Chapter Text
Jeongguk’s head whips around. Jimin’s stomach sinks when he watches Jeongguk’s face turn shocked—and then sour.
Slowly he takes it all in; the crushed cans in the driveway, Jeongguk wearing the flannel he thinks makes him look cool, and the freshmen from Jeongguk’s algebra class hunkering down around him.
Then Jeongguk’s face goes blank. He stands up, a little awkwardly in the crowded space. It’s not lost on Jimin that he’d literally been crouched in front of a bong.
“Hey,” is all he says.
What? Jimin thinks.
But Jeongguk stares at him, straight-faced. He thinks Jeongguk might look over, too, toward where Yoongi stands.
“What are you doing here?”
What? again.
“You knew I was here,” Jimin says, a little dumbly. He’d left a snapchat of Jimin very obviously being at a party—the party—on read. “... You didn’t tell me you were here.”
The rest is implied: he’s probably smoking, potentially high, when the Jeongguk of two weeks ago—at least, Jimin thinks?—was previously too much of a baby to even think about weed outside leaf-printed phone cases and memes. But the snapchat Jeongguk had sent Jimin wasn’t just of himself and some friends at a park, apparently. It was of himself loitering in the driveway of the party Jimin was at. The one Jeongguk isn’t even allowed inside of.
Jeongguk shrugs. He looks elsewhere.
“Whatever.”
He’s just… standing there.
“You didn’t want to say ‘hi?’” Jimin tries, throat thick.
He shakes his head. “Not really.”
There’s a hand on his. Jimin feels the cold little shocks of Yoongi’s rings, but it’s admittedly a little distant compared to the issue at hand.
“What the fuck is up with you?” Jimin demands.
Jeongguk winces. And as a cherry on top of it all, Jimin watches some WASP freshman motherfucker lean out of the van in a cowboy hat and matching boots to ask:
“Hey, JK. Are we gonna do this, or…?”
Jimin’s eyes shoot open. “Jay-kay?”
When Jeongguk freezes, it’s confirmed.
“Are you serious?”
“It’s just a nickname,” comes the defense.
Jimin looks over. Cowboy hat disappears back into the van. Yeah, he thinks. From a dude who looks like he can’t pronounce your actual name.
Clearly, it’s obvious on his face: friends are not supposed to be the microaggressional equivalent of Jimin’s boss at Cassano’s. But Jeongguk is shriveling up on himself in a way that makes it cripplingly clear that he is not interested in discussing the matter.
That’s fine with Jimin.
“Do you not want to be my friend anymore?” Jimin asks bluntly. “Because you’ve ignored me for like—I mean we haven’t really even talked normally in weeks, right?”
“Will you shut up?”
Jimin sucks in a breath.
He doesn’t miss the fact that their confrontation isn’t going unnoticed. Freshmen shift around on the driveway, and a head pokes out a side window of the house—it’s Jin’s, and Yoongi is offering to throw Taehyung’s keys in that direction.
Jin waves him off.
“Sorry! I’m embarrassing you.” Jimin laughs, ignoring it all. “Guess I just missed the memo. Didn’t realize you wanted to be a douche, now.”
Jeongguk scoffs.
“I guess you changed your identity,” Jimin says. “Now you—what, you smoke weed? You go to parties? You ignore me?”
You leave your room without me? It’s what goes unsaid, and the worst part is that Jimin feels a little proud of him. Even if it hurts.
Jeongguk’s pause only lasts a second before he laughs. “You’re not my fucking Mom.”
“Yeah. I sound like the soccer mom whose biggest complaint is that she doesn’t know who her kids are anymore,” Jimin croaks.
“You’re not the only one.” Jeongguk’s hands are shoved deep in his pockets. Since when could he look so angry?
“I’ve been the only one trying to talk to you,” Jimin emphasizes. “I guess I should’ve been paying more attention. I guess I was too busy. Because I clearly haven’t had a lot to deal with lately.”
“Listen.” Jeongguk must really not like that, because he says: “I’m gonna need you to get off my fucking dick.”
Jimin’s stomach drops.
“—Yeah.”
He looks over his shoulder.
“That’s what we’re not gonna do,” Yoongi says.
He nods at Jeongguk. He flips Taehyung’s keys over in his palms with a shrug, jaw clenched.
Whatever Jeongguk’s planning to say, it doesn’t look good. Yoongi directs Jimin’s attention elsewhere before Jeongguk can embarrass him any more.
“Let’s go get something to eat.” He nods toward the car. “Okay?”
Jeongguk is—he’s having a moment. Jimin sees face-palming in his peripheral. He hears a few expletives. It’s just puberty, he wants to joke.
“Fuck this dude,” Jeongguk spits, finger pointed at Yoongi. “Why did you harass this guy for years to turn around and be a fucking kissass?”
That’s definitely not a joke.
Jimin looks at Yoongi and then to the ground. He blinks, sniffles. Then he shrugs.
“Yeah, I could eat,” he decides, quiet.
Even though he’s sick to his stomach.
It’s weird. It’s definitely worse than weird. Jimin’s heart sinks in a whole new way that isn’t enjoyable at all. He can’t breathe right. And he can’t escape the guilt of literally turning his back on his best friend.
Behind them, Jeongguk groans.
“This wasn’t what I wanted!” he yells.
Jimin spins on his heel.
“What did you want in the first place?”
“Not for you to show up here with the douchebag you used to rag on dressed like some stupid fucking—”
Jeongguk doesn’t finish, but it’s too late.
Jimin’s mouth starts to tremble. It’s the worst thing that could happen in that moment, because Jeongguk knows it means he’s about to cry.
“I know what you were going to say,” Jimin says, voice cracking.
“I mean, I didn’t,” Jeongguk hedges. “Don’t get all—”
“I’m embarrassed,” Jimin snaps. His eyes are hot and damp. “You’re screaming at me in front of everyone. And I started it, I know; but you’ve straight up ignored me. You’re supposed to be my best friend. And you—you’re just being mean.”
He blinks. And when he can’t breathe, he sniffles.
“What are you even doing?” he asks, more to himself, but then to Jeongguk: “Why are you even here? You hate this stuff.”
“I was trying to have fun. I guess that’s a problem.”
Holy shit, Jimin thinks. He’d scoff, but then he really would be acting like Jeongguk’s mom.
He shakes his head instead. “You never even wanted to—”
And then it hits him.
“Where are you supposed to be right now?”
Jeongguk stiffens. From years of experience, Jimin knows to look at his nose. It crinkles.
“Holy shit.” Jimin huffs. “I’m your alibi? Really?”
Of course. Of course he’d do that. It would be so easy for him to come home at two in the morning. Oh, sorry Mom and Dad, I came back because Jimin hogs the bed. The same way he always does. Mrs. Jeon wouldn’t even question it—except for the part where Jeongguk’s unsteady on his feet and smells like weed. But Jimin figures he hadn’t gotten there yet.
“My mom knows I’m out, dipshit,” he hisses. “You’re screwed.”
“How was I supposed to know? You never go anywhere!” Jeongguk yells.
“Fucking—forget that, oh my God.” His eyes widen. “Who’s your ride home?”
Jeongguk’s frozen in front of him. He blinks down at Jimin, fumbles, and points over his shoulder.
“Jaebum.”
That’s when Jimin spots the senior sitting on the back bumper of the van. The school’s biggest stoner of all time. And, when he meets Jimin’s eyes, he has vomit around his mouth and a bucket in front of him.
“You’re not letting him drive you,” Jimin snaps. “You will literally die.”
Maybe he is Jeongguk’s mom. Jeongguk’s protesting up the goddamn wall—you can’t tell me what to do, you’re barely even older—
Jimin grabs a fist full of his shirt. Jeongguk stumbles. But his other hand holds Yoongi’s.
The senior has a grim, irritated set to his mouth. His eyes flicker over Jeongguk with disdain. But then he looks at Jimin.
“Yeah,” he grunts. “Get in.”
There they are, borrowing Taehyung’s Range Rover.
The three of them.
Jimin’s stiff while Yoongi crosses around the front of the car. It’s going to be the most awkward thing Jimin has ever experienced. Jeongguk and Yoongi in the same, small space. And how’s Yoongi going to act around Jeongguk? Is he finally going to act like Jimin’s the gum on the bottom of his chunky boots? Or will he act… the way he’s been acting lately?
If Jimin had to label it, he’d call it flirting.
“I’m hungry,” Jeongguk complains in the back seat.
Jimin throws his wallet at Jeongguk’s chest. “Shut up.”
The driver’s side door opens. Yoongi slips inside. He starts to move the keys toward the ignition, but he glances at Jimin. He pauses. Then he starts the car.
“What?” Jimin whispers.
As the engine roars to life, Yoongi shifts into reverse. He twists around, hand coming to rest on the back of Jimin’s seat as he attempts to look out the rear window. He must see a whole lot of Jeongguk, too, because he just shakes his head.
“Nothing,” he answers.
Jimin takes that to mean he plans to firmly ignore Jimin for being a dramatic loser. Wonderful. The ride home promises to be awkward as fuck.
“This is so fucking awkward,” Jeongguk comments, cheek pressed against the window.
Jimin spins around. “Shut up,” he hisses again.
Yoongi pushes a knob. The radio blares to life.
Stunned by the entirety of the situation, Jimin sinks back into his seat.
Jeongguk just doesn’t act like… like that. Especially in front of people that aren’t Jimin.
He never complains when someone does him a favor. He might’ve been thirteen the first time Jimin heard anything negative out of his mouth—and that was when the milk in his hot chocolate had gone sour. It took him years to get comfortable with Jimin. Anyone else? Firmly off-limits. He wilts whenever Jimin’s mom doesn’t let him do the dishes after dinner, and he has never, ever misbehaved in front of anyone aside from Jimin himself in the entire time Jimin has known him—which is literally his entire life. It’s not just Jeongguk’s anxiety, either. Jeongguk’s just never impolite.
Then again, Jeongguk has never almost called Jimin a slut, either.
They’ve never even had a fight before.
As Yoongi begins the long descent down Rosea Hill, Jimin starts to choke up again.
He doesn’t make any noise about it, at least. He’s embarrassed himself enough and realistically he should just try to swallow it all and cry at home. In Taehyung’s stupid car, though, with stupid Jeongguk in the back seat and having kinda kissed Yoongi’s cheek while he was drunk, Jimin’s tired. And probably annoying to Yoongi. That’s probably what makes the tears roll down his cheeks more than anything.
That, and Jeongguk being a certified idiot. He doesn’t know how he knows what Jeongguk meant to call him. But he does. Best friendship privileges, he thinks ironically.
“This music sucks,” Jeongguk pipes up.
Exhausted, Jimin gives up on hiding that his eyes are red and his makeup is probably ruined. He looks away from the passenger window toward the radio. A classic rock station. Then he recognizes the guitar riff.
“You know I love this song,” he accuses.
Jeongguk’s nose is against the glass. “I know,” he says. “You play it all the fuckin’ time.”
“It’s good,” Jimin huffs. “Sorry we aren’t all obsessed with Tyga.”
From the driver’s seat, Yoongi looks a little proud.
“Whatever.”
In one smooth motion, Jeongguk dives over the console. He fishes around, against Jimin’s shrieks and Yoongi’s what the fuck, and leans back with the end of Taehyung’s aux chord in hand and the radio turned off. He jams the port into his phone.
“Fuck no,” Yoongi hisses. “Absolutely not.”
“Shut up, noob. I know what he likes better than you ever will.”
Plucky guitar strums over the speakers. Jimin pales instantly.
“No.” It can’t be.
Jeongguk screams: “Let’s go to the beach-each, let’s go get a wave! They! Say! What they gonna say!”
Yoongi’s eyes widen in horror.
“Have a drink, clink, found the Bud Light—bad bitches like me is hard to come by.”
—Jimin bursts into cackles.
He panics to whip out his phone. Argument aside, Jimin only has a handful of videos of Jeongguk’s Nicki Minaj covers, and he isn’t about to miss another prime opportunity. What’s an argument in the face of prime blackmail material? Yoongi smacks his own forehead from the front seat, but when Jeongguk only does body rolls in the back, Jimin has to hold back his squeal. He turns on his flash.
“I’ma blow all of my money and don’t give two shits.”
He flips his hair in 2012-esque Justin Bieber fashion on the grunts. Jimin nearly screams.
He finds himself mouthing the words against the concern that the Addams family member driving the vehicle might come down on them in a Minaj-induced fury. On the pre-chorus, Jeongguk stares at Jimin with wide eyes, sings along into a mime of a microphone, and turns his hand around just in time for Jimin to belt:
“Starships! Were meant to fly!”
Jeongguk laughs horrendously through the entire chorus. He turns Jimin’s phone around—which definitely isn’t fucking happening—so they shove at each other while Jimin struggles to sing until a ping cuts over the speakers.
Their eyes find Jeongguk’s phone. Jeongguk’s dad has lit up a text banner notification along the top of the screen.
“That’s what you get for being a fucking asshole,” Jimin snickers.
Jeongguk gives an anxious gag. Jimin only flips around in his seat. Hurriedly, he saves the video.
“Tell your dad I took you.” He shrugs. “You’ll be fine.”
He’s kind of the best friend of the year. Jeongguk nods gratefully as he thumbs furiously at his phone. Jimin yanks out the aux chord and clears his throat.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the senior looking over at him. With Jeongguk silent in the back, Jimin has no reason to avoid him. Embarrassment creeps up anyway.
It’s not like Yoongi deserves any of it. He has his own shit to handle. He’d been nice enough to give Jeongguk a ride home, and now he has to deal with their impromptu karaoke session on top of publicly arguing—
“—I’m sorry.”
“—You okay now?”
Jimin had blurted the words. Yoongi’s are a lot quieter. His eyes widen, but they’re on the road.
“Yeah. I’m fine,” Jimin agrees.
“... I didn’t know you could sing.”
“He can’t,” Jeongguk jabs.
Nothing but quiet rocking and the ticking of a turn signal follows. Jeongguk has put his phone down and gone quiet for a long while before Yoongi speaks again.
“You really didn’t think I’d take you out tonight?”
Jimin frowns. To the party? Of course not. Why would he? Especially when, at work:
“You told me you weren’t,” he points out.
The senior’s silent at that. Jimin studies his face carefully—from his peripheral vision, of course—but he can’t make out much. A frown, maybe, and a nod.
Jimin’s stomach drops. It doesn’t feel quite as bad as it had in Taehyung’s driveway, though.
“You didn’t have to,” Jimin says. “It’s fine, I mean. It’s not like I was waiting or anything, and it turned out to be a pain in the ass for you anyway.”
“No.” Yoongi turns deeper into Jimin’s neighborhood. “No, that’s alright.”
Alright. Just alright.
But Yoongi clears his throat. It doesn’t seem nervous. Jimin wishes it did. At least he wouldn’t be alone, then.
The senior says: “No. ‘Course I was gonna take you. Unless you didn’t want to go.”
Jimin had kind of really wanted to go.
Yoongi smirks. “You can be a wet blanket all you want, too, and I’ll still take you.”
In the back seat, Jeongguk hits his head against the window with a heavy thumping sound. Jimin ignores it.
“Really?” he asks instead, dubious.
They’re continuing around the final curve toward Jimin’s block when Yoongi says, “Yeah. Any time you want.”
Jeongguk snorts.
Holy shit, Jimin thinks. He’s got fuck-all to say to that. It takes far too long to stop gaping at Clucker McFury, and even when he does, he just faces forward and shuts his mouth with an audible click of his teeth. Maybe he isn’t completely ignoring Jimin in front of his best friend after all.
Yoongi parks at the curb of his house for the third time. He puts the car in park and turns to Jimin again.
“I got those polaroids,” he says. “From Hoseok.”
Jeongguk hasn’t exactly gotten out of the car. For having acted like he wants nothing to do with Jimin’s development regarding The Min Yoongi Situation in the weeks prior, it’s an interesting contrast.
But Jimin’s focus is elsewhere. “Can I… see them?”
“Yeah.”
Yoongi’s eyes flicker to the back seat.
“We can do this on your porch; I’ll walk you up.”
Jimin’s heart stops.
He has seen movies. He knows what happens when people walk their dates up to the porch at the end of an evening. And even if Jimin isn’t really his date, in the dating sense, they’d held hands all night. And Jimin kissed his cheek. Even if Yoongi hated it, it still happened. It has to count for something. Yoongi even knows Jimin hasn’t ever kissed anyone; it’s the perfect time to strike. And, better yet, Yoongi’s leaning over the console with his arm outstretched.
Jimin throws himself into the hug.
Who could blame him? It’s everything he’s ever wanted and more.
“Okay.” He ducks his face into the crook of Yoongi’s neck. Aftershave, the sickly-sweet smell of the party, and smoke. “Thanks, too.”
Slowly, from the back of the car, Jeongguk begins to snicker.
Mid-hug, Jimin pauses. Jeongguk’s laughter only gets louder. He looks like he’s trying to muffle it behind his hand, but that’s not doing anything to contain the volume. And it comes in real, genuine peels, like he isn’t just doing it to be mean.
Jimin’s eyes dart back and forth. He turns, inspects himself, and searches for any sign of humor—and then he sees Yoongi’s fingertips stretched toward the passenger side door handle.
“He was just getting your door,” Jeongguk sniggers.
Jimin backs away.
“Oh my God,” he blurts, mortified.
“No. No, it’s fine,” Yoongi says, but Jimin’s too far gone.
Oh my God, he’s saying again. And he cringes. And he’s practically diving for the door handle on his own, because if there’s anything that’s going to repair the situation it’s Jimin getting the fuck out of the car and leaving with the promise of never coming back.
Yoongi exhales. “Stop.”
Jimin’s bottom lip is doing the thing again.
The senior turns around in his seat.
Straight-faced, he says: “Get out.”
Jeongguk glowers, moves to get out, pauses, and moves again. Jimin reaches for his own door handle.
“Not you.”
So he stays. Reluctantly.
Jeongguk comes around to the passenger side. Awkwardly, Jimin rolls down the window. Jeongguk waits for the whole thing to roll down. A long, embarrassing period of quiet.
“You’re not coming?”
When Jimin doesn’t respond, he gulps. Jeongguk looks a lot more sober.
“... Sorry,” he says.
“Maybe we should talk about this later.” I’ve got enough going on, dweeb.
“Yeah.” But he doesn’t go inside, yet. He looks at the ground and says: “Sorry about before. You don’t look like a… yeah.”
He exhales. The worst part of being his best friend is that Jimin knows exactly what he means.
“I kinda do,” he shrugs. “In a good way.”
Jeongguk shakes his head. “No, you look really pretty.”
… Okay. A little much for an ass-kissing, but whatever. On second thought, Jeongguk is most likely a little high. Definitely drunk, too. No sobriety in sight.
Jimin squints. “You owe me.”
“I know.”
“I’m gonna tell my Mom you were already over by the time I wanted to leave, so I had no option but to bring you with, and that you’re the one who ate all the leftovers.”
“... But I didn’t.”
“Yeah, well, you need an alibi. And I’m hungry.” And fucking embarrassed!
Jeongguk sighs and rolls his eyes.
“Whatever. Bye.”
They flip each other off, but Jimin’s a half-second faster.
He waits, in more painful silence, until Jeongguk crosses the yard and disappears into his front door. Then he faces forward in his seat.
He’s absolutely not going to look. He’s embarrassed himself enough.
“Look at me.”
He looks.
“What?” he winces.
The senior raises an eyebrow. Jimin wilts. “I’m so sorry.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Sorry about him,” he folds.
Yoongi shrugs. “I feel like I should be the one saying that.”
Before Jimin can question it, he’s reaching into his largest pocket. Out come the polaroids, carefully undisturbed and free of creases. The senior pinches them between his thumb and forefinger just enough to fan them. A quick glance reveals the exposure’s just right.
Jimin bites the inside of his cheek.
“Can I have one of these?”
If he thought about it, Jimin would realize how invested that question makes him seem. Maybe he would’ve asked anyway.
Yoongi looks at him. “Sure.”
He shakes his head when Jimin reaches for the photo of his choice.
“That’s the one I wanted,” he challenges.
Jimin’s hand stops, inches away.
It’s the one where Jimin kissed his cheek, of course. They’re both cute. Shockingly so. But Jimin likes his particular choice because, while they’re close in the first one, they’re even closer in the second.
Jimin wants to treasure it. He could put little decals on it; maybe even hang it up in his locker.
But he supposes Yoongi has a right to want that one, too. If he feels even a quarter of the way Jimin does, at least, and that’s a long shot. Not that Jimin really feels anything. Maybe a little, tiny crush.
“... What do you want for it?” he breathes.
Kiss me kiss me kiss me, right now—
“What are you offering?”
Oh.
“Yeah, ‘oh.’”
He needs to hedge. And fast.
“How am I supposed to make an offer?” he pouts. “I don’t even know what you want.”
Yoongi’s eyeline dips.
Jesus fuck. It’s happening. He’ll say something like, ‘I think you do.’ Jimin will admit that he’s nervous, because he is. His hands are shaking. And then Yoongi will lean across the console and it definitely won’t be a mistake this time when Jimin leans in, too.
“I want an answer,” Yoongi says.
“... What?”
The senior nods toward Jeongguk’s house.
“You’re really not into him?”
Jimin sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Not a chance in hell,” he hisses, slowly. “Why do you keep asking?”
It hits him when Yoongi directs his eyes out the drivers’ side window. Jimin’s disappointment abates. Temporarily.
“Are you…worried about that? That he called me pretty?”
Yoongi cuts him a look. “Your mom’s real nice, by the way.”
Jimin deflates.
“Ugh.” He purses his lips. “Fuck you.”
Yoongi shrugs and extends Jimin’s preferred polaroid. Jimin isn’t exactly subtle about letting their fingers brush. The senior doesn’t give him any kind of signal in response. Jimin slumps back against the seat.
“Do I get to go now?”
Yoongi snorts. “Yeah.”
Jimin slips out of the car. Taehyung’s Range Rover is higher off the ground than Yoongi’s bug, with lights beneath the running boards that illuminate the asphalt.
He lingers at the rolled-down window.
“Drive safe,” he mumbles.
Yoongi raises his eyebrows. “Will do, Barbie.”
But Jimin doesn’t go inside. He holds the polaroid carefully, pinching only the white edge between his fingers.
“I don’t like Jeongguk,” Jimin repeats. “I really don’t.”
Yoongi doesn’t say anything. Jimin doesn’t look at him. He probably isn’t saying anything because he thinks Jimin has more to say. There is more to say. That if there’s anyone Jimin likes, it would be—
“Okay.” He swallows. He looks down, just once, at the polaroid in his hands. “Goodnight.”
It’s so cute. Yoongi is so cute. Jimin peeks up at him.
He’s smirking. Jimin’s face falls; that can’t be good.
“We’re saying ‘goodnight’ now?” Yoongi’s grin is wolfish. “Do I get a good night kiss?”
Jimin turns on his heel.
“Ugh!”
Jimin’s mom sits awake at the kitchen table, waiting. Jimin almost grimaces.
He doesn’t let it show on his face, though. Jimin has a lot of talents, but he is especially talented at keeping Jeongguk out of trouble.
His mom puts her tablet down. The eyeliner on her lower lashline has bled.
“Jeonghwa called,” his mom levels. “Do you have something to tell me?”
Shit.
Jimin does what any self-preserving child does in difficult times: he folds.
“I didn’t even know Jeongguk was there until five minutes before we left.”
She gives him The Look.
“No, I’m being honest—we went to Jin and Taehyung’s house, and I guess he was there.”
His mom keeps her steely look on.
“I told Jeongguk I would cover for him,” he spills. It falls out of him rapid, and choppy. He isn’t breathing. “I did drink. Not a lot. Yoongi didn’t drink anything. We saw Jeongguk because we were going to leave early and he was like, in the driveway of the house. I’m pretty sure he was smoking weed. And he was with these really gross stoners.”
He grimaces. His mom purses her lips, nodding.
“He’s been acting so weird,” Jimin breathes, stressed. “He’s not talking to me as much. And he was… being really mean.”
“Oh, honey.”
Jimin sits in the seat beside her at the kitchen table. He’s happy—really happy. After the fight, he had the first normal moment with Jeongguk in weeks. And he even really liked going to his first high school party with Yoongi.
He tears up.
“He yelled at me,” Jimin breathes, “in front of like, twenty people. I think he’s mad at me for hanging out with Yoongi. We—we used to talk shit about Yoongi a lot, together, but now I’m not doing that anymore.”
His mom rubs his back, looking ahead of him, processing.
“How did you respond?”
“I lectured him,” Jimin admits, embarrassed. “I was so mad. And he didn’t even have a ride home. Yoongi drove us both back.”
“Why was Jeongguk in their driveway?”
Jimin sniffles. “I guess Taehyung’s older brother doesn’t let freshmen in the house.”
His mom huffs. “Some things never change.” She hums, soothing. “So you drank. Any drugs?”
“No.”
“I know. Gotta ask, though. My goodie-two-shoed son.” But she buffers. “When did you start dating Yoongi?”
“I’m not,” Jimin hisses. “Mom.”
“He’s very handsome,” she says. “Very rebellious.”
“Oh my God.”
“Have you kissed?”
“No!”
“Fine, don’t tell me. I can’t be that mad. I don’t know when you went from hating him to dating him, though.”
“We’re not dating,” Jimin emphasizes. “We’re really not.”
“Goodness,” his mom sighs. “I can’t believe I thought you’d end up being the troublemaker. You’re eighteen and this was the first time you ever came close to asking me to go to a party. What’s Jeonghwa going to do?”
The anxiety is written all over Jimin’s face. “What are you gonna do?”
His mom props her readers up on top of her bangs.
“I don’t know if Jeongguk really needs any more trouble right now,” she breathes. “But you know how I feel. If Jeonghwa calls, you know I won’t lie.”
Bile rises up in Jimin’s throat. “I know.”
His mom considers him, eyeing him. She’s probably discreetly sniffing for weed.
“Maybe you should leave him alone for a little while,” his mom thinks aloud, eyes narrowed.
Jimin is exhausted. “What? Why?”
She frowns. “Maybe he needs a break.”
“Shouldn’t I be trying to steer him away from drinking and drugs?”
She leans back in her seat, conflicted. “Yeah,” she eventually agrees. “Yeah, that is a good thing.”
She rubs his back in the way that manages to soothe Jimin more than anything else. It isn’t anything about the particular touch—just who it comes from.
“Just be careful, honey,” she warns. “I know getting hurt is part of high school, but I don’t wish it on you.”
Jimin hums, tears finally dying down.
The first thing he does, in the privacy of his own room, is call Jeongguk. Maybe he shouldn’t. But he’s curious, and Jeongguk had seemed like he had more to say—and after his mom had helped Jimin get his head on straight, feeling less shaky about everything, Jimin wants to hear it.
“Hey.”
Jimin hadn’t really expected him to pick up on the first ring.
“Well, you’re not grounded,” Jimin estimates.
“Got off scot-free.” It’s in a Scottish accent again. Jimin moves on.
“Seriously? Isn’t your dad home?”
“Yeah, but Mom said she’s happy we’re hanging out,” he explains.
That doesn’t really make any sense to Jimin. They’ve been ‘hanging out’ since Jeongguk’s mom ran out of spam on a fateful day in 2005. But whatever.
“Uh, okay.” Jimin takes a makeup wipe to his eyelids. “Jeongguk?”
“What?”
“Since when do you smoke weed?”
“... I haven’t.”
“Oh, thank God.” It rushes out of him. “Are you going to?”
“Probably.”
Jimin winces. He begins to strip, carefully hanging Yoongi’s jacket. He really needs to give that back.
“Can’t you try it with Hoseok?” he asks. “Jaebum is nasty.”
“... You think?”
“Dude, yes. He’s gross. One of the girls in cheer had a thing with him last year and there was this big breakup over dick hygiene.”
“Smegma.”
“Yes.” It’s Jeongguk’s favorite word, unfortunately. “Forbidden feta. It’s probably in that bong water.”
Jeongguk’s laughter is a wheeze. Jimin stares down at the screen of his phone. He hasn’t heard Jeongguk do that in a while. He pulls his lashes off, thinking.
“How did you even start hanging out with them?”
“He’s in my math class. He likes Linkin Park.”
Jimin smacks his forehead.
“Do you work this weekend?”
“No. I’m off. I’ve got two tests next week, anyway.” He stalls. “You wanna… come over?”
“I want ice cream.”
“We have banana popsicles.”
“Done.”
Jimin grins. He’s leaned into his mirror when he does it, though, and it’s a weird look. He forces his face to relax.
“I’m sorry. I was really anxious earlier and I got mad at you.”
“Thanks,” Jimin says. “It’s okay. I’ve missed you, dude.”
“I miss you more.”
Jimin rolls his eyes. “No way.” Jeongguk was off doing… well, Jimin doesn’t really know, because Jeongguk never told him. But Jimin kept him updated with everything.
“I did.” He exhales. The phone makes a crackly sound. “So… uh, did you guys fuck?”
Jimin swats at his phone in a gut reaction. It slips off of his dresser. Jimin makes a squeak.
“Ugh! Jeongguk, no. You’re literally insane.”
“That hug was insane.” He makes a gagging sound. “You guys are… what?”
Jimin fidgets. “Well, I got busted for talking shit about him, as you know, so I’ve kinda just been trying to not be that.”
“You don’t miss talking smack at me?”
“I missed you because you were gone from my life randomly,” Jimin teases. “And hey, you participated.”
“It’s really weird seeing you wear a dress with someone else and feel okay about it.”
Jimin stands back. His surprised expression stares back at himself in the mirror.
“I wasn’t,” Jimin admits. “It got a little easier by the end, though.”
“You’re still more comfortable with me, is what you’re saying.”
Jimin wasn’t really saying that, but he guesses that’s true. Slowly, he resumes wiping his face. “I mean, duh. You’re my best friend.”
Jimin will get there, though. He wants to feel comfortable wearing anything around anyone.
He strips out of his clothing and tosses everything into his overflowing hamper. It brings him back to the closet—back to Yoongi’s coat. Back to the little sheet that hangs out of its pocket.
Jimin plucks the polaroid out carefully.
“What time should I come over?”
“Whenever,” Jimin answers. “Early. I haven’t seen you in forever.”
“We just saw each other.”
They did. “You were rude as fuck,” Jimin reminds.
“Fine.”
The polaroid is so fucking cute. Perfectly centered. Perfect exposure. Perfect bad boy subject matter. Jimin takes it across his bedroom, laying it on the center of his desk. He has the cutest little heart stickers—
“When did you say you were coming?” Jimin asks, distracted.
“You just told me to show up at the ass crack of dawn, dude.”
Jimin’s stomach drops.
“Yeah,” he says. “Sorry, I forgot.”
“... Did you smoke?”
“No! Ew.” The polaroid’s in his hand again. “You know I’m not like that.”
“Did you drink?”
Jimin’s stomach drops. It has nothing to do with the conversation.
“Like one drink,” he says, a white lie. “It all tasted really bad.”
“I mean, it’s a high school party. I kinda figured it wasn’t a fine selection.”
If only Jeongguk knew there was a full-on bar on the Kim brothers’ kitchen counter. He struggles for something to say.
And what to do with the photo.
“Yeah, it was whatever. I drowned it with grape soda.”
“That’s fucking disgusting.”
Jimin is starting to get the Cold Sweats—the anxious, uncomfortable dampness under his arms that he usually only gets around strangers or too-tight shirts.
There’s nothing wrong with the photo. Jimin isn’t ashamed of it, or anything. He wants to bedazzle it, for crying out loud. There’s nothing wrong with Jeongguk, either, or so Jimin tells himself. He’d had a moment, sure. But there’s no reason for Jimin to hide it from Jeongguk—Jeongguk is really only giving Jimin reasons to indicate that he’s over whatever funk he has been going through. Jeongguk is known for going through funks, Jimin knows. Since he was seven years old.
Jeongguk isn’t—he isn’t a threat to it. It’s just a photo.
“We should play Mario Kart when I’m done studying tomorrow,” Jimin suggests, changing the subject.
Jimin hides it in the pages of his biology textbook, quick and stilted.
It’s just a photo. It’s fine. Jimin just feels weird about it, for some reason, in that moment. Maybe it’s just too soon—Jimin keeps thinking about Jeongguk, in the back of Taehyung’s car, staring annoyedly at the back of Yoongi’s head.
“You sure you’re not drunk?”
“You can’t get drunk from a single drink.”
“Well, you never play Mario Kart. You’re always a—”
“Sore loser. Yeah. I know.”
Jimin shoves his biology textbook in a lower drawer of his desk. He piles notebook after notebook on top of it. That’s better. Jimin isn’t hiding it. He isn’t protecting it from anything, or anyone. He just… wants to keep it to himself, for a little while.
“You don’t have to do that.”
Jimin freezes with his desk drawer hanging open. “What?”
“I was being gross. I’m really sorry, dude.”
Jimin straightens, slowly. “It’s okay.”
“Nah… I’ve been really stressed.” He clears his throat. “Anxious. Wasn’t your fault. I just, like—I do stuff, and then I’m feeling worse, but I can’t recognize it, I can’t even—”
“It’s okay,” Jimin cuts in, swallowing. “I know. It’s fine.”
Jeongguk doesn’t say anything. It’s too easy to picture him with his hands shoved against his eyes.
It might have been at least a year since one of Jeongguk’s lows, but Jimin is acutely reminded that they are not always as similar as he feels. Jeongguk is not a neurotic perfectionist like Jimin. His anxiety doesn’t result in extra practice, or getting cranky without enough sleep, or freaking out because a study guide is misplaced. Jeongguk doesn’t get bitchy; he withdraws. Sometimes for days at a time, or even weeks. He stops doing the things he enjoys. He stops doing much of anything at all.
Their parents aren’t alike, either. Jimin’s mom would have him in a doctor’s office in twenty minutes. Jeongguk has been waiting since he was in the first grade. He has even tried to bring it up to his parents.
That didn’t go over well.
“We’ve both been getting cucked,” Jimin decides. “And like, my shit probably hasn’t helped. I get that.”
“It’s really my fault. I’m fucked up.”
“No you’re not,” Jimin reassures. “You’re fine, dude. You know I love you, right?”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“That shit is mostly over, anyway,” Jimin says. He’s not too sure about that, but Jeongguk doesn’t need to know Jimin is still worried about the consequences of the Yoongi thesis. “It’s fine. It’s been weeks. Like, I really haven’t been getting much shit about it, especially lately. So you’re fine.”
“... You’re sure? You’re okay?”
“Yeah. And we’re good,” Jimin decides. “Just don’t disappear and shit, okay?”
“Yeah.”
Jimin stares at the drawer guiltily. He’d totally, unreasonably overreacted.
“Want to stay on the phone?”
“I’m fine now.”
“Good. Call me if it changes. Want to come over?”
“Dude, my Dad would kill me.”
Probably. Jimin hums.
“Okay. Well I’m going to bed,” he announces, stomach ache temporarily abated. “But seriously, my ringer is on. You can just call. See you tomorrow?”
“No,” Jeongguk jokes. It’s monotone, but he breaks. His laughter is high-pitched; he must've really cracked himself up with that one.
Jimin hangs up, snorting.
The movies would suggest Jimin should be hungover when he wakes up. He isn’t.
He’s tired. Not much of a headache. Maybe he feels a little sore. A little dry in the mouth. He rubs at his eyes.
It’s early—almost seven. Jeongguk won’t be over until ten at the earliest; Jimin knows he’d sleep until dinner time if he could. He rolls over in bed, patting the mattress until the hard rectangle of his phone lines up with his palm.
No texts. Jimin didn’t expect any, but he frowns a little.
There are stories of the party on snapchat. Jimin doesn’t catch himself or Yoongi in any of them, thankfully, except for Chungha’s posted photo of half the cheer squad in the bathtub. It’s heavily filtered. It makes Jimin think of the polaroid hiding in his biology textbook. He could probably post it.
It’s too early to be tempted to go look at the photo again. Jimin forces himself to ignore the urge.
He has more followers on Instagram, but not so many that Jimin suspects Yoongi could have posted anything. Jimin checks on his profile regardless, staring at the candid for a little while. He probably does that three times per day, if he’s honest with himself.
He does have a message.
It isn’t from Yoongi. Or Jeongguk. Or anyone else who had been at the party. In fact, it isn’t from anyone in St. Mary’s.
It’s from Jongin. Jimin wrinkles his nose. Jongin had transferred into the public school system after sixth grade, after brutally embarrassing Jimin in a huge stunt that revealed his crush and his budding gayness to the entire grade.
He isn’t sure what he expects. Maybe a message about the party, which had probably been big enough to have been discussed beyond St. Mary’s.
It’s two photos. The front and back page of a lined sheet of paper—hand-written.
Jimin recognizes his own handwriting, even from six years prior.
“What is this?” the DM says.
Jimin’s vomit tastes like grape and vodka.