FUCK ME UP | FRAGMENTS
"coming out of the cage"
“It took Yoongi three months to want to kiss Sage. It took Park Jimin fourteen days to make him a liar about everything he thought he knew about himself.”
main story | wc: 4.2k
↪︎author's note : So. Remember when I dropped that Yoonmin kiss in the main fic and you all collectively lost your minds in the comments? Yeah. Hi. About that.
Listen, who am I if I don’t give every single character in this story approximately twenty-three layers of trauma and a backstory that makes you want to wrap them in a blanket? It’s my brand at this point. You knew what you signed up for.
This drabble is essentially me going ‘okay but here’s what was happening in Yoongi’s head during all of that.’ Because Yoongi doesn’t just casually kiss people. Yoongi doesn’t casually do anything. The man has a spreadsheet for his emotional damage. So when he kissed Jimin, there was a whole situation happening under the surface that I couldn’t fully explore in Y/N’s POV.
Enter: this mess.
We’ve got Yoongi still paying rent for his cheating ex nine months later because he’s an idiot with a savior complex. The ex in question being nonbinary, which adds a whole layer to Yoongi figuring out his own sexuality. Demisexuality, but make it complicated. Jimin appearing in his life and completely short-circuiting everything Yoongi thought he knew about himself. And the real kicker: Yoongi being so afraid he’s going to ruin Jimin the same way Sage ruined him.
This is where they’re at when the main timeline is happening. This is the situationship. This is why Yoongi looks at Jimin like that. This is why Jimin is terrified but also can’t stop.
Anyway. I hope this gives you some context for the chaos. More importantly, I hope it hurts.
You’re welcome.
P.S. Yes, I will continue to give backstory to every single side character. No, I will not apologize for it. That’s what you get for reading my fics.
Nine months is a long time to pay rent for someone who’s fucking somebody else.
Yoongi knows this. He’s not stupid. He’s got the auto-pay set up on the fifteenth of every month—$2,450 siphoned out of his checking account for a Bushwick one-bedroom he hasn't set foot in since January—and every time the notification hits his phone he thinks, 'this is the month I cancel it.'
He never cancels it.
It's not love. He wants to be extremely clear about that, mostly to himself, mostly at the hours when being honest is unavoidable.
It’s just. Residual. Something left over. A habit shaped like a person shaped like Sage, who had hands like a sculptor and lied like one too—building things out of nothing, making you believe in the shape of it.
Sage, who was Greek and beautiful and had a voice that did something specific to the lower register of Yoongi’s chest cavity.
Sage, who Yoongi met at a production showcase his sophomore year and who said, “Your mix is too clean, it needs to bleed more”, and Yoongi had thought: ‘Okay. This one.’
Stupid.
He’d known better. He’d known better and done it anyway, which is the most embarrassing kind of knowing.
Signed a lease. Split groceries. Let someone exist in his space who smelled like olive oil soap and played Satie on their phone while they cooked and who, as it turned out, was also existing in someone else’s space while Yoongi was finishing client mixes with his headphones on.
Nine months ago he found out. Moved out inside a week. Didn’t yell about it. Didn’t throw anything. Just packed his equipment first—monitors, interface, mic stand, cables coiled neat—and his clothes second, and left the key on the counter next to a half-eaten container of dolmas that Sage’s mother had sent.
And kept paying rent.
Because Sage didn’t have a job lined up. Because Sage doesn't have steady income yet. Because Yoongi is, fundamentally, at his stupid rotting core, someone who takes care of things even after they stop being his to take care of.
…Because the lease is in both their names and breaking it would trash both their credit scores and Yoongi has worked too hard on his to let a person who cheated on him also ruin his ability to finance equipment.
So the spreadsheet makes sense.
The spreadsheet always makes sense. It's everything outside the spreadsheet that doesn't.
Like being in Carlyle Court right now.
Carlyle Court is a standard NYU dorm, which means the walls are thin enough to hear someone's Spotify through the insulation, the fluorescent hallway lighting gives everything a vaguely institutional pallor, and the whole building carries that base note of communal laundry and whatever plug-in air freshener the RA panic-bought for move-in day.
Jimin's room pushes back against all of that—string lights looped across the ceiling, a woven tapestry pinned above the bed, a small bookshelf buckling under the weight of horror film theory texts and dog-eared Stephen King paperbacks stacked two deep.
It's the room of someone who gives a shit. Someone who arranged the throw pillows in a specific order and probably owns a handheld vacuum.
It doesn't smell like olive oil soap and Yoongi's own terrible judgment, which is already a significant improvement over most spaces he's occupied this year.
Jimin's couch is a dorm-issue loveseat—navy blue, slightly concave in the middle, the kind of furniture that predates both of them and will outlive everyone who sits on it.
Yoongi's on the left side. Jimin's on the right.
Between them there’s a bowl of microwave popcorn and approximately six inches of cushion that Yoongi is extremely, precisely, uselessly aware of.
On the laptop balanced on the coffee table, Toni Collette is losing her mind.
"See, Aster never lets the score carry the emotional weight," Jimin says, gesturing at the screen with a piece of popcorn.
He does this—talks during movies—and it should grate Yoongi.
It doesn't.
"He trusts the production sound. The house creaking. That ambient layer underneath the dialogue that your conscious brain skips over but your nervous system absolutely does not."
Yoongi takes a piece of popcorn. Chews. Swallows.
"The floor sounds are foley," he says. Calm. Measured. The voice of a man who is not currently experiencing any kind of internal weather event. "Not production audio. The resonance is too uniform—real hardwood changes depending on where you step, where the joists are. These were recorded in a controlled environment and laid in during post."
Jimin turns.
There it is—the expression he makes when Yoongi says something technical. Not glazed over. Not politely tolerant. Interested. Actively, visibly interested, like Yoongi just solved a step in a puzzle Jimin's been working on.
"How can you even hear that over the dialogue?"
"I hear everything."
This comes out more honest than intended. Yoongi reaches for more popcorn.
The thing about Yoongi—the thing people don't understand because he doesn't let them—is that he's carrying more than his own weight and has been for a while now.
There's the Sage situation. The $2,450. The auto-pay. That's one line item.
And then there's Jungkook.
Yoongi met Jeon Jungkook a year and a half ago at an event he doesn't even remember the name of—some industry mixer, someone's loft, bad wine in plastic cups.
Jungkook had been in the corner filming B-roll of the party on a handheld rig and Yoongi had been in the other corner wondering why he'd come. They'd ended up on the fire escape. Jungkook had bummed a lighter. Yoongi had said something dry about the acoustics of the space, and Jungkook had laughed—surprised-out-of-you kind—and said…
«You're the first person tonight who's said something that wasn't complete bullshit.»
That was it. That was the whole audition.
Within a month they had the kind of friendship that skips the small talk phase entirely—Jungkook showing up at Yoongi's studio at midnight with takeout and a project he needed fresh ears on, Yoongi sending voice notes at 3 AM about a mix that was fighting him.
Not performative closeness. Not group-chat closeness. The real kind. The kind where you learn someone's patterns well enough to know when they're lying about being fine.
And then January happened.
Jungkook needed out. Out of Mia's apartment, out of Mia's orbit, out of the blast radius of a person who had dismantled him so thoroughly that some nights Yoongi could hear the damage in his voice like clipping on an overdriven input—distortion where there should've been signal.
And Yoongi needed out too. Away from Sage. Away from the Bushwick apartment that still smelled like someone else's betrayal.
So they'd talked about it. Nine months of knowing each other and they'd said, ’let’s just do this.' Found the East Village place. Signed the lease.
It seemed impulsive from the outside, probably.
From the inside it was the most rational decision either of them had made all year.
Some months Jungkook can't cover rent. Mia's debt—credit cards taken out in his name, charges he didn't authorize, a financial crater she'd excavated under his life and then walked away from.
Those months, Yoongi covers it. Doesn't make a thing of it. Doesn't keep a tab. Just sends the extra $1,200 to the landlord the same way he sends $2,450 to a Bushwick apartment where his ex still sleeps in a bed Yoongi helped assemble.
Paying for people. That's his love language, apparently. Venmo transfers and covered tabs and the quiet, unflinching act of absorbing someone else's damage into his own budget.
The difference is—Jungkook pays him back. Always. Down to the cent, the moment a check clears. Yoongi has told him not to bother and Jungkook does it anyway, because pride or guilt or both, and that's fine. That's the deal.
Jungkook doesn't ask Yoongi about Sage. Yoongi doesn't ask Jungkook about the nights he disappears to the roof or the way his hands stop working when a door slams too hard.
They know each other's shapes without needing to trace the outlines.
That's the whole point.
Jungkook has secrets that could fill a storage unit. Yoongi has space for all of them. Has carved out an entire wing of his brain where Jungkook's damage lives, undisturbed, unfiled, never to be referenced unless Jungkook opens that door himself. That's the agreement. Not a spoken one—the best agreements never are.
Jungkook, at least, is not a wound that bleeds.
Sage is.
Sage bleeds on the fifteenth of every month, a clean $2,450 hemorrhage that Yoongi dresses and re-dresses and refuses to cauterize because—why?
Because he's loyal to a fault? Because he takes care of things past the point of reason? Because some part of him still believes that if he just keeps paying, it means the two years weren't wasted?
Fuck. He doesn't know. He doesn't want to know tonight.
Tonight he's in Jimin's room and the popcorn is getting cold and Toni Collette is screaming.
And Yoongi is restless.
Because Yoongi thought he had figured himself out. Or—Sage helped him figure himself out. That's the part that stings the most, if he's honest, which he tries not to be.
They'd been lying in bed in the Bushwick apartment—Sage tracing shapes on Yoongi's arm, that thing they did when they were thinking out loud—and Yoongi had been trying to explain why it took him so long. To want them. To want anyone. How he'd spent most of college feeling like a radio tuned to a frequency nobody else was broadcasting on—not broken, not disinterested, just… waiting. For something to click. For the signal to arrive.
And Sage had looked at him with those dark, careful eyes and said, “you know there's a word for that, right?”
Demisexual.
That's how it happened with Sage—months of trust-building, months of conversation, months of sharing studio space and trading notes and learning each other's architecture before Yoongi's body even registered interest.
They'd talked about it for hours that night. Sage had been patient and precise and genuinely understanding in a way that made Yoongi feel held.
Sage had given him the word and the word had fit and Yoongi had taken it and pressed it against himself and thought, ‘this is what I am, this makes sense, this is is how I work.’
And then Sage had fucked someone else on Tuesdays and Thursdays for months, and the word—the word Sage gave him, the word that was supposed to be the truest thing about himself—was now permanently tangled in the wreckage.
Inseparable from the person who handed it over.
Every time Yoongi thinks demisexual he hears it in Sage's voice, lying in that bed, tracing shapes on his arm with fingers that were also touching someone else.
Except.
Except Jimin is five and a half inches away from him on a dorm-regulation loveseat, wearing a cream sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder, and Yoongi has known him for two weeks.
Two. Weeks.
This is the third time they've hung out. Third movie night.
Two weeks. Not fourteen. Not even close. By every metric Yoongi has for himself, by every framework he built and believed, this is not enough time for this.
Because Yoongi wants to kiss him.
Not in the theoretical. Not contingent on months of emotional excavation.
Right now. On this dorm couch.
He wants to put his mouth on Park Jimin's mouth and he has wanted this since approximately the second movie night—last Thursday, The Shining, when Jimin had paused the film to explain the specific way Kubrick used the Steadicam to create spatial disorientation and Yoongi had looked at his mouth mid-sentence and thought, ‘oh no’—and the wanting is plain and physical and present-tense in a way that demisexual isn't supposed to allow at two weeks and—
His face does nothing. His posture does nothing.
He sits on the left side of the loveseat and eats popcorn and watches Hereditary and looks, by every measurable output, like a person who is fine. Relaxed, even.
This is the Min Yoongi trick—the one he's been running since high school—of keeping the surface so still that nobody checks what's underneath.
Underneath—absolute fucking wreckage.
His logic tells him he requires emotional connection for attraction. That's the model. That's the box. That's where he thought he lived.
And the animal part of his brain, the part that doesn't read theory or build spreadsheets, responds: ‘Cool. So explain the shoulder thing.’
He can't explain the shoulder thing.
Jimin's sweater is slipping and there's a collarbone and Yoongi can see the ridge of it in the laptop light and his pulse did something clinically notable about four minutes ago and hasn't corrected since.
He eats popcorn. He watches the movie. He is fine.
"The clicking sound," Jimin says, quiet now—matching the register of the scene instinctively, like someone who understands that volume is part of the viewing experience. "That she makes with her tongue. Was that ADR or—"
"Production. They kept the original on-set takes."
"Because recreating it in post would lose the room tone."
Yoongi looks at him. Jimin looks back.
A beat. Then two.
"Yeah," Yoongi says as if his cardiovascular system isn't currently drafting a formal complaint. "Exactly."
Jimin smiles—fast and slight, barely more than a shift in the architecture of his face—and turns back to the screen.
His cheeks are warm.
Yoongi can see it even in the blue laptop light, the way color sits differently on flushed skin, the way the capillaries beneath the surface betray what the expression is trying to hide.
He wants to kiss him and he doesn't know what that makes him.
Not demisexual. Maybe? Or a broken version of it. Or the right version of it with an asterisk he didn't know was there.
Or maybe—the thought he keeps circling, keeps approaching and veering away from—maybe the label was built on a sample size of one.
One person. One relationship. One slow-burn connection that ended in someone else's bed.
And Yoongi had taken that single data point and extrapolated an identity from it because he needed something to be true about himself after everything else turned out to be a fucking, blatant lie.
And now he's sitting in Carlyle Court wondering if the one thing Sage left him with—the word, the framework, the 'this is what you are' spoken in a bed that was already a lie—was even real.
Whether the truest-sounding thing anyone's ever said to him was just another shape Sage built out of nothing.
The credits roll and the room drops to half-dark. Laptop glow. String lights. The ambient sound of the building—HVAC hum, a bass note bleeding through the ductwork from the floor above, the distant mechanical rhythm of the elevator.
Yoongi catalogs it all automatically, the same way he always does, the same way he can't stop doing.
"Can I ask you something?" Jimin's voice is careful. Measured in a way that suggests he rehearsed this.
"Go ahead."
"Do you ever just… turn it off? The listening thing."
Yoongi considers the question for exactly as long as it takes to be truthful.
"No."
"That sounds exhausting."
"You get used to it."
"That's not the same thing."
There's a precision to Jimin that people miss because of the sweaters and the soft voice and the way he holds doors open for strangers.
Jimin is not just nice. Jimin pays attention with the same focus he brings to horror films, and right now that focus is on Yoongi, and Yoongi can feel it the way he feels sub-bass—not through his ears but through his body.
"It keeps me company," Yoongi says. Just says it. Lays it out on the coffee table next to the empty popcorn bowl.
Three seconds of silence. Yoongi counts.
"That's really sad, Yoongi."
"It's not."
"It is, though." No pity in it. "You're telling me you listen to everything because nobody listens back."
The accuracy of this registers somewhere behind his sternum with the force of a well-placed kick drum.
He should redirect. Should reach for the laptop and suggest The Witch before this conversation gets to a place he can't manage.
That's what he does—manages. Mediates. Handles things so cleanly that nobody realizes there was ever a mess.
He says nothing instead. Which is its own kind of answer.
Then Jimin's hand is on his knee.
Light. Tentative. Warm through the denim.
And trembling—a fine micro-vibration that Jimin is very clearly trying to suppress, the muscles in his forearm taut with the effort of appearing casual about something that is not casual at all.
And this is the part where Yoongi notices.
Not just the hand. Not just the trembling. The whole performance.
The way Jimin placed his palm down like he does this all the time, like this is a gesture that lives comfortably in his repertoire.
The studied nonchalance.
The careful angle of his body—turned toward Yoongi but not too far, not enough to look deliberate.
Jimin is projecting calm the way an underpowered speaker projects volume—effortfully, at the edge of distortion, with visible strain in the components.
He's trying so hard to seem like he's not terrified.
And the trying—the sheer transparent effort of it—makes Yoongi notice everything.
The pulse at his wrist, rapid and visible against the tendons. The way he's holding his breath in small increments, controlling the exhale so it comes out even. The way his eyes keep doing this micro-flicker—to Yoongi's face, away, back, away—like he can't decide where it's safe to look.
Yoongi doesn't say any of this. Doesn't ask. Doesn't prod or name it or offer the kind of well-meaning observation that would make Jimin feel seen in a way that's more like being caught.
That's not who Yoongi is.
Yoongi is…
Yoongi is the person you tell things to when you're ready and not a second before.
The person who holds what you give him—holds it like classified material, like evidence, like something entrusted—and never opens the file unless you hand him the key.
Jungkook has an entire archive in Yoongi's head. Rooms and rooms of things Yoongi knows and will never reference, never weaponize, never even glance at sideways.
If you need someone to help you bury a body, you call Min Yoongi, and he shows up with a shovel and doesn't ask who it is.
So he doesn't push. Doesn't name what he sees on Jimin's face.
Just looks at the hand on his knee, and then looks at Jimin.
"Yoongi," Jimin says. Quiet. Like he's weighing the name.
And Yoongi—who is steady, who is the rock, who absorbs everyone else's mess without cracking, who covers rent for an ex and a best friend and doesn't flinch, who held Jungkook's worst nights in his hands and never dropped them—
Yoongi looks at Jimin's mouth and does the math and the math doesn't work and he does it anyway.
He leans in.
He goes slow. Has to.
Because this is someone's first something—maybe their first everything, maybe the first time a question they've been circling has been answered with a mouth instead of a thought—and Yoongi might be catastrophically stupid about auto-payments but he will not be careless about this.
The first contact is barely a kiss. A press. Closed-mouth, soft, his lips against Jimin's, holding there.
A confirmation of the question Jimin's hand already asked.
Jimin goes still.
One second. Yoongi's producer brain starts a countdown, starts calculating the probability of retreat, starts pre-loading the graceful exit—
Then Jimin exhales. A caught, shaky thing, like air escaping through a crack.
It hits Yoongi's mouth and tastes like microwave butter and something underneath that—relief, maybe. The specific flavor of a fear being proven survivable.
And then Jimin kisses back.
And here's where the performance collapses.
Because Jimin is trying—god, he's trying so hard—to kiss like someone who knows what he's doing. The angle he chooses is confident. The way he tilts his head is smooth.
He's studied this, maybe in movies, maybe from experience with girls, maybe from the sheer osmotic pressure of having watched people kiss a thousand times on screens. The mechanics are there.
But his hand gives him away. The one on Yoongi's knee has gone rigid—not gripping, just frozen, like Jimin forgot it existed the moment their lips made contact and it's been left there running on residual nerve signal. His other hand is clenched in his own lap. And his breathing—carefully controlled until ten seconds ago—has gone ragged in a way he's clearly trying to rein back in through his nose, small disciplined inhales that keep catching at the top.
He's kissing Yoongi like it's easy and shaking like it's the hardest thing he's ever done.
And Yoongi—because he's him, because he hears and sees and catalogs everything, because that's the whole fucking curse—Yoongi notices all of it.
Every micro-tremor. Every overcorrection. The way Jimin adjusts his angle a fraction too quickly, like he's course-correcting a mistake before it happens.
Yoongi brings his hand up. Rests it against the side of Jimin's neck—not pulling, not directing. Just there. An anchor. The pad of his thumb against Jimin's jaw, where the tension lives.
Jimin makes a sound. Involuntary. A soft, startled catch in the back of his throat—breathy onset, slight nasal quality, the sound of someone experiencing a new sensation and failing to suppress the proof of it.
Something in Yoongi's chest rearranges.
He doesn't deepen the kiss. Doesn't push. Keeps it where it is—gentle pressure, closed mouths, the warmth of proximity—and waits.
Lets Jimin set the pace. Lets the act dissolve on its own timeline.
It takes another few seconds. Then Jimin's frozen hand moves—lifts off Yoongi's knee, hovers for a disoriented moment, and lands on Yoongi's chest. Over his sternum. Fingers spread. Like he's checking for a heartbeat.
He'd find it running fast. Yoongi is choosing not to think about that.
Jimin breaks the kiss. Not far—an inch, maybe. His eyes are open and close and wide and a little unfocused.
"I—" he starts. Stops.
Yoongi watches him construct and discard three different endings to that sentence, each one flickering across his face like a skipped track.
"That was—"
He doesn't finish. Swallows instead. His hand is still on Yoongi's chest.
"Okay?" Yoongi says. Low. Even.
"Yeah." Too fast. The automatic response. Then, slower, more honest: "Yeah. I'm—yeah."
He's not asking for an interrogation. Yoongi can read that as clearly as a waveform on a screen.
Jimin is standing at the edge of something unnamed and he doesn't need Yoongi to hand him a map. He just needs Yoongi to not leave.
So Yoongi doesn't leave.
Doesn't ask 'have you ever' or 'do you usually' or 'what does this mean for you.'
Doesn't name the thing he can see Jimin wrestling with behind those careful brown eyes—the thing that's bigger than kissing a boy on a couch, the thing that involves words Jimin probably hasn't tried on yet, categories he hasn't tested, a whole taxonomy of self he's maybe only just started to open.
Yoongi knows what it's like to stand at that edge.
He's standing at his own version of it right now—different coordinates, same vertigo.
Jimin’s hand curls, pushes him closer. “Is this okay?”
What a question.
Is it okay that Jimin wants more. Is it okay that Yoongi is someone’s first something while simultaneously being someone else’s leftover. Is it okay that he’s using the sweetest person he’s met in years as an eraser for a memory that won’t stay deleted.
“Yeah,” Yoongi says, and it comes out rougher than he means it to. “It’s okay.”
Jimin’s eyes search his face for something. Whatever he finds there must be sufficient because he nods once, quick and small, and then leans back in.
This time the kiss is better. More sure. Jimin’s hand slides from Yoongi’s jaw to the back of his neck and he tilts his head the right way without being guided and his tongue moves with more confidence, like the first attempt was the calibration run and now the actual recording has started.
He pulls Jimin closer by the front of his sweater, he fabric bunches in Yoongi’s fist and Jimin makes that sound again—that breathy, caught thing—and Yoongi thinks this is a terrible idea.
Then he thinks he’s had worse.
Then he thinks about Sage making that exact sound on the exhale when—
No. No.
He kisses Jimin harder. Pushes the ghost out with pressure, with the present tense of someone else’s mouth, with the physical fact of Jimin’s fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck.
The DVD menu restarts its loop—the same eerie orchestral swell repeating every forty-five seconds, and Yoongi can hear everything and for once he doesn’t want to.
For once he just wants to be inside this—inside the reckless warmth of Jimin’s mouth and Jimin’s hands and the small sounds Jimin is making that Yoongi’s brain is filing away like they’re source material for a track he hasn’t started yet.
Jimin pulls back again, breathing harder this time, and there’s a look on his face that Yoongi recognizes because he’s seen it in his own mirror—the look of someone who just did something they can’t undo and isn’t sure yet if they want to.
“We should probably—” Jimin gestures vaguely. At the TV. At the room. At the concept of rational behavior.
“Probably,” Yoongi agrees.
Neither of them moves.
Jimin tucks his hair behind his ear with a shaky hand and smiles—uncertain and bright and so goddamn earnest it makes Yoongi want to be swallowed by the dirt for ever comparing the two.
“Put the next one on,” Yoongi says. His voice sounds normal. That’s a miracle.
“Yeah?” Jimin’s smile widens. Marginally. Carefully. “I was thinking The Witch. The sound design in that one is—”
“Insane. The whole score is period-accurate, they used—”
“—hurdy-gurdy and nyckelharpa, yeah. I read the production notes.”
Yoongi stares at him.
Jimin stares back, still smiling, cheeks still pink, lips still swollen from what might be kissing a boy for the first time on a couch that likely cost less than Yoongi’s cheapest condenser mic.
‘Oh,’ Yoongi thinks. Quietly. Like a snare drum clicking into place.
‘Okay. This one.’
The problem is.
The fucking problem is.
Sage turned silence into sculpture, absence into architecture.
And Jimin is architecture and Yoongi has only ever known how to pay for buildings he doesn't live in anymore.
little drawing of this scene i did <3
main story
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