Chapter Text
Mid-December marks a chill that never quite finds its dissolution. Air is silvered and frost-tipped, and breaths all but leave ivory tendrils to swirl with each parting exhale. Jimin’s fingers numb despite their place beneath the pillow— ones hard, leaving his neck to ache and head to pound— yet as he moves from beneath the wax-worn covers, he notices Yoongi’s arm strewn against that of the sofa. Its rounded edge houses a pale limb— newborn soft and delicate— and as Jimin draws closer, he can’t quite believe how gentle he looks with eyes flitting behind heavy-lashed lids. His rose-petal lips part, sweet and small puffing gentle heat with snores that find their falter, and despite the heating having ticked off during the night to conserve energy, Yoongi’s cheeks remain crimson-tinted in warmth. But Jimin remains cold, and after what tea all but heated their frames the night prior, he knows they have nothing left. Perhaps he could wake the man, he thinks, yet he’d hardly want to as serenity finds its rest against his face, and whilst it may be a rare occurrence, it’s one Jimin doesn’t wish to taint.
He leaves quietly, tugging Yoongi’s coat over his frame that never quite halts its shiver, and settles a small note detailing his brief departure in the small kitchenette. The sun has all but dried what rain marred the skies over the evening, thick brushstrokes of gunmetal grey tinting the Earth dark before dusk even settled, and whilst its gentle heat is welcome, it does little to stave what brunt the breeze bears. The journey is short— small littered laneways lining his path— yet as he gets that little closer to the shop, apprehension settles. A group of men with burly frames approach him, teasing smiles tugging at their lips as their eyes all but hone in on him, and despite Jimin’s intentions, he can’t quite escape them.
“Pretty little thing you are,” one of them drawls, hair grazing his lip with each breath. Jimin knows to let his gaze wander— to drink in all that makes them from training born through childhood fears of those wishing for his father’s fame— and as his eyes land on an inked tiger that tugs at the man’s neck, he leaves it to rest within his mind should trouble arise. It does, the men walking that little closer as Jimin steps back, each movement hushed yet it does little to deter them. “Far too pretty for a town like this.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jimin replies, a nicety born through a strained smile and gritted teeth. His descent leads him to a wall— curses strung within his mind as the men inch further, one placing a firm hand against his shoulder as his gaze turns all that bit more piercing.
“Where are you staying, love?” He asks, fingers in an almost bruising hold just shy of his neck.
“I’m— I’m just passing through.” Jimin’s stammer falls impossibly weak, little fingers clutching around the sleeves of Yoongi’s coat and he all but wishes the man was beside him as fear leaves its mark through his veins. He’s outnumbered— vastly— three men with frames much larger than his own with eyes housing little more than the want of pain.
There is the shock before the sting— Jimin knows this all too well— open palm leaving its mark against his cheek with rings drawing out crimson beads with each graze, and as small gasps part and pleas find their fall, the men simply laugh. It’s bruising what hold the man has, his shoulder tense beneath his grip and cheeks now all but raw, and as he leans in— Jimin’s breath catching in his throat as what leaden feeling lines his bones strengthens— he whispers. “Begging? How cute.”
None relent as hands turn closed prompting bruises to tug mauve at Jimin’s jaw. The weight of shoes leaves his knees to buckle and grazed hands to meet his fall, and as begs turn into quiet whimpers— sobs leaving a sting to line his cheeks with cerise trails— a final blow leaves him all but keeled over. It feels familiar; the taunts, how their hands proved his worth— open or closed— to little use more than for men to lie with, his father’s words bitterly painful at the tip of his tongue, and as the men spit those same burning vowels against his skin, Jimin feels all but numb from what singed liquor erupts against his body tumbling from their mouth. But it’s love, he’s so often been told by those who think he’s pretty— those who see what little keep that he holds. They’re never gentle, never could be, not when faced with someone so pretty, they all say.
The men eventually leave, laughter clinging to the walls of the laneway and mocking each breath that dares to part, and as Jimin stays there for a moment as his body simply stills, he wishes Yoongi could have saved him. He has someone, his mind manages through what blurs it, he has a man who tells him he’s worth more than what he’s always been told— a whore, spoiled with little else to offer— and it is this very thought that provides him just enough strength to stand.
Jimin stumbles through the weathered doorframe, small arms tugging his waist as he all but tries to muffle what sobs fall, undaring to wake Yoongi from his slumber. He just needs to clean up, he thinks, yet all intentions are halted as Yoongi meets his gaze, mouth agape and fingers clutching the piece of paper he had left. I’ve just gone out, it read, I’ll be back soon. The fear that never left simply builds, eyes closed and body bracing for what he knows all too well, but it never comes, simply Yoongi stepping that little closer and whispered voice ever-gentle.
“Jimin-ah…” Yoongi’s eyes widen and what note found its rest in his palm all but falls. “Who hurt you?” His voice falls petal-soft, a salve to what rings within Jimin’s ears, and as his strength fails him— staggering to the sofa where he collapses— Yoongi carefully sits beside him. “Who hurt you, sweetheart?” He reiterates, fingers undaring to move despite what tugs within to caress him, to treat him with such tenderness, but he knows it’ll only frighten him.
“A g-group of men they… they hit me and—” Jimin stammers as his lip quivers, breath falling unsteady and with each strand of hope that shatters entwined within his irises, Yoongi’s own heart breaks that little more.
Yoongi mumbles a gentle “stay there”, taking his ascent and turning to the sink, filling a small bowl with warm water and finding a cloth to clean what wounds have now dried. His cheeks are peppered with grazes, skin raw against his palms, and each moment that passes brings out what bruises bloom at his jaw. He quickly returns, Jimin unmoving save for the slight rocking that all but soothes him— a calming constant when his mind feels cotton-laced and skin static.
“I’m going to clean your wounds, can I do that, sweetheart?” Yoongi asks, voice akin to the first breath of spring— delicate and faint. Jimin nods, lips parted yet no words find their fall as they stick to his tongue, honey-laced and cloying sounds that prompt what nausea had found its feet to bubble that little more.
Yet Yoongi’s touch is welcome, a warm palm against his jaw in a feather-light touch, and as breath is met with a gentle assurance, Jimin lets himself melt into the fragile care just that little. Yoongi pats the damp cloth over his wounds, hisses tumbling and met with feathered apologies, and whilst Jimin can’t quite forget what fear lined his veins at the hands of three strangers, Yoongi’s assurance lets him breathe that bit easier. The ice is cold against his skin, a harsh chill soothing what simmers beneath, and at each turn, Yoongi’s caress never quite falters, thumb grazing lines wherever it can in a tenderness that Jimin is quite certain he could never deserve. But he does, Yoongi makes sure to tell him, and as wounds dry, Yoongi carefully pries his coat off of him to assess what other injuries line his frame.
“Bruises.” Jimin says through a shaky breath, Yoongi’s eyes boring into his own housing little more than sincerity.
“Can you remember what the men looked like, angel?” Yoongi asks, hands finding Jimin’s fingers to warm in his own.
He nods, small and uncertain yet Yoongi’s eyes soften in expectation, an unspoken plea but never rushing. “The man who— who hit me,” He hiccups, sobs still taking hold. “He had a tiger on his neck. And a mugunghwa on his hand.”
Yoongi tries not to bare tension, jaw tight and breath falling shaky, but as Jimin all but trembles before him, he knows that his responsibility lies with him. He knows their cover has so carelessly been blown, those just waiting to meet his demise clawing at his heels with each step, and despite what veil of safety Yoongi has shrouded Jimin in— lead him to believe that for what nights they reside here, they’ll meet little harm— he knows within his world that can never be the truth. But it’s a protection Yoongi so ardently wishes for Jimin, to never let hurt find its way into his life once more, and what broken man sits before him in a steady motion— rocking back and forth— Yoongi isn’t quite certain he can be the man of shelter that Jimin deserves. He tucks a fallen strand behind his ear in a gentle graze leaving stammered breath and eyes to close, and as Yoongi’s hand once more finds its rest within Jimin’s own, what fragile solace he’s carefully crafted leaves Jimin to relax even just that little.
“Why did you go out?” He asks, never accusatory.
“We ran out of tea. I was cold and— and I wanted some.”
And perhaps guilt settles that little more, an innocent errand met with those who are so desperate to find him, and whilst they have little to tie Jimin to Yoongi, he knows it will only be a matter of time until they do. Bruises pepper his honey-laced skin, what was unblemished and delicate now houses wounds Yoongi wishes he could’ve prevented, yet now as they stand, Jimin remains safe within his care— hold firming just that little in silent assurance as Jimin’s faint whimpers find their halt.
“We won’t have enough hot water for a shower but I’d like you cleaned up, and I’ll make sure to get your favourite tea one way or another, alright?” Yoongi stands, releasing Jimin’s hands as he turns to the bathroom, but Jimin remains apprehensive. “There will be enough to wash your hair, would that be alright? Will you let hyung do it?”
He nods, swollen lip tugged between his teeth as his gaze never quite meets Yoongi’s own, and at each small movement from Jimin, Yoongi’s heart breaks that little further. Akin to broken glass, shards piercing what walls house his heart— crimson-laced and unrelenting, the pain for what he couldn’t quite shield him from settling guilt as little more than venom to course his entirety. Yet Jimin never stands, not without gentle prompting from Yoongi with a palm splayed firmly at his spine, and Yoongi thinks he could quite easily get used to this— to be Jimin’s assurance whenever needed.
It’s a tentative trust built on shaky foundations, but Jimin can’t expect much different, he thinks, falling into the arms of a man revered for the demise of others. He had never expected each breath to be shrouded in cotton and touch tender, never thought his eyes would house unwavering sincerity and each apprehension that tugs at his core wouldn’t be met with a firm hand. Yoongi could never be that man, Jimin begins to realise, that each word that finds its tumble is certain and true, that whilst he is under his gaze he will find the security he has never had. And Jimin knows that naivety spurs him on to trust too easily, but in the same breath, perhaps whatever life Yoongi leads may be better than the one he was so quick to leave behind.
Yoongi holds a pillow in his grasp, gently placing it on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor before rolling a towel for his neck to rest on.
“Take your shirt off for me, sweetheart.” He says, voice low and mellow. “It’ll get wet. I’ll keep you warm, don’t worry.” And Jimin does, mind all but clouded with the need to simply reside in anothers’ care— protection when it has never quite found its firm hand, and perhaps it is why he has finally given up trying to fight it when at each turn, Yoongi so ardently offers it. “You’ll let me take care of you, won’t you? You’re under my care now, let me treat you kindly, sweetheart.” Yoongi assures, and each word that tumbles— syruped and golden— prompts Jimin to believe him just that little more.
Yoongi places a towel around his shoulders, touch aching to linger against what bruises bloom in stained fingerprints leaving behind a dull ache. He instructs Jimin to sit on the pillow, head resting on the towel that lines his neck to shield it from the bath’s edge, and as hesitancy lines his skin— vulnerabilities all but bared— Yoongi remains gentle. His fingers are feather-light against Jimin’s scalp, the pads delicately tugging strands apart to dampen, and as he lathers shampoo in his hands, he misses what tears find their silent cascade down Jimin’s crimson-blotched cheeks. He takes his time, soft ministrations all but soothing, yet with each breath that falls that little more shallow, Jimin can’t quite halt what whimpers begin to part. Yoongi immediately halts, watching as Jimin’s eyes never dare to open as his small fingers cling to the sides of the pillow he rests on, and Yoongi’s words fall gently as he rinses his hair— a low drawl of comfort.
“It’s alright, you deserve kindness, sweetheart. Even in this harsh world, you deserve kindness.” He hums, palms cupping water through his hair, and when what soap once clung to his scalp finds its dissolve, Yoongi wipes his hands dry. His thumbs are tender over his cheeks, wiping what tears find their fall, yet Jimin’s eyes still remain closed, unwilling to meet Yoongi’s gaze as his worth all but crumbles before him. “I’ll take care of you. I’m so sorry they hurt you, angel.” Yoongi’s words tumble as a lullaby, a hushed whisper such as what sweet wisps of dandelions dance in petal-soft breezes, ever-soft and kind.
Time stills between them for a while with Yoongi wiping each tear that leaves lashes water-laden, and as Jimin’s eyes find their tentative open, Yoongi smiles. It’s gentle and assuring, and leaves Jimin’s heart all but whole, what had left him shaking and afraid now unwilling to part from Yoongi’s tenderness— no matter the cost. He knows Yoongi’s life is stained with blood, the cold press of guns all too comfortable within his calloused hands and bodies lining his frame through each liquor-laced stumble into the palms of those that seek revenge— perhaps too hasty in his own, yet he somehow comes out unscathed.
“Would you like me to get you warm?” Yoongi asks, palms still finding rest around his cheeks. Jimin nods, allowing Yoongi to move him closer, pulling the rolled towel from beneath him before lightly drying his hair with it. “I’ll make you a hot chocolate— I’m sure I saw some sachets somewhere, sweetheart. Would you like that?” His hand brushes the bruises against his shoulder, ones indigo-lined in ink smears that heat beneath his touch, and Yoongi can’t quite help his gaze turn solemn, helpless in defending Jimin when he was alone. Jimin nods once more, lips parting yet words remain unfaltering, but Yoongi never minds, simply aiding Jimin’s ascent on wobbly legs and keeping him close.
He makes Jimin a hot chocolate despite weak protest at their only being a single sachet, but Yoongi remains insistent, hands ever-soft against Jimin’s skin— an unwavering assurance. He tugs him by the waist, gentle movements born out of tender care, and as Jimin lets himself simply be held oh-so-delicately by his loose grasp, he sinks that little further, believing that Yoongi is all he could ever have wished for.
They settle on the sofa once more, threadbare and scent never quite gone, one of neglect and unuse, the kind to cling to all that rests against it and thicken the air that shrouds them. Yet Yoongi can tell Jimin’s mind is still lined with cotton and the weight of memories that taint his being, scars laid bare in what thin veil of protection his mind offers. But Yoongi is safe, that much he can deduce, and he knows he could never forgive himself if that fragile trust was ever to be broken.
“Would you like a hug?” Yoongi asks, uncertain, and as Jimin turns to him with eyes once more glassy— tears threatening their fall— he takes a deep inhale before all but collapsing within his embrace. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
Yoongi dares to press a kiss to his head, born out of hesitancy yet it’s one Jimin all but leans into, burying his face into the juncture of Yoongi’s neck. Soft puffs of heat find their fall, welcome in keeping what chill once more finds its residence lining their skin at bay, and as Yoongi’s palms draw lines up his spine, Jimin’s breath stutters. They stay like that, the soft movement of bodies in tandem— a gentle rhythm back and forth— calming what bubbles against Jimin’s throat once more.
“I’ll keep asking this, do you want to stay?” Yoongi’s fingers find their way brushing air-dried strands off of his cheeks, a ginger touch yet one that lingers, and Jimin wishes he could still in it for all eternity. It’s sanctuary born from what he never deemed possible, nights beneath cotton sheets splayed for men to adore for a night before hearts could entwine and mistakes found their feet.
“Yes.” Jimin replies, voice impossibly small, and as Yoongi tugs him that little closer— bodies flush together— what words aim to tumble simply rest as muffled sounds, a whimpered string leaving his fingers to tighten around all that they can find.
Kindness, it’s what Yoongi so strangely exudes, and Jimin has no inclination to question it— not whilst he rests within his arms, body all put pieced together as what memories turn fuzzy beneath his skin. His father’s hand— calloused and silver-lined— mirrored by those men who aimed to hurt, and they did, physical wounds baring crimson-tainted stains yet perhaps what aches more is what resides beneath. Each word spat was one that had tumbled from his father’s lips, each hit never quite as hard, and as he sat keeled over as sobs wracked his frame, an all too familiar haze began its ascent. Akin to waves against sea-salted shores, pristine and glimmering beneath the rays of mid-summer, cotton found its wash over Jimin’s entirety, infiltrating his senses as all he could muster was a staggered walk into Yoongi’s hold.
Jimin isn’t aware of what stains his cheeks— mind all but numb. He isn’t aware of what sounds fall from his lips, ones only muted by Yoongi’s shirt, but as Yoongi’s gentle words find their feet through the fog, that same haze soon dissipates.
“It’s alright. I’ve got you, angel.”
“Please stay kind to me.” Jimin manages, small fingers bunching cotton in their tight grasp, knuckles whitening and nails all but digging into raw palms.
Yoongi lets his lips graze Jimin’s head once more, lingering perhaps that little too long, yet if either mind, they never make it known. “I always will. I’ll protect you with my life.”
And Jimin wishes to trust his word— to let what tumbles fall to fruition— because all he’s ever known is those who would sacrifice him to what flames that burn just to keep themselves shielded from the fire.
“I didn’t want it to be like this— you’re too sweet for all of this.” Yoongi hums, voice little more than a newborn whisper, a soothing drawl with honeyed edges, the kind rounded by soft petal lips.
He feels Jimin shake his head, small and uncertain, and as he pries him back bearing little distance between them, Jimin’s eyes house everything that he wishes to hold sacred. Tender trust, distilled hope born from a gentle hand, and as hurt settles in crimson strands woven against deep irises, Yoongi finds his hands in a brief hold.
“Don’t take me back. Anything is better— just don’t… please.” Jimin chokes out, prompting Yoongi to tug him close once more, lips brushing all that they can find in silent assurance.
Yoongi’s soothe remains unrelenting, a gentle rocking of their frames as whispered assurances find their tumble, pressed into Jimin’s veins at each breath. He isn’t quite certain if he wishes to uncover to the extent why Jimin remains so trusting— why fear lines his skin— but Yoongi vows to keep him safe, to keep him within his embrace whenever the time comes. His father’s words ring in his ears each night that he stays, and Yoongi isn’t quite sure he could ever rid of what sincerity thread itself through his eyes in distilled malice.
“Use him, kill him— anything to settle what I owe. I’ll be glad to see the back of that good-for-nothing whore. Just take him from me and settle my debt— I need the money, Min, I don’t give a fuck what happens to him. If you don’t, I’ll find someone that will.”
And as Yoongi tugs him that little closer, he lets his lips linger that little longer, brushing gentle assurances into his skin. Each movement is languid yet affirming, and each breath that falls from Jimin’s lips steadies just that bit more than the last. Neither knows how long has passed, just what has been built through tender hands all but shrouds them in the semblance of sanctuary. Edges eroded and foundations crumbling, but it’s enough to reside in for just a moment, until Jimin’s mind clears and what thoughts tug at his core find their settle— questions he knows he needs to ask but seemingly undaring to do so.
—
“Why me? Was it that night we fucked?” Jimin asks, words falling rather blunt. Yet they hold little bite behind them, no malice as he sips the tea that Yoongi had retrieved for him. He deserved it, he had said— more than— and if he didn’t house what blush-tinted smile tugged at Jimin’s cheeks within his mind, all but wishing to pull it out once more.
Yoongi shakes his head, his own palms stinging with the familiar burn of coffee in his grasp. “I can’t tell you— I wish I could but you’ll just have to trust me, sweetheart. One day I will.”
It prompts a small hum from Jimin, the sip of his tea that all but scalds his tongue, and a pointed gaze. But he’s beautiful, and Yoongi can’t quite tear his own from the man. His features are doughy-soft, rounded lips and cheeks sporting blush-petal rose as warmth finally finds its feet, and eyes impossibly gentle, seeking comfort with every glance weaving threads of golden umber against deep irises. His little hands are soft, sweet to hold and even more so to press against Yoongi’s lips, all but engulfed by his own yet Jimin never protests. He’s delicate and deserves to be treated equally as so, Yoongi thinks, each breath tender and caress leaving little more than serenity to course his veins, and whilst he knows he may be unable to truly shield him from his world— dichotomous to all that Jimin ever could be— he knows if it isn’t him, who else will come to give him what he so ardently deserves? And he knows that if he were to now tell all— each word his father so ardently spat— trust wouldn’t come as easily.
“Why are you like this? Why do you kill people?” Jimin asks once more, gaze unrelenting making Yoongi feel somewhat small, yet it isn’t unwelcome. Unlike what interrogations twist his hand, Jimin’s remains gentle, quiet words falling with little more intention compared to those accompanied by baths and handcuffs, or the lingering threat of a loaded barrel pressed against his scalp. It's cool to touch— a feeling he’s well-versed in— and perhaps Jimin’s softness is why it feels that bit more vulnerable, gently prying into his being with a delicate word.
Yoongi sighs, broad palm carding shaky fingers through his hair and whilst he could bare all to Jimin, he knows he may let him slip through his fingers such as fine grains of sand on salt-laden shores. Such as the childish naivety of what lies in the future— bodies fatigued and cigarettes within grasps never quite reaching little minds— Yoongi hopes what innocence remains stills within him, that by detailing all of what his hands have dealt may push Jimin further away, and further back into those arms who would so easily cast him away.
“I have to— kill or be killed”
“Don’t you have a choice?” Jimin asks, words not falling unkind.
“Not anymore, angel.”
Silence stills between them, biting and tense, the kind to leave Yoongi’s eyes to find anything but their rest against Jimin’s frame. He aches to hold him, kiss his lips red-tender and hold his hand within his own, the promise of sanctuary never far from his tongue, but he knows that perhaps what they shared that night— aching bodies beneath cotton sheets and mouths dragging against all that they can find— was simply that, little else strung between them. Although Yoongi so wishes he hadn’t felt the simmer of affection begin to settle, and in the short while he has come to know the sweet man, he isn’t sure he could ever dare to part.
“Are they all bad people?” Jimin’s voice falls delicate, as soft as what breath prompts a gentle breeze to fan heat against crimson-tipped skin, frost settling and the cold unrelenting, a small salve for what leaves bones to ache.
“All of them. Every single man I’ve killed. I may have blood on my hands but they would’ve only killed innocent people if I let them get away. Or my own, I couldn’t let that happen.”
Jimin swallows what words find their claw back up his throat— honey sticky, never faltering. “Doesn’t it hurt?”
“I used to cry every night, sweetheart, some nights I still do. Especially after what I’ve done.” Jimin misses how Yoongi’s fingers tremble, how his body tenses and breath falls unsteady, and perhaps if he did, he’d dare to hold him just as he held Jimin.
“Why don’t you stop then?” He simply replies with eyes trained on the mug held within his grasp, warmth permeating his skin through grazed palms, and whilst the sting never relents, it’s familiar.
“I can’t, not now that I’ve killed so many. It’s either come out on top or fight for your place.”
“Then why are you so kind, hyung?” And whilst to most the questions may seem overbearing, Jimin’s gaze softens, a tender understanding that no matter Yoongi’s intentions, he can’t quite tear himself from the world he has built with blood-stained hands and the dull thud of metal within his grasp.
Yoongi laughs, a gentle, exacerbated thing, and it tugs Jimin’s cheeks into small rounds, his own smile tight-lipped against his face. “When your life is like this, you have a choice. To be kind to those who are kind to you, or not to. I’m a bad man but— but I want to be kind. I wasn’t born like this, sweetheart, I had to become this.” Yet confusion finds its rest on Jimin’s face, brows furrowed and eyes that little harsher. “One day I’ll tell you. Not today— I can’t.”
“How can I prove my worth?” Jimin’s voice is shaky, as if willing the words to tumble— scared of what may fall in return.
“What?” Yoongi’s reply falls that little too quickly, voice raising despite his intentions, and whilst he could bite down what claws up his throat— the ache to let Jimin know he holds a worth beyond what he could ever see— he can’t quite find the will to. “You don’t need to. I offered to take you in, didn’t I? If you had to prove yourself I would’ve made that clear, sweetheart. I don’t know what you’ve been told,” a strained laugh breaks his words, eyes crimson-laced and hazy with what anger builds within his core. “You never need to, Jimin-ah.” Yoongi’s breath evens and his eyes rest against Jimin’s frame, uncertainty plaguing the features Yoongi has simply come to adore. “It’s a lot, I know it is, but you really are doing well. I’m sorry it had to start like this, I wanted you to be shielded from it all, and I know it’ll be difficult to earn your trust but, sweetheart, I promise you that I’ll do anything to keep you safe.”
Jimin nods, eyes widening and fingers tensing just that little around the mug. “You keep saying that.”
“I’ll say it until you believe it.”
And Jimin wishes to, yet he can’t quite rid of the tug within his mind that tells him he could never truly believe what words find their fall, and whilst sincerity never wavers within Yoongi’s eyes— lips upturned in the most gentle smile— what warmth spreads isn’t quite enough. Part of him melts within Yoongi’s hold, beneath his gaze he all but crumbles, but what guard shields him from all that he has endured remains, knowing that what may arise may hurt just as much.
“Tell me about your life.” Yoongi asks, swirling the remnants of bitter coffee against the walls of his cup.
Jimin shrugs, eyes never meeting Yoongi’s own as a sigh tumbles past his lips in a drawl. “Privileged, what else?” Yet the words prompt Yoongi to shake his head.
“You said you like to sing— to read— you have a pretty voice, I bet you’d sing so sweetly.” And what blush houses against Jimin’s cheeks— petal-dusted and delicate— leaves Yoongi’s heart to stammer that little more within the walls of his chest. He feels breathless, the shy smile resting against his lips, eyes glimmering beneath what dim light all but shrouds them in winter’s thin glow, and as a gentle laugh finds its feet, Yoongi can’t will his gaze to avert.
“Maybe one day you’ll hear it if you ask nicely.” It’s a tease, bashful and playful all the same, and with what giggle climbs against Jimin’s throat— tumbling down from a tooth-baring smile— he lets himself wonder if sweet moments will all but shroud him in what tenderness he truly yearns for. However, it’s shortlived, each gentle word followed by tension as what precedes a firm hand always does— soft whispers, kind praises, and a single mistake leading to bruises strewn against his body. Pretty, they tell him, but never quite enough.
And he misses Yoongi’s stare, softened by the weight of his gaze, how each pupil is firmly trained on his plump lips, tugging sweetly at either corner. But he never misses how his own round against syllables that he wishes never to hear, but feel impossibly right dripping in Yoongi’s honeyed timbre.
“Ah, you’re a pretty little thing…” Yoongi says, a little mirth behind it, a fondness lining each word that tumbles. “How about I buy you dinner?”
“Compliments and dinner, are you sure you’re not trying it, hyung?”
Yoongi laughs, strained yet gentle. “I don’t know how I can get you to trust me— this isn’t my intention. I’m sorry it started like that.”
And whilst Jimin’s own finds its firm hand, smile never quite faltering, he dares to look at the kind gaze of the man before him. Mellow and tender, features weathered but rounded all the same, dough-lined cheeks and ivory-soft skin, sweet petal lips and eyes sharp— a dichotomy that Jimin could hopelessly fall for.
“I’m not, it really was nice. You were kind and made me feel so good— you still are kind. I’ve never had anyone tend to me so delicately. Not whilst they fucked me or… or after.”
“You knew who I was, weren’t you scared?” Yoongi’s brows raise, that coarse hair that lines his eyes that little more intimidating, sharpness that little harder— richer— and Jimin all but wishes to be engulfed by him.
Jimin manages a small hum, perhaps a little curt and tight-lipped, but his eyes spell all his mouth never dares to part with. “ Anything is better than home, hyung.” He says, eyes flitting to the tea now cool against his tongue.
Perhaps, Yoongi thinks, that for one more night, he will be able to hold the man in his arms again, to let his fingers draw dimples down the ridges of his spine— moons pricking beneath his touch. He wishes to feel what warmth their bodies house pressed together— intimacy laid bare yet never daring— simply comfort tugging at their chests. Jimin’s lips were hesitant against his own— needy yet careful— and as Yoongi unravelled him petal by petal, unearthing what tender bud resides within, he knew Jimin had never shown such vulnerabilities to another before. He held him, fingers delicate down the curve of his waist, and as touches turned ever-gentle, Jimin’s breath stammered just waiting for the inevitable that never took hold. Yoongi remained that way— vows to always— and he isn’t quite sure he could ever forget what hurt lined his eyes as he stayed, arms all but clutching his frame as pleas fell as little more than whimpers begging for Yoongi to stay beside him and never let him go.
Yoongi knew he could never leave him then, it was just divine intervention that pushed them that little closer as his phone rang that morning, and even more when Jimin heard every word. Perhaps he spoke that little louder than he should’ve, and perhaps he had forgotten to remind Hoseok not to call, but it all played out in his favour, and how he holds Jimin so delicately in the palm of his hand, and he wishes to be what his family never could— what Yoongi’s family never could either.
—
Neither is quite sure how it happened, Jimin’s knees on either side of Yoongi’s thighs, and as Yoongi’s hands settle at his waist— a careful and considered touch— what stills between them is little more than the gentle heat of their breath.
“N-no more,” Jimin begins, hands lightly tugging at the strands that graze Yoongi’s nape. “No more than this.”
“I’d never, sweetheart. What do you want?”
And Jimin isn’t quite certain yet he wishes to be beneath Yoongi’s gaze once more— beneath his hold. Commanding and controlled, the kind to leave his breath to stammer in his throat as words seemingly find their death against his cotton-laced tongue. Yoongi leans that little closer, lips a faint whisper against his jaw leaving peppered kisses strewn against his heated skin. What sheen lingers as he draws back is cooling, and as Yoongi wipes what remains with the firm pad of his thumb, Jimin’s eyes close.
“I don’t know.” He manages through a quiet breath.
“Would you like hyung to kiss you?” Yoongi asks, finger now achingly close to dipping past parted lips. Jimin’s gaze is all but averted, pliant beneath Yoongi’s every touch, and part of him hurts for what could’ve been— for what he prevented— and now he has the sweet man firmly within his grasp, eyes wide and cherry-bitten lips saliva-slickened, cheeks rose-blushed and skin dimpled beneath him.
“Yes.”
And Yoongi does, gentle ministrations of lips tugging at lips, a smooth glide aided by the soft intrusion of tongues, and what sounds find their shaky fall are all but swallowed. Yoongi’s hand sinks to his spine, splayed and firm as he tugs him that little closer, and what kiss is born from the need for sanctuary simply stays as such, never intending to delve further. Each touch a caress, each word a whispered praise, and as the bittersweet choke of breathlessness prompts their brief part, Yoongi asks once more.
“Can I kiss you?”
It is Jimin who bridges what tentative gap is strung between them, little more than a hair's breadth from noses, and as their lips meet again, Jimin sinks that little lower into Yoongi’s touch. No longer does his frame house tension, simply melting into Yoongi’s hold such as cold nights tucked beneath blankets, what crackle embers part with settling serenity against skin. He lets him tug him closer— tongue parting lips that little wider and brushing that bit deeper against his own— and as petal-soft grazes move from his lips down his jaw, Jimin stills.
“Alright, sweetheart?” Yoongi mumbles, lips brushing against skin. “Nothing more. I’ll just treat you as you deserve— sweetly. But we can stop, just tell me too and I’ll—”
“No, I’m just…” Jimin begins, small fingers tugging at what loose cotton rolls between the pads. “I’m just not used to it.”
Yoongi’s hands find welcome heat beneath Jimin’s shirt, drawing down taut muscles leaving soft sighs to tumble. “Not used to what? Being cared for?” Jimin nods at his words, slightly bashful as his eyes cling to Yoongi’s lips, petal-parted and sheened, delectable beneath Jimin’s own tongue. “I’ll make you get used to it, is that alright? I’ll make you feel so cherished, sweetheart.” Yet Jimin can’t quite shake those questions that leave the faint lines of confusion to settle, contorting his smooth features.
“Why?” He simply asks, a content sigh tumbling as Yoongi’s trimmed nails all but graze his spine, and as he dips that little closer— lips brushing his neck in languid movements— Jimin lets himself believe this isn’t a facade, that despite what tugs within to will him to pull back, Yoongi’s care remains true.
“You think I don’t know who you are,” Yoongi begins, lips grazing each word into his skin. Akin to a blazing inferno, heat on heat with every breath that parts. “But I do. You think I don’t know how you’ve been treated, but I know it too well, sweetheart. I don’t want that for you— call it selfish, greedy, but I want you under my care, Jimin-ah. I want to keep you safe.”
Palms burn against his skin, but perhaps it’s all Jimin needs to shield his mind from what cotton all but tries to settle. Words seem empty, yet tumbling against his jaw, they seem adorned in gold, promises with meaning as sincerity softens each syllable. It’s conflicting, burning whiskey against flames and an icey touch, Jimin so ardently melting into Yoongi’s palms and body turning rigid, yet Yoongi never minds, simply letting his hands graze his skin prompting Jimin to sink that little further with each ministration.
“Why me?”
“Your father owes me…” Yet the words never find their end, Yoongi watching as pain once more finds its rest within Jimin’s eyes.
“So— so I am settling his debt.” And if that same hurt didn’t leave Yoongi’s heart to shatter, Jimin’s voice tips him over the edge, clinging to him that little closer, nose brushing his jaw as drawn-out sighs fall.
“No. Far from it. You don’t know what he could’ve done— you don’t know how much danger he put you in, sweetheart.” Yoongi expects Jimin to pull back— tension lining his skin— but he never does, eyes fluttering closed as his head slumps onto Yoongi’s shoulder as small white-knuckled fingers bunch cotton hems in their grasp. “I can’t tell you— not until I know you’re safe from him and anyone else who would want you. He says he loves you, doesn’t he?” Yoongi trails frail lines down Jimin’s cheek, preceding feather-soft kisses at each turn. Jimin simply nods, frame clinging to his own that little more. “I may be a bad man but it’ll be a cold day in hell before I lay a finger on you.”
“You’re not bad.” Jimin manages, letting his weight settle against Yoongi’s frame, and Yoongi ardently welcomes it, small praises hushed and tender kisses unfaltering.
“I kill people.”
“You kill bad people.”
And Jimin isn’t quite sure why the fragile strands of trust begin to settle, like ivy climbing within his veins, tainted with poison yet he simply can’t dare to part from the one man who has ever shown him care. He knows he could be a pawn in the plan to take down his father— Yoongi’s words cotton-shrouded yet ones that lead to his very demise— but he wonders just how long he can remain untrusting, and how many more nights he can believe he is unworthy of someone close. If naivety takes precedence, he perhaps wouldn’t mind, wishing to see the downfall of the man that never could quite protect his family— mother all but a shell of what she once was, and son deemed unworthy of life and love itself.
“I’ll work for you,” his breath falls uncertain. “I’ll do all that you need me to.” Perhaps then, Yoongi will never leave him. Perhaps then, Yoongi’s kindness will remain unwavering and he’ll finally have a place, carved with blood-tinted hands and a careful touch; a place where he belongs.
He pulls back, and as Yoongi’s lips graze against his own— whispered promises pushed against tongues— it feels like home. An unrivalled solace, a sanctuary hand-crafted with the barrel of a gun, yet smoke-peppered kisses and calloused hands feel more familiar than silk sheets and raised voices ever could. Yoongi’s hands trail lower, one finding rest at his waist whilst the other cups his jaw, and whilst their stature may be the same— height barely millimetres apart— Yoongi all but engulfs him. He lets himself reside in what tentative comfort it brings, a firm hand never leaving its sting, lips cotton-soft as they move against his own, and as Yoongi draws out sighs that sit against tongues, what ache lingers within Jimin’s chest begins to heal. It may be a front, a well-versed deception clinging onto Yoongi’s every word, but Jimin wishes to believe he could never be so cruel, and perhaps, he thinks, what it may bring in turn is deserved if he gets to rest in Yoongi’s tender hold that little more.
“We’ll figure that out when the time comes,” Yoongi mumbles, lips against lips. “Not now, let hyung tend to you. Today hasn’t been kind to you.”
“You— you kiss softly…” Jimin begins through quiet breath, lips slightly upturned leaving Yoongi’s own to follow. “You hold me gently… s’nice.”
A soft heat falls, whispered laughter as Yoongi tucks a fallen strand behind Jimin’s ear. It’s warm and burns, yet leaves a chill all the same, a tug within Jimin’s core of protection but he can’t quite let it pull him under. Instead, he’s all but captivated by the man before him, and one final kiss pushes him to surrender. He’s at his mercy, fragile within his grasp as his nails trace each vertebra, learning what curves adorn his spine in the cotton-soft wax and wane of what inked moons line his skin. He’s pliant, and as tongues all but entwine, Jimin hopes Yoongi’s words taste equally as divine.
“We can do more,” Jimin says through shaky breath as breathlessness once more forces them to part, but Yoongi’s sudden hold of his wrist halts all movement— words faltering leaving little more than broken sounds to find their tumble.
“No. Don’t say things to appease me, sweetheart. You’ll learn I’m not that type of man— this isn’t what I’m after. I want you safe, I—” He pauses, eyes searching for something within Jimin’s own that he can’t quite place, a mirror from years prior all but staring back at him— the will to please others to simply stay alive. “I can’t tell you now. I’m sorry. But you said nothing more than this, and you have my word about that.” Sincerity never wavers, and as Yoongi’s words once more fall hushed in a whispered “can I?”, Jimin lets him, wanting nothing more than comfort.
Perhaps hours pass with lips swollen and crimson-stained, skin housing thin strands of saliva that all but glimmers from what peaks through broken blinds— moonbeams strewn against them— and as Jimin’s body grows fatigued, Yoongi takes him in a firm hold and places him beneath the sheets. It’s all that little bit intimate, eyes boring into the other as lips trail down necks, the pads of fingers in a light press against all they can find, yet nothing more eventuates, simply a wordless need of assurance that Yoongi means every word that finds its tumble.
“Sleep, won’t you?” Yoongi mumbles, weathered old springs all but digging into his hip as he lies beside Jimin, little more than the veil of thin cotton to shield its bruise.
“Don’t sleep on the sofa— you looked cold last night and…” Jimin trails off with eyes housing what hesitates to fall; a plea for him to stay.
“I won’t leave you if you’re certain.”
It takes little prompting for Yoongi to slip beneath, clad in nothing more than grey boxers, and as Jimin tentatively tugs him that bit closer, he doesn’t miss the gentle smile that settles against his cheeks. They’re fatigue-doughy and soft, and Jimin can’t quite halt himself grazing them with the pads of his fingers, Yoongi’s eyes closing and lips parting, a soothing caress to simply return what serenity lines his frame. As sleep pulls them both under, Jimin finds rest tucked beside Yoongi’s frame. His head fits beneath his chin and his arms all but press to his chest, Yoongi’s own in a tight hold around him. It’s a sanctuary unlike any other, a stillness he has never experienced since he was a child within his mother’s tender embrace, but Yoongi houses everything Jimin simply is not, and it may be why it feels that little bit sweeter.
—
It’s dark, clouds all but shielding the thinned light from the wane of the moon, and Yoongi’s hold is firm against Jimin’s waist as they enter the small noodle shop. A family-owned business, he tells him, the best in the small town, and as they find their seat against old wooden chairs— scuffed and worn, and housing laughter woven through its grain— Jimin has never been more thankful for what mask obscures his heated cheeks as Yoongi’s gaze turns unrelenting. It’s pointed but etched in fondness, a gentle smile pulling his eyes into crescents as his fingers all but fumble against Jimin’s own against the table.
“You know, you’re doing better than I thought, love.” Yoongi mumbles, thumb grazing drawn-out circles against his skin, newborn soft tugged by a calloused touch.
Jimin rolls his eyes as a puff of laughter follows. “You make me sound weak, hyungnim.”
“Feisty aren’t you? But sweet. You’re sweet.” Yoongi hums through a chuckle, one honey-dipped and lined in gold, warm and assuring despite what unfamiliarity shrouds Jimin’s every breath.
Silence rests comfortably between them as their noodles find their place before them, and broth all but warms their stomachs, but neither can quite part from shy glances and giggles leaving the tips of ears crimson, and both would perhaps say it’s from what chill lingers in the air.
A man walks in, Yoongi’s gaze trained on Jimin’s frame as it stiffens, and as he watches his eyes avert and body all but curl in, his jaw tenses. Yoongi keeps a trained eye against him, coat thick against his neck leaving little to peak through and hands coated in wool, but Yoongi knows he isn’t all that he appears, not least when he stands beside Jimin whose hands tremble with each bite.
“Ah, beautiful evening isn’t it?” The man asks, eyes pointed at Jimin who simply nods, a stammered breath parting chapped lips as his eyes all but plead to Yoongi for safety.
“Y-yeah, it’s nice…” Jimin manages, words little more than the faintest whisper, carried by what breeze finds its rest tapping at walls. What breath he had held finds its rest as the man briefly leaves, once more taking to the counter to retrieve chopsticks for his meal, and whilst Yoongi’s eyes never leave his stance, his hold tightens around Jimin’s hand. “It was him— yesterday. I’m certain. His voice is the same and eyes and—” His words fall hushed yet set Yoongi’s mind aflame, and Jimin misses Yoongi take what chopsticks rest unused against the table and slip them up his sleeve.
“I’m going for a smoke,” he says, eyes housing a glint that Jimin can’t quite place. “Sweetheart, don’t look, hm?”
Jimin nods, eyes widening but Yoongi’s touch lingers that little longer in assurance, and as his eyes train on the bowl before him, he hears Yoongi tug the man outside, asking for a lighter. What silence stills the air— tension palpable against Jimin’s tongue— is only marred by a distant thud, the heeled toe of Yoongi’s shoes, and his lips all but grazing Jimin’s ear. The pace is dizzying, both achingly slow and a single blink, and as Jimin’s breath finds its stammer, Yoongi’s sudden grip on his arm feels suffocating.
“Close your eyes, sweetheart.” He whispers. “Whatever you do, don’t look.” Each word falls as a drawl, enunciated and harsh unlike what usually tumbles in syruped threads, and as Jimin wills his eyes shut— pliant beneath Yoongi’s firm hold— he leaves on shaky limbs with little more than loose change strewn beside the bowl.
He stumbles beside Yoongi, eyes tightly bound shut and undaring to open, and whilst he can picture the scene, crimson-tinted chopsticks all but plugging what wound severs his artery, even such thought prompts nausea to cling to his throat.
They manage to get into the car unscathed, lips salt-tinged and Yoongi’s arm bloodied, but words seem futile as Jimin’s limbs shake, mind all but desperate to decipher the events that seemingly passed with little thought.
“What the fuck?!” Jimin’s sudden scream a shrill sound that pierces Yoongi’s ears. Heated tears find their fall, breath shallowed as he struggles through each inhale.
Yoongi’s mellow laugh is deafening, the honeyed timbre seemingly piercing Jimin’s mind, and perhaps all that he thought Yoongi ever was could never prepare him to bear witness to such a crime.
“Chopsticks, that’s a new one.” Yoongi mumbles as a smile toys at his lips, car jolting beneath his foot, and whilst what small window Jimin could’ve used to take his leave passes by, it’s one never taken.
“Y-you just killed a man. You just killed a man!” Jimin’s voice dims, fear now weaving through each syllable that parts. His hands shake and his mind is all but clouded, eyes unmoving from what hold they have against his thighs— a constant, yet it never seems quite enough.
“I did, sweetheart. Get me a cigarette, would you? The packet’s in the glove box.”
“I can’t believe I just saw you kill someone. They might have had a family!”
Yoongi shrugs his shoulders, nonchalance tumbling in spades, and with a small huff, he reaches into the compartment and takes out a small box and a lighter. “He hurt you.” He simply says, all but pushing the amber-tinted lighter into Jimin’s grasp before pulling out a single cigarette with his lips. “Be a good boy and light it for me, love.” Jimin’s silence is once more met by laughter, strained but delicate, the kind to leave dimples to course spines and frames to cower, however, Jimin never does. “Do as I say, light it, hm?” But Jimin’s defiance remains unrelenting, body all but frozen as Yoongi simply takes it from his grasp with so little as a breath, and lights it with a single hand. He throws what remains on the backseat— cigarette packets and lighters strewn beside whiskey bottles— and as his smile all but falls knowing the one he so ardently tried to shield from his world has stumbled into its core, he sighs. “You didn’t see anything, love. I told you to look away, close your eyes. You did that for me, didn’t you?”
Jimin isn’t quite sure how his words fall so steady or how his eyes never flit to his own in guilt, strands simply never emerging through blood-stricken irises.
“I still heard it.” His own voice falters, cotton-soft and timid, and it’s perhaps this that settles regret to pool within Yoongi’s veins— the remorse for Jimin having to witness the true horrors penned by his own hand.
“Well, I’m sorry, sweetheart. He didn’t just hurt you, love— he was hired to kill me. Kill or be killed, my darling. You either live to see yourself become what you despise or die at the hands of those who despise you.” The gravel crackling beneath the tires breaks his words. “We’ll have to leave here tomorrow— before they find us. It’ll be safe to return home.”
Jimin doesn’t protest as Yoongi tugs him into the motel— walls mould-lined and weathered— but as Yoongi boils water against the small stove and takes out two containers of ramen, Jimin’s eyes widen.
“What are you doing?”
“You barely ate, I’m still hungry. I’m not having you go to sleep hungry, sweetheart.”
“I’m not.” Jimin says through shaky breath.
“Do as I say, sweetheart. Eat, yeah? You’ll be thankful for it.” And whilst these words never fall unkind, what sob Jimin barely bites back finds its fall, quickly finding tentative solace in the small bathroom where what had been all but swallowed rears its head. Whimpers wrack his frame, sobs leave their salted tracks down his cheeks as tears never relent, and each breath that parts from Yoongi’s lips falls unsteady as he pours what liquid remains in the small cups, quietly taking them to the frame of the bathroom door that he hesitantly sits before. “Sweetheart, at least eat. Please.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Jimin-ah, eat— at least talk to me.”
“You fucking killed someone, why do you deserve to have a conversation?” He spits, each word tumbling with bite.
“You would’ve died. In that ramen shop, you would’ve died. He would’ve killed you because you’re an easy target. He scoped you earlier— that fucking bastard. As soon as you said about the tattoos I— I know who they are, Jimin-ah. Please. They’re evil people, they won’t stop to get what they want.” Yet each word is met with a choked sob, one Yoongi so ardently wishes to halt to its death.
He wants nothing more than to erase what Jimin was privy to— to protect him from all that he is— but he knows that he could never do that, that demise is intrinsic to his hand. Each whimper that tumbles tugs at his heart that little more, and whilst part of him toys with the regret of taking Jimin in, he knows he’ll be far safer under his care despite what he may find himself exposed to. “Sweetheart, let me in,” Yoongi says after a moment, one second passing to thirty, and minutes falling before his eyes, but eventually Jimin opens the bathroom door. He all but crawls out, limbs shaky and unable to hold what little strength courses in his veins, but his tears have found their pause and lips no longer quiver.
“Come here, angel.” Yoongi’s voice is cotton-soft, and whilst he expects Jimin to pull back, he doesn’t, Yoongi’s honeyed drawl woven within his mind that perhaps if he hadn’t played God, neither would be breathing. Jimin all but collapses within Yoongi’s hold after a drawn-out moment, hands balling bloodied cotton between white-knuckled fists, and as his body hiccups with what remnants of solemnity wrack his frame, Yoongi’s voice is feather-soft, little more than the first hushed breath of winter. “You can cry, love. It isn’t easy, but you learn to live with it if you want to survive. I wanted to shield you from this— I really did. I wanted to keep you at mine away from harm, not like this. I’m so sorry.”
Yoongi manages to pry Jimin off of the floor, socked feet stumbling to the edge of the bed with a hand firm at his spine, and despite small protests, his lips part to be fed. He knows he perhaps hasn’t eaten enough, and as ramen is reheated, Jimin’s eyes find their heavy, and it takes all that remains within him to keep upright.
“Comfortable?” Yoongi asks as he settles beside him, and as a small mumble of affirmation finds its fall, guilt spreads that little more within Yoongi’s chest. “Be good, open for me, hm? Eat this and then I’ll let you sleep.”
And Jimin does, perhaps out of fear for what Yoongi has done, yet in the same breath, he knows Yoongi could never extend that same treatment to himself. He’s gentle, kind, but has been born into a world that Jimin is quite certain Yoongi should never belong to. Each mouthful that proceeds is swallowed that little easier, and whilst his mind is all but clouded in fatigue, Yoongi’s words find rest in tentative strands.
“We’ll leave here tomorrow— back to mine. Unless you’d like me to take you home, I understand if you’d never want anything to do with me again. I really never wanted you to see this part— perhaps I was naive to think I could ever keep it concealed— but please, sweetheart, never think I would treat you anything but gently. Your life was in danger, believe me, and if I didn’t know who he was, I wouldn’t have killed him. I’m so sorry you had to witness that.”
Jimin’s eyes widen, lips part to speak, but his tongue is all but leaden against his jaw. “How?” He simply manages, gaze conveying all that he is unable to let fall.
“The tiger, the mugunghwa— the very men we were trying to evade found us. He took his gloves off to get a cigarette and his coat could only mask the tiger for so long. You were lucky, he didn’t know you were with me yesterday morning, but if he did it could’ve been very different. I should’ve been beside you then but… but maybe that was for the best. If I’ve broken your trust, I’m sorry, but know that this is my world, Jimin-ah. Your willingness to stay may expose you to more— your eagerness to want to help us will mean you will face death more times than you will ever be prepared for.” He inhales, a drawn-out breath letting tension still between them for a brief pause. “But for now, sleep, hm? Get some rest and we’ll talk more in the morning if you’re willing.”
Jimin settles beneath sleep-worn sheets, eyes barely able to halt their close as he curls beside what pillows are strewn beside him. Yoongi lingers for a moment, watching his body all but tug beneath sleep’s hand, and what breath he didn’t quite know he had held finds its shaky exhale. He leans closer, lips grazing his forehead before gently pulling back.
“I promise I’ll protect you the way that your family never could if you stay with me— the way mine never could protect me. I’m just so sorry it has to be this way, sweetheart.” He whispers, voice cracking beneath the weight of guilt. “I wish I didn’t have to protect my own with a gun, I’m— I’m so fucking sorry.”
And Yoongi isn’t quite sure he can ever rid of what hurt lines his mind, the shower unable to scrub Jimin’s shrill scream from its place clinging against crimson-tainted walls, and what distilled fear thread itself against his irises is perhaps something he’ll have to live with until his final breath.
—
Jimin wakes to Yoongi’s gentle hand— a jolt coursing his body— yet Yoongi seems unfazed, simply bending to place a mug of hot coffee on the drawer beside him. He leaves with little more than an assurance, a small ‘it’s alright’ leaving Jimin’s stammered breath to calm just that little, and turns to neaten the room from their days’ stay. As Jimin musters enough energy to move, he’s cautious as he reaches for the cup, but it’s warm in his grasp— a welcome heat staving off the chill for even a moment— and as Yoongi mumbles about the shower, Jimin’s mind can’t quite keep up, sleep-laced thoughts all but heavied with the weight of tearful exhaustion.
“S’this poisoned?” He slurs, tongue cotton-lined against his lips, heavy with fatigue, and as soft laughter falls strained beneath the weight of guilt that still lingers, Yoongi shakes his head.
“That’s not my style, sweetheart. I don’t do poison. But if you’re still hesitant, I’ll drink some first to show you that it’s alright.”
Jimin nods, untrusting, and as Yoongi takes a sip— liquid all but burning his tongue— Jimin’s satisfied at its safety. He holds it within his palms, making little effort to move from what semblance of warmth vaguely heats his body, but Yoongi never minds, simply gathering what clothes Jeongguk had lent them before tentatively sitting beside him.
“Are you alright to leave soon? I said you’re welcome to shower at home— save the water here.”
“H-home?”
“Mine. Is that alright? Would you like me to take you back to yours?” Jimin shakes his head, eyes not daring to turn to Yoongi’s own. “I’ll get you settled then. I’ll have a room for you— you can even make it as pretty as you’d like, sweetheart.”
“Y-you killed someone.” His words fall unsteady— depleted and fear-lined— and Yoongi wishes Jimin wasn’t there to witness all that unfolded. His body shakes beneath what weight resides against it, trembling fingers and limbs following their course, and as Yoongi leans that little closer, drawing a hand to help soothe, Jimin flinches, words haphazard as they struggle to find their string. “Please— please don’t t-touch me.”
Yoongi’s inhale is piercing, the only sensation coursing his veins to cut through what numbs him. “I won’t. But get ready, hm? We’ll be leaving once you’re alright. I’ll get you some water— I promise it’ll be fine to drink from. You can watch me fill the glass from the tap if you’re uncertain.”
Jimin manages a small nod, weak limbs carrying him to what clothes Yoongi had laid out after Yoongi hands him a glass, and as he dresses himself, Yoongi turns to the door, back towards him giving a sliver of privacy in the otherwise rather intimate room.
It takes them little time to clear their belongings into the car, Jimin all but quiet as he settles into the passenger seat, and whilst he half-expects a scolding— harsh words to tumble from petal-soft lips— Yoongi simply pays for their stay before joining him. The majority of the drive is shrouded in silence, the bitter chill of breath leaving Jimin’s lungs to harbour a sting, and as he turns his head from the window, he notices Yoongi’s gaze against him, almost sorrowful at what he has caused.
“You look pretty in the sun like that, sweetheart.” He says, trying to clear what tension lines their frames, yet what rests between them cannot be withdrawn, Jimin simply nodding with a small gratitude in response, little else tumbling. “My house is big, you’ll settle in well I think. It may be a little sparse but perhaps you can help me make it more lived-in.” A hum finds its feet in response, and Yoongi’s lips tug into a strained smile, but perhaps, he thinks, that tentative progress is being made. “Can I ask you, why are you alright with staying? I understand you’re hurt— and I’m sorry.” Jimin’s breath stammers in his throat, what words ache to fall never quite do, and as Yoongi once more turns to him, he sees what apprehension lines his eyes in crimson strands. “You don’t have to tell me, not if you don’t want. But if you do, be truthful. I promise you that I’ll never lay a finger against you.”
“My father.” Jimin replies, and Yoongi knows more than perhaps Jimin could ever tell, yet he can’t help but pry, only knowing it’ll leave anger to traverse his spine in a blazing shudder.
“Does he hurt you?”
Jimin pauses for a brief moment, as if stringing vowels together to lead to what answer he has been prepared with, but that answer never falls to fruition, simply whispering what Yoongi knows is confirmation itself. “I-I can’t say. I’m sorry.”
“I’ll get you settled, alright? You don’t have to even speak to me again— you’ll be safer here, I promise. It’s well-armed.”
Silence once more takes its firm hand, tension that little stronger between them, but as Yoongi pulls into the car park of his apartment complex— one shrouded in boundless security— Jimin’s voice turns hesitant.
“Are you sure you aren’t after anything in return? That you’re alright with me just staying with you. Once— once I can get over it, I’ll help you, but—” Yoongi leans in, hand cupping Jimin’s cheek as his thumb tugs at his lip, pulling it from its hold between his teeth”
“I’m certain if you are.”
“I am.”
“Then I am. I have a little room for you, sweetheart,” Yoongi begins, gently patting Jimin’s cheek with his palm yet he flinches at the light touch, and Yoongi immediately withdraws with eyes tinted with concern. “It has a sofa and TV so you shouldn’t be bored, but let me know what else you’d like. You’re welcome to get some clothes and we’ll eat our meals together, alright? But keep out of trouble, no wandering off to clubs for a quick fuck, hm? You’re under me now, I can’t have you seen without someone close by— not like that”
And Jimin nods, what fear once lingered now finding its dissolve. “Will I be safe?” He asks, letting Yoongi once more place his hand on his jaw.
“Always with me. Remember that, sweetheart. No matter how it happens, know that I’ll never let anyone lay a finger on you— I never let my own down.”
Sleep comes dreamless that night, and whilst Yoongi’s words course through his mind and the persistent tug of want of affection lingers, he isn’t quite sure whether what strands of trust found their bloom still harbour within. Jimin misses how Yoongi enters his room as the moon begins its slow descent, a chilled cup of water placed against the table beside him. He also misses how Yoongi stays that little longer than he perhaps should, wondering whether what choices he has made have been those worth risking. He’ll ensure Jimin is comfortable, he decides, but something sparks within in a faint flicker of hope that what they share may lead to something that little more lasting; that Jimin’s place will remain firmly with him.