Chapter Text
“The defendant, Min Yoongi, is sentenced to three years imprisonment.”
Yoongi’s breath freezes in his lungs and his ears ring. He knew this was likely, discussed it calmly with his lawyers and reassured Jimin and Taehyung that it would be fine. It still feels like a punch to the gut to hear it, aloud and absolutely inevitable.
The judge’s mouth continues moving, and he feels the warm breath of his lawyer against his ear saying something, probably reassurances of appeals, who knows, who cares. Then a sound penetrates the ringing - a soft, half-strangled sob from behind his shoulder. Jimin promised not to cry. Jimin is crying.
Yoongi drops his head, his platinum blonde hair falling over his face. His long hands curl to fists on his thighs, crumpling the pressed fabric of his suit trousers. He can’t look at Jimin. At least he knows Taehyung will be comforting him. Now and for the next three fucking years.
The gavel slams down, making Yoongi jump.
There’s a bailiff approaching him - two - four of them, tall and broad, with chains in their hands and cold satisfaction in their eyes. Yoongi hasn’t been his most polite, demurring self these last few weeks.
Yoongi’s breath catches -- now he turns, desperate to see Jimin and Taehyung, but he can’t catch more than a glimpse of soft pink hair--
--before a hard gloved hand closes around his upper arm and yanks him out from behind the mahogany table, away from his lawyer. She watches in silence, everyone is watching, as the bailiff forcefully turns him to face the judge, away from Jimin, and drags his arms together in front of him. The cold flash of steel, before it collides with his wrists. The RATCHET of one handcuff, then the other. The sound is all twisted up in Yoongi’s mind and body now, a mess of pleasure-pain-fear-want, memories of Taehyung's delicious cruelty colliding with this monstrous reality.
His hands are still in fists, his body tense and trembling. It was humiliating being grabbed and roughly handcuffed and bundled into a police car, that night. This is a hundred times worse, his body burns with the humiliation...
He can hear both his boys crying now, as another bailiff steps behind him - close, too fucking close, towering over him - to draw a chain snugly around his waist, pulling the cuffs right against his stomach. CLICK. Locked in.
“Fuck,” he lets slip, under his breath. The chain sits just above his designer leather belt, his sharp suit jacket caught in it.
Another drops to one knee in front of him to fit heavy shackles around his ankles, over his suit trousers and expensive Italian shoes. A chain connects the shackles to the chain around his waist and it all feels so fucking heavy.
He tries not to fidget, but it’s impossible, his body tight with tension and jittery with fear. The whole room is still full, dozens of people just watching him be chained up for his punishment...
The last cuff ratchets closed and the bailiff checks it, yanking roughly at his ankles. The cuff digs into Yoongi’s wrist bone as a bailiff grabs the chain between his hand and pulls him forcefully towards the door at the side of the judge’s bench, away from his lawyer and his loves. He stumbles when the shackles stop him taking a full stride, only the ruthless hands of the bailiffs keeping him on his feet.
“Minyoung-ssi,” he calls over his shoulder, his voice low but pitched to cut across the buzz. “I wanna say goodbye!”
She calls something back but he’s distracted by the bailiff’s hand yanking him forward over the threshold. The cuffs are painfully tight, cutting into him.
Through a long corridor under harsh artificial light, past court workers and police officers and guards who look at him but don’t meet his eyes.
He knows what they see. His styling team went for innocent; pink lips and soft eyes, neat blonde hair, delicate and understated silver jewellery. The suit isn’t flashy by his standards, but it sure as shit is tailored and lined with silk. No tie; a little informal, a little younger. His polished leather shoes catch the eye between four pairs of standard issue boots. He looks like a posh little pretty-boy, a snobby chaebol son that abeoji gave up on. A target.
They approach a back exit by an automatic door that keeps opening and closing, the cold spring wind sweeping leaves into the space. A sharp left turn, bundled into a small room with a bare few chairs, and he’s shoved into one. There are guards here, prison guards, the bailiffs sign him over and leave, like he’s just a package to be delivered.
He sinks down in his chair, trying not to panic. Four guards stand around him, someone else comes to the door and starts talking about his transport.
Yoongi clenches and unclenches his fists, concentrating on keeping his breathing slow and even. His heart is fucking racing but there’s not much he can do about that. He’s not sure if he would prefer to be standing; his legs feel like they might give from under him, but he feels so fucking small and trapped here, down on his chair while his guards loom over him...
The key thing, he figures, is he didn’t get a choice. Choices are a luxury now, not a right.
He didn’t catch what his lawyer called after him, but she’s a fucking genius, the best, the reason he’s not going away for five years, or life. So he hopes she’ll manage to get him a moment with Jimin and Taehyung. They hadn’t said goodbye, this morning. Instead they’d talked about the wedding, making plans to start visiting potential venues next weekend. Happy little fantasies to keep them all calm. Yoongi fusses with his engagement ring and wonders if he’ll even be allowed to wear it. Probably not. Plain wedding band, maybe, not an eye-wateringly expensive artwork set with a genuine black diamond.
Yoongi suddenly catches something the guards are saying and tunes back in.
“Well, his visitors better hurry,” one of them continues gruffly. “If we get caught in a queue here, I’m gonna—”
“--hyungnim!”
Jimin is in the corridor, close, two sets of clattering footsteps rushing towards the room.
Yoongi jolts, trying to stand, his heart in his throat.
“Stay where you are!”
A strong hand clamps down on his shoulder, shoving him down into the hard chair. He almost fights, his body tensing before he controls himself. If he makes trouble, they won’t let him see his boys.
“Hey hey - woah!” barks a guard at the door. “Stop right the fuck there!”
“Sorry!” Jimin’s breathless voice.
Another guard crowds the door, blocking it off. A mop of blue hair is visible over his shoulder. He grabs someone - Jimin yelps.
“Slow the fuck down—”
“Yes sir! Yes sir, I’m sorry!” Taehyung says, his voice tight and scared and trying not to be. “May we please see our hyung?”
“Please,” Yoongi echoes under his breath, fidgeting against the chains.
“Now listen here,” the guard is scolding the boys. “You get a minute or two, that’s all, and you get one hug that stops the second I say so. Do I make myself extremely fucking clear?”
“Yes sir,” Taehyung says immediately.
“Yes of course, sir,” Jimin says, earnest and tearful. “Please let us see him.”
“Good,” the guard growls, and steps aside. Jimin and Taehyung immediately lock eyes with Yoongi as the guard holding his shoulder lets go. They’ve both been crying, and both cross the tiny space in a single stride to grab for him.
“Hyung!” Taehyung cries out.
“Yoongi-hyungnim!” Jimin sobs. “Our Yoongi...”
Yoongi stands, too eager for his boys to stay down, and winces as his automatic motion to reach for them ends in pain and a sharp jerk, the noisy chains stopping him.
“One minute, one hug each,” a guard barks in reminder, the four of them taking a step back but not leaving or even looking away.
Minyoung appears in the doorway too, hanging back.
Jimin goes first, throwing his arms around Yoongi and embracing him with his whole body, Yoongi’s shackled hands pressed between them.
“Hyungnim…” he sobs. “I love you… I love you so much!”
“I love you too, baby, more than anything,” Yoongi mumbles, burying his face in Jimin’s neck to nuzzle, his trapped hands clutching uselessly at Jimin’s white silk blouse. “Listen to me, Min-ah, you listening?”
“Y-yeah,” Jimin sniffles. “Yeah, I’m listening…”
“I have no regrets,” Yoongi says firmly, low and sure. “This is what I have to endure for keeping you safe from that piece of shit, I endure it with a fucking smile. Got it?”
“Got it,” Jimin whimpers. “I’ll remember, my love, my precious love…”
Yoongi presses his lips to Jimin’s, resolutely ignoring the cold stares of the guards. He closes his eyes and loses himself in Jimin’s warmth and sweet scent and soft lips.
A tense silence, they’re allowed only a few moments, before someone grabs Yoongi’s shoulder and shakes him.
“Alright, that’s enough, that’s enough,” the guard says gruffly.
Yoongi stumbles back a step, his lips parted and his dark eyes wide and wild and very vulnerable before he gets control of himself.
Jimin steps back obediently at the touch of the guard’s hand on his own narrow shoulder, weeping, and Taehyung steps in boldly to put his arms around Yoongi.
“Don’t you worry about him, okay, hyung?” he whispers, his voice thick with tears but full of determination. “I’ve got him. I’ll look after him for you.”
“I know, I know you will,” Yoongi says very quietly, resting his head on Taehyung’s shoulder. He smells of silk and rich cologne. “And... yourself too. Keep out of trouble... while hyung isn’t around to take care of you, right?”
“I promise,” Taehyung says, cradling Yoongi’s head against his shoulder and stroking his hair. The kid is taller than Yoongi, and it feels good. “We’ll come and see you. And remember, you’re Min Fucking Yoongi,” he hisses in his ear. “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.”
Yoongi huffs, almost a laugh.
“Fucking right,” he whispers. He steps back before they can drag him again, blinking hard to keep his tears back. “Jimin-ah, here, give me your hand.”
“Yes?” Jimin says, offering his hand obediently, palm open. He glances around at the guards, nervous of a rebuke, and then focuses all his attention on Yoongi, who manages a tight little smile for him.
He yanks his engagement ring off a little awkwardly and reaches feebly, to the very limit of what the brutal cuffs will allow, to slip it on Jimin’s thumb.
“J-just for now.”
Jimin gasps but his hand melts forward into Yoongi’s to let him do it. Fresh tears well in his eyes and Yoongi can see clearly that he’s on the very brink of refusing.
“…Okay, love,” Jimin says, squeezing his hand into a fist and lifting it to kiss the ring, as he raises his other hand to stroke Yoongi’s hair, tender and possessive. Yoongi nuzzles desperately into that touch. “I’ll keep it safe for y—”
“Okay, time’s up,” one of the guards barks.
Yoongi straightens up, bracing himself. He blinks the tears back and gives his boys his best smile.
“T-take care of each other, babies.”
“You take care of yourself!” Jimin says, as Taehyung winds his arms around him. “Be good and safe so you can come home soon and fucking marry me, okay?” he says with a teary smile, flashing his own bright engagement ring at Yoongi.
Yoongi does laugh at that, his bright, gummy smile lighting up his face.
“Yes Sir,” he answers, automatically touching the bare finger where his ring should be. It’s only been a few months but he’d already gotten so used to its warm weight. “Hyung w-will be home before you know it.”
Jimin nods and smiles back, and blows Yoongi a kiss before Minyoung gently steers them back towards the door.
“I’ll be in touch asap, Yoongi-ssi,” she says seriously, looking over her shoulder. “The judge confirmed that you will qualify for parole after one year based on your behaviour, and that starts right now. So stay out of trouble, keep your head down, hold your tongue when you have to. And I’ll do everything I can for you.”
Yoongi swallows hard.
“Thank you, attorney-nim,” he rasps past the lump in his throat, as Jimin and Taehyung, clinging to one another, walk away from him. He bows sharply to Minyoung, irritated that he can’t put his hands to his sides for proper form, and stays down. Easier. Cowardly, maybe, but if he has to watch Jimin and Taehyung vanish through that door, he’s gonna cry and he can’t afford to.
“Come with me, boys,” he hears her say, and then her heels click away, with their shuffled footsteps as they cling to one another.
A moment later, he’s shoved back into his chair. The guard with his hand on Yoongi’s shoulder makes a distinct scoffing sound. Yoongi’s jaw clenches, but he keeps his head down. His lawyer is smart, he can take her advice literally.
“Fuckin’ adorable,” one of the guards smirks. “Buy one sissy boy get one free, was it?”
Yoongi didn’t think he could get more tense, but he does, every muscle tight and his fists clenched hard enough to hurt. He has to be compliant. That means not spitting in a guard’s eye.
“And they come in two different colours, how cute.”
“Think they’re more sissy than this one?”
A chill slides down Yoongi’s spine. He’d much rather they talk shit about him than about his boys, any day of the week, but his boys are -- thankfully -- not here to listen. Not here to be looked at. Not here for a guard to lay a hand on. But Yoongi is.
“The little one is,” the first answers. “But not by much. The suit is doing all the work for this one, fucking trust me.”
“I almost feel sorry for the pretty ones going in… Almost.”
Laughter on all four sides of him, nasty, mocking, utterly humiliating. Yoongi keeps his head down, his cheeks hot and his nails digging into his palms.
The interruption comes as such a sharp relief, it feels like a slap in the face. Someone bangs on the door and shouts “Transport ready!” and he’s hauled to his feet again and bundled towards the door.
Don’t panic. He can’t panic. He stumbles again, he can’t get used to the hobbling chains.
They bring him into the corridor and out into a yard. The bracing winter wind sweeps a light misting rain into his face as they cross the concrete yard to a waiting transport van; when they push him to the open back door, the step is almost too high for him to manage in his shackles. He grits his teeth and tips his weight forward, forcing himself up into the van.
He’s pushed to sit down on a metal bench, and a guard straps a seatbelt across his body, tugging it tight once it’s buckled. Combined with the handcuffs, it feels as claustrophobic as a straitjacket. The guard pulls the chain between his ankles into place and secures it to something he can’t see under the seat, tethering him tightly. The doors slam shut behind them. The engine revs and they jolt sickeningly into motion.
Yoongi leans back, his shoulders hunched in and his head down, and closes his eyes. He’s always been good at sleeping in cars. He slept less than two hours last night. He tries to pretend the chains and strap are some kinky bullshit Taehyung’s somehow coaxed him into, and it doesn’t quite work, but it distracts him enough that he dozes off...
Impossible to know how long has passed when he wakes, as the van slows to a stop outside an imposing gate. The rain is lashing against the windows, impeding his view. The driver and two guards escorting him are silent.
He blinks sleepily, trying to make out what he can. Gate, wall. Barbed wire. Security gate, barriers, patrolling guards. A looming grey block of a building with tiny fucking windows.
The driver calls something through the cracked window and is waved through. The van trundles through the complex to an inner yard, where it stops. The guard stands and unbuckles Yoongi’s seatbelt, bending to unhook his chains from their anchor.
“C’mon, sleeping beauty, on your feet,” he says sternly.
Yoongi stands, rolling his shoulders as best he can, unable to stretch the stiffness out with his hands cuffed. His bad shoulder twinges but he ignores it.
“Aww, are you stiff, princess? Not as comfy as Appa’s BMW?” one of them sneers, grabbing him roughly by the shoulder and digging his thumb in hard, while the other grabs his other arm and chuckles.
Yoongi hisses and flinches badly, too sleepy and scared to stifle his reaction.
They laugh, cold and satisfied.
“Aww, poor baby,” the second coos as they bundle him towards the back of the van. “You do know you’re gonna be eaten alive in here, right?”
Yoongi clamps down on a shudder, and tips his chin up instead.
“Isn’t that the kind of thing you people are paid to prevent?” he says, low and drawling and just on the edge of mocking.
“We’re not paid to play bodyguard to a spoiled, skinny little chaebol prince thrown into the real world for the first time,” he bites back. “Good fucking luck, runt.”
Yoongi keeps his mouth shut as the guards each take an arm and hustle him down the steep step from the van, keeping him from stumbling by force.
The rain drenches him as they march him towards the building, and he’s shivering by the time they reach an entrance. He has to stand there, chained and pinned between the guards, as rain flattens his hair and trickles down the back of his neck, until a stony-faced intake officer opens the door.
The officer’s gaze drags down his form, taking in his fancy suit and narrow frame. Yoongi blushes faintly, blinking his gaze away.
“Min Yoongi for processing,” the guard on his left says.
“Min Yoongi. 384627,” the intake officer says, reading from a list. He picks up a thick file and gestures them inside. “Processing room three.”
Yoongi’s breath catches as they cross the threshold, and he has to bite his tongue to keep himself silent as the heavy door shuts behind him and audibly locks. Maybe he’d prefer to stay in the rain than face what’s coming.
He stumbles yet again as they prod him to move, his chains jangling so fucking loudly as he shuffles down the empty corridor.
The officer leads them to a room that’s so cold and bright and bare that it feels sterile. The door clangs shut behind them and the officer sets down his file on a sturdy metal table, bolted to the floor, while the guards start to unlock his chains with cold, impersonal efficiency.
Yoongi can’t stop shivering, cold and scared. He holds as still as he can, desperate to be out of the chains. They’re gone relatively quickly, but he doesn’t have long to savour the feeling of lightness.
“Take off your clothes,” one of the guards orders coolly. “All of them. Quickly.”
Yoongi’s breath catches and he instinctively curls in on himself. He’s not stupid, he knew he’d lose all his rights to privacy, but now that it’s about to happen, in front of two leering guards and a carelessly blank officer, the humiliation takes his breath away. He slowly shrugs his jacket off, his hands shaking.
“I told you quickly,” the guard snaps, and he snatches the jacket out of Yoongi’s hand. “You know what happens if you’re not fast enough, kid?”
Yoongi grits his teeth and shakes his head, unbuttoning his shirt as fast as his shaking hands allow.
“We’ll do it for you,” the guard huffs. “And we won’t be gentle with you or that fancy suit. So get on with it.”
Yoongi doesn’t answer, just ducks his head and strips his shirt off, then his undershirt, blushing. His skin looks so white and pale under the glare of the cold fluorescent lights, his arms narrow and weak, his expensive watch chunky on his small wrist. And his finger looks naked without his engagement ring. He folds the shirt and undershirt, putting them awkwardly on the table beside his jacket, where the officer gestures, then drops to one knee to unlace his expensive shoes.
All their eyes are on him, bent and exposed and small. He’ll lose a few centimetres of height without his shoes. He hasn’t been warm since the courtroom, and he feels goosebumps rising on his pale skin.
He stands, stepping out of his shoes and dragging off his socks, his long toes curling as he stands on the cold tiled floor barefoot. Stuffs his socks into one shoe and drops his watch in the other.
All that’s left is his trousers and boxers and he swallows hard as he unbuckles his designer belt...
The intake officer is pawing at his jacket, finding the label and touching the lining. He huffs, amused.
“Quickly!” one of the guards barks. “We don’t have all day to wait on you, princess.”
“Yeah yeah,” Yoongi mutters, unfastening his trousers. He takes a nervous breath ... and shoves his trousers and boxers down at once, getting it over with.
“Mmh.” The guard’s little hum has a distinct note of satisfaction in it. Yoongi shivers. “What did I tell you about the suit?”
The other laughs. Yoongi remembers: the suit is doing all the work for this one.
“Eaten alive,” he smirks. “Okay Min! Clothes on the table, hands behind your head, feet apart.”
Yoongi bites his tongue, his heart beating faster. He has his trousers and boxers bundled in front of him, and takes as long as he thinks he can get away with folding them, putting them with the rest of his clothes, and then... he has to step back, his narrow, pale body completely exposed; his bad shoulder, his delicate nipples, his rounded buttocks, his vulnerable cock and balls, his skinny legs and bony joints...
He steps his feet apart and raises his arms to lace his fingers together tight behind his head. He’s adopted this pose before, playing with Jimin and Taehyung, and demanded it of Jimin more times than he could possibly count. He’s dizzy with the humiliation of taking it for three cold, cruel strangers...
The intake officer steps up to him, and Yoongi becomes painfully aware that the officer is a good few inches taller than him, especially now Yoongi’s barefoot. He’s holding a small flashlight in his hands; he has already donned a pair of blue latex gloves. Yoongi can smell them as he raises his hands to Yoongi’s head and ruffles his long, neat hair thoroughly, fingertips touching every square centimetre of his scalp. Yoongi’s face scrunches up in displeasure, but he keeps his eyes down and holds still.
It seems to drag on forever. The man turns his attention to Yoongi’s ears, turning his head and checking behind them, before shining his flash light into them one at a time. Yoongi’s feeling more and more tense, finding this almost intolerable and knowing it’s the least of what he’s about to go through...
Abruptly, the man tilts Yoongi’s chin up and uses his gloved hand to pull his nostril open, bending his knees so that he can peer up into it with his horrible little light. The smell of the latex is almost overwhelming, and Yoongi grits his teeth, screwing his eyes shut.
“Open your mouth,” he orders sternly, grabbing Yoongi’s chin to tug his jaw open.
“Nh!”
Yoongi drops his jaw, gripping hard to his own fingers behind his head and keeping his eyes closed so he doesn’t have to look up at the officer while he opens his mouth for him.
Rough, latex-clad fingers invade his mouth, pulling his lips back from his gums.
“Don’t fucking bite,” comes the curt order from one of the guards, an unhappy reminder to Yoongi of his audience.
He has to suppress the urge to snarl at that, feeling more and more like a cornered animal.
The man’s fingers keep digging around his mouth, almost making him retch when he presses them right under Yoongi’s tongue to search, before he finally withdraws them. Yoongi only gets a moment to process that relief before he’s touched again; the man cups his cock and balls in his long hand, lifting them to search him.
“Ah!” Yoongi yelps, an embarrassing little cracked squeak of a sound.
A cruel little huff of amusement from behind him, as the officer crouches to conduct a mercifully quick but thorough search.
“Get used to this, runt,” one of the guards sneers. “First of many.”
Yoongi shudders, his fingers flexing. It’s taking everything in him not to step his feet together, knee the officer in the face, scream at the top of his lungs. But all that will earn him is physical control if he’s lucky, maybe an end to any hope of parole. He has no choice but to submit to it.
The man concludes his examination and steps back, pointing to the table.
“Bend over that,” he orders strictly. “Come on now.”
“You fucking serious?” Yoongi lets slip before he can bite back the words, his cheeks pink with humiliation.
Without missing a beat, the two guards step in and grab him by the arms to shove him towards the table. Before he can even resist, they’ve slammed him down on it, the cold steel biting into his chest and nipples, his arms twisted painfully up behind his back with the guards’ weight pressing him down.
“Fuck!” Yoongi gasps, braced to shove back before he catches himself. Be good, be compliant. Submit. He subsides, breathing harshly and trembling.
“Oh calm down,” one of the guards huffs, a smirk in his voice. “You’re used to this position.”
“You really think that little pink-haired thing gives it to him in the ass?” the other scoffs, and Yoongi barely stops himself from kicking.
The officer’s hand grasps Yoongi’s buttock, exposing his hole. His finger, clad in latex and lubricant, presses in roughly, and Yoongi screws his eyes shut, willing his body to yield to this, not make it more painful than it has to be...
“Someone has been,” the officer comments wryly, a nasty undertone in his voice that makes Yoongi shudder, before he twists his finger and withdraws it. “Search complete.”
The guards yank Yoongi back up onto his feet, keeping a hold of his arms but no longer pinning them so ruthlessly in place. He’s shaking and he knows they can feel it, holding him like this. It’s been years since anyone’s made him feel so small and vulnerable, outside of the safety of play with Jimin and Taehyung, and it’s rattled him to his core.
“Come on,” one of the guards smirks over Yoongi’s shoulder, as they manhandle him towards a doorway in the back of the room. “Filthy thing needs to be cleaned up.”
Through the doorway - no door - into a small but unbearably bright shower room. The other guard moves ahead to turn on the water, which falls in a heavy, loud gushing torrent from the shower head set into the tiles.
“I showered this morning,” Yoongi argues, his voice pitching a little higher than he’d like.
“Did I invite you to speak, runt?” the guard asks, pushing Yoongi across the tight space and under the water. It’s cold.
“Ah!!” Yoongi yelps, hunching in and wrapping his arms around himself.
“Go on, wash up,” the guard barks, shoving him further into the shower. “Soap dispenser on your left. Quickly.”
Yoongi snarls helplessly. He pumps some blank white soap onto his hands and gives himself a cursory wash, his face burning as he hurries through washing his crotch under the cold, sneering supervision of the guards. He doesn’t wash his hair. The less he can expose it to harsh soap, the better; it’s been bleached to within an inch of its life and is used to the best silver shampoos and hydrating conditioners money can buy. He does scrub off his makeup as best he can. It’s not gonna do him any favours in here.
As soon as he’s rinsed off, the guard turns off the water and hands him a towel, which is smaller than he’d prefer.
“Quickly now,” comes the curt order.
Yoongi does his best to dry his hair and face gently, and dry his body quickly, keeping his back turned to the guards for the meagre scrap of privacy that affords him. He’s shivering hard, goosebumps all over his pale skin.
“Come on.” One of the guards grabs his arm and pulls him back out into the main room, while the other snatches the towel out of his hand. A blue jumpsuit is draped over a metal chair by the table, with a pair of white boxers and a pair of white socks and light slip-on shoes. On the right hand side of the chest of the jumpsuit is a white patch with 6-13 stamped on it; on the left is his number, 384627.
“Get dressed,” the guard orders, tossing him towards the chair.
Yoongi stumbles forward, bare and damp and shivering, feeling skinny and vulnerable and tiny in front of the three men, who stare at him with contempt and suspicion. He snatches up the boxers and pulls them on immediately, head down. The fabric feels thin in his hands, inexpensive, but he doesn’t give a shit, just relieved to be able to cover himself. He pulls the jumpsuit on with shaking hands, zipping it up as far as it will go. It’s stiff, with a vaguely chemical smell, but at least that means it’s probably new. It’s also baggy on his frame, the neckline sagging low enough to show off his collarbones even fully closed, the sleeves hanging wide at his narrow, bruised wrists. He gives up trying to settle it on himself and yanks the socks on, shoving his feet into the slides and straightening up.
“Here,” the intake officer says, picking up a plastic ziploc bag from the table, with his watch and the contents of his pockets already inside: earphones, lipbalm, and a couple of pens. “Put your jewellery in here.”
Yoongi grimaces. He slips off the silver rings he’s wearing, missing their comforting weight, then reluctantly removes his earrings. He kept it understated and simple for the trial, but he feels naked without anything. He wears rings and earrings every day, even when he’s just lounging at home alone.
The officer notes down the jewellery as Yoongi drops the pieces into the bag, then he pushes a form towards him with a pen, a list of the possessions he’s surrendered; his clothes, shoes, and the things in the little bag. He’d left his satchel, with his phone turned off inside it, with Jimin, minutes before he took his seat at the trial.
“Sign here.”
Yoongi takes the time to double check the list, counting his rings, then scrawls his signature and pushes the sheet back.
The intake officer closes the file sharply and picks up a stuffed drawstring bag with Yoongi’s number printed on it, which he pushes into Yoongi’s hands.
“Blanket, second set of clothes, basic toiletries to get you started,” he says. Yoongi hears the heavy clink of chains as they’re picked up behind him again. “Anything else you have to get from commissary. Your visitors can also bring you small items from the permitted list. Anything brought from outside will be searched and can be confiscated at our discretion. Any questions, Min?”
Yoongi shakes his head, clutching the bag. He feels weird, stripped raw, his clothes gone, his jewellery gone, even the light scent of his own cologne and shampoo gone. His dignity gone.
The officer steps aside and one of the guards takes his place, grabbing Yoongi’s wrists to fit the cuffs securely around them again, leaving him to hold the bag awkwardly against his body. Yoongi’s jaw tenses, but he shifts to offer his wrists, pinning the bag in place. He wants to get this over with now.
“Come on,” the guard orders, gripping the chain between his cuffs and leading him towards the door, out into the cold corridor. The other guard follows behind them, laughing at a muttered comment from the intake officer that Yoongi can’t quite make out before they’re gone.
Yoongi levels his eyeline and walks, pinning the bag to his stomach and not letting the guard drag him along. They make their way through a warren of corridors and one locked door after another, eventually walking past a heavy iron door on the left, behind which Yoongi can hear a loud din of conversation and shouting. Another identical door on the right, eerily quiet. A final door straight ahead. The guard swipes an access card and pulls Yoongi through.
Yoongi feels jittery with nerves. He’s gonna meet other prisoners. Cellmates, probably. He hasn’t seen a mirror, he no longer knows what he looks like, aside from small, skinny, and with bleach blonde hair likely to stand out like a fucking beacon.
The guard leads him through a wide antechamber, past a desk with a watching guard, through another locked door, and then into a prison wing proper. A long room with cells lining the walls, thick white doors with small reinforced windows and a hatch, securely clasped closed from the outside. There are eight cells on the lower level, and the same on the upper level, reached by a set of metal stairs on either side and a wide mezzanine. Yoongi shudders. The place is almost empty; he catches a glimpse of a couple of others in blue jumpsuits vanishing around the corner ahead, another sweeping the floor at the end of the hallway, a handful in their cells as he’s escorted along and towards the stairs to the upper level of cells.
“Cell block 6. Bathroom at the end of this hall, use of any other bathroom is forbidden to you,” one of the guards recites. “Corridor ahead leads to the central hall. Cafeteria and commissary to the left. TV room, prayer room, library, workshop to the right. Yard beyond. Warden’s office, admin, medical, counsellors upstairs. You are in your cell for last count at 10 pm and the door is locked before lights out. You are standing by your tidy bunk at 6.30 am for the door to be opened. Unless you are at a meal, at your work assignment, or doing a permitted activity, you are in your cell. You stay in your own block or the main hall. Everywhere else is off limits without explicit permission. That includes the yard, the offices upstairs, and the other blocks. When a count is called, you immediately return to your cell. Report to admin office at 8 am tomorrow for your work assignment. Breakfast at 7 am, lunch at 12 pm, dinner at 5 pm. You just missed dinner.”
Yoongi’s head spins and he blinks, trying to process all that. Gets a bit caught on missing dinner, but maybe he’s too rattled to eat anyway.
“You’re in 13,” the guard says, stopping abruptly at the first door at the top of the stairs and swinging it open.
Beyond is a tight space with a small square window right at the top of the outer wall and two sets of bunk beds facing one another on opposite walls. On the far wall between the beds is a narrow metal bench, where some books and notepads are stacked. The lower bunk on each side seems to be occupied; one has a few photos tacked up and a colourful blanket, the other has a notebook and pens in a little pile on it, and a cartoon postcard tacked up. The two top bunks are empty, just a bare mattress on each. Each bunk has a small shelf at the foot; the bottom two have stacks of folded clothes there. Yoongi stares at the room. He’ll be locked in here every night for years, with strangers.
The guard stands in stony silence, watching him for a long moment.
“You got all that, Min?” he barks.
Yoongi blinks.
“Guess we’ll find out,” he drawls, unable to help himself.
“Tch,” the guard scoffs, grabbing his shoulder and turning him roughly to face them. He unlocks the handcuffs while the other fixes a cruel, smirking gaze on Yoongi. Yoongi stands still and keeps his head up and his wrists loose. Finally the guard pulls the cold metal away from Yoongi’s arms, leaving his wrists and fingers truly bare again, and pushes him backwards over the threshold into the cell proper. “Enjoy, runt.”
Then the guards are gone, booted footsteps clanging against the metal walkway as they leave.
Yoongi lets out a long breath, catching the bag under his arm so he can rub his wrists, wincing at the bruises.
He slowly turns around, taking in the cell, trying to breathe deeply. The space is narrow but the ceiling is, at least, mercifully high above the top bunk. There are distant sounds, clattering, rumbling, the guards’ footsteps getting further and further away. Another set of tramping footsteps too, probably guards on patrol.
Yoongi eyes the two occupied bunks. Colourful blanket. Notebooks. Notebooks has a workout routine tacked up too, now Yoongi looks again. Colourful’s bunk is painfully tidy, every fold perfect to the millimetre. Neither bunk implies anything really intimidating about their residents, except that they’re preestablished in the space, must have been convicted of something pretty serious to end up here, and unknown entities.
He hesitantly drops his bag on the bare mattress above Colourful. The mattress is thin, but it’s clean, and the pillow looks alright.
The sun is low and streaming right through the small window to bathe the wall next to the bed in golden-hour light. A little touch of grace. Yoongi gazes at it.
He’s in prison. Cell 6-13. Inmate Min, 384627.
Fuck.