Chapter Text
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The stars in the sky are closer than they seem, if only you dared to reach.
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On the dresser across the room, Jimin’s phone is silent. That doesn’t bode well for him, because Saturdays are when they always call. It’s why Jimin wakes up early every morning, waits in his bed, anxiously eyeing the phone until it inevitably rings. It’s why he always teaches lessons on Saturdays-- a palette cleanse after he hears those voices on the other end of the phone, lying to him.
“C’mon,” Jimin mutters to himself. He pulls his knees up tight to his chest underneath the peach comforter. “C’mon.” His words don’t summon the call. They drift into the silence of the room, up and out the open windows right by his bed, out into the bustling morning beyond.
The call doesn’t come exactly at seven in the morning like it always does, which is much, much worse. Jimin bites the nail of his thumb, trying his best to quell the little knot of nerves that sticks in his throat like glue. A little ray of sunlight washes through his window. A colony of seagulls croons just outside of his window.
After a few tense minutes, Jimin lets out a breath. “This is ridiculous,” he means to groan to himself as he flops backwards onto his unnecessary amount of throw pillows. “You shouldn’t pay them so much attention, Jimin,” he scolds, staring up at the macramé net that swathes his ceiling, periodically twisted into knots around sea glass fragments, “It’s ridiculous .”
“I agree,” Seokjin hums from the foot of Jimin’s bed.
Jimin shrieks in surprise. He sits up in a flurry of limbs, twisting and thrashing about until he’s looking Seokjin right in the face. Seething, Jimin hisses, “Christ, Seokjin, would it kill you to knock or something?”
His words bring a twisted smile to Seokjin’s lips. Seokjin flicks his eyebrows up towards his hairline, pulls on the lapels of his tan three-piece suit. There are little blood splatters on the pockets, small little holes that look like moth holes littering his breast. “I get it,” Seokjin titters, a hand pressed to his chest like he’s trying to calm his heart, “Because I’m dead, right?”
“No,” Jimin huffs. He rolls his eyes at the apparition seated across the way from him. Jimin will never get used to the fact that Seokjin will never leave a weight impression on his mattress, or that Jimin will never actually see him at full opacity. But those thoughts are less important than the fact that he’s expecting a phone call any minute now. “And stay out of this. It’s none of your business.”
A tired ‘tsk tsk’ puffs out of Seokjin. He crosses one leg over the other, levels Jimin with a skeptical look, and drawls, “Right. Except that, after your parents call, I’m going to be the one who has to listen to you moan and groan about them for the next three days until you realize-- inevitably, I might add-- that you shouldn’t let their opinions about your life influence you.” Seokjin nods once, proud of himself, and hums, “And then, like clockwork, we’ll do it all again next week. It’s a vicious cycle.”
“You know what’s a vicious cycle?” Jimin asks rhetorically, “The way that I go to sleep tolerating you and wake up wanting to murder you all over again.”
“I don’t think you know what a ‘vicious cycle’ is, because that sounds like more of a ‘you’ problem,” Seokjin laughs, a little crazed. It’s not entirely unexpected from Seokjin, since expecting anyone to be semi-normal after living as a poltergeist for a century is more than is probably reasonable.
But it’s Saturday , and Jimin has his own problems, so Seokjin can go straight to hell-- which is probably where he belongs in the first place. “The only problem in the room is you,” Jimin shoots right back, sugary sweet.
Seokjin’s scowl twists delightedly, splitting his face into a strange combination of anger and morbid joy. “Alright, well-”
The phone rings, and it’s almost embarrassing how quickly Jimin stumbles out of his bed. He scrambles across the little blue-shag carpet, trips over the stack of pottery catalogs he’d stacked at the foot of his bed and then abruptly forgotten about, and nearly splits his head open on the top of the wooden dresser as he falls.
Seokjin laughs at his clumsiness, and Jimin wastes exactly one second shooting an ‘I would kill you if I could’ glare at him before he scrabbles for his cell phone. Breathlessly, he accepts the call.
“Hello?” Jimin wheezes. ‘Vicious cycle,’ Seokjin mouths at him as he floats up towards the ceiling.
“Jimin-ah!” Hoseok’s voice echoes brightly through the receiver, “Good morning!”
Jimin’s heart lifts in delight, even as the rational part of his brain knows this is only a delay of the inevitable. “Oh, hyung, good morning. I, uh, wasn’t expecting you to call.”
At the honorific, Seokjin crinkles his nose in distaste and gives a little wave of goodbye. He floats higher up and straight through the ceiling. Jimin watches in fascination as Seokjin disappears into the attic, completely out of sight in a heartbeat.
“-does that sound?”
Jimin blinks as he returns to himself. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
On the other end of the line, Hoseok groans. “It’s literally been ten seconds, Jimin. You officially have the attention span of a walnut.”
“Hey!” Jimin protests as he crosses the room and flops back onto his bed, “I at least have the attention span of a goldfish.”
Hoseok snorts. “That’s debatable. But, since I am your one and only friend-”
Jimin interrupts immediately. “I have more than one friend.”
“Name them,” Hoseok challenges.
It’s shameful how Jimin actually has to think about it. Seokjin, he wants to say immediately, but the first time Jimin brought up the fact that there’s a ghost living in his studio with him, Hoseok had tried to drive him to the county psychiatric facility, so he doesn’t. After an awkwardly long thirty seconds, Jimin declares proudly, “Jisoo!”
“...Your clay supplier does not count as a friend,” Hoseok sighs sympathetically.
“I’m sorry,” Jimin grumbles, “I wasn’t aware that my friends have to fit your specific criteria to count.”
There’s a bit of rustling on the other end of the line, like Hoseok is physically shaking his head at Jimin’s embarrassing persistence. “You calling her for your biweekly supply order doesn’t count as friendship.”
“Was there a point to this phone call, or did you just feel like dragging your best friend for being a recluse?” Jimin harrumphs. He rolls onto his side to stare out the window. Through the cloudy glass, Jimin can make out the bright-walled houses that twist down the slope and towards the ocean in the liquid sunlight. Their red-tiled roofs drip with the seaspray of the morning. Faintly, Jimin can hear the sounds of dock workers shouting to one another from Hoseok’s end.
True to form, Hoseok briefly muffles the receiver and shouts at somebody in the background, “Jeongguk, for fuck’s sake , stop acting like you’re ten and use the forklift properly.” The person shouts expletives back at Hoseok, but Jimin can’t make out anymore of the conversation after that.
Instead, he traces little shapes on the glass in front of him, aimlessly waiting until Hoseok is done cussing out one of his subordinates. Jimin is halfway through doodling a little conch shell when Hoseok returns.
“Sorry about that,” Hoseok complains, “But some of the guys here are literal children, I swear to god. It takes every ounce of my patience to not crush them with one of the metal crates ‘accidentally’. ”
Jimin snickers. “Maybe you should. I think you’d do well in jail.”
“I would absolutely thrive in prison, thank you very much, but that’s not what I called you to talk about,” Hoseok redirects smoothly, “Anyway. What’re your thoughts on going out tonight?”
“Disgusting,” Jimin groans at once. He rolls onto his back and claps his free hand over his eyes, like that’ll keep Hoseok from inevitably convincing him to do whatever he wants. “Horrifying. That sounds like the worst thing ever.”
Hoseok’s scoff is so loud that Jimin can practically feel it. “Why do you think you have the right to be so dramatic? It’s just a ‘start of the summer’ bonfire.”
Jimin pulls his hand down his face, trying to wipe away the dread on his face before it drips into his tone. “I don’t know, hyung. I’ve been kind of swamped with work lately.” It’s bullshit, because Jimin technically is his own boss, but he’s hoping that Hoseok has a momentary memory lapse and skips over it.
Out of pure kindness, Hoseok doesn’t call Jimin out on his lie. “There will be free drinks,” Hoseok adds as if that’s why Jimin doesn’t want to go.
“No offense, hyung, but downing cheap cider spiked with Fireball isn’t exactly how I want to spend my night,” Jimin tries. He’s grasping at straws-- he knows he’s grasping at straws-- but telling Hoseok that he’d rather stay inside and drink tea with his cat is sort of a weak excuse. Plus, he’s already skipped out on several of Hoseok’s other invitations, so Jimin already feels like human garbage for putting up a fight in the first place.
Hoseok quiets for a moment as he thinks of another way to entice Jimin into having some semblance of a social life. “It’s on the beach,” he exclaims after a moment, “And Namjoon will be there. It’s been ages since you’ve seen him, and I know he’s dying to talk to you again.”
“I see him all the time!” Jimin blurts out.
It’s the wrong response, and Hoseok snorts a heartbeat later. “ Outside of floral deliveries, Jimin.”
“Fair point,” Jimin sighs. He bites his lip, looks up at the ceiling he’s muraled to look like the ocean outside. A brief little tug-of-war plays out in his head as he’s set at war with himself. “I’ll consider it,” he eventually concedes.
Hoseok whoops. “Fantastic!”
“But only if I close up on time.” Jimin sort of wants to kick himself in the face for giving himself a potential ‘easy out’ from hanging out with his best friend, but forces himself to keep it all inside.
“You own your own shop,” Hoseok points out. Something clangs heavily in the background of Hoseok’s line, and there are a few stifled shouts before he tacks on, “Just close early.”
The grumbly pout that pulls Jimin’s lips together manifests in his voice as he threatens, “Don’t push your luck, hyung.” He rolls back over on his side, cradles his cell phone against his ear, and tries to figure out what the odds for him actually having fun tonight are.
“Fine. But for what it’s worth, I miss seeing your face. And hey, maybe you’ll find someone to take home!” Hoseok titters happily, “That’s potentially exciting, right?”
Admittedly, the proposition does lift Jimin’s spirits a little. One night stands were a college speciality of his. Drunken sex with strangers, he can do. It’s regular, day-to-day human interaction that always seems to slip Jimin up. Honestly, the idea that tonight could be one of those rare nights where Jimin doesn’t fall asleep alone is electrifying, but he forces himself to sound uninterested as he replies, “That doesn’t sound terrible , per se.”
Hoseok’s choked-off bought of laughter tells Jimin that he doesn’t buy Jimin’s feigned indifference for a second. “Right,” he drawls. “I’ll see you tonight then. I’ll be the one trying to corral several burly coworkers of mine before they get into a fistfight over who gets to do a keg stand first.”
Jimin smirks out his window. “What a burden. I’ll be the one who looks like he doesn’t want to be there, but got pressured into it by his best friend regardless.”
“I’ll look for your charming face, then.” Another loud ‘smash!’ echoes over from Hoseok’s line, and it pulls a groan from Hoseok. “I have to go, Min. Some of these idiots seem to be trying to give me an aneurysm before I turn thirty.”
“Later, hyung. Don’t kill anybody at work,” Jimin jokes.
Hoseok’s voice is deadly serious as he whispers, “I will not promise what I can’t control.” The line disconnects a second later, and Jimin genuinely wonders if Hoseok intends on finally committing to whatever felony, combo-homicide he has planned for his less-cooperative underlings.
Jimin looks at his phone. It tells him that it’s almost time for him to head downstairs. It also tells him that it’s half past seven, and his parents still haven’t called. Maybe they forgot about you, Jimin muses quietly, and it’s telling that the thought actually makes him feel better . It’s the first time in months they haven’t tried to reach him on the weekend. It’s the first time in months that Jimin actually has a shot at a decent week.
“Not so pathetic now, am I?” Jimin proudly speaks to himself. With a grunt of effort, he turns on his other side to roll out of bed.
Seokjin stares back at him, and Jimin screams again. “So, we’re partying, huh?” Seokjin grins over Jimin’s laboured breathing. “Sounds promising.” He rests his head on Jimin’s pillow, translucent face mere centimeters away from Jimin’s own.
“I will have someone come here and exorcise you,” Jimin spits once he can properly breathe again.
“See, that was threatening the first time you said it five years ago, but now it’s just kind of meaningless,” Seokjin retorts. In the space of a breath, he blinks out of sight and reappears across the room, looking into Jimin’s open-concept closet. “I’m thinking that you should wear the red shirt. The flowy one that makes you look like a wraith but, like, sexy .”
Jimin gets up and immediately exits his bedroom, knowing that Seokjin will follow but also kind of hoping against hope that he doesn’t. Jimin plods down the hallway towards the kitchen, rubbing his eyes as he goes. If he’s going to make it through tonight, it’s definitely not going to be without the help of obscene amounts of caffeine.
Seokjin steps out of the wall a moment later. “You can’t just walk out on me, you know,” he pouts, floating along behind Jimin, “It’s disrespectful.”
“You used to watch me shower. I don’t think you have a reliable barometer for what counts as disrespectful,” Jimin shoots over his shoulder.
As soon as he gets to the kitchen, Seokjin drifts to sit right on the barstool all the way to the left-- a favorite place of his. He wiggles his fingers at Jimin’s cat that sits on the island in front of him. “Hey, baby,” Seokjin coos.
“Leave Chai alone,” Jimin reprimands as he tears his kitchen apart in the search for coffee. “She likes you even less than I do.” Briefly, he turns on his heel to stroke Chai’s back and croons, “And she’s absolutely justified for it.”
Chai-- a little calico thing with a torn ear, attitude problems, and a heart of gold-- purrs under his touch. She turns her back to Seokjin in protest.
Seokjin wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Can I come with you tonight?”
“I can’t physically stop you, but I would like nothing less than you tagging along,” Jimin says with a sigh. “And besides, you always make things weird when you follow me outside.”
The sound that comes crawling out of Seokjin’s throat is a cross between a caterwaul and a screech. “Name one time!” he challenges.
Jimin doesn’t even need a second. “The last time I took you anywhere, you started levitating pebbles to throw at the pigeons outside,” Jimin reminds him. He’s pretty sure that the old woman who’d been watching from the bus shelter, unable to see Seokjin, had thought he was possessed or something. She had given Jimin the evil eye whenever he got on the bus with her everyday for the following three months.
Jimin doesn’t take the bus anymore.
“I don’t trust pigeons,” Seokjin says by way of explanation. “It’s something in their eyes. They’re all beady and dead. I feel like they’re staring right through me or trying to divine my social security number.”
Jimin puts a pot of water on to boil and rolls his eyes. “You’re never had a social security number.”
“Way to kick me when I’m down.” Seokjin scowls and pushes himself in circles on his barstool. “Do you know how you can make it up to me?”
“No.”
“Take me to the party with you!” Seokjin cheers. “Alternatively, let me watch you have sex with whatever lonely guy you bring home.”
Jimin turns around, fully prepared to find salt or iron or something he can use to hurt Seokjin, but when he turns, Seokjin is already gone. His cackle carries throughout the house.
For probably the millionth time in the past five years, Jimin wonders if killing somebody who’s already dead is a crime.
🌊
There are few things Jimin loves more than his Saturdays in the studio. One of those things is sleeping in, which he never gets to do. A close second is going swimming, skimming around the half-moon crescent of the island’s port-- which he also never gets to do, because he doesn’t get much time off. And in lieu of participating in either of those activities, Jimin hosts Saturday classes.
Before moving to the island, just off of the coast of Jeju and Gageodo, Jimin would never have pegged himself as the type of person who would voluntarily get up early on a weekend and dedicate three hours to teaching small children how to make pinch pots or wheel-thrown teacups. But here he is, wrist deep in red earthenware clay, desperately trying to control twenty-two inappropriately energetic nine year-olds.
“I know this is a crazy idea,” Jimin calls out over the sea of rambunctious children, “But what if we tried not throwing the clay at each other?” He balances several freshly pinched clay pots in his arms and they stain his shirt red, but he doesn’t have time to care.
Seokjin floats about close to the ceiling, eyeing the chaos below him with undisguised happiness. “I love children,” he croons down at the mess of bodies.
“You love how they make me go insane,” Jimin hisses up at him behind his hand. Jimin steals a glance around his studio, making sure that none of the children notices him having an argument with himself.
His own work table sits at the front of the room facing the smaller, kid-sized wooden workstations clumped throughout the rest of the room. Twenty-one of his students pay him no attention-- they’re too focused on clapping their clayed-up hands together cheerfully, or fogging up the window that looks out onto Jimin’s kiln courtyard in awe, or hovering about the pottery glazes pushed towards the back of the room. Twenty-one of the children aren’t even the slightest bit concerned with Jimin’s presence, or lack thereof.
But off in one corner, at the very back of the room, sits Minjun. He’s smaller than the rest of the children, but he sits with his back perfectly straight. There’s a bright yellow fisherman’s hat on his head even though they’re indoors. His hazel eyes are bright when they look over at Jimin, scrutinizing.
“He freaks me out,” Seokjin whispers conspiratorially from over Jimin’s head. He gestures with one translucent hand over in Minjun’s direction. “There’s something creepy about him. Or maybe it’s his hat-- it honestly could be the hat. Yellow is a horrible color.”
Jimin rolls his eyes and turns his back to his students-- which is a teaching death-move-- so that they can’t see his hissed reply. “Could you shut up? I’m trying to work.”
Seokjin harrumphs moodily. “Class is over. I’m bored. Entertain your ghost friend.”
“Oh, are we friends now?” Jimin grumbles as he puts his students’ pots on a wooden board to dry. “I thought that being friends necessitated me liking you.”
“Jimin-ssi!” someone shrieks from behind Jimin, “Yeona won’t stop putting clay in my hair!”
Jimin whips around, lightning quick. “Hey, hey, what’ve I told you about that, Yeona?” he scolds, wiping his hands on his apron as he navigates back towards his students. He stops in front of Yeona, who tilts her chin up at him defiantly.
“That it’s only alright if it’s part of a hair mask treatment,” she declares.
With a nod, Jimin asks, “And does this look like a spa, Yeona?”
“...no,” she mutters, deflating a bit in defeat.
“That’s right. It’s a studio, so let’s save the salon-grade treatments for the professionals, alright?” Jimin asks. When she offers him a little nod, Jimin shoots her a private smile and glances back at the clock. It’s half past ten, and he still hasn’t heard from his parents. For some reason, it sets him on edge more than if they’d just contacted him at their usual time, because this situation implies that they’re too distracted to bother keeping up their schedule of pestering Jimin on the weekends. And Jimin’s lived with his parents long enough to know that any distraction is a bad one. They lead to drunken screaming matches, or tearful, maudlin confessions of guilt.
Jimin needs neither of those things today, so he shakes his head firmly and claps his hands together. “One, two, three, eyes on me!” he half-shouts in the chaos of the studio.
The immediate reaction that his words get never fails to amaze him. Like magic, each of his students calls back, “One, two, eyes on you!” There’s a brief little bit of rustling as his students turn to look at him, focused and quiet for probably the first time in three hours.
“Alright, it’s ten-thirty, everyone,” Jimin says. He puts his hands on his hips, cocks one out to the side, and announces, “Who wants to hit the dismissal bell today?” Hands shoot up, faster than Jimin can keep track of. It brings a smile to his face, especially when he notices how Minjun sits up a little straighter, arm pointed as high as he can without getting up and out of his seat. There’s quiet determination on Minjun’s face, right in the furrow between his brows.
And Jimin must be a sucker for it, because he points right at him. “Minjun, I think it’s your turn today!” He gestures for Minjun to come to the front of the room, right next to the small golden bell that hangs from a tired, frayed rope tied to one of the wooden ceiling rafters. Jimin hands him a little felt mallet. “Do your worst.”
Minjun grabs the mallet like a baseball bat, and Jimin doesn’t have time to tell him to hit the bell softly before Minjun swings full force at the undeserving bell. It screams out a ring as it sways back and forth frantically, clacking against the sea sprayed windowpane that sits in the wall adjacent to Jimin’s workstation.
“Wow, great swing,” Jimin congratulates as he desperately tries to still his old bell. It’s a gift from Hoseok; the bell is one of the housewarming gifts that Hoseok had given him when Jimin had first moved into town. Jimin’s fairly certain that Hoseok either stole it from work or bought it for a thousand won at a yard sale, but he loves it nonetheless. “Why don’t we have a little talk about controlling our enthusiasm next time, hm?”
Minjun smiles toothily at the swaying bell. Puffing out his chest, he lisps, “Papa taught me how to use a bat.”
“And he did a great job! But we’re not playing professional baseball here, are we?” Jimin laughs. He pays no attention to the way Seokjin mimes gagging from the back of the room. Jimin pries the mallet out of Minjun’s clenched fists and nods over towards the little wall of cubbies that sits next to the glazes at the back wall. “Your parents should be here in a few minutes. Time to-”
Jimin is cut off by the sound of his phone ringing from his pocket. The worst thing about it-- besides the fact that his ringtone is a Britney Spears song-- is that Jimin immediately knows who’s calling. Hoseok is at work, and Jimin’s not expecting any deliveries today. His mouth dries, and Jimin can practically feel the blood draining out of his face.
“Time to, uh- why don’t you go grab your things, hm?” Jimin stutters out as he fishes for his phone. The moment he sees all the kids shuffling over towards the back wall, he whips his phone out.
Dad, the caller ID tells him. Jimin takes in a deep breath. He notices the way Seokjin mouths ‘pathetic’ at him but chooses to ignore it. With sweaty palms, Jimin picks up the call. “D-Dad?” Jimin greets. He tries to keep the nervousness out of his voice, but the little hiccup in his tone more than gives him away.
“Jimin! How the hell are you?” his father slurs from the other line, and Jimin knows even without having to think about it that his father is drunk. It jumpstarts his heart into an allegro, because now he has two choices.
Think , Jimin urges himself in a second, trying to read his father’s emotional state from a word. There are two ways this could go . It’s a Saturday morning, so his father is either still drunk from last night or freshly drunk from this morning. One guarantees anger, the other ambivalence.
“Hey, Dad. I can’t really talk long. I’m still teaching my class, and-” Jimin tries, making his choice.
It’s the wrong one. “You don’t have five minutes to talk with your father?” his Dad snaps back at once, “You’re really that busy that you can’t even start with a ‘how are you?’”
Deep breaths, Jimin coaches. He runs a hand down his face, turns to look out of his wall of windows into the yard beyond. Jimin’s eyes catch on to the rust-red kiln he has pushed into one corner of the gated courtyard. He can just see the ocean beyond; the waves lap calmly back and forth against the shore. Jimin uses the push and pull to count his breaths.
“Hi, Dad. How are you?” Jimin tries again. It’s useless, and he knows it’s useless, but he does it anyway.
His father scoffs from the other line. Something clinks in the background, but it’s the telltale ‘pop’ that tells Jimin that his father’s cracked open another can of whatever he’s drinking. “You never put any effort in, Jimin. That’s your problem, did you know that?”
“I didn’t,” Jimin sighs. He keeps his attention focused on the tides, trusting that his students are too busy putting on their jackets and grabbing their things to notice that Jimin’s a step away from throwing his phone out the window.
“Of course you didn’t. Self-reflection isn’t a skill of yours,” his father drawls after taking a long, slurping sip of his drink, “Just like your mother. You two are birds of a feather.”
Jimin bites his lip. “Gee, thanks, Dad. Not that this hasn’t been great, but I have to go, okay?” His father squawks out what’s very possibly the start of another speech meant to tell Jimin even more of his faults, but Jimin abruptly cuts him off. “Awesome. Good talk. Call me when you’re sober.”
He ends the call, not even feeling a little remorseful. There’s just the tiniest, infinitesimally small bit of sickly disappointment that coats his tongue, but Jimin’s used to it. He swallows it down, stores it next to all of the words he’s too afraid to throw at his parents, and turns back towards his students. They all stand lined up at the back door, waiting. At least some people listen , Jimin thinks.
“Are you alright?” Seokjin mutters. He glides down from the ceiling until he hovers next to Jimin. “That sounded bad.”
Jimin mumbles, “He was drunk. I’ll be fine.” Seokjin doesn’t look like he quite buys the excuse, and there’s uncharacteristic concern painted across his cheekbones, but he doesn’t push it.
Forcing a smile for the benefit of his students, Jimin tugs open the side door-- the one that opens up to one side of the corner of the block-- to let the students out. He leads the line of kids out onto the sun-drenched sidewalk and stands by the door.
There are already a few parents queued up to pick up their kids, and Jimin offers them all bright waves or short words of praise for their children. He knows them all by name. Jimin sees them every weekend, sometimes more when they come in to purchase little pots or ceramic, hand-painted ornaments for their homes.
“Good morning,” Jimin tries to sound cheerful as he waves at the last parent in line. It’s with a breath of relief that he realizes that all of his students have been matched with their parents, walking towards their cars or to the nearest café for a midmorning snack. All Jimin wants to do is lock up the studio, blast some trashy, throwback pop, and angrily pound a lump of clay into a vase or two.
He turns to walk back into his studio, but the tug he feels on the side of pants tells Jimin that he might’ve gotten ahead of himself. “Oh,” Jimin exclaims in surprise, “I thought you left already.”
Minjun stares back up at him and shakes his head. He grips Jimin’s jeans tighter in his little fist, tugs again. “Papa is going to be late. He said he wouldn’t be, but he worked last night, and he’s never home on time anyways.”
Jimin blinks, not entirely sure what he’s supposed to do. “Do you want me to wait with you?” he asks after a moment.
The smile that splits Minjun’s face is worth delaying Jimin’s plan to angrily make art. “Yes,” Minjun says firmly. “You’re nice.”
“Am I?” Jimin chuckles. He tugs Minjun’s hand gently off of his pant leg and takes it in his own, sitting down on the curb of the sidewalk a second later.
Minjun follows. He carefully places his bright red backpack to rest against the lip of the curb with his free hand and sink down to sit cross-legged. “Yes. That’s why Papa lets me go to your classes.”
A seagull caws hungrily from overhead, and Jimin tilts his head back to trace its movements, humming noncommittally in reply. The gull circles, no doubt looking for a bagel to steal or a fish to snatch from the vendors down by the docks. Salt tints the air so sharply that Jimin can feel it on his tongue, but it’s a comforting tang.
The silence between them stretches so long that Jimin actually forgets Minjun is sitting next to him until Minjun offers, “It’ll be okay, Mr. Park.”
Jimin jumps in surprise. He cuts a curious glance to Minjun out of the corner of his eye. “What?”
“With your dad,” Minjun says. He looks up at the bird as well, cocks his head to the side like he’s contemplating the seagull’s inefficient dive-bombing.
For a second, Jimin is at a loss for words. There’s a perceptiveness to Minjun that Jimin hadn’t noticed before, a buried sense of intuition. That, or the kid is just fantastic at eavesdropping. “I don’t know what you mean,” Jimin says, playing dumb and hoping that Minjun isn’t the type of kid who’s more grown-up than they appear to be.
But apparently, the world doesn’t seem to be playing on his team today. Minjun turns to look at Jimin, face half-covered in sunlight. “Sometimes, Grandma shouts, but it always turns out okay. Papa is great at making her happy again, and then everything goes back to normal.”
A weight like a rock settles in Jimin’s gut. There’s innocent understanding on Minjun’s face, and Jimin wishes more than anything that it wasn’t there. He doesn’t want Minjun to understand what he’s going through.
Jimin takes in a quick breath, mind racing as he processes the implication behind his student’s words. “Minjun, does your grandma ever-”
But then Minjun is scooped up into a pair of leather-clad arms. “Papa!” he shrieks as he’s swiftly lifted up and off of the curb.
“There’s my boy,” Minjun’s father declares, swinging his son around in a playful circle. “How was he today?”
Jimin clears his throat, trying to banish the creeping sense of dread that’d been working its way into his chest. He stands, brings himself face-to-face with Minjun’s father. Jimin’s seen him around plenty of times before, but he’d have noticed him even if he’d never enrolled Minjun in Jimin’s Saturday classes.
Taehyung looks like he always does. He has an old, well-loved leather jacket stretched over his broad shoulders. It covers the oil-stained blue jumpsuit that marks Taehyung as a dock worker. His blonde hair is tousled, and his eyes are puffy with lack of sleep, but they’re bright despite the tiredness that seems to ooze off of him.
“Good morning, Taehyung-ssi,” Jimin greets with a little bow. “He was perfect today, as always.”
Taehyung scoffs and bounces his son in his arms. “Yeah, right. This one is a little hellion at home,” he says, bopping Minjun on the nose while his son squirms in indignation. Taehyung looks over at Jimin, flashes him a reproachful grimace. “Sorry I’m late. I had to work overtime last night, and I couldn’t say no.”
Jimin doesn’t need to ask to know why. He can see the little holes in the pockets of Taehyung’s jumpsuit; Jimin notices the way the heels of Taehyung’s boots are worn down to the quick. “It’s alright,” Jimin beams, dusting his hands off on the front of his pants, “I really don’t mind.”
“That’s great to hear. I did need to talk to you though. I’m going to be pulling later shifts on the weekends from now on, so it won’t be me who comes to pick up Minjun for the next few weeks,” Taehyung says. He bends down, swipes Minjun’s backpack up smoothly with one hand. “Is that alright?”
Jimin shifts his weight between his feet, thinking. “It should be fine. Do you think that you could drop by sometime this week to introduce them to me? I have a pretty strict policy for pick-ups,” he explains, “Safety reasons.”
Taehyung bobs his head. “Of course! I get that.”
“Then we should be fine. I’ll just need the emergency contact info eventually.” Jimin slides his hands into his pockets and rocks back and forth on his heels.
Taehyung watches the little movements with a smile that reaches his eyes. “Sure. It’s my brother, so the address will be the same. I’ll bring him by sometime later when he’s not down at the docks.”
“Oh! I didn’t know you had a brother,” Jimin exclaims smoothly.
“I’m a man of mystery,” Taehyung teases, wagging his fingers provocatively in Jimin’s direction. “And he’s-” A yawn cuts off the remainder of Taehyung’s words.
Jimin grimaces at himself, a little embarrassed to still be keeping Taehyung here when he so clearly needs to collapse onto the nearest bed and sleep for five years. “Oh jeez, sorry for talking your ear off. You should probably be going, right?”
“This is not talking my ear off,” Taehyung laughs heartily. “You should see me when I’ve had a few drinks. I’m a human screenplay writer. I never stop.”
A laugh bubbles out from Jimin’s throat. “Well, good. That makes me feel like less of an idiot.”
Taehyung shoots him a lopsided smile. He hikes Minjun up higher in his hold and tells his son, “Say goodbye to Jimin-ssi, Minjun.”
“Just ‘Jimin’ is fine,” Jimin rushes to correct.
Biting his lip to suppress a smile at Jimin’s awkwardness, Taehyung says, “Say goodbye to Jimin , Minjun.”
“Bye, Min!” Minjun shouts happily. He waves enthusiastically as Taehyung cackles at the lack of honorifics. It brings a soft blush to Jimin’s cheeks, but it’s the good kind. Taehyung offers a little salute in goodbye before turning on his heel and strutting down the street, off towards the beachfront.
As they go, Jimin studies their figures. There’s a lightness to the pair of them, an easiness that catches Jimin’s notice at once. It makes Minjun’s words from earlier twist even more confusingly in his stomach, slow and hard and knotted.
It’s probably nothing , Jimin decides as he watches them turn into a little blip in the distance. It’s probably nothing .
It doesn’t feel true, but it’s none of his business. And Jimin has his own problems to deal with-- he’s got enough family drama on his own plate. Still, he makes a little mental note to check in with Minjun next week as he heads back into the studio.
The door swings shut behind him, cutting off the stray rays of sunlight that try to follow Jimin into his studio. They’re severed by the metal of the door, but Jimin doesn’t notice.
🌊
“Wow,” Hoseok drawls as he looks Jimin up and down, “Someone’s feeling confident tonight, huh?”
Jimin rolls his eyes and tugs the hem of his shirt to rest a little lower on his hips. “Shut up,” he threatens embarrassedly. It’s the shirt Seokjin had told him to wear earlier-- Jimin hadn’t wanted to wear it, but Seokjin had floated menacingly in front of Jimin’s closet until he’d caved in. So Jimin stands out in front of his studio in the fading light of the sunset, clad in a shirt that’s definitely inappropriate for how bright it is and black jeans that he’s pretty sure he’s never going to be able to wiggle his thighs out of again.
“No, no, I love it! I’m really feeling the optimism,” Hoseok teases lightly. He loops his arm through Jimin’s, tosses his hair back. The little diamond studs he has pinned in his ears catch the light and refract it back right into Jimin’s retinas.
Hissing, Jimin holds up a hand, pretending he’s been blinded. “Christ, Hoseok. When did you get a sugar daddy?”
Hoseok snorts and tugs Jimin down the block. “Eyes up front,” Hoseok instructs when he notices Jimin looking longingly back up at the top floor of his studio, right towards the window where his bed is, “And I didn’t get a sugar daddy . I’ve been saving for these for a really long time.”
The road ahead of them winds into a lazy spiral that carries the two of them closer down to the beachfront. The concrete is embedded with seashells that run down the curb-- small calico scallops, bright white coquinas, and swirling abalone. Brightly painted stores line the path, advertising handcrafted gifts of all kinds. A glass blown octopus hanging in the window of one of the shops catches Jimin’s eye, but Hoseok pulls him along before he even has the chance to admire the craftsmanship.
Jimin shoots him a death glare. “I wanted that.”
“You wanted to look at it, turn it around seven times, sigh dramatically, and then put it back because it’s too expensive,” Hoseok says with a snort, not even bothering to feel offended by Jimin’s scrunched-up nose. “It’s what you do.”
Tugging his arm out of Hoseok’s hold in protest, Jimin harrumphs, “What’s wrong with appreciating nice things?”
“Because appreciating them without actually ever buying them is kind of depressing,” Hoseok shrugs.
“How very capitalist of you,” Jimin grumbles. Reluctantly, he trails down the block after Hoseok. The end of the street culminates in a petit cul-de-sac-- small beach-front restaurants encircle the enclosure. Wooden guard rails line the left side of the walkway, but there’s a small break in the fence where the stairs down to the beach hang, etched into the side of the gentle mountain.
Hoseok leads them down the semi-rickety staircase. Beachgrass licks at their heels, a little brittle in the midsummer heat. “I know what I like, and what I like, I get,” Hoseok calls back to Jimin. He turns, shoots Jimin a wink, and tacks on, “That’s how I got you, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely not,” Jimin challenges. He carefully picks his way down the remainder of the steps, only daring to talk again once he’s on the soft carpet of the sand. “We were roommates in college. It was friendship by circumstance.”
Kicking off his sandals, Hoseok guffaws. “ Right, which is absolutely why you jumped on the opportunity to move to my town the moment a studio became available.”
“What can I say? It was better than the alternative.” Jimin shoots Hoseok a weak grin, and the softness that edges in around Hoseok’s eyes is noticeable. Jimin bends over and spends way too much time working off his boots just so he doesn’t have to see the way that Hoseok must be biting his lip right now, struggling not to offload his opinion about Jimin’s situation right now.
All Hoseok says is, “I know.” It’s quiet, and most definitely not what he’s actually thinking, but Jimin appreciates it.
When Jimin stands, shoes in hand, Hoseok is already facing the water in the distance. He has a hand up to his brow. Jimin traces his line of sight. On the edge of the horizon, Jimin can just make out the licks of red and orange that tell him that the party’s already begun. There’s a bonfire burning brightly, and the soft thumps of a hip hop track carry over the otherwise still air.
“Should we go?” Hoseok asks, jabbing a thumb over at the festivities. “Last chance to back out, Min.”
Jimin scoffs. “‘Back out’? You literally begged me to come tonight.”
“I did nothing of the sort,” Hoseok retorts, but there’s a knowing grin on his face that he tries to play off by rapidly walking towards the firelight. “I am neither that desperate for your attention nor in need of a distraction as much as you are.”
With an indignant huff, Jimin jogs to catch up with his friend. “You’re actually the worst,” Jimin calls at Hoseok’s retreating figure, but there’s no heat in the words. The teasing brings a smile to his lips, so much so that all of the events of the morning no longer loom like a near-forgotten dream in the back of his mind.
Jimin’s almost annoyed by how well Hoseok can read him. It’d scared the shit out of him back in college. Hoseok had walked right into their shared dorm room, taken one look at Jimin, and nodded in smooth camaraderie. That night, he bought Jimin a cup of convenience store ramen, and forced Jimin to sit through a double feature of animated movies. And even though Jimin hadn’t realized it at the time, it’d been exactly what he needed after the emotional turmoil of finally escaping his parents’ house.
Hoseok had stuck to him like glue from then on, and Jimin never tried to tear him off. It’d actually almost killed the both of them when Hoseok decided to drop out in the middle of his third year. Jimin doesn’t remember how he made it through that final year of college-- he’s blocked so much of it out that he honestly is afraid to touch all of the repressed memories that dangle in the back of his head.
“Are you coming, or what?” Hoseok whoops back at Jimin.
With a start, Jimin blinks back into the present. He hadn’t even realized that he’d stopped in his tracks. “Yah, calm down, I’m coming.”
“Well, hurry up or I’ll leave you to fend for yourself at the beer cooler,” Hoseok threatens. He spins on his heel, facing Jimin as he walks backwards towards the bonfire behind him. The pink and yellow Hawaiian shirt he’s wearing looks bright orange in the fire, and his cargo shorts make him look like a middle-aged father instead of a respectable twenty-eight year-old, but Jimin finds his heart warming regardless.
Jimin shakes his head and trudges through the sand. A seashell pricks against the pads of his feet uncomfortably, but he pays it no mind. “You were the one who decided to come pick me up at the last minute. The least you could do is pretend like you have an ounce of patience,” Jimin taunts.
“You’re literally so far behind that I can’t hear your voice.” Hoseok skips around cheekily, and Jimin has to poke his tongue into his cheek to keep himself from rewarding Hoseok with a grin.
“I-” Jimin tries, but then he makes the mistake of stepping into the throes of the revelry. All at once, his words die in his throat. The music that splits the air in two is so loud that Jimin can feel it in his feet, even on sand . The grains jump up and down to the pumping bass of the track, sent up like froth on a wave. Jimin’s pretty sure that he drops his shoes in shock, but it’s too dark to be certain.
Throngs of people crowd the bonfire, clinking brown bottles of name-brand beer. Most of them are wearing markedly less clothing than he is-- swim trunks and bikinis and one-pieces, and Jimin all at once feels underdressed and overdressed at the same time.
“I’ll get you a drink!” Hoseok hollers at him. Lightning quick, he whips his tackily-printed shirt off and throws it into the air carelessly. The fire glints off of Hoseok’s back as he disappears among the waves of people dancing messily on the sand.
Jimin grimaces. “Hoseok!” he shouts in a desperate attempt to find his friend, “You can’t just-” But Hoseok is already gone. Jimin can’t even see his coppery head bobbing around in the crowd.
Great, he thinks sourly. It’s exactly what he didn’t want-- exactly what he was trying to avoid by staying at home in the first place. This is worse than being stuck alone with his thoughts, because at least then he’d be in his bed, not surrounded by sticky bodies. And-
“ No ,” Jimin says to himself firmly. He smacks his cheeks with his palms, momentarily forgetting that he’s wearing rings until the metal bites into his skin. Jimin stifles the pained hiss in favor of lecturing himself, “Enjoy yourself. Find someone to take home. Focus on the potential hookup.”
Jimin pushes away the little voice in his head that screams ‘This is sad! You’re really sad!’ in favor of looking over the crowd for any potential partners. There’s a man off to the left who looks pretty good; he’s got a nice body, he’s tall, and there’s a little stud in his ear. His smile is nice enough in the warm light, but he’s wearing webbed shoes on the beach, so Jimin immediately discards him.
“Jimin-ah!” somebody calls, interrupting Jimin’s somewhat-fruitless first pass.
From the direction that Hoseok had gone, Namjoon emerges from the press of bodies. His lavender hair is slicked back-- with saltwater or hair gel, Jimin doesn’t know-- and he has Hoseok and someone unrecognizable in tow.
“Ah, Namjoon! Good to see you,” Jimin greets. He accepts the beer from Hoseok’s hand, pretends that he doesn’t see the apologetic look on Hoseok’s face, and twists the top off effortlessly.
Namjoon hums and takes a swig of his drink. “I haven’t seen you outside of the studio in ages.”
“He’s trying to become a recluse,” Hoseok interrupts cheerfully. He latches an arm around Jimin’s neck, tugs him close. “We’re trying to find someone for him to hook up with tonight so that his tongue doesn’t atrophy before he turns twenty-seven.”
The music drowns out the offended screech that Jimin lets out, but it doesn’t hide the way Namjoon tilts his head back in laughter. “A worthy cause,” Namjoon snickers at Jimin’s expense. He winks jovially, just to show that he doesn’t mean any of it. “Who’re your candidates so far?”
Jimin nods in the direction of webbed-shoes guy. “I was thinking of him, but then-”
“Ah, those middle-aged man shoes.” Namjoon nods and wrinkles his nose in disgust at the shoes. “Those hurt my soul.”
The man standing next to Namjoon rolls his eyes heavenward. “You own crocs, baby. I don’t really think that you’re in any position to judge other people’s fashion choices.”
“What’s wrong with my crocs?” Namjoon whines, but nobody pays him any attention.
The unintroduced man sticks his hand out. “I don’t think we’ve met yet,” he says with a smile that seems to brighten the air around him, “I’m Min Yoongi. Namjoon’s boyfriend.”
Jimin stops in the middle of shaking Yoongi’s hand to shoot Namjoon a disbelieving look. “You have a boyfriend? Since when?”
“Since three and a half years ago,” Namjoon practically beams. “And yes, he is perfect in every way. And no, you can’t have him.”
Jimin gives Yoongi a once-over. His hair is dyed so blonde that it almost looks white, and he’s got three small hoops in each ear. There are matching divots on the side of the bridge of his nose that tell Jimin that he usually wears glasses. Yoongi is probably the most laid-back of all of them-- in his swim-shorts-oversized-hoodie combo, he looks like he’s just rolled out of bed. The bags under his eyes suggest that that may very well be the case.
“How have I never met you before?” Jimin wonders aloud.
Yoongi swipes Namjoon’s beer from his hand and knocks the remainder of the drink back in one smooth swallow. “Beats me,” he hums, “because Namjoon never shuts up about you.”
“Oh, yeah? You like me that much, hyung?” Jimin teases with a glance up at Namjoon.
The faint blush that spreads across Namjoon’s cheekbones is telling, but he keeps his composure remarkably well. “This isn’t about me. I don’t condone this realm of discussion.” In a flurry of motion, Namjoon steals Hoseok’s beer bottle and presses the mouth of the bottle to his lips to claim it as his own. Over Hoseok’s shouts of protest, Namjoon gestures vaguely with his stolen bottle. “Back to the important question, Jimin. Who else has caught your eye?”
“No one,” Jimin sighs. It’s not necessarily true, because there are several very good looking men at this party-- hell, within five feet of him alone-- but the longer he stands here talking about finding a one-night stand with his friends, the more idiotic he feels for doing it in the first place.
Yoongi chews the bottom of his lip as he thinks. “Well, if you’re looking for remarkably great sex and remarkably little commitment, I’d suggest that you’d start with the guys who work down at the docks.”
“Yoongi…” Hoseok warns lightly.
Jimin doesn’t miss the exchange. “The dock workers?” he parrots, looking out into the sea of bodies for the telltale navy jumpsuits, “Which ones are those?”
“They’re the guys taking turns doing keg stands,” Hoseok says dryly. “Most of them are idiots. Except for you, Yoongi.”
Surprised, Jimin looks back at Namjoon’s boyfriend. “You work at the docks too?”
“In the offices,” Yoongi explains. “I do most of the bookkeeping and shipment tracking for the cargo crates.”
“How have I never heard of you?” Jimin exclaims, pausing briefly in his search of a hookup to wonder if he’s just remarkably bad at paying attention when Hoseok talks to him about his job.
Yoongi offers him a mysterious smile that tells Jimin that it’s his problem to try and figure it out. “You should take a look at them,” is all Yoongi says before taking a step back. “I need another beer. It was nice to meet you, Jimin. Good luck preventing atrophy from setting in tonight.”
“Thanks,” Jimin deadpans, resolutely ignoring Namjoon’s chuff of laughter.
Despite his growing unwillingness to commit to taking someone home tonight, Jimin forces himself to look over at the men standing around the keg. There’s someone doing a kegstand, arms braced against the sides of the metal container as he sucks the alcohol out through the hose. From what Jimin can tell, he’s well-built-- but his vibrantly cherry hair covers his face, so Jimin looks away.
The rest of the workers are alright. The two men supporting the upside-down guy on the keg are decent enough, and both of them have smile lines around their mouths and friendly eyes. One of them catches Jimin looking, offers him a private smile. Out of courtesy, Jimin grins back, immediately uninterested.
“Anyone catch your eye?” Namjoon prompts eagerly. Hoseok looks less than enthused at the fact that Jimin might be going home with one of his coworkers, but he hides it remarkably well.
Jimin is halfway through admitting defeat when the man doing the kegstand flips himself over the keg and onto his feet. And just like that, Jimin’s found the person he’s taking home.
As he accepts congratulatory high-fives from the other dock workers, Jimin stands there, more than a little shell-shocked. Behind the windswept, painfully bright hair is one of the most handsome faces that Jimin’s ever seen. The man has a sloped nose, a defined jaw, and the kind of smile that Jimin is willing to bet can convince somebody to commit murder. And, just to add insult to injury, the rest of him is perfect as well.
Of course, the stranger by the keg isn’t wearing a shirt. He’s remarkably built-- muscular without being beefy, lean without looking sickly. Jimin’s pretty sure that the man could crush his skull with his thighs. Not to mention the fact that there are swirls of ink along his shoulders and across his ribs.
“So, uh, who’s that?” Jimin croaks weakly. He nods over towards the man, a little bit of fire already starting to pool in the space just below his navel. Jimin doesn’t even realize he’s licking his lips until Hoseok groans.
“Of course you pick him,” Hoseok complains, “I hate that guy.”
Jimin half-turns to face Hoseok, unwilling to avert his eyes and lose mystery-man to the swell of party-goers. “Hyung, who is he?”
“That’s Jeon Jeongguk, literally the most problematic person I’ve ever met in my life. He’s got issues, Jimin, and not in the romance-novel, ‘let me fix you’ kind of way.” Hoseok levels Jimin with a look that’s uncharacteristically serious. “I’m, like, ninety percent certain that he’s tried to steal a forklift from work before. A forklift . Who does that?”
Namjoon grunts his agreement. “Yoongi talks about him sometimes. He doesn’t like him much either. From what I hear, he’s got a couple strikes on his record for insubordination.”
“‘Insubordination’?” Jimin scoffs, “What is this, the military?”
“I’m serious, Jimin, don’t go there,” Hoseok warns. He crosses his arms, shifts his weight to one hip. “And if you do, please be careful. He looks nice, but he’s a shark.”
Jimin tilts his head to the side as he considers his options. He’s never seen Jeongguk before-- he’s never even heard of him before. The odds of not running into him in five years practically guarantee that Jimin will never see him again after tonight. And besides, it’s not like Jimin’s interested in more than his body either. “Is he boyfriend material?” Jimin asks.
Hoseok’s reply is instantaneous. “Absolutely not.”
“Perfect,” Jimin grins. He shoves his half-empty beer bottle into Hoseok’s hands, pops the top button of his shirt, and brushes his bangs back up and out of his face. “Wish me luck.”
Namjoon lets out a noise of surprise, but Hoseok only says, “Fine, good luck. But if he bites your dick off or steals your wallet or something, don’t come crying to me.”
“I’m not worried.” Jimin leaves without another word or a backwards glance, already committed to conquering this man. To be fair, he’s a little out of practice, but he’d always been fantastic at flirting in college. Like riding a bicycle, Jimin muses, comforting himself even while he forgets that he doesn’t even know how to ride a bike.
Jimin twists and turns through the barely-clothed strangers, keeping his eyes locked onto Jeongguk the entire time. There’s a moment as he approaches the group of dock workers where Jimin’s reason shines through-- he spends a second worrying which pick-up line he’s going to use, or how he’s going to get Jeongguk’s attention. As it turns out, he doesn’t have to worry at all.
The second Jimin exits the people dancing and grinding by the fire, Jeongguk’s eyes pick him out. Now that Jimin’s closer, he sort of understands what Hoseok and Namjoon were talking about. Shark is an understatement for sure. Jeongguk’s stare is practically as sharp as a knife. He looks like he’s calculating something as he blatantly looks Jimin’s body up and down; there’s a predatory air about the look that Jimin’s not entirely sure he enjoys. But Jimin’s already made his choice, and he’s not about to go back home empty handed.
As soon as Jimin’s within speaking distance, Jeongguk raises an eyebrow. “Hey, gorgeous,” he catcalls at Jimin. The workers surrounding Jeongguk hoot, but Jimin blocks them out like a pro.
“I actually go by ‘Jimin’ around here,” Jimin shoots back smoothly. He tilts his lips into a barely-there grin, cocks his hip out just to focus Jeongguk’s attention on his waist.
It works like a charm, but Jimin only has a second to bathe in his victory before Jeongguk’s sighing, “Ah, interesting. Not gonna remember that in the morning.”
“Works for me,” Jimin shrugs. He’s not hurt in the least. Jimin’s dealt with assholes before. At least this one is handsome.
Jeongguk flashes a charming smile, and Jimin’s eyes are naturally drawn to the mole beneath his lip and the dimples that almost make him look innocent, even as his demeanor suggests that it’s a lie. “Babe, I think anything would work for you.”
Got him , Jimin purrs internally. He smiles sweetly. “You think so?”
“Absolutely,” Jeongguk smirks. He props his hands on his hips, no doubt aware of how the sudden movement makes the muscles on his abdomen jump in the firelight. “What, are you not gonna ask me my name?”
Jimin tries to not be intimidated by Jeongguk’s looks, or his easy confidence he wears like a second skin. Instead, Jimin takes a step forward to close some of the distance between the two of them. Slowly, he trails a finger from one of Jeongguk’s collarbones across to his bicep. Goosebumps pebble across Jeongguk’s bare skin, and it gives Jimin enough of a confidence boost to ask, “Do I need to?”
“No,” Jeongguk laughs. He genuinely doesn’t seem to give a shit about Jimin’s lack of personal interest. It’s a little shocking, but Jimin chooses to roll with the punches.
Licking his lips, Jimin tilts up onto his toes and whispers, “Wanna get out of here?” He places his palms flat on Jeongguk’s chest to really nail his point home.
Jeongguk hums, takes a deep breath, and then answers easily, “Nah.” Blinking, Jimin sinks back onto the flats of his feet. He wills his cheeks not to burn in embarrassment as Jeongguk continues, completely unaffected, “I came with my friends and to be honest, I’m not about to leave them for you.”
Yeah, Jimin. Big mistake , he thinks, but Jimin lacks both the means and the resources to go back in time and keep his past self from making this decision. “Oh,” Jimin tries to play it off smoothly, “That’s fine. I-”
“But,” Jeongguk interrupts, “I’m willing to hook up with you right now.” In a flash, he snakes his arms down and around Jimin’s hips, tugging Jimin closer by his belt loops.
Jimin blinks again as he reels from the emotional whiplash his poor brain is going through. From horny to disgusted to horny again in ten seconds flat. “What, you mean- here?” Jimin asks incredulously. He steals a glance over his shoulder at the throngs of people still crowding around the bonfire. He sees Hoseok and Namjoon surreptitiously watching him from the opposite side of the party. Hoseok’s face is beyond sour, but Namjoon flashes him a subtle thumbs up.
“Yeah,” Jeongguk breathes, voice suddenly much closer. Jimin whips back around. Jeongguk’s face is inches from his own, so close that Jimin can feel the air that fans across his cheekbones whenever Jeongguk exhales. He’s more than a little surprised to find that he doesn’t hate it.
This is what you came for , Jimin internally reminds himself. Willing himself to be the calm, easy-going person he used to be, Jimin finds himself agreeing. “Alright. But you better make it worth my while.”
“Oh, trust me, doll. You’ll be seeing stars by the time I’m done with you.” Jeongguk doesn’t even finish his spine-tingling promise before he’s pulling back, tugging Jimin down along the beach with him.
The moment Jeongguk picks up into a run, Jimin finds himself regretting all of his decisions again. Jeongguk is taller and more well-built, and it manifests in a running speed that Jimin can only compare to an overzealous gazelle. The further they get away from the bonfire, the less of their surroundings Jimin can make out. It’s a little intimidating, being pulled along by a semi-dangerous stranger, completely unaware of where they’re heading. But Jeongguk seems to know where they’re going, and Jimin doesn’t really have much of a choice but to stumble along after him.
By the time they stop, Jimin’s breathless, and not in a fun way. Jimin collapses in half. He braces his hands on his knees, struggling to breathe as he looks around. They’re tucked away behind what appears to be a stack of multicolored, upside-down single-person wooden boats. From this position, they’re hidden from view of the bonfire-goers, but unprotected on the other three sides.
“Classy,” Jimin drawls dryly. He rights himself and puts his hands on his hips.
Jeongguk looks down at him and shrugs again. It’s a little irritating how he’s so put together after sprinting down the beach, but Jimin attributes it to the fact that Jeongguk is essentially built like a Greek god. “Are we doing this?” he asks.
“Damn right,” Jimin replies resolutely. There’s no way in hell he’s leaving without an orgasm after being dragged down a beach at top speed.
With an amused huff, Jeongguk gestures down to Jimin’s clothes. “Great. Undo your belt.”
Jimin complies, a little bit confused as to why Jeongguk’s bad attitude and general assholery is kind of a turn on. Probably because you’ll never see him after this, Jimin’s rational brain answers, because while the attitude might be fun during sex, it’s absolutely not something Jimin would ever enjoy in regular conversation.
But then Jeongguk is tugging Jimin closer again, and slotting a leg in between Jimin’s thighs, and Jimin suddenly finds all rational or adjacently-rational thoughts floating away on the salty breeze.
“ Oh,” he gasps in surprise at how fast Jeongguk moves. Jimin can’t entirely control the way his body responds to Jeongguk’s-- it’s like his hips have a mind of their own as they dip down just enough to feel the friction that comes with riding Jeongguk’s thigh.
Jeongguk puts his hands on Jimin’s hips, digs his fingers into the sliver of bare skin that lies exposed between the hem of his pants and the end of his cropped shirt. He digs his nails in enough that Jimin half-yelps, not entirely sure if it’s out of pain or pleasure or a mix of both.
“Just like that,” Jeongguk hisses as he guides Jimin’s hips up and down on his thigh.
Jimin probably should be feeling embarrassed at how quickly he’s getting worked up, especially since Jeongguk’s swim trunks are barely tented, but he can’t really find it in himself to care. His head is all fuzzy from the way Jeongguk is handling him and the little thrill at being out in the open behaving like this. It’s wild , considerably more crazy than any hookup Jimin’s had before.
“Ah- Jeongguk,” Jimin finds himself panting. He tosses his arms around Jeongguk’s neck, buries his face into his clavicle.
He feels the laugh that rumbles out of Jeongguk’s chest. “I never told you my name, doll,” he croons, a little condescending, “Did you come looking for me?”
Embarrassment, hot and bright, burns through Jimin at the slip-up. Great job, Jimin sighs sarcastically to himself. He doesn’t say anything, just tries to focus on moving on Jeongguk’s thigh.
Jeongguk, it seems, has other plans. He pushes Jimin back, grabs his chin with one of his palms, and tilts his head back until Jimin’s looking him dead in the eyes. “Did you come looking for me? Heard about me, hm? About how good I could make you feel?”
Yeah , Jimin decides, the arrogance is definitely a turn-off. But he’s already here, already half-hard against Jeongguk, and the friction is amazing . Even so, Jimin has a shred of dignity left. He feels himself puffing up and stills his hips. “I-” he starts to defend.
“ Jeongguk!” somebody shrieks, and Jimin’s blood runs cold. Any lingering arousal that’d been building in his gut dies the instant somebody rounds the turn of the stacked boats.
Jimin tries to wriggle out of Jeongguk’s grip, more than a little desperate to not be caught here with him , but Jeongguk’s grip is like iron. “Great,” Jeongguk mutters under his breath.
Another man that Jimin doesn’t recognize comes stalking towards the two of them at full-tilt. “How dare you,” the stranger threatens. He’s about Jimin’s height with an average face, and Jimin doesn’t even need to know Jeongguk personally to know that Jeongguk has already forgotten this person’s name.
“Ah… you,” Jeongguk greets vaguely. “Great to see you again.”
The man scoffs angrily. He shoots daggers at Jimin, throws a hand out in his direction. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“I’m sorry, did we hook up?” Jeongguk asks, seemingly genuinely curious about the answer. “You’re not really my type.”
The stranger looks stricken for a moment, and Jimin sees what’s about to happen before it does. God help me , Jimin prays as he squeezes his eyes shut. Right on cue, the man starts to sniff. “I- you- you don’t remember me?”
“Not even a little,” Jeongguk sighs. “God, don’t cry . I’m kind of in the middle of something.” And just because he seems to want to make the situation worse, Jeongguk picks Jimin up and drops him back down on his thigh, just enough for Jimin’s entire body to jolt at the sudden re-introduction of friction.
Jimin hates himself for moaning at the sensation, but it’s completely involuntary. You’re so going to hell, Jimin tells himself moments before the other man breaks down into a complete mess of tears.
“You said you’d call!” the stranger half-shouts.
Jeongguk sighs. “Did I? That doesn’t sound like me. I was probably lying. I tend to do that.”
“I- you-” the stranger chokes out over his tears, “I can’t believe you. I can’t believe I wasted my time on you.”
With a roll of his eyes, Jeongguk retorts, “Holy shit, are you finished yet? God, I can’t believe I wasted my time on you either. Get out of here.”
“You’re a horrible person.” The other man swipes at his eyes, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. “I thought I saw you by the bonfire, but I- I-”
“Ah, baby, you hurt me. I’m horrible, great to know!” Jeongguk taunts, voice laced with a meanness Jimin didn’t know people were capable of possessing. “Get lost. I’m not interested.”
It’s the last straw. With a strangled sob, the stranger turns on his heel and sprints back the way he came. Jimin feels awful-- awful for being here with Jeongguk, for even looking at Jeongguk, for indirectly being a part of hurting whoever that hell that was.
As the stranger runs away, Jeongguk calls after him, “Oh no, please don’t go. I love you and stuff.” He breaks off into a bout of derisive laughter, chest rising and falling in his mirth. “Well,” he says, looking back at Jimin once he can talk again. “Wanna cum?”
It hits Jimin, all at once, why Hoseok, Yoongi, and Namjoon seem to hate Jeongguk. He’s an asshole-- a genuine, unadulterated asshole. Jimin isn’t even angry about it. If anything, it’s sympathy that lances through him as he takes in Jeongguk. Objectively, Jeongguk is physically perfect. His biting words hint at some level of intelligence. But it’s overwhelmingly sad that this is how Jeongguk uses everything at his disposal.
It’s not a turn-on for Jimin anymore, and it’s most certainly not his problem to deal with the man in front of him.
So Jimin answers honestly. “Not really,” he says, not even trying to hide the disgust in his voice. He taps against Jeongguk’s chest with both of his palms in a clear signal for him to back the hell off.
Surprisingly, Jeongguk takes a step away. “Your loss.” Jeongguk takes a brief look down at the small tent in the front of his swim trunks. He nods. “Well, I’m good to go, so. See you around.”
“Hopefully not,” Jimin mutters under his breath. It’s not meant to be malicious, but Jimin would rather die than have to stare Jeongguk in the eyes after tonight. This was probably the worst possible thing that could’ve happened. Jimin already knows that he’s sort of going to hate himself in the morning for even considering hooking up with the man in front of him.
Unfortunately, Jeongguk seems to hear him. He grins like he knows a secret that Jimin doesn’t. “That works too,” he says, and then tacks in cheekily a second later, “Want a kiss?”
Jimin wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Not even a little.”
“Suit yourself.” Jeongguk points down at Jimin’s crotch. “I’d wait here for a little bit,” he says pointedly.
And, crazily enough, the whole situation can and does get infinitely more uncomfortable. Jimin can feel a fresh wave of red rushing to his cheeks at Jeongguk’s obvious amusement at Jimin’s arousal-- never mind that he was the one who caused it in the first place.
Strike me down where I stand, he begs whoever happens to be in the heavens laughing their ass off at his expense. Please. It’s all I want .
What he says is, “O-Okay.”
“Bye, babe,” Jeongguk waves. He grins, blows Jimin a sarcastic kiss, and goes sprinting down to the bonfire. Jimin’s fairly certain that he hears Jeongguk whoop excitedly as he runs.
Jimin-- who doesn’t have the luxury to be heading back to the warmth of the bonfire yet-- sits, his back pressed against the hardwood of the stacked boats behind him. Without the heat of Jeongguk’s body pressed against his, it’s actually pretty cold out. The sand that spills out from between his fingers is warm from the residual heat of the day, but Jimin still shivers against the chill in the air.
A breeze washes in from the ocean as the tide comes in to fill the shoreline with water. Jimin watches the waves as he tries to calm down. He resolves to never do this again, to just stay inside on the weekends and to try and convince Hoseok to do the same.
Jimin looks over at the ocean. It’s calm tonight. Waves crash evenly against the breakers just off shore, but there’s a tension in the air that Jimin can feel intuitively. The air feels different. He knows even before he looks over at the horizon that something is amiss.
He looks anyway.
There, fairly far off of the coast of the island, storm clouds brew-- they cinch together like purse strings, swirling and churning in bruised blue-greys. The clouds hang heavy with moisture, a telltale sign of an early summer storm. From the looks of it, it’s going to be a bad one.
Jimin’s seen thunderstorms before. He’s been in storms before.
But this time, he shivers. And for the life of him, he doesn’t know why.