Chapter Text
Jimin sits in the back of Hoseok’s car and stares out the window, watching the world fall away behind him. Fingers of summer light reach across the sky, blue bleeding sweetly into orange, the washed-out colours of sunset. If everything didn't suck right now, Jimin would call it beautiful.
But everything does suck, so the sky can suck it too.
In the front seats, Hoseok and Taehyung bounce with excitement, cranking the stereo louder each minute. They’re screeching along to some cheesy pop track, hitting precisely zero of the notes, instead resembling something like a cat having its tail stepped on. It bugs Jimin how giddy they are. They’d arrived at his doorstep with grins wider than their faces, shoving him - or manhandling him, as Jimin puts it - roughly into the back of Hoseok’s car. It was like he was being arrested or something.
(Jimin would rather that were the case, because at least in a jail cell, you don’t have to socialise. Socialising is probably his least favourite thing to do, unless it’s with Hobi and Tae—but right now, he doesn’t even want to talk to them.)
“You’re okay, right?” Hoseok locks eyes with Jimin in the rear-view mirror, maybe recognising his palpable anxiety, or perhaps just wondering why he hasn’t spoken a word in the past ten minutes. “You look kind of horrified.”
Jimin grimaces, turning his attention once more to the window. It’s weird how the ground almost tilts towards the sun, like it wants to be up there in the atmosphere. God, Jimin wants to be up there – floating far away, away from Earth, away from all the people he’s inevitably going to talk to tonight, away from this dreaded party (and maybe even away from himself).
See, Jimin's never been one for parties. He's never been one for people.
Jimin's quite happy spending his Saturday nights alone, thank you very much.
In the passenger seat, Taehyung pulls his feet up and wraps his arms around his bony, tan-coloured legs, exposed by black knee-length Adidas shorts. “It’ll be fun, Jimin-hyung,” he promises, deep voice full of sincerity. "You'll get to meet new people."
"Gross."
"It's a truth universally acknowledged that no one has ever regretted going to a social event," adds Taehyung matter-of-factly. “You’ll thank us for it later.”
Hoseok nods sagely in agreement, and Jimin almost scoffs. He loves his best friends, but they’re acting like a pair of wise old men right now. It's ridiculous. This is Hoseok and Taehyung, for fuck’s sake. Jimin once caught Tae trying to lick peanut butter off his elbow. Hobi sings ABBA songs in the shower. They’re not exactly pinnacles of knowledge and sophistication.
"It's a truth universally acknowledged," counters Jimin, "that my best friends are insufferable."
"You'll have to introduce them to us sometime," quips Hoseok. "They sound like our kinda people."
Jimin stops listening. His heart thrums violently against his ribcage, and he grips the fabric upholstery of the seat, digging in bitten fingernails, so sharp they leave marks. He wonders how many swigs of beer it’ll take before he’s no longer such a nervous wreck, and makes a mental note to head straight to the kitchen as soon as they arrive. By the end of the night he'll probably have developed a severe case of alcohol poisoning, but whatever. Worth it.
“Listen, buddy, I know you’re like, a socially anxious mess, or whatever…” Taehyung begins, twisting round in his seat. Jimin glares at him, a look that says, “so not helping, Tae,” but the younger boy chuckles, that deep honey sound. “I mean, you’ve got to stop sleeping your whole life, you know?”
“I’m a high school student,” says Jimin. “If I don’t sleep, I’ll overwork myself to death.”
“Jimin.exe stopped working,” adds Hoseok, doing robotic arm movements while they wait at a traffic light. Despite everything, Jimin wants to snort with laughter – Hoseok always has that effect on him; like a super power – but he stifles it to save face.
Taehyung stares at Jimin pointedly. “I don’t mean literally, dumbass. You’re sleeping through life like a zombie. One day you’re going to wake up and realise that you wasted your teenage years being miserable and grumpy all the time.”
“Harsh, Tae.”
“Look. All I’m saying is that you need to do things that scare you, because otherwise, you’ll stay trapped in this little safe bubble you’ve imagined for yourself, and you’ll never live your life to the fullest."
"I quite like it in my little safe bubble. It's warm in here."
"It's suffocating you!" cries Taehyung, exasperated; he flings his arms up like he's doing a Mexican wave, then starts to wildly gesticulate while he talks. "What’s that phrase... seize the day! Make the most of your life while we’re young and capable and free, and-”
“And single!” Hoseok butts in, laughing. “Easy for you to say, Tae. You’re not the one who has to drive us all home tonight.” He brandishes the bottle of Sprite he’s brought with him, groaning dramatically. “No alcohol for me. Yay.”
He catches Jimin’s eye in the rear-view and winks, but Jimin sinks further into his seat, wishing he could feel as euphoric as his elder friend so clearly does. Hoseok always manages to have fun no matter the levels of alcohol in his bloodstream—he doesn’t walk through life like a half-asleep zombie, like Jimin. He dances through.
(Jimin, on the other hand, is the literal walking embodiment of anxiety. He can’t even head to the grocery store without panicking that they’ll have run out of Pepero.)
“Seriously, Chim,” says Taehyung, stretching over to pat Jimin affectionately on the knee. “You’re fine. You’ll be fine. And who knows—tonight could be the start of the rest of your life.”
”Unlikely,” scoffs Jimin, but he looks at Taehyung and immediately feels bad. Shit, his best friend’s only trying to help.
Jimin’s constantly promising himself he'll stop being so pessimistic, so glass-half-empty about every little thing in life.
It’s a promise he always breaks.
Anyway. Taehyung has this power about him that makes Jimin almost believe his optimistic, somewhat clichéd words; maybe it’s those dark eyes, swimming with intensity, or the way his thick eyebrows are knotted together, serious, like he’s about to say something Really Important. Jimin looks from Taehyung’s earnest expression to Hoseok, and back again.
As far as best friends go, they’re pretty wonderful.
He doesn’t want to lose them.
And so:
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay?”
“Okay, I’ll come to the party and have the time of my life and GET REALLY, REALLY DRUNK, JUST TO SPITE HOBI-HYUNG. Happy now?”
Taehyung grins, twisting back around in his seat to face the front of the car, before cranking up the stereo. “Yeah, I’m happy now. Hear that, Hobi? Jimin’s going to get absolutely—” His voice breaks off into silence, and the sultry Childish Gambino song seems too loud all of a sudden.
Taehyung flicks off the radio. “Shit,” he murmurs.
Hoseok slows the car, staring out the window. A hush has fallen over the three, and the anxiety stirring in Jimin’s body reaches catastrophic levels; it courses aggressively through his veins, making whatever glimmer of optimism he had - if only for a second - retreat back into the murky depths. “What is it?” He asks, confused by his friends’ sudden unease. They don’t answer him.
When he sees it, his blood runs cold.
Shit indeed.
There, parked in prime position in front of the house in which tonight’s party is taking place, is a gleaming black BMW. It shines menacingly beneath the evening sun, not a dent or scratch in sight. Pristine, like its owner.
If it weren’t for the tinted windows, Jimin could just make out the smooth black leather interior, a dashboard with too many fancy buttons and advanced widgets to count. They don’t have to look at the number plate to know which car it is, and whom it belongs to.
Hoseok’s only choice is to parallel-park behind it, and as he slowly completes the manoeuvre, Taehyung snickers. “Careful, Hobi. Don’t hit the bumper. Irritating as you are sometimes, I’d hate for you to get violently beaten up tonight.”
“Shut up,” Hoseok smirks, eventually parking the car. In the backseat, Jimin wrings his hands together. How can his friends discuss this so casually? Surely this is a bad omen—fate, perhaps. Maybe someone up there in the sky really has it out for him, and they’ve tinkered with the fabric of the universe so that everything that could possibly go wrong in his life, does. The prospect of a party was bad enough itself, but... this? Them? It’s a thought he’s been trying not to wallow in since his friends arrived cheerily at his doorstep, but now it shoots to the surface, refusing to be restrained: he knows, he knows in his soul, that they shouldn’t have come to the party.
“Weird how they’ve actually turned up, though,” Hoseok is saying. “People are always inviting them to parties, but... well, I always assumed they thought they were too cool to ever actually show up.”
“Maybe they got tired of strangling squirrels,” shrugs Taehyung, unbuckling his seatbelt.
After that, Hoseok and Taehyung seem unfazed, but as they walk past the car – which puts Hoseok’s tiny red second-hand contraption to shame – Jimin can’t shake the feeling of fear, not just trepidation now, but genuine terror, that’s locked itself into his system. The warm evening sun beats light against his skin, forming droplets of sweat on his forehead; he wipes an arm across his face, then glances back towards the car. It’s empty.
Its owner, Jeon Jungkook, must be somewhere inside.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
Jimin’s never been to a party before. They’ve never appealed to him: all the movies and television dramas he’s watched have convinced him all they consist of is sweaty bodies pressing up against each other, darkness, drugs, loud music, flashing lights, and loads and loads of people – basically, everything he stands against. But really, they’re not like that at all.
They’re worse.
The lights are bright in here, almost clinical, and the music isn’t even party music, just some sappy ballad belting out of an iPod dock, and people are milling around and chatting and no one’s really dancing at all. He wonders if there’ll come a point where everyone will suddenly go crazy and start grinding up against each other. Somehow, he doubts it. It’s all so tragic, so boring and ordinary, that Jimin hates Taehyung and Hoseok for dragging him into this – and hates them even more for leaving him here to die of boredom alone.
Okay, he’s not totally alone. He’s got Taehyung, slumped heavily against his shoulder. Tae has slipped into a deep-set alcohol-induced coma, having quickly fallen prey to the perils of soju. His head lolls against Jimin’s small frame, and Jimin shifts uncomfortably beneath his weight, trying in vain to dodge the sliver of drool that’s dangling precariously from the younger boy’s lip.
If only Hoseok were here to be the responsible one, to say “okay, he’s had enough, let’s go home”, and bundle Taehyung into the back of his car like that time they went to the cinema and Taehyung got sick eating too much popcorn. But Hoseok vanished ages ago. Last Jimin saw him, he was bounding across the room to greet his friends from dance club.
Unlike his alcoholically-challenged friend, Jimin hasn’t had a single drink. When they first got inside the house, the kitchen was far too crowded for his liking, so while Taehyung barged past the dense, sweaty mass of people and made a bee-line for the shot glasses, Jimin resolved to exploring. He deduced that the kitchen and the garden were the main areas of the party – it had been a nice evening, after all, warm and sunny, the early rays of summer stretching out to greet them. After spending too long hiding out in the bathroom, playing Piano Tiles on his phone as he prayed to muster up some courage (while not managing to muster up any courage at all), Jimin found a nice spot on the sofa in the living room, which was blissfully empty at the time.
The party has moved inside since then; every few minutes, a couple more people bustle in through the doorway, huddling up to each other and complaining about it getting chilly outside now that the sun has set. Someone appeared with a set of speakers, and then in rushed Taehyung with a bottle of beer for Jimin, before he collapsed, exhausted, on the sofa beside him. Although Jimin likes the drink, it feels out of place in his hand. Like he shouldn’t be drinking it.
Like he shouldn’t be here.
He’s contemplating just giving up and walking home, say to hell with Tae’s moronic idea of seizing the day and living his life to the fullest, when Jeon Jungkook and his sidekicks enter the room - and everything kind of stops.
Automatically, Jimin grasps Taehyung’s sweater sleeve. “Wha—?” mumbles Taehyung, casting a weary glance across the room. “Oh,” he says. “Them.”
Yeah, thinks Jimin. Them.
Taehyung stifles a yawn. “I saw them outside earlier. They were being...” He doesn’t finish, but he doesn’t need to. They were being assholes. Big surprise.
Jimin has always referred to the four as the Populars, and it proves to be an apt name, because, unlike Jimin, the party reacts positively to their arrival in the room; heads turn and everyone cheers, they actually cheer, as if it’s an honour of the highest order that they’ve decided to show up. People migrate towards them, swarming their group like flies. Girls who want to try their luck at charming them, seducing them, kissing them—boys who want to be associated with them so as to climb the social hierarchy, or perhaps chance the belief that hanging out in their general vicinity might transfer some of their coolness over.
Jimin grips his bottle and doesn’t move, not just because Tae is now holding his denim jacket sleeve in a death-grip, but also because he doesn’t care about them. At all.
Really. He doesn’t.
Yet he can’t help but stare. It’s weird seeing the Populars out of their school uniforms. They look more attractive than ever, annoyingly so; Jimin kind of wants to punch himself in the face because it makes him feel so inadequate.
They’re all handsome in a similar, conventional way: their skin glows like the rarest of jewels, smooth and clear; their legs are long, hugged by fitted ripped jeans; their hair is perfectly styled like they’ve come straight here from the most expensive salon in Seoul. But of all of them, Jimin finds Jungkook to be the most physically appealing. It’s his sharp jawline, dark brows, those small hoop earrings he wears every day; his rounded eyes and lips that, although small compared to Jimin’s own, are just the right amount of kissable. Jungkook makes Jimin believe that some faces were carved by angels—a face that, if Jimin didn’t know better, would be the perfect mix between cute and sexy.
Not that it matters. He can see beneath Jungkook’s pretty demeanour, knows that there’s a foul personality lurking inside. Jimin would never be interested in someone so repulsive, no matter how attractive—or cute, or sexy, or seriously, what the fuck, were you made in a factory or something?—they might seem on the surface.
Besides, Jungkook’s straight. Obviously.
(And even if he wasn’t, he’d never be interested in Jimin. He doesn’t even know Jimin exists. Jimin supposes this is a good thing, because he’d rather be a stranger to Jungkook than someone who repeatedly fell victim to his increasingly petty malice, but... Still. Jimin can’t help but wonder.)
Jimin shoves Taehyung awake again. He needs moral support. He always feels on edge when the Populars are in the same room, like at any moment they could choose him as a target, start firing. Luckily that’s never happened before; he’s been at the receiving end of a few cruel jibes at school, but most of the time, he doesn’t stand out well enough for them to properly notice him.
Being a nobody has its perks.
“Wake up, lightweight,” Jimin hisses to Tae, and Taehyung mumbles something about it being “sleepy time”, and Jimin laughs, nervously, and shakes him harder. But it’s no use. Taehyung has reached his peak, and his chest is rising and falling with every breath, soft snores escaping from plump, soju-soaked lips.
Jimin frowns, pushing him to the other end of the sofa, and he’s about to go and get a glass of water for Tae from the kitchen when he finds himself staring at the Populars again. They’re kind of fascinating, in a way – like lions in the zoo who could pounce at any moment. If Taehyung had woken up, he’d be counting them off on his fingers: “There’s Kim Namjoon, Mr Intellectual. Kim Seokjin, Mr You’re-Not-Worth-The-Ground-I-Walk-On. Min Yoongi, Tiny Shitlord. And Jeon Jungkook – Devil Incarnate. Well, the whole gang’s here. Fun!”
And Taehyung would be correct with his labelling of Jungkook, because really, none of them are as bad as him. Sure, Namjoon has some pretty bad habits, and Seokjin will judge you like he’s paid to do it, and Yoongi has the filthiest mouth and an attitude to match – but compared to Jungkook, they’re virtually angels.
Because Jungkook is cruel, manipulative, rude, possessive.
Selfish and controlling and arrogant.
Devastatingly handsome, and irritatingly wealthy – he lives in a gated mansion at the edge of the city, for fuck's sake - but too aware of those facts, which he uses to twist people round his little finger, to get them to do what he wants.
If there’s one person Jimin hates in this world, it’s him.
And nothing, nothing, will change that.
He watches as Jungkook scans the room, running slender fingers through silky dark hair, narrowing his eyes as if eyeing up prey. He’s sucking on a lollipop, of all things. An exasperated Jimin rolls his eyes, knowing – if he knows anything about Jungkook at all – that he’s only doing it because he knows he looks hot. Because he wants people to stare at his lips.
Jimin is staring at his lips.
Fuck. Jungkook's little trick worked.
And now Jungkook is staring at him. Jimin rips his gaze away, but Jungkook has already noticed. Jimin can feel Jungkook's eyes burning scathingly into his soul, layers of skin and muscle and bones going tense with the feeling that they’re being examined, scrutinised, judged. He blinks, clenching his fingers around his still-full bottle of beer, forcing his attention to the other side of the room. If he can ignore the seemingly magnetic presence of the Populars, he’ll just about make it out of here alive. Maybe.
Curiosity gets the better of him.
He looks at Jungkook again.
And Jungkook, actual Jungkook, Jeon fucking Devil Incarnate Jungkook, looks back.
A group of girls rush up to the Populars and start giggling hysterically at everything they say. They’re pretty and practically falling at the boys’ feet. Jimin feels a pang of jealousy, because what must it feel like to have somebody want you that bad? The girls love Namjoon because he’s intelligent and badass; Seokjin because he's handsome and confident; Yoongi because he has his own music studio and produces semi-decent rap music. They love them because, despite their reputation, they’re the guys every girl wants on her arm—attractive, careless, cool. What reasons would anyone have to want Jimin that way? He tries to think of some, but comes up short.
(Even Hoseok and Taehyung are several rankings above him on the social ladder at school—Hoseok with his dancing, Taehyung with his drama club; Hoseok with his beaming personality and heart-shaped smile, Taehyung with his cool fashion sense and charming, could-melt-chocolate voice. Sometimes, the thought that his friends are so much better than him fills him with a dull, heavy pain. But, whatever—same old, same old. He has other things on his mind right now).
Jungkook pays no attention to the girls. He sucks on his lollipop, pouted lips stained red, a little like he’s been punched in the jaw, and glances in Jimin’s direction. Their gazes lock. This time, Jimin doesn’t look away. He feels terrified, because oh my god Jeon Jungkook is staring at me and will probably murder me at any moment, but he doesn’t look away.
He doesn’t know how.
Someone flicks off the living room light. Jimin hadn’t noticed in the brightness, but there’s one of those miniature rotating disco balls in here, one that flings colour against the walls and the ceiling; red and green and blue dance across Jungkook’s face, his eyes narrowing in this newfound kaleidoscope. There’s an intensity to Jungkook’s stare, and Jimin feels a thousand things at once; something stirs deep within him, tightening violently when Jungkook lifts his jaw, inspecting Jimin suspiciously.
And all of a sudden it’s only them, alone in the room and alone in the universe. The music has faded into nothingness, muffled like hearing it through a closed door. Time has frozen to a halt. The world, and all the stars in the galaxy, hold their breath.
A girl runs up to Jungkook and wildly grips his arm like he’s an illustrious idol, but he shoves her off gruffly.
The strange spell is broken.
Jungkook does not seem to be very interested in any of the girls here, or even in his friends, who are currently passing around a silver hip flask and chortling rambunctiously. No, Jungkook seems to be interested, right now, in only one thing: Jimin. He furrows his brow, deciding something, then begins to stride towards the sofa—towards Jimin, and oh my god oh my god oh my god, and panic courses through Jimin’s blood, his heart thrashing wildly in his chest like a fish out of water, like a fish that needs to breathe, like-
Beside him, Taehyung is fast asleep. In front of him, Jungkook is coming closer.
And then, before he can make a desperate dash to the toilet and escape to the safe haven of Piano Tiles, Jungkook is there, in front of him, and his crotch is directly opposite Jimin’s face. Jimin has no choice but to look down at his fingers, feeling itchy all of a sudden. Everything is too much. His body is too warm; he wants to rip off his skin and shrivel up and die.
“I have a question for you,” Jungkook says smoothly. “Do you have a camera on your phone?”
Jimin lifts his head. Okay, not so much the opener he was expecting. Maybe Jungkook just wants Jimin to... take a photo of him and the Populars? To make memories, or something? “S-sorry?”
“Because if you’re going to stare, you might as well just take a fucking picture.”
Jimin flushes with embarrassment.
Oh.
“I—I wasn’t—”
“You were,” Jungkook insists, folding his arms tightly across his chest. At the movement, Jimin smells a waft of cologne, irritatingly pungent but pleasant too. “You were staring at me. If you were trying to be discreet, you’ll need some practise.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Stop fucking staring at me,” Jungkook spits. The sudden malice in his voice makes Jimin recoil—makes a couple of curious heads turn their way. “It’s fucking creepy, so stop it. Alright?”
Jungkook’s eyes are dark and narrowed, jet black hair parted in the middle so that it effortlessly exposes his annoyingly-blemish-free forehead—like seriously, do rich people never get zits?—jawline sharp as a knife and lips pink, pouted, perfect. He’s wearing a distressed red-and-black striped sweater, ripped all over to expose a collar bone here, a bit of stomach there. Tight black jeans and a handful of silver rings. He sticks out his tongue to lick the lollipop, so slow it’s almost seductive, embarrassing and alluring at the same time. He looks so good. Hell, he smells so good.
Jimin tenses up again.
“Alright,” says Jimin. “I won’t stare. Sorry.”
Jungkook crouches down to Jimin’s seated height. “But you’re still staring, aren’t you?” He barks out a humourless laugh, and places a hand on the sofa beside Jimin’s thigh, digging his fingernails sharply into the upholstery. A warning. “I guess you just can’t look away. I wonder what it is - why you’re so fascinated with me. Is it because you find me attractive? Or maybe you’re just jealous?”
Jimin keeps his mouth pressed closed and his eyes glued to his lap. They sting with tears, with embarrassment, with rage, but he blinks them away. He isn’t going to cry at the hands of Jeon Jungkook—no way. He has far too much pride for that.
So he summons every shred of courage inside him, and shrugs. Jungkook's just a kid, and kids want attention. If you don’t give it to them, they’ll get bored, and wander off to find another toy to play with until it breaks. “I don’t know," says Jimin coolly. "You decide.”
He pulls out his phone and opens up Piano Tiles.
Inside his mind is screaming at him. Did you seriously just sass Jeon Jungkook? He's the king of sass. You're playing him at his own game and you're not. Going. To. Win.
Jungkook lets out an irritated scoff.
But he relents—
—And Jimin has won.
Jungkook straightens up to his full height, huffing like a child on the verge of a tantrum, and stalks off. Jimin can breathe again, muscles relaxing. He’s proud of himself for not fuelling Jungkook’s fire, for not stooping to his level by arguing back. Jungkook goes back to his friends and stands there looking pissed, a scowl fixed to his face like the petulant child he is. He doesn't look at Jimin again.
Jimin meanwhile glances at Taehyung. His best friend has woken up and is watching him with wide, curious eyes. “Shit, man.”
“Yeah.”
“You ever wonder,” begins Taehyung, deep voice raspier than usual, thick with drunkenness, “if a person is more than what they make out to be?”
Jimin tries to settle the sudden, chaotic beating of his heart. What was that weird feeling he felt, stirring within, when Jungkook came close? Was it adrenalin, or something else? There’s something about the way he smelt, that thick, boyish cologne and the sticky strawberry scent from his lollipop... so close Jimin could almost taste it...
He shakes the feeling, refusing to let Jungkook get under his skin.
“No,” he says firmly, decisively, finally taking a long swig of beer. He nods towards the Populars. “They’re dickheads through and through.”
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
Jimin stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. He’s been in here ages, splashing cold water onto Taehyung’s face in an attempt to sober him up, but now he’s momentarily abandoned Tae to do a quick check-up of his appearance. He looks good, his skin dewy and cheeks less chubby than usual today, black hair thick and fluffy. If Taehyung wasn’t semi-comatose still, he’d probably give it a ruffle with his hand, crying out: “Jiminie-hyung, you’re so cute!”
Jimin’s wearing eyeliner, too, a little smudged around his eyes—he thinks it looks cool. It's the one thing that makes him feel a little like someone who isn't frightened all the time; a little like the person he wants to be.
He shoots finger-guns at his reflection with a stupid, goofy smirk; feeling self-confident is a rare occurrence for Jimin, and he puts it down to the alcohol. After his brief encounter with Jeon Jungkook, he downed his beer then got one more, and a few shots of mysterious liquid later and his head is spinning and he’s more than a little tipsy, to say the least. But not as tipsy as Taehyung, who's slumped against Jimin and groaning at the coldness of the water being slapped into his face.
Outside, someone bangs aggressively at the door. Jimin knows that reckless impatience like the back of his hand: it can be none other than Jung Hoseok.
“Alright, we’re coming!” shouts Jimin, and he opens the door to find Hobi standing there, hand forming a fist and poised to knock again. At his sudden appearance, Taehyung straightens up and a childlike grin spreads across his face, throwing his arms up in delight upon seeing his best friend. He and Hoseok fall into a clumsy embrace while Jimin stands there laughing. “Where did you go? You left us alone!” he cries when they pull apart, grabbing Hoseok and tickling him under the armpits as a form of punishment.
“I went to see the guys from dance!” he giggles, squirming away from Jimin’s grasp. His voice is unnaturally high as the laughter pours from his mouth. “I’m sorry! Stop it! I’m gonna piss myself! I was just busting some moves, you can’t blame a guy for throwing a few shapes here and there—”
“So you weren’t off hooking up with someone, then? You weren’t getting drunk? Or terrorising the streets?” Jimin teases, gripping him harder. He nips him in the waist and then in the ribs, Hoseok yelling and protesting, muscles contorting beneath Jimin's grasp. “Tell me, aish, you little—”
“It was completely innocent! We were just talking, you shit!”
Laughter falls into the musty air between them, and locked in Jimin’s unrelenting grip, Hoseok throws a desperate glance towards Tae. “Grab him!” He shrieks, and almost automatically, Taehyung pounces on Jimin from behind, like a ninja. He wraps his arms around Jimin’s neck, and his legs around his waist, squeezing with muscular thighs. “Ha! Take that, Chim-Chim!”
Jimin groans and squirms and throws back his head, grinning a grin that’s wider than his face.
(And for a second, he forgets about his earlier encounter with Jungkook. Just for a second.)
They play-fight for a couple of intense minutes, shouting and screaming and swearing at each other, until Jimin forces koala-kid Taehyung off his back and stops to bend over from laughing so hard. He sinks to the floor, crouching down helplessly.
Then he looks up at his best friends, love and admiration flooding his body. Hoseok with his smiley face and oversized graphic T-shirt tucked into light blue skinny jeans, so boyish and cool; Taehyung with his big cuddly sweater and black Adidas shorts and scruffy brown hair, all thoughtful and—okay, yeah, also cool.
“You guys are so dumb,” Jimin pants with a smile, and they beam proudly at his cheesy statement, “but I love you a ton.” They’ve been best friends pretty much since the first day of school, when they were grouped together in History, and Jimin’s never been one to hide away his affectionate feelings towards them. Despite everything – the dragging-to-random-parties, for a start - he’s thankful he has them in his life. He tries not to ever forget how lucky he is to have them. "Hey, Hoseok-hyung - guess what happened earlier."
He launches into an explanation of his encounter with Jungkook (Hoseok will agree with him and Taehyung that Jungkook is an A-grade dick, as the three of them spend a substantial amount of time ranting about how much they hate the Populars; it’s a well-loved hobby of theirs), but he doesn't get to finish.
A girl has appeared beside them. Taehyung's friend from drama club. "We're going to play spin the bottle," she announces. "Come join."
"OOH!" yells Hoseok dramatically. "I'd better start warming up my jaw muscles."
The girl laughs.
Taehyung laughs.
Jimin doesn't laugh.
He looks in the direction of the living room. The now-closed door seems like a portal to his personal version of Hell; although he’s never played spin the bottle before, he despises the whole concept of it. Making out with a complete stranger in front of a group of people you barely know? Yeah, no thanks.
They turn towards the door. “Um, guys? I think I’ll pass,” Jimin blurts.
“What?” Hoseok asks. His lips are set in a perplexed frown; Jimin can see the tiny mole on his upper lip, his lips that have been kissed before, that enjoy being kissed, so none of this matters to him. “But it’ll be fun.”
“Not for me.”
His friends look at him helplessly, then loop their arms through his, assuring him it’ll be totally fine before dragging him towards his doom. He shakes his head fiercely. This is the second time tonight they’ve forced him into doing something he doesn’t want to do. He knows that they’re the breezy kind of people who’ll never truly understand what it’s like to be socially anxious, and awkward, and to go all chilly inside whenever they have to converse with a stranger… and he knows that they’re just trying to make him seize the day, carpe diem and all that crap… But still. He doesn’t want to do this. Why are they making him do this?
They enter the living room, and Jimin surveys the area. Although a decent amount of partygoers have gone home now, as it’s late, he’s displeased to find that the Populars – including Jungkook, fucking Jungkook – are sprawled on the floor. Other than them, there are about six girls and only a handful of boys, and Jimin's chances of kissing somebody are, among this small group, frustratingly high. It’s not that he doesn’t want to kiss anyone, but he’s never done it before, and he doesn’t want his first time to be at a party with somebody he’s never even said hello to before.
(Jimin doesn’t mind that he’s still not had his first kiss, because as much as television and films often make out otherwise, it’s really not that big a deal. But he sometimes feels out of place when people talk about how much experience they’ve had in that area, how great it feels to hold someone in your arms—to have someone want you, to want them back. Even Taehyung and Hoseok have had more experience than him, both having had girlfriends in the past. Jimin's waiting for the right person. Someone who’ll treat him right and kiss away his tears and accept him for who he is—shy, grumpy, pessimistic, nerdy: but filled with so much love he doesn't know what to do with it. Someone who'll tell him stories and laugh at all his silly jokes, and hold him tight when no one else will. Or whatever.)
He wants his first time to be special. He wants it to be with someone who’s special.
He sinks onto the floor, staring cautiously at the empty wine bottle in the middle of the room. Taehyung’s drama club friend leans forward and gives the bottle a hearty spin, but Jimin isn’t really paying attention. He feels sick, watching with blurred vision as the bottle spins and spins, quickly at first before slowing down and coming to a steady halt. It points at the girl beside her, and when they lean in to kiss, Jungkook and his friends all whoop and cheer. They’re so immature that Jimin wants to cry.
He sits shaking through the next few rounds, in which people Jimin doesn’t know share kisses like it’s the most normal thing in the world - Jimin tries to study them, wondering how best to kiss, what speed to use, what the fuck to do with his tongue, why did nobody ever teach him all this? What if I accidentally bite someone's lips or crash our teeth together and everyone laughs? - until Jungkook’s airy voice cuts through the chatter: “Hey, isn’t this a little tame?”
Everyone goes silent, and Jungkook smirks, his gaze travelling across the startled faces of those around him (Jimin swears his eyes lock with his own for a few moments longer than everyone else’s). “We should have to go upstairs into the spare bedroom and stay there for ten minutes,” Jungkook says decisively, and everyone bursts into chatter, some protesting, most agreeing, everyone drunk and slightly hysterical. “I mean, what happens in there is up to you, but…” He trails off and quirks his eyebrows, and beside him Namjoon yells something about the night getting wild, and Seokjin wolf-whistles, and Yoongi sits staring completely blank-faced at his phone, and Jimin’s heart plummets past the floor.
“Okay, okay,” a girl says over the commotion. “Everyone agree that you have to go upstairs together?”
There’s a unanimous chorus of yeahs around Jimin, Hoseok shouting the loudest, the horny little fool, and Jimin feels stupid for wanting to argue.
“Okay, great!” The girl laughs goofily (probably dying to make out with one of the Populars in a secluded area) before turning her attention to Hoseok. “It’s your turn.”
Hoseok looks at Jimin and wriggles his eyebrows suggestively. Despite everything, Jimin barks out a laugh. At least by going upstairs, he doesn’t really have to kiss anyone. If he gets Hoseok or Tae, they’ll just go up there and sit and talk. Maybe Jimin will tell them he’s never kissed anybody before, and they’ll nod in understanding and accept that he doesn’t want to do this anymore, and say, okay, let’s go home.
(Maybe... maybe he’ll even tell them he’s gay. Recently it’s felt like a thickness in his throat, words tangling in his airway that he wants to scream out, fling into the air to be rid of them. He knows his best friends won’t ever think badly of him - they love him for who he is. But this is big, and Jimin doesn’t know where to start.)
Hoseok crawls forward and gives the bottle a twirl. It spins around in slow-motion, and Jimin thinks for a moment that it might land on him, but then it continues to turn and slows to a stop right in front of none other than the Tiny Shitlord himself: Min Yoongi. Everyone explodes into babble, a girl screaming something about boy on boy action, and Yoongi looks up, weary-eyed and distant.
Then he stands up, shrugs, and nods wordlessly towards the door.
As Hoseok shakily gets to his feet, he throws Jimin a nervous glance. It's weird to see Hoseok nervous, but it's no wonder why. Shit. Jimin hadn’t even considered what would happen if his spin landed on one of the Populars.
Yoongi and Hoseok disappear from the room, like this whole situation is totally ordinary, just something we do now.
And Jimin sits there silently, toying with a strand of thread that’s sticking out from the carpet. Beside him, Taehyung hisses something about Hoseok finally getting some and how it’s about time, the boy hasn’t had any action in months. Jimin nods and forces a laugh from his throat, but he's up next and his fingers are shaking and Taehyung is quick to catch on. “Hey, you okay?”
He nudges Jimin’s arm, to which Jimin shakes his head, salty tears stinging his eyes for the second time tonight. He feels hot and dizzy, the coloured lights dancing across everyone’s faces and making them seem distorted and scary, like aliens. He’s just about to blurt out the truth when Taehyung leans in and says, “You know, if your spin lands on me, we’ll just leave and go home. I’m fucking drunk, anyway. I could fall asleep standing up right now.”
Relief. “Thanks, Tae-Tae.”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Taehyung adds. “Really.”
Jimin swallows thickly. “I know.”
They sit there chatting until ten minutes is up and the door swings open again. The room falls silent, every head turning curiously towards Hoseok and Yoongi. Yoongi shrugs, shaking his head and smirking, before holding out his hands like it’s no big deal. Hoseok’s hair is all mussed-up; his lips are red and he’s clearly flustered, and, holy shit, his jeans are unbuttoned. There’s no doubt about it – they actually just made out.
Hoseok flops onto the floor, dazed and grinning, and Jimin glares at him. “You fraternised with the enemy!” He hisses, outraged. “Tae, are you seeing this shit?”
Taehyung shrugs and smirks. “Hey, as long as it was consensual...”
He fist-bumps Hoseok, like this is all perfectly fine, and Hoseok snickers and says they’ll talk about it later. Jimin wants to talk about it now, thank you very much, but everyone’s staring at him - even Jungkook, as if he wasn’t anxious enough already - so he shuffles forward and gives the bottle a spin. Ten pairs of eyes watch intently, and as the bottle whirls around before him, he says an internal prayer that it lands on Hoseok or Taehyung. Please, please, please. Hobi-hyung. Tae-Tae. Please.
The bottle stops.
And it’s pointing at Jeon fucking Jungkook.
Jimin wants to leap to his feet and bolt from the room. But he’s rooted to the spot, adrenalin raging furiously through his veins. He’d probably be shouting profanities into thin air if all the oxygen hadn’t suddenly been vacuumed from his lungs, leaving him unable to speak or breathe.
Seriously, what the fuck? What are the chances? This must be some kind of living nightmare designed precisely to torment me, like those haunted houses that uncover your worst fears and use them against you just for the thrill of it.
Jungkook gets up, stretching his arms out—cracking his knuckles like Jimin’s a twig he’s about to snap.
It doesn’t sink in: not when Taehyung stands, grabs Jimin’s arm, and yanks him to his feet; not when Jungkook strides across the room, standing directly before him; not even when Jungkook opens his mouth and speaks to him once more. “Wow, I didn’t realise how short you were,” he sneers gratuitously, before grabbing Jimin roughly by the arm.
I’m not that much shorter than you, actually, thinks Jimin bitterly, but he’s distracted by the electricity zipping through his jacket and into his skin at Jungkook’s touch.
As Jungkook leads him out the room, Jimin throws a desperate glance over his shoulder at his friends, and they give him a pair of cheesy thumbs-ups, roaring with laughter. Jimin’s heart sinks – thanks a lot, guys – as he turns back towards Jungkook, and the living room door slams shut behind them. They’re alone in the hallway, the lights out here far too bright.
And then it's just him and Jungkook.
Instinctively, Jimin backs against the hallway wall, and Jungkook steps forward so that there’s only a matter of inches between them. The dominance radiates off Jungkook like a force-field—the power. Jimin feels helpless. Here, alone in the hallway, Jungkook could do anything – he could crush Jimin with a single hand, if the desire so much as struck.
But his next move is careful, calculated, not harsh or aggressive but soft and slow. He peers at Jimin, wordlessly, and lifts a finger—then, ever so gently, grazes a line across Jimin’s jawline. At the sudden touch of his cool fingertip, Jimin goes tense, jerking his face away. Jungkook throws his head back and laughs, revelling in Jimin’s palpable dread. His lollipop has been replaced by peppermint chewing gum, and his jaw is tight as he works at it, the scent making Jimin dizzy. “This is going to be fun,” he says. “Now, come on. Let’s get this over and done with.”
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
Jimin feels like he’s about to enter an exam hall, or walk into a boxing ring.
He follows Jungkook up the stairs, watching the taller boy’s hand graze the wooden banister. Jungkook's fingers are thin, long and bony, notes Jimin, just the kind of fingers he'd expect him to have. Jimin stays silent, but his footsteps are loud and his heart even louder.
“In there,” Jungkook orders at the top of the stairs, nodding towards the door to the spare bedroom. Jimin looks at him blankly. Jungkook rolls his eyes exasperatedly. “Go,” he barks, and Jimin nods, pushing the door.
“Sit, shorty,” Jungkook instructs inside the room, pointing at the bed, and Jimin winces at the cruel nickname. His height – a below-average five feet seven – is something he’s always been insecure about, and although Jungkook’s only about an inch or two taller, he feels almost silly for being so small.
Jimin sinks his butt onto the edge of the mattress and digs his fingers into a crisp white bedspread. Jungkook’s just a boy, and Jimin knows he’ll never actually hurt him, but there’s something about the way Jungkook’s staring at him right now, like he’s a piece of meat to be chewed up and spat out, that makes him feel obligated to do as Jungkook says.
The taller boy closes the door, twisting on the light. He only turns it up partly – it’s a dimmer switch - and although the room is still dark, there’s just enough light left to see his face, frustratingly handsome amongst the grey. Jimin watches as Jungkook comes to sit beside him, and Jungkook watches back, his pressing stare burning into Jimin’s skin even when Jimin looks away.
“Now, you’re probably going to enjoy this,” Jungkook starts cockily. “But I’m not, so let’s just do it, okay?”
Jimin fixes his gaze on a family photo on the chest of drawers before him. He doesn’t even know the person whose house this is, yet he’s in their spare bedroom, about to have his first ever kiss.
His first ever kiss with... him.
The Devil Incarnate.
Jungkook brings his lips close to Jimin’s neck, and Jimin can feel his breath, minty and hot, on his ear. It’s all too much: he automatically jerks away, blurts out a little too quickly, “We don’t have to!”
“What?” Jungkook glares at him.
Jimin looks at his surroundings. It’s kind of stuffy in the room, quite warm. Just a moment earlier, his best friend Hoseok and resident-dickhead Min Yoongi were making out in this very spot; he wonders if they lay down on the bed, Yoongi pressing his best friend hard into the mattress, their fingertips exploring shoulders and hipbones and hair, limbs tangled. He shivers, cringing. “I don’t… want to. We can just sit here for ten minutes. No one will know.”
He looks at Jungkook, then; their eyes meet. Jungkook’s face is lovely up-close, doe-eyes deep and inviting. His lips have a sheen to them that makes them kissable, the colour of cherry blossom. It’s such a shame you’re so horrible, Jimin thinks. You’re one of the prettiest people I’ve ever seen.
“Why?” Jungkook spits.
The prettiness goes.
“W-why what?”
“Why don’t you want to kiss me?” Jungkook rolls his eyes, then huffs under his breath, “fucking moron.”
Because you’re vile, thinks Jimin. Because I’d rather die than share an intimate moment with you. I’d rather throw myself off Gwangandaegyo Bridge than kiss that filthy mouth, run my fingers through the hair of the boy who is so cruel, who has caused so much pain.
“Well you don't want to kiss me,” Jimin mumbles instead. “I’m just doing you a favour.”
Lightning-fast, Jungkook grabs his wrist. His fingernails dig into Jimin’s skin, and it hurts, badly. Jimin can’t help it: he lets out a whimper, tiny, only just audible, but there. “That’s not an answer,” Jungkook murmurs, but Jimin swears he feels Jungkook’s grip loosen—just a bit. He tries to wriggle his arm free, but Jungkook doesn’t relent. “I’ll ask again. Why don’t you want to kiss me?”
“I- I don’t know you.”
“Nobody does,” Jungkook says with a scoff, and lets go of Jimin’s wrist. “Not even my best friends. But see—” He places his hand on Jimin’s thigh; through his jeans, Jimin can feel the pressure of Jungkook’s slender fingers resting against the fabric. His heart thrashes: Get out. Get out of here. This is bad news. “You don’t have to know someone to kiss them. We’re at a party and you’re a little drunk, I can tell. Are you seriously trying to say you wouldn’t ever make out with a total stranger?”
Jimin desperately shakes his head. “I’m—I’m not gay,” he tries, and even though the words are untrue, burning on their way up like bile thick in his throat, he hopes that Jungkook will take them as a reason to back off.
He doesn’t.
“You don’t have to be gay to kiss someone. Let’s just do it, alright? I want to feel those pretty lips in action.”
Jimin feels timid and uncomfortable at his words, but also, stupidly, kind of... pleased? He understands, now, why so many girls succumb to Jungkook’s charms, temporarily blind to the evil that lurks beneath. It’s that goddamn cologne... that pretty face and that confident yet oddly delicate touch... Jungkook moves his hand from Jimin’s thigh; his skin feels cold where Jungkook’s touch had been, he wants it back, why does he want it back?
Then, he rests a finger on Jimin’s lips. Jimin blinks, startled. A thousand thoughts flicker through his mind, including a handful of thoughts about kissing Jeon Jungkook, and all of a sudden he can barely breathe.
And then, for just the briefest of moments, he wants this.
He doesn't know why. But he does.
“I’ll go slow,” whispers Jungkook. “Alright?”
Jimin finds himself nodding. “Alright.”
“Start like this...” Jungkook moves his hand to the back of Jimin’s neck, the sides of their thighs pushing together as he leans in close. Then smoothly, he presses his lips to Jimin’s jaw. The sensation of his plump mouth, hot and soft and wet on his skin, completely overwhelms Jimin; he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to keep his breathing steady as Jungkook peppers kisses down his neck, a hand finding its way to Jimin’s hair and gripping it at the roots, tightly, roughly. His fingertips graze Jimin’s skin, then dance down his chest, inching far too close to his crotch. It’s doing all kinds of things to Jimin’s body: his skin is hot, alive with anticipation, and of course, he’s getting hard. Pushing his nose and face deep into Jimin’s neck, Jungkook breathes harshly as his kisses get rougher and hotter and faster; he nips a little at the skin, moves his head for better access, it's fucking exhilarating, then—
Then suddenly everything hits Jimin hard: the reality of what’s happening, the fact that a person he hates is kissing his skin and grabbing his hair and moving his hand dangerously close to his belt buckle, and he’s just about to get to his feet when Jungkook actually does it, he actually goes and touches his crotch, and Jimin’s eyes bulge in shock.
He did not just do that.
Jungkook stops kissing him, lets go of his hair, pulls away. “Jesus, you’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” he says with a snicker, palming Jimin through his jeans.
Jimin’s face splashes red. He shoves Jungkook’s hand away and reaches for a cushion, holding it over his lower stomach. “No,” he mumbles, aching with discomfort, with want. “Of course not.”
Jungkook is smirking mockingly, proudly, so Jimin adds, “Well, wouldn’t you be enjoying it? If someone was kissing you like that?” All the words come spilling out: “No one’s ever done that before and you’re really attractive and—”
“Wait. You think I’m attractive?” Jungkook tips his head back and stares at the ceiling. He’s grinning, pleased with himself. Jimin's not a violent person, but he could smack that egotistical look right off Jungkook's face. “Ah, I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone does.”
“You’re so full of yourself,” Jimin huffs. "You're so arrogant."
"Do go on, it's like music to my ears," coos Jungkook, biting back a sardonic laugh.
Jimin's angry now, embarrassed and ashamed for momentarily losing sight of himself, for letting Jungkook touch him like that. He can’t help it—the words tumble out before he can stop them: “You're conceited and narcissistic and horrible, and soon your looks will fade, and everyone will realise how nasty you really are. You know, being nice costs nothing. Being a good person costs nothing.”
He shuts up then, because Jungkook has gone from pleased to angry; his eyes are ablaze with a sudden rage, his smile replaced by a vicious scowl. Jimin wishes he could pluck the words from the stifled air between them and stuff them back down his throat.
“I mean,” Jimin finishes, quietly, “of course I think you’re attractive. But there’s no need to act so smug.”
Jungkook squints at him, inspecting him, scrutinising him. The silence is unbearable. Jimin thinks, briefly, that Jungkook’s temper is going to flare; that he’ll snap, shoving Jimin onto his back, squeezing his throat with big, angry hands. Jungkook’s got one hell of a temper—one time, he punched a wall at school, leaving behind a hole. He had to pay for the repairs, not that that was an issue—the cost of plastering that wall was a mere drop in the mega-ocean that is the Jeon family fund. Still. Jungkook could easily take Jimin down. He works out.
But the rage must have risen and fallen again, because Jungkook’s face softens, and he mutters, “I’d rather be smug than a fucking nobody.”
The insult cuts deep.
But being unpopular and a good person is far better than being popular and—well, being like Jungkook. “Whatever,” says Jimin, standing up to Jungkook for the second time tonight - hey, he's getting good at this. He gets to his feet.
“Wait!” blurts Jungkook. “You are gay, aren’t you? Do you want me to get you off? It might be the only chance you get. Come on, shorty, sit back down...”
Jimin rolls his eyes. “Thanks, but—I’d rather take my chances.” He heads towards the door, but stops in his tracks; there’s something niggling at the back of his mind, a question he can’t help but ask. “Why do you even care, anyway? It’s not like we’re ever going to talk to each other after this.”
“I’m just curious,” Jungkook shrugs, then looks Jimin up and down. For a split second, Jimin thinks Jungkook might say something profound. “You know, it’s really fucking cute how hard you are for me.”
Right. Normal service resumed.
“Bye, Jungkook.”
Fully done with this conversation, Jimin turns toward the door and grips the doorknob, yanking it open. He’s had enough of this, of all of it. The party, the spin the bottle, the alcohol. The Populars. Jungkook. He wants Hobi-hyung and Tae-Tae, and he wants his bed, and he wants to go to sleep and forget this whole thing.
But then a horrible thought comes crashing in, surging like a tidal wave; he wants to ignore it but it screams at him, relentless, and he knows he won’t be rid of it until he lets it out, so... He looks back to Jungkook, who’s lying on the bed propped up on his elbows, smirking unpleasantly with his legs spread wide. “Changed your mind?” Jungkook asks, coolly, and the sight of him is such a strange mixture of attractive and disgusting that it makes Jimin’s head spin.
“Please don’t…” he begins, the words getting blocked in his throat. He has to look away from Jungkook before he can actually say it. “Please don’t tell anyone I’m gay.”
Abruptly, Jungkook sits up. He stares at Jimin, pulling the sleeves of his sweater down over his hands and crumpling his brow in confusion. “Wait. You’re actually gay?” He asks, eyes lit up like a kid who’s just been told they can have ice cream after supper. “God, I was joking, you know. I’ve made boys hard with just a glance. I didn’t realise you genuinely like dudes.”
“Well, I do,” Jimin mutters, feeling stupid and sad that Jungkook’s the first person he’s told. It should have been Hobi, or Tae, or his mother... maybe even his brother, or Dad... It’s not right. In fact, it’s a thousand kinds of wrong.
“Oh. Right.”
“I’d just really appreciate it if you didn’t… You know. Tell people. I'm not out yet. To anyone.”
Jungkook peers at him curiously. He seems taken aback by Jimin’s confession. It’s the first time Jimin’s ever seen him lost for words. “Well, uh, don’t worry. I won’t.”
“Sure?” asks Jimin. He has to know.
There’s something about the way Jungkook’s hunched over now, fiddling with his fingertips. It’s what Jimin does himself when he’s nervous—when he doesn’t know what to say. It makes Jimin feel like maybe there is a real human somewhere inside, tucked away where no one can reach it; a compassionate, sweet, caring individual. Maybe. “Sure,” Jungkook says, and then, looking up to meet Jimin’s eyes, he actually smiles. (Okay, so, his lips stay pressed together for it, and it’s gone as quickly as it came, but it’s there, not mocking or cruel in the slightest, but real and sincere and kind of beautiful. Jimin sees, in that smile, a flicker of something new, something unfamiliar—)
But then it drops away and Jungkook scowls. Jimin figures, if there is a nice person inside, he’s hidden pretty deep.
“Just don’t fucking get on my bad side,” warns Jungkook. “Now get out of my face.”
Jimin hurriedly leaves the room, closing the door behind him. It’s over, now. He made it out alive, and as long as Jungkook stays quiet about Jimin being gay, everything will go back to normal. He just has to pray that Jungkook will take the one shred of human decency hiding somewhere deep in his body and put it to good use.
If Jimin has his way, tonight will be the last time he ever speaks to Jeon Jungkook.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
Jungkook and his three best friends pile into the car, everyone yelling boisterously and the suburban streets outside black, gloomy, endless. In the backseat, Seokjin questions Yoongi about his spin the bottle session with that brown-haired smiley kid – Hoseok, or something - and Yoongi shrugs and smiles slyly. He mutters something about how Hoseok “actually has a way with his tongue”, and while everyone else roars with laughter, Namjoon slamming his hand against his thigh, Jungkook finds himself hoping that they don’t ask him about his time with… fuck, he doesn’t even know his name.
He grips the leather steering wheel tight, thinking about what’s-his-face. He can’t help but feel sorry for him; admittedly, Jungkook had treated him pretty meanly—the boy had looked close to crying at one point. Jungkook has to force the image of the boy’s stupid puppy-dog eyes and his overall sad, defeated demeanour from his mind. Get your act together, JK.
But they do ask about him; as Jungkook starts up the car, Seokjin says, “Hey, what about Kookie? You got some boy on boy action, too.”
Everyone looks at him, and Jungkook growls. “Call me Kookie again and I’ll fucking decapitate you.”
“Seriously, though.” Yoongi’s raspy voice floats from the backseat as he stretches forward, leaning an elbow on the top of Jungkook’s seat. “You came back looking pretty flustered…”
“Liar,” Jungkook spits. He’d been absolutely fine, he swears it. He’d gone back into the living room to find the boy he’d kind-of-not-really-kissed to have vanished, along with his friends, and Jungkook had smoothly made a joke about how he must have killed him with his overwhelming sexiness, and they’d laughed and forgotten all about it. “It was nothing. We just made out. Poor dude got fucking hard and had to hobble off to the bathroom afterwards to sort himself out.”
Everyone in the car erupts into laughter, and Jungkook briefly feels guilty about telling such a blatant lie, but the feeling dissipates quickly, because there’s nothing better than when his best friends laugh at his jokes. He blurts out more deliberate lies, the truth falling further and further away as he craves his friends to keep laughing, to keep thinking he’s cool and calm and not having a total internal breakdown right now. “Anyway, I don’t want to speak about it. He couldn’t kiss – it was terrible. Really gross and saliva-y. I’d rather have made out with one of you, frankly.”
“Ew, fuck off!” Namjoon gags while the rest of them groan, and then the conversation shifts as conversations between noisy drunken boys so quickly do, and Jungkook loses track. He tries to focus on driving, but despite having not had a drop of alcohol, he feels hazy and dizzy and tired and weird. He can’t stop thinking about the boy from earlier.
He can’t stop wishing they’d actually kissed…
He’s not gay. He’s never been gay. He makes out with people he finds hot, and that sometimes may include a slim number of guys, but he’s certainly not gay and is not, in any way shape or form, attracted to boys. Attracted to him. Certainly not shy boys, boys who’ve never been kissed, boys who aren’t popular and cool and aren’t even worth the ground he walks on…
Boys who just so happen to have the prettiest eyes he’s ever seen…
Jungkook knows that, as soon as he’s dropped off his friends, he’ll go home and look at pictures of girls on the internet (spoiler alert – he doesn’t: he actually looks at pictures of boys, wondering if it’s only the one from earlier who has this kind of effect on him. Another spoiler - it is). He’ll remind himself he’s very much straight, and that he shouldn’t be thinking about anyone other than the hot girls at school (but that boy, Shorty, just smelled so fucking good - and kissing his soft golden skin, Jungkook almost got hard himself). This time tomorrow, he’ll have forgotten all about him (he won’t have). Maybe he’ll sneak into a bar, like him and Seokjin did that time, and make out with someone else—a gorgeous long-legged girl who actually wants him back (again, he won’t). Maybe he’ll be able to go straight to sleep tonight, rather than stay awake thinking about Shorty and wishing, longing, for another ten minutes with him (he won’t, he won’t, he won’t).
For a moment, just a fleeting, hopeful moment, Jungkook believes this is the last he’ll think about him; that, after tonight, everything will go back to normal.
Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.