anyway, thank you again for sticking with me. i hope you enjoyed the ride.

🔹
moodboards:

🔹 moodboards chapters 1-7 by @13_limmie

🔹 🔹
moodboard by @vickyguk
moodboard #1 and moodboard #2 by @gorymk
Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!