permission to fall in love? - dagusts - 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys (2024)

The thing about loving Yoongi, and this much Jimin has learned, is that you do it quietly.

That is not to say that Yoongi doesn’t appear to enjoy loud proclamations of love. Jimin has observed how he reacts to genuine, loud displays of love.

When the campus bookstore is full to the brim with an autumn of returning students juggling books while trying to keep their scarves wrapped securely, walking around Jimin who is only there to watch his bank balance rapidly fall, and Yoongi’s nose is tightly scrunched while he scans barcodes, Yoongi still cracks a smile when his best friend Namjoon elbows people out of the way to plop down a cup of coffee that was never asked for.

And in the flurry of snows that wreak havoc on Jimin’s muscles, which seem sore and frozen no matter how many layers he wears and how many mugs of mulled wine he downs and how many miles he runs on the treadmill to keep his metabolism going, under the bright lights of the Christmas market, Yoongi barks a laugh that’s as warm as hot chocolate as his oldest friend Hoseok sings into a busker’s microphone and dances while people cheer.

On blistering hot afternoons, when spring is smoking and sputtering into unbearable summer stickiness and the entire student population is crawling to the semester’s finish line, and Jimin can barely stand the feeling of his own t-shirt touching his chest let alone another human’s body heat, in those moments he has watched as Yoongi gets nearly tackled to the ground by his roommate Jungkook and still beams brighter than the sun rays beating down on everyone.

But that is all Jimin has observed. From a distance. From the safety of air pillowed between them because Jimin doesn’t quite know how to be quiet. And while Yoongi appears to enjoy loud proclamations, Jimin has also observed the grimace that decorates his face when someone invades his personal space. The razor-sharp edge his eyebrows take when he has to handle an overly friendly customer. The way his gummy smiles turn into bared teeth if someone interrupts when he’s speaking.

So, Jimin has come to conclude—well, not really, because he knows his approach severely lacks some major variables and samples, so the conclusion is of the initial thoughts and rudimentary inference variety—that loving Yoongi involves building momentum.

A momentum Jimin is extremely far from building when he hasn’t said a word in the two whole minutes they’ve been seated across from each other.

I’m going to make a fool of myself, Jimin had lamented not even one hour ago when he’d been putting the finishing flourishes of his mascara. Hoseok, one of his best friends and orchestrator of the date, had looked unimpressed (with Jimin’s demoralising machinations, not with his outfit, Hoseok had actually complemented his choice of a creamy, linen, short-sleeved shirt paired with casual, light blue jeans).

You are not going to make a fool of yourself, Hoseok had countered while straightening Jimin’s collar and untangling the little knot his necklace had made at his collarbone. And, fortunately, even if you do, your date is a good sport. And super patient.

Your date. Right. Because this is a blind date. A date that isn’t remotely blind when Jimin is seated across from a guy he’s pretty sure he’s half an hour away from being madly in love with. Honestly, Jimin had been in love with Yoongi for pretty much the better half of a year. But because they were only acquaintances he was forced to admit it was an infatuation until he had incorrigible evidence that their non-existent relationship remained net positive even after getting to know Yoongi on a personal level.

Well, Hobi-hyung, I have managed to make a fool of myself without uttering a word. Pretty sure the lack of uttering words is what’s aiding the fool-making process.

“Are you okay?”

Jimin jumps, knocking his knee on the underside of the table. The surface shudders, the crocheted frills of the tablecloth quivering. Both Yoongi and the server raise their eyebrows. Jimin clears his throat. He must’ve acquired temporary, acute tinnitus because the only thing he’d heard the past few minutes was the ringing in his ears. Loud like the cicadas he remembered from the one year he’d tried summer camp. Buzzing in his ears the entire time he’d lightly bowed to Yoongi outside the restaurant, and then when they’d sat themselves, and when he’d watched Yoongi say something to the server.

The one who’s pouring water for them now.

“Can I have some ice with that, please?”

“May I have some warm water, please?”

Jimin and Yoongi blink as they speak at the same time, and Jimin is all but ready to slither under the table and make a home there.

Okay, no reason to panic. So you have different water preferences. So, he would like to melt his insides into soup when the weather outside is skimming the unholier half of the thirty-degree bracket, but whatever. It’s cool. Like my water. Literally, very cool. Super chill.

“It’s for my throat.”

Jimin has to clear his own before a keening sound can escape it. How embarrassing. He morphs his expression into a curious one. Or he hopes it looks curious and not like he’s about to start sweating bullets. Even the choking shroud of summer wouldn’t explain it when they’re seated right under the blast of air conditioning.

“I went to a concert,” Yoongi adds. His hands wave at his neck, which is definitely unblemished yet lays patterned so heavily that Jimin is almost distracted. Distracted by how the pale skin is marked with the visible troughs of veins, the smattering of follicles visible despite a close shave, the prominent peak of an Adam’s apple that rolls like an ocean wave with the steady tempo of Yoongi’s words.

Unblemished is a useless word when Yoongi is a walking canvas of tantalising hues and details.

“You need hot water because you went to a concert?” Jimin asks, though he’s still distracted by Yoongi’s visage. He is dressed with the same balance of cleaned-up and casual that Jimin is. A blue shirt. But it’s visibly very flowy and breathy, which is plain unfair with the way it manages to catch and flutter under the cool wind blowing at them. It sticks so easily to Yoongi’s skin when he rolls his shoulders, in the creases of his elbows, which are folded and resting on the table. Yet it’s loose enough that Jimin imagines touching it would feel like thrusting your fingers into a rippling cascade.

“Warm water,” Yoongi corrects, running his fingers through his hair. The single ring adorning his hand, oxidised silver woven into Celtic knots, almost catches in a strand of it. Jimin has rarely seen Yoongi’s hair ever pushed back like this, a little slick with some kind of gel. It was usually so soft, falling over his forehead or tucked under a beanie, prone to shifting with the slightest nod of his head. Jimin had always itched to run his fingers through it, making up for it by running his fingers through his own hair, imagining his blunt nails gently scratching Yoongi’s scalp.

Get it together, he scolds himself. It would be supremely pathetic if he finally scored a date with Yoongi and didn’t even listen to him, the one thing he was meant to be doing here: getting to know him in his own words. Guilt wakes up in the pit of his belly but he pets its head and settles it down again.

“–and it was mainly Namjoon who was hyped about it, because I don’t really know the artist,” Yoongi is explaining. His eyes narrow as he fidgets with a hangnail on his thumb, staring at it instead of making eye contact with Jimin. Jimin doesn’t mind. If he actually meets Yoongi’s eyes he will collapse. Or worse, blurt out something stupid. “But I really got into it and the crowd was screaming, and we were screaming, and my throat kind of…”

He rubs his palms together, making a noise that Jimin supposes mimics a shredder.

“Ah,” Jimin says, taking a sip of his own icy water and nodding. “I hope it’s not too bad. You sound good. I mean you sound fine. Like, you sound normal. I think. Unless your voice isn’t usually this hoarse. Not that hoarse is bad. I mean, unless it’s painful and you’re in pain, I’m sorry–”

Yoongi tilts his head, eyes narrowing just a fraction further. Jimin wants to die right then and there. He hopes a summer storm will roll in and lightning will strike him right where he sits. But the skies remain clear, dark orange fading into blue as the sun bids its goodbyes. Not that hoarse is bad? What the f*ck does that even mean?

“No,” Yoongi slowly says, after a few painfully silent seconds. “It was bad a few days ago, but it’s pretty much back to normal now. This is my normal voice.”

“It’s very nice.”

Good god. He might as well just walk out. Yoongi keeps staring at him with narrowed eyes as the table falls completely quiet. The sounds of other patrons feel too loud in Jimin’s ears. The clanking of cutlery, the sizzle of meat filtering through the half-open kitchen behind them.

Jimin’s fingers knot themselves in the lace edge of the tablecloth that’s brushing his thighs, the nail of his pinkie looping itself tight into its crocheted design. He quickly removes his hands. Knowing his luck, he’ll end up yanking the entire cloth off the table in a panic.

“So…” he mumbles, scratching the bridge of his nose with his thumb. “We’re here. Now.”

Excellent observation, Sherlock. This is what they’re giving you a PhD grant for. Truly, one of the brightest minds of the subcontinent.

“We are. I’m surprised we are.”

“Really?”

Jimin startles at that, genuine curiosity pressing its fingers against the bubble of awkward air he’s backed himself into.

Yoongi rests his chin on his hands, nodding. The movement causes his wrists to move with him, his chin bunching his lips into a mild pout. They look like the tulips that have begun to bloom with the turn of the season. Jimin watches, straightening in his chair and leaning a bit closer. His own elbow comes to rest on the table.

“From the number of times Hoseok asked me to move stuff around, this evening was a scheduling nightmare. Which is weird because usually scheduling stuff outside of the semester is easier.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jimin sheepishly murmurs. “I’m…I usually have a more flexible schedule. But I had to travel to Bongchon, for work. It’s in–”

“I know where Bongchon is. I’m from Daegu.”

“I know.”

Yoongi raises a single eyebrow, and Jimin splutters around his water, which is now dangerously close to being over already and they haven’t even ordered food yet. His tummy swishes, uncomfortably tight and heavy. The guilt monster is probably drowning in the torrent.

“I just mean, your accent. The…uh…your dialect. It’s a bit of a giveaway.”

Also, your Instagram photos from when you visit home during the holidays. But you probably don’t even notice when I like them; the hearts get lost amidst the hundreds you get from others.

“So is yours. Busan, right?”

Jimin hides his smile by flicking his nose with his forefinger. It’s not exactly a deep reading of his personality, his heritage dripping from his tongue. But it pleases him immensely that Yoongi has picked up on it.

“Born and raised.”

“What took you to Bongchon for work? So suddenly…what was the work?”

“Oh!” Jimin smiles. This he can do. “It was for my thesis. I had to interview someone.”

“Really?” Yoongi’s eyes sparkle with something like interest and Jimin preens. “You prefer in-person interviews instead of phone or video?”

His voice doesn’t sound judgmental, more curious than anything.

“Video interview was the plan.” Jimin laughs, leaning a little more comfortably into his chair. When he talks about his work, his education, everything becomes a bit easier. It could be some combination of repeating, rephrasing, recycling words he’s said so many times that they’re as familiar to him as his own name. Or perhaps it’s the way there’s genuine interest dancing behind Yoongi’s eyes and it makes Jimin want to share things about his work. Not a defensive pride but a rather beaming one.

“But it was a last-minute site visit combined with an interview,” Jimin explains. “And I like to have proximity to my sources if circ*mstances allow it.”

Yoongi raises his glass of warm water, taking a small sip, rolling it behind his teeth as if it were the finest wine.

“A dedicated scholar,” he says after swallowing and smacking his lips. “A lot of my classmates cut corners. But I guess every student has a different dedication level.”

“To be fair,” Jimin points out, resting his elbows on the armrests of his chair and crossing his fingers in his lap. “A lot of your classmates also take classes. It fills up the schedule. I’m sure if they wanted to do a PhD after their master’s they wouldn’t be cutting corners.”

A snort. It’s not very loud, more like a sharp burst of air from Yoongi’s nose. He doesn’t hide, only shakes his head.

“You’d be surprised,” Yoongi replies, the ringed finger running circles along the rim of his glass. He’s staring right at it. Jimin realises with a start that Yoongi is more forthcoming when he’s not looking right at Jimin’s face. Intrigued, he crosses one leg over the other, observing. “But I also don’t think a good chunk of my MBA cohort is gunning for a PhD…not any time soon, at least.”

“Are you part of that chunk?” Jimin asks before he can stop himself, before he can mull if it’s rude or not. Maybe he is a bit of a hypocrite, tearing with bare teeth into someone else while usually being so defensive about his own career. It's not like hemeansto. People just assume his questions are impolite, when really he's just curious.

Yoongi doesn’t take it the wrong way, thankfully. Either he doesn’t care or he’s taking Jimin’s question at face value, and thank f*ck for that because Jimin would much rather people do that than partake in mental gymnastics. He’s not the passive-aggressive type, and it’s a small relief that Yoongi either picks up on that or he has a thick skin. Or, well, he just doesn’t waste time reading between the lines.

“Hm…I honestly don’t know.” Yoongi’s hand raises to scratch at his chin, blunt, neatly trimmed fingernails gliding down his jaw. Lucky f*cking fingernail. “I pictured getting a PhD someday when I did my bachelor's degree but now I don’t know anymore.”

“What changed?” Jimin winces as soon as he asks it. Personal. Too personal, too fast. He’s been on the receiving end of irritated glares when he’s done this in the past. Probed too quickly when he’s meant to just provide a listening ear. He fidgets in his seat and leans forward, coughing. “I mean, if you want to share. If you don’t want to, that’s fine–”

Again, Yoongi is unbothered. He only shrugs while taking the menu that the server hands him. Jimin keeps looking at him, only managing a quick thank you to the server when he’s handed his own.

“Life,” Yoongi explains, flipping open the little booklet and scanning the words. Jimin also opens his booklet but doesn’t glance down just yet. Yoongi is still talking and he wants to savour this chance to watch him when he can’t be caught. “The world. The economy, f*ck…the economy.”

The way in which he clicks his tongue makes Jimin wonder if he wants to add more. He doesn’t though. Yoongi just flips a page on the menu, reading quietly, his lips moving silently as he makes his way down the list. Jimin, with great difficulty, also looks down at his menu.

They’re fairly standard Italian dishes, the names familiar from numerous restaurants. The only difference would, perhaps, be that this place serves dishes that taste authentic. Very similar to the ones Jimin remembers tasting on the trip he took to Italy as a teenager, with his family. He’s also been to this restaurant before and trusts their quality—which is why he’d suggested the place.

His apology, for taking ages to confirm the date, was to organise it. And hopefully, do this again. And again. And again.

His eyes have barely strolled through the first page before Yoongi snaps the menu shut. Jimin’s head shoots up. Alarm zips down his body, head to toe.

f*ck. f*ck, he hates the choices. He doesn’t want anything here. This is not what he expected and he’s disappointed–

“Sorry,” Yoongi says, propping the booklet on his thighs, fingers hugging the top edge. Does he realise he’s playing a rhythm on the back of the pleather-bound folio? Does he realise that Jimin knows he’s a pianist and has watched the handful of videos he’s posted on Instagram?

“Is…” Jimin squeaks and then coughs. He tries again with a clearer voice. “Is something wrong? Would you rather go someplace else?”

Yoongi tilts his head marginally, confused. For a moment, Jimin wonders why that move looks so familiar. Where has he seen that curious—oh. Oh, he saw it in a video that Yoongi had reposted where he was playing music with some of his friends. Only it wasn’t Yoongi. It was his roommate Jungkook who did it, and the head tilt was imprinted in Jimin’s brain because it had been a Boomerang that he’d watched more than the necessary number of times.

Oh, how it must be to know someone for so long that you absorb their mannerisms. If Jimin spent enough time with Yoongi, would he too absorb this Jungkook habit? Where had Jungkook learnt it? Would Yoongi learn habits that Jimin had, perhaps ones he’d acquired from his own roommate or his friends? How it must be to interweave this way, across time and relationships.

He shakes his head, stopping his train of thought. This isn’t class, this isn’t his thesis.

“I’m—oh, no, I like the menu,” Yoongi says, unaware of Jimin’s train of ideas. “I just…okay, I’ll be completely honest. I looked up the menu online before we came here. I already knew what I wanted. I don’t…I’m not a multi-course kind of guy. I’m just going to have the one thing.”

“Oh?” Jimin asks, shutting his menu. Yoongi had prepared for this? Was it just this date, or did he do it with all his dates? Did he do it whenever he went out to eat? So hungry, so hungry to know more about this man without the distance and obstacles of other humans. “Well, then I’ll have whatever you are.”

“What?” Yoongi blurts out. For the first time since the date started, he looks flustered. His mouth opens and quickly shuts. “You—you don’t have to. You should get what you want.”

“I can get what I want here whenever I want to. I want to see your choice. Or, if you were torn between choices let’s get those, too, so you can try both.”

“Is this some kind of test?” Yoongi’s face is shuttering up, jaw turning sharp. Jimin shakes his head. What?

“Have you…do you often have dates that put you through an exam?”

“No?” Yoongi responds like it’s a question. “Yes? Sort of. I mean, it depends. Some questions are valid. Isn’t part of a date a screening exercise to see if the person makes it to the next step?”

“Sure,” Jimin agrees, swishing his glass. A small piece of melted ice clinks against the edge, a sharp trilling sound unlike the lower notes of heavier, fresher cubes. As if it has sweated away its defences. “Not with food, though, right?”

“I don’t know what’s a red flag to some people.”

“Order, Yoongi-ssi.” Jimin chuckles, and he’s thankful it’s a confident, relaxed chuckle. He doesn’t know what it is about Yoongi’s presence but it’s starting to massage at his panicky nerves, beginning to soothe them. “It’s not a test. If anything it’s your test of my confidence in this restaurant’s kitchen.”

Yoongi purses his lips, studying Jimin carefully. Jimin tries not to fidget, keeping his hands crossed over the menu resting in his lap. If his nails dig a little too harshly in its jacket then that’s the best he can do. Being scrutinised by Min Yoongi is equal parts exhilarating and terrifying, and Jimin revels in it. If Yoongi’s gaze is an X-ray, he’s ready to take off his jewellery and stand straight.

“Alright,” Yoongi finally says. The server shows up as if they’d been listening—or they’re just that good at their job.

“We’ll have two plates of spaghetti alle vongole. In bianco, please,” he orders, then adds. “And please tell the chef not to be shy with the garlic.”

Jimin tries not to grin. He doubts the chef will be shy with it since garlic is so intrinsic to the local audience here, but he senses that Yoongi is extra fond of the aromatic. Brave choice for a first date. Jimin wonders if he orders it because he knows there will be no proximity, and that makes him deflate for half a second.

“Do you drink wine?” Jimin asks. Yoongi looks at him, pauses for a second, then nods.

“May I order some for us? Something I think would pair well?”

“You may.”

Biting his lip doesn’t hide Jimin’s smile. Nothing can this time. He flips through the smaller booklet of the drinks menu, pausing on the page with the white wines. He zeroes in on the neatly printed Verdicchio dei Castelli di Jesi (DOC). He orders it and hands over his menu books, Yoongi copying the move.

“You didn’t go for a Pinot grigio?” Yoongi asks while the server brings out the aperitivo. He reaches for it and pops an olive in his mouth, tinted-lip-balm-coloured lips pouting around the tiny fruit.

“I would’ve if someone hadn’t asked the chef to go all out with the garlic,” Jimin counters, snagging an olive for himself. “I noticed you asked for the white version. Not a fan of tomato sauces?”

“I love tomato sauces. But I just had a ton a few days ago. Jungkook had some friends over and they love it when I cook,” Yoongi explains, finishing his glass of warm water by knocking back the last of it. His throat bobs as he swallows it, and Jimin has to tug at the collar of his already wide-collared shirt. “Clemenza was right. You never know when you’ll need to cook pasta for twenty guys.”

“Wha–” Jimin squints, blanking. Then it hits him. “Was that a Godfather reference?”

There were, perhaps, scores of different books, and hundreds of essays that Jimin had read during his time in higher education. Museums, brochures, documentaries, shows, podcasts detailing the intricacies of art aesthetics. He has never once stumbled upon a name for the shade of pink that Yoongi’s cheeks turn into. Hot, clearly, making him more flushed than rosy, warm and glowing under the restaurant's soft lighting.

Jimin wants to dip his fingers into it.

“I…” Yoongi tries to say. Then he sighs, crossing his arms and raising his chin in a defensive challenge. “I have an unhealthy obsession with Al Pacino. What about it?”

And how can Jimin not laugh? His anxieties and nerves fly out the window as amusem*nt rattles through him, bursting out of him in giggles. When Yoongi’s expression turns affronted, more giggles bubble out of him.

“S-sorry,” he wheezes. “I’m sorry. I’m not judging, I promise.”

“It looks like you are!” Yoongi bites, but he sounds embarrassed. Jimin is so endeared. “There’s nothing wrong with liking a famous actor.”

“Trust me,” Jimin manages to say, patting his chest to try and calm the laughter. “I know. I also have my own guilty obsessions. I just didn’t expect you to admit it in such clear words. That was my bad.”

“Oh really? And what are your guilty obsessions?”

“Actor for actor?” Jimin offers. “I watch at least one Shah Rukh Khan movie every weekend. Even if I’ve already watched it before.”

Yoongi stares at him, as if he’s trying to catch a lie or mockery. This time Jimin is a little relaxed under the scrutiny, limbs still loose from his outburst. When, as expected, Yoongi finds none, he twists his lips, trying to hide a smile. Looking away, he shakes his head as the server brings out their wine.

Jimin lets Yoongi taste-test it, and what a great job he does. Even asks the waiter if it’s freshly opened or an already open bottle so he can decide how much it needs to be swirled. Takes an unabashed lungful and drags it through his teeth with air, swishing it around before he swallows. Then he nods.

Jimin tries not to preen with delight.

The server pours them their servings and leaves. Jimin grabs his glass and holds it up.

“To being obsessed with the popular, and indulging in what has been tried and tested as good.”

Yoongi presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek and clinks his glass with Jimin’s.

“To finding comfort in viewing the mainstream through a subversive lens,” he says in return.

Jimin pauses before he takes a sip. Yoongi watches him carefully as he takes a larger sip. The breath catches in Jimin’s throat and he somehow manages to drink around it. The look of pride on Yoongi’s face is stunning. It’s not pride at what he said, as if he’s confident in his words and doesn’t need Jimin’s approval. Rather, he looks proud of specifically Jimin’s reaction. Lets himself look Jimin up and down, aware of the heat it erupts in its wake.

Jimin puts his glass down and leans forward, crossing his arms, wrists hitting the table.

f*ck, he can’t do this. He needs to be honest. He needs to not mess it up with this man. If he’s going to be left behind then he’d rather be left now than later when he’s undoubtedly in love and Yoongi has skin in the game, could get hurt. Because look at him, listen to him, of course Jimin is going to fall in love with him and he cannot start this on dubious grounds.

“Yoongi-ssi, I have a confession.”

“That was quick,” Yoongi mumbles, though not in a mean way. He also leans forward marginally, gesturing at Jimin to continue.

“What?” Jimin asks, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “No. I don’t think I’m going to say what you think I’m going to say. It’s something else.”

He doesn’t meet Yoongi’s eyes, though he can see his body tense. The warmth that had started to relax Yoongi's limbs immediately escapes, leaving him frozen, rigid. He puts down his wine glass and pushes back, pressed against his chair. As if Jimin is about to confess a crime.

“What do you want to confess?” he asks, his tone flat. Distrusting. It scratches on Jimin’s eardrums, and he almost wants to curl into himself. But he doesn’t because he has to get this out of the way.

“I should’ve told you before we even met up today. But I was scared you wouldn’t show up, and I just really wanted a date with you. And I’m having such a nice time before our food is even here, and I feel like if I don’t tell you it’s going to be desingenu–”

“Please just say it, Jimin-ssi,” Yoongi interrupts.

“This isn’t a blind date for me.”

The ten seconds of silence are the loudest Jimin has ever heard. He’s hyperaware of the bead of sweat sliding down the nape of his neck, disappearing under his shirt collar, across the tattoos of his spine. His hands are itching to gulp down the entire wine and just order another glass but he refrains.

Well, it was a good fifteen minutes. He will now cling to this for the foreseeable future until his pathetic heart decides to finally move on and find someone else who is not miles out of his league. He rubs his palms on his thighs, wondering if Taehyung will be okay with seafood pasta leftovers for dinner because he’s not going to sit around at an empty table and eat like the miserable fool–

“Excuse me, I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

Of course. Jimin must provide supporting evidence for his statement.

“Look…Hoseok and I…he’s one of my best friends,” Jimin explains, wringing his hands, the edge of the table chafing his wristbone. “We talk about romance and dating, we gossip. He told me he was trying to get his friends into blind dating, including you.”

Yoongi loudly exhales and Jimin barrels on, his words coming faster so he can be done with this. He wants to stop talking but now that he’s started, he has to explain the whole thing, so he powers through even though it tastes bitter against the tang of the olive on his tongue.

“It’s probably because he and I always do blind dating,” Jimin continues. “We’re really good at picking people for each other, even if it doesn’t work out. A good understanding of each other’s type. So, we usually always make it a blind date when we set each other up.”

“Okay…” Yoongi states, the sentence hanging, demanding more.

“So, about two weeks ago he told me he wanted to set me up with someone. It was no name, no photo, as we usually do. But he told me about you, and I mean…I’ve seen you around enough, and I know about all of Hoseok’s social circle. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”

What an understatement. He’d nearly sh*t himself when he'd realised with whom Hoseok was setting him up. Had wanted to screech his head off at his best friend before the shock had worn off and reality had set in that he was going to go on a date with Min Yoongi.

“And I feel like I’ve cheated you into this situation,” Jimin says, swallowing heavily. “By knowing exactly who you are, when you signed up for a proper blind date. It’s not fair.”

Silence hangs over them again. Jimin needs to muster all his will to not slap his palms over his ears to keep it out. Yoongi has a blank expression, and time moves slower than a snail.

Finally, what feels like hours later but can only be less than a minute, Yoongi leans back in. One palm on the tablecloth, another snagging the stem of his wine glass. He holds it up in his line of sight.

“I see.”

“I’m sorry.”

Jimin’s words are whispered. Yoongi tilts the glass slightly, this way and that, watching the surface of the wine roll back and forth.

“How well do you know me?” he asks, putting the glass down. “You said you put it together very easily, and that you really wanted a date with me.”

Good lord, Michael Corleone please walk into this restaurant right now, fetch a weapon from behind the toilet tank, and end me right here.

Why did Yoongi have to ask that ? Does Jimin have to explain this ?

“I…I’ve seen you around campus a few times. Once or twice at the parties Hoseok invites us to.” Jimin is trying not to stammer, and he’s pretty positive he’s failing. “I follow your socials. Instagram, mostly–”

“I know, I’ve seen you like my posts.”

Dear Mr. Mark Donald, Don, sir, please if you are in the vicinity while on the run from the authorities in eleven different countries, then take me with you and away from this humiliating conversation.

That’s what Jimin thinks for a second. Then his brain pauses, record scratch and all.

Yoongi noticed that Jimin engages with his posts? How could that be? Yoongi’s not a popular influencer or anything, but he still manages to get a couple of hundred likes. A good thirty to forty comments. How on earth did he notice little old @PJM1013?

“You have?”

The glass is picked up again and Yoongi presses his mouth to the rim, speaking around it. It’s deeply distracting watching the flesh of his lips drag against it but Jimin hangs onto the words he mouths, which filter into his hearing.

“Do you really think Jung Hoseok actually managed to talk me into blind dating?” Yoongi snickers. “I don’t have that kind of appetite for adventure, sorry to disappoint.”

Huh?

“What are you saying?” Jimin asks, his heart thudding loudly in his chest. He feels lightheaded.

“I’m saying this isn’t a blind date. You can rest easy.”

Jimin reels back, holds up his palms. His eyes close, while he shakes his head once. He opens them again.

“Wait…wait, hold on,” Jimin says. “You knew you were going to meet me? And you went with it anyway?”

Yoongi pauses after taking a small sip.

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

Because you’re beautiful? And kind? And I know we’ve only talked once or twice, in passing, but you seem incredibly smart. And I’ve seen how even on the busiest days at the store you always have a polite patience for the students, even the ones who don’t deserve it. And you’re sitting here letting me admit my shameful embarrassing infatuation with you, and convincing me that you wanted this date?

What has Jimin done to deserve that? He’s not sure but he’ll be sending thankful prayers for it the next time he visits a temple for work.

“I–I don’t know.”

“Whew,” Yoongi whistles. “Well, that’s a relief. I thought you felt brave enough to confess a murder after my Al Pacino admission. I was about to pull out a that sh*t is only interesting in fiction speech and get the hell out of here.”

The server walks in right then, and Jimin thinks he’s probably never going to come back to this restaurant. The person is very professional and doesn’t change their expression but the words were definitely audible.

Regardless, the server moves their empty water glasses to the side and places their dishes in front of them. Another server tops up their water and seems to remember who wanted it warm and who wanted ice.

“Okay,” Jimin replies, picking up his fork. He twirls it midair before resting it on the edge of the plate. “Okay, wow. You actually wanted to go on a date with me.”

A nervous laugh tickles its way out of his mouth. Yoongi’s lips tug into a one-sided smile, almost a smirk, as he picks up his own fork.

“I did,” he says, twirling the spaghetti on his fork, pressing it to the side of the lifted lip of the plate to make the wrap easier. “Is that okay with you?”

It’s blowing his mind but it is more than okay. It’s astonishing but so f*cking okay.

“It is.”

As Jimin predicted—the only thing he predicted correctly it seems—the wine pairs fantastically. He takes a fuller sip after a few bites of his food and the fruity tartness of it compliments the taste of garlic and clams perfectly, its aftertaste the perfect semicolon before the next set of bites.

He carefully watches Yoongi’s reaction as they pause the conversation to enjoy the food. Yoongi looks pleased, his cheeks full and round with the bites he takes, deeply invested in his dish.

Success, hopefully. All things said and done, Jimin at least hopes the dining experience is memorable.

“You asked me earlier,” Yoongi speaks up when both their plates are half empty. They’ve both paused to lean back in their seats. Yoongi is now half-turned in his, genuinely lounging as he folds and refolds the edges of the napkin in his lap. It seems to make it easier for him to talk, and Jimin does not mind. Whatever makes him comfortable.

Jimin has his legs stretched out a little, one ankle resting on the other knee while he holds his glass steady on the extended thigh.

“What changed my mind about a PhD,” Yoongi elaborates. “Ten years ago, it did feel like the most obvious choice. I mean, you get into any humanities degree, it’s one of the most obvious beacons on the horizon, right?”

Sure. Jimin doesn’t know himself because his undergraduate journey was vastly different. But his current peers were mostly humanities majors from the get-go and he’s spoken to them about this. And if anything, he understands what it feels like to have an idea of what the obvious course is for his life and then have the map flipped.

He nods, silently encouraging Yoongi to continue.

“And I majored in literature,” Yoongi continues. “So it felt even more obvious. But ten years ago I was also a very idealistic kid. Job prospects were slim the moment I started looking for internships. Worse after graduation. And just like most of my graduating class, I ended up working in marketing. Cut to five years later, I’m like…okay, so now I have to do something that guarantees a paycheck?”

That sounds depressing as hell, and the reality of almost everyone Jimin knows. His own peers, his friends, his brother, his cousins. It’s what he’d mulled over constantly in his head when he decided to give up his job to return to education, knowing full well his new degrees and field of study would mean taking a major gamble with job security. He can only imagine what it must be like feeling that way when he was much, much younger. If it was his only degree to rely on.

“For now?” Jimin asks, twirling his own spaghetti around his fork prongs.

“Maybe.” Yoongi’s shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. “Maybe forever. Who knows?”

Yes, who knows? Jimin doesn’t. After that fateful afternoon when he handed in his resignation letter and swapped out his coding manuals for history books, he realised he’d never know anything ever again.

Life is not a definite loop. He cannot define its parameters, decide its outcome with a simple TRUE or FALSE. Choices are more than an if, then, else—though he’s come to learn that is helpful to break down large decisions into much smaller ones.

if (curiosity >= 1 year) {

pursue degree ;

}

else {

continue coding ;

}

if (degree = job opportunity ||degree = more education) {

seize the day ;

}

else {

return to computer science ;

}

He doesn’t know a single computer language to determine how his future with Yoongi will pan out after this dinner is over. He doesn’t know a single archival record either. No cypher to break the code. There are only an infinite number of variables, and two people who can access them independently to make something together.

He thinks whether it’s a million line code or a hundred thousand pages of indecipherable scrolls, or the recipe to the perfect spaghetti sauce…he’d like to make them with Yoongi.

“Mmm. What about you?” Yoongi asks after a gulp of wine. Jimin startles, covering his mouth as he hastily chews and swallows some clam meat. “You obviously stuck to the academia path. What was that like?”

“No kidding!” Yoongi has his palm covering his mouth as he laughs, eyes wide in disbelief. And intrigue. There’s intrigue. That’s what Jimin wanted. It’s his only interesting life nugget that gives him value. Most others find his former career of coding and current career of pursuing a doctorate in archival studies to be deathly boring.

He never wants to bore Yoongi. He can only hope to make his reality as interesting as he finds it. Passionate, even.

“It was very inconvenient!” Jimin puts his own elbows on the table, ignoring how the fabric lightly coils under the joints. Yoongi is fully laughing now, and Jimin can see it’s not because of his words but perhaps the way he’s speaking. He hopes. If he’s reading this right, and he has gotten very adept at reading, then Yoongi is laughing with him and not at him. Grateful tingles run down his neck.

“The creative team was handling that part,” he continues. “And I kept annoying them with questions totally unrelated to gameplay. Like…I got like really into it. Ended up doing a master’s degree in archival studies. And now, here we are.”

“Just like that,” Yoongi says. Doesn’t ask. Just observes, placing his palms on either side of his plate. An inference.

And how lucky is Jimin that they did?

Biting the inside of his lip, he looks down at his plate and goes back to eating. After a beat, Yoongi does the same. They don’t talk much after that. Yet, the atmosphere between them grows heavier with something more. Eyes meeting between sips of wine that hold messages the human brain can only comprehend without words. Lips squeezing around fork prongs a second too long while sucking off remnants of flavours.

Fingers dangerously close as both of them slap down their credit cards at the same time on the bill booklet. Yoongi’s eyes don’t leave his, even as he calmly whispers to the server that each card be charged half the total.

It’s only when they’ve wiped their mouths and dropped their napkins on the tabletop that they look away from one another. Jimin’s entire being is aflame. He needs more. He needs to decipher Yoongi—his mind, his soul, his body. He will learn every new language until he does. If only Yoongi will let him, give him the inclination that he wants that.

Jimin stands up and brushes the creases out of his shirt while Yoongi pushes his chair back in. They bow to the server and the host together, walking towards the exit of the establishment.

Jimin’s hands are slightly warm as he walks out of the restaurant, pausing to hold the door open for Yoongi right behind him. The air is still pretty balmy, but not quite as humid as the daytime. There’s a softer breeze blowing, ruffling his hair and he tries to tame it down, wriggling his fingers to shake out the strands. Yoongi’s own fingers come up to his forehead to flick back a stray lock that escapes from the backswept do. They stare at each other, quiet.

It feels like a lifetime since Jimin walked into this restaurant, his insides exploding with awkwardness and hesitation. In reality, it’s only been about two hours, in which time he’s managed to somehow hold his own, a genuine conversation, and learned more about Yoongi than he ever could’ve hoped to through a phone screen and daydreams.

The silence that falls between them now isn’t laden with anything other than tentative comfort. And anticipation on Jimin’s part. He hopes the way Yoongi refuses to move means that he’s thinking the same thing.

“Which way do you live?” Jimin asks, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets.

“It’s like five minutes by taxi,” Yoongi explains, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. His hand drops to his mouth, where he scratches the corner before smiling. “But, if I may say, I’m not quite ready for this date to end.”

Thank f*ck.

“Neither am I.” Jimin jumps onto the words, and takes a small step forward. It doesn’t erase the distance between them considerably but it definitely feels like the air between them shifts and parts, letting them through. His eyes glance over Yoongi’s shoulder, towards the street corner he’d pointed at. “Five minutes by taxi, you said?”

Yoongi nods.

“I live in the same direction,” Jimin says, taking another step closer. “Can I walk you home?”

“You may.”

Yoongi is not quick enough to turn around and Jimin catches the hint of a smile. He quickly jogs to fall into step, tilting his head. Oh god, Yoongi’s smile is so wide he’s showing gums. Done. Jimin is gone. Forget infatuation. He’s head over heels. He immediately looks ahead to avoid putting Yoongi on the spot but it physically hurts to look away from the beautiful sight. He has to clutch the phone in his pocket super tight so he doesn’t do something like poke his finger at Yoongi’s mouth.

They walk to the street corner and immediately turn left, onto the busier main road. Cars zoom past them, the night far from going to sleep. If anything, it’s coming alive. No time of the year is enough to keep the denizens of Seoul indoors. Everyone is always moving, always zipping their way to subway stations or hurrying up and down the stairs of the hilly terrain.

Tourists have poured in, along with Koreans visiting families for the holidays, but the demographic of the crowd is visibly different compared to the rest of the year. Especially in this area, so close to Gyeongbokgung. Thankfully it’s late enough at night that they’re not making their way through visiting crowds.

“It’s weird to see fewer students when the weather is warm,” Yoongi muses from beside him. “Seems like a shame.”

“Is that why you haven’t gone home for the summer? Because you like summer in Seoul?”

“Partially. Also, my job.”

“About that,” Jimin asks, turning on his feet to walk backwards. Yoongi startles but slows down a little, humouring him, and Jimin is so close to just putting his hands on his chest and floating away. “You said your job was paying for your degree. But I’ve seen you working at the campus bookstore. Second job?”

“Technically my company has relieved me of my contract for the duration of the course so I can finish it as a full-time student instead of having to do evening classes,” Yoongi explains, his fingers scratching his wrist. “That way I can join again quicker and be fully focused on the job instead of splitting my time. The bookstore is just for me to keep earning some spending cash on the side.”

“So now you’re working part-time? Does the campus bookstore even see much foot traffic in the summer?”

“Well, yes.” Yoongi points a finger at him. “Not as much as during the semester but we still have graduate students like us. People attending summer classes. I’m actually taking a few summer classes myself.”

“Why?” Jimin can’t help but demand in a whiny voice, turning around again so he can walk properly. “Oh, I’d kill for some free time to just laze around.”

“I did, ” Yoongi whines back, a mimicking voice, chuckling. “And then I realised I’ve simply lost my superpowers. I’m now another cog in the corporate machine and don’t know how to sit still. Plus, I mean, if I have campus access to discounted summer courses, might as well.”

“And what did you pick to study?”

“Hmm?” Yoongi hums, distracted. He slows down as they approach a florist, whose shop is still open and somehow still holding some rather fresh bunches in the front. Pausing altogether in front of them, Yoongi raises his hand to one rose petal, answering over his shoulder without looking. “Oh? Korean Histories—Their Role in Fictional Historical Tales. ”

sh*t. Jimin is going to fall to his knees and beg for just one chance. And he’s going to do it again and again until he can bank all the chances Yoongi is willing to dole out. The phone is ripped out of his pocket with frantic hands, ones he tries to hide. Unnecessary, since Yoongi is so taken by the flowers, already conversing with the elderly person who runs the shop.

“Will you excuse me, just for a minute?” Jimin asks in a dry voice. He clears his throat. “I just need to make a quick phone call. I’m sorry.”

Yoongi throws a concerned look before nodding and turning back to the bouquets. Jimin crosses to the other side of the pavement, around two teenagers complaining loudly about some drama actor’s performance. He unlocks his phone, barely able to keep it still in the low lighting as it recognises his face. Nimble fingers immediately find his pinned texts.

[me, 21:59]

leave. you cannot be at home.

sorry, i know it’s short notice but i didn’t think the date would go this well.

i’m planning on inviting him up.

[taeger cub, 22:00]

bold of u to assume im @ home

not coming home tonight ur good

[me, 22:01]

thank you, tae. i owe you one.

wait, where are you?

[taeger cub, 22:02]

my own date 🥰

Jimin sighs, his racing heart still on a freefall but now marginally distracted by his roommate and other best friend. But he doesn’t text what he wants to text: it’s not a date, it’s a booty call, and you always hurt yourself when you call it a date and expect it to be one. He doesn’t even need to confirm, he knows Taehyung left after Hoseok. Probably left at the same time, once Hoseok was done helping Jimin get ready and sending him off. Both rushing to meet their own plans, despite Jimin's constant warnings.

What else can Jimin do if not warn them? Hoseok has the uncanny ability to pick flings that leave his heart in tatters and Taehyung has an unmatched affinity to get attracted to people who are bad news, the current roster very much included. The only times they haven’t had their hearts broken is when Jimin set them up with people. Those always ended amicably.

Right now, Jimin doesn’t have anyone in mind for either of them. And if his friends were going to be pursuing casual hook-ups they found on their own, Jimin hoped it could be with people who didn’t hurt them. A hope that was always dashed.

But he couldn’t say that right now because both Taehyung and Hoseok had done him massive favours tonight.And, let’s face it, even if he was pretty decent at being a matchmaker, he didn’t want to control their dating lives. Could only be there with his shoulder, some tissues, and sometimes advice.

[me, 22:03]

okay, be safe please!

[taeger cub, 22:03]

i will!! 💋

Jimin scratches his temple, wondering if he should add more but there’s a throat clearing behind him and he jumps. f*ck. He’s being a terrible date right now. How is he supposed to beg for chances if he’s got his nose stuck in his phone? He glances at his device again but Taehyung seems to have gone offline.

Tomorrow. He would talk to Taehyung tomorrow. Sliding his phone back into his pocket, he turns around and opens his mouth to apologise. Words dry up in his throat. His vision is a burst of purple.

No, no that’s too reductive. It’s lilacs and lavenders, unfurling into pale white tips, and how unfortunate and unfair that colours don’t have more names, unfortunate that the name of one flower be used to describe another.

Perhaps he will name this colour Yoongi. For the way that Yoongi stares at them and then at Jimin’s nose while holding out a single sprig of hydrangeas. It holds a cluster of flowers, all overlapping as if they’re trying to fight their way to see who comes closest to Jimin’s face.

“Oh, I–” Jimin flounders.

“You’re not allergic, are you?” Yoongi asks, his eyes widening. The smile on his lips starts to fade and Jimin cannot have that. He plucks the stem from Yoongi’s hands, holding the flowers close to his face. They smell fresh, not particularly strong, the fragrance merely a gentle suggestion.

“Should we find out?”

Yoongi drops his mouth open and reaches out to snatch them. Jimin leans back easily and hides the flower behind his back, Yoongi’s arms nearly coming to wrap around him and wrestle it free. They hover uncertainly around Jimin’s frame, and Jimin’s body feels like it's been shocked.

He can feel the warmth of Yoongi’s skin, his loose sleeves slithering against Jimin’s bare arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. The gleam of light sweat is evident in the dip of Yoongi’s collarbones, begging to be tasted. The breath he exhales brushes so sharply against Jimin’s cheek that he instinctively leans a little into it.

“That’s not funny,” Yoongi whispers, warm air caressing the tip of Jimin’s ear. He didn’t know until now that the invisible fuzz on the curve of his ears could also rise in thrill. “If you actually turn out to be allergic.”

“Good thing,” he manages to murmur. “That I am not.”

Yoongi rubs his palms and drops them to his side, turning and continuing to walk. Jimin follows, clutching the flowers to his chest with one hand. The crowd thickens a little as they turn onto a side street, pressed closer together by the narrowing gap between buildings. Immediately, Jimin drops one hand from the flower stem, reaching down to ensure he’s got his hand hovering over his right thigh, between the front pocket with his phone and the back pocket with his wallet. The area is safe but one can never be too careful.

As his shoulders tilt to allow a couple to pass by, his knuckles brush Yoongi’s. Static shoots up his body and he snatches his hand away with a gasp. His date does the same, staring at him with wide eyes. He’s cradling his palm to his stomach as if it’s been burned. Logically, Jimin can tell it might be from the hours in the air-conditioned restaurant and the satin material of Yoongi’s shirt. That’s not nearly romantic enough, though, and he is a romantic at heart.

Blood rushes to his cheeks and he looks away, clenching his fingers, letting the rings there dig into his palm. It’s of no use. The ghost of Yoongi’s touch lingers on the back of his hand. They pause at the mouth of an intersection. Yoongi is about to move forward but Jimin’s muscle memory has his body veering to the right. He nearly trips over his shoes to correct himself.

Not fast enough, though. Yoongi notices.

“Sorry,” Jimin coughs. “Habit. My street is down to the right.”

“Wait,” Yoongi holds up a hand, and Jimin glances at the knuckles. Are his eyes deceiving him or are Yoongi’s hands blushing? Or do the tips of his fingers and knuckles always look that flush? “Right turn here?”

Tearing his eyes away, he looks around as if he needs to confirm the block he’s lived on for three years and knows like the back of his hand. He knows if they keep walking straight and turn left, then after five minutes they’d reach Gyeongbokgung Station. He knows logically. But he feels the urge to look around and double-check before confirming.

What if that makes me look suspicious, like I’m lying? He mentally smacks his own forehead.

“Yes. Why?” he asks instead.

“Shortcut?” Yoongi responds with a question, turning his body towards the right. He gestures his palm, and Jimin stumbles before he starts walking. Was he the one being walked home now? Wait, that wasn’t his plan. He was supposed to walk Yoongi to his door like a gentleman and if he got really lucky he would get a second date and if he was really, really lucky he would get a hug.

What just happened?

Yoongi clears his throat and Jimin realises he never answered the question.

Good job. You visit sites with this spatial awareness?

“No,” Jimin hurries to say, stopping when the familiar granite steps are less than a few feet away. “That’s my building there.”

His arm raises to point, his fist using the flowers to direct Yoongi’s gaze towards the five-floor, white-painted facade they’ve stopped in front of. Yoongi’s eyes look up and then across the street, then back at the building. Mimicking the gesture, Jimin also looks up at his own building and then across the street, where a cat is attempting to claw at the glass door of the 7-Eleven.

“You’re joking.”

Well, no. Jimin’s sense of humour is questionable from time to time but it’s not so far gone that he considers pointing at random buildings and calling them home. The flowers tickle his forehead as he rubs his thumb’s knuckle over his brow.

“Kind of a weird thing to joke about,” he says.

It’s not a statement that is addressed. He watches as Yoongi whirls around, his back to Jimin and his building, his arm raising to point in the air. The wind flutters his sleeve, the loose fabric sliding lower down his wrist all the way to his elbow and holy hell, that is a delicious-looking pattern of veins running under creamy skin. Jimin’s tongue feels heavy in his mouth. How is it possible for another person to be this attractive? It should be illegal.

It’s understandable that Jimin was thirsting over Yoongi from a distance because that’s his own mind supplying him ideas and thoughts. But to actually meet Yoongi and be even more attracted? It feels unfair. His entire being is about to become a puddle, jiggling sadly in a pair of Chelsea boots, meanwhile, Yoongi is just standing there, pointing at—actually, what is he pointing at?

Jimin follows his finger to see what he could be looking at but the only thing he can see are other buildings. The most prominent one is the tall, grey and white one that’s easily a little more than a block over but is towering over the shorter buildings of the block Jimin lives on. He can see the little matchbox-style cubes jutting out of its side, balconies, each one identical but bursting with its own personality. A clothesline on the fifth floor with fluttering sheets, fairy-lights on the sixth floor balcony diagonal to it.

Yoongi’s finger is pointing slightly higher up, towards the top few rows, maybe tenth or eleventh. Jimin has to crane his neck to see.

“That’s me! Over there.”

“What?” Jimin asks, confused. “The balcony with the…is that a Christmas tree? In June ?”

“Wha–no!” Yoongi raises a foot as if he’s going to stomp it. Jimin’s eyes immediately move down to the ground where his shoe scratches on the ground. Shut up, he yells at himself before he coos. “The one above that.”

It takes him a few seconds to put it together. His eyes rove up and down the building, trying to make sense of what’s happening. He stares at the little squares of windows, some of them lit up, some of them dark.

Wait. Does Yoongi live…the next block over from him? His mouth drops open.

“So, this is you, huh?”

Yoongi sounds amused as he turns to look at Jimin again, but he still hasn’t closed his mouth. Have they really just been orbiting around each other with no way to make them meet? Doomed to just brush and occasionally collide in social situations before careening in different directions again? Is fate being cruel?

Or is it being kind? Because he’s here right now, holding goddamn hydrangeas that Yoongi bought him as part of a date he could only ever dream of. It’s Yoongi smiling at him as he gapes, both of them facing each other in front of his building.

Oh, he really can’t shut up now.

“Do you…” he says, not even caring that his voice is dry enough to be hoarse. He’s just owning it. “Can I invite you up for coffee?”

And fate pricks his orbiting balloon quickly, sharp. The amusem*nt from Yoongi’s face falls, a flash of irritation in his expression that makes Jimin recoil. Embarrassment and guilt flood his muscles and he immediately takes a step back, climbing onto the ledge of the doorway steps.

Jimin is exceptionally talented, particularly at ruining his own success. Shame pricks against his cheeks in the form of a chagrined blush.

He starts to bow, an apology on his lips but Yoongi is right in front of him, shaking his hands back and forth.

“No, no,” he quickly explains. “No, I’m not offended. I’m not…that wasn’t directed at you. I don’t mind the question. It’s just, it’s a weeknight. I have a class tomorrow morning. I shouldn’t drink coffee now.”

He’s just being polite so he doesn’t hurt your feelings, Jimin’s mind blares. Because he’s kind and gentle. Pack it up.

“I shouldn’t drink coffee,” Yoongi repeats, his eyes lingering on the flowers in Jimin’s hands. “Or…stay over.”

Well, sh*t. That hadn’t been explicitly on the table but it wasn’t a far reach. It was always a possibility Jimin was welcome to, but one he’d locked away because this was Yoongi. He’s still scrambling to accept that this date has been real. He would’ve just floated away if he got anything more than a handshake.

What he’s taken aback by is the clear admission. He’s surprised Yoongi is addressing it. But why is he surprised? His words all night have been nothing but straightforward, playful at times, even teasing, but never shrouded in passive-aggressive lies.

He takes another step back, still bowing. He doesn’t apologise but he does whisper what he hopes is a thank you for the evening, Yoongi-ssi that conveys just how grateful he is. He will send a text later. He will. His written words are much better than his spoken and in those, he will say exactly how grateful he is for the wonderful night, and he will let himself wonder if he’s just spectacularly ruined any chance at a repeat.

But for now, he only keeps his eyes down.

It’s only after a minute that he looks up but Yoongi is still standing there. And not just standing. Fully lingering. Shoes clicking on the pavement as he twists them this way and that. His gaze wanders higher and Yoongi’s mouth is in a tight pout, cheeks puffed as he looks up at Jimin’s floor, at the door. And maybe, maybe he doesn’t realise Jimin is no longer bowing and lowering his head because when his eyes fall on Jimin’s shoes, they slowly drag up his knees, over his hips, up his chest. When they reach his face, Yoongi flushes and looks away.

Oh?

“Would you–” Jimin takes one step back down onto the lower stair level. Be brave, Jimin. You’re good at reading. You do it for a career. Read correctly. “Tea, then? For your throat.”

Yoongi’s hand flies up to his neck as if he’s just remembering that he’s got a recently recovered throat. He clutches it, thumbnail rubbing at his Adam’s apple, under his jaw before he takes a deep breath.

Lucky f*cking fingernail.

Then Yoongi nods and marches forward.

“Only tea.”

“Just tea,” Jimin quickly splutters, turning. He’s slower than his companion. Yoongi has already climbed the four steps and is standing in front of the building door. Jimin skips two steps and leaps in front of the number pad, entering the code. “I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

“That’s a shame,” Yoongi quips but it’s nearly lost to the sound of the number pad beeping green and the door unlocking. Before Jimin can process, Yoongi is already through. Marching down the corridor, he pauses in front of the elevator and points. Jimin barely manages a hasty nod.

The elevator is already on the ground floor and opens easily. They walk in, Jimin remembering only at the last second that he has to choose the floor, after Yoongi looks at him expectantly. Slightly trembling fingers slam the button painted “F” and they wait in silence as the car tows them up to the fourth floor.

Jimin finally comes to his senses when the doors open and he sees the familiar iron railing of the corridor parapet. Jumps into motion and walks out, turning left, all the way to the end of the hall. He slides up the panel and keys in his security code, the glint of the 409 in the middle of the doorway winking at him.

Taehyung is such a good roommate. Even when he scrambles out of their apartment in a hurry, he never leaves it a mess.

A far cry from the extremely questionable hygiene they used to maintain in university. When Taehyung was breezing in and out between his classes and active social life, while Jimin had been absorbed in the darkness of his bedroom, propped in front of his laptop, fingers cramped from typing code after code. Hoseok had kicked their ass into shape and now they functioned like marginally more responsible humans.

There are no filthy abandoned socks on the foyer step, nor upturned sneakers. Jimin slides his boots off, making space for Yoongi. His date closes the door behind them and slides off his own shoes. Ramming his socked feet into his familiar indoor slides, Jimin bends down and tugs out a clean pair of slippers for Yoongi to use.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” he announces, walking into the apartment. His hands hit switchboards, the lights strung across the living room wall flickering to life. Making a beeline for the kitchen, the first thing he does is grab an empty wine carafe none of them use because they’re lazy fools who pour straight from the bottle. He fills it with water and drops the hydrangea stem into it.

Finding the kettle is easy because it gets used as often as Jimin’s coffee maker. Filling it up with a little more water than two cups require, he pops it onto its electrical base and flips the switch on. Then, finally, he lets himself turn to drink in the sight that sends his heart bursting out of his chest.

Min Yoongi. Strolling through his apartment. Here, in the flesh. His face lit by the glowing star-shaped light vine that Taehyung had purchased a few years ago. His feet padding past the sitting area into the makeshift dining space. His perfect ass resting against the edge of the dining table as he surveys the wall-to-ceiling bookshelf.

“Are all of these yours?”

“Yeah, most of them,” Jimin says. He’s so lucky that his and Taehyung’s coffee station is a drawer under the breakfast counter. Now he can keep looking at Yoongi while he rifles through the hundreds of tea packets. He only briefly looks down to check the flavours.

“Are you okay with chamomile?”

“Sounds perfect.” Yoongi doesn’t turn to watch him, eyeing the books with deep interest. Okay, okay Jimin has to escape this kitchen right now because it’s too much to bear. Too much to watch the person he’s liked for so long actually lean in, biting his lip, as he surveys Jimin’s humble collection.

It would’ve been almost easier if Taehyung’s books were here too. Would feel less intimate. But his best friend keeps almost all his books in his room because he likes having easy access to them. Taehyung is very talented at knowing which book he needs and simultaneously having six open, mentally cross-referencing them in the middle of the day. Frankly, his room floor looks less like a floor and more like a miniature model of a city, stacks of different books and magazines as skyscrapers.

Yoongi is mouthing the titles of some books and Jimin makes his escape. There’s still a couple of minutes for the water to heat up.

“I’ll be right back,” is all he manages as he rushes to the bathroom and slams the door behind him.

“Oh, holy sh*t,” he whispers to his reflection. His hair is lightly ruffled and he runs his fingers through it, twice. No real use. It flops back again, the minimal gel he’d used earlier completely melting in the summer heat and the hours they’d spent at dinner. He wants to splash water on his face but he’s forgotten if his mascara is waterproof.

Running his hands under the cold water, he scrubs them to calm himself down. He’s going to combust at this rate. They’ve done nothing and he’s going to explode into ashes. He nearly knocks over the hand soap dispenser to grab his toothbrush, squirting more than necessary paste on the bristles after wetting them. Swiping it under the tap quickly, he scrubs his teeth.

It’s not a finessed move. He’s very aware that he’s left a kettle and there’s tea to be made, and Yoongi is in his motherf*cking apartment. He scrubs at his teeth, then his tongue for good measure. Rinsing and spitting, he wipes his mouth on the towel, making sure the sink is clean of any foam.

He stands there, uselessly. Was that presumptuous? Ridding his mouth of the taste of garlic and wine because Yoongi may kiss him? What if he kisses him now and tastes the mint and thinks, oh Jimin was anticipating this? Is that stupid?

Oh sh*t, what if he kisses Jimin and tastes the paste and it comes off rude? Like when people offer mint and you ask yourself are they being polite or do I have dragon breath right now? Scrambling, he opens the drawer under the sink and takes out the little pouch. He and Taehyung really only keep it out when they have people over, including friends and family, so it’s fair enough.

It’s a clear case, the words “feel free to use >.<“ written in Taehyung’s messy scrawl. His cursive Hangeul is far from legible, but it gets the job done. The case contains a tin of floss, two wrapped toothbrushes, a little tube of paste (because Jimin and Taehyung use the 2080 for sensitive teeth and best to offer something else to others), a travel-sized perfume spray, makeup wipes, and contact lens solution. There are also some pads and tampons. That should be obvious right? That this is for guests to freely use?

This is f*cking stupid. What’s the plan now? Are you going to ask him if he wants to freshen up? Who asks that? And be honest? Would you not kiss him just because hemaytaste of garlic? Be so real right now.

He hisses at his inner voice. Whatever. If Yoongi wants to freshen up, he can. That’s the point of this, Jimin reminds himself. He props the case below the mirror, then scoots it a little to the left where it’s actually visible. He scoots it back again and then gives up.

Walking out of the bathroom, he heads straight for the kitchen.

“Oh, may I?” Yoongi asks while Jimin turns off the kettle. Jimin looks up. He tries not to smile. Yoongi is standing in the corridor, pointing at the bathroom door. Miraculously, without scalding his hands, Jimin manages a nonchalant nod.

Maybe he just wants to pee, you freak.

He ignores his thoughts, focusing on the tea instead. Placing two tea bags in his best cups, he pours the hot water. He doesn’t time it because he makes chamomile tea often and can just ballpark the minutes. They’re the exact amount of time Yoongi takes in the bathroom. Jimin greets him by holding out a steaming cup.

Yoongi accepts it with a smile, holding it with both hands. He blows on the surface gently, his eyes dancing back to the bookshelf. Wow, he’s genuinely interested. Not just perusing out of curiosity, but actually drawn to the titles.

They drink their tea in silence, Jimin leaning over the breakfast counter while Yoongi crosses his arms, studying the books. It’s like he’s enraptured by them and Jimin is almost taken aback by the laser focus. Most of them are just journals. He didn’t think that would pique anyone’s interest but clearly, he was wrong.

“Oh!” Yoongi suddenly exclaims. He quickly puts his cup down on the dining table and points to one book on the third shelf. It’s almost hidden, its spine slim while pressed between two heavy volumes. If Jimin didn’t know his storage system like he knows his reflection, he wouldn’t have ever even seen it. Yoongi walks right up to the little, cloth-bound copy, a salmon orange-pink in comparison to the browns and maroons of the books on either side of it. “I have that as suggested reading for my summer class. I’ve been meaning to get a copy.”

“You can borrow mine,” Jimin offers before thinking. “Fair warning, though, it’s annotated, so if you’re hoping to avoid spoilers then you might want a different version.”

“It was printed as an annotated copy or you wrote in it?” Yoongi enquires, tilting his head almost ninety degrees to read the title. The Everlasting Encounters of Trumpet Vines by Han Saebyeok. A fictional retelling of Prince Sado’s life through the eyes of the women in court and at the palace. It’s one of Jimin's favourite fictional retellings because of the feminist lens as well as the sapphic storyline. Tears were shed.

“My notes,” Jimin explains. “Sorry if that’s inconvenient. I like to annotate my books. It’s why I suck at using libraries. I’d be a danger to all those copies.”

Yoongi snorts, though it’s halfhearted. Not disinterested though. Apparently the opposite, the way he gets drawn into the shelf further.

“Are you the type to print out PDFs from the national archives and then drown them in ink?”

Jimin walks around the counter, abandoning his own tea cup. If he slides the annotated printouts under his forgotten messenger bag on the edge of the table then so what?

Yoongi’s hand reaches out for the book but then it stops. He’s hovering, waiting for something and Jimin thinks he knows exactly what. He watches the pale hand, the one whose fingers are half-clawed as it dangles in front of the shelf. It clenches and unclenches, poised uncertainly over the book. Walking up behind him, Jimin’s arm raises.

“You can touch,” Jimin whispers, and he can practically feel the ripple that shudders down Yoongi’s body. His shivers are almost tangible against the hand Jimin hovers over his lower back. Yoongi’s ringed finger glides down the book’s spine, fingernail dipping into the embossing of the title.

Lucky f*cking fingernail.

“May I touch?” Jimin’s words are a stuttering breath. He waits a moment. This close he can smell Yoongi’s cologne. The top and mid notes long faded away, just the warm base notes that are woodsy with a sharp hint of some type of spice. Jimin’s mouth waters.

“You may.”

Jimin can’t bring himself to move, despite being granted permission. He doesn’t grab Yoongi right away though every cell of his body is screaming to do just that. His arm remains beside Yoongi’s, copying his movement before their fingers finally, finally meet.

So soft. He clasps Yoongi’s hand with his own, fingers gliding in the space between Yoongi’s fingers. The backs of his knuckles are cool, maybe from when he washed his hands in the bathroom, maybe from the air conditioning. The insides are warm, from holding the teacup.

Jimin moves Yoongi’s hand higher. Their combined fingers touch the book and Jimin guides their hands to wrap around it. Fingers cleave the cover, parting it from the book next to it. Their palms dip into the space between.

Caged between the shelf and Jimin, Yoongi wriggles. Almost squirms. Jimin’s eyelids lower as he lets himself inhale a lungful, nose tracing the back of Yoongi’s head.

“You shouldn’t be drinking coffee,” Jimin murmurs in Yoongi’s ear, and oh how beautifully his body curves backwards, closer. “You have a class tomorrow.”

The moment Yoongi whirls around, Jimin grabs his waist and crowds him onto the shelf. The wood creaks under the sudden pressure but Jimin doesn’t give a f*ck. He’s anchored it to the wall. And Yoongi’s mouth is on his.

Jimin shamelessly moans. Yoongi’s mouth is so soft, fitting perfectly against his lips. Moving with instinct more than technique. Messy, as they try to melt into the kiss.

He tastes like me, Jimin thinks. Like his toothpaste, as if Yoongi had just plucked the tube from the cup where Jimin kept his products, as if it were his own. Like the mouthwash bottle resting on the countertop beside his facewash. Like the faintest hints of bitter almonds that the hurried motions couldn’t get rid of as easily, the burst of chamomile drowning it all out.

Yoongi kisses like he knows what he wants, and like his body is quicker on the uptake. His hands slide through Jimin’s hair, pulling his face closer until they’re breathing only each other. Jimin hasn’t ever had a kiss like this, let alone a first one. Never had the pleasure of sucking on a lower lip while wondering if his thirst has finally been quenched or if he’s just opened himself up to guzzle more.

He feels the heavy weight of the Celtic knot ring, digging into the back of his neck where Yoongi is squeezing, tilting Jimin’s head to kiss him harder. Jimin’s lungs feel like they’re going to explode but he can’t f*cking stop. It’s as if every answer to every question he’s ever had is lying behind Yoongi’s kiss, and he’s unable to keep himself away.

They pull apart, gasping, but only for a second. Yoongi is yanking him close again, palm fisted in Jimin’s shirt, over his chest. Every place his body touches Yoongi’s melts, and every untouched place burns.

All those nights of imagining scenarios where he kisses Yoongi in the bookstore, those shameless fantasies of spine pressed against spines, and he could never have imagined it happening against his personal library.

His tongue traces the seam of Yoongi’s lips, not even begging for attention, just because he can. Can lick the taste of the flesh.

“Jimin,” Yoongi gasps. Jimin. Just Jimin. Not Jimin-ssi, not Park Jimin, just Jimin. For now, in the confines of this space, the confines of each other’s arms, they are just Yoongi and Jimin.

Jimin dives. Sweeps his tongue across Yoongi’s, curves it up to taste the roof of his mouth. They’re panting, and there’s that static again, sharper, stronger, dragging up his spine. He realises it’s Yoongi’s hands, untucking his shirt and gliding it up.

Jimin’s arms tighten around Yoongi’s waist, hitching him higher up until he has no choice but to bend a knee, wrap his leg around Jimin’s waist. The clothes on Yoongi’s body are so flimsy that Jimin can practically feel his skin through them—the weight of a thigh against his hip, the dips and curves of his abdomen. The shoulder of the shirt slips a little. Jimin feels it as the feathery weight of Yoongi’s sleeves bunches thicker against his bicep.

He bends his head, sticking his tongue out to lick up Yoongi’s clavicle.

“Oh f*ck,” Yoongi’s head slams back against the shelf, the frame quivering. “You menace. What happened to only tea?”

“You were right.” His lips suck on the delicious collarbones, teeth scraping. Yoongi shudders, hands tightening in Jimin’s hair. “Would’ve been a shame.”

Disagreement does not come. Only Yoongi’s hip grinding upwards, into the crease of Jimin’s thigh. Jimin wants to reciprocate so bad, to collide with him until they can’t be split. But he has enough sense to remember that this is a shared apartment and they’re rutting against each other in a communal space.

“You sure about this?” Jimin mumbles while grazing his teeth up Yoongi’s neck. “What about your class?”

“f*ck class—oh. ”

Yoongi’s expletive is drowned into his surprised gasp as soon as Jimin hitches his other leg up and lifts. Instinctively, Yoongi crosses his arms around Jimin’s shoulder, pulling himself higher and closer. Placing a palm on Yoongi’s lower back, the other hand clasping tight on his thigh, he walks them to his bedroom.

“You can’t say that,” Jimin complains, turning to his side so he can shoulder open the door. It’s a very considerable feat since Yoongi is running his nose up Jimin’s throat, leaving kittenish licks on the tensing muscle. “You can’t say f*ck class to someone who teaches them.”

There’s a giggle in his ear and what a beautiful sound. It makes something more than raw heat tremble inside Jimin’s chest. Radiating warmth. He’s watched Yoongi giggle with Jungkook and Namjoon, sometimes with Hoseok, but never otherwise. Perhaps he’s missed it. Perhaps Yoongi only giggles with people he cares for. What does it mean that he’s doing it right now, face hidden in Jimin’s throat as he sets him down?

And he doesn’t even notice the effect he’s having on Jimin. That or he doesn’t mind it. He just untucks his shirt and pulls it over his head. Walks backwards to the bed and keeps talking as if all the blood hasn’t vanished from Jimin’s brain.

“I’ll bet your classes are more interesting than mine.”

He falls back on the bed, propping his torso up by the elbows. Jimin is still standing in his doorway, mouth gaping uselessly. So much skin. Beautiful skin, lit only by the shafts of moonlight making their way through his window slats. One caresses Yoongi’s belly, his navel rapidly rising and dropping, the only indication of how affected he is. One slashes across his chest, a dusky brown nipple highlighted, pebbled from the cool AC air. One glances off his neck, rippling to follow the way Yoongi’s throat bobs.

Jimin is a weak, weak man.

He drags his eyes up, and Yoongi raises his eyebrows. His hand, resting by his waist turns palm up. Then he crooks one finger, beckoning. Jimin follows happily.

“So?” Yoongi asks, sliding further up the bed as soon as Jimin kneels on the edge of the mattress. He sits up to help tug Jimin’s shirt off, ducking his head to drop a kiss on his sternum. Pleasure lights up Jimin’s torso, his head rolling back with a hiss. “Are the classes you teach interesting?”

“Why?” Jimin shakily breathes, fingers curling in the back of Yoongi’s hair, holding his head in place to encourage more kisses. “Want me to sneak you into one of my lectures?”

“Depends.” Yoongi’s fingers dip into the visible waistband of his underwear, peeking over his jeans. He pulls it back, lets his fingernail lightly scrape the soft flesh of his pelvis, dips into the groove of the Apollo's belt that Jimin works pretty hard to maintain. Thank you bicycle crunches I will never curse you again. With a snap, Yoongi lets the elastic go. It smacks against Jimin’s skin, sharp and delicious pain. “What are you teaching these days?”

Grasping Yoongi’s shoulders, Jimin pushes lightly. Yoongi gets the message and falls back against the pillows, automatically lifting his hips. They both slide down his pants together, the trousers having an elastic waist that saves the work of unbuttoning anything.

“Nothing fancy,” Jimin whispers, crawling up once he’s tossed the pants aside. He cages Yoongi’s frame within his arm, elbows resting on either side of his chest. For a second he just lets himself watch, observing the way Yoongi’s dark hair fans across the geometric print pillow covers that Jimin owns. “A summer workshop on the transformation of oral mythologies. It’s non-credit.”

“Oral, huh?”

Jimin snorts, burying his face in Yoongi’s neck. He can feel his laughter against his own chest and he thinks he could make a meal out of it. His skin is so warm and Jimin wants to feast on it. He does.

“You’re so…” Jimin’s words trail off, mouth too preoccupied. Lips dragging open-mouth kisses across Yoongi’s jaw, down the underside of his chin. The tips of his fingers itch to wander. He lets his knees and one elbow take his weight, freeing the other hand to run up Yoongi’s torso.

Muscles tense under his hand and he massages them, then eases the pressure and simply lets himself feel. Goosebumps rise up Yoongi’s flesh as Jimin kisses down his sternum, leaving a little bite on the underside of his pectoral, right on his ribs.

“Finish that sentence,” Yoongi gasps, fisting Jimin’s hair in his palms. “I’m so what?”

Jimin rests his chin on the trembling flesh of Yoongi’s chest, watches the way he’s flushed up to the neck, sweat already matting the base of his hair roots. The way his jaw is clenched but his cheeks so pink, mouth panting for air.

“f*cking beautiful.”

His mouth descends on one of Yoongi’s nipples and Yoongi absolutely keens. His back arches so enthusiastically into it that Jimin has to shift, slip his arm in the gap between his body and the bed to—what exactly? Hold him in place? Pull him closer? He doesn’t know. All he knows is that his tongue is dragging against the tightened nub, lips suctioning around it and the noises spilling from Yoongi’s mouth are motivation.

He pulls back with a smacking noise, blowing air on the wet flesh. It tightens further, looking almost painful. He tentatively lets his teeth scrape it, a ghost-like touch, and Yoongi must surely have pulled a muscle from how hard he chases the feeling.

“Off!” Yoongi demands, patting Jimin’s biceps. Jimin pulls back, startled, wondering if he’s overdone it. But the man in his arms only reaches into the space between them, tucking his fingers in the belt loops of Jimin’s jeans. “Off, get them off.”

Ah, alright then. He wanted to have a little more fun, and see how desperate and messy he could get Yoongi just from playing with his chest. But perhaps that will have to wait for after, when they’ve taken the edge off.

Obediently, Jimin scoots back, sliding off the bed. His hands drop down to his belt, watching Yoongi writhing on the bed. Yoongi props himself on his elbows again, uncaring that he’s breathing as hard as a marathon racer, unbothered that his legs are spread and he’s hard, his cotton boxer briefs tented. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, eyes on where Jimin is unhooking his belt from its buckle.

Jesus, he’s looking at Jimin like he’s prey. And Yoongi is a very impatient hunter. Suddenly, instead of his own hands, there’s another pair on Jimin's hips. Yoongi remains uncaring, unbothered, undeterred as he launches across the bed and hastily yanks Jimin’s belt from the loops. He pops the button open, determined fingers scratching at the zipper and sliding it down.

“How do you want this?” Jimin asks, bending down to tug his jeans off. He leaves kisses on Yoongi’s neck as the fabric pools at his feet, and he steps out of it. Yoongi takes his face in his hands, kissing his lips again and again.

“I’m good with either way,” he whispers into Jimin’s mouth. Oh gods, whoever you are, how luckily you have blessed me, Jimin wants to cry.

He doesn’t know what to do, what he wants. He’s pictured it in every way possible. Bent over while Yoongi f*cks the living daylight out of him. Cradling his body close while Jimin slowly f*cks into him, makes love to him. Lying side by side, hands and mouths on each other, whispering confessions only meant for a single pair of ears. Not even touching, just gazing into Yoongi’s eyes and knowing they see him back.

Every single way he’s pictured having Yoongi in his bed, sexual and otherwise, he’s never been prepared for it to actually happen.

What does he do? And what if he chooses wrong? What if this is the one and only time they get to do this? Which choice is the perfect one?

He doesn’t know.

“Don’t overthink,” Yoongi mumbles, still dropping kisses on his face, up his cheeks. “How do you want this? What feels right in this moment?”

“I’d be lying,” Jimin replies, swallowing a whimper when Yoongi’s kisses move to his jaw. “If I said I haven’t wanted to ride you into oblivion.”

“Oh?” Yoongi asks, kissing his temple. Jimin’s head tilts into it, eyes fluttering close. He feels so overwhelmed. He’s being handled so carefully, and combined with the heat between their bodies, it’s almost too much. He’s going to collapse.

“But right now…right now…” he tries to say.

“Yes?” Yoongi’s mouth moves to touch his lips to the bridge of Jimin’s nose. “Right now? What do you want right now, baby?”

Baby.

“Can I f*ck you?” Jimin blurts out.

Yoongi pulls back, and Jimin honest to god whines at the rush of cold air. His eyes open and he watches as Yoongi scoots back on the bed and lays against the pillows again. Can only manage a nod as Yoongi gestures to his bedside table. Swallows thickly as Yoongi fishes out a bottle of lube and a condom from the drawer. And almost kneels in reverence when Yoongi slides his underwear off and tosses it right at him.

The fabric hits Jimin’s chest and he swats it aside, not wanting even the flash of dark cotton to interfere with his vision. Why would he want this view uninterrupted, when Yoongi is bending his knees and parting his legs?

“You may.”

Jimin falls into the space between them, clumsily. Practically crawling on his belly as his hands tug his own underwear down and throw it somewhere behind him. He nestles in the space between Yoongi’s thighs, both of them moaning together as soon as they feel how heated their flesh is, especially when touching.

Jimin can feel Yoongi’s co*ck against his belly, fully hard and resting heavy. He can also feel the stickiness of pre-come as soon as he wraps a hand around it. The temptation to rut into the crease of Yoongi’s thigh is so strong but he’s so hard without any stimulation that he’s going to come if he does. He’s also depraved and selfish and wants to watch just in case he's never blessed with this again.

“Hand me the lube,” he calls out, sliding lower to prop his upper body between Yoongi’s thighs. Yoongi can only manage to toss the bottle, his hands clutching at his own hair as Jimin jerks him off in sharp strokes. Watches carefully—which pressure makes his knees shake, which flick of his wrist makes him bite his lip.

He lets his eyes land on the flushed tip, unable to help himself. His tongue darts out to lick at the pre-come pooling there, lips suckling on the head.

“Holy f*ck, Jimin,” Yoongi curses, one of his legs pedalling. His hand clutches Jimin’s hair, tilting his head downwards. It’s such a turn-on that Jimin’s own dick throbs between his legs. He chuckles around Yoongi’s co*ck, pride inflating in his ribs when the vibrations make Yoongi’s fingers tighten in his hair.

Pulling back to catch his breath, he keeps stroking with one hand. Sucks the flesh of Yoongi’s inner thigh into his mouth, which earns him a sharp gasp. With the other hand, he grabs the bottle of lube, thumb flicking open the top of the cap. He finally has to let go so he can pour some over his fingers and warm it up, not wanting to drizzle the cold liquid directly. The lack of touch invites some choice curses, none of which he takes seriously when they’re thrown breathlessly.

Sitting up on his knees, he tugs Yoongi’s body closer. As erotic as the idea of watching his fingers disappear into him is, Jimin wants to see his face. Yoongi doesn’t seem to be much for dirty talk, only relying on moans and groans, curses at best. He needs to look, needs to watch his expression change with every move he makes.

The way Yoongi’s eyebrows furrow and his mouth drops open will be seared into his memory now. And he’s not even doing anything. He’s simply rubbing the pads of his first and middle fingers against his rim, teasing, almost massaging.

When he slides in his middle finger, Yoongi’s head falls back. He could watch this forever. The way Yoongi sucks on his lower lip, the way his head tilts into the pillow, cheeks all red. Jimin drags his finger slowly, purposefully. Repeats the motion until Yoongi’s movements become restless, then adds another.

“I can take more,” Yoongi moans after a few minutes of Jimin scissoring his knuckles. “Give me more.”

“Easy,” Jimin replies, patting his thigh with his free hand. “Don’t want to hurt you.”

“I can take it.” Stubborn. Almost petulant. Adorable. Before Jimin can reply, Yoongi sits up slightly and reaches between his legs. His fingers drag through the rivers of lube, tangle with Jimin’s and push inside of himself. Oh f*ck. f*ck that’s hot.

How is this his reality? How is the most beautiful man in the world in his bed, laid bare, tangling their fingers and f*cking himself with them? How has Jimin staved off an org*sm for this long? Because the sight is enough to make him squirm.

And the sounds. Yoongi’s head tips and Jimin’s follows, like a string connecting their eyes, tugging him around so he can keep following the reaction. God, Yoongi is art. Yoongi is the art, the story, the code, the saga that he wants to learn how to preserve. Nothing else. Wants to bottle the whimpers he makes when their knuckles brush against his prostate. It’s too much.

Jimin drops his head to watch as both their fingers move inside Yoongi together, glistening with lube, shimmering against their skin, Jimin's rings wet and glinting. How easily Yoongi's skin parts to make room for them. Jimin looks up and nope, he was wrong. The moment their eyes meet is what’s hot. Neither of them looks away. Yoongi sits up straighter, moaning when it changes the angle of the fingers inside him. But he keeps rising until they’re face to face.

Jimin watches pleasure bloom in waves. From the tense jaw muscles to the bead of sweat trailing down Yoongi’s hairline. The way his pupils dilate, eyes scrunching a little when Jimin tightens their tangled knuckles to rub hard against the sensitive spot of flesh.

All before Jimin’s eyes.

“f*ck me,” Yoongi pleads, pleads. “I’m ready.”

He tries to pull his fingers out but Jimin tightens his knuckles again, crooks them to keep their hands in place. He drives their hands forward harder, massaging an unforgiving pace against Yoongi’s prostate.

“Oh my god.” Yoongi’s mouth falls open. Yes, yes, yes, this is what Jimin wants, what Jimin can get drunk off. “Oh my—oh my god, oh my god, please. I’ll come.”

“But you said you could take it,” Jimin whispers, smiling. “So take it.”

“Oh please, please, f*ck me,” Yoongi babbles, resolve breaking as he falls back down on the sheets. “Please. Will you?”

“I will.”

Jimin finally removes his fingers, grabbing the condom packet. It’s a struggle for a second. One hand juggling to grip the serrated edge with his only dry fingers, the other ripping it open. He chucks aside the wrapper, taking out the condom. Pinches the tip and quickly rolls it on, making sure it’s secure.

“How do you like it?” he asks, sliding closer. “Do you—how do you–"

“Oh, don’t go soft on me now.” Yoongi manages a breathy laugh. There’s a pleased, almost wicked glint in his eyes. Jimin is so gone. He’s done. He’s wrecked. “I told you I can take it. Make me take it.”

Alright. If that’s what Yoongi wants, that’s what Jimin will give.

He guides himself between Yoongi’s legs, draping one of them over his thigh. The moment he starts sliding in, he sees heaven. Being embraced by Yoongi’s body is an experience that not even the most complex lexicon can describe. Warm. So warm, even through the skin of latex it’s so warm.

Yoongi wraps his arms around Jimin’s waist, urging him closer until he bottoms out. His stamina is about to be put through the most rigorous test ever. Pretty sure he’s about to come in less than a minute because Yoongi is f*cking clenching as if he’s thoroughly enjoying the stretch, enjoying this power.

“You okay there, big guy?” Yoongi teases, brushing his knuckles across Jimin’s shoulder.

“Are you…mocking my height right now?” Jimin gasps when Yoongi moves his hips a little, locking them in more comfortably.

“Do I have any grounds to do that?” Yoongi tilts his head, amusem*nt on his features. They’re wiped clean in an instant. Jimin pulls his hips back and snaps them forward, delighting in the way Yoongi’s expression morphs from mirth to pleasure. He wants him to fall apart. He’s going to make him fall apart. For him.

His fingers dig into the flesh of Yoongi’s thighs, holding them wide, lifting slightly so they rest on his hips. He moves slowly at first, letting themselves ease into the movement, letting the lube get everywhere so the slide is easier. No hurry to find the right angle, no hurry to go as deep. Not just yet. Simply wanting Yoongi’s body to get used to the push and pull, to become familiar with Jimin’s.

Familiar he does become. Writhes on the sheets. One hand tucked under the pillow, the other splayed out beside him, grasping the sheets. When Jimin pulls out all the way and thrusts back in, Yoongi clutches the bedspread so hard he almost untucks the corner near the headboard. Clenches so hard that Jimin’s breath catches.

“Can–"

“Yes, yes,” Yoongi nods, brows furrowed while he nods rapidly. “Yes, do whatever. Just do something.”

Jimin leans forward, bracing one hand beside the pillow. His bent frame takes Yoongi’s legs along with it, folding him on himself. He swallows Yoongi’s moan when he starts moving quicker, rotating his hips to reach deeper.

If this is the last thing he ever does, he’ll die a very happy man. Nothing beats this. It doesn’t come an ounce close to his fantasies, his imagination. The masterpiece that is Yoongi, bowed under him, hitches in his breath with every push. It cannot be recreated. He’ll just have to work really hard to make sure he can experience it over and over.

“That’s it.” Jimin grins when a particular stroke causes Yoongi’s entire body to spasm. His heels dig into Jimin’s back and Jimin is hungry. He nuzzles his face in Yoongi’s neck, sucking the skin into his mouth. Not hard enough to leave marks but enough to feel the tug of it between his lips, to taste the salt of his sweat, the sour edge of his faded cologne. He wishes he could leave a mark. Purple and bright, like the hydrangeas. Yoongi in colour.

He repeats his motions, again and again, as Yoongi makes a mewling sound. Jimin knows he’s found the spot, knows his co*ck is ramming into it, the flesh already sensitive from their fingers. It’s the X mark on his map to decode Yoongi. A map unrolled in his arms, the edges of which he traces with his tongue while snapping his hips quicker.

Ideally, this would last for hours. But his control has worn thin and his body is collapsing upon itself, never having felt this attracted to another human being before. So, he gives it his all. If it’s going to last minutes, he wants those minutes to feel endless. He wants to make time stop. So he has to move faster than time itself.

He slides one of his hands under the pillow, grasping Yoongi’s palm. Interlaces their fingers and pins it down harder, tasting the moan that’s on Yoongi’s lips. With his other hand, Jimin digs his fingers into the underside of Yoongi’s thigh, pulling it up till his calf is draped over his shoulder.

“f*cking hell,” Yoongi groans, and he sounds like the breath has been punched out of him.

Jimin tucks his knees into the mattress and then he really starts to f*ck. Thoughtless, relentless, aiming his moves in the one angle that’s got Yoongi convulsing, clinging to him tighter and tighter. He’s lost the ability to match Jimin’s thrusts, simply holding on as Jimin f*cks into him.

Pleasure envelopes him in a way that’s unmatched by anything he’s felt. Yoongi’s walls are squeezing him just right, his fingers against Jimin’s are locked just perfectly. His mouth is so red and pretty, swollen from kissing and biting, shining and wet with spit. Yoongi gasps with every move, whimpers bubbling out of his throat.

Pushing in closer, Jimin drops almost all his weight forward. He drives his hips quicker, harder, ignoring that his thighs are screaming, ignoring the sweat pooling in the dimples of his back. He has only one goal, and he’s chasing it with the intention of making Yoongi win the race.

“Like that,” Yoongi moans, practically thrashing. “Just like that. Don’t stop, don’t you dare.”

“Not on my life.” Jimin’s words tumble into a groan when Yoongi lets go of the sheets and clutches his back. That f*cking fingernail. Clawing down his spine. Jimin grits his teeth at the trail of fire it sparks down his body, relishes in the way Yoongi makes a growling noise of pleasure.

f*ck, Jimin is going to die from how good it feels, how hot Yoongi looks.

He’s gonna come. He can feel it. Feel it in the way his belly swoops, pleasure threatening to burst. It escapes its confines, crawling wider and wider, from deep in his abdomen towards the base of his spine. He can feel it in the way his balls feel tighter, the way his hips are now moving out of his control, grasping at the light at the end of the tunnel.

Desperately he tugs his hand free of Yoongi’s and reaches between them. His thumb swipes the head of Yoongi’s co*ck, now dripping everywhere. He rubs it over the slit, once, twice, thrice, and he sees heaven.

Or rather, heaven comes to him, in a vision to behold.

Yoongi’s spine must be rubber the way he arches right off the bed. Jimin grabs him, holds him as he comes, f*cking him through it. Memorises how Yoongi’s nails feel digging into his back, how his head tilts and bites the pillow, the muffled shout he lets into it. Yoongi’s thighs spasm uncontrollably and he tightens, hard.

The edges of Jimin’s vision blur as he comes. Losing all semblance of rhythm, his hips stutter. Yoongi’s name tastes sweet on his tongue, rolled over and over as he drowns in the org*sm. Mind static and white, he lets his body feel every inch of it, lets it raze through him without holding anything back.

Time seems to stand still as they both finally come up for air. Desperate, heaving pants fill his ears as they stop ringing. Yoongi’s chest heaves rapidly, throat swallowing as he gulps air. His eyelashes kiss the tops of his cheeks, fluttering.

“You okay?” Jimin’s voice is raspy, dry. He hadn’t realised how hard he was gasping. His heart is pounding so hard that it drums in his ears, makes him almost see black spots. “Hmm?”

Yoongi mouths the word “perfect”, weakly holding a thumbs up. Snorting, Jimin drops his head. Trembling fingers stroke his hair and he hums, tilting his head into the comforting pats.The sweat is already starting to cool around them, sticking to them, mingling with the come splattered between their abdomens. Jimin slowly peels his body back.

“Yeah? You sure?” he asks, rubbing his thumb on Yoongi’s hip. Yoongi nods, biting his lip and Jimin slowly pulls out, studying his face carefully. There’s a soft wince but little else, fading into a lazy smile.

Jimin crawls off the bed, padding to the en-suite. He takes off the condom carefully, knotting the open end and tossing it into the trash. His hands are still shaking but he ignores that because there’s a spent Yoongi in his bed and he’s more important. Soaking two washcloths in warm water, and grabbing a dry one, he walks back into the room.

Yoongi is sitting on the edge of the mattress, apparently doing his best to avoid letting the mess drip into the sheets. Jimin kneels on the floor in front of him. If his bones creak then f*cking whatever.

“You don’t have to—oh, oh, okay,” Yoongi chuckles. Jimin bites his lip, carefully using the wet cloth to wipe Yoongi's abdomen, wipe downwards. He’s slow and careful when he swipes around Yoongi’s soft co*ck, knowing it’s sensitive.

“Up,” he instructs, tapping Yoongi’s thigh. Yoongi makes a noise of protest, and Jimin is ready to back off, worried he’s being too intimate. But the protests are half-hearted, customary more than anything because Yoongi readily lifts his hips. Jimin tilts his frame lower, lifting Yoongi’s leg over his shoulder. He wipes the streaks of lube, keeping his pressure gentle. Yoongi’s hand tightens on the mattress when he swipes over his too-sensitive rim, and Jimin automatically turns his head, kissing an apology on his knee.

“You are something else, Park Jimin.”

Jimin wrinkles his nose at that, though he feels his cheeks heat up. Not wanting to push the intimacy to awkwardness, he stands up and hands the other cloth so Yoongi can comfortably feel cleaner and dryer on his own terms. He gives him some privacy by walking back towards the bathroom, wiping himself down in the process. He has to grit his teeth to swallow the moan when the fabric rubs against his sensitive co*ck. Yeah, fine, Yoongi doesn’t need to know just yet that he has a kink for overstimulation.

He balls up the washcloth and throws it in the laundry bin. Then he grabs the bin and tugs it out from under the sink. The movement grabs Yoongi’s attention, who lifts his arms and tosses both his washcloths from across the room in a neat arc. They land perfectly and Jimin curiously stares at the perfect form in which his wrists had snapped. Interesting. Does he know how to play basketball?

Yoongi flops backwards onto the mattress, huffing. Quickly kicking the laundry bin back in its original position, Jimin flicks off the bathroom light and saunters back to his bed.

He throws himself onto the mattress, tucking a pillow between his shoulder and head, and opens his arms. Yoongi crawls right into them.

Peaceful. So peaceful. They don’t exchange words for some time. Jimin couldn’t come up with any even if he tried. He’s simply too entranced with the way Yoongi burrows in his arms. Facing each other, they only share breaths. Thumbs comfortingly rubbing on waists. Fingers tracing the bridge of noses. Lips peppering soft, languid kisses. Jimin never wants to move.

“I should move.”

His arms tighten instantly. Yoongi giggles, those damn giggles again. He’s patting Jimin’s chest, pushing up.

“You won’t stay?”

A sliver of dread curls in his sternum. Was this it? Was it over? Was this all he was meant to experience of the glory that was Min Yoongi? Yoongi opens his mouth but there’s a chime that rings from the floor, where his pants had been shed. It’s high-pitched and lyrical, almost like a music box or the mobiles over children’s cribs.

The sound is familiar and it takes a second for Jimin to recognise it. He’s heard it a million times on Hoseok’s phone.

“Was that your wind-down notification? For bedtime? Yoongi-ssi, do you have Sleep Focus activated on your phone?”

Yoongi smacks his chest, and for a second it soothes the dread inside it.

“I told you that this date was difficult to schedule,” Yoongi whines, lower lip jutting in a pout. Jimin pinches it, and cackles when Yoongi pretends to bite his fingers. “It’s a Sunday night.”

“It is, you did say that,” Jimin agrees. “But you live so close. Can’t I convince you to stay?”

“I wish,” Yoongi replies, and his voice is dragging as if he genuinely is apologetic. “I haven’t prepared for class, all my materials are at home. This is my only interesting class and I’m doing it on my own time, with my own money. I don’t wanna f*ck it—“

“Hey, hey.” Jimin quickly sits up, rubbing Yoongi’s shoulder. “You don’t have to explain yourself. I was just teasing. It’s okay. I understand.”

Yoongi huffs out a breath, pinching his eyebrow. He looks at Jimin through his lashes, as if to say really? Jimin nods, getting out of bed. He helps Yoongi find his discarded clothes, slipping them on carefully. He doesn’t bother with his own. He sleeps naked anyway, and Taehyung said he wasn’t coming home tonight. Nothing he hasn’t seen anyway.

He walks Yoongi to the door, rubbing his lower back the entire time. He ignores the heavy feeling settling in his chest. Disappointment. The urge to turn them around and crawl back into the bed.

It’s at the door that Yoongi finally speaks. He struggles for a few moments and Jimin keeps massaging his muscles, easing him into it. As if his heart isn’t about to vomit out his throat.

“I really wanted to stay. It’s why I didn’t wanna come up—I knew I’d wanna stay.”

Honesty so easily handed out. No need for Jimin to play tricks and mind games, sidestep conversational “rules” and post-coital social protocol. Just the truth. So simple. Jimin musters a smile and leans in, kissing Yoongi’s forehead.

“It’s okay. You can stay the next time.”

“I will. I promise.”

Yoongi seals the promise with a light kiss and Jimin steps behind the door, lest he flash some poor neighbor or delivery person. Gripping the handle, he holds it open. Yoongi stares at him for a few seconds before he nods and walks out. Jimin closes the door, walks right past the abandoned tea cups, and heads back to his room.

Against all odds, he sleeps. Even though sleep evades him for the longest time, and he can only bury his face in the pillow, lingering with the smell of Yoongi, and kick his feet to escape the flip-flops in his tummy. Eventually, he does sleep, body giving up in the face of the entire week’s nerves.

When Jimin wakes up, the sun is high in the sky, higher than usual. His eyelids peel past the crusty dryness of slumber, squinting at the bedside clock. It flashes 09:37 MON in an unnecessarily ominous red. f*cking hell, it’s too early on a summer Monday. He has no classes to teach today, and his supervisor is out of the office for two weeks so he has no reason to be up.

Yawning, he closes his eyes and buries his face back in the pillow. The faint scent of pinewood tickles his nose. Like wisps of forgotten dreams, the previous night comes back. He shoots up, his entire body whining in protest.

He definitely feels the ache now. Tight knees, stiff thighs. He’s not usually this sore after sex, especially not when he tops, but he was at a different level of unstoppable last night. Desperate to please, desperate to make it as good as possible.

“f*ck me,” he groans, burying his face in his hands. Scrubbing his face with his palms, he throws off the sheet covering him and heads to the bathroom. For once he doesn’t have his phone in there. Usually, it’s like his morning paper (by it, he means his Twitter feed because he does actually read the real newspaper during breakfast anyway).

Today, he’s moving with his mind not quite there yet. And he’s also terrified to check his phone. Terrified there will be a sorry, last night was fun but maybe it’s not meant to happen. thanks. That would be the nicest way. He doesn’t even want to imagine a harsher rejection. Or worse. Not a single notification, the previous night just ghosting into nothingness. Only doomed to exist in the annals of his memory.

He freshens up in a daze. Dresses in his usual lounging outfit—an old oversized t-shirt with an 8-bit-style scenery of the gacha game he had developed, coupled with loose sweatpants. Cleans up the kettle and teacups. Pours himself a bowl of cereal and milk. Then sits at the dining table and stares.

He doesn’t know how long he stares. He just stares at his bookshelf until his vision goes fuzzy. At the camera resting on top of a stack of art books. The rows of journals that are so thin they look like magazines.

The slightly askew photo frame and the asymmetrical gap on the third shelf are the only proof that he had indeed pressed Yoongi against it. That and his memory. He closes his eyes, touching his lips. He can almost taste him again.

Chair screeching, he suddenly stands up and grabs the flowers resting on the counter. Then he snags the copy of The Everlasting Encounters of Trumpet Vines. Rummaging through the bottom drawer of the shelf, he plucks out a layer from the stack of old newspapers.

Sitting at the table again, he pushes aside his cereal. His fingers are quick to tear up the paper into a smaller sheet. Parting the book and holding it open, he places the newspaper there. Then he takes the flower stem, wiping the excess drops of water on his sweatpants, before placing it in the middle of the book. He gently flips it shut.

The book and empty makeshift vase stare at him. Is this it? Was last night not the first chapter? Was it the final chapter after an entire novel of yearning? Is this the best—BANG!

Jimin sighs. Doesn’t jump because he’s gotten used to Taehyung’s loud entrances. Simply pushes the book aside and pokes at his cereal, which is now disgustingly soggy.

“Honey, I’m ho-o-o-o-me,” Taehyung sings, walking into the apartment. Jimin doesn’t get a chance to say anything because his phone screen lights up, a text notification bright. He can see the name. His heart blinks awake. He's only vaguely aware of Hoseok grumbling I am also here, thanks. Jimin simply snags his phone, cradling it in his lap.

Be brave, he reminds himself. Last night was more than you could’ve ever dreamt of having. Cherish it.

But he wants more. Yoongi’s name winks at him from the screen and against his self-preservation, he unlocks the device and opens the text thread.

[min yoongi, 10:24]:

good morning!! hope you slept well!

Relief expands inside Jimin’s chest, driving away everything else. He can almost hear the words in Yoongi’s voice, warm against his ear. He slides into a more comfortable position, staring at the screen as the typing bubbles appear and disappear. A new message pops up.

[min yoongi, 10:26]:

made it to class. couldn’t sit down properly

Reply, you fool. You’re leaving him on read.

Jimin hastily starts typing.

[me, 10:26]:

my deepest apologies, yoongi-ssi.

There’s another wave of bubbles back and forth, and Jimin chews his lips, a tinge of anxiety trying to come back.

[me, 10:28]:

you’ve been typing for two minutes. is everything ok?

[min yoongi, 10:29]:

no just wondering how to explain that you don’t need to apologise. it wasn’t a complaint it was a suggestion for a repeat show

or maybe you’d like me to leave you unable to walk the next time?

[me, 10:30]:

you know, yoongi-ssi. i think i’d really like that.

[min yoongi, 10:32]:

good. i mean, it’s only fair

[me, 10:34]:

it 100% is.

[min yoongi, 10:35]:

you’re not gonna make me wait that long again, right

[me, 10:35]:

make you wait?

also, hasn’t your class started? are you texting me during your lecture?

[min yoongi, 10:36]:

prof isn’t here yet

and yes, make me wait. it took us 10 days last time to be able to schedule a date

[me, 10:36]:

is 10 days too long a wait for you?

and i’ve waited half a year to be able to go on a date with you. i win this round, i think.

[min yoongi, 10:37]:

im a patient man, jimin, and i can wait longer. i just don’t want to. i can wait. as long as you’re not stringing me along and your schedule genuinely is unreliable

that’s your own fault. you could’ve asked me earlier. consider it a pyrrhic victory. im sure you know what that is, you’re a historian right?

Jimin scoffs. A pyrrhic victory? A victory won with so much sacrifice that it feels more like a loss? Never. He would’ve waited forever just to experience last night. It was the most memorable date he’d ever had, the closest his sexual experience had come to being this electric. The words making love crop in his mind.

[me, 10:40]:

far from pyrrhic. not even in the same vicinity. you are worth the wait.

how about wednesday? do you have class or work?

[min yoongi, 10:41]:

well, when you say it like that…

no class on wed but i have a morning shift at the store.

[me, 10:42]:

can i, then, interest you in an afternoon workshop? do you like dates where you can get your hands dirty?

[min yoongi, 10:43]:

i’ll keep it classy and avoid making a joke about our hands getting dirty (oh wait i did it anyway)

i don’t mind a workshop. what kind?

[me, 10:44]:

classy enough.

oshibana. do you know what that is?

[min yoongi, 10:45]:

yes, i do. i have a coffee table made with pressed flowers. that sounds fantastic actually. im guessing it’s indoors?

[me, 10:45]:

yes, it’s indoors. are you sensitive to the sun?

[min yoongi, 10:46]:

a little, yes. mild allergy.

[me, 10:46]:

oh, why didn’t you say that? we don’t have to meet during the day.

[min yoongi, 10:47]:

no, really, it’s fine. nothing serious. i wouldn’t have if i didn’t want to.

are you going to preserve the flowers i gave you?

[me, 10:49]:

not at this workshop. i actually already pressed them.

[min yoongi, 10:50]:

don’t tell me. wait let me guess. in one of your books.

[me, 10:51]:

<image attached>

does that make me too sentimental and pathetic?

also, im assuming you’re either texting during your lecture or your class is cancelled.

[min yoongi, 10:52]:

yes it’s sentimental but not pathetic.

…one of those.

[min yoongi, 10:53]:

if you buy me flowers and we have fun at this next date, i might do the same. i’ll have learned how to do it correctly, right

get me flowers, park jimin

[me, 10:53]:

so demanding

[min yoongi, 10:53]:

what yoongi wants yoongi gets. understood?

[me, 10:53]:

yes sir

pay attention to your lecture, yoongi-ssi. text me later.

[min yoongi, 10:55]:

yes sir

“Why do you look like you just won the lottery?”

“Hmm?” Jimin hums, not even trying to hide the grin splitting his face. Taehyung stares suspiciously, and even Hoseok pauses while he takes out the two iced lattes and single iced tea from his to-go cupholder.

“That face.” Taehyung gestures at Jimin, eyes wide. “Did you…did you actually win the lottery?”

“I’m free!” Hoseok cheers, sitting down at the table and distributing their drinks. “f*ck work, f*ck that goddamn copy machine. We are rich. How rich?”

“Shut the f*ck up,” Jimin squeaks, grabbing his caffeine. “No lottery. Forget it.”

Before Taehyung can refute, Jimin shoves his iced tea at him.

“How was your night?”

That does the trick. Taehyung leans back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head and smirking. His tongue pokes inside his cheek, jaw working like he’s chewing gum—his standard self-fulfilled expression.

“Okay.” Jimin whistles. “That never happens after you hook up with Sungjae. What, did he finally agree to go down on you this time? You look very pleased with yourself.”

If Jimin had his way, f*cking Sungjae would be on the other side of the country, as far away from Taehyung as possible. A f*ckboi of the first rate. Not just a boy who f*cks, which Jimin does not judge, no shaming. A f*ckboi with a capital f*ck, who leaves a string of broken hearts. Including Taehyung. Who kept going back for more.

What had he done differently now to make Taehyung look so pleased? Jimin was a little scared. What if it was something mildly tolerable enough—an A+ on the below-the-bar scale—that made Taehyung stick around?

Hoseok wisely keeps quiet because his own hookups left much to be desired. He simply takes a bite of Jimin’s cereal and then his face curls up in disgust. The look he gives Jimin is of pure betrayal, as if he’s poisoned him. He walks into the kitchen to spit out the practically dissolved mush of cornflakes.

“I am pleased, Jimin,” Taehyung says, smiling. “Thank you for asking.”

“Wait, wait,” Hoseok yells, voice garbled as he rinses his mouth. “Not without me.”

They wait for a few seconds. Hoseok hurries back to the dining area, dropping into his chair. He shoves his coffee straw in his mouth, takes a large sip. Wipes his chin, then snaps his finger at Taehyung.

“Okay, go!”

Taehyung launches at command. He leans forward onto the table with so much gusto that it actually moves an inch, the silicon protective pads under the legs squeaking.

“So I’m sitting there, right,” Taehyung starts talking, rotating his iced tea in his hands. His voice is so animated as if he’s narrating an audiobook. It has the effect. Jimin and Hoseok listen carefully. “I’m having my martini, it’s all going as usual. I think we’re about to get the hell out of there because we’ve been playing footsie for the better part of an hour."

“He’s on his phone,” he continues, miming a phone with his hand. “And I thought he was getting us a cab. Then BAM!”

Taehyung slaps the table and both Jimin and Hoseok jump.

“He says he’s out.” Taehyung shrugs.

“Suddenly?” Hoseok asks, frowning while he sips more coffee.

“That’s what I asked!” Taehyung exclaims, gesturing towards Hoseok with open palms. “I was like, hey did I do something, did you change your mind? It’s cool if you did, just let me know. And he explains—get this—apparently his new girlfriend texted him.”

Jimin chokes on his coffee. Hoseok slaps his back, his own mouth dropping open.

“His what ?” they both shout at once. Oh, Jimin was going to commit murder. Sungjae was dead.

“Exactly!” Taehyung also shouts. “I’m like your what? When did that happen? So, he says, oh yeah, we got together a week ago. We were having a fight and I wanted to make her jealous.”

Sungjae is dead. Jimin knows the man’s entire M.O. is hit-and-quit, at best hit-and-quit-and-call-again-rinse-repeat. But this is too far. Way too far. He glances at Hoseok, whose eyes are also narrowed in anger. His long fingers are tight around his cup, nails aptly painted a dark red.

“Which is so stupid,” Taehyung keeps talking as if his best friends aren’t about to put a hit out on his f*ck buddy. “Because hey, if you’re going to be involving me in your weird envy games, like tell me? I’ll play along!”

“Oh, no, that’s not–"

“Wrong lesson, buddy–"

Taehyung speaks over them, waving his hand to shush them. He’s on a roll.

“But you have to keep me in the loop! You can’t use me like that.”

He’s using you, Tae-yah! Jimin had always cried, desperate to protect him. Why aren’t you seeing what we can all see? This is hurting you!

Jimin had called it.

“Anyway, he f*cked off, I’m sitting there with my drink thinking, well sh*t,” Taehyung says, snapping his fingers. “Jimin was right, I actually can’t fix him. Don’t say I told you so.”

“I won’t,” Jimin whispers. His hand crawls across the table to hold Taehyung’s but Taehyung keeps talking, and something is still not adding up. Why does he look so pleased if his whole fling just blew up in his face?

Jimin nervously looks at Hoseok, who is also looking between them in confusion.

“I’m like ready to f*ck off to some other club.” Taehyung pauses to take a sip of his iced tea, slurping it so hard it nearly empties a quarter of the cup. He holds it in his mouth, cheeks round, before he swallows. “Because the crowd was kinda thin and Jimin had texted not to come home–”

Hoseok’s eyes snap to Jimin. Jimin presses his hands to his face, feeling his cheeks burn. Hoseok’s expression turns into a deeply amused one but he doesn’t say anything. Simply mouths one minute, and points at Taehyung, who’s still talking.

“Before I can ask for a bill, this guy gets into the other side of the booth.”

Aha. So, he met someone else. At least his night wasn’t a total failure. Jimin is still on guard but he has to pick his battles because Taehyung is beaming as bright as when he walked in through the door, and at least the Sungjae chapter is closed. Hopefully. Please, let it be closed.

“Guys,” Taehyung dramatically gasps, splaying his palms on the tabletop. “When I tell you. He was gorgeous. Like… Adonis level gorgeous. Like you would see this man and sign away your firstborn. Or hope he lets you carry his firstborn. And that’s coming from me. Have you seen how I look?”

Yes, Taehyung is stunning. And he knows it. Is deeply aware of the power of his sharp jaw, round cheeks, devastating smile, and sultry voice. It’s his go-to weapon. Jimin is so proud of him for at least knowing he’s a catch. If only he stopped letting the wrong guys catch him.

“I sh*t you not.” Taehyung’s voice drops an octave, his eyes a little wild as if he’s reliving the moment. “He says: Hey, so my partner and I were at the bar and we saw you. ”

Oh, wow. Jimin thinks it, and Hoseok actually says it out loud. They both fall back into their seats, faces painted with identical expressions of awe and surprise. That stuff actually happens in real life?

“I stop listening a little at this point because I’m like Oh holy sh*t is this really happening? My first three-way?” Taehyung is still staring at the table, eyes rapidly moving across the grain pattern, his voice picking up in tempo. “I look over to his partner and…what the f*ck because he’s hot, too? Totally different aesthetic, but stunning. And I’m like, since when do such hot people—aside from me, obviously—go to Stigma?”

“Hey!” Hoseok interrupts, offended. “I introduced you to that place.”

Taehyung stops talking and leans across the table, pinching Hoseok’s chin in one hand. Hoseok splutters, swatting the hand away.

“Yes, my sweet sunshine,” Taehyung replies while he coos. “But I don’t want to climb into your pants, please keep up.”

Hoseok grumbles but then makes a yeah, there's that face, and keeps sipping his drink.

“At this point,” Taehyung goes on. “I’m thinking okay what’s the catch? Get this.”

Hoseok pauses his sipping. Jimin grimaces, heart pounding. What the f*ck has Taehyung agreed to now just for some sex? If it’s worse than Sungjae’s bullsh*t, one-sided agreement then he’s going to have to host an intervention. Taehyung looks at both of them in the eyes and then claps.

“No catch!” he exclaims. “None. No strings attached, for one night. But if we like it and want to do it again we can see where it goes.”

That…sounds good. It’s the most basic stipulation of casual sex but it’s clearer communication than Taehyung has ever bothered having with his hook-ups. For once, not letting himself get swept up in sweet promises, not giving chances out of sympathy to the manipulative midnight calls just because someone else wants to wet their dick.

Taehyung has a big heart. Enormous. So big that it has room for everyone, with more to spare. Jimin hates that people take advantage of that and find their way into it without earning a place.Though he’s not exactly pulling out the celebration sparklers just yet, he’s still happy that Taehyung is walking home with a satisfied smile instead of a self-loathing frown.

“And?” Hoseok tentatively asks, catching Jimin’s eye. “Did you? Like it?”

“Best. Sex. Of. My. Life.” Taehyung punctuates each word with a smack of his hand on the table.

“Wow,” Jimin breathes out. Now that is something Taehyung has never claimed. Not even with the relationships where he cried for days. “Who would’ve thought?”

“Right?” Taehyung laughs and the sound makes Jimin and Hoseok smile at once. “God, when I tell you. The younger one was so shy at the bar I was scared for a second that he wasn’t even that into it. But then we reached the first guy’s apartment and the moment the doors shut.”

Taehyung clicks his fingers with a flourish, the sleeve of his shirt following the movement.

“Onto me. Both of them. I was worried it was just going to be me watching them and kind of egging them on, you know what I mean?”

Jimin does not because he’s never had a threesome but he can imagine it’s a common enough occurrence when an uneven number of people are involved. One person could easily, accidentally feel a little abandoned as people paired off.

“But they were both so attentive to me.”

He won’t lie, Jimin feels a little emotional. He has no idea if this is going to be a repeat situation but he’s so happy Taehyung has this experience to compare to. A reminder that he deserves to be doted on, that he deserves attention in bed with as much enthusiasm as he gives it.For crying out loud, he’s literally swinging his feet with glee under the table. This is what breakfasts after a night of healthy, good sex should be.

“Also, can I just add?” Taehyung pipes up after finishing half his drink. “The younger dude was a whole canvas. Tattoos up to here.”

His hand sweeps up his arm all the way to the middle of his chest.

“And so cuddly,” he adds. “I’m surprised they didn’t get printed onto my skin. Quick, do I have a tiger lily on my back?”

Eh? Jimin’s brows furrow, ignoring how Taehyung is twisting in his chair and pulling up the back of his shirt. Why does that sound familiar? He knows that flower. Not just in theory but in the specific context of a tattoo. A photo of orange blooms on a toned forearm floats in his mind.

“A tiger lily?” Hoseok asks. Jimin looks at his expression, brain wading through memories. Someone Hoseok also recognises?

“Wait…hold on.” Jimin taps Taehyung’s shoulder. Taehyung drops his shirt edge and sits properly again. “What were these guys’ names?”

The connection forms as soon as the question leaves his lips.

“Kim Seokjin and Jeon–”

“Jungkook,” Hoseok and Jimin say together.

Taehyung pauses. Jimin winces. It’s like watching a flame go out in a haze of smoke. Taehyung's eyes dim, and his jaw clenches. The rise and fall of his chest speeds up. The palm resting on the table clenches into a fist.

Defense mode, Jimin recognises easily. He’s shutting back in.

“Why do you know that?” Taehyung whispers, eyes zoning out. “What is it? Was it all lies?”

Oh, Taehyung. Jimin wants to crowd him into a hug, remind him that he’s not doomed to get hurt, he’s not cursed like he believes he is.

Jimin is also so relieved. He doesn’t know Jungkook personally. In the same capacity as he’d known Yoongi until last night. An acquaintance. A friend of Hoseok’s. Instagram mutual. Someone Jimin has only observed from a distance, and only seen Yoongi smile widely at. Only watched Jungkook laugh with Hoseok and Namjoon. Curious, contagious head tilts and all. A good guy, from the looks of it. Jimin also sort of remembers seeing Instagram stories of the "Adonis-level" partner, though he doesn't know the name. Just the handle that's usually tagged: @JINCEMBER.

Taehyung unclenches. Lets himself smile again, the tension seeping out of his body. He trusts Jimin. Jimin has always picked well for him, the few times he’s been given a chance.

“Weird coincidence,” Taehyung comments, nodding.

“Is it?” Hoseok asks, scepticism on his face. “I was the one who introduced you to Stigma. I go there all the time with Yoongi and Jungkook.”

“But not last night! Thanks for ditching by the way.”

Taehyung slurps before he looks at both of them over the straw.

“I know that sounded sarcastic but it wasn’t,” he adds. “I don’t think we could’ve wing-manned me into last night.”

“Where did you go last night?” Jimin questions, swivelling in his seat to look at Hoseok. “You left in such a hurry. You were practically rushing me out.”

Taehyung and Jimin make identical noises of surprise when Hoseok’s ears turn red. He yanks his cap down, brushing his hair over them.

“Nothing!” His voice pitches high as he stands up. Too high. Hoseok grabs his empty coffee cup and Jimin’s bowl, even though that’s still full. He exits before they can prod. “Namjoon needed someone to proofread his thesis proposal. We stayed in.”

His words are casual. His tone is not. These days it never is when it comes to his roommate. But Jimin doesn’t even get a chance to call it out. Taehyung has his head propped on his palm, eyes gleaming at Jimin. Jimin suddenly feels like he’s the one being assessed. It’s been a while since he’s been on the contributing end of the morning-after debriefs, and he’s forgotten how it feels.

He’s also never had it happen when he feels so strongly about the night that’s passed.

“Well?” Taehyung demands. Hoseok quickly rushes back into the room, hands on his hips now that he can redirect. “How did it go?”

Jimin splutters, trying to take a sip of his coffee but he misses and the straw pokes his cheek. Hoseok’s eyes bug out. Taehyung is smirking.

“Good,” Jimin casually says, shrugging.

Taehyung rhythmically taps his nails. Hoseok shifts his weight from one leg to the other, hip co*cking.

“Okay!” Jimin puts his hands up. “Really good. Really, really good.”

Hoseok punches the air, looking up at the sky as if his prayers have been answered. Taehyung does a drumroll, stomping his foot. Jimin can’t help but laugh, hiding his face. He puts his head down on the table, biting his lip but he can’t stop smiling.

“Guys,” he whispers but he knows they’re listening. “I’m going to sound insane but I think this could be something.”

“What?” Taehyung gasps. He reaches under the table and tickles Jimin’s chin until he rises up again. “Like forever?”

I hope. I really hope.

“I wouldn’t go that far just yet,” Jimin says instead, chewing his straw. “But I definitely don’t see this being just a casual thing. I think it could go somewhere real.”

After a beat, he adds, “I really want it to.”

Hoseok throws his arms around Jimin, swaying him side to side while vibrating violently with excitement. He’s squealing in Jimin’s ear. Taehyung is clapping his hands.

Jimin is happy.

A reminder on Hoseok’s phone rings and he finally lets Jimin extricate himself. Mumbles that he’s late for work and heads out, after dropping a kiss on Jimin’s head. Taehyung drops a kiss too, stating that he has to shower and then sleep for, preferably, five years. Jimin tunes out the exact parts of his body that are sore. That’s much too much information for his brain to process right now.

Left alone in the dining area again, he picks up his phone.

[min yoongi, 11:31]:

send me the location of the workshop for wednesday?

He swipes up automatically, shuffling through the apps he has open. He clicks on Naver Maps, searching for the location. Once he has it, he hits the share button. But then he pauses.

Be brave, Jimin.

[me, 11:32]:

we can go together.

can i pick you up from the store?

[min yoongi, 11:35]:

you may