Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

We need the night's scenery more than anyone else

Only I can console myself, nobody else

It's okay to shed the tears

But don't you tear yourself

– Moonchild , RM

The moon is high in the sky, shining brightly over the busy city. The streets are frozen from snowfall earlier in the day. Crowds of people hustle and bustle across the sidewalks, not nearly careful enough on the frozen concrete, hyper-focused on getting home as soon as possible after a long day.

A breeze blows in from the west. A cacophony of scents dances through the air. A plastic bag whips across the concrete. 

Jimin watches from his spot on the side, safely out of the way of the crowded part of the street. Under him, a wooden stool creaks every time he shifts. His skin is tight from the cold. His lips are chapped from the wind. In his hands is a guitar; second-hand, well-loved. He plays for the passerby, but no one stops to listen. 

Inside of him, his soul collapses, always collapsing, always breaking. The broken pieces scratch at his sternum, digging a hole through him until he’s nothing but a shell. 

People walk past him like he’s just another lamppost or street sign, not even sparing him a second glance. He’s dying with an audience. 

It’s a slow death. The death of his soul. 

He strums at his guitar with numb fingers. It’s a bit too cold to be sitting outside for long amounts of time, but, as always, Jimin finds himself glued to his spot, hoping that his four layers of clothes will be enough to save him from frostbite in the unforgiving winter.

He should be home, inside, snuggled up against the radiator with a warm cup of tea. Instead, he remains. It’s an addiction, that’s the only way he can think to explain it. He’s chasing a high. The high of music, of performing. A high he’ll never feel again, no matter how hard he tries.

In many ways, Jimin has already died. He died as his hip gave out and he landed on the floor of the dance studio, before passing out, not from pain, but from the realization that his life was ending. Everything after—the hospital visit, the surgery, the pain, the therapy—was happening to a corpse. That’s the only way it makes sense. The only explanation he can come up with for this ache inside of him that won’t go away no matter how much time passes.

He’s died and his eternal punishment is to remain in his shell and live with the consequences of his own hubris.

He’s his very own Greek tragedy. Forced to remember day in and day out that the dream he worked towards for years will never come to fruition. He will always be an almost. A horror story for those after him to look at as a reminder to take care of themselves.

Jimin sighs, fingers pausing mid-strum. No one is listening anyway. It doesn’t matter if he stops. Doesn’t matter if he gets up and leaves. 

He could disappear if he wanted.

He thinks about it a lot. Leaving. Disappearing. Fading away.

Seoul has nothing for him except aching memories. He could go. He could move somewhere far away, where it isn’t so hard to breathe and exist. He could restart, find a nice omega or beta and settle down. He could leave the cold of Seoul. Leave his apartment. Leave his friends that love him, but only remind him of who he isn’t anymore. 

He could leave Seoul, but he couldn’t leave the resounding ache in his heart. He’ll never be able to escape the pain—both physical and mental—that drags him down and leaves him gasping his air. He could escape the city, but he can never escape his mind.

Jimin sighs. The warm air leaves his mouth and drifts out into the open air. A wisp of white to remind Jimin how cold it really is. He shivers and sniffs.

 A few meters in front of him a foreign couple has stopped to take a picture together in front of the restaurant they just stepped out of. Jimin wonders if they enjoyed the food. Wonders why they chose Korea instead of somewhere else, somewhere warmer, somewhere less suffocating. The couple kiss and Jimin looks away.

The streets are slowly emptying as the time grows late. Most of the stores have closed, and the few restaurants dotting the area will be shutting their doors in a few hours as well. Further in the city, bars and clubs are filling with guests ready to spend the night drinking, dancing, and getting up to no good. Jimin will go to work and be forced to deal with some of them—drunk students who range from oblivious to dangerous. 

Jimin breathes in and hopes the calmness of the night will enter his lungs and seep into his bones.

He begins to strum on his guitar again. One last song before he goes. A song of lost chances and loneliness. The song of Jimin’s soul. Then, he’ll go to work on the other side of the city, keeping Seoul National University safe from itself, before coming right back to start his shift at the cafe.

It’s not much, it’s not even gratifying, but it’s Jimin’s life.

A half-dead state. A broken soul. Lost dreams. Friends that love him but will never understand. It would be better to leave Seoul, to start anew, but he knows he never will. This is his life, this is all he knows. He’s trapped. 

Hoseok checks and double-checks the front door, wiggling the handle and pulling on the door, making sure the lock is as strong as it was the night before. He steps away only when he’s sure the door won’t budge.

He feels a little ridiculous, but he can’t help it. Every night, like clockwork, he checks all of the locks, making sure they’re still strong and capable. It’s a compulsion he’s incapable of ignoring. He needs to know his environment is safe. He needs to know the door will hold and protect him. He needs to know no harm will come his, or worse, his daughter’s way.

He checks the windows as well. Whisking from the living room to the kitchen to the bathroom, checking and double-checking. No stone is left unturned. 

His shuffling is the only sound in the whole apartment. Everything is quiet. Everything is calm. 

Jiwoo, Hoseok’s sister, went to bed hours ago. Not long after he put the baby down. It’s just him and the night. 

He steps out of the living room once he’s sure everything is secure and heads toward his bedroom. Moonlight pours in from the window, lighting the room with a soft glow. 

Hoseok closes the door shut softly behind him and peaks into the crib at the end of his bed. Seungwan is sleeping like a rock. There’s a line of drool coming from her small mouth. Her breaths are even and clear. She looks so small, so innocent.

Hoseok breathes in deeply, her milky scent filling his nose and calming his racing heart. He leans into her crib, pushing one of her small curls away from her face. She’s okay. She’s asleep and relaxed. No one can get her. No one can hurt her. 

She’s safe.

She’s safe. She’s safe. She’s safe. 

He repeats it over and over again inside his head. He breathes in the words and lets them flow through his bloodstream and into his heart. 

He trails his finger’s softly over Seungwan’s cheek, around her nose and her lips. She looks so much like him, except the world hasn’t had the chance to destroy her yet. She can come out on the other side of this. 

Hoseok sighs, moving over to sit on his bed. The wind blows in through his open window, the only open window in the whole apartment. His heart still beats too fast. His breath is still too quick. 

Why can’t he just feel safe? Why isn’t this enough? Why is nothing he does enough?

He ran. He left. He escaped.

He’s far away from him. Far away from the pain he called loved. Far away from the suffering that was as normal as breathing. Far from the prison that was his life for so long.

He escaped the pain, but he can’t escape the fear.

Every night nausea crawls up his throat. Anxiety rushes through his veins and washes over his entire body. His heart constricts. His soul screams out. 

When will he find relief? When will he stop feeling like he’s drowning?

He thought moving to the city would make him feel safe, but the fear still burns inside of him.

Seoul was supposed to bring freedom. Seoul was supposed to give him his life back. He’s not supposed to lay awake most nights wondering if he’s really safe at all. He’s not supposed to be spending every extra second watching his back.

He’s supposed to feel warm and free. Instead, he feels cold and aimless.

Hoseok sighs and falls back into his bed, curling up close to the window and listening intently. Hoping.

The clock on his desk says it’s not quite time yet, but he hopes maybe it’ll come early. He wants to sleep. To actually sleep, not just drift in and out of consciousness.

Hoseok’s battle with anxiety is not one easily won. He’s unable to fully relax. He’s constantly tense, constantly restless. Ready to flee at the drop of a hat. He’s in a perpetual state of fight or flight. He can never escape the feeling that he’s in danger. 

There’s only one thing that helps. One person. One voice.

He heard it on his first night in the city. He’d been wide awake, unable to fall asleep in his new bed in a new city surrounded by unknowns and shaking with fear. The voice had drifted in through his closed window and wrapped around him like a warm blanket.

Clear and lilting.

It reminds Hoseok of the glass windchimes that his halmeoni had on her front porch. Takes him back to warm, calloused hands and shining summer afternoons. This voice, singing songs of loneliness and desperation, is the only thing that sends Hoseok to sleep.

He listens closely as the busker’s voice breaks through the cold night air and wraps around him like a warm hug. Their voice compliments the winter air, crisp and cool. Hoseok shifts in his bed to get under the covers, getting comfortable as quietly as possible so he doesn’t miss a thing.

He snuggles in as the busker croons about broken dreams and shattered souls, taking a deep breath in. The chill air fills his nose along with Seungwan’s milky baby scent. Hoseok relaxes further into the mattress and closes his eyes.

The busker only sings four times a week and Hoseok doesn’t want to miss a second. He doesn’t know why this person’s singing makes him feel safe when nothing else does or why the tragic songs relax him rather than sadden him, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the sweet caress of sleep. 

Sleeping doesn’t come easy to him, it hasn’t in a while. Sleeping means letting his guard down. Letting his guard down means opening himself and his pup to danger. Even in the safety of a locked-up apartment his brain won’t let him forget that simple fact. 

The only thing that works is this. 

It doesn’t stop the nightmares, nothing does, but it’s enough. Hoseok will take what he can get. He’ll take this.

Chapter Text

And I'm learning so I'm leaving

And even though I'm grieving

I'm trying to find a meaning

Let loss reveal it

— St. Jude, Florence + the Machine

Snow crunches under Jimin’s boots, the flimsy material doing little to protect him from the cold of the night. Each step he takes is punctuated with a jingle as the heavy keys on his belt loop clink and clatter together. If it weren’t for the occasional roar of an engine or distant yells Jimin would feel like he’s the only person around for miles. 

It’s unsettling. 

During the day, thousands walk together along the same slush-covered path that Jimin is taking, but at night it’s only him and the handful of students who would rather get drunk than sleep the winter away. 

Jimin steps up to a crosswalk and checks his watch. It’s only an hour into his shift according to the flimsy, plastic clockface. He sighs and kicks a chunk of ice, watching it skid across the street. A car comes around the corner a moment later, running it right over and crushing it into bits. Jimin frowns at the broken pieces. It’s a bit on the nose, isn’t it?

The light for the crosswalk changes to green and a robotic voice announces that it’s safe to walk. Jimin steps across the street, shivering lightly as the wind begins to blow. The standard-issued security uniform he’s wearing does very little to protect him from the cold, even with the multiple layers he has on underneath. Still, the shitty coat the university supplies them with for the winter months is much warmer than anything else Jimin has—unless he borrows his roommate's coat, but he tries to avoid doing that.

Taehyung is always willing to help, but Jimin hates being a burden. He’d rather struggle on his own than pull other people down with him.

Jimin turns down the street, clicking on his flashlight as he reaches one of the darker areas of campus where the fine arts building is. There are streetlights dotted on most corners, but most of them have gone out, and the ones that haven’t are on their last leg.

He pauses near the entrance, using his free hand to sort through the keys on his belt so he can get inside when the wind changes direction and sour, angered scents fill his nose.

Jimin looks up, immediately scenting the air. Two deep, distinct, musky scents fill his nose, each burning clear with anger in the empty streets, and underneath them is the distinct sour scent of fear. Jimin steps away from the fine arts building, straining his ears to hear something as he begins walking in the direction of the wind. They must be close if he can scent them out so easily. The human nose is only so strong.

He prays it’s a small argument—a simple verbal dispute that doesn’t need his stepping in—but when a pained yelp hits his ears he knows that’s not the case.

Jimin breaks into a sprint as soon as he hears it. He moves around the fine arts building, moving swiftly towards the source. He picks up speed when he makes it to the other end of the building and sees three silhouettes further ahead on the sidewalk, two standing and one on the ground. 

As he gets closer he can scent out each person and it makes his stomach flip uncomfortably. The two standing are undoubtedly alphas. Their deep musky scents give them away, but even if they didn’t the extreme posturing would. The person on the ground, and the one Jimin is far more worried about, is a very scared and very pregnant omega. 

The alphas are screaming at each other loudly, pointing and flailing. One is sporting a split lip and the other a black eye. 

“What the hell is wrong with you,” the one with the split lip bellows. 

“Me?” the one with the black eye screams back. “I’m not the one who fucked someone else’s bitch.” 

Jimin flinches at the word choice along with the omega on the ground. He wants to go to her, but his supervisor would reprimand him for not dealing with the fight first. He straightens up and does his best to make himself look bigger. Intimidating. 

He steps in right as the one with the black eye decides to push the other, sending both Jimin and the other alpha to the ground. 

Jimin just barely manages to not fall directly on top of the omega and instead onto the unforgiving concrete. His elbow hits the ground first, followed quickly by his hip. All the air gets pushed out of his lungs as his head hits the ground and bounces, his glasses flying somewhere to his left.

Jimin’s leg gives out underneath him. He has no time to react, he’s on the floor in seconds. His landing is punctuated by a sharp crack.

“Jimin-ssi?” One of his fellow trainees calls out as Jimin struggles to regain his breathing.

His hip throbs, and the pain is almost all-consuming, but it’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with before. He’s been in pain for months, he’s used to it. He’ll just take some painkillers and push through. That’s all he can do. The company has finally given him a chance. Soon, he’ll be debuting and finally living his dream. He doesn’t have time for pain.

“I’m fine,” Jimin wheezes out, forcing a smile. Sure, the pain is worse than usual, but he’ll live. He’ll persevere just like he always does. “I just lost my footing, I’m fine.”

Jimin sits up slowly, squeezing his eyes shut and doing his best to hide how much it actually hurts. The pain spreads all the way from his hip to his fingertips and toes. Like a lightning strike ricocheting through his body.

“Are you sure, Jimin-ssi?” They ask and Jimin has to push down an aggravated growl. They don’t know him, they don’t know the type of pain he’s dealt with to get where he is.

Jimin opens his eyes and turns to tell them he’s fine when he realizes why they sound so worried. His foot is twisted awkwardly and his hip is clearly swollen even through his sweatpants.

Jimin’s vision darkens around the edges—from shock or from pain, he doesn’t know—and he slips out of consciousness.

“ — OP, PLEASE STOP,” Jimin hears as his brain finally comes back into focus. He feels like his head is full of cotton. Somewhere to his right, someone or something is grunting and moaning. He wrinkles his nose in disgust when he hears the sound of something cracking. 

He rubs the side of his head, trying to get his mind to catch up to what’s going on around him, finding it hard to focus with the screaming and the grunting. Does he have a concussion?

The last thing Jimin needs is another hospital stay. Not only can he not afford it, but if he misses too much work he’ll surely lose this job, no matter how valid the excuse is, and his job working at a cafe won’t be enough to keep him afloat. If it was, he would've quit the security position a long time ago. 

Most nights it’s just boring. He sits in the security office and watches the footage of the empty campus. Occasionally stragglers will walk past, some are students and others are simply city folk who use the campus as a shortcut. 

But about once a week, maybe more depending on the time of year—major holidays always seem to get people geared up—there will be a fight or a party gone wild and it’s Jimin’s job to break it up. 

The position isn’t favorable, getting pushed around isn’t uncommon and Jimin’s body is no longer at its prime. He overworked himself for years before ultimately injuring his hip and needing a hip replacement. All it takes is falling the wrong way and he’ll be back in the hospital.

Forcing himself to sit up is far more work than it has any right to be. The motion makes him feel seasick, the whole world tilting on its axis for a long nauseating moment before righting itself again. He searches the ground for his glasses and sighs when he spots them three meters away.

“YOU’RE GOING TO KILL EACH OTHER,” the desperate voice yells and Jimin’s mind finally manages to catch up to his surroundings. 

He forces himself up off the ground, rocking for a long disorienting second as the world spins again. The alpha that got pushed to the ground with Jimin is now on top of the other and the pregnant girl is standing awkwardly on the sidelines, wanting to step in, but not wanting to get knocked down again, or worse, in the process. 

The sound of fist meeting flesh does very little to quell Jimin’s nausea, but he pushes through. He has to. It’s his job. 

He limps over to the fighting pair, wraps his arms around the guy on top, and pulls with all of his strength. 

“Let me go,” the guy in his arms growls, but Jimin holds fast.

He lifts the guy slightly before turning and knocking them both onto the ground. It’s not graceful, and it hurts, but Jimin doesn’t let that stop him from using his body weight to restrain the growling alpha. He glances back at the other guy who remains on the ground, and reaches towards the radio on his belt. 

“Dusik-ssi,” he calls into the device as he squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to quell the dizziness. “Dusik-ssi, do you copy?”

“I’m here,” the older man’s voice crackles through the walkie-talkie. “What’s the matter?”

“I need you to call the police,” Jimin croaks. “There’s been a fight.”

Dusik mutters come curses over the radio and then silence. Jimin bites his lip.

His head is pounding and everything hurts. He has a feeling he has a concussion and his hip is most definitely fucked up. He sighs. He doesn’t have the money for this. 

“Are the police coming?” A soft voice asks from Jimin’s right. He opens his eyes and whips his head around. The pregnant girl stands just a few feet away, staring worriedly down at Jimin and the alpha underneath him. Jimin had honestly forgotten about her. 

He tries to soften his features, but it’s hard with the amount of pain he’s in. He’s sure his comforting smile is coming across far more plastic-y than usual.

“They are,” Jimin confirms and the girl starts crying. 

The alpha underneath Jimin finally stops struggling, frozen at the sobs wracking the omega’s small frame. 

“This is all my fault,” she cries. “I never should– I never should’ve–”

“Minhee, no,” the alpha under Jimin softly reprimands. “None of this is your fault. You did nothing wrong.”

“I– I–”

“No, this is not your fault. Blame me. Blame Jae. But do not blame yourself.”

“You were just protecting me,” she hiccups.

“And my protection got a seven-months pregnant omega pushed to the ground, so clearly I could’ve made better decisions.”

Jimin snorts despite himself as police sirens fill his ears. 

The next hour goes by in a blur. Jimin gets checked out by an EMT but refuses a ride to the hospital. He rides in the back of a police car and takes ibuprofen given to him by a cop at the station as he fills out paperwork.

The story gets explained to him in pieces as he sits at the rickety metal desk and fills out his report of what happened. The girl, Minhee, had dated Jae at the beginning of college for two years before they ultimately broke up because he thought she was cheating on him with the other alpha, Jisung, and wouldn’t believe her when she said she wasn’t. 

That was six months ago. 

Tonight, Minhee finally told Jae she was pregnant and he once again refused to believe she didn’t cheat on him and immediately went out in search of Jisung. 

Jimin sighs when the story gets relayed to him. Alpha posturing at its finest, is what the beta cop said when she told him and Jimin can’t help but agree. 

It’s sickening how often things like this happen. Jimin sees it on the news all the time. Even if he didn't, he's heard enough stories from his friends and acquaintances to give him nightmares.

As an alpha himself, he tries his best to be a good, kind person, but he knows many don’t. Alphas are in a position of power and they like it that way.

It makes him sick.

Jimin sighs as he unlocks the door to his apartment. The throbbing in his hip has finally quietened to a dull ache, the pain patches he put on once he finally got back to the security office doing their job. The lock beeps loudly in the quiet night air, announcing that Jimin can let himself inside.

He toes off his shoes carefully, arranging them nicely on the rack next to a pair of scuffed loafers. He doesn’t bother slipping on a pair of slippers, deciding to remain in his socks. He’ll be in bed soon enough. He hangs his coat on the hook next to the puffy bright red monstrosity that Taehyung wears with pride. Smiling softly when he spots a splotch of paint on one of the sleeves. He picks at it, watching it flake away, and decides to leave it alone.

The apartment is completely and graciously dark besides a small night light plugged into the wall. You shouldn’t have to come home in the dark, Jiminie, Taehyung had said when Jimin asked about it. Against the couch is Jimin’s guitar, right where he left it before he went to work. There’s a painting resting on one of the mishmashed stools for the island to keep the cat away from it. 

It’s lonely, Jimin thinks to himself. An apartment clearly lived in, but dark and cold. No voices fill the space. No warm bodies pressed close on the couch or dancing around each other in the kitchen. It’s just Jimin, all by his lonesome, as the world sleeps.

Jimin pads into the kitchen, grabbing a cup from the drying rack on the counter and filling it up with water. He leans against the counter and shits his eyes, taking a long sip. The fridge hums loudly next to him and the heating system kicks on with a click.

Jimin opens his eyes and sets the cup down on the counter, the plastic making a soft hollow thud against the countertop. Two eyes stare at him from across the room as Taehyung’s cat, Mu, slinks out of his bedroom and towards Jimin, meowing when he realizes Jimin’s attention is on him.

Jimin smiles as the cat comes into the light. He looks like a child came at him with scissors and then covered his remaining fur with sopa, but he walks like a model on the runway, swaying his hips and swishing his tail.

Originally, Taehyung had wanted a dog. It was right after Jimin was released from the hospital, back when Jungkook was still living with Taehyung. It was Jungkook’s idea, he thought it would be nice to bring a pet inside the apartment to lift their spirits. Taehyung was on board immediately, but Jimin was less inclined to say yes to bringing an animal into the already crowded apartment. The idea was curbed until a few weeks later, by some miraculous twist of fate—Taehyung’s words, not Jimin’s—Taehyung came home with a cat. He’d found the little guy in the street, sunbathing in a gutter, and was immediately attached. The cat, Mu, was much the same, purring and head-butting Taehyung with reckless abandon. Jimin couldn’t say no.

Mu mews again and Jimin shushes him.

“It’s not breakfast time yet, Mr. Mu, go back to sleep.”

Mu gives him a look and yowls dramatically. Jimin rolls his eyes and hisses when he twists his body the wrong way and upsets his injury.

While it is technically morning, it’s still far too early for anyone to be awake. Unless, like Jimin, they work the night shift. It wouldn’t be so bad if Jimin didn’t also work morning shifts at a cafe. Sometimes he feels like he’s playing a continuous game of Jenga and the situation only gets worse the longer it goes on, leaving him to fruitlessly pray that the tower doesn’t collapse.

Jimin sighs and picks up his glass of water. The clock on the stove reads four thirty-six, giving him four hours and fifty-four minutes before his alarm goes off for him to get ready for his shift at the cafe. He inhales a deep breath and leaves the kitchen, picking up Mu with a groan on his way out. 

Once he’s in the hallway he surpasses his own room, heading towards Taehyung’s instead. He drops the cat unceremoniously on the bed before getting under the covers himself and curling into his best friend. Taehyung’s bedroom smells of strawberries, oil paint, and home. Jimin snuggles in, resting his head between Taehyung’s shoulder blades and letting strawberries fill his lungs.

Taehyung grunts and rolls over, eyes half-lidded with sleep. “J’mnie?” He mumbles, voice deep and rough from sleep. “Did you jus’ get home?”

“Yeah,” Jimin replies quietly, making himself small. It’s something he rarely allows himself to do. He doesn’t like to make Taehyung worry. He needs to remain strong otherwise he’ll break apart and tear everyone else down with him. He doesn’t have time for that. He has to live with this. All the good and the bad and the pain. It’s no use making it someone else’s problem.

“Everythin’ ‘kay?” Taehyung stretches with a small groan and then looks at Jimin with his big, brown, tired eyes.

“Yeah,” Jimin responds. “Everything is fine.”

“But you’re not wearin’ pajamas,” Taehyung replies.

“Cause I’m tired,” Jimin says back. “I wanna sleep.”

“Seokjin-hyun’ says you shouldn’ let people wear their outside clothes in bed,” Taehyung says and shoves Jimin lightly. He bites his lip to stop himself from gasping in pain. “Put some ‘jamas on Minnie.”

Jimin sighs and gets out of bed, stumbling slightly as he gets to his feet. Taehyung wraps his hand around Jimin’s wrist before he can get too far, pulling slightly.

“Don’t go too far,” he says. “Wan’ cuddles.”

He doesn’t mention the elephant in the room. Doesn’t point out the fact that Jimin is limping. Doesn’t say anything when Jimin winces through his teeth. Doesn’t ask about his cracked glasses that he rescued from the ground nearly half an hour after the incident. He’s too deceptive, even when tired, to not notice, but, still, he doesn’t push. 

Instead, he waits.

At times like this, Jimin is extremely grateful. It’s easy to question and push. No one likes the waiting game. But Taehyung is patient. Always patient. He lets Jimin crawl into his bed without an explanation. He holds Jimin and makes sure he feels loved and comforted but never forces him to explain himself.

Jimin pulls off his watch and glasses first before shedding his work shirt and folding it up. He leaves it on top of Taehyung’s dresser before digging through it to find a shirt. He picks a huge pink monstrosity that falls over his shoulders. It’s Taehyung’s softest shirt, like a warm hug as an article of clothing. He strips his pants next, his belt clinking as he folds them and places them next to his shirt. He digs into another drawer until he finds a pair of sweatpants that he’s nearly certain aren’t Taehyung’s at all, but his.

When he crawls back into the bed Taehyung immediately wraps his arms around Jimin, squeezing him tight.

Taehyung runs a hand through Jimin’s hair. “What time do you have work in the morning?”

“Eleven,” Jimin replies. “I’ll need to be awake by nine-thirty.”

“How much time do we have to sleep?”

“Less than five hours,” Jimin mumbles back.

“Okay,” Taehyung responds as he begins to maneuver Jimin so that they can cuddle comfortably. “Then let’s sleep.”

Four hours and forty-one minutes later Jimin’s alarm pierces through the quiet of the room, breaking the soft and calm atmosphere. Jimin groans as he opens his eyes. The sun shines brightly through the shades on Taehyung’s bedroom window. He turns to find Mu laying next to his head on the pillow, rhythmically hitting Jimin in the face with his tail.

Jimin’s hip and head throb along with the beat of his heart. He doesn’t need to look at his hip to know it’s black and blue. He sighs and rolls over, clenching his teeth when the pain explodes like a firework, trickling all around the left side of his body. Taehyung mumbles slightly from behind him, but he’s still fast asleep, unbothered by the alarm. Soft snores escape his lips and the scent of strawberries wraps contently around the room.

Jimin pats the bedside table in search of his phone. His hand slaps against Taehyung’s watch, a book, and a pair of glasses before he lifts his head. He squints around the room until his eyes catch on his clothes piled on the dresser.

Jimin groans again, forcing himself away from the warmth of the bed. He stumbles slightly over the comforter which has wrapped itself around his legs, just barely managing not to fall on his face and leaving Taehyung with just the top sheet. His phone continues to trill loudly from halfway inside the pocket of the black cargo pants Jimin has to wear for work. The yellow of his phone case stands out against the stark black. 

JImin limps forward to turn his alarm off and lets his head fall forward to rest on his clothes once he’s close enough to, doing his best to not dwell on how exactly he’s going to manage to make it through the day.

He’ll have to leave early to stop at the pharmacy and refill his pain meds and stock up on pain patches. He sighs, knowing it won’t be cheap. Jimin squeezes his eyes shut and prays that the pain will stop, but it’s fruitless.

He was warned by multiple friends that a job as a security guard was not a good idea. It’s a physically demanding job, and as one of the youngest on staff, he’s meant to pick up the slack of his elders. It makes sense. At the age of twenty-four Jimin should be at the height of his physicality. He should be able to walk, run, and break up physical altercations without breaking a sweat. A twenty-four-year-old shouldn’t have a replaced hip and a bad knee.

But Jimin does.

If his situation was different, Jimin never would’ve taken the job, but he needed a heavier flow of income and the security job was the only place he applied that was willing to work around his preexisting schedule. It doesn’t matter that Jimin doesn’t like it, it was his only option. He refuses to be a burden.

Even when he was a kid he was self-sufficient. He didn’t like making people worry about him. He was independent and he liked it that way. He saved the allowance his parents gave him to start going to dance classes when he was six. He got a part-time job immediately when he was old enough so that he could pay to go to Seoul for auditions. Everything he got was through his own hard work. 

His parents struggled financially, and, even though they tried to hide it from him, he knew. He always knew. He never wanted to make it worse, he never wanted someone to struggle because of him. He wanted to make his parents proud. He wanted to be the perfect son. He refused to be a burden. 

Jimin sighs. He doesn’t feel like a good son now. When he was a trainee everything was paid for, so he could send his limited wage to his parents, but now almost all of his income goes to keeping himself alive. He’s lucky to have Taehyung, but he won’t make his friend’s life harder by asking for help. 

Jimin is an adult. Not only is he an adult, he’s an alpha. It’s his job to take care of himself. If he struggles he has to find his own way out of it. It’s not anyone else’s job to worry about him. 

“Is i’ nine?” Taehyung asks groggily. Jimin turns to watch him roll over slightly to pull Mu into his arms. His hair is sticking up in at least three different directions and his shirt has risen above his hip to show a sliver of tanned, goosebump-covered flesh.

“Nine thirty,” Jimin corrects as he runs a hand through his own hair. “Do you have anything to do today?” He asks curiously as he picks his clothes up off of Taehyung’s dresser to be deposited in his own room. 

“Meetin’ with a buyer,” he replies as he sits up slowly, letting out a big yawn. “Yoonie-hyun’ is comin’.”

Jimin pauses in his step, stomach swooping. “Doesn’t hyung have work?” He croaks. “Isn’t he working with that boy group?” His throat is tight as he asks and his heart pangs with yearning. He looks away from Taehyung and toward the wall, pretending to inspect the collage of polaroids.

“We’re goin’ at lunch,” Taehyung replies.

“Oh,” Jimin replies.

“D’you wan’ breakfast?” Taehyung asks, too tired to be aware of Jimin’s despair.

Jimin tries not to feel broken. He tries not to feel like a sob story. He’s more than an injury or a lost chance, but sometimes it’s hard to forget. Sometimes he’s reminded of what he can’t have and he feels like he’s going to crash, explode, and float away all at once. It makes him dizzy even when he doesn’t have a concussion.

It’s not Yoongi’s fault. He’s just doing his job, the same job he’s been doing since Jimin met him five years ago. It has nothing to do with him. Nothing at all.

And yet, Jimin’s heart can’t seem to get the memo.

The train screeches to a halt right as Jimin arrives on the platform. The doors open with a squeal, allowing the morning crowd to rush inside. Jimin moves with the crowd, climbing into the nearest car right before the doors close again. He stays where he is by the automatic doors in an attempt to not get too jostled. The pain in his hip is still ever-present and he has a feeling it will take a while to go away. His headache has dulled to a low thrum that he’s just barely able to ignore. He has new pain meds from the pharmacy in his bag if it gets too bad, but he doesn’t like to take them. They’re low-grade, but they still make him feel loopy.

The speakers inside the train car crackle to life as the conductor announces the next few stops, though Jimin tunes it out. He knows where he’s going like the back of hand. He’s not a big fan of the subway system, but it’s more convenient than taking two buses and still having to walk multiple blocks to get to work.

Jimin reaches into his pockets and digs out his earbuds, shoving them in his ears and turning on whatever he listened to last. The song ends up being an early 2000s soft rock song that Seokjin sent to him along with the message that it reminded him of Jimin.

It plays softly through Jimin’s earbuds, the melody building slowly as the train speeds through Seoul’s underground. When Jimin first listened to it, guilt clouded his mind and he couldn’t finish it. It’s one of those songs that feels like a hug or a warm cup of hot chocolate. A reminder that you are loved and wanted. A reminder Jimin doesn’t deserve.

He sighs and pulls out his phone, squinting down at the screen. He skips the ending and puts on a random recommended playlist. Now isn’t the time to sift through his misgivings and find the answer to all his problems. He’s busy. Living in the city is expensive and he’s barely scraping by. He doesn’t have the time to deal with anything else. He’ll probably be friendless by the time January rolls around, anyways.

The train screeches to a halt as it reaches its next stop and a quarter of the train car empties out. Jimin moves out of the way before the set of doors behind him opens to let people in, finding a spot for himself next to a woman dressed in a fancy suit and sneakers. He takes hold of the pole between them as people begin to fill the car once again.

When the train takes off again moments later the entire car is packed like sardines. Jimin has been pushed close enough to the woman to catch a whiff of her natural scent under her scent blockers. Not everyone has the same courtesy and train car fills with a whirlwind of—most alpha—scents. Jimin has to breathe through his mouth to keep the nausea at bay.

Of course, no one is required to wear scent blockers, but it’s common courtesy to do so when working or in heavily populated areas where too many scents at once can be overwhelming.

The train jolts slightly and Jimin’s bad hip presses into the bar so hard that he can’t help but hiss in pain. He should’ve taken a taxi today and dealt with the consequences instead of letting himself get jostled so much that it will likely make things worse.

Jimin sighs and the woman next to him glances at him out of the corner of her eye but says nothing.

The train jostles again and Jimin ends up close enough to be able to scent out her secondary gender. Beta.

“Sorry,” Jimin apologizes with a bow after he rights himself, rubbing his hip softly. The pain ricochets through his body and he knows it’s going to be a bad day.

“It’s no problem,” she replies with a shake of her head. 

His stop can’t come soon enough. The longer he stays on the train, the harder it is to keep his nausea at bay, though he has a feeling that if he does lose the burnt eggs and toast Taehyung made him for breakfast it’ll be less because of the scents around him and more to do with the ever-present pain.

Once the train pulls to a stop at his station he pushes through the crowd, muttering Excuse me as he goes in an attempt to soften the blow of his rudeness. Normally, Jimin waits his turn in the crowd of people, he can’t stand alphas that posture and push to get what they want and he never wants to be one of them, but today he feels so sick he can’t find it in himself to care. 

Soon, he’s out of the musty underground and back on the busy city streets. He makes his way towards a nearby alley to escape the crowds and limps to work using alleys and side streets.

He passes by an old alpha woman taking out her trash and a butcher in a sweatstained wife-beater unloading a truck full of goods. He pauses once, just after passing over a bustling street, and leans against a brick building. 

He does his best not to heave, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth as evenly as possible.

He pulls off his backpack, digging through the front pocket with a shaking hand and pulling out the pain meds he hates so much. He empties two into his hand and swallows them dry, closing his eyes as they make their way roughly down his throat. He leans his head against the building and stays there until the cold becomes unbearable.

He could call out. His boss, Jiwoo, wouldn’t be upset. If anything, she would be the first to tell him to do so if she was aware of the issue. She’d probably even offer to bring him dinner after she closes up. She’s good like that. The type of person who genuinely cares about all of her workers. It’s too late now, though. even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure he’d be able to get up and go tomorrow if he doesn’t go in today.

He can’t give in to the pain. If he does he’ll never be able to escape it. It will swallow him whole until he’s rotting alone in his bedroom, in pain and starving to death.

He knows from experience.

Even if that wasn’t the case, Jimin can’t afford days off. The last thing he wants to do is leave rent and utilities purely on Taehyung’s shoulders. Sure, he would do it without complaining, but Jimin would feel too guilty to even be able to breathe properly. He already takes so much from Taehyung. Too much.

Jimin sighs, exiting the alley he’s in and turning left. He can see the cafe ahead of him, nestled between weed-covered concrete steps and a flower shop. He can just barely make out the line forming inside from where he’s standing.

He imagines Jiwoo in the back, carefully arranging cookies, buns, and pastries made fresh by their bakers onto the wire racks that slide into the display case.

It’s Thursday, which means he’ll be working beside Inkyung, an alpha in her forties who makes the best tea Jimin has ever tasted, and Hyejin, a college student who’s studying some sort of science that Jimin can’t even begin to understand. Soonyoung and Mijoo, two of their three bakers, will be hard at work in the kitchen, as they have been for the past four hours. He likes working with them. Mijoo and Soonyoung are friendly, but normally too busy to talk to the baristas. Inkyung will make idle conversation, but she never forces Jimin to speak, and Hyejin prefers to spend any extra time studying.

It’s not the same with all of Jimin’s coworkers. Cheongsan, for example, enjoys gossiping about every single person he’s ever met, even if they’re standing right next to him. Luckily, his schedule only overlaps Jimin’s once a week, but once is more than enough.

Jimin makes his way towards the building, surpassing the entrance, past the spot where he busks a few times a week, and around to the back of the line of buildings. As he goes he passes the florist next door right as she’s bringing out the small chalkboard sign with the shop's logo and a list of sales.

“Good morning, Jimin-ssi,” she says right as Jimin catches the scent of chrysanthemums wafting off of her due to the lack of scent blockers.

“Good morning, Miseon-ssi,” Jimin greets back, pausing to bow to her before continuing. He passes by the still-closed thrift store next to the florist and turns right. 

The alley is just big enough to fit two people shoulder to shoulder. It leads to the back of the three buildings where they keep the trash cans. Jimin surpasses the back of the thrift store and florist and makes his way to the back of Jiwoo’s cafe. He adjusts his backpack around him so he can dig out his keys and unlock the back door. 

The warmth of the building is jarring compared to the cold winter air outside and Jimin’s skin prickles with it as he steps into the small hallway at the back of the building. He leaves his backpack near the door and pulls off his jacket as he heads through the hallway and into the kitchen.

Just as he thought, Jiwoo is filling a wire rack with croissants as Soonyoung rolls out dough on the counter. There’s no sign of Mijoo, though. The kitchen smells of sugar and spice and is even warmer than the hallway. Soonyoung is dressed in only a thin t-shirt and jeans and Jiwoo has the sleeves of her sweater rolled up.

“Hey,” Jimin greets as he rolls up his own sleeves.

“Jimin,” Jiwoo smiles. “Good morning, I’m so glad you’re here.”

 “Good morning, noona,” Jimin bows. “Good morning, Soonyoung-ssi,” he greets the baker as well, who waves with a flour-covered hand before going back to his work.

“Once you get changed can you bring more hot to-go cups up front?” Jiwoo asks as she lifts the wire rack. “Also, I don’t want to rush you, but we’re super busy right now, so– please rush?”

Jimin nods and Jiwoo copies the motion hastily before turning to exit the kitchen, heading to the front of the coffee shop.

Jimin steps back through the hallway, picks up his backpack, and heads to the small bathroom for workers. It’s as clean as he left it the day before when he cleaned it during the last hour of his shift while the cafe was slow. 

He pulls out his uniform and changes as quickly as he can, pausing only for a moment to stare at the bruise on his side. He used to come to work in his uniform, but he learned pretty quickly that the scents of the subway would stick to him all throughout his shift. It bothered him enough that he began packing his uniform in his backpack and changing once he arrives, applying another layer of scent blocker for good measure. The only thing that doesn’t change is his shoes, a pair of clunky black workboots that Taehyung and Jungkook bought him for his birthday and refused to let him return. Jimin stares down at them for a moment before forcing himself to look away.

It isn’t until he steps out of the bathroom after shoving his clothes into his backpack that he realizes the pain meds have finally kicked in. 

He steps through the hallway, heading towards the door to the storage room. He hangs his backpack up on one of the hooks on the wall before stepping around the shelves toward where they keep their to-go cups. He grabs two of every size, filling his arms to the brim. He has to use his elbow to open the door because of it, but it’s better than taking multiple trips while it’s so busy.

He steps through the hallway and then through the kitchen, heading towards the swinging door and into the front of the cafe.

The first thing that hits him is the scent of coffee, then the cacophony of voices mixing with the sweet hum of music. Hyejin is at the counter taking orders on the screen. Inkyung and Jiwoo are each making drinks with skilled hands. One of the racks of pastries has been left on the counter, suggesting that Jiwoo got distracted as she was filling it. 

Jimin places his pile of to-go cups on a free part of the counter so he can place the rack in its rightful place, then he takes a package of each cup size and moves to slide in next to Jiwoo to put them in the cup holders. He tears open a package of smalls as Jiwoo decorates the top of a latte with careful hands.

“Jimin, thank goodness,” Inkyung says from the other side of the counter. “Can you pass me a medium?”

Jimin nods, quickly pushing the rest of the small cups into their holder and shoving the plastic they were in into his apron pocket. He rips open the package of mediums with nimble fingers, pulling out a cup and handing it to Jiwoo as she steps past him so she can hand it to Inkyung.

“Thanks, darling,” she says as she starts the next drink.

“You’re welcome, noona,” he replies as he refills the rest of the cupholders and then moves back to where he left the extras to store them on the shelves underneath the counter.

He looks around, trying to figure out where to step in, as Jiwoo steps past him again and catches his arm. “Can you let Soonyoungie know we’re out of apple fritters and then jump in at the second register?”

Jimin nods. It’s going to be a long day.

By the time he gets to sit, it’s three in the afternoon. He still has an hour left on his shift and he’s absolutely exhausted. He has no right to be, not with the number of times he’s zoned out today, but he is. He was doing well at first, but as time went on he started to feel fuzzier and fuzzier from his meds and it was hard to keep on track. All Jimin can think about is a warm shower and falling into bed for a few hours before he has to get up again.

It took forever for the rush to calm down. Breakfast bled into lunch with absolutely no break. 

Jimin rests his head on his hand and eats a bite of the sandwich that Soonyoung made for him when he walked into the kitchen, legs shaking violently underneath him, and took a seat at one of the chairs they have in the corner of the kitchen around a rickety old table.

Jimin wasn’t going to ask for a break, not when everyone was working ten times harder than him, but Jiwoo had noticed the second the pain in his hip got bad again and sent him to the kitchen to rest. She tried to send him home, but Jimin refused. Inkyung and Hyejin’s shifts ended at two and it's just Jimin, Jiwoo, and Soonyoung for another hour until the next round of people come in. He won’t leave them hanging, even when he’s not at his best. 

He couldn’t say no to the chance to sit down, though. Not with the pain in his knee and the fuzziness and pain battling for dominance in his head.

He hates this. He hates it being so obvious that he’s struggling. He hates that Jiwoo and Soonyoung can tell. He hates being a burden. 

He sighs and takes a bite of his sandwich. Soonyoung shuffles around the kitchen, still hard at work even despite the rush being over. Jimin doesn’t know how he does it.

He takes another bite and watches as Soonyoung takes cookies off of the cooling rack and places them onto one of the display case racks. The entire kitchen smells sugary sweet and Jimin basks in it. 

It’s his favorite part of the job.

He’s not the biggest coffee person, but he loves the smell of baked goods. It’s odd since he doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but he loves the smell. It dates back to his childhood. Back when he would sit in his halmeoni’s kitchen as she would bake all types of cookies and cakes. She was an alpha, much like him, and her being in the kitchen had been a big taboo at the time, but she lived to bake. It was her favorite way to show she cared.

Jimin was never a big baker. He always had better things to be doing and, for a long time, he couldn’t afford to gain weight, but he finds immense comfort from the smell.

Soonyoung finishes moving everything onto the display rack and picks it up. Instead of immediately heading out towards the main area he walks over to Jimin and drops one of the cookies on the plate next to his mostly finished sandwich. He doesn’t say anything, simply drops it on Jimin’s plate and walks away.

Jimin smiles for a moment before his face melts into a frown. He shouldn’t be so obvious. He’s not supposed to worry people. He’s an adult. He’s supposed to handle shit on his own. 

He won’t eat it. He can’t. He won’t take the pity-treat.

He looks away from the plate and leans his head against the wall. He needs to get up and take another round of pain meds, he needs to get himself back together, but he’s glued to his seat. 

Jimin kicks his foot out in frustration, causing a wave of pain through his hip. He whimpers quietly before he can stop himself. He bites down on his lip to keep any further sounds in.

Behind him, he hears a door open and furrows his brow. He checks the time, but there are still thirty-eight minutes before anyone else is set to arrive. A beat passes, then two. A stranger steps through the hallway. 

Jimin recognizes the man immediately, not because he knows him, but because of who he looks like. If it weren’t for the taller frame and shorter hair he could be Jiwoo’s doppelgänger. He looks around the kitchen for a moment before his eyes catch on Jimin’s.

The man shrinks in on himself as it happens, making himself as small as possible in Jimin’s presence. He looks around the kitchen with wild eyes.

“Are you looking for Jiwoo?” Jimin finds himself asking softly like he’s speaking to a spooked animal.

“Yes, please,” the man replies awkwardly. His voice is quiet and he curls in on himself even further when Jimin stands. 

“She’s up front,” he says, making sure to keep his distance. “I can get her for you if you’d like?” 

“Yes, please,” he repeats and Jimin nods.

He gives the man a wide berth as he steps around him to the front of the cafe. 

Soonyoung is mopping the floor as Jiwoo cleans off the counters and hums to the soft pop playlist playing over the speakers. The cafe is empty minus a girl in the corner huddled over her laptop typing frantically. 

“Noona,” Jimin calls as he comes up behind her. She turns around and smiles at him. She holds herself tall. She’s only a little taller than Jimin, but the shoes she wears give her enough height for her to be able to look him head on, which she does. 

“Are you feeling better?” She asks as she puts her hands in the pocket of her apron and leans against the counter. She holds herself in a way that opens her to the world, so unlike the man in the kitchen who curls away from it. 

“I— no— well, yes, but— your brother is in the kitchen?” Jimin stammers. 

“My brother?” She questions and her expression changes. Her lips pursed and her eyes widened. “Hoseok?”

“I don’t know, he didn’t say his name. Just that he’s looking for you.”

“Okay, thank you, Jimin.” When she smiles at him again it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Could you wait out here until I’m done? Then you can finish your break.”

“Sure, noona,” Jimin nods.

He leans against the counter and waits. He can’t hear the conversation, just the soft murmur of voices. Jiwoo doesn’t take long, but when she comes back she looks worse for wear. Jimin doesn’t comment on it, but he can’t help but notice. 

He frowns to himself as he walks back into the kitchen. It smells faintly of cherries and stress. 

He didn’t even know Jiwoo had a brother.