Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Okay,” Jimin’s mom says. “That looks better.”

Jimin scrubs anxiously at his mattress. His bedroom windows are thrown open. The heat is turned off, and a fan blows fresh air into the room. Jimin’s bedding is in the wash, and Spray-n-Wash is doing his mattress justice, but the jury’s still out on his phone. Jimin had panicked, wiped it down with alcohol, and turned it off.

“Jimin?”

Jimin grimaces. His hands hurt, and his back hurts. He scrubs on. He is so not looking forward to assessing what he’ll find on his phone when he turns it on—if it turns back on, at all.

“I know,” Jimin says. His voice cracks. “I’m sorry.”

His mom rubs a hand over his forehead. “Jimin, stop.”

He does, if only to press the backs of his hands to his eyes.

“Oh, honey,” she breathes. For the second time in only twenty four hours, she watches Jimin break down into tears. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I’m so mean,” Jimin groans. “I feel so bad. Oh, God. I think I’m going to die.”

“You’re not,” his mom disagrees. “But I am going to leave a message on Mrs. Adler’s machine so that she knows we tried to inform her as soon as possible.”

Jimin stiffens. “You think I’m going to get in trouble?”

“No.” His mom reaches around to pry his hands from the scrubber. “I think it makes you look better if you’re forthcoming.”

It’s smart, Jimin thinks, but he bites the inside of his cheek.

“You’re going to be fine.” She pauses. “How many of these letters did you write? Do you think they’ve all been mailed out?”

Jimin’s groan is almost a scream.

“So it’s a thing,” Jimin says. “It’s happening. They got sent. All of them, probably.”

Jeongguk stares at Jimin with wide eyes over the yellow edge of a banana popsicle.

“I hate my life,” Jimin summarizes.

He flips through flashcards. Porta, portae: to carry.

“You don’t seem that fucked up about it,” Jeongguk speaks up.

Jimin flips through another. He misses that particular noun; to the back of the vocab pile it goes. “Yeah.”

Except Jimin is fucked up about it.

“I puked,” he points out.

“You puked like sixteen times after the first one got posted.” Jeongguk fidgets. “You puke after scary movies.”

It’s true. Jimin is exceptionally talented at panic puking.

“Well, I don’t feel great about it.”

Jimin’s stomach still rolls. But really, if he’s honest with himself, it’s…

“It’s fine.” By comparison, anyway.

“You want me to go get Pop Tarts?”

“I don’t need that,” Jimin snorts.

“You’re sure?”

Jimin lingers on a flashcard. Attingo, attingere.

He can’t say he feels as bad as the first time around. He knows he should—knows what he wrote about Jongin is hurtful, and that it is objectively mortifying to have a letter written years ago sent out to someone who likely no longer remembers Jimin’s existence. It doesn’t feel great to know Jimin will be waiting on his phone for a notification from anyone who receives a letter and reaches out to him, either. He has a lot of apologies and explanation ahead, apparently.

It isn’t that bad, though. Mrs. Adler had taken time out of her Saturday to respond to Jimin’s mother’s message, and after a long-winded discussion about recourse, she had nothing but well-wishes and guarantees of no further disciplinary action. And besides:

“I think the longest one is like, three and a half pages,” Jimin points out. “It’s fine.”

“Because they aren’t as long?”

As Yoongi’s, he means.

“Yeah.” Jimin flips the card over. “Plus, it’s like…”

He shrugs, swallowing. Jimin’s other letters were obvious, short-winded rants that were more about getting frustration off of his chest than anything. There were no calls to action, no title pages, no table of contents. Sometimes Jimin would only write a letter after fuming on an argument he’d lost, or a conversation that hadn’t gone well. He’d think of the perfect response hours later, standing under the shower or pacing around his room, and he’d have to write it down.

They were immature, obviously. Jimin hadn’t been trying for exceptional prose, even if he does consider himself a pretty decent writer. They were a tool, for a purpose: to help Jimin express his frustrations, and move on.

The other letters aren’t why Jimin is fucked up about it, not really.

It’s because he’s a shitty person. A mean, angry person who apparently holds grudges. A person who doesn’t feel as bad as he should about the other letters just because they aren’t as bad as Yoongi’s had been, and therefore likely won’t have as many consequences.

It’s half-coping, sure. And half…

Yoongi’s letter wasn’t the same, obviously. Thirty pages not only shit talking him from every angle Jimin had, but detailing specific instances. It wasn’t just a letter; after the initial pages, it almost became like a journal, reviewing individual timestamped instances where Yoongi sat in front of Jimin annoyingly in Opfer’s class, or walked around the hall too confidently for Jimin’s liking.

None of the other letters compared. They weren’t nearly as scathing, or lengthy. They didn’t linger. Yoongi’s letter was different. The content Jimin used in Yoongi’s letter was different.

“Yoongi’s just different,” Jimin grumbles.

Jeongguk looks like he might gag. “You’re shitting me.”

“I’m not saying anything weird,” Jimin defends. “He is different. That letter was different! It was way longer! Way more detailed!”

“Yeah, because you’re older,” Jeongguk says. “And you’ve had years of material.”

Jimin lies back against his headboard again. He looks at his flashcards.

“Yeah.” He shrugs, feigning agreement. “That.”

“You can stop acting like you want to be around him,” Jeongguk points out. “No one cares about the letter anymore. And there are like, a thousand of those letters. He’s not special.”

Jimin stares at his bottom desk drawer, where the polaroid is stashed. Jimin isn’t so sure if he agrees with that.

“I mean.” Jimin’s shoulders creep toward his ears. “Isn’t he?”

“No.”

“Well, maybe you wouldn’t know,” Jimin tries.

Jeongguk stares at him, long and hard, with his eyes wide open.

“Because it’s not like you’ve been there,” Jimin defends, voice cracking. “I’ve—we—I’ve been talking to Yoongi way more often than you these past weeks. You wouldn’t even know if he was anything. I’m just saying.”

“No, dude. What are you saying?”

Jimin’s mouth trembles. He has an excuse lined up—one that he used to put a lot more stock into. One that he used to try to believe. In that moment, Jimin doesn’t make the excuse to deflect the way he feels about Yoongi. He uses it to salvage the precarious patch in his friendship with Jeongguk instead.

“He’s nice,” Jimin says, forced. “Like, I think we just misunderstood him. I just feel bad.”

Jeongguk narrows his eyes. Jimin’s heart races. He half expects more insults, or for Jeongguk to yell at Jimin the way he had in Taehyung’s driveway.

He asks: “Did he really walk you to the door?”

Jimin thinks back to Yoongi’s hand stretched between them across the console, polaroids held gently in his fingers. He gulps. “No.”

Jeongguk frowns.

“—Let’s just play Mario Kart,” Jimin suggests, standing. “This is dumb.”

It’s fine. Jeongguk is fine. It’s a little weird, sure, because it’s the first time they’ve ever tried to recover from an argument. It’s not like they’re practiced at it. And Jeongguk is committed to moving on, too, so Jimin has no reason to be anxious. Instead, Jimin loses miserably at every round of Mario Kart—and it’s worth it, because for the first time in weeks, things are normal. Maybe not for Jimin, or his letters, but with Jeongguk. And as the weekend passes, things only get better.

Jimin needs that. He needs fried chicken and stupid video games. He needs the Jeongguk that teasingly trash talks Jimin instead of encouraging toxic, mean gossip about other people who don’t deserve it. With all thirty some-odd letters sent around the coast, Jimin needs his best friend. And Jeongguk is there for him.

So Jimin really doesn’t know why he was so scared to know what Jeongguk would have said next, but by the time Monday rolls around, Jimin has forgotten all about it.

The polaroid is so cute.

Jimin tries not to stare at it. After a weekend’s worth of deliberation, he went the safe route—little rhinestones around the edge, instead of all the pink heart stickers he’d planned to border the polaroid with. That was a bit much, probably. Jimin has no reason to do that. He didn’t have any reason to write the date down on the border in sharpie, either, but he did do that.

If Jimin’s honest, he does have a reason. It stares right back at him. He’s just too giddy to think about it.

He’ll also save the polaroid for some kind of scrapbooking project, he decides. Jimin hasn’t figured out the details of that, though, so he hangs it in his locker in the meantime. It practically blends in, the centerpiece of a collage plastered on the back on the back wall. Sure, it’s the only one he’d decorated, and the other photos are from cheer or hanging out with his friends—but it’s fine. It’s Jimin’s little secret.

“—You ready for the retreat this weekend?”

Jimin blanches. He hadn’t thought about Hoseok, his literal locker partner, seeing the polaroid hung up in their locker. The polaroid that Hoseok himself had taken.

“No,” Jimin blurts.

He struggles to hang his cheer bag on the command hook in their locker in time to cover the photo. Hoseok, throwing his own bag haphazardly into the bottom of it, laughs.

“How did you forget?”

“Uh.”

Jimin’s wondering that, too. He digs in his backpack, flipping through his agenda—sure enough, the word ‘QUEST’ stares back at him, and his entire weekend is blocked out from Friday afternoon through Sunday evening.

“I’ve had a lot going on,” Jimin croaks.

Hoseok snickers. “Fair enough.”

Jimin tries to ignore the implications behind that. How he forgot The Upperclassmen Retreat is beyond him; they only happen once a year, and they’re a requirement to graduate. Even more than that, Jimin has been dreading ‘Quest,’ in particular, because it’s a silent retreat.

He’s also a gay atheist. It doesn’t quite fall in line with the Catholic school memo.

Hoseok leans against Namjoon’s locker. “Hey, it was cool seeing you this weekend.”

Jimin blinks. Is that how they refer to a party the school week after? “Yeah, you too.”

“So, are you and Yoongi…?”

Oh.

Jimin hangs his backpack up and pulls it out of the way for Hoseok’s head.

“No.” Jimin shakes his head, forcing out, “Absolutely not.”

Hoseok shrugs, laughing. He shoves a half-worn pencil and a crumpled sheet of paper in between the pages of an old biology textbook. Then he straightens.

Jimin fumbles with his backpack, aiming for normalcy.

“Alright, man. That’s cool.”

He nods, eyes flicking to Jimin’s hand on his backpack. Jimin tries to rest against it and nearly falls over.

“See you in calc,” Jimin says, jaw clenched.

“Yeah, see you.”

He waits until Hoseok has left to shut his locker and roll his eyes, exhausted.

Well, Hoseok will probably see it eventually. But that’s fine. Right?

It should be fine. Hoseok isn’t the type to run away and blab, and really, Jimin hasn’t done anything wrong. At least, he doesn’t think he has. The photo is—it’s a little bit… It maybe looks like Yoongi is his—

“Jimin? The bell’s going to ring in twenty seconds,” Mrs. Round warns in passing, eyes wide.

Jimin turns on his heel and sprints.

Third period rolls around, and as always, Jimin stares at the seat in front of him.

He doesn’t know what kind of day it’s meant to be until well into class. Jimin slips into his own desk with five minutes to the bell. The seat in front of him is empty.

Jimin swipes upward on his Instagram feed and likes photos he doesn’t actually look at while staring at the black long minute hand on the clock that hangs above the open door.

At two minutes, Jimin’s eyes flick back toward the seat. He looks between his double taps and the empty desk. From the second hand down to the doorway. At one and a half minutes, the hall’s almost clear. A football player sprints in front of the door, backpack in tow.

“Did you do the reading?” his neighbor asks.

“Yeah,” Jimin replies, eyes on the door.

Her name is Jessica, he suddenly remembers. The faux-fur tail on her belt loop drapes over Jimin’s backpack. The red second hand approaches the big twelve at the top of the clock. One minute remains.

Jimin counts down from sixty at his own pace. It doesn’t match the second hand’s ticking, but every time he reaches zero, he starts from the second hand’s place again. Sixty to fourty three, forty two to thirty, down to twenty, to twelve, to six, and down. Mrs. Opfer kicks up the grey door stopper with her mule-covered foot and lets the door fall shut. Jimin digs his homework out from his binder, passing it upward.

He tries to pay attention as Mrs. Opfer outlines the requirements for their upcoming quotation response, but his eyes flicker toward the narrow window in the classroom door. Jimin waits for the doorknob to turn. The minute hand eventually hits ten past the hour.

Yoongi’s absent.

Jimin sits back in his seat. Mrs. Opfer drones on. MLA format, apparently, is required. Jimin takes notes with his thoughts a mile away.

It isn’t the first time Yoongi has been absent. Jimin rolls his eyes, thinking to himself that it definitely won’t be the last time, either. There are months where Yoongi hardly makes it a week without skipping class. Jimin hadn’t suddenly expected he’d have stellar attendance once he took Jimin to a party, or something.

He doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t want to know. He digs his pen into his paper. The ink bleeds.

… He shouldn’t feel entitled to know, that much is for sure.

It’s absolutely, one-hundred percent, none of Jimin’s business. And Jimin shouldn’t want it to be. There are no handouts passed out in class, and Jimin absolutely doesn’t care that he doesn’t theoretically have something to deliver to Yoongi. To text him about. Or call him about.

Jimin has no reason to know where Yoongi is, or what he’s up to. None at all.

But Yoongi isn’t in school the next day, either. Or the one after that.

“Where’s Yoongi?” Hoseok asks.

“Why would I know?” Jimin snaps.

Namjoon is totally hiding his grin in his sandwich. Jimin glares at him. Jeongguk snorts, extending his fist across the table. Jimin returns his fist bump, but it’s reluctant.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Hoseok says, ignoring Jimin’s crabiness. “I don’t know why I thought you might know.”

Jimin’s eye twitches.

Yoongi isn’t in Opfer’s, at lunch, or in any of the halls between his classes. He’s totally, unassumingly absent. Jimin hasn’t had any after-school shifts at Cassano’s that week, either, so he has no way of knowing if Yoongi has been showing up to his shifts. Is he alive? Jimin wouldn’t know. He shouldn’t care, either.

He cares. He really, deeply cares. So much that it bothers him.

He glances across the cafeteria. Sure enough, Yoongi is absent from his usual table. Jimin scans the rest of it—a few of the jocks he doesn’t hate, and most of the people he knows had come from St. George’s elementary and had never made different friends in high school. And, of course, the Kim brothers.

They’re staring right at him in all their extra-rich, extra-popular glory.

What the fuck? Jimin thinks.

He turns. Namjoon’s chewing slows to a stop. Jimin, at least, manages to keep the fear off of his face.

“He’s trying to get your attention,” Hoseok says, coughing.

Taehyung waves at Jimin from across the cafeteria.

“No,” Jimin quietly sings, turning back to his food. “No, I will not be doing that.”

“He’s pretty chill,” Hoseok offers.

Simultaneous sounds of doubt from the table. Jimin’s is another outright ‘no.’ Jeongguk, with his mouth full, makes a mm-mm and drags his hand in a slicing motion across the front of his neck. Namjoon hums dubiously and tilts his head, lips pressed.

“Okay, so they’re both dicks sometimes.”

Various states of nodding ensue.

“Taehyung is a man whore,” Jimin adds.

The problem, though, is that they’re standing up from their table. Both of the brothers. And they’re headed toward Jimin.

“I gotta study for trig,” Jimin decides.

Namjoon’s face screws up. “You took trig last year.”

“I really don’t like them,” Jimin mutters into his lunch, eyes wide.

They come to stand on either side of him. Namjoon, traitorously, scoots away to make room. Jimin turns wide eyes on him. The fuck? he hopes his eyes say.

Taehyung and Jin sit on either side of him. The latter cuts Namjoon out of Jimin’s sight completely.

“Hey,” the brothers say, in unison.

Needless to say, Jimin is creeped the fuck out.

“... Hey?”

Jimin’s stiff. Even Jeongguk is afraid, refusing to look at anyone’s face but Jimin’s, and he’s built like a fridge.

Hoseok holds a freshly-bitten baby carrot between his fingers, munching. “Hey, guys.”

Jin nods at him. Since when the fuck is Hoseok friends with them?

“Hey, dude,” Taehyung says, voice low. He extends his hand across the table. The rest of the baby carrot disappears into Hoseok’s mouth as they do one of those hand shakes that involves gripping each other’s hands and pulling in the ultimate display of bro code.

“What’cha guys up to?” Hoseok asks.

Taehyung shrugs, apathetic. “Nothing much.”

Jimin at least gets what Taehyung is: a certified douche. His brother, on the other hand, is a whole lot harder to read. He’s staring at Jimin in a freakish, unmoving way.

“Heard the radius of your postal service just got a little bigger,” he says.

What the fuck?

“What the fuck?” Jimin asks aloud. “How did you know that?”

Jin shrugs. Jimin’s stomach rolls.

“Jongin’s in debate at West Central,” Taehyung mutters. “Jin, keep that shit down.”

Jimin suddenly recalls that Jin is in debate. And pretty decent at it too, if he remembers correctly. There’s a trophy with his name on it behind the glass window display in the senior hall.

Jin turns, facing Jimin again.

“Where is Yoongi?”

He’s startlingly close, and tall. Jimin would lean into Taehyung’s direction if Jimin didn’t know with absolute certainty that he would get some kind of shit for it.

“Why would I know?” Jimin hedges, uncomfortable.

Jimin has kind of been wondering if they knew. They’re the ones Yoongi is always hanging out with—Taehyung especially.

Taehyung and Jin look at each other. Taehyung sneers in this way that makes him look more frustrated than anything. Jimin doesn’t even look at Jin’s response.

Taehyung’s eyes flicker downward.

“You done eating?” he asks.

Jimin looks at his lunch box. All that remains is a half-empty water bottle and a tupperware with only a few grains of rice.

“... I don’t know. Why?”

Jin stands.

“Come on,” he invites. “Just you.”

Jeongguk shakes his head. He’s standing up in the hulk smash posture he’s famous for using around Jimin. It’s the first time Namjoon has seen it, and it means he’s probably going to come in his pants, but Hoseok dips another carrot in his ranch dressing.

“Just go,” he says, cheery. “You’ll be fine.”

Jimin’s already standing up. There’s only one person he has ever been scared to receive an ass beating from, and that person is absent from the campus of St. Mary’s.

He follows from a distance, but Jin and Taehyung don’t go far. Just beyond the double doors of the cafeteria, apparently.

Jin leans against the door.

“We know you know about Yoongi,” he says, ominously.

Taehyung’s eyebrows furrow. He looks less than impressed with his brother.

“Uh?” Jimin says, looking between them both.

“He’s talking about Yoongi being poor,” Taehyung translates. “You know it. We know it.”

Jimin shrugs after a pause. He’d had that suspicion. “So?”

“So I need help with stats before fifth period,” Jin says.

Jimin doesn’t even ask for a translation that time. He just looks at Taehyung.

“Have you talked to him? You have his number, right?”

Warily, Jimin nods. “I haven’t talked to him since Friday, though.”

Jin exhales.

“Have you tried?” Taehyung asks.

“... No.”

Jin looks at Taehyung. “They’re not dating,” he says.

“Stop. You don’t get it.”

Jimin can’t even begin to pretend that doesn’t make him infuriatingly invested in the conversation. He’s phishing outright when he asks: “Why are you guys asking me about this? Why don’t you guys just text him?”

Jin’s eyes narrow. “He texts you back?”

Jimin shuts his mouth.

“Look,” Taehyung starts. “We’re probably the only ones who know about his situation, and that’s only because his phone is my old phone. I traded it with Yoongi for PSAT scores.”

Jimin freezes. Holy shit.

“And we’re close and shit, but like, we don’t know why he doesn’t come to school sometimes. We just know it’s a thing that he does.” He raises his eyebrows, expectant. “Do you know?”

Jimin shakes his head reluctantly.

“He’s not answering either of us. Can you like, try calling him? Yeah, he helps Jin with stats, but like—is he alright?”

“Don’t dismiss my concerns,” Jin interrupts.

“Yoongi’s gonna miss assignments,” Taehyung points out.

Jimin considered that. “I can just bring them to him,” he offers.

“You don’t want to do that,” Jin says.

“Even if you went, and you probably don’t want to, he won’t answer the door,” Taehyung explains.

“I’ve done it before,” Jimin corrects, a little defensive.

Taehyung blinks at him.

Jin looks at him in a weird, attentive way. “Call him.”

“Uh?”

“... Can you?” Taehyung’s tilting his head back and forth. “Like, because we’re worried? And because it’s not good for him to miss class?”

Jimin squints.

“Skipping makes it harder for him in class, sure, but it’s bad for him, like… financially.”

Jimin wonders if they know Yoongi’s working twenty hours a week. He’s not about to point that out.

“What am I supposed to do?” Jimin whines.

“Can you, like, text him?”

“Call him,” Jin modifies.

“You haven’t?” Jimin asks.

“He doesn’t answer.”

Jimin has already whipped out his phone, typing away. He’s curious.

“I don’t talk to him a whole lot, either,” Jimin mumbles.

are you okay? he sends.

He looks at Taehyung and Jin again.

taehyung and jin are cornering me. Remembering the Chungha phone call mishap, he adds: i’ve been wondering where you are, too.

He waits, shielding his phone discreetly from Jin’s peeled eyes.

“Are you that screwed in stats?” he asks.

“Yes,” Jin confirms, without hesitation.

Jimin’s phone buzzes. He scans the notification.

“He’s okay,” Jimin shares aloud.

I’m fine. I can’t come to school until tomorrow. I’m watching Nora.

I’ll be at work. See you?

“The fuck?” Taehyung blurts. “That fast?”

Jimin presses his lips into a thin line. His grin fights it. He swallows it. It’s stupid. Jimin shouldn’t be smiling over a text message.

you sure you’re okay? want me to bring your assignments? i’ve got notes from opfer’s

I already talked to my teachers. I’m good.

He hums, ignoring Jin and Taehyung’s prying eyes. What about…?

what about nora? does she need anything from st. al’s?

I’ve got it handled.

Jimin frowns. Well, whatever. He locks his phone.

“Yeah, he’s alive.” I’m seeing him after school today, Jimin wants to gloat, but that’s Yoongi’s business, and Yoongi clearly doesn’t like keeping Jin or Taehyung in the loop.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

Thanks Dollface. See you later.

Jimin swallows. His face burns. He’s dying, a little bit. His cheeks hurt, and there’s no way he can keep a straight face.

He doesn’t have to, apparently. Jin’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He plucks the thing out like it burns, grimacing at Jimin.

“You told him?” Jin asks, monotone.

“That you guys were worried about him,” Jimin fibs, “like you said.”

Jin unlocks his phone and leans until his shoulder brushes Taehyung’s. The older of the two sighs. Taehyung’s eyebrows raise, but he doesn’t look surprised at all when he says:

“You just got cucked.”

Jimin clocks into his afternoon shift two minutes early.

The schedule on the whiteboard shows that Yoongi isn’t scheduled for another half hour, so Jimin takes his time weaseling into his uniform. He hums through check-in, looping his arms through the basket of go-back goods at the customer service desk. They’re labeled appropriately—Jimin replaces the perishables first, in the refrigerated bays, and then he moves onto the shelved items.

They’re on general checkout, until the checker is back from her lunch. While Yoongi checks out, Jimin will bag. Jimin will provide necessary help, like fielding questions and providing produce codes Yoongi hasn’t memorized yet. Then they’ll stock and reface the shelves for the rest of their shifts.

Jimin isn’t that excited about it.

“You’re in a good mood today, Jim,” Mr. Pem comments.

Jimin almost swallows his own tongue.

He takes over at the end of register fourteen. He’s early, but it means he has a near perfect view of the front doors—and the employee entrance.

There’s only a short stretch between the employee entrance and the break room, but Jimin manages to catch Yoongi just in time. He looks Yoongi up and down from the wide neck of his t-shirt to the yellow stitches of his boots. He doesn’t get much time—Yoongi darts into the break room—but Jimin has to swallow around all the saliva that has suddenly filled his mouth.

“Isn’t he new?” the cashier, Sunny, asks.

Jimin swallows a second time, for good measure. “Yeah.”

Then Jimin waits, until he’s awkwardly forced to pretend he’s too busy bagging to hear Yoongi coming up from behind him. As if the senior’s boots aren’t clunky enough to be heard a mile away.

Jimin fails halfway through his performance, looking up as soon as Yoongi’s at the neighboring register.

“Hey!” he chirps.

Yoongi barely glances at Jimin as he makes his way carefully between the registers, taking over. “Hey.”

… Well, Jimin thinks. That’s weird.

“Okay,” he says to himself. “Just let me know if you have any questions, then.”

“Thanks,” Yoongi says, distracted.

Jimin blinks at him slowly, emphatically, with every bit of displeasure he can muster. Yoongi changes places with the employee in front of him, nodding and going along whatever words are being exchanged between them. Jimin’s are you messing with me? face goes completely ignored.

He slips his hand inside the plastic bags at the end of the check stand, propping them open. Maybe, he figures, Yoongi is waiting to chill out until there are less coworkers around. Or something.

That would probably explain why Yoongi starts scanning without so much as a look in Jimin’s direction.

“Did you find everything alright?” he’s asking.

Jimin’s a little surprised, admittedly.

Yoongi has already logged on to the POS. He’s scanning. His hand reaches for a transparent produce bag full of onions, but before Jimin can speak up, he asks the customer: “White or sweet?”

It’s… totally normal. Which should be fine, really, except that he’s acting the way Jimin acts toward coworkers he doesn’t know—toward every single coworker that isn’t Yoongi.

Yoongi doesn’t act that way with Jimin. He does that stupid smirking thing, sneaks in jabs here and there, and scoffs at Jimin’s rebuttals.

“Jimin?”

Jimin’s eyes dart up from the canned goods he bags. “Yeah?”

“She changed her mind on this,” Yoongi says, scratching at the inside of his arm. In his other hand he holds a roast.

He presses his lips into a thin line.

“I’ll go return it,” Jimin volunteers.

“Thanks.”

It’s not impolite. It’s not even in the quietly smiley in the way Yoongi gets sometimes when they’re talking. It’s just… quick. Straightforward.

Jimin sighs, irritated, because Yoongi shouldn’t be playing games. Jimin had already told Yoongi not to fuck with him.

Though Jimin’s blinking back moisture, his eyes narrow. “Don’t play games.”

“I’m not,” Yoongi guarantees.

He remembers it. Perfectly. Exactly.

So why would Yoongi suddenly act so differently? Because they aren’t in the privacy of his car parked in a deserted parking lot, or because he’d taken Jimin to a party and decided he regretted it? Or did he just manage to fool Jimin into thinking he was actually nice? And funny? And smart?

No. That isn’t it. Yoongi is all of those things. He’s just acting a little distanced. So why does Jimin have to act like a child about it?

He swallows it down by the time he’s back from the meat department. If Yoongi wants to go for employee of the month, he can compete with Jimin for it.

The thought, while sarcastic and totally in character for Jimin, doesn’t sit right.

He frowns. Yoongi looks, if Jimin had to guess, busy. Not with work—there’s only one other customer in line—but generally. Absorbed would probably be a good word. Busy with shit that isn’t Jimin and his nonsense, apparently.

He isn’t sick. He seems fine, and he doesn’t make any mistakes on the register aside from accidentally spilling a bag of apples, and Jimin knows how obscenely easy that is to do. He apologizes, rubs at the inner crease of his elbow through his sweatshirt sleeve where the bag had hit him, and fixes the issue.

So why does Jimin feel like something is wrong?

“Are you okay?” Jimin asks.

He waits until there isn’t any queue and Yoongi’s only busying himself with staring at the produce code booklet in front of him, memorizing. The senior’s lips stop moving.

“... Yeah,” he says. “I’m fine.”

He flips a page. It doesn’t make any sense, because Jimin knows he was on the last page of produce codes. He’s in the bakery section, and he hardly needs to know those off of the top of his head.

“Should I not have texted you?” he asks. “Sorry if I invaded your privacy.”

Yoongi shakes his head, brows furrowed. He pinches at his arm. “No, you’re fine.”

Jimin looks him up and down.

“Okay,” he agrees, reluctantly, and then he lets Yoongi stay as quiet as he wants.

It lasts until they’re on the floor, refacing the messiest shelves.

“I took notes from Opfer’s,” Jimin comments. “Since we’ve got that essay coming up.”

“Yeah. She sent me the assignment.”

Jimin hums. They’re only a few feet away, on each end of the section that makes up the spice and sauce packets, but the distance seems to drag out.

It isn’t the physical space, Jimin realizes, but the gaps in their conversation.

“What’s up with you?” Jimin cuts in. “If it isn’t my business, I’d rather you just say that.”

Yoongi’s mouth narrows. “I’m just in a bad mood.”

Jimin doesn’t know how to respond to that. So it is something.

He already knew about this side of Yoongi, really. He always has. It’s the part of him that’s infamous for scaring people off—for scaring Jimin off. The snappy, grumpy emo kid that sneers at anything and everything that bothers him.

He doesn’t know why he thought it would disappear.

“Fine,” Jimin huffs. “Be that way.”

Yoongi snorts. “Not everything is about you, Park.”

Jimin sucks in a breath.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Yoongi says, and even if he sounds a little bit like he might mean the reassurance, Jimin sniffs. He is not in the mood.

“Okay.”

Maybe he deserves the annoyed exhale Yoongi gives him; Jimin’s tone isn’t easy on the attitude. But Jimin’s stomach swoops.

It feels like he’d just barely managed to keep his friendship with Jeongguk intact. And every notification from his phone had him jumping all day in class, worried it was another message about a letter received in the mail.

If he can’t keep it going with Yoongi, whatever it is—

“Sorry,” Jimin says, quiet.

With his hand halfway toward the salad dressings, Yoongi freezes. “Are you okay?”

Jimin turns, blinking at him. “Yeah?” He shrugs. “I just didn’t mean to argue.”

Yoongi’s eyes are a little wider than usual.

“Okay.” He almost looks like he doesn’t believe it. “Yeah, me neither.”

Jimin nods. It’s awkward, and stiff, but they manage half of the aisle together. They move on. Jimin is, admittedly, a little proud of himself.

Then they’re stocking pet food—in the shitty limited brands they carry for reasons Jimin absolutely does not fucking understand—when the beans get spilled. Or, rather, the dog food.

It’s a shitty bag of Kibbles ‘N Bits, giant and flopping—forty five pound ‘value’ bags of whatever Savory Flavor is supposed to consist of. With all the dollies gone, presumably in use, Jimin takes one under each arm. Yoongi does the same. Or, at least, he tries.

He hisses, left arm giving out. The bag drops. It’s fine, but Jimin isn’t sure if Yoongi is. Jimin drops the bags back down onto their palette.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Yoongi hisses, snappish.

Jimin watches him fidget. He’s obviously uncomfortable—clutching the same forearm he’d been pinching at all afternoon.

“It’s fine,” Yoongi bites.

It doesn’t look fine. He takes a subtle glance around; they’re in the back of the store, where the truck drop off leaves the palettes, and they’re alone.

“Let me see that.”

He grabs Yoongi’s arm. It’s rude as fuck, and it’s invasive. Jimin will have to deal with that later. He hates to stereotype, but he’s kinda worried about—

He pushes Yoongi’s sleeve back. His eyes widen.

“Whoa.”

That definitely wasn’t what Jimin was worried about.

Yoongi rips his arm out of Jimin’s grip. He jerks his sleeve down, but it only falls halfway.

“What the fuck, Park?” he seethes. “What’s wrong with you? I don’t have some fucking—”

Jimin grabs his arm, this time where the sleeve covers the skin.

“That looks really painful,” Jimin cuts in. “Like, really painful.”

Yoongi goes quiet. His jaw’s clenched. It’s stupidly hot, but so is the skin of his arm. Bright red, burny-looking, and inflamed.

“Did you burn yourself?”

He shakes his head.

“Is this a rash?”

Silence. A shrug.

“This looks like eczema, but I can’t tell. Maybe my mom could; she’s had it.” He frowns, considering. “Have you tried antifungal?”

“It’s not jock itch,” Yoongi hisses, but Jimin shrugs.

“They can look really similar. Trust me.”

Jimin wouldn’t underestimate jock itch. He knows that pain. The cheer uniforms of St. Mary’s weren’t always so moisture-wicking.

Yoongi squints. He shifts on his feet, exhaling.

“This isn’t very judgemental of you,” he points out.

Jimin shrinks back. “Why would I judge you?”

Yoongi just looks at him, long and hard. Jimin presses his lips together.

“Fine,” Jimin agrees. He’s a little judgmental. Yoongi’s response makes more sense. “Have you gone to the doctor?”

Yoongi scoffs, rolling his eyes. He kneels down, gripping the bag. Back onto the palette it goes, and then over Yoongi’s shoulder. He rushes out of the loading bay, irritated.

“What?” Jimin asks, innocent.

He’s having a hard time keeping up.

Yoongi’s stocking is angry. “You don’t get it, Park.”

“Will you tell me?”

Yoongi turns. He’s hesitating, but he’s pissed, and Jimin can see the frustration evident all over his face. Jimin can’t help it; he starts to feel uneasy. He isn’t scared of confrontation, but he really doesn’t want Yoongi angry with him, either.

“Do you really think we’ve got health insurance? Or that I just have the ability to go and do that?”

Oh. That. Jimin had already thought about that.

“So go to the clinic at school,” Jimin says, squinting.

“What?”

“The clinic,” Jimin emphasizes. “The one in the office? Like, for rapid tests and skin stuff and advil? It’s free.”

It’s wrapped into the costs of their tuition, really, but he knows Yoongi isn’t paying tuition.

“... Are you serious?”

“Yeah. I’ve gone a bunch of times.” He frowns. “You should go to Health Absolute, too. It’s a low-cost clinic. Not for that, but for like, normal doctor visits. They do dental, too, I think.”

Yoongi shakes his head. Jimin knows where he’s going with that.

“Yeah, it’s still expensive, I get it. But if you call to set up a payment plan I guess they just let you decide the amount to pay every month. It can literally be like five bucks.”

Yoongi looks a little horrified.

“How do you know all this?”

“My mom has like an HSA, or something. Her work puts money in it every month, and the payment plan just pulls from that.” He mulls it over. “You might want to schedule appointments soon. Like, for your sister. They won’t let you have same-day appointments until you establish a primary care provider.”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything for a long second.

“And it doesn’t go to collections?”

“No, because you’re technically paying?”

Yoongi goes quiet again. Jimin lets him. Jimin is halfway through refacing the cat food cans when he speaks up again.

“It’s just a stress rash. I’ve been worried about Nora.”

“Oh.”

Jimin hadn’t considered that.

“Are you… sure you’re okay?” he tries, again.

Yoongi sighs. They’re walking through the double doors of the stock room again.

“Yeah.” He bends at the knees, picking up another bag of dog food. “It’s fine. Our next door neighbor is able to watch her after school is out, but I can’t exactly leave her at home alone with our mom.”

Jimin follows after him, bags of his own in tow.

“Is it okay to ask about your parents?”

Yoongi snorts. “Sure, but you don’t want to know.”

It’s obvious he doesn’t want to talk about it. Jimin keeps his mouth shut.

“The entire faculty knows why I’m missing school. I’m fine. It’s just annoying.” He and Jimin are nearly the same height, but his arms are longer. He helps Jimin adjust the top shelves. “And now you know.”

“I’m sorry I acted like that,” Jimin mutters, embarrassed. “I didn’t know you had stuff going on.”

“It’s fine. I’ve always got stuff going on.” He fixes all the rolled-over bags. “I said it wasn’t about you because I didn’t want you thinking it was.”

Oh. “I kinda did,” Jimin admits.

“It’s not. It never is.” He shrugs. “I’ll look into the medical stuff.”

It’s noncommittal. Maybe Yoongi’s scared it might not work out. Jimin knows he’ll call, though, and he’ll find out for himself.

“You can ask me about this kind of stuff,” Jimin says. “And if I don’t know, I can ask my Mom.”

Yoongi nods, stiff. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.” Jimin glances at Yoongi’s arm again. “Feel better soon.”

“Thanks, Barbie.” He side eyes Jimin. “I told you I don’t have a dick scratching problem.”

Jimin’s face lights up.

“Uh.”

It’s more than embarrassment. It’s hot, running deep, and he feels it in his spine. It’s shame.

“I—uh. I d—I mean.”

Yoongi snorts. He turns to the stock room. He’s genuinely amused. Yoongi has clearly let Jimin off the hook. He’d never really been angry from the beginning.

But Jimin is half numb, half nauseous, and it doesn’t have much to do with Yoongi’s teasing. As he stares after Yoongi’s back, realization hits him.

For years, Jimin has made fun of Yoongi for a lot of the same things, in different ways—like his chicken legs, or for picking his nose, or scratching his dick (his legs, actually; Jimin was just being mean). Or even for wearing clunky Doc Marten boots all the time. His jokes grew so old and so tired over the years that half of the fun became trying to recycle them in new ways—he’d spin it in a different way, or use a new synonym. Chicken this, goth that. The core of it was never funny, really. The older they became, the less harm he thought his jokes dealt.

But Yoongi has been hiding his septum piercing in his nose at school, or worrying about the healthcare costs of a rash. He does wear Doc Martens a lot, and Jimin probably made fun of them because he really likes that Yoongi can wear them, along with the leather jacket Jimin really needs to give back, and all of the other edgy things that make Jimin hot all over.

Piss-poor kid raids thrift store, Yoongi describes his own style. The one that Jimin daydreams about.

And Jimin has laughed about how lean Yoongi is, but Yoongi deals with food insecurity on a level Jimin will never be able to comprehend. Jimin isn’t stupid; he doesn’t equate poverty with weight. But.

Jimin has made fun of Yoongi for things he secretly liked about Yoongi, sure. Piercings, vintage tees, bleached hair. A deep, secretive part of Jimin always knew that. But the rest of it?

Jimin just made fun of Yoongi for being poor. Not intentionally, and just some signs of it, but in naive synonyms and horrible names. For years.

Jimin has never missed the mark so much in his entire life.

Jimin even doubted Yoongi was smart until Yoongi opened up his mouth in Opfer’s class. He didn’t even think Yoongi knew how to cry, but then he’d watched Yoongi have a panic attack. He called Yoongi the worst part of St. Mary’s a thousand different ways, but he’s starting to become the one Jimin thinks about the most.

God. Jimin is so fucking judgemental.

Why is Yoongi so nice?

Maybe it’s too good to be true.

“You coming?” Yoongi calls.

Jimin jogs toward the stock room doors. “Yeah!”

He might throw up again, but it’ll have to wait.

“You doing that retreat this weekend?” Yoongi asks.

Jimin kicks his converse against the asphalt. “Quest? We kinda have to, don’t we?”

Yoongi shrugs. “Did mine last year. They’re letting me off the hook this time.”

Jimin nods. He’s leaned up against Yoongi’s orange bug, doing jack shit.

Yoongi’s got better shit to do than talk to Jimin, probably. He has a sick sister at home to take care of, assignments to catch up on, and whatever else he does that Jimin doesn’t know about. Of course he isn’t going to the upperclassmen retreat.

“I hate those stupid things,” Jimin mutters, eyeing the sunset over the asphalt.

Yoongi huffs. “No shit?”

Jimin’s nose wrinkles. “You think I’d like them?”

“You like everything,” Yoongi snickers.

“No I don’t,” Jimin denies, snorting. “You just hate everything.”

“Why don’t you like retreats, then?”

He rolls his eyes, but gives in. “Food’s super weird. Sleeping in a room with at least one weirdo; probably more. Having to sit there awkwardly while everyone prays. People talking to you and getting super deep when, like, they haven’t done that all semester. The weird hand-holding circles. High fives. Being pressured to talk about Jesus every few hours. Optional masses that literally aren’t optional at all. Teachers looking at you like they care in that weird, invested way.”

“Holy shit, you’re even more introverted than I thought.”

The list goes on and on. “Father Byrne always finding a way to preach abstinence,” he finally adds, cringing.

“Yeah,” Yoongi agrees, laughing. “He’s a fucking creep.”

“Way too concerned with high schoolers having sex. Like, it’s weird.”

“Terrifying.”

Jimin snorts. “I’m pretty sure I’m an atheist,” he explains.

“Yeah, same. You probably would have guessed that.”

Jimin didn’t think about it, really, but Yoongi doesn’t exactly seem like the type to pray the Rosary.

“I mean, also…” He crosses his ankles only to uncross them. “I’m gay. So.”

He looks at Yoongi. Just a glance.

Yoongi knows Jimin is gay. Everyone knows Jimin is gay. It isn’t about that. It’s about the reaction Yoongi might give to Jimin volunteering that information yet again.

Yoongi just nods.

“So the religion aspect is weird,” Yoongi finishes for him. “That’s why you don’t like them.”

Jimin deflates. “Yeah.” It’s so not what he wanted to hear. “So, yeah. I don’t like everything.”

He doesn’t like potentially crushing on guys who are straight, either. Or who, at least, haven’t decided to be open about being into dudes. Which, Yoongi doesn’t seem closeted. He doesn’t seem like he’d want to be, either.

Jimin should have already asked. It would have been better, then—right at the beginning, even when he was too scared to do it. Before Jimin kissed his cheek.

Before Jimin started to fall for him.

“I guess not,” Yoongi agrees.

Jimin clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“You just do everything,” Yoongi decides, corrects himself. The smile’s still in his eyes. “Hence the nickname.”

The butterflies in Jimin’s stomach are threatening to take over his whole body. He adjusts, aiming for subtle. It’s like his whole body is wound up.

“What do you mean?” Which does he mean? Yoongi has given Jimin a lot of nicknames, all driving Jimin crazy in various ways and amounts.

Yoongi’s eyebrows raise up and down, brief. The piercing through one of them catches the setting sun.

“A thousand uniforms,” he mulls. “A thousand jobs. Good at everything you do. Yeah, you look like her. You can do it all, too. With a smile.”

He flips his keys in his hand. He shrugs.

“You’re probably crazy,” he decides. “Barbie looks like she’s planning a murder half the time.”

Jimin’s heart is breaking and whole all at once. He scowls. It comes out screwed up and all warm and fuzzy, but it’s there.

“You’re so annoying,” Jimin huffs. “I’m leaving.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you this weekend, maybe.”

Jimin stops, hand on his key fob. “You’re going?”

Yoongi hangs halfway out of the driver’s side door of his bug. “No guarantees. I’ll text you.”

Jimin bites the inside of his lip, mouth twisting.

“You can call me,” he offers. Carefully. Casually.

“Thought you didn’t like phone calls?”

Jimin knew it was coming. “It’s fine,” he dismisses. “Whatever works.”

Yoongi snorts, climbing in his car. Jimin mirrors him. It’s a little weird, watching their cars start. Jimin has this insane urge that they ought to be going to the same destination.

Yoongi’s window rolls down, gradually, in 1970s Volkswagen speed.

“Hey,” Yoongi says.

Jimin rolls down his own. “Yeah?”

Yoongi swallows. He looks out his windshield, eyes squinting. There’s a crease in his eyebrow.

“There’s this thing that they do,” Yoongi says. “They pair you up, and you’re supposed to pick Bible verses that represent the other person.”

Jimin stiffens in his seat. Anxiety swells in his throat, sudden and obtrusive.

“It’s on the last day, I think. After they bus you back to campus, when you head into the campus chapel.” He frowns. “Either pair up with someone decent, or go loiter in the bathroom or something.”

Because there are people at St. Mary’s who would only pick one verse for Jimin, he means: Leviticus 18:22.

“Okay?” Yoongi asks, serious.

Jimin nods. “Okay.”

“That shit is uncomfortable as fuck,” Yoongi sneers. “If anyone pulls that shit on you, tell me. I’ll figure it out.”

He pulls forward through his spot and out of the lot. Jimin’s wide eyes flicker to his rearview mirror. He makes eye contact with himself, heart pounding.

He’d been right about Yoongi being ready to beat someone’s ass, at least.

On Friday morning, Jimin shows up to St. Mary’s with a duffel bag.

It’s really only his cheer bag, freshly-cleaned of Jimin’s uniform and extras, but it’s the biggest bag he had available. In it, aside from Jimin’s necessities, are his necessities for a silent retreat: six books, a sketch book, earbuds, and his old iPod. Phones aren’t allowed for the vast majority of the retreat, but that doesn’t mean Jimin has to be bored.

It does mean he’s physically unable to let go of his phone until the exact moment it’s taken from his grubby little hands. Jimin is an addict. He isn’t afraid to admit it.

He loiters against his open locker until the last possible call for the bus, scrolling uselessly through social media. Jimin isn’t ashamed to admit that he still looks at the candid on a daily basis—and at his own, Chungha-curated profile.

To call the change in Jimin’s social media presence an overhaul would be a lackluster description at best. He has gone from seventeen followers to more than two hundred—more than half of St. Mary’s entire student body—and he’s following Min Yoongi. And vice versa. Quid pro quo, if that’s even a legitimate usage of the phrase.

Jimin has yet to post anything, though. While Yoongi has continued to post beautiful cityscape photos in the regular posting schedule of his photography page—something Jimin once would have roasted him for, but now finds oddly intriguing—Jimin has the selfie Chungha posted, and not much else.

He has stuff to post, sure. Videos taken from dance practice, or even stupid selfies taken the weekend before with Jeongguk. If Jimin’s honest with himself, he hasn’t had the bravery to do it.

He’s worried Yoongi might like his post. He’s worried Yoongi might not like his post.

Jimin hasn’t even posted yet.

He worries anyway. He worries about Yoongi all the time—and maybe he always has, though the lens has certainly shifted. From pointless insults and the social behavior of a hermit, to…

Jimin adjusts his forehead against the upper metal rim of his open locker.

To leather jackets, he figures, though that had been there from the beginning. But everything has a new light. Yoongi’s bug is suddenly the only car Jimin wants to sit inside—the only one Jimin has dreamed of being inside, and he’s really trying to forget about that dream. It’s really unfair to his sex drive, and it makes Jimin confront urges he isn’t sure he’s ready for.

It’s more than that. Everything’s… blended. It’s a mix of opposites attracting—piercings, cheer uniforms. Spikes and makeup. Teasing and longing.

Jimin has been staring at the polaroid for the better part of ten minutes. Mrs. Adler makes the last call for the bus over the intercom.

He holds up his phone. Opens the camera app, and lines his lens up with the polaroid. He pulls his head back, just to let enough light in—

Click.

He stares at the screen, scrutinizing.

“Jimin!”

Chungha crashes into him, giggling. Jimin’s jerked out of his daze.

“Did we miss the bus yet?” he jokes.

He shoves his phone deep in his pocket, and with his other hand, he slams his locker door shut. Chungha swings her arm over his shoulder with her own cheer bag in tow.

“Let’s swap roommates,” she decides. “We can have two co-ed rooms.”

“Oh, Father Byrne will totally go for that.”

Chungha throws her head back with a cackle.

The line out to the bus is long and over-exposed by too much overcast sun. When Jimin squints, he can spot the cellphone drop-off bin propped next to the vehicle’s entrance. Students drop their phones into it obediently.

“Can I ask you something?”

“No.”

Jimin snorts. “Tell me if I should post this to Instagram,” he pushes.

She’s all ears then, squinting at his phone—and when she finally makes out the image, she squeals.

“Oh my God, yes. Do it right now.”

“What?” Jimin balks. “We’re getting on the bus in like, two seconds.”

“Give me your phone.”

She already has it, though, and in a matter of moments, she adjusts the brightness and the contrast and the who-knows-what to an appropriate level. She passes it back.

“What are you captioning it? ‘Love of my life’?”

Jimin almost exits the app. “I wasn’t going to.”

“No, you should,” she groans. “Especially because it’s a photo he’s already seen.”

Jimin thinks about it. The line gradually shrinks further and further, with students moving faster as the line shortens.

He wracks his brain. Party. Jacket. ‘I’ll give your jacket back soon’? Too direct. Kiss. Definitely too direct. Drama. Karaoke. Goodnight. Jimin bites the inside of his cheek. He still can’t believe he said it. Right at the end of the night, too, standing on the curb, leaning into the rolled-down window of Taehyung’s Range Rover.

It was the second time, Jimin realizes, that they’d had—a not-date. Kind of a date. Something that sounded like a date, felt like a date, but might not have been. The second time Yoongi dropped him off at his door after a whatever-it-was.

The second time Yoongi gave him a ride home.

“Oh my God,” Jimin blurts, and he wouldn’t ever admit it to anyone, but he giggles. “I’ve got one.”

He types it. He flashes his screen. She looks at him with eyebrows raised. Jimin’s grin takes over his entire face and, before he can think twice, posts it. And then, before he can think to delete it, Jimin drops his phone into the egg crate.

“I meant you should save it as a draft until after the retreat,” Chungha admits, “but I’m okay with this. This is bold. Very cute.”

Jimin’s about to come back with a very smart response about Yoongi not going on the retreat, and therefore being very available to view his post, but then he realizes that very same predicament will prevent Jimin from seeing when or how the senior might respond.

He hadn’t quite thought that one through.

“Shit,” Jimin blurts.

“Language!” Mrs. Adler reminds.

Jimin jogs onto the bus with panic in his eyes.

my ride or die <3, Jimin had captioned it. And he won’t have access to his phone for two days.