ColorMePurplex2 @colormepurplex2 - Tumblr Blog

Jun 30

Petals & Ink | Fresh Ink

↳ Jimin x f.Reader ⤜ Hanahaki Disease, Tattoo Shop AU, Brother's Best Friend ⤜ Rating: MA🔞 ⤜ WC: 7,499 ⚠️Crass language, blood, thoughts of death/dying

Next Chapter⇾ (coming soon) ◅ Back to story masterlist

The burning ache in your chest grows steadily, as it has been all day.

These fits have increased in frequency over the last few months. You’re used to the constant lick of flame in your lungs, as familiar as breathing. But the ramping up is fairly new. There is only one way to dispel the ache, even if it’s just for a short period of time. But you don’t want to give in, especially right now.

You lose the fight, the body-shaking cough that will ease your ache ripping from your lips. The intense crackly rasp is only suppressed by the crook of your elbow, where you bury your face. It’s always like this, the burn building until it forces you into a coughing fit. Once the coughs subside, though, the burn recedes, and you know you have at least another week before it will get to this point again.

It used to be months between fits. A pang of longing for those times is your only companion as your chest convulses around another ragged cough. Tears blur your vision as you fight to keep the barking hack at bay. Luckily, you’re in the storage room at work, away from curious stares and prying eyes.

Not that you think any of your coworkers would look at you askance. In the year you’ve worked at Electric Fox Tattoo, you’ve managed to keep your ailment mostly secret. The only person even mildly aware of your condition is Jungkook, one of the artists who has helped mentor you during your apprenticeship. He has his own private studio, but comes into The Fox when he wants a little more social interaction. Though he doesn’t know just how bad it’s gotten for you—doesn’t know about the disease festering in your lungs. Because, after all, the business of souls is different for everyone.

Jungkook found his love last spring. For him and Yoongi, it was the soulmate tattoos that drew them together. So little is known about fates and how some are connected via their proverbial red strings. You’ve read The Kismet Theory, but that barely scratches the surface. The section on one-sided soulmating is easily the smallest in the entire book, at best just a few pages.

Despite not knowing much, you do know that’s what hounds you…a sickness of the soul; unrequited love designed to slowly suffocate you. Well, that is, unless you find reciprocation or can afford the few million it costs to have surgery to remove the roots. Neither of those things are in your future, you know, so…death it is.

Slow…painful.

Finally, your chest heaves one last time before it settles. You lift a shaking hand to your mouth, brushing the back of your wrist over your lips. It comes away warm and sticky. Your heart thunders frantically as you look down at the bright crimson smear left behind.

“No,” you whisper, automatically licking your lips, hoping like mad it’s a lie. But there is no mistaking the distinct metallic taste that hits your tongue. You curse softly, pleading to whatever entities may be listening to spare you. As if to mock your silent prayer, something tickles at the corner of your mouth as you exhale heavily.

A bloody white petal comes away, sticking to the fingertip you prod against the crook of your frown. You quickly swipe it away, brushing your hand in a panic against the dark fabric of your jeans.

Before you have a chance to spiral, a hand lands on your shoulder, and a bemused-sounding question breaks through your thoughts: “You okay in here?”

You scream in surprise, your nerves already shot to hell, fraying even further. “I’m fine!” You whirl, shrugging off the hand and hoping your face doesn’t betray your fib and that the blood is gone from your lips. “You fucking scared me, Jimin. That’s not nice.”

He gives you a sardonic smirk before rolling his eyes. Relief instantly settles in your muscles as you realize he is none the wiser to what just happened. “Maybe if you had answered me the first three times I called your name,” he suggests, eyebrows raising.

Shit. Did you miss him saying your name several times? Obviously. For those few moments, it felt like your head was stuffed with wool; it’s no wonder you didn’t hear him.

“Sorry,” you mutter. Moving past him, you go back to gathering the supplies you were setting aside before the ache in your chest grew to be too much. “What are you doing back here anyway?”

Jimin hums, tapping his chin playfully as if he’s actually thinking about your question. “I think the more important question here is, are you stalling?”

You school the biting retort that sits on your tongue, replying, instead, with, “No, of course not. I was just making sure I had everything I needed.”

“Right, sure. Come on, pretty girl, I’m starting to feel the itch.” Jimin sways side-to-side, miming grabby hands in your direction. It never gets any easier to hear him call you that, as he has for years now. As your brother’s lifelong best friend, Jimin’s been around longer than most. Every time he says it, some traitorous part of you still wonders if maybe this time he means it differently.

He follows you out of the back, right to the brand-new station that Jungkook and Ravi helped you set up earlier. “Go on, then, take a seat,” you tell Jimin, gesturing to the shiny leather chair in the middle of your area. You drop everything in your arms onto the small side table and settle onto the rolling stool beside where Jimin has made himself comfortable.

The vibration from the machine is comforting, a familiar buzz that settles into your bones with ease. After a year of fake skin and endless hours of practice, you sit with barely controlled excitement as you lay down the stencil on very real skin…even if that skin belongs to the one person you never fathomed being under your needle.

Your coughing attack in the supply closet not that long ago isn't even enough to bring your mood down right now. Nor the reminder that he’s the reason for your fit to begin with. This is what you’ve been working so hard for. You deserve this moment and the elation currently thrumming through your veins.

With a steadying breath, you click the foot pedal to turn the machine off and mentally go through your checklist one last time. Load the ink, three points of contact, proper stretch on the skin, control the depth—

“Don’t think too hard about it. You know what you’re doing, trust yourself.”

Your brows twitch, nearly furrowing into a scowl as your eyes flick up into the pair staring down at you. You’re met with an expectant gaze, as if to say ‘go on, then, you know I’m right’.

“Easy for you to say,” you mutter under your breath, tapping the pedal to bring the machine to life once more.

Forcing the itch to repeat your mental checklist once more aside, you reach over to the small display on your table and dip the tip of the needle in the first ink cap. The silky black ink fills the cartridge, and you can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. Pressing forward, you let your body assume the stance that has become so natural to you over the last year. Three points of contact: elbow, wrist, pinky.

Using your other hand, you feel for vibrations in the skin, which let you know your depth is spot on. The fine black line that appears as you move along the stencil is beautifully executed. Just as you wanted it to be. It’s a small line, and you’re nearly panting by the time you pull away, but it’s done. The hard part is over; it’s started. Jungkook stands idly by, watching you work. If something were wrong, surely you’d be stopped before you got too far.

The silence you’re met with is as much of a green flag as you’re going to get, you think. Nothing more to do but to finish it. And, so, you do.

A few hours later, Jimin sits there, his critical eye taking in every facet of the new black-lined shape adorning his forearm. The tribal-style Bengal cat stares up at you, and you’d almost swear there was some glint of approval in its inky side-gaze. You wonder bitterly if your work will outlive you. If years from now, Jimin will still carry your lines beneath his skin while your body rots beneath the earth.

“I think you’re ready,” he says quietly to you before turning to give Jungkook a giant grin. “Koo, add my girl to the schedule!”

“Really?” you ask Jimin, trying not to get hung up on being called ‘my girl’. “You mean it?”

Gesturing to the saniderm on your station, he nods and says, “Get me patched up and let me take you for a celebratory drink. We can talk more about it then.”

There’s nothing unusual about grabbing a drink with Jimin. Oftentimes after a busy day at the shop, he corrals the staff to Chuck’s, the local pub, for drinks and wings. It’s a nice spot, nothing fancy; the food is greasy but delicious, and the beer is always cold.

Jungkook used to bartend at Chuck’s during his apprenticeship at Electric Fox. You considered doing the same, supplementing your income somehow while you apprenticed under Jungkook and Ravi, another artist who mentored Jungkook himself. But Hyunwoo, your younger brother and Jimin’s best friend, didn’t like the idea of his sister working in a pub.

So he convinced your father to let you access the inheritance from the trust your grandfather left to both of you before he passed. It’s a hefty sum, enough to live comfortably for a few years, at least. You considered using the entire thing as a down payment towards surgery; the surgery that would see your ailment cured, but the thought of severing your lov—you can’t bring yourself to finish the thought.

Your father may not approve of your current career path, your unfinished medical degree notwithstanding; you have your own reasons for what you do. The coughing fits have made it harder to maintain a normal lifestyle, much less a normal job. All you needed was another four years, and you’d be wielding a scalpel instead of a tattooing gun these days. You traded anatomy lectures for ink and needles because your own body betrayed you first.

But, you digress. There’s nothing for it now. This is your life, and you do enjoy what you do anyway. And will be eternally grateful to your brother and Jimin both for allowing you to apprentice at the shop without question about your leaving medical school.

Hyunwoo bought the shop a few years ago, when the old owner retired. Jimin joined as an investor right around the time his last album took off, reaching the top of the global charts for several weeks. He liked the idea of investing in businesses he cared about, and still does.

“When is your next session with Yoongi?” you ask Jimin after settling at the small high-top table you followed him to in the private room Jungkook had set up before he stopped working here.

Chuck’s is relatively slow tonight, it being a Tuesday and all, so you don’t have to strain too hard to hear his reply over the music drifting through the curtained doorway of the private room. “Next week. I’m stoked. He said he has a surprise for me, some hip hop dancer that he thinks will be great for when we start on the music video.”

“That’s amazing. I hope it goes well.”

Jimin hums, tilting his beer in your direction. “Cheers, pretty girl.”

You clink the lip of your glass against his before taking a small sip of the frothy drink. The beer is crisp and light, cold as it slides over your tongue. It soothes and feels great down your scratchy throat.

“You truly think I’m ready to start on real clients?”

“As if I’m not a real client,” Jimin chides playfully, holding up his forearm so you both can see the sanidermed tattoo adorning it. A flutter of pride swoops through your belly. You did that, you put that there…and you have to admit, it is quite pretty. “All joking aside, yes. Absolutely, yes. You’ve worked so hard for the last year; you are more than ready. I’ve talked to Jungkook and Ravi both, and they agree with me.”

“And Hyunwoo?”

“What about Hyunwoo?” a familiar voice asks from behind you.

You whip around, coming face-to-face with your brother’s big, toothy smile and bright eyes. “Bub,” you breathe the nickname you’ve called him for as long as you can remember, before sliding off your stool and throwing your arms around his neck.

Hyunwoo hugs you back, maybe squeezing a little harder than necessary. You’ve always been close with your brother, never understanding why so many people often see their younger brothers as pests and nuisances. Hyunwoo is three years younger than you, but that’s never hindered your bond. He’s your rock, and you’re his biggest cheerleader.

Once back on your stool with Hyunwoo sliding in beside Jimin, you look to your brother expectantly. “What?” he asks with a roll of his eyes.

“Don’t what me,” you snark back. “Out with it! How was your long weekend with Anuli?”

The look on your brother's face can only be described as dreamy as he props an elbow on the table and rests his chin in his upturned palm. “Perfect,” he says wistfully. “She is absolutely perfect.”

It warms your heart to know your brother is happy. After the disaster of his last relationship—a failed marriage to an uppity bikini model who cared more about his money than his heart—he deserves the smile that seems to refuse to leave his face anytime Anuli is mentioned. They met a few months ago at a small business summit in London—where she was the events coordinator—and have been inseparable ever since.

While you couldn’t be happier for Hyunwoo, part of you is terribly envious as well. You smile so hard your cheeks ache while envy curdles hot beneath your ribs. Oh, how you long for that kind of happiness, for that kind of—a cough catches you by surprise, spurting through your lips before you can suppress it. You press your mouth into the crook of your elbow, eyes watering as you choke through it.

“Whoa, whoa, are you okay?” Hyunwoo asks. He and Jimin are out of their seats and by your side in an instant, Hyunwoo’s hand on your back.

“Fine,” you manage to wheeze out before the next cough steals your breath. “J-just need—” You stumble down off your stool and make a beeline for the curtain leading to the hall where the bathrooms are.

You don’t care if the floor is dirty as you drop to your knees by one of the toilets, the stall door slamming shut behind you. All that matters is you didn’t see anyone else in the bathroom on your rush in, leaving you blissfully alone to suffer through your fit. Or so you think, at least. You don’t realize someone is standing over you until you’ve heaved up your stomach into the bowl.

“Shit,” your brother whispers. “Is that blood?”

He saw. Fuck. He saw.

Panic hits you. You scramble to slam your hand down on the flusher before whipping around to stare in horror at Hyunwoo pushing his way into your stall. “What are you doing in here?!”

“I was worried about you—” he begins, but cuts off as you shove past him.

“I said I was fine.”

“Clearly you’re not. Fucking hell, that was blood, wasn’t it? Don’t lie to me.” Hyunwoo gestures wildly toward the toilet, still swirling with water, whisking away the evidence that he clearly saw.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” You busy yourself washing your hands, refusing to meet his stare that you know waits in the mirror above you. “I said I was fine.”

“Yeah, I know what you said,” he replies. “But I also know what’s right in front of me.”

Before you can respond, you’re whipped around, your back pressing into the lip of the sink that’s still running. “Fuck off, Hyunwoo. What’s your probl—”

“My problem is you’re lying to me.” Your brother’s voice is quiet, far gentler than you were expecting. Concern fills his eyes, his lips parted by his soft breaths of worry. “What is this?” he asks, lifting a finger to your lips. It comes away with a crimson smear, the velvety piece of a petal from a calla lily dangling off the end. You can handle the coughing. The blood. The petals. But, what you cannot handle is the look on your brother’s face.

“It’s my problem to deal with.” Your words are just as quiet, unable to hold on to the fiery gusto you had moments before. This wasn’t how he was supposed to find out. Hell, you never meant for him to find out at all.

“Who?” comes his next reply, stronger this time. The tone of his voice is cold, slicing the air like a knife.

You shake your head, unable to meet his eyes. “It doesn’t matter who. I’m fine, okay? It’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad? You’re coughing up fucking petals…I read about this somewhere. Where did I read about this?”

“The Kismet Theory,” you offer softly. “We all read it when Yoongi and Jungkook…” you trail off, letting him fill in the blanks.

“You have a soulmate.” A darkness enters Hyunwoo’s gaze, one you’re not familiar with seeing on him. The lines of his face seem sharper, eyes more piercing, the set of his jaw hard, so unlike the carefree and joy-filled younger brother you’re used to. His expression changes by degrees. Confusion first. Then recognition. Then something far worse. “And you love them,” he fills in, slower this time. “But they don’t love you back.”

When Hyunwoo absolutely refused to drop it, lobbing relentless questions at you about who was responsible for your predicament, you left. You didn’t even stop by the table and say bye to Jimin.

You know Hyunwoo won’t say anything to Jimin. Regardless of what else happens, he’d never tell someone your private business like that. By the time you make it home, Hyunwoo has given up calling. The dozen missed calls staring at you on your phone screen don’t bode well for the hope that he’ll just forget about it.

The next week is a masterclass in avoidance. You throw yourself into work with a desperation that borders on mania. Before being granted full-time status as an artist, nobody thought twice about you being the first one through the doors every morning and the last one to leave every night. Apprentices were expected to clean chairs, mop floors, restock stations, answer phones, run errands, and generally make themselves useful.

Now, however, you’re technically an artist. A very new artist. A very new artist with exactly zero prospective clientele. Which means you have entirely too much free time. And free time, right now, is dangerous. Free time gives Hyunwoo opportunities to corner you.

The few times he’s come into the shop so far this week, you’ve unsurprisingly found yourself with something pressing to do. Three days into your avoidant spree, Jungkook catches you scrubbing the stockroom floor on your hands and knees, even though you had just done it the night before.

“You know,” he says mildly, leaning against the doorjamb, “full-time artists don’t clean stockroom floors with a toothbrush.”

You don’t look up. Instead, waving the very-not-toothbrush-brush in the air, you say, “Not a toothbrush, and I have nothing better to do.”

He snorts. “Maybe if you showed your face at the counter, you might actually get a client or two.” You don’t respond, letting the silence stretch into discomfort. You know Jungkook is watching you; you can feel the press of his eyes boring into you. Finally—“Your brother’s worried.”

Your hand stills. Just for a second. Then you continue scrubbing. “I’m fine.”

“I know you’re not fine,” Jungkook sighs. “I know because I’ve seen the bloody tissues at your station.”

You scrub harder, a cold sweat breaking out along the nape of your neck. “Still fine.”

“Mm.” His disbelief hangs heavily in the air.

Luckily, the front door chimes before he can push further. A walk-in—your salvation.

Your reprieve from prying eyes and questions doesn’t last long. Because, unfortunately for you, Hyunwoo is stubborn. Very stubborn. You should know. You share DNA after all. Twice, he corners you in the break room. Three times he appears beside your station. Once, he even waits outside the bathroom for you. Like a psychopath. You tell him as much.

Every conversation starts the same. “Tell me who it is.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“You could die.”

“I know.”

His face always does the same thing then. Like you’ve physically struck him, as if the idea hurts. Which makes it worse. Because every time you see that expression, guilt twists inside your chest.

You hate lying to your brother, hate worrying him. You hate the entire situation. But telling him the truth would be far worse. Because the moment Hyunwoo learns the truth—everything changes.

Luckily, you make it to the end of the week and know that your weekend will be blissfully Hyunwoo-free, thanks to Anuli. Friday night finds you curled up on your couch with a blanket around your shoulders, a cup of tea pinched between your fingers, and a true-crime doc on the TV. It’s nearly midnight. Your eyes are feeling heavy, and you’re considering turning off the TV and crawling into bed when your phone begins to buzz. You groan, anticipating seeing Hyunwoo’s name on the screen.

You nearly drop your tea when the screen lights up.

Jimin.

Your stomach immediately drops. A terrible feeling settles over you. Jimin never calls this late. Not unless there is something very wrong.

Heart hammering, you answer, “Hello?”

At first, all you hear is wind, then his soft voice. “...pretty girl?”

Your eyes squeeze shut. Fuck. He’s drunk. Not tipsy or buzzed, but absolutely blitzed. The kind of drunk where every word sounds melted around the edges.

“Jimin? Are you okay?”

A sniffle is his response. A true-to-gods sniffle. “Mm, y‘wake?” he mumbles.

Oh, this is bad.

“Where are you?”

A long pause, filled with the sound of rustling and a distant car horn.

Finally, he says, “Outside.” It comes out more as a sigh than a real word.

“Okay. Outside of where exactly?”

“Bar.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to remain calm. “Which bar?”

“Th’one with drinks and thos’ cute um’rellas.”

“Helpful,” you mutter more to yourself as you throw off the blanket and abandon your tea on the coffee table. “Stay where you are. I think you’re still sharing your location with me. I’ll come to you. Okay?”

A sad noise crackles through the speaker. You hear traffic, laughter, music. Jimin sighs again. “She…didn’love me.”

Your brain flickers through the mental catalog of women you often delude yourself into believing you don’t keep tabs on who are involved with Jimin. His admission hits harder than it should. Right. The new solo artist. The one Yoongi introduced him to, the one he’s spent the last several months talking about. Who made his smile brighter—who wasn’t you.

“Oh, Jimin.”

“Guess she lik’d the connect’ns more tha’ me.”

Your chest aches. Because despite everything—the bitterness, the heartbreak—you hate hearing him sound like this. “Hang tight, I’ll be right there.”

“Don’bother. ‘M fine.”

“No. I’m coming, Jimin. Just hold on.”

Another sniffle. “...You’ll come get me.” It’s so quiet you almost can’t hear it over the background noise. But you’re clinging so desperately to your phone that you don’t miss the broken, desperate plea. The absolute certainty in his voice is what destroys you. It’s the reason he will continue to be your destruction. You’ve never let him down, and even at his most vulnerable moment, when his faculties have abandoned him, he still knows.

Your throat tightens. “Yeah. Of course I will.”

“Thank you, pretty girl,” Jimin slurs softly. “I knew you’d save me.” The line disconnects.

You’ve never been more thankful for location sharing. Years ago, Hyunwoo insisted everyone in the friend group keep it active for safety reasons. Tonight, it saves Jimin’s ass.

You find him twenty minutes later sitting on the curb outside a crowded upscale nightclub. His elbows rest on his knees, and his head hangs low between his shoulders. He looks utterly miserable.

The sight steals the air from your lungs. Because this is Jimin. The brightest person you know, the one who fills every room with light and laughs with his whole chest.

Seeing him reduced to this...it hurts.

When he notices you, his face immediately crumples. “Oh fuck.”

“What?” you ask, dropping down to the curb beside him. “What is it?”

His bottom lip trembles. “I think I might cry again.”

And then he does, instantly. Massive tears, heavy drops that flood his cheeks. You stare, struck momentarily devoid of action or response. He stares back, steadily crying.

Neither of you says anything until finally, he collapses against you. “Oh my god,” you squeak.

“I know,” he sobs.

“Jimin—”

“I know!”

The taxi ride is somehow worse. Jimin spends most of it alternating between crying and apologizing. Then, he's crying because he’s apologizing. Then crying because you’re being nice to him and he doesn’t deserve your grace.

By the time you reach his apartment building, the driver looks traumatized. You make sure to leave an extra tip.

Getting Jimin into the elevator and to his floor requires every ounce of patience that you possess. Mostly because he keeps stopping. To talk, to cry, to hug you, to slide dramatically down the wall.

Eventually, though, you get him inside. The familiar apartment is dark and quiet. You’re tempted to call Jungkook or Taehyung, as their apartments aren’t that far away, but considering it’s nearing 2 AM, you think better than to disturb their peace.

After pulling off his shoes, you guide him to his bedroom. Somehow, miraculously, you get him into bed after coaxing him to brush his teeth and then hesitantly helping him discard his clothes down to his boxer briefs. Putting a glass of water on his nightstand, you tip out a few over-the-counter pain pills from a bottle in his bathroom and leave them for him in the morning.

Tucking the blanket around him, you pull back and say, “There. Now, get some sleep, okay?” He blinks up at you. Sleepy, red-eyed, but still beautiful. Your chest pangs. “Rest now.”

You turn to leave, but a hand catches your wrist. You freeze, glancing down at strong fingers pressing into your skin. “Stay.” Your pulse begins to hammer.

“Jimin—”

“Please.” The word comes out small—broken. Your resolve crumbles immediately. Of course it does; this is Jimin asking. So, you sit carefully on the edge of the mattress.

No sooner does the grip on your wrist fade than he’s pulling you down. You’re so surprised that you forget to protest or resist. You land beside him, his arms wrapping around you completely. “Whoa!” Your heart pounds so hard you’re surprised he can’t hear it.

Jimin curls around you, his forehead pressed into your shoulder, seeking comfort, warmth…seeking you. Not because he loves you, but because you’re safe. You’re a moor in the darkness, anchoring him in the moment. The distinction nearly kills you.

For several moments, neither of you speaks. The room settles into darkness, into quiet, into something dangerously intimate. Then Jimin sighs, a long, weary sound that grinds at your resolve.

“You never disappoint me.”

Your breath catches. “Jimin, I—”

“No,” he says, voice thick with exhaustion. “Just listen, please.” You go still, straining to hear what he seems so adamant to tell you. “I can always count on you.” The words are slurred—honest, unfiltered, tinged with drink. Which somehow makes them worse to hear. His fingers tighten slightly against your shirt, brushing against your abdomen. “No matter how much I fuck up. You’re there…always.” A painful warmth blooms in your chest. You hate how desperately you want to hear that, his praise of you. It means so much, yet you know it shouldn’t; not the way it does, at least. I love you, you want to say. “I care for you,” you whisper instead.

“My pretty girl,” he breathes out. You blink rapidly at the emotions threatening to turn you into the one sobbing this time. His forehead nudges your shoulder, the ends of his ruby-red hair tickling your neck. “You’ll always be my girl.”

The world stops. And for one terrible second, one beautiful and devastating second, you allow yourself to believe it. To cherish and hold it, letting it fester and bloom beneath your ribs with every pulsing beat of your heart.

“Always,” the word barely twitches on your lips, so soft you know Jimin doesn’t hear it.

And then the moment shatters. “If you weren’t Hyunwoo’s sister…” The air in your lungs burns. “...maybe…” Another sleepy sigh. “Maybe I could let myself love you.”

Everything inside you ceases to exist, consumed in a conflagration of anger and cinder. Charred right to the bone, you let the emotions roll over you. Joy, anger, relief, heartbreak…all at once. Because somehow those words are both everything you’ve ever wanted—and the cruelest thing he’s ever said.

His breathing begins to slow, growing steady. Leaving you alone with the wreckage. Beside you, Jimin drifts peacefully into sleep. Beside him, you stare into the darkness, unable to breathe around the violent ache swelling in your chest.

And for the first time since Hyunwoo discovered your plight, you understand that even if you did tell him who, it wouldn’t make a difference. Fate has spoken…straight from the lips of the man you love but will never have.

🖤🖤🖤

Jimin

Jimin wakes slowly, head feeling thick and stuffed with wool. At first, all he knows is warmth. Something soft beneath his cheek. Something gently moving beneath his arm.

His head pounds, mouth dry and tasting faintly of old whiskey and regret. With a groan, he buries his face deeper into whatever pillow he’s latched onto. The pillow shifts; Jimin freezes. His eyes fly open and—oh, oh fuck.

You’re asleep beside him, your hair spread across his pillow and your face completely relaxed in a way he’s never seen before. His heart stutters with how beauti—you sigh sleepily, the rise of your chest reminding him very much of the fact that somehow, sometime during the night, he appears to have koala-beared himself to you. One arm beneath your neck, the other around your waist, one of his legs tangled with yours.

Holy fucking shit.

He jerks backward so quickly he nearly falls off the other side of the bed. The sudden movement startles you awake. Your eyes snap open, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.

“Oh my—Jimin, are you okay?” you gasp, blinking at him rapidly.

“I think I should be asking you that. Good god, what happened last night? Did we…” Jimin doesn’t even deign to finish that thought, instantly aware of how wrong it would be. “What? Oh, no, no, no, no. You were drunk, you called me.”

Jimin winces, the hazy memory surfacing. “Right.”

“You cried…”

“Fuck,” he whispers, stomach dropping. “How much?”

Your eyes flick across his face, and he knows you’re assessing his current state. Just from that alone, he becomes hyperaware of how puffy his eyes feel. “A…lot,” you admit.

He lets out a miserable noise. “Fuuuuck,” he whines, and you laugh. An honest-to-gods laugh. It’s the first time he’s heard that sound in days—weeks, maybe…even months. Long enough that it’s caught him off guard.

Then he notices the exhaustion beneath your eyes, the way your smile doesn’t quite reach them. There is a persistent roughness in your voice, one he can tell isn’t just from sleep. Something twists unpleasantly in his chest. Before he can identify the feeling starting to creep in, you sit up.

“Relax, I’ve seen worse.”

“You absolutely have not,” he grouses.

Everything about you looks so soft right now. Even the soft snort you let out as you say, “Oh, I absolutely have so.” The sound makes something warm fizzle behind his ribs. This is a dangerous moment, too familiar and yet wholly strange. It’s comfort, he realizes. He shoves it aside as quickly as it swept in.

A short time later, Jimin is showered, dressed, and standing beside the kitchen island while you nurse a steaming cup of tea. He realized long ago that you weren’t a coffee drinker, so he keeps a small tin of your favorite tea in his cupboard just for moments like this. Well, not exactly like this, considering this is the first time you’ve slept over, not that you slept over like that, but—Jimin shakes his head, hurrying on from those thoughts.

The memory of last night remains frustratingly fragmented. He remembers the bar, sitting on the curb, and the tears. There are only flashes of his phone call to you, more tears, unfortunately. Even more unfortunate, he remembers being devastated.

Yuna—his most recent delve into the dating world. When Yoongi first introduced him to the new solo artist he was working with, Jimin was instantly awed by her raw talent and beauty. Fast forward a few months, Jimin is besotted, and apparently, Yuna was just looking for a leg up in the industry.

God, just thinking about it makes embarrassment crawl up his neck. What kind of thirty-something man gets played that badly? Apparently him. But no more; this can’t happen again. There is far too much going on for Jimin to have his focus deviate from what’s most important right now.

"You still have your key?" Jimin asks.

"Yep." You nod, patting the front pocket of your pajama pants. The metal clink of keys is muffled by the flannel fabric. You glance up as he grabs his own keys. “You going somewhere?”

“Yeah, meeting with Yoongi. We have a lot of work to do before my album is ready to launch. I swear the deadline was a year out last week, and now we have only months left. Feel free to stay as long as you want. I won't be back until late, though.”

All the time he wasted on Yuna should have been spent with Yoongi in the studio. But nothing for it now other than to put his head down and march on. Time to get back to the routine, his standard days of track approvals and mix revisions—something normal, a welcomed distraction. Jimin watches as your fingers flex around your mug of tea. You still have a look of sleep about you, all your features softened. He can tell you tried to tame your hair with your fingers, but he kind of likes the way it moves around your face in a wild way. “You okay?” you ask, catching his eye.

The concern in your voice settles heavily in his chest. Because it’s always there, every time, without fail. You worry, you show up, you stay, no matter what. All he can do is nod, not trusting himself with words, afraid he might say something he can’t take back. The realization follows him all the way to the elevator.

Jimin’s stomach is protesting his skipped breakfast and the subsequent half dozen cups of coffee he’s had since arriving at Yoongi’s this morning. It’s noon now, and they’re deep into revisions. The studio smells faintly of the sandalwood diffuser sitting in the corner, coffee, and the hot scent of electronics.

Yoongi sits in front of the soundboard, expression neutral as another version of a chorus plays through the speakers. Jimin hates it immediately. “Too much reverb,” he mumbles.

Yoongi nods subtly. “Agreed.”

“The bridge feels empty.”

“Mm.”

“Are you just going to agree with everything I say?”

Yoongi flicks his eyes up, giving Jimin a blank look. “I produced it, but you’re the artist. Your opinion matters…but also, because you are right.”

Jimin instantly feels contrite about his comment. He’s feeling off, and that’s not an excuse to take it out on his friend. “Right.”

“But you only have two more critiques before I just scrap the whole song and start over.” The deadpan delivery shouldn’t make Jimin laugh, but the small grin Yoongi can’t seem to hide does.

He sighs, and in that moment, as he exhales, Jimin feels some of the tension leave his body. Apparently, Yoongi has picked up on Jimin’s mood and is trying to lighten it in his own uniquely Yoongi way.

Jimin grins despite himself. “Fair enough.”

But the smile doesn’t last. Another thing Yoongi notices. With a flick of his wrist, Yoongi thumbs a button on the soundboard, and the studio falls into silence. “Yuna?” he asks.

The breath Jimin lets out is forceful. He leans back in his seat, rubbing his hands down his face before meeting Yoongi’s patient gaze.

“Yeah.” Jimin pauses, chewing his bottom lip before continuing, “I really thought she actually liked me. Things were going so well.” Yoongi’s expression softens, which for him is practically a hug. Jimin knows Yoongi feels bad for bringing Yuna into Jimin’s life in the first place, but even he was duped by her apparent innocence.

“Her loss,” Yoongi offers softly.

Jimin nods, trying to maintain his composure. “I’ll survive.”

Yoongi hums his agreement. “You always do.”

Still, it stings. Perhaps more than any of his previous failed relationships. And maybe that’s because he’s lately started to realize an uncomfortable truth. The people he dates never seem to measure up. Not really. Not in ways that he can explain…not compared to—

“Compared to what?”

Jimin frowns, not having realized he spoke aloud. “What?”

“Or should I say compared to who?”

“Who. That’s a pretty good song title for the track from this morning,” Jimin says in an effort to change the subject. “Let me listen again, I think I have an idea…”

Yoongi grunts, the noise clearly meaning bullshit, but blissfully, he doesn’t press Jimin on it. Instead, he turns to his computer and clicks through some of the sample tracks to the one they were working on this morning.

Some time later, with empty food cartons littering the desk and Jimin’s mind a little emptier thanks to his sudden lyrical inspiration, he’s staring idly at Yoongi, waiting for the next pin to drop.

“You know, if you want to talk about it, you can.” Hello, pin. “I can tell it’s more than just about Yuna.” Hello, drop.

Jimin purses his lips. “I just don’t understand why I keep choosing the wrong people.” “You keep choosing people who need something from you.”

The words don’t come from Yoongi, but from the doorway, drawing both men’s attention. Jungkook stands there with a bottle of water in hand, a sweat-dampened towel slung over one shoulder.

“I don’t think that’s what I—”

“No, Jimin, Jungkook has a point.”

“It’s…complicated,” Jimin tries, floundering under this new revelation.

“No,” Jungkook says, gesturing with his water bottle in Jimin’s direction. “You make it complicated.”

Jimin sits in his discomfort, letting Jungkook’s words fester under his skin. After a quick shower, Jungkook joins them in the studio, the conversation drifting into idle topics like work, music, and scheduling. Then, somehow, it circles back, and Jimin can’t help himself.

“Maybe I just suck at relationships.”

Yoongi snorts. “You don’t.” It’s an immediate response that doesn’t necessarily catch Jimin off guard, but wasn’t something he expected from his friend. Yoongi isn’t one to mince words, but he is oftentimes a bit more thoughtful and reserved.

“No?”

“Nope,” Jungkook agrees.

Jimin sighs. “How can you be so sure, though? What you said earlier, let’s say it’s true…then how can I be certain of anyone? How do I know they’re genuine and not just after what I can give them?”

Jungkook and Yoongi share a look, and it’s one that Jimin has found himself envying over their years together. He knows that wasn’t always the case for them. When they first discovered each other and their soulmate bond, Jungkook was quick to dismiss it. He didn’t like the idea that his life was predestined, already mapped out for him. Jimin thinks that would make things easier; it would take all the guessing and uncertainty out of it.

Something passes between them, a quiet communication, then Yoongi says out loud, “Maybe because you’re looking in the wrong place.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“It means that sometimes the right person is already in your life, already standing right in front of you. Someone already there, that you know you can trust…and do.” Jungkook shrugs, sharing a private smile with Yoongi before they both turn to stare at Jimin.

He suddenly feels like a specimen being examined under a microscope. Jungkook’s words hit strangely, like an electric shock from a balloon after it’s rubbed over the carpet. It’s a flicker—a memory, really. Your laughter this morning. The way you gently wrapped his forearm in saniderm after you took every measure to ensure his tattoo was perfect. Your sleepy voice when you answered his midnight drunken plea for help, you showing up…always showing up, for him.

Jimin shakes his head, a nervous laugh escaping him. “No.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“Just no.” Because absolutely not. That is so far out of the cards of reality. No matter how Jimin might feel, you are completely forbidden. The most taboo of the taboo, untouchable, off-limits. Jimin could never do that to his best friend, the man who is practically his brother in every way but blood. Because you aren’t just some random woman. You’re Hyunwoo’s sister.

Jimin has spent years drawing that line. Years, vehemently refusing to even entertain the idea. Because he knows Hyunwoo would skin him alive and wear his skin like Buffalo Bill if it ever crossed his mind. Yet…lately…

Yoongi and Jungkook watch the realization cross Jimin’s face. Unfortunately, they are both far too perceptive for Jimin’s good.

“Hyunwoo,” Yoongi comments softly, clearly speaking to Jungkook but also not trying to mask his words from Jimin.

Jungkook nods, tapping a finger against his chin. “Yep. That’s exactly what this is.”

“What what is?” Jimin scowls.

Yoongi leans forward, his hand absently going to Jungkook’s knee, where his fingers intertwine with the tattooed ones resting there. “You’ve already decided something isn’t allowed. That you can’t have something when you haven’t even considered asking or making sure you’re right.”

The room falls silent. Jimin’s eyes narrow as the pieces begrudgingly start to fall into place. “I haven’t decided anything.” Even he knows he’s lying.

“Bullshit,” Jungkook singsongs.

“Koo, that’s not fair—”

“When’s the last time you actually asked yourself what you wanted?”

Jimin opens his mouth, then closes it again. Because, in truth, he realizes he doesn’t have an answer. Not an honest one, at least. Jungkook nods slowly, knowingly.

“Sometimes,” Yoongi begins gently, “we convince ourselves that we’re protecting other people when really we’re just scared.”

That statement lands heavy. Because…

No, never mind, no, no, no. Absolutely not.

Jimin stands abruptly. “Well, as much as I appreciate the therapy session, I really should be going.”

His friends stare at him as he gathers his belongings, and Jimin believes the conversation is over. It should be over, but as Jimin reaches the door, Jungkook calls after him, “Maybe you should talk to Hyunwoo.”

Chills sheet down Jimin’s spine. He pauses, fingers loose around the doorhandle. “What?” he asks, glancing back at Jungkook.

“I’m just saying. There’s no reason to deny yourself the person you actually want because of something—or even someone—else. Trust me,” he adds with an affectionate smile tossed Yoongi’s way.

For a moment, Jimin isn’t sure what to do. He feels off-balance, like the floor is shifting beneath his feet. The thought has never occurred to him, not seriously, not beyond drunken moments and immediately discarded impulses.

The idea lingers within him. It leaches into his thoughts as he drives the short distance home. It’s still throbbing in his chest when he holds the teacup you left in his sink. If he concentrates really hard, he swears that he can feel the heat from your hands lingering in the porcelain. He sets it back in the sink, unable to bring himself to wash it just yet.

Everywhere he looks now, he sees you. In the slightly rumpled comforter on his bed, the shifted pillow on the other side of his bed, the towel in his hamper that wasn’t there when he left this morning.

As Jimin lies in bed, the mattress feeling far emptier than it ever has, he traces a finger along the healing lines of his tattoo. The permanent mark you’ve left on his body brings him a small comfort as he reflects on the other mark you seem to have left as well…the one on his heart.

For the first time in his life, with thoughts of your smile, your laugh, and the warmth you bring him, Jimin wonders…really wonders.

Next Chapter⇾ (coming soon) ◅ Back to story masterlist