Chapter 1: wildflowers
Chapter Text
The sun rose slowly over the fields of Mureung Village, casting long fingers of gold across the waking earth. Morning mist hovered low over the grass, like a whisper reluctant to leave. The sky, still stained with lavender and streaks of coral, promised another warm day. The air smelled of damp soil and wildflowers, touched faintly with the sweetness of clover and the musky breath of animals stirring in their pens.
Mureung wasn’t marked on most maps. It was the kind of place one stumbled upon only when lost, or perhaps, when looking to be found. Nestled between low, forested hills and tucked beside a slow, winding river, the village breathed a rhythm of its own. Slower, quieter, yet somehow heavier with feeling.
The homes were small but alive, each one seemingly carved into the landscape rather than built upon it. Their rooftops sagged under years of weather but were kept well, patched with clay and moss, some adorned with rows of potted plants lined like soldiers along the edges. Wooden doors, warped by time, creaked on iron hinges. Windows were often left open, letting in the breeze and the occasional curious hen.
Every garden was a little world. Squash vines curled around rocks like lazy snakes, tomatoes hung plump and ripe on sun-warmed stalks, and herbs: mint, basil, mugwort, grew thick along the fences. Laundry flapped lazily on long twine lines, shirts and dresses swaying beside sheets like ghosts dancing in daylight.
The main dirt path of the village branched like veins toward each small home, pounded smooth by boots and hooves over years. Along this path wandered chickens pecking freely, often blocking carts or hopping into vegetable baskets left too close to the ground. Goats bleated from a nearby pen, their sharp little hooves clacking against stone. Cows, sleepy-eyed and slow, were often seen grazing in the pastures beyond the fences, their tails swishing rhythmically as flies buzzed lazily around them. Occasionally, a sheep would get loose, its wooly body barreling down the road with an old man or a red-faced child chasing behind it.
The scent of hay, dung, and smoke from breakfast fires filled the air as the village woke. Horses stomped and snorted in their stables, eager to stretch their legs. Farmers hoisted wooden buckets over their shoulders, voices low and gravelly as they greeted each other with sleepy nods and half-smiles. The clang of metal tools, the rhythmic thud of chopping wood, and the distant barking of dogs created a music of morning chores.
There was colour here, not just from the nature that bloomed endlessly, but from the people. Grandmothers in patterned aprons bent over their flower beds. Children shrieked as they ran barefoot through the grass, chasing each other with sticks and catching frogs in the rice fields. A girl with braids and dirt-streaked cheeks sat on a stone wall feeding scraps to a stray cat.
Every day was a kind of repetition. Rise with the sun. Feed the animals. Tend the fields. Harvest. Cook. Wash. Sleep. Repeat. But the sameness was never dull, it was steady, familiar. It was the way things were done here.
It was here, in this slow-moving world of tangled gardens and dew-soaked mornings, that two boys would begin a storm.
A sudden clatter shattered the hum of the morning.
It started with the shriek of a wooden gate slamming open. Then came the unmistakable thunder of hooves on dirt, fast, frantic, and entirely un contained. Heads turned, chickens scattered, and a few of the older villagers jerked upright mid-conversation, clutching their woven baskets to their chests.
“KIM TAEHYUNG!!“ a woman’s voice bellowed from beyond a cluster of laundry lines. “Get that damn goat before it tramples my chilli peppers again!”
From between the hanging sheets emerged a whirlwind. First the goat, a massive white animal with curling horns and eyes full of hellfire. Behind it, shirt unbuttoned halfway and hair stuck damp to his forehead, came Taehyung.
Barefoot. Sweaty. Laughing.
His long legs kicked up clouds of dust as he sprinted after the animal, one hand flailing wildly in an attempt to grab its tail. The goat dodged to the left, then the right, leaping over a low fence and plowing directly through a bed of blooming squash. The plants flattened like helpless villagers under siege.
“Oh no—my flowers!” cried one of the grandmothers, cupping her cheeks in horror. But when she looked up at Taehyung, her expression melted into a half-hearted scowl and a knowing smile. The other ajummas gathered near the well muttered and shook their heads.
“Tsk, that boy…”
“Such a menace.”
“Look at that face though, like a movie star.”
“It’s always the handsome ones with no sense.”
And truly, Taehyung looked every bit the trouble they claimed him to be. His tan skin glistened with sweat, shirt clinging loosely to his lean chest as he chased the goat with the kind of wild, boyish determination that made it impossible to look away. His grin stretched wide, devilish and proud, as if he weren’t causing chaos at all, but simply giving the village a little morning entertainment.
Girls leaned over balconies and peeked through open windows, giggling behind their hands as they watched him tear through the path like a force of nature.
The goat tore through a row of drying laundry and then zig-zagged down a garden path, where a familiar figure was kneeling in the dirt.
Jimin.
Wearing soft linen pants rolled up to the knee, his sleeves pushed up as he carefully pressed small seeds into the damp earth, Jimin didn’t even look up when the thundering steps drew near. His cheeks were flushed pink from the sun, a light sheen of sweat glimmering at the edge of his jawline, and a smudge of dirt painted one edge of his hand. His touch was meticulous, delicate, like someone arranging pearls into the soil.
The goat didn't care.
It barrelled past, hooves sinking deep into the loose mud, and in its wake came a spectacular splat, a spray of wet earth launching upward and landing squarely across Jimin’s face, speckling his cheek, his nose, and the neat part in his honey-blonde hair.
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Jimin slowly blinked.
Then, just as Taehyung skidded to a halt a few feet away, bent over with his hands on his knees and panting from the chase, Jimin turned his face up toward him, expression flat, lips slightly parted, and one brow slowly rising in elegant, deadly disbelief.
Taehyung’s eyes sparkled.
“Oh wow,” he said between gasps, still catching his breath. “Farming really brings out the best in you, Princess.”
His grin widened as he straightened, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “You’ve got this whole... mud-kissed, tragic beauty thing going on. Very romantic. Very peasant chic. I’m moved, really.”
Jimin said nothing.
Just reached up, very slowly, and wiped a line of wet dirt from his cheek with two fingers, eyes still locked on Taehyung like a cat preparing to pounce, or ignore you entirely, depending on his mood.
Taehyung raised his hands in surrender, still grinning. “Okay, okay, don’t kill me. I swear I was this close to catching the damn thing. You know that goat has the devil in its eyes, right?”
Still, Jimin remained silent, brushing his palms off against his pants with sharp, deliberate motions, before returning to his work like Taehyung wasn’t even there. The silent treatment.
Taehyung hated that.
“Aw, come on,” he groaned, circling Jimin with a low whistle, watching the boy’s focused expression from the side. “You know I didn’t mean to splash your pretty little face. I mean, now you’re just being dramatic-”
“You’re dramatic,” Jimin muttered, finally. His voice was soft, laced with that high-pitched pout he got when annoyed but trying not to show it. “Running around like some shirtless idiot. And get your shadow out of my garden.”
Taehyung laughed, a full, unrestrained burst that echoed across the field like a spark catching flame. “See? You do love me.”
Jimin didn’t answer. But the pink creeping into his cheeks had nothing to do with the sun anymore.
Behind them, the goat had found its way into a coop and was happily terrorising the chickens, feathers flying as a new wave of chaos began. Taehyung sighed. “Shit.”
Taehyung jogged off again, cursing under his breath as the goat darted between flapping hens, sending feathers and straw flying in every direction. The chickens clucked their outrage, wings flapping madly as the intruder stomped through their coop, completely unfazed. One of them flew up onto Taehyung’s shoulder with a squawk as he lunged, arms outstretched.
“Get back here, you four-legged demon!”
More laughter bubbled from the cluster of girls watching from the sidelines, some sitting on low fences, others pretending to continue their chores while very obviously not doing that at all.
“He’s gonna break something again,” one said, half-swooning. “Doesn’t matter, he looks good doing it,” another giggled. “He’s so dumb. I love him.”
Jimin, still kneeling in the mud with dirt on his face and sweat clinging lightly to his skin, let out a long, slow breath through his nose. His hands returned to the soil, graceful, practiced, careful. He pressed the tiny seeds into their shallow holes with gentle fingers, then smoothed the earth over them with his palm like tucking children into bed.
But inside, he was seething.
He hated when Taehyung did this.
Not just because of the mess, though that was part of it. The way the chaos always seemed to follow him like it belonged to him. The way it disrupted everything, even something as peaceful and pure as planting. But it was the attention. The whispers. The eyes.
Jimin could feel the stares. They weren’t always mean. Sometimes they were curious, other times pitiful, or amused. But they were always there, watching him as if he didn’t belong in the soft rhythm of the other girls around him. As if the tasks he chose, the quiet labor he preferred, somehow made him less of a man.
And when Taehyung was involved, it just got worse.
Because Taehyung didn’t care about lines. He didn’t tiptoe around anyone’s insecurities. He barrelled right through them, laughing. He teased Jimin the way boys teased the girls they had crushes on in stories, except when Taehyung teased him, it stung. Sometimes it drew blood.
And it had always been that way.
Jimin pushed another seed into the earth and pressed it down too hard, accidentally splitting it.
They had gone to the same boys' school in the next village over. A small place, all dust and creaking windows and sweaty classrooms. Taehyung had always been loud. Always popular. Jimin had been quiet, awkward, uncertain of his place. He’d spoken softly, with a voice higher than most of the boys, and carried himself with the kind of poise that made him stand out when he wanted nothing more than to disappear.
And Taehyung had noticed.
He remembered every word.
"Do you wear lip balm, Park?"
"Why do you walk like that?”
"You sure you’re not in the wrong school?"
"You ever eat? You look like you're about to faint in art class."
Sometimes he laughed when he said it. Sometimes he looked... confused, even when he was being cruel. And then..
Then there were the days he left little cartons of eggs on Jimin’s desk after school. Fresh, still warm, with a clumsily scribbled note:
“My mom says protein is good for small guys.”
Or
“Don’t get sick again, I won’t help you do your math homework.”
Taehyung would never admit it was from him. But he didn’t have to.
Jimin had always known.
That was the problem.
He wanted to hate him.
And most days, he did.
But some nights he thought about those damn eggs, and the way Taehyung looked at him when he thought Jimin wasn’t looking. And it left him hollow, confused, and even angrier than before.
Because nothing made sense around Taehyung.
And Jimin didn’t like things that didn’t make sense.
He glanced up now, dirt smudged across the edge of his cheek, only to find Taehyung hauling the goat, finally caught, over his shoulder like a sack of rice. The animal kicked, bleated in protest, but Taehyung grinned like a hero returning from war. His chest was heaving, soaked with sweat, and a fresh cut streaked his shin, probably from where he’d slammed into the broken fence earlier.
He looked like trouble. He was trouble.
And when his eyes met Jimin’s across the garden, Taehyung winked.
Jimin looked away.
He carefully pressed the last seed into the earth and whispered to it in his mind: Please grow strong. Not everything gets to be careless and loved like him.
By the time Jimin trudged up the narrow stone path to his house, the sun had slipped lower in the sky, painting the village rooftops in warm amber. His legs ached faintly from kneeling all morning, and the back of his neck was slick with sweat. He could still feel the crust of dried mud at the edge of his cheek, the ghost of Taehyung’s chaos clinging to him like smoke after a fire.
His house stood quietly among a tangle of vines and rose bushes, its faded blue paint peeling gently at the edges. The windows were small, but clean, the curtains inside fluttering like pale ghosts in the breeze. A cracked ceramic wind chime clinked softly beside the front door, its broken melody oddly comforting.
Inside, the air was cool and still, thick with the scent of rice and simmering stew. The living space was compact but tidy. Worn wooden floors stretched across the room, their grain darkened with age. The low table near the window held a frayed doily and a ceramic vase filled with wildflowers Jimin had picked days ago. Everything in the house felt lived-in, touched by calloused hands and quiet routine.
In the centre of the space sat the dining table, small, square, and sturdy, where his father now sat eating in silence. He was hunched over his bowl, chopsticks moving steadily, his brow furrowed in that permanent scowl carved deep into his face like an old stone idol. A half-finished bottle of soju sat beside his plate. Jimin’s mother stood a few feet away at the sink, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, hands submerged in cloudy dishwater. She glanced at Jimin, offering a fleeting, tired smile, then turned back to her rinsing.
Jimin didn’t speak. He never did, not right away.
He slipped past the table quietly, avoiding his father’s gaze, and stepped into the kitchen, a small alcove separated by a wooden beam and a curtain half-pinned back. The counters were low and pale green, chipped in places. A row of floral plates, white with tiny pink petals dancing along the rim, sat stacked neatly beside the stove. Jimin pulled one down, moving carefully, like he could control the tension in the air if he just kept quiet.
The kitchen smelled of sesame oil and pepper paste. The rice cooker clicked gently in the corner. He plated his food with soft, practiced motions, steamed greens, glazed potatoes, a spoonful of stew from the pot.
But silence was never enough.
His father’s voice cut through the air like a knife through damp cloth, low, gravelly, weighted with disapproval.
“When are you going to start doing real work?”
Jimin’s shoulders tensed, but he said nothing.
He knew what his father meant. He always knew.
Real work. As in building fences, hauling feed, splitting firewood, shearing sheep, lifting crates, fixing machinery. The kind of labour that made a boy a man, that blistered hands and broke backs.
Instead, Jimin spent his days with the girls, hanging clothes on lines, scrubbing pots, sweeping the floors, cutting vegetables, feeding the chickens, patting the goats on the head. His hands were smooth. He wore linen. He moved quietly.
And he didn’t care.
“I said,” his father repeated, slower this time, “when are you going to stop playing house and do some men’s work?”
Jimin turned.
His plate trembled slightly in his hands as he met his father’s eyes for the first time that evening, dark, narrow eyes that always looked like they were measuring something and never finding it good enough.
“I don’t want to,” Jimin said flatly.
His voice was calm, clear. But the words carried like a slap.
His father set his chopsticks down slowly.
“Don’t want to?” he echoed, each syllable dragged out like poison.
“I’m not made for that kind of work,” Jimin said, walking the line between firm and composed. “I’ve said that before. You just don’t listen.”
“You’re not made for it?” His father let out a short, humourless laugh. “What the hell does that mean? You’re not made for it? You think the rest of us want to break our backs in the field? You think we like waking up before sunrise to dig and haul and fix?”
Jimin set his plate down on the counter, carefully.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” he said quietly. “You never have.”
“You’re too soft,” his father snapped, rising from his chair now. “That’s your problem. You spend all your time with women, doing chores like a-”
“Like a what?” Jimin’s voice was sharper now, eyes flashing. “Say it.”
His father’s jaw tightened. “You think hiding in the kitchen makes you better than the rest of us?”
“No,” Jimin said. “I think it makes me who I am.”
“Who you are?” His father scoffed. “You’re a boy. You’re supposed to grow into a man. Not some prissy little thing with dirt on his cheeks and flowers on his damn shirt.”
“I don’t want to be your version of a man,” Jimin said, each word more defiant than the last.
“Then you’ll never survive out here. Never earn respect. No one will take you seriously, especially not people like that Taehyung boy you follow around like a shadow.”
That did it.
Jimin’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You don’t know anything about me and Taehyung.”
“I know he laughs at you behind your back. I know he gets to live like a man while you pretend the chickens are your friends.”
“Enough!” Jimin’s mother cried suddenly, stepping between them with soapy hands raised. “Both of you! This is a house, not a battlefield!”
But it was already too late.
Jimin’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, his face pale with fury, eyes glassy with unshed frustration. His father stood still, stone-faced, unmoved, like he was daring Jimin to say more.
And he would have.
He wanted to.
But instead, he turned.
He stormed out of the house without another word, his footsteps loud, final, shaking the floor with the truth he couldn’t make them hear.
The door slammed behind him, leaving only the sound of his mother’s quiet breath and the clatter of dishes cooling on the counter.
The field stretched wide beneath the sinking sun, a blanket of wildflowers tangled in shades of violet, pink, and soft gold. The wind rolled lazily across the tall stems, swaying petals like slow breathing, everything whispering, moving gently, alive with light.
Jimin walked through it like a ghost.
His feet barely lifted from the ground, hands loose at his sides, dirt still crusted under his fingernails. The fading warmth of the sun kissed the back of his neck, but he barely noticed. The voices from home still rang in his head, sharp and echoing. His father's words carved long trails of anger in his chest. His mother’s silence, the way she always tried to smooth things over without ever taking his side, cut even deeper.
He stepped over a cluster of white daisies and paused for a moment. His eyes scanned the sea of colour around him, and for just a second, the tension in his jaw softened. Out here, no one was watching. No one whispering behind their hands. No one asking him why he didn’t lift hay bales or wrestle pigs or beat the crap out of other boys just to feel strong.
Out here, Jimin could breathe.
But then, footsteps.
Slow. Crunching lightly behind him, boots pressing into soft dirt.
Jimin’s stomach twisted. His shoulders tightened. He turned on instinct, already bracing for the sharp bark of his father’s voice.
But instead, it was worse.
Much worse.
Taehyung stood a few feet away with his hands buried deep in his pockets, looking like he had all the time in the world. His shirt clung to him, sweat-damp at the collar, hair wild and sun-kissed. That goddamn grin stretched across his face, teeth white, eyes sparkling like he hadn’t just ruined everything for Jimin hours ago.
He looked golden.
Infuriatingly, stupidly golden.
Jimin’s eyes narrowed.
His chest filled with fire.
He stormed across the field in long, angry strides, and without thinking, shoved Taehyung hard in the chest.
“You—”
Taehyung barely moved.
He scoffed, arching an eyebrow as he looked down at Jimin with a lazy kind of amusement, like someone watching a kitten trying to bite their ankle.
“What was that supposed to be?” he said, voice slow, thick with mockery and then he shoved Jimin back.
Harder.
Jimin’s feet caught in the uneven ground, and he went flying, arms flailing as he tumbled backward into a thick bed of flowers. His body disappeared into the petals with a loud shriek and a soft thud.
Taehyung burst out laughing.
Like, really laughing. Head thrown back, shoulders shaking, eyes crinkled.
Jimin sat up in the dirt, hair mussed, cheeks flushed, bits of petals clinging to his sleeves and knees.
“I hate you!” he screamed, furious.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” Taehyung said, still chuckling, already walking away across the field with that same slow swagger, hands swinging easily at his sides.
Jimin scrambled up and followed, stomping through flowers that had done nothing wrong.
“I mean it!” he shouted. “Stop following me around, stop talking to me, just- just leave me the hell alone!”
Taehyung didn’t even slow down. “And give up the only fun I have in this whole damn village? Yeah, right.”
Jimin nearly tripped trying to keep up, still flushed, still fuming.
“You’re so full of yourself,” he snapped. “One day I’m gonna leave this place and marry someone rich. Someone with a car. And a house with actual floors. I’ll wear silk every day and you’ll still be here chasing goats and smelling like cow shit!”
Taehyung let out a bark of laughter that startled a crow from a tree nearby.
“Oh please,” he said. “You’d hate the city. You’d miss your stupid chickens and your little flower garden.”
“I would not.”
“You’d be back in a week crying over how the water tastes different.”
“I would not!! ”
“You’d marry some rich idiot, and he’d try to touch your perfect little hands and you’d freak out because he doesn’t know how to feed a baby goat.”
Jimin stopped walking. “You think that’s funny?”
Taehyung turned to face him again, grinning still, but quieter now.
“I think it’s cute.”
Jimin stared at him, breathing hard.
Taehyung didn’t move.
The wind swept through again, bending the flowers between them, carrying pollen and tension and something that felt almost like... longing. But neither said it. Neither of them ever said it.
The sun dipped lower behind the hills, casting long shadows across the field, stretching golden fingers through the tall grass and flowerbeds. The air was thick and heavy, still humming with heat from the long summer day. Jimin stood in the middle of it all, his chest rising and falling too fast, his fists clenched at his sides.
Taehyung had his back to him now, strolling slow, the picture of smug indifference. Every line of his body screamed arrogance, shoulders relaxed, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his worn trousers, that loose, careless gait like he had all the time in the world.
Something inside Jimin snapped.
“Don’t walk away from me!” he shouted, voice ragged from anger and exhaustion.
Taehyung didn’t even flinch. “Then don’t be so easy to walk away from.”
That did it.
Jimin charged forward and shoved him again, harder this time. His palms struck Taehyung’s back between the shoulder blades, not enough to really move him, but enough to prove he meant it.
Taehyung stopped.
He turned around slowly, his expression unreadable now, eyes shadowed by the angle of the light, mouth curved into something that was no longer quite a smile.
And without warning, he shoved Jimin back.
Not playfully. Not teasing.
His hands hit Jimin’s chest like a hammer, and Jimin’s breath caught in his throat as his feet skidded over the uneven ground. He stumbled, his body light in the force of Taehyung’s strength, and crashed down into the flowers again. His back hit the earth with a dull thump, petals and stems crushed beneath him, dust puffing around his limbs. He lay there for a second, stunned, heart pounding in his throat, the air gone from his lungs.
But he didn’t stay down.
He couldn’t.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself back to his feet, dirt smudging his cheek, his knees scraped, his shirt clinging to his damp skin. His arms trembled from the effort. Sweat traced hot lines down the back of his neck.
Again, he pushed Taehyung.
And again, Taehyung pushed him back, sharper this time, faster.
Jimin hit the ground hard, his elbow scraping against a rock buried in the soil. His breath left him in a rush, and for a moment he just lay there, blinking up at the wide, yawning sky. A few petals clung to his eyelashes, his hair tangled, the scent of crushed flowers blooming thick around him.
But still, he rose.
His thighs burned from kneeling. His palms stung. His jaw was clenched so tight it ached. He could barely see through the rage swimming in his eyes.
He shoved Taehyung again. It was clumsy, weak. All he had left.
And Taehyung barely reacted this time, just pushed him lightly, more like swatting away a buzzing insect than anything else. Jimin toppled back down into the dirt like a rag doll, limbs heavy, breath heaving in sharp, painful bursts.
“Why do you always do this!?” Jimin gasped, voice breaking. His fingers dug into the soil.
Taehyung stared down at him, his face unreadable for a second.
And then he stepped forward.
Before Jimin could crawl away or sit up again, Taehyung dropped down on one knee, hovering over him, his shadow falling across Jimin’s flushed, dirt-smeared face. He reached down and grabbed Jimin’s arm, not cruelly, but firmly. His grip was hot, strong, fingers wrapping just above Jimin’s elbow. His skin was rough, callused from years of hard labor.
Jimin thrashed under him, his legs kicking, heels digging into the soft ground. “Let go!” he shouted, voice raw.
He screamed again, louder this time, half fury, half humiliation, half something he couldn’t name. The sound echoed across the field, birds rustling from nearby trees in alarm.
Taehyung didn’t flinch.
He just laughed. A low, breathless kind of laugh, as if even this, Jimin in the dirt, panting, shaking with rage, was still amusing to him.
“You’re so dramatic,” Taehyung said, tilting his head.
Jimin growled, twisting, his whole body tense beneath Taehyung’s hold.
And then, just as suddenly as he’d grabbed him, Taehyung reached into the wildflowers next to them, plucked a small, purple bloom, and carefully, almost gently, tucked it behind Jimin’s ear.
“There,” he said, smiling. “Now you look just like one of them.”
Jimin froze.
His breath hitched.
The contrast of it, Taehyung’s rough fingers, the sting in his limbs, the heat in his cheeks... and now, the delicate brush of a flower settling into his hair, was too much. His heart felt like it had fallen into his stomach.
Taehyung stood slowly, wiping his palms on his pants.
“See you later, princess,” he said lazily, his voice carrying in the wind like a smirk.
And just like that, he turned and walked away again, whistling softly, the sunset catching the curve of his neck, his shoulders golden and untouchable.
Jimin lay there in the dirt, limbs splayed, chest rising and falling like he’d just run for miles. His arms trembled, his throat burned. He didn’t know if he wanted to scream again, or cry, or throw something at Taehyung’s stupid head.
He reached up slowly and felt the flower behind his ear.
Delicate. Stupid. Beautiful.
And still, he didn’t take it out.
Not yet.
Chapter 2: bruised petals
Notes:
a short one, but I reallyyy wanted to put something out, future chapters will be longer!
tags are edited frequently, please keep an eye out for that
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
5th March, 1923
The wind was sharp that morning, crisp and clean like freshly washed linen strung across backyard lines. It curled around the hills and the chipped rooftops of the village, sweeping through the quiet stone lanes that led down to the small Catholic boys’ school perched near the chapel. The sun had only just begun to stretch itself across the pale sky, and dew clung stubbornly to the tips of the wild grass that lined the path.
Jimin walked alone, as usual. His black hair, still untouched by sun or dye, fell just past his ears in soft, slightly curled strands, framing the roundness of his youthful cheeks. His school uniform was neat, of course it was. Pressed white shirt buttoned to the collar, navy vest smooth and lint-free, trousers a little loose around his thighs but clean. His shoes were scuffed at the toes but polished just enough to reflect the morning light. Slung over his shoulder was a canvas satchel, faded but not fraying, its corners still intact, the seams lovingly stitched by his mother. The strap tugged gently across his chest, weighing more heavily with each day of lessons, bibles, and expectations.
The school itself stood ahead, modest, like most buildings in the village, with pale whitewashed walls and green-painted windows. It had the same kind of quiet dignity as the chapel beside it, both buildings flanked by wilting flower beds and the rusted bell that marked the start of the day. The single classroom sat beneath a peaked wooden roof, warmed in winter by a coal stove and lit only by natural light through thin curtains. It wasn’t much, but it was the only place boys like Jimin could learn to read the Bible, write clean script, and be taught the meaning of discipline.
A low grunt and the scrape of hurried boots broke Jimin’s focus. A sudden shove to his side sent him staggering slightly in the dirt path. He looked over his shoulder sharply, brows furrowed.
It was Taehyung. Of course it was.
He stood with two other boys, both snickering, though it was clear the shove hadn’t been intended for Jimin. Taehyung had been pushed first, and simply collided with him in the chain reaction. But he was laughing anyway, that same easy, careless grin stretched across his face. He had that rough-hewn beauty even then, dark brown hair slightly damp at the fringe, cheeks flushed from the cold, uniform worn loose and wrinkled like he’d rolled out of bed and let his mother beg him into it. His tie hung crooked at his chest, and there was a faint grass stain across his cuff. Jimin didn’t know how he managed to look that good while looking so... unbothered.
“We’re just joking,” Taehyung said, trailing after Jimin as he turned away with a sigh.
“I don’t find you amusing,” Jimin muttered without looking back. His voice was clipped, cool, like the edge of a page in a book you didn’t want to finish.
The boys reached the front steps, boots clacking against the wood, before slipping inside. It was warmer in the classroom, faint with the smell of ash and old paper. The morning light filtered through the window panes, casting rectangular patches across the desks. They took their usual seats, two rows apart, though Taehyung, today, pulled his chair just a little closer.
The teacher had not yet arrived, and the morning ritual had not begun. Jimin quietly opened his satchel, pulled out his bible, leather cover worn and soft, corners bent from handling, and set it neatly on the desk in front of him.
Taehyung, instead of looking away, stared. First at the book. Then at Jimin. Something in his throat tightened. He watched how Jimin smoothed his fingers across the cover before opening to a passage without hesitation. The moment slowed. His eyes lingered on the gentle curve of Jimin’s lashes, the pink of his lips, the furrow between his brows that appeared whenever he focused too hard. It made his chest twist. Unfamiliar. Irritating.
He didn’t mean to say it. Not really. But the words came out anyway, stupid and sharp and ugly.
“What’s the point in even reading that,” Taehyung said aloud, too loud, his voice cutting across the low murmur of other boys, “if you’re a faggot?”
The room went dead silent. Air thick. Still.
Jimin’s head snapped to the side, eyes wide with disbelief, then narrowing fast with fury. His whole body stilled. And for a second, just a second, Taehyung looked like he might shrink under it.
“I didn’t mean it like—” Taehyung started quickly, voice dropping to something panicked, but Jimin had already stood. His chair scraped loudly against the floor. Without a word, he grabbed his satchel and stormed out, the door swinging shut behind him with a slam.
The silence stayed even after he left. Even Taehyung’s friends didn’t laugh this time.
Taehyung stared at the bible still sitting on Jimin’s desk. He wanted to throw up.
Present - 1930
The world outside was hushed, the kind of quiet that only arrived after midnight, when the lanterns in the streets had all gone dark, the last chickens had stopped clucking, and even the wind felt like it was whispering instead of wailing.
Jimin lay on his back in bed, one hand tucked under the soft swell of his pillow, the other lazily twirling the stem of a purple flower above his face. It swayed slightly, petals catching the faint glow of the moonlight that filtered in through the crack of his open window. A breeze moved the white cotton curtains gently, like ghosts brushing past the room, stirring the scent of distant hay and morning dew long before the sun would rise.
His bedroom wasn’t large, but it wasn’t cramped either. The walls had once been painted a dull cream, but the years had peeled it away in curling flakes, revealing the original, raw brown beneath, patches of tired history hiding behind chipped gloss. A vintage wardrobe sat in the corner, heavy and dark, with brass handles dulled from use. Matching bedside tables flanked the bed, each with oil lamps and half-melted candles that hadn’t been lit in weeks. His blankets were thick and white, puffed up around him like clouds, the floral carpet beneath his bed a gift his mother had let him keep after outgrowing the nursery.
One corner of the room was soft with memory, a bouquet of fresh-picked flowers in a clay vase sat on the windowsill: pale pinks, soft yellows, delicate whites. Picture frames hung crookedly along the wall, capturing fading smiles and faces that looked like his but older, stiffer. And wrapped around his arm, as though it had never left, was the old teddy he’d once held every night as a child. Its fur was worn thin at the ears, one eye barely hanging on, but it brought him comfort still.
He continued to stare at the flower in his hand. The one Taehyung had shoved into his hair like it was a joke. Like it meant nothing.
But Jimin had kept it.
He shouldn’t have. But he did.
He sighed, a long exhale that seemed to deflate something inside of him. The flower twirled in his fingers, stem delicate and slightly bruised from all the handling. Even after all this time, even after remembering that moment back at school, the shame, the hurt, the way his stomach twisted when Taehyung's words hit harder than fists, he still couldn’t shake the warmth that came with thinking of him.
Taehyung was stupid. That much Jimin knew. Stupid and reckless and self-centred, always living like the world was a play and he was the only one in the spotlight. He didn’t understand what it felt like to be judged, to be picked apart by your own father, by your neighbours, by the eyes that watched your every move like it was wrong.
But the worst part? Taehyung didn’t mean to hurt him. He never meant it.
That made it harder.
And it always hurt. Somehow, it always did.
Jimin placed the flower gently on his bedside table, beside the oil lamp. He watched it for a long moment, unmoving, eyes half-lidded and heavy.
Then, slowly, he turned away from it, curled deeper under his blanket, and closed his eyes.
Sleep didn’t come quickly. But it came.
The next day arrived with no mercy.
The sun hung high above the fields like it had something to prove, blazing and stubborn, burning down onto the village with unrelenting heat. The dirt beneath Jimin’s feet was cracked and hot to the touch, and even the chickens, usually chaotic in the mornings, had retreated into the shade of the barn. Everything felt heavy. The air. His limbs. The silence between him and his father during breakfast that morning.
Jimin stood outside, his bare arms slightly flushed from the sun, a small basket of wet laundry hooked in one hand, a handful of wooden clips in the other. He was dressed in loose white linen, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to the elbows, a brown apron tied over his waist. The clothes he hung weren’t even his own, they belonged to the elderly widow who lived a few plots down. Her knees had grown too stiff to stand and wring out bedsheets, so Jimin offered to do it.
He didn't mind. It gave him an excuse to be outside. Even if the heat clung to his skin like a second layer.
Lines had been strung between two old trees, their bark sun-bleached and flaking. Crisp white shirts, faded floral dresses, and cotton undergarments billowed gently in the rare breeze. A small cat, one that Jimin had quietly named Bokgil, lounged under the shade of the clothesline, tail flicking lazily, eyes half-lidded and always watching.
Beside him, Jennie Kim worked with calm efficiency. Her hands moved fluidly, like she was sculpted for this sort of work, and even her sweat glistened like something deliberate. She wore a sleeveless cream dress, hem brushing just above her knees, and the breeze pulled at the fabric as if it, too, admired her. Her black hair was tied into a long braid down her back, but a few strands clung to her cheeks, damp from the heat. Jimin had always admired her.
Not just because she was beautiful, but because she was strong. Strong in the way people whispered about behind cupped hands. Strong in the way she looked men in the eye when they spoke over her. Jimin envied it sometimes, her poise, the way her shoulders sat perfectly, pulled back like she carried no shame, even in a place that tried to carve shame into every girl it could.
Jimin’s eyes lingered too long.
He knew it the second Jennie glanced sideways and caught him staring. He flushed and quickly looked away, fumbling the damp skirt in his hands and focusing too intently on clipping it to the line. His fingers trembled slightly. He hated when he got caught doing something that could be misinterpreted. Jennie didn’t laugh, though. She didn’t even tease.
She simply smiled, stepped toward him, and plucked the cloth from his hands. “You keep staring,” she said softly, a small grin in her voice, “you’ll burn through my skin.”
“I wasn’t—” Jimin started, shaking his head.
Jennie raised a brow.
“I was just—” He sighed. “You look nice. That’s all.”
That wasn’t all. He admired her. Not just her beauty. Her presence. Her ability to be someone. And maybe, a part of him was jealous that she knew how to exist confidently in her body. Something Jimin still hadn’t figured out.
She hung the garment for him anyway, and asked, “Are you okay today?”
Her voice was quieter this time. Sincere. She had this uncanny ability to sense the shifts in him, the weight in his chest, the silence behind his eyes. She didn’t know what his father said to him, no one did, but she could always tell when something was off.
Jimin hesitated. “It was just… something with my father.”
She didn’t pry. She only nodded, her fingers pausing at the basket’s rim. The understanding between them was silent, but solid.
Jennie could sense everything, but she couldn’t change it. Not his father. Not the way people talked. Not the way the village bent women until they broke. Not even with her fire.
The moment held there, just the two of them, until the sound of whistles split through the air like a knife.
Jimin’s head snapped up. Behind Jennie, a group of boys strolled down the dirt path that ran along the houses. Loud, careless, shirt sleeves rolled up, faces smirking and flushed. The kind of boys who looked without shame. Whistling, grinning, making comments that weren’t meant to be heard by just each other.
Jimin’s chest tightened.
Jennie didn’t turn around, but her hands stilled. Her spine tensed just slightly. She didn’t need to look to know what they were doing. She’d heard it all before. And Jimin, Jimin could feel the heat rising in his chest. He looked at her, at the way her shoulders didn’t drop even though he knew she wanted them to.
He hated them for looking at her like that. For treating her beauty like something owed to them.
And then,
His eyes caught on one face in the crowd.
Taehyung.
Dark hair messy from the sun, hands tucked in his pockets, golden even in the shadows. But he wasn’t looking at Jennie. He was staring at Jimin.
It was quiet, the look between them, but it hit harder than the whistles ever could. Jimin’s breath stuttered, a twist unfurling in his gut, rage, confusion, something far more dangerous. He was suddenly back in the field last night, on his back, Taehyung hovering over him, laughing, placing a flower in his hair like it meant nothing.
That same flower still sat on Jimin’s bedside table.
He hated that it was still there. Hated that he hadn’t thrown it out. Hated the way his heart still stumbled when he met Taehyung’s gaze.
And he hated the rumours.
He had heard them all. About Jennie and Taehyung. Secret meetings. Kisses stolen behind sheds. That one particularly cruel rumour, that they had slept together, and Jennie’s father had locked her inside for two full weeks out of rage.
Jimin didn’t want to believe it. But he remembered. He remembered how she hadn’t shown up for chores. How the air had felt wrong without her in it.
He didn’t ask. He would never ask. But the ache in his chest didn’t go away.
One of the boys made a crude comment. Another laughed. Jennie didn’t react. But her eyes had lost their shine. Jimin saw it.
Something in him snapped.
He dropped the basket with a sharp thud, clothespins scattering in the dirt.
“Jimin-?” Jennie called behind him, but he didn’t hear her. Not really.
He walked. Fast. Focused. His eyes never leaving the backs of those boys. He bent down midway and picked up a rock, one that fit perfectly in his palm. Not too heavy. Just enough to be felt.
So many choices. The boy who whistled. The one who leered. The one who laughed the loudest.
But his eyes locked on Taehyung. Always Taehyung. The boy who never stopped it. The boy who could’ve said something, but never did. The boy who looked at Jimin like he meant something, and then ripped it away the next second.
Without thinking, without warning, he raised his arm and let the rock fly.
It hit Taehyung squarely on the back of the head.
The sound cracked through the air, loud and sudden. Taehyung stumbled forward, hand flying to the back of his skull as he turned around, confused, wide-eyed. The rest of the boys stopped. Silence fell.
Jimin stood there, chest rising and falling, hands trembling, heart beating louder than anything else in the world.
Jennie was running toward him now, calling his name, but he didn’t look back.
He was tired of being quiet.
Jennie’s fingers wrapped tightly around Jimin’s arm, her voice low and panicked as she tugged him back.
“Stop- Jimin, don’t, please,” she whispered, almost through gritted teeth. “Don’t give them more reason-”
But Jimin yanked his arm from her grip.
His breath was sharp, his blood loud in his ears. His fists clenched like they didn’t belong to him, and his eyes locked onto Taehyung again, who had turned partway, one hand still rubbing the back of his head where the first rock struck.
Jimin moved before he could think, dropping to the dirt again and grabbing another stone, larger this time, rougher, edges jagged. His fingers trembled with fury, but his throw was faster, sloppier, driven by the need to be seen, to be heard, to make something, anything, land.
The rock flew wide.
Taehyung ducked without effort, his movement fluid and calm, like he expected it.
Laughter broke out.
Louder this time. From the boys surrounding him. Harsh and ugly, clapping each other’s shoulders, teeth flashing in the sun. The kind of laughter meant to humiliate. The kind that burned into your skin.
But Jimin didn’t stop.
He marched right up to Taehyung, shoving him hard in the chest.
“You’re a horrible man!” he shouted, voice cracking, raw. He shoved again. And again. But each push was weak, barely making Taehyung budge. Jimin looked ridiculous, smaller, thinner, skin already pink from the sun, his apron flapping around his legs like he was a child playing soldier.
The boys only laughed harder
.
Taehyung stood still, not smiling, not laughing, just looking down at him. His eyes dark. Calm. Watching.
Jimin’s breath hitched. “You’re a coward. You act like you’re-like you’re-” He didn’t even know what he was saying anymore. Just words tumbling from his chest like fire.
Then,
A voice. Not Taehyung’s.
"What are you gonna do about it, faggot?"
It came from one of the others, Jongdae. Older. Broad shoulders, dead eyes. The kind of boy who’d never been punished in his life. Who looked like he could break necks for sport. The word fell from his lips like a weapon, thrown lazily, like it didn’t even cost him anything.
Jimin froze.
He blinked. The heat in his chest turned cold. All the wind he’d built collapsed in his lungs. That word. That horrible, hollow word. It echoed through his skull like a scream. Like every other time he’d heard it before.
The boys laughed again. All of them.
Except Taehyung.
Jimin’s shoulders sank. His fists loosened at his sides. His eyes dropped to the dirt as if gravity had yanked them down, shame crawling up his throat like bile. His lips parted slightly, trembling, but nothing came out. His throat tightened.
He couldn’t look up.
He couldn’t move.
He felt stupid. So stupid. Like he had brought this all on himself. Like he had asked for it, by daring to stand up, by daring to feel something, by even thinking for a second that Taehyung was anything but a cruel boy who wanted to play.
He felt Jennie’s presence behind him, the quiet support of her not leaving, but even that wasn’t enough to stop the sting in his eyes.
Why didn’t Taehyung stop them?
Jimin had wondered that for weeks. For months. Through every side glance, every teasing smile, every flower placed too carefully in his hair. Taehyung flirted like it meant nothing. Toyed with him like he was a secret to be tugged on when bored. But never, not once, had he stopped the others. Never told them to shut up. Never told them it wasn’t funny.
Was it all a dare?
Was he just… a game?
Jimin forced himself to glance up. Just slightly.
His eyes met Taehyung’s. And in that fleeting moment, there was something there. Regret, maybe. Or guilt. Or hesitation. Like Taehyung knew exactly what this looked like. Like he wanted to say something. Like he could.
But he didn’t.
He broke eye contact first.
Turned his back.
And walked away.
The others followed. Like sheep. Like dogs off their leash.
Jimin didn’t move.
Not until Jennie stepped forward and gently touched his shoulder. Her fingers soft, grounding. And when he looked at her, she didn’t say anything. Just gave him the look she always gave him when things went too far, a quiet, heartbroken kind of knowing.
His heart beat in his ears. His face felt hot. His throat ached with words that never got out.
He had never felt so small.
So exposed.
So stupid for hoping.
Jimin had spent the rest of the morning buried in the stillness of his room. He hadn’t changed out of his clothes, his shirt stuck slightly to his back, damp from heat and frustration. The sunlight that poured through the window was soft now, filtered by thin curtains that fluttered gently with the occasional wind
The flower was gone.
The purple bloom he’d once admired, held in the dark with hesitant fingers, now sat crumpled and limp in the small bin by his desk. He’d thrown it the moment he got home. No thought. No hesitation. It had stung, the way it landed on top of torn paper and crumpled tissues like it belonged there, like it had never meant anything.
Jimin’s gaze hadn’t left that bin since.
His chest still felt tight. The laughter echoed in his head, over and over. The way Taehyung looked at him, the way he didn’t say anything, didn’t do anything. Just watched. Just walked away.
He rolled over on his side, arm tucked beneath his cheek, staring at the cracks on the wall and the worn edge of his floral carpet. The quiet was loud. Occasionally a rooster crowed in the distance, but it sounded far away. The kind of far that made Jimin feel like he didn’t exist.
He hated this place sometimes.
The way everyone talked, the way everyone looked. He hated the farm and the work and the eyes that followed him whenever he carried a basket or hung laundry. But most of all, he hated the way Taehyung made everything worse, just by being himself. Loud and golden and untouchable.
A sudden knock.
Soft. Two light taps on the glass behind him.
Jimin didn’t move. He thought maybe it was the wind. Or a bird. But then it came again, firmer, a little more impatient. He turned slowly, dread already blooming in his chest.
His breath caught.
Outside his ground-floor window, crouched with his chin tilted against the frame, was Taehyung.
Of course.
Because it was always him.
Jimin sat up slowly, eyes narrowed, disbelief painted all over his face. He didn’t say anything. He just stared. Taehyung didn’t seem to care. His head tilted to the side, that same casual grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
“You gonna let me in?” Taehyung mouthed, tapping the glass again with his knuckles.
Jimin stood but didn’t move to the window. His arms crossed over his chest tightly. “Why are you here?” he asked, loud enough for it to be heard through the pane.
Taehyung shrugged, still crouched, his eyes scanning the room behind Jimin like he was trying to memorise it. “Just wanted to check on you. You know,” he grinned wider, “since you assaulted me and all.”
Jimin scoffed, turning his back to the window. “Go away.”
Another tap. “C’mon. I walked all the way around so your parents wouldn’t see me. It’s hot. I’m sweaty. Be nice.”
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Jimin muttered, walking over with reluctant, heavy steps. He pushed the window open just slightly. The air that slipped through was dry and warm, but Taehyung’s presence made it feel heavy. “Why would you even come here? You already got what you wanted this morning.”
“What, a rock to the head?” Taehyung leaned forward. “You missed the second time, by the way. Bad aim.”
Jimin glared at him, jaw tightening.
Taehyung looked at him, really looked, his teasing faltered for a fraction of a second. “I didn’t laugh,” he said suddenly.
“What?”
“This morning,” he said. “I didn’t laugh. When they said that stuff.”
Jimin’s arms dropped to his sides. “You didn’t stop them either.”
Taehyung exhaled, gaze drifting downward for a second before finding Jimin’s again. “I didn’t think you needed me to.”
Jimin’s eyes flashed. “You’re so-” he stopped himself, lips trembling in frustration. “You don’t think at all.”
Taehyung tilted his head. “I think about you all the time.”
Silence.
The words hung between them like a suspended weight.
Jimin blinked, startled, heart thudding once before he forced himself to shake it off. “Don’t say things like that,” he whispered. “You don’t mean them.”
Taehyung’s grin came back. Not soft. Not cruel. Just Taehyung. “Maybe I do.”
“You don’t get to come here,” Jimin said, voice small but firm, “not after everything you’ve done. You humiliate me in front of everyone. You flirt with girls. You let them say things that-”
Taehyung stood up suddenly, bracing his hands on the window ledge, and Jimin took a small step back. He wasn’t afraid, he just didn’t know what Taehyung was doing, what he was ever doing.
“I’m not good at this,” Taehyung said plainly. “I don’t know how to say the right thing. Or stop other people from being…” he searched for the word, “..vicious.”
“Then why do you come here?” Jimin asked, genuinely, desperately. “What do you want from me?”
Taehyung paused, then leaned closer, his voice low.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “You make me feel... real.”
Jimin’s eyes burned.
He hated how easily Taehyung could say things like that. How he always dropped the right words at the wrong time. Like it was nothing. Like it was everything.
“I threw the flower out,” Jimin whispered.
Taehyung’s gaze dropped behind him, to the bin. He nodded. “Figured you would.”
There was silence again.
Jimin looked down at his hands. “I meant it, you know. What I said. You’re horrible.”
Taehyung didn’t flinch. “I know.”
“I don’t want you to come here again.”
“I will anyway.”
Jimin looked at him, eyes tired. “Why?”
Taehyung smiled, but there was something softer beneath it now. Something tired, something honest. “Because you’re the only person who doesn’t pretend with me.”
Jimin stepped forward, reached for the window, and started to shut it.
Taehyung didn’t stop him. He just backed away slowly, hands up in surrender, still grinning, still golden, even in the shadow.
“Sweet dreams, angel,” he said, winking once before turning on his heel and disappearing down the side of the house.
Jimin shut the window quietly.
The room felt too quiet now.
And when he sat back down on the edge of his bed, he glanced at the bin again.
His heart twisted.
The flower sat on top of everything else, a little bruised, a little crushed, but still purple. Still alive.
And Jimin hated how much he wanted to reach in and take it back.
Notes:
to avoid any confusion, jimin and most people at the farm live in one story houses! also, I hope you guys dont mind the introduction of other kpop idols, I just think it'll be easier to imagine them :p they won't interfere with vmin, and are only background characters that may contribute to the plot slightly :)
a sad and intense chapter but I hope you enjoyed it, longer chapters will come next ♡
Chapter 3: Fruits and Bruises
Notes:
as promised, this chapter is longer than previous chapters 💗 (also one of my favourite chapters that I've written)
+a just realised there’s a bunch of grammar mistakes, went through and fixed them (hopefully all 😭)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
1923
The school chapel bell rang out faintly in the distance, muffled by the lazy drone of cicadas and the sound of feet running through sun-dried grass. It was late spring, and the picnic had spilled across the field behind the chapel, linen cloths laid out like soft, crumpled flowers, girls in pastel skirts and boys rolling their sleeves as they played with sticks or tossed a soft old ball around.
Jimin stood by the lemonade stand, hands politely folded, watching from under the low brim of his straw hat. His white shirt was ironed that morning, tucked neatly into his light gray trousers. His collar was a little too tight, and his cheeks were sun-kissed and freckled, flushed more from nerves than heat.
His eyes kept pulling back to where Taehyung stood.
The older boy was surrounded, as always. He wore a shirt one size too big, the sleeves rolled roughly, and suspenders hanging low off his hips. His brown hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck, tousled like it always was.
Jimin hesitated, then stepped forward, clutching two paper cups of lemonade. He rehearsed what he’d say. Something casual. Something kind. He wasn’t sure if Taehyung would like the lemonade, but he remembered once hearing him say he hated the taste of milk.
He walked up, quiet and careful, standing just outside the loose circle of boys. Some glanced over, but no one said anything yet.
”Hey," Jimin said softly, offering a cup. "I brought you one, in case-“
Taehyung looked at him.
It wasn’t just indifference. It was sharp. Cold.
”Did I ask for that?”
The words cut cleaner than Jimin expected. The lemonade shook slightly in his hand.
”I just thought-“
”You always think too much," Taehyung muttered, voice dry and flat. His eyes didn’t even meet Jimin’s. He turned to one of the boys beside him, continuing whatever joke he'd been telling before Jimin walked up. Laughter erupted around them. It wasn’t loud. But it was enough.
Jimin stood there, frozen in place, holding out the cup like a fool.
Someone brushed past him, and it made him flinch. The other cup in his hand spilled a little onto his knuckles. His face flushed, and he mumbled something, he didn’t even know what, and turned away. The paper cups crumpled in his fists.
He walked until the voices faded, until the sound of the creek behind the chapel grew louder than the noise of the others. He sat under a tree, the bark rough against his back, and placed the untouched cup beside him on the grass. He didn’t cry. Not at first. Just stared ahead, the light flickering golden between the branches. His throat felt tight, and his eyes burned.
What had he expected?
A moment passed. Then another. And more after that.
Eventually, the field began to empty as teachers rang the small handbell to call students back into the chapel. Laughter faded. Shoes scraped the ground. Someone called out Taehyung’s name, and Jimin stiffened.
Footsteps approached.
“Hey.”
Jimin didn’t look up.
Taehyung stopped a few feet away, one hand in his pocket, the other rubbing the back of his neck. His voice was softer now, almost boyish again.
”You didn’t have to walk off like that.”
Still, Jimin said nothing. His fingers tugged at the hem of his trousers, knuckles white.
“Look…” Taehyung stepped closer. “You know how they are. I didn’t mean it like that. You always get all weird about shit.”
That was when Jimin stood up.
His eyes were glassy, cheeks blotchy from holding it in too long. He blinked at Taehyung with wide, hurt eyes. The kind that made Taehyung’s chest tighten against his will.
”You always say that,” Jimin whispered. “That you didn’t mean it like that.”
Taehyung opened his mouth.
But Jimin had already stepped past him, shoulder brushing Taehyung’s arm. Not harshly, but enough to leave something behind. Something heavy. Something that stuck.
He didn’t turn back. Not even once.
Present - 1930
The sun hung low, just brushing the edge of the hills in the distance, turning the sky to smears of orange, pink, and violet. The clouds glowed with the last heat of the day, stretching out like soft wool across the horizon. Crickets had begun to chirp faintly in the tall grass, and the cicadas had quieted just enough to let the breeze speak.
Taehyung sat lazily on a weathered wooden bench, a cigarette resting between his lips, the end glowing faintly though he hadn't taken a drag in minutes. His legs were spread comfortably apart, one arm draped casually along the back of the bench, his posture loose and at ease. Dust clung to the cuffs of his rolled-up slacks, and the collar of his white shirt hung open, exposing the bronze of his collarbone.
Beside him sat a girl with perfectly done curls falling from a loose pin behind her ear. Her hair was a soft honey-blonde, her lips rouged and slightly smudged at the corners from talking too much. A silk ribbon was tied around her neck, and her saddle shoes were still dusted from the walk across the fields. She wore a cherry-red gingham dress with puffed sleeves and white buttons down the front, and her voice had a high, singsong lilt as she laughed through some drawn-out story about a pie-baking contest gone wrong. Her perfume was powdery sweet, and she laughed often, too often, but Taehyung wasn’t really listening.
He nodded occasionally, muttered a “mhm,” every few seconds, but his eyes were far off, trailing over the open field in front of them, scanning the gentle swell of green and golden brown.
His gaze wandered, inattentive, until it landed on a figure stepping out into the gold-drenched field.
Jimin.
He was holding a woven fruit basket in both arms, filled to the brim with peaches and ripe apples that glinted in the sunset light. The fabric of his pale blue shirt clinging slightly to his back. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and a few strands of hair stuck to his damp forehead. A thin sheen of sweat ran down the slope of his temple, catching in the hollow of his cheek. His skin, golden and sun-kissed, glowed in the amber light. His freckled nose crinkled slightly as he adjusted the weight of the basket.
Taehyung sat up straighter, the cigarette shifting slightly between his lips.
“Are you even listenin’, Tae?” the girl beside him asked, tilting her head in a way that made her curls bounce.
“Yeah, yeah,” Taehyung said smoothly, pushing off the bench and standing up, brushing a bit of dirt from the front of his pants. “Hold that thought, sweetheart.”
The girl blinked, lips parting to say something, but he was already walking away, flicking the cigarette to the ground and grinding it into the dirt with the heel of his boot.
He didn’t rush, just strolled over, hands in his pockets, slow and sure of himself.
Jimin’s back was to him, and he didn't look up until Taehyung’s voice reached him, smooth as the twilight breeze.
“You always carry baskets like that or are you tryin’ to look sweet on purpose?”
Jimin didn’t stop walking. “Go flirt with your little girlfriend,” he said flatly.
Taehyung grinned, unbothered. “She’s not my girlfriend,” he said easily. “Didn’t even ask her name. Just needed a place to sit.”
Jimin adjusted the basket in his arms, keeping his eyes forward. “Well, now you’ve got your entertainment back. Go on.”
“You jealous, angel?”
The nickname made Jimin’s fingers tighten slightly around the handle of the basket. He stopped, just briefly, but didn’t turn. “You think everything’s about you.”
“Can’t help it if people got eyes,” Taehyung drawled, stepping closer. “’Sides, wasn’t talkin’ about people. Was talkin’ about you.”
Jimin finally turned, brows pinched, his jaw tight. “Why are you always like this?”
“Like what?”
“Hot and cold,” Jimin muttered, biting the inside of his cheek. “You show up at my window and call me pretty names, and then the next day you’re out there with some girl like it never happened.”
Taehyung looked at him, something unreadable passing through his eyes before he smoothed it over with a lazy smile. “That bother you?”
Jimin’s face twisted. “No,” he said too quickly, shifting the basket in his arms again. “Just feels like a joke to you.”
Taehyung leaned in slightly, hands still in his pockets, voice lowered now. “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. If it were a joke, I’d be laughing.”
Jimin’s gaze didn’t waver, but his jaw clenched. “You’re always laughing.”
They stood there in silence for a moment, the field quiet except for the low hum of the radio coming from inside the barn and the far-off sound of a tractor engine winding down.
Then Jimin turned away. “I’ve got work to do.”
But Taehyung didn’t leave.
Of course he didn’t.
His boots crunched lightly over the dry dirt as he followed a few steps behind Jimin, hands still in his pockets, that usual cocky ease lingering in his posture like it was sewn into him. The breeze tossed his hair slightly across his brow, but his eyes never left the soft curve of Jimin’s shoulders as he walked ahead.
“I’ll carry it,” Taehyung offered, stepping closer again, nodding toward the fruit basket in Jimin’s arms. “You’re lookin’ like you’re about to drop it.”
“I’m fine,” Jimin said, not slowing down.
“Come on,” Taehyung drawled, reaching out now. “Let me-”
“No.” Jimin pulled the basket closer to his chest.
But Taehyung was already at his side, his hand brushing over the rim of the basket.
“Jesus, Jimin, just let me-”
“I said no.” Jimin took a step to the side.
But that was the problem with Taehyung. He never listened. Never thought.
He didn’t think about how people might be watching from the barn. Didn’t think about how fast gossip grew like rot in this town. About how fast something innocent could be turned cruel, especially when it came to Jimin. Especially when it came to them.
So Taehyung just laughed softly, still convinced he was being charming, and grabbed at the handle.
“I can handle a few peaches, sweetheart.”
“Taehyung- stop-”
There was a tug. Then another. Jimin's grip tightened, his arms curled defensively around the basket.
“I said I got it-”
But Taehyung pulled too hard.
The basket twisted awkwardly in both their hands, and then it slipped, landing with a hollow thud on the ground.
Fruit scattered like coins tossed into the dirt. Apples rolled across the grass, one splitting open on a rock. A cluster of strawberries hit the barn wall and bounced to the ground, already bruising. A peach squashed under Jimin’s boot as he stepped back in shock.
Everything went still.
The air around them thickened.
Jimin stared at the mess, his chest rising and falling. His fists clenched, eyes stinging.
Slowly, he lowered himself to his knees and began picking up the fruit. Silently. Carefully. One by one. Fingers trembling as he brushed dust and gravel off the strawberries.
Taehyung stood there awkwardly, guilt finally stirring in his chest. “I didn’t mean-”
But his nerves got the better of him. And his mouth, his damn mouth, moved before his thoughts could stop it.
“Didn’t think you’d get on your knees for me that fast.”
Silence.
Heavy. Crashing.
Even the wind seemed to stop.
Jimin froze, one hand still hovering over a bruised apple. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His breath caught halfway through his chest and stayed there.
Taehyung realised what he’d said.
His smile vanished.
“Shit- Jimin, wait- I didn’t mean-”
But it was too late.
Jimin stood slowly, the basket now empty in one hand. He turned toward Taehyung, eyes wide with hurt and something deeper, something that had been building for days, years maybe.
And before Taehyung could say another word-
CRACK.
The edge of the basket slammed hard across Taehyung’s face.
He stumbled back, one hand flying to his cheek, a sharp gasp leaving his throat. Red bloomed just under his eye where the wooden handle had split the skin. A scratch dragged up toward his temple. The pain came fast and stinging, heat swelling beneath it.
Gasps echoed from somewhere behind them.
People had started to turn. To stare.
Taehyung blinked past the burn in his eyes.
And then the first strawberry hit him.
Smashed against his chest, red juice staining the white of his shirt like blood.
Then another.
And another.
Jimin was hurling them, hand over fist, voice cracking as he yelled through his tears.
“You always do this!”
Another apple thudded into Taehyung’s stomach.
“You think it’s funny!”
Strawberries splattered across his face now, across the cut on his cheek, seeping into his collar.
“You treat me like a joke- like I’m- like I’m nothing!”
His voice broke completely at the end, and so did he.
His arms dropped.
Tears spilled freely down his cheeks, a flush running high across his nose, his chest heaving like it hurt to breathe.
Taehyung didn’t move.
He couldn’t.
He’d never seen Jimin like this. Not like this.
And then a hand grabbed Jimin from behind, strong and sudden.
Jimin turned in shock, already flinching, only to see his father.
His arms wrapped tight around him, locking across his chest like bars. The old man’s face was stern but not unkind, eyes shadowed with something hard to read, disappointment, maybe, but worry too. Deep, aching worry.
Jimin struggled weakly at first. But his tears overwhelmed him again, and he collapsed into the embrace, still whispering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry-”
His father didn’t say a word. Just turned him around and started leading him away, holding him close as they crossed the field, Jimin’s head bowed low, his body still shaking with sobs.
The crowd had fully stopped by now. A ring of silence and stares surrounding the chaos.
And Taehyung stood in the middle of it all.
Blood on his cheek. Strawberries crushed into his shirt. His lip swollen. His hands still hanging by his sides.
Then, wordless, he knelt down.
He began picking up the fruit.
One by one.
The sun dipped fully behind the trees as he moved through the dirt, his fingers shaking, his shoulders heavy with a weight he didn’t know how to name.
And the taste in his mouth wasn’t the iron from the blood.
It was shame.
His father’s grip on his arm was iron.
Jimin stumbled beside him, his legs barely keeping up, his fingers clutched tight into the fabric of his father’s sleeve like he couldn’t breathe without holding on. His face was buried against his father’s arm, muffling the sharp, broken sobs that tore from his chest. His knees buckled once, but the older man didn’t stop. Just kept dragging him through the field, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like stone.
Jimin cried the whole way.
Tears streamed hot down his cheeks, carving lines through the dirt that had smeared across his face. His eyes were red, raw, already beginning to swell. His hair clung to his forehead in damp strands, curling from the sweat and heat of the day. His lips trembled and his whole body shook, shoulders convulsing in the hiccupping rhythm of a storm that wouldn’t pass.
By the time they reached the house, his legs barely worked. His hands were trembling. His chest hurt.
The front door flew open with a slam.
His mother came rushing into the hallway, her apron still on, hands wringing nervously in front of her. “What on earth-?”
But she stopped cold when she saw her son. Her eyes scanned the mess of him, his blotchy face, his crushed shirt, the dirt and fruit stains down his arms.
Then her husband spoke, loud and sharp.
“Get inside.”
He shoved Jimin roughly forward.
Jimin stumbled across the wooden floor, falling to his knees.
The wind was knocked from his lungs, but he didn’t get up. He just stayed there. Curled on the floor, his arms wrapped loosely around himself, tears still slipping down his cheeks in thick, fast lines. His hands gripped the fabric of his pants to keep from shaking.
“What is wrong with you?” his father thundered. “You think you can just act like a goddamn animal in front of half the town? Do you even think before you open your damn mouth?”
“Please,” his mother said quietly, stepping forward. “Just what happened?”
“I’ll tell you what happened,” he spat, pointing toward Jimin like he was filth on the floor. “Your son made a fool of himself. Of this family. Out there screamin’, throwin’ food like he’s rabid, like he doesn’t got a lick of dignity. What the hell are you playin’ at, boy?”
Jimin squeezed his eyes shut, his head ducking lower. He gripped his arms tighter as the humiliation and fear choked his breath.
His mother knelt beside him slowly, hand reaching to rest on his shoulder. “Sweetheart, Jiminie, just.. tell us what happened”
Jimin looked up.
His face was wet, eyelashes soaked, eyes wide and bloodshot. His nose was pink and running, his lips parted like he was trying to breathe through water. And then it spilled from him, sharper, louder, cracked and hoarse:
“Why do you hate me so much?!”
His parents froze.
Jimin sat up fully now, his chest heaving, tears dripping down his chin.
“Why?! Why do you both look at me like I’m not enough?! Like I embarrass you just by being here!”
His mother reached for him again, but he jerked away from her touch.
“I try! I try to be good, I try to be quiet, I try to do everything right, but it’s never enough for you!” His fists clenched against the floorboards. “Everyone at this stupid farm hates me! I’ve been bullied since I was a kid, and you never even looked at me twice!”
His father’s face paled slightly, but Jimin wasn’t done.
“I can’t do this anymore, I can’t live like this! Like I’m just- waiting for someone else to hate me next! like I’m wrong just for being who I am!”
His voice cracked again.
“I wish I was never born!!”
The words echoed.
Thick and sharp.
A silence followed that was unbearable. The kind that sucked all air from the room.
“In fact, I wish I was dead!”
And he turned. Bolted up the stairs before either of them could stop him.
His mother called after him, voice trembling, but his feet hit the wood too fast, and the door to his room slammed shut so hard it rattled the windowpanes.
He collapsed on his bed face-first, the pillow catching the weight of his sobs. He didn’t hold back. Not this time.
He cried until his throat ached and his fingers curled into the sheets so tightly his knuckles turned white. He buried his face so deep into the fabric that the sound of his own ragged breathing echoed back into his ears. His body trembled violently with every gasp, every choked whimper. He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t breathe.
His chest was crushed with shame, anger, sadness so deep it felt ancient.
His face turned to the side, and his eyes caught on the small purple flower.
It was stuck to the wall beside the window, pressed gently above his dresser.
Jimin had taken it out the day Taehyung came to his window. He didn’t want to throw it away again. He knew he’d take it back.
He always did.
It was crushed a little at the edges now, petals brittle and curling, but it still held onto its colour. Still purple. Still alive.
And that made it worse.
Jimin sobbed harder, curling in on himself as he turned his back to it. His fingers tugged the pillow closer to his face.
He didn’t want to see it anymore.
He didn’t want to feel this anymore.
He just wanted to disappear.
1923
The classroom smelled of chalk dust and old wood, lit gold by the low afternoon sun streaming through the tall windows. It was a warm day, warm enough to make the fabric of Jimin’s shirt cling to the small of his back as he crouched near the front desk, quietly sweeping pencil shavings and scraps of paper into a rusted tin pan. His knees pressed into the wooden floorboards, catching every scratch and groove. It was his turn to clean. That meant staying behind while the rest of the boys were meant to help, though none of them ever did.
They loitered instead. All four of them, leaning against desks or perched on them, loud with laughter and lazy drawls. Their shirts half-untucked, ties loosened, knuckles scabbed and dirt under their nails. And Taehyung, of course, in the middle of it all like always. Slouched against the back window, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar open just enough to look careless on purpose. His eyes were somewhere distant, glassy from boredom or the late-day sun.
Jimin tried to focus. He adjusted the tin pan in one hand and pushed the sweepings into it with the other, his head ducked low. The floor was already clean. He’d just started sweeping the same spot again. It kept him busy. Kept his hands from shaking.
“Damn,” one of the boys muttered suddenly, low but sharp enough to make the others turn. “Look at him. On his knees like that.”
The boys snickered. Jimin’s shoulders tensed. He kept his head down.
“I bet he does that for the teacher too,” another chimed in, louder. “You know, extra marks for extra service.”
A burst of laughter. Louder now. Cruel. Jimin’s ears burned.
“I said that to my brother,” one of them added, voice pitching higher as he mocked, “‘There’s this boy in my class, real quiet, always cleaning and batting his lashes at the teacher.’” He grinned, wide. “Told him I think he’s one of those... you know.”
His words rang through the room like a slap. The laughter got uglier. Jimin froze, the broom still in his hand, the tin pan wobbling slightly where it rested on the floor. His throat burned.
“It’s not true,” he said quickly, voice shaking. “I don’t- I didn’t-”
But that only made them laugh harder.
Jimin’s eyes shot to Taehyung. He was still leaning against the window, arms folded. And though his smile was faint, maybe even unsure, he laughed too. Not loud. Not cruel like the others. But enough. Enough to slice right through Jimin’s chest.
Jimin swallowed thickly. He wanted to speak, to beg him to stop, to say something, anything, but the words stuck.
Taehyung didn’t meet his gaze. He didn’t even look at him.
The bell rang faintly from somewhere across the schoolyard. It startled the birds outside, and their cries filled the silence as the boys got up to leave.
“See you tomorrow, princess,” Taehyung had said, voice mocking. As he passed Jimin, he tipped over a pile of papers onto him, letting them scatter like confetti across the floor.
The room emptied. The door slammed shut. And Jimin stayed kneeling on the floor, surrounded by papers, trembling.
His fingers reached out slowly, numb, to gather the papers. His vision blurred as hot tears spilled over and dropped soundlessly onto the floor.
They’d dried by the time the teacher returned.
Present - 1930s
Taehyung wasn’t dumb. He knew, had always known, that the things he said could be cruel. That the way he carried himself, the things he did to certain people, especially Jimin, weren’t always fair. Weren’t ever fair.
He told himself it was harmless. That it was just teasing. Just for laughs. But sometimes, late at night, when the room was dark and too quiet, when the cigarette between his fingers had long since turned to ash and the alcohol buzz had worn off, the thoughts would creep in.
The shame would curl in his gut like rot. Like a sickness.
He would think back to the things he’d said, the way Jimin’s face had crumpled once, or the way his voice would tremble mid-sentence, still trying to sound strong. Still trying to smile. Still trying to pretend it didn’t hurt. And Taehyung would remember the exact moment the joke stopped being funny and he had said it anyway. Just to keep up the act.
What could he do?
He had a reputation. And a man’s best friend was his dignity and his reputation. That was what he'd been taught since he was old enough to understand what the word “man” was supposed to mean.
You keep your chin up, you don’t cry, you don’t back down. You laugh first so no one laughs at you. You flirt with the girls, you drink when the boys do, you pick a fight before someone picks on you. You stay tough. You stay charming. You keep your secrets buried where no one can reach them.
You survive.
So Taehyung wore the skin of someone else. Someone louder. Smoother. Untouchable. He walked with a swagger that wasn’t really his, wore a smile that felt like armour. He spoke with careless confidence and leaned into the chaos like he was made for it.
He convinced everyone that he didn’t care.
Sometimes, he convinced himself too.
But the truth lingered in his chest like smoke.
Because Taehyung knew this wasn’t who he really was. He knew the person his friends loved was only a mask. A version of himself he stitched together out of fear, fear of standing alone. Fear of being different. Of being cast out. Of being seen like Jimin.
Which was ironic.
Because out of everyone in that damn town, Jimin was the only person Taehyung actually liked.
He liked the way Jimin’s voice softened when he spoke to animals. The way he blushed when he was flustered. The tiny constellation of freckles scattered across his cheeks, and the way his brows pulled together when he was concentrating. He liked the way Jimin never really fit in, but still tried to. Still held his chin up. Still came back the next day, even after everything.
But he couldn’t like him. Not like that.
Because that kind of liking wasn’t allowed.
That kind of liking could ruin you.
And Taehyung wasn’t willing to give up everything, his place, his image, his safety, for something he was convinced would never work. One day, he’d marry a woman. A pretty one, the kind his parents approved of. They’d have a house, a child, maybe two. He’d work. He’d laugh. He’d forget.
That’s what he told himself.
But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stay away from Jimin.
So instead, he stayed close in the only way he knew how: by teasing him. Mocking him. Picking and prodding and pushing until Jimin would snap and cry or yell or storm away, and Taehyung would feel that flicker of guilt again, sharp and cold in his stomach.
But he never stopped.
Because being cruel was easier than being honest. Hurting Jimin was easier than admitting the truth. Easier than facing the feelings that burned at the edges of his chest every time Jimin walked into the room.
He thought he was protecting himself.
He didn’t realise how deeply he was hurting Jimin.
And maybe, if he ever did.. it would be too late to fix.
The sun rose hot and heavy that morning, painting the sky in hazy golds and dusty rose, the kind of morning where the air already clung to the skin like sweat-soaked linen. Crickets chirped lazily in the fields, and the wind barely stirred, thick with the scent of dry grass and manure and summer stillness.
But the farm wasn’t quiet.
Not really.
Gossip spread like wildfire, hissing and crackling through the barns, the fields, the kitchens, and porches. It sizzled over breakfast tables and fluttered through open windows. Quiet whispers and loud mutterings that sparked into something louder with every telling.
People said the Park boy had gone mad.
That he’d lost it. Snapped in public, right in front of Kim Taehyung, of all people. Hit him square across the face and then thrown fruit like a man possessed. Some said they’d seen blood. Others claimed it was strawberry juice. Either way, the story had grown legs and started running, and no one was stopping it.
Of course, none of the whispers ever harmed Taehyung.
No, never him.
He was still the golden boy. Charming and tall with a crooked grin and easy laughter. To most, it wasn’t Taehyung’s shame, it was Jimin’s shame. All the fingers pointed one way.
“Maybe he’s just not right in the head,” someone muttered behind a produce cart.
“He’s always been a bit… different,” came another voice from the quilting bench.
“You think his parents’ll take him to the doctor?”
“God knows they should.”
Jimin knew, of course. He always knew. He didn’t need to hear it directly, the shift in the air told him everything.
The way voices softened as he passed. The way glances turned sharp and suspicious. The way people smiled too tightly, or not at all.
Still, he didn’t hide.
He could’ve stayed in his room. Closed the curtains. Buried his face in his pillow like he had the night before, crying until his chest ached. But he didn’t. He knew that hiding would only make it worse. Let them talk. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of watching him break again.
So he walked across the fields, alone, with a basket in each hand, feed for the animals shifting heavily against his fingers. His arms trembled with the weight, but he didn’t complain. Didn’t stop. His eyes were still slightly swollen, rimmed red from hours of crying, and dark circles sat heavy beneath them. His lips were dry, and his stomach churned, hollow from skipping dinner and breakfast both.
The heat pressed down on him like a punishment. His skin, usually glowing with that soft honeyed hue, now looked dulled, washed out, almost sickly. His freckled cheeks burned more from shame than sunlight.
But he kept walking.
The henhouse stood ahead, its whitewashed wood peeling under the sun, feathers floating in the air like dust motes. Chickens clucked and stirred as he neared, pecking at the dirt as if unaware of the storm that followed him.
Jimin lowered the baskets beside the coop, fingers numb, and knelt with practiced effort, scattering the feed like he’d done a hundred times before.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a figure.
Tall. Broad. Sleeves rolled up. Muscles flexing as he hoisted something heavy, maybe a sack of grain or a shovel. Sunlight lit his tousled dark hair in soft bronze and caught the curve of his cheekbone as he moved.
Taehyung.
Of course he was here.
Jimin swallowed hard, pretending not to see him. Not to feel the sting behind his eyes or the way his chest squeezed painfully tight. He focused on the feed, fingers trembling just slightly as he sprinkled it across the dry earth. The chickens fluttered closer, squawking and pecking greedily.
Behind him, he heard footsteps.
Getting closer.
His heart jumped, anxiety tightening his throat. The heat seemed to magnify, pressing down on his shoulders. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck.
“You alright?”
Taehyung’s voice was low, hesitant.
Jimin didn’t respond.
He kept his eyes on the feed, jaw clenched. Pretending the words weren’t meant for him. Pretending he couldn’t hear the voice that had made him cry the hardest he ever had.
Taehyung tried again.
“About yesterday… I didn’t mean it, you know?” He gave a quiet laugh, awkward, forced. “I was just messing around. Didn’t think you’d take it so seriously.”
Still nothing.
The sun glared overhead. Jimin’s head throbbed beneath it, the air shimmering, the dirt spinning faintly beneath him. His vision blurred at the edges as he reached for another handful of grain. His arms felt heavier than they should. His knees buckled ever so slightly.
Taehyung took a step closer, voice softer now. “Jimin?”
The feed slipped from Jimin’s fingers.
His breath caught. The pounding in his head grew louder. His legs gave out completely, and in one sickening, silent second..
Everything went black.
Taehyung’s eyes widened the moment Jimin’s body collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut, falling hard against the dry straw-covered ground. For a second, he didn’t move, he just stood there, paralysed, his chest hollowing out as a sharp chill cut through the thick heat.
Then he dropped to his knees beside him.
“Shit- Jimin,” Taehyung whispered, breath catching as he stared at Jimin’s still frame.
Hay stuck to Jimin’s face, clinging to the sweat that coated his skin like dew. His lips were dry, cracked at the edges, and his usually warm, honey-toned complexion was drained of all colour, almost ghostly pale under the ruthless sun.
“Fuck,” Taehyung muttered again, panic twisting in his gut. His hands hovered above Jimin before finally resting gently on his shoulder, giving him a soft shake. “Jimin- hey, hey.”
No response.
Taehyung slapped his cheek lightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to jolt. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t do this- wake up.”
Still nothing.
The panic surged harder now, burning through his chest and clouding his mind. With a sharp inhale, Taehyung slid his arms beneath Jimin’s limp body and scooped him up in one fluid movement, bridal style, his grip immediately tightening when he felt how light Jimin was.
Too light.
Jimin’s head lolled against his shoulder, his hair damp, and the warmth of his body was feverish.
Taehyung all but sprinted out of the henhouse, heart pounding, breath coming short and ragged as he stumbled across the field. The sun beat down mercilessly, the dry air like smoke in his lungs, but he didn’t slow. He kept glancing down every few seconds, his jaw clenched, praying for Jimin to stir, to speak, to even groan, anything. But there was nothing, just the occasional weak whine, a sound so small it barely pierced through the wind.
His boots kicked up dirt as he ran, one arm supporting Jimin’s back, the other under his legs, holding him as if letting go might break him further.
“Taehyung!”
The voice cracked through the heat like a whip.
He skidded to a stop, nearly stumbling under the weight of Jimin’s body. He turned, breath heaving, eyes wide with alarm.
Jennie was running toward him.
Her long dark hair whipped behind her like a ribbon in the wind, and she wore a button-down shirt haphazardly thrown over a pair of worn denim shorts. Her boots hit the dirt with quick, urgent steps, face flushed not from the heat, but from panic.
“What happened?” she cried the moment she reached them, her breath catching as her eyes locked onto Jimin. “What did you do to him?”
Taehyung’s chest was rising and falling like thunder. “I didn’t- he just collapsed, I don’t-”
“Is he even breathing? He looks like he’s about to- Jesus, Taehyung!” she snapped, her hands fluttering, useless in the air between them.
“I know!” he shouted back, raw. “I know, alright?! So maybe shut the hell up and help me!”
Jennie blinked, stunned into silence.
The only sound was Jimin’s shallow breathing.
She turned, face hardening, and muttered, “Follow me. Hurry.”
Without another word, she took off through the path toward her house, feet kicking up dust. Taehyung adjusted his hold on Jimin, arms aching now, but he held tighter, like letting go would make Jimin disappear. The walk wasn’t far, but with each step, the weight of everything pressed down harder, his guilt, his fear, the heat. His arms trembled slightly, not from weakness, but from the sheer storm raging inside him.
Jimin let out another small whimper in his sleep, brow twitching.
Taehyung looked down, his voice barely a whisper. “You’re okay… you’re okay…”
When they reached Jennie’s front porch, she shoved the door open and turned to him quickly.
“Wait” Taehyung said, suddenly freezing in the doorway. “Jennie.. your father-”
“He’s not home,” she said firmly, eyes sharp. “But we need to be quick. You know he’ll skin you alive if he finds you here.”
Taehyung gave a quick, shaky nod before stepping inside.
Her house smelled of worn wood and dried herbs, slightly sweet with a lingering trace of tobacco. The interior was dim, only slits of light sneaking through the curtains. Jennie led him to her bedroom without another word.
It was small, cozy, and slightly messy, knitted blankets half-folded over the edge of her bed, a vanity cluttered with combs, pins, and half-used lipstick. A mirror was cracked slightly on the corner, and the soft scent of lavender clung to the air.
Taehyung gently laid Jimin down on the bed, brushing a few strands of hair from his face as he did. Jimin didn’t stir.
“Get out of the way,” Jennie said, rushing forward with a glass of water and a rag.
Taehyung stepped back but didn’t go far, just hovered by the side of the bed, eyes locked on Jimin’s face.
Jennie dipped the rag into the glass and wrung it out, then pressed it gently to Jimin’s forehead, wiping away the sweat and dirt. She moved with familiarity, like someone who had done this before, maybe for her younger siblings, maybe for a sick mother. “He’s dehydrated. Probably heat exhaustion,” she muttered. “And he hasn’t eaten. Look at him.”
Taehyung didn’t answer.
His eyes never left Jimin. He noticed how dry his lips were, how pale his freckles looked against his skin, how his lashes stuck to his cheeks from the sweat. His brows were furrowed, and every now and then, he let out a soft, pained sound, like even in unconsciousness, his body was trying to fight.
“He needs rest,” Jennie continued, adjusting the blanket beneath Jimin and fanning him lightly with a paper fan. “And sugar. He needs to eat something.”
Taehyung nodded slowly, swallowing hard. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t think…”
Jennie didn’t look up. “You never do.”
But Taehyung didn’t snap back this time.
He just kept staring.
At the boy he couldn’t stay away from.
At the boy he kept hurting, even when he didn’t want to.
At the boy who might’ve passed out from the very weight Taehyung had helped place on his shoulders.
And for the first time, maybe ever, Taehyung felt truly afraid.
He sat there in silence, barely blinking, as if by watching close enough, he could will Jimin back to him.
And Jimin, in his sleep, turned his head slightly toward Taehyung’s voice.
Notes:
a tense chapter 3 but im excited to write the next one!
Chapter 4: unripe apologies
Notes:
I just want to start off by saying thank you so so much for all the wonderful comments you guys have been leaving. I truly love reading them so much and it really motivates me to keep writing (hence why chapter 4 came so quickly hehe) I hope you enjoy this tense chapter!!
songs for this chapter:
cinnamon girl - lana del rey
so high school - taylor swift
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The ceiling was unfamiliar.
Soft white with subtle patterns, like lace stretched across sunlight. Pale shadows danced faintly against it, floral silhouettes filtered through thin curtains, and the light had a lavender tint, as though it had passed through petals on its way in.
Jimin blinked slowly, then again. His eyelashes fluttered, catching the light like ink strokes across a blank page. He didn’t move at first, just laid there, still and quiet, his chest rising and falling in a measured rhythm as his senses gradually returned to him.
The room smelled different.
Not like his. His room always smelled of dust and old cotton, and sometimes hay if he’d forgotten to shake it out of his clothes. But here… here it smelled faintly of lilacs. Clean, sweet. Like pressed flowers tucked inside a book.
His brows furrowed slightly. This wasn’t his room.
The ceiling was too high. The fabric hanging near the windows was too sheer. The air too gentle.
He stayed frozen for a while, letting his mind crawl back into his body.
What happened?
There were fragments, jagged and glinting in the corners of his memory. He remembered standing in the chicken hen, the basket heavy in his hands. The sun had been too bright. His heart too fast. And then-
Taehyung.
The memory of it hit him like cold water. The heat, the dizziness, Taehyung’s voice somewhere near his ear, then nothing. He’d passed out. In front of him.
A soft gasp escaped Jimin’s lips as he bolted upright, panic spreading like static under his skin, but he was immediately struck with a sharp pain behind his forehead. He winced, groaning softly, and brought a hand to his temple, the skin there clammy with cold sweat.
“Jimin?”
The voice startled him, soft and familiar but unexpected. Jimin turned his head quickly, too quickly, but the ache kept him sluggish. In the corner of the room, a girl rose from a seat in front of a vanity.
Jennie.
Her dark hair was loosely braided over her shoulder, a few strands curling around her face, her blouse pale and tucked neatly into her skirt, though slightly rumpled now. She must’ve been sitting there for a while. Her eyes were wide with concern as she stood, heels of her shoes softly tapping the floor.
She’d been there the whole time?
Jimin’s eyes scanned the room, he realised only now how feminine it was. The lace curtains. The porcelain figurines along a shelf. A few books stacked beside a glass of water on a nightstand. The bedding soft, neatly arranged even as it shifted beneath him. A small, delicate bedroom.
He was in Jennie’s room.
Panic curled up in his throat again, but he swallowed it.
“Are you okay?” Jennie asked, rushing to him, reaching out to steady his shoulder. “You scared the life out of me, don’t sit up so fast.”
Jimin was still gripping his head with one hand, his breath uneven as he tried to focus. “M’fine,” he mumbled, voice hoarse.
“No, you’re not. You collapsed. You looked- God, you looked awful, Jimin.”
He shook his head gently and pushed her hand away as he tried to rise. “I’m just dizzy,” he said quietly, trying to gather his legs beneath him. “I haven’t eaten… that’s all. I’ll go eat now.”
She caught his wrist gently as he stood, not forcefully, just hesitantly. Her eyes were scanning him as though she didn’t believe a word he said.
“Are you sure?”
“I said I’m fine,” he whispered again, avoiding her gaze.
Jennie hesitated, chewing her bottom lip before glancing at the floor. Then, softly, “Taehyung brought you here.”
Jimin froze in place.
“What?”
“He was carrying you,” she added, watching his face closely. “Running with you in his arms. You were passed out cold. I- I thought something happened. I thought maybe he’d hurt you.”
Jimin’s heart thumped harder in his chest, the pressure building again behind his eyes. That image, Taehyung’s arms around him, the sun, the dust, rushed back in a blur. But he remembered it hazily, like a dream barely out of reach. He remembered hearing his name, barely, like it came from underwater. Could it have been real?
“Did he… do something to you?”
Jennie’s voice was more serious now. Almost protective.
Jimin didn’t speak for a few seconds. His hands clenched slightly at his sides.
“No,” he said at last, voice low. “He didn’t do anything.”
She looked at him with concern still etched into her face, as if waiting for more. But there was nothing else Jimin was willing to give. His face tightened, and before she could say anything else, he turned toward the door.
“Jimin-”
“I should go,” he said quickly, quietly, not meeting her eyes. “Thanks for… for helping.”
He was already halfway out when Jennie called after him again, but he didn’t look back.
Because if he had, she might’ve seen it, the slight redness still around his eyes, the way his hand trembled as he reached for the doorknob. He walked out into the hallway with heavy steps, the scent of lilacs clinging faintly to his clothes, and that sharp ache still blooming quietly behind his ribs.
And all he could hear, no matter how hard he tried to drown it out, was Taehyung’s voice calling his name.
Jimin was serious when he said he needed to eat something. The ache in his stomach had turned hollow, his legs still slightly unsteady from the earlier collapse. As much as he wanted to retreat into solitude, he knew starving himself wouldn't fix anything. So, with each tired step down the dirt road, he headed toward the only place in town he knew would feed him without asking too many questions.
The saloon stood tall at the edge of the main road, a wide, two-story structure with dark wood panels sun-bleached at the edges. Its large swinging doors creaked when they moved, the sound somehow both familiar and lonely. The hand-painted sign above it read Mureung’s Tavern & Spirits, letters faded by years of rain and dust. It was one of the few buildings that hadn’t been repainted in decades, and the town liked it that way. You didn’t walk in here for charm, you walked in to forget.
Inside, the air was thick with tobacco smoke and the scent of beer-soaked floorboards. The lighting was dim, with gas lamps casting golden haloes on the walls. A piano stood crookedly in one corner, untouched. The bar stretched across the back, its counter worn and chipped, lined with mismatched stools. Shelves behind it were cluttered with bottles, some dusty, some half-empty, and a smudged mirror reflected the room in ripples.
Jimin stepped in slowly, eyes blinking as they adjusted. The saloon wasn’t crowded, just a few men scattered across tables in work shirts and suspenders, mumbling over drinks or playing cards. A low hum of conversation filled the space, punctuated by the clink of glasses and the groan of shifting stools.
He made his way to the bar and settled on a stool near the end, keeping his distance. He didn’t bother glancing at who sat beside him, didn’t care. He raised a hand to the bartender.
“Whiskey. And a plate of whatever you’re servin’ today,” Jimin murmured, voice soft but certain.
The bartender, a heavyset man with a greying moustache, gave a nod and shuffled off.
Jimin exhaled. His arm bent at the elbow, he rested his cheek against his palm and stared forward. The shelves of glass bottles blurred in his vision, his body still exhausted, his brain floating just behind. The mirror in front of him caught a faint glimpse of his own reflection, eyes still slightly puffy, freckles visible even in the low light, skin paler than its usual honeyed hue. He looked… small. Hollow. Not broken, not yet, but certainly close.
He was so lost in his haze that he didn’t notice the pair of eyes watching him until the weight of them grew heavy.
He blinked and slowly turned his head, keeping his cheek lazily rested in his palm. His gaze met the man beside him.
The stranger quickly looked away, clearing his throat. “Ah- Sorry. Didn’t mean to stare.”
Jimin didn’t respond. He studied him.
He recognised the man in a vague, passing sort of way. He'd seen him before, here and there, maybe at the general store, maybe in passing near the cattle sheds. He’d always struck Jimin as… clumsy, maybe a little awkward. But undeniably striking. And not in the loud, show-off way that Taehyung was. No, this man had a quieter charm, like the kind you’d only notice if you took your time.
His hair was dark and thick, the kind that never lay flat, strands constantly curling at the edges of his ears and collar. His skin was tanned from fieldwork, smooth and dusted with the lightest flush, probably from the whiskey in front of him. His jaw was strong, lips plush, his nose slightly bruised as if from an accident or a fight long since passed. His eyes were deep and dark, like river water just after sunset, holding something unspoken in their quiet watchfulness.
He looked over again, slower this time, and offered a small smile. It was crooked. Gentle.
“Rough day?” the man asked.
Jimin blinked. He hadn’t expected him to speak again.
And more than that, he hadn’t expected it to sound like that, low, warm, like the hum of a cello. Like he meant it.
For a moment, Jimin didn’t reply. He wasn’t trying to be rude, he just… didn’t know how to respond. No one asked Jimin about his day. No one ever really wanted to know.
He sat up a little straighter, removing his hand from his face. “More like a rough week,” he said eventually, voice barely louder than before.
The man nodded slowly, as if he understood without needing the details. “Well,” he said, lifting his glass, “Weeks like those don’t last forever. Things get better. Sometimes.”
It wasn’t a revolutionary thing to say. It wasn’t poetic. But something in the way he said it, the sincerity, the ease, made Jimin’s chest feel a little less tight. The words wrapped around him like a quilt fresh off the line.
He looked down at the counter and then back at the stranger. A slow, hesitant smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
It felt… real. The first genuine smile in what felt like months.
“I’m Jimin,” he said softly, meeting his eyes.
The man leaned his elbow on the counter and tilted his head with the faintest smirk. “Jeon Jungkook.”
And as if the universe had planned it, right then, just as Jimin’s lips still held that fragile smile, the saloon’s old radio crackled to life behind the bar. A song began to play, low and dusty through the speaker, the soft croon of a jazz singer accompanied by a slow, dreamy piano.
> “I only have eyes… for you…”
The notes drifted into the air like dust, curling around the space between them. Jimin’s fingers lightly tapped the edge of his glass. Jungkook looked at him once more, still smiling.
And for the first time in a very, very long time, Jimin didn’t feel like a freak.
He felt like someone worth talking to.
Like someone being seen.
The sun had started its slow descent behind the hills, turning the entire town a warm, glimmering shade of gold. Long shadows stretched across the dirt road, carving lines through the dust and wood and tall grass. Jimin stepped out of the saloon with Jungkook, the swinging doors creaking softly behind them, swaying in the heat. The air was thick, a little too warm for comfort, but the breeze was gentle now, brushing past their cheeks like a breath of relief after a long day.
Jimin was laughing, truly laughing, head tipped slightly back, his cheeks flushed, not just from the whiskey but from something lighter, freer. His mouth curled easily, his lips parted in a smile that showed his teeth, and the laugh itself was melodic, the kind of laugh that made people turn their heads just to hear it again. It rang out like something old and beautiful, like music from a worn vinyl, soft and sweet but full of something raw underneath. It made the moment feel alive, like the town itself was holding its breath just to let that sound exist a little longer.
Jungkook had just told a stupid joke, something about the bartender mixing up orders, and then tripped over his own boots trying to imitate the scene. He was laughing too, hand on his stomach, shoulders hunched a little as he caught his breath.
“I swear,” he wheezed between chuckles, “I walk straight until someone’s watching.”
That only made Jimin laugh harder. His body curled forward slightly, hand going to his chest like the sound was too much to contain. His eyes were squeezed shut in joy, lashes catching the sunlight, glinting gold. For the first time in days, no, weeks, he didn’t feel like a freak. Or a burden. Or broken. He just felt... normal. Happy, even.
But then, like the flick of a match, it all stopped.
Jimin slowed mid-step, his smile fading. The laughter caught in his throat like a stone.
A shadow had cut across the dirt road.
Taehyung.
He stood just a few paces ahead, his frame tall and unmoving beneath the amber light of the setting sun. The silhouette of his shoulders was sharp against the sky, and in his hand, a rusted toolbox hung, fingers clenched around the handle so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. Veins bulged along the side of his wrist, straining. His chest was rising and falling just slightly faster than it should’ve been. His shirt, white and dirt-stained, clung to the muscles along his arms and back, sleeves rolled to the elbow. One suspender hung off his hip, the other taut across his chest, like he’d been too rushed or too angry to fix it.
But it was his face, that expression, that stopped Jimin in his tracks.
His eyes were hard, too still, too focused. Jaw clenched so tightly the muscles near his ear twitched with tension. He didn’t look like a boy anymore. He looked like a man just barely holding something in.
And he was looking only at Jimin.
And then Jimin saw it.
Just beneath Taehyung’s left eye, a strip of white bandage peeked through the strands of hair that had fallen across his cheek. It was small, nothing dramatic, but unmistakable. And suddenly, like a sharp jolt through his stomach, Jimin remembered.
He remembered that day in the barn. The sharp edge of panic in his chest. The way his arm had flung before he could stop it.
The crack of the wooden crate.
The sound Taehyung had made, not pain exactly, but something deeper, more human.
He hadn't let himself think about it since. Not really. Not properly.
And now here it was, the proof, so blunt and physical. Still healing.
This was the first time he had really looked at Taehyung’s face since. Really looked.
And it hit him, like a stone in the chest, how much space had grown between them. There had once been a time when he knew every change in Taehyung’s expression, every cut, every scratch from the fields, every blister on his palm. But now… now he had injured him, scarred him, and hadn’t even stopped to see the damage.
The guilt was sudden and suffocating. Not enough to make him go back, no, but enough to coil itself in his throat and sit there like a weight.
And Taehyung was looking right at him. That same unreadable stare. Not angry, not sad, but frustrated. Guarded. Like he wanted to say a thousand things and couldn’t let a single one out.
The lightness Jimin had felt in his chest evaporated in a second, replaced by a sinking weight, something cold and anxious that spread through his ribs like ice water. His heart stuttered. Why now? Why always like this?
Jungkook, still catching his breath, was oblivious at first. He raised a hand in greeting.
“Hey!” he said easily, flashing a grin. “Didn’t see you there. How you holdin’ up, Taehyung?”
Taehyung didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even look at Jungkook.
Instead, he roughly brushed Jungkook’s hand off as if it burned, not even flinching at the rudeness of it. The gesture was sharp and dismissive, like tearing a leaf from a branch. The metal toolbox hit his thigh with a harsh clang as he shifted his weight.
His stare burned holes in Jimin’s skin.
“You shouldn’t be drinking,” Taehyung said, voice low, not loud, but cutting. It was more than concern. It was something possessive, something that cracked at the edges.
“You’re still sick.”
Jimin’s throat dried.
The heat of the day suddenly pressed in harder, more suffocating. His skin felt tight against his bones, and he hated the way his stomach dropped at the sound of Taehyung’s voice, the way it both stung and pulled. He hated that part of him still wanted to lean toward it.
But not this time.
He straightened his back and narrowed his eyes. The air between them thickened, like it might shatter if either moved too quickly.
“You’re not my father,” Jimin snapped. His voice was sharp, but his hands were shaking. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
And then, with a harsh exhale, he shoved past Taehyung, shoulder brushing hard against his chest, making the toolbox rattle again. Jimin’s footsteps were fast, too fast, almost like he was running.
He didn’t look back.
Jungkook blinked, watching him go, then turned back to Taehyung. “…Is everything alright?” he asked, his voice tentative now. “Did I-?”
But Taehyung didn’t answer. Didn’t nod. Didn’t explain.
He just stared at Jimin’s retreating form. The back of him, messy hair ruffled by the wind, the outline of his shoulder blades beneath his shirt, the rise and fall of his walk, burned into Taehyung’s vision like a ghost he couldn’t reach.
Jungkook stood still, confused, before finally jogging to catch up with Jimin, calling his name with quiet concern.
Jimin offered a small smile when he reached him. A tired one, but soft. Real.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m okay.”
The two of walked off together. Side by side.
Taehyung remained alone in the road, the toolbox lowering in his hand until it thudded against the dirt with a dull thump. The evening was quieter now. Even the birds had quieted. Just the sound of boots, retreating.
And something inside Taehyung, something deep and buried, twisted.
He wanted to call out.
Wanted to ask if Jimin had eaten. If his head still hurt. If he still felt faint.
He wanted to wrap an arm around him, walk him home, sit him down and make him drink water, brush the hair out of his eyes, listen to him breathe.
He wanted to tell him that he wasn’t just concerned, he was scared. He’d been scared since the moment he watched Jimin collapse, like the world had tilted on its axis.
But it was like a string was tied around his ribs, yanking him back every time he tried to move toward that truth. Every time he got close, the world around him, expectations, image, pride, tightened it.
And now there was Jungkook.
That boy with soft brown eyes and a smile like spring. The boy who could talk to Jimin like it was easy. Like it didn’t hurt. Like it didn’t matter who was watching.
A new obstacle. A reminder of everything Taehyung couldn’t be.
Taehyung felt the jealousy hit him like a punch in the stomach.
And beneath that jealousy was fear. That someone else could give Jimin what he hadn’t been brave enough to.
Taehyung closed his eyes.
And he stayed there, in the middle of the road, long after they were gone.
The night air clung thick to Taehyung’s skin as he made his way across the farm path, the dying sun long gone and the last traces of twilight swallowed by a sky heavy with storm-colored clouds. The scent of dust and old wood lingered in the wind, mingling with the faint musk of earth and hay. The only sounds were the dull creaks of cicadas in the grass and the occasional rustle of wind brushing past the half-bare trees.
His shirt was soaked through with sweat, clinging to his broad back, the fabric darkened around the collar and sleeves. Mud caked the hems of his trousers, and small flecks of dirt dotted the sides of his face, sticking to his damp skin like ash. His boots were worn from hours of fencing along the east edge of the farm, fixing rotted posts and hammering wire into the dusk. Every step now felt like a pull against gravity, heavy and dragging, like something was wrapping itself around his ankles.
His hair was messy and damp, pieces of it sticking to his forehead and temples, slightly curled from the sweat. He ran a rough hand through it, sighing low through his nose, the rise and fall of his chest still sharp from work and unease. The wind was picking up now, louder, stronger, tugging at his sleeves and lifting dust from the dry patches of the path. It matched the unrest in his chest, something building that he couldn’t name, something twitching under his skin.
By the time he reached home, the windows were dark.
The house stood quiet and still, an old frame, weathered by rain and age, its paint chipped from years of storms and sun. The porch creaked beneath his boots, and the door gave a familiar groan as he pushed it open. Inside, it smelled of woodsmoke and linen. A pair of muddy boots sat at the door, and a kettle, long cooled, rested on the stove. His parents’ bedroom door was shut, and the faint sound of his father’s snoring carried weakly through the thin wooden walls.
He didn’t make a sound as he passed down the hallway, the old floorboards familiar beneath his steps. His room was at the end, a plain wooden door, slightly dented from years of careless slamming. He opened it slowly.
Taehyung’s room was everything his parents believed a boy’s room should be, simple, strong, and untouched by frivolity. A narrow bed with an iron frame sat against the far wall, its sheets plain and grey, the blanket folded precisely at the end. The walls were bare, save for a single shelf with worn books on farming, war, and faith. A cracked mirror leaned above a dresser cluttered with nails, matches, and a rusted pocketknife. The scent of dry hay and old leather lingered faintly in the air.
He stepped inside and shut the door behind him with a soft click. He reached for the buttons on his shirt, ready to peel off the sweat-stuck fabric, but his eyes caught on something in the corner of the room, and he froze.
There, resting lopsided near the dresser, was the old wicker basket.
It was still slightly torn at the top, where the weave had snapped from the force of the throw. Some dried juice stained the inner edge where the fruits had burst from impact. It looked pathetic now, slumped, bruised, and ghostly in the dim light.
The same basket Jimin had hurled at him.
Taehyung’s mouth tightened.
He had gathered every last fruit that day, dirt under his nails, heart hammering, something close to shame, something closer to guilt. He had picked them up one by one, hands shaking, watching their skins split and ooze under his fingers. Almost every single one had to be thrown out. Too soft. Too crushed. Too ruined.
Jimin’s family didn’t have much.
That basket had been theirs. For their table. Their kitchen. Their mouths. And now it was empty, wasted, because of a moment of hurt Taehyung still didn’t know how to explain.
Even though their farm grew more fruit than they could ever count, none of it was for them. Taehyung had always hated that, how they lived among plenty but could never touch it. The juiciest peaches, the biggest apples, the ripest berries, all carefully picked by strangers in gloves, weighed, boxed, labeled, and sold to far-off towns. Even the ones Jimin had helped plant.
Jimin had spent hours bent under the sun, dirt staining his knees and neck, planting seeds with careful fingers. For what? For others to taste what he couldn’t?
A low heat sparked in Taehyung’s chest, small at first, then sharp, then burning.
He didn’t think. He didn’t breathe. He just moved.
With a suddenness that made the dresser rattle, Taehyung stormed forward and grabbed the basket, his grip harsh. The rim scratched his knuckles, but he didn’t care. His heart was pounding now, too fast, too loud, like something inside him had broken loose. His mind was racing with everything he couldn’t say, everything he wouldn’t admit. He didn’t bother changing his clothes. Didn’t wipe the sweat off his face. Didn’t check if his parents heard.
He stomped back out into the night, the wind whipping against him like a wild thing, howling as it pushed through the trees and over the fields.
His boots sank into the soft mud as he crossed the field, the grass wet and slapping at his shins. The fruit garden loomed in the distance, its rows of dark trees like guards in the shadows. Branches swayed violently above, and the air smelled like rain was close, but still not coming.
Taehyung reached the edge of the garden and dropped to his knees.
The mud swallowed him whole, seeping into his trousers, streaking up his legs and soaking through to his skin. He winced as the cold hit him, but it didn’t stop him. His hands, raw and bare, reached for the branches, ignoring the sharp thorns that scraped across his skin.
He hissed as one dragged across his palm, a thin line of red surfacing, but still, he pulled.
Fruit after fruit. Ripe, soft, fragrant.
He grabbed handfuls, ignoring the sting in his fingers, the angry scratches forming like little punishments. The basket filled slowly, the colours mixing: golden pears, flushed apples, deep red plums.
His breathing was ragged, eyes stinging from sweat and wind. But his mind wouldn’t stop racing.
Jimin. His face. His laugh earlier. That damn smile.
Taehyung pressed another fruit into the basket, hard. It almost bruised under his grip.
Why did it hurt so much to see him smile for someone else?
Why did it feel like something was being pulled from his chest every time Jimin looked at him like he was a stranger now?
He hated this. He hated everything. And yet he couldn’t stop.
The morning arrived not with birdsong or sunbeams, but with hushed voices and the sound of gasps echoing through the thin walls of the small farmhouse.
Jimin stirred, the softness of his pillow clinging to his cheek as he blinked up at the ceiling in a daze. He was still sore, the faint throb of yesterday’s heat and the lingering ache of the drink sitting in his bones like sediment. His hair was messy, sticking up slightly from the side he’d slept on, and the bedsheets tangled loosely around his legs. He didn’t remember falling asleep. Only flashes of Jungkook’s laugh. The brush of the wind. Then the storm inside Taehyung’s eyes.
More whispers. His mother’s voice. Low. Urgent. His father’s heavier reply.
Jimin sat up quickly, heart skipping a beat at the unusual tone of their voices. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbed at his eyes, and stepped into his slippers before quietly pushing open the door and padding down the hallway.
“-Who could’ve left it? It was just sitting there,” his mother was saying.
“Shouldn’t even be touching the damn thing until we know where it came from,” came his father’s response.
Jimin turned the corner and immediately halted at the sight before him.
There, sitting in the middle of their small kitchen table, was a wicker basket, full to the brim, overflowing with fruit so vibrant and fresh that it looked like something out of a painting. Glowing pears, heavy apples, dark plums with skin like polished stone. Grapes spilling over the edge like they’d been picked straight from heaven itself. It almost didn’t feel real.
His mother looked up from where she stood near the basket, her hands still hovering as if afraid to touch it too much. His father stood across from her, arms crossed, his brows furrowed with a kind of cautious awe.
“What happened?” Jimin asked, voice hoarse with sleep.
Both his parents turned to him.
His mother’s lips parted. “I… I found it in the backyard. Just this morning. It was sitting right by the back porch, like it’d been placed there.”
His father nodded. “You have anything to do with this?”
Jimin shook his head immediately, still blinking at the sight. “No… no, I don’t.”
Drawn to it, he stepped closer, slowly kneeling in front of the basket. The air around it was fragrant, sweet and almost dizzying. He reached for a peach, turning it gently in his hand. Its skin was warm and slightly fuzzy beneath his fingertips. When he brought it closer, it smelled of sun and sugar.
Something about it struck him. These weren’t just any fruits.
Jimin’s brows drew together. He turned toward his parents. “These… these are from the farm.”
His mother’s breath hitched. “What?”
“These are ours. The ones we grow… I’ve planted rows of these exact trees.”
She stepped back, almost stumbling. “Oh Lord. Jimin- if someone finds out we have these-”
“We could get in real trouble,” his father interrupted, stepping closer. “They’re branded. Counted. Someone’s gonna notice they’re gone.”
His mother looked panicked now, glancing toward the window. “We have to hide them. If anyone comes- if anyone checks- ”
His father sighed. “We’ll keep ‘em. But quietly. Lock them in the cellar. No one needs to know..”
Jimin nodded faintly, but his gaze lingered. The edges of the basket were frayed in a familiar way. His heartbeat suddenly picked up, a soft alarm beginning to sound inside him. Something was off.
He stood slowly and crossed to the window, fingers gently parting the lace curtain.
Outside, the sky was overcast, light grey streaked with thin clouds. The ground still looked damp from last night’s wind. The usual hush of the morning was gone, replaced by the click of boots on dirt, low voices, and the presence of authority. Two sheriffs moved across the lane, their uniforms sharp and dark, badges glinting in the early light. Big hats, wide belts. They were going door to door, asking questions.
Jimin’s pulse leapt. He let the curtain fall and turned back to the basket.
And then he saw it.
A mark.
Near the torn corner of the basket, where the straw had come undone, something red had stained the weaves. A faint smear, dried and dulled now. But unmistakable.
His breath caught in his throat.
He stepped forward slowly, heart thudding like thunder in his chest, and knelt again. Fingers outstretched, he traced the edge of the basket, where the stain clung. A sudden wave of memory surged, the sound of the basket colliding with Taehyung’s face. The blood that followed. That moment burned into him.
The basket hadn’t just been left by a stranger.
It had been returned.
The straws were frayed the same way they’d been after the hit. And the red…
He gasped softly.
His mother looked over from where she was tucking the curtain. “Jimin? You alright?”
He snapped upright. “Yeah- I’m fine. I’m going to go work.”
“You sure? You look pale-”
“I’m fine,” he repeated, already turning and hurrying down the hall.
He practically burst into his room and grabbed his shirt from the chair, his movements frantic now, rough and hurried. The air was thick. His skin was flushed. He could barely button his collar right, his fingers fumbling. His mind was racing.
Taehyung.
He could see it clearly now. The mess of Taehyung’s hair last night. The scratches on his arms. The way his chest had heaved like he’d been running. The look in his eyes before he stormed off.
Jimin’s hands trembled as he tucked in his shirt, his breath shallow. It was a mix of everything, fluster, confusion, fury, a tangle of emotions he couldn’t name. The image of Taehyung, kneeling in the garden at night, his palms bleeding as he picked forbidden fruit by hand, it hit Jimin like a blow to the ribs.
Why?
Why would he do that?
Why would he risk so much?
Why now?
The sun had just begun to rise.
And something inside Jimin had shifted.
The morning light had sharpened, casting long shadows across the fields as Jimin stormed past the barn.
He didn’t bother tying his boots properly or buttoning the top of his shirt, his steps were uneven and fast, and his chest was tight with everything he was feeling. The air was cool but still clung to the skin like something heavy.
He didn’t look at the sheriffs as he passed. Didn’t make eye contact. Just kept his eyes forward, jaw clenched tight, fists balled at his sides.
Taehyung.
His name was a pulse in Jimin’s head. Thudding. Demanding.
Jimin rounded the far edge of the field, passing rows of fences and wooden posts until he spotted him, kneeling near the irrigation line, elbows deep in dirt and tangled roots, sleeves rolled up and hands working the stubborn pipe beneath the soil. His back was to Jimin. The sun caught the tips of his hair, damp with sweat, curling slightly at the edges.
Jimin’s breath came out in a sharp huff. His vision tunnelled.
Without thinking, he charged forward, shoulders squared and heart in his throat, and landed a hard, sudden hit against Taehyung’s back with the side of his fist.
Taehyung jolted, half-falling forward before twisting to look over his shoulder, fury instantly rising in his eyes. But when he saw who it was, the heat in his face softened. His mouth opened, chest still heaving.
Jimin stood there, breathless, lips parted, rage burning off him in waves.
Taehyung wiped his brow, letting out a crooked laugh before slowly standing, dusting off his trousers. “Well, well,” he said, a crooked grin spreading on his face. “Didn’t know you missed me that bad, sweetheart.”
Jimin’s eyes narrowed, and he shoved him, hard, straight in the chest.
Taehyung stumbled slightly but held his ground, raising his hands in mock surrender.
“Alright, alright- what’s the issue now?”
Jimin’s eyes dropped for a split second, catching sight of Taehyung’s hands, wrapped in fresh bandages, red peeking through the gauze. His arms too, scratched and rough, skin torn in small angry welts.
Something inside Jimin snapped.
“You’re insane,” he hissed, shoving him again. “You’re completely out of your mind.”
Taehyung frowned now, the grin starting to fade. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You think this is funny? You think this is some sort of joke?” Jimin’s voice was rising fast, almost shaking. “Why the hell would you steal those fruits and leave them at our house?! Do you ever think? Even once?”
Taehyung’s smile was gone. He stared at Jimin, jaw tightening, chest rising slowly.
“I was trying to help you,” he muttered.
“Help?” Jimin laughed bitterly, voice high. “You call that help? Do you know what would’ve happened if someone caught us with those fruits? We could’ve been jailed. Beaten. Run out of town!”
“I made sure no one saw,” Taehyung snapped. “I was careful.”
“You call that careful!?” Jimin screamed, tears stinging the corners of his eyes now. “You were bleeding! You were so reckless, what if someone saw you sneaking around with that damn basket? What if the sheriffs- what if my parents-”
“I did you a favour, Jimin.”
“No, you didn’t! You put us at risk!”
“I was trying to do something nice, for once in my goddamn life, and you’re yelling at me for it!?”
“Because I never asked you to!” Jimin’s voice cracked now, hand flying to his chest. “I never asked you for anything! So why won’t you just leave me alone!?”
Taehyung stepped forward, his voice growing louder, shaking with frustration. “Why can’t you just be grateful?! Why is it so hard for you to say thank you?”
“Because I don’t want anything from you! I don’t need your help- I don’t want your help- I want you to leave me ALONE!”
The words struck like blows in the air between them.
Taehyung’s face twisted, and something bitter welled in his throat.
“Fine,” he said, voice rough and loud. “You want me gone? Done. I won’t speak to you again. I won’t even look at you.”
Jimin opened his mouth to respond, but then Taehyung’s next words came, unfiltered, sharp, and venomous.
“Shouldn’t be speaking to a faggot anyway.”
The world went silent.
Even the wind seemed to still.
Jimin stared at him, unmoving.
The tears that had been threatening to spill finally welled up, shimmering in his lashes before slipping down his cheeks, leaving thin, quiet trails.
Taehyung’s eyes widened, the rage leaving his face as fast as it had come.
He brought a hand to his face, groaning into it, realising what he’d said. What he’d done. “Shit…”
Jimin’s voice was hollow when he finally spoke. “You’re a horrible man.”
And without another word, he turned, and walked away, fast, boots crunching the soil beneath him.
Taehyung didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.
He stood there, fists clenched, stomach twisted, the morning sun beating down on him like punishment. The words hung in the air around him like smoke, impossible to take back.
And for the first time in a long, long while, Taehyung felt like he’d broken something that couldn’t be fixed.
The words hit harder than any blow he’d ever taken, settling in his chest like iron.
Horrible man.
It echoed, again, and again, louder with each passing second, until it was all he could hear.
He was horrible. That much felt true. But a man?
That part snagged something deep inside him.
Because Taehyung didn’t feel like a man, not then. Not in the aftermath of the look in Jimin’s eyes.
He felt like a boy pretending.
Pretending to be tough. Pretending to be cruel.
Pretending that throwing punches and cruel words made him strong.
But he didn’t feel strong.
He felt small. Pathetic. Filthy.
He could still see Jimin’s tear-filled eyes in his mind, the tremble in his voice, the way he flinched, not from fear, but from heartbreak. And it made Taehyung’s stomach churn.
His fists clenched harder. His throat tightened. He didn’t know what kind of man let poison spill from his mouth like that, what kind of man hurt someone just to push them away.
Whatever kind that was, it wasn’t the kind he ever wanted to be.
And yet here he was.
Notes:
dundundun...... everyone say hello to jungkook. hmmm lets see how things turn out, all I will say is please trust the process hehe
Chapter 5: dust and sugar
Notes:
slightly shorter than the two previous chapters but reallyyyyy wanted to post something. I hope you enjoy this one!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The days had started to bleed into one another, each one painted in the same muted tones of late summer. The sun still shone, but it no longer felt like the warm, gentle comfort of spring. Instead, its light seemed harsher now, cutting across the fields in sharp angles, turning the wheat into rippling waves of gold while leaving long, dark shadows in their wake. The air was thick, warm enough to make the skin prickle, but with the faintest whisper of a breeze that carried with it the scent of dust and hay. Somewhere in the distance, a windmill creaked in its slow, steady rhythm, and cicadas hummed their endless song.
Jimin had started spending more and more of these sunlit hours with Jungkook. At first, it was casual, short conversations here and there, sharing a laugh in passing. But soon, it had grown into something steady, something familiar. Jimin didn’t even notice how easily it happened, how naturally his feet started taking him toward Jungkook instead of anyone else. There was something about him, an energy that seemed to cut through the heaviness that had been pressing on Jimin’s chest for weeks. His eyes, which had been dulled with weariness, now seemed to catch the light in ways they hadn’t in a long time. They sparkled when Jungkook appeared, and Jimin found himself smiling, really smiling, until his cheeks hurt.
Jungkook was even funnier than Jimin had expected. He cracked jokes without thinking, sometimes stumbling over his words, and always managed to make Jimin laugh in that unguarded, melodic way that came so rarely. The clumsiness everyone whispered about wasn’t just a rumour, it was almost an art form. Jungkook would misstep, spill something, or knock into a chair, and instead of embarrassment, he’d grin, shrug, and make a joke about it that somehow made Jimin laugh harder.
Without meaning to, Jimin began to drift. He saw Jennie less and less. It started with missing one or two chores they used to do together, then with choosing to linger a little longer at the saloon with Jungkook instead of stopping by her house. Days would pass without them speaking beyond polite nods. Jennie never confronted him about it, never even gave him a look that suggested she noticed, but she did. She noticed everything.
And though she never said a word, a small ache had begun to grow in her chest. Maybe they had never truly been friends. Maybe their connection had always been fragile, something easily replaced. And if Jimin had started to resent her, even a little, for the rumours… she couldn’t have blamed him. She hated those rumours more than anything. Hated the way they clung to her like a shadow she couldn’t step out of. She had wanted to speak out, to set the record straight, but in a town like this, the truth was a fragile thing, and no one would have listened.
But someone else had noticed.
Taehyung.
He had been watching, though never obviously, never for long enough that anyone could call him out for staring. From across the field, from the corner of a busy room, from behind the curtain of his own lashes, he watched. Watched Jimin laugh in ways he hadn’t seen in months. Watched the ease in his shoulders when Jungkook was near. Watched the gap widen, not just between Jimin and Jennie, but between Jimin and himself.
And as Taehyung had promised himself that day in the field, he kept his word. Not a single word had passed between them in a week. Not even a nod. Jimin didn’t look at him, not even once. And Taehyung told himself he didn’t care. Told himself he had meant every word of that promise to never speak to him again.
But the truth was, it burned.
The week had been long. Too long.
And Taehyung had been doing everything he could to make it pass faster, or at least to make himself forget how each day dragged behind him like a stubborn mule. Talking to more girls seemed like an easy answer at first. Late nights spent leaning against the saloon wall with one pressed too close, her perfume too sweet, her lips brushing his in quick, stolen kisses. In dark corners, with giggles and whispered words, he let them pull him into moments that were meant to feel exciting. But it never settled right in his chest. The warmth of their mouths, the flutter of their hands on his shirt, it all felt mechanical. Forced. Empty.
The more he tried to lose himself in them, the more irritated he became. He started noticing things he’d once found flattering, girls following him out to the fields, trailing behind like shadows, as nothing but a nuisance.
That afternoon, he was mending and tightening the harness straps on the plough in the barn, dragging its weight a few feet across the dirt floor to check its balance. It was heavy, the wood and iron grinding against the packed earth with a dull, resistant scrape. Every pull sent the muscles in his forearms and shoulders straining, the cords in his neck standing out, veins rising like rivers under tanned skin. The heat pressed in thick around him, stifling, the kind that made the air feel like syrup sliding down into his lungs.
And there they were, two girls, leaning against the open barn doorway as though the afternoon was theirs to waste. Their dresses were pale cotton, patterned with small flowers, skirts swaying just above dusty ankles. The hems were frayed from walking the fields, but they’d taken care to cinch their waists with thin belts, and the blouses had low collars to catch the faintest breeze. One of them had her hair braided back in a way that made the strands catch the sun like copper thread; the other let hers hang loose over her shoulders, curling slightly at the ends from the humidity.
They talked in hushed tones, laughing now and then, but it was the kind of laughter that was meant to be heard, light, airy, drawing attention without asking for it directly. One rested her chin in her hand, elbow propped against the barn wall, while the other lazily kicked at a pebble on the dirt floor. Both watched him in that way he’d once basked in, the kind of attention that had felt like a reward. But now, their stares prickled at the back of his neck like needles.
He used to think this was entertaining, having them fawn over him while he worked, catching their whispers, pretending not to notice when their eyes lingered too long on the way his shirt clung to his back. Now he found himself wanting to snap, to cut through their giggles with something sharp enough to make them leave. As awful as it sounded, there were moments, brief, fleeting, where he imagined shoving them away, just to get some peace.
These days, irritation seemed to live under his skin, crawling like ants. His neck itched constantly, a maddening burn that had him raking his nails over it until the skin grew raw and pink. It was as if his own body had turned on him, trying to remind him every second of the day how uncomfortable he was.
Even his so-called friends, men he’d spent countless nights with, drinking, betting, wasting time, had started to grate on his nerves. The lazy way they slouched, the pointless, biting comments they made, their too-loud voices echoing in his ears. He found himself avoiding them more often than not.
And today… today was worse. The sun felt cruel, hanging high and unrelenting in the pale sky, its glare bouncing off every dusty surface and forcing a glare into his eyes. His shirt clung to him like a second skin, damp with sweat, strands of hair plastered messily to his forehead. His hands were raw, the skin on his knuckles split and scabbed from work, and the plaster on his cheek, still covering the half-healed wound, had gone damp from sweat, the edges curling and peeling away.
But Taehyung didn’t care. He barely even noticed. The heat, the sting of the peeling bandage, the throbbing in his hands, it all drowned under the simmering frustration that had been building for days. And the longer he worked, the heavier it became.
The barn was sweltering, the kind of heat that wrapped itself around a man like a smothering hand, pressing into his lungs until every breath felt like work. The air smelled of hay, dust, and old wood warmed by the sun until it gave off a faint, dry sweetness. Taehyung’s shirt clung damp to his back, every movement tugging the sticky fabric across his shoulder blades. The iron fittings of the plough he was working on had grown hot in his grip, biting against the calluses of his palms as he dragged the weight a few feet forward, then back, checking its balance.
Behind him, soft voices rippled in and out, like the buzz of flies that wouldn’t leave. The girls were still there, their giggles cutting through the heavy air in little bursts, high-pitched and light as though the heat didn’t touch them at all.
One of them shifted her weight against the doorway, the creak of the wood joining her airy laughter. “You’ve got dirt on your cheek,” one whispered to the other, not quite low enough for him to miss.
His jaw tightened. He stretched his neck, rolling his head slowly from side to side the way an animal might before shaking off an itch. It didn’t help. The skin there prickled, hot and crawling. He dug his nails against it, scratch, scratch, scratch, until the irritation flared into something worse, something angrier. The sound of their laughter swelled again, and Taehyung froze mid-movement, the muscles in his back taut.
He turned. Slowly at first, his eyes narrowing against the glare of sunlight streaming in from the doorway. Both girls were framed by it, their dresses bright against the shadowy barn interior, white cotton with tiny floral prints, skirts brushing their calves, boots dusted from walking the dry paths. They looked… pretty, in the way they were meant to. Hair neat, ribbons in place, lips glossy with a touch of tint. Pretty and young and soft.
And somehow, in that moment, he hated them for it.
The words left his mouth before he even felt them form. “Don’t you have anything better to do, you little whores?”
Silence swallowed the barn.
The laughter stopped so abruptly it was as if someone had snuffed out a candle. The girl with the copper-thread braid blinked hard, her lips parting soundlessly. The other’s eyes shone with sudden wetness, her hand curling tight in her skirt.
The sharp edge of his own voice still rang in Taehyung’s ears. Regret twisted low in his gut, but it was tangled in the same seething heat that had driven the words out in the first place. That damn mouth of his, it spoke before he could think, before he could stop it. He hated himself for it, hated the way their stunned faces made the shame burn hotter.
Without another word, he dropped the harness straps from his hands. They hit the barn floor with a dull thud, sending up a little puff of dust that clung to his damp skin. He didn’t look at them again. Couldn’t. He pushed past, boots thudding against the packed dirt, the heavy smell of hay and heat clinging to him as he stepped out into the blinding sunlight.
The sun burned against the back of his neck, setting the already irritated skin on fire. He shoved a hand through his sweat-slick hair, the motion rough, fingers snagging in the knots. Every nerve in his body felt raw. His breath came fast, almost panting, as if the heat was chewing it right out of him.
He wanted to scream until his voice shredded itself to ribbons. He wanted to claw at his own skin until he could peel the feeling off.
His boot caught against the side of a flower pot sitting outside the barn, some decorative thing one of the farmhands’ wives had left there, filled with neat little blooms. It wobbled once, twice. Without a thought, he snatched it up by the rim and hurled it down with all the force in his arms.
The pot shattered, terracotta shards skittering across the ground. Soil spilled in a dark heap, the flowers bent and broken, their roots dangling in the open air. His breath came in harsh bursts now, chest rising and falling too quickly, the sound of it loud in his ears.
Something in him broke alongside the pot. He lashed out again, at anything.
A wooden crate stacked with empty bottles. A rusted tin bucket. A fragile wire frame meant for drying herbs. One by one, they clattered, cracked, or snapped under his hands. Splinters caught in his palms. A jagged edge of broken glass tore across his skin, and blood welled up in thin, stinging lines, but he hardly noticed.
Somewhere behind him, voices rose, gasping, shouting. A woman’s sharp “Stop!” cut through the air, and somewhere else, a deeper voice yelled his name. People moved back, boots scuffing against the dirt as they cleared space around him, as though afraid he might turn on them next.
But Taehyung didn’t see them. Didn’t hear them. The only sound that mattered was the ragged pull of his own breathing and the rush of blood in his ears, loud enough to drown out the world.
Taehyung stopped at last, chest rising and falling in harsh, uneven breaths. His fingers trembled faintly from the effort, but the rush of heat in his blood was only just beginning to settle. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing the damp strands back from his forehead, and his nails scratched absently, almost viciously, at the side of his neck again. The skin there was already raw from earlier, but the motion was automatic now, a nervous tic that flared up every time his anger did.
The world around him was still full of sound, the low muttering of bystanders, a few sharp gasps from people who’d watched his outburst, the shifting shuffle of boots in the dirt, but he tuned it out. He walked away from the mess he’d made without a glance behind him, as though nothing had happened.
Inside the barn, it was cooler but still heavy with heat, the air thick with the smell of hay, animals, and dust that clung to every beam of light filtering in through the slats. The girls from earlier were gone, their perfume and lilting laughter replaced by silence.
He crossed the floor slowly, boots thudding on the packed dirt, and lowered himself onto a block of hay. The coarse strands pressed into the backs of his legs through his trousers, prickly and uneven. Closing his eyes, he let the faint noises of the barn fill his head instead, the steady huff of a horse’s breath, the distant shuffle of hooves, the faint creak of wood as the building shifted in the afternoon heat.
Sweat soaked through his shirt, sticking it to his skin. His breathing was still uneven, and every exhale seemed hotter than the air around him.
Then, crunch.
Footsteps outside. Slow, deliberate, each step pressing down into the dirt and gravel just enough for the sound to carry.
Taehyung didn’t open his eyes, not at first. A small, selfish part of him clung to the hope that when he did, it would be Jimin standing there. That Jimin would break this week-long silence, kneel down, and ask if he was alright. That maybe, for once, someone would just see him.
The steps drew closer, then stopped right in front of him. The crunching ceased.
Taehyung’s eyes opened.
It wasn’t Jimin.
Jennie stood there, framed by the dim light of the barn. Her long, dark hair fell loose over her shoulders, soft strands shifting as a warm breeze caught them. The sunlight from behind her caught the edges, turning them to a faint bronze halo. She wore a short babydoll dress in pastel yellow, the skirt swaying lightly against her thighs as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Heat had brought a faint pink flush to her cheeks, but her expression was calm, unreadable.
She was beautiful, he’d never denied that. Probably the prettiest girl on the farm. It was no surprise that people had whispered about the two of them before. But he’d never been interested in her, not like that. And he knew she’d never truly been interested in him either.
His gaze dropped to the small metal box she carried in her hands. A med kit, old, from the look of it, the surface dulled and scratched from years of use. Its hinges were slightly rusted, but someone, Jennie, had painted delicate flowers across one corner in soft blues and pinks. A thin strip of ribbon, faded but still neat, was tied around the handle in a small bow.
Taehyung raised an eyebrow slightly, but didn’t speak.
Jennie said nothing in return. She stepped forward, skirts rustling faintly, and crouched down in front of him. The hem of her dress brushed the dirt floor as she set the med kit beside her and flipped open the lid.
Inside, the contents were neatly arranged: rolls of cotton bandage, a small brown-glass bottle of rubbing alcohol, a tin of carbolic salve, and a pair of worn scissors. Everything had the simple, utilitarian look of the 1930s, functional, no frills, except for the fact that the insides of the lid were lined with scraps of floral fabric, pasted in place as though to soften its clinical purpose.
Without a word, Jennie reached for his hand. Her touch was gentle but firm, steady in a way that made it clear she’d done this before. She turned his palm upward, inspecting the shallow cuts along his knuckles and the small splinters lodged in the skin.
The alcohol came first. The cold shock of it seeped into each wound, followed by the sharp sting that made him draw a breath through his teeth. She didn’t pause, just cleaned them methodically, working one cut at a time, her brows faintly drawn in concentration. The smell of the alcohol mixed with the barn’s musty air, sharp and clean against the backdrop of hay and animal musk.
When each cut was clean, she dabbed the carbolic salve over them with the corner of a cotton pad, the faint medicinal scent mingling with the heat around them. Then came the bandages, thin strips wrapped snugly around his knuckles and tied off with careful knots that sat neatly against his skin.
The atmosphere was still. No romance, no softness, just care. Simple, deliberate care.
Taehyung kept his eyes on her face the whole time, watching the curve of her lashes as she worked, the way she focused entirely on the task in front of her without once looking up at him. And with every second, the weight in his chest grew heavier.
Even after everything she’d endured, the rumours, the distance, his own selfishness, she was here. Kneeling in the dirt, tending to wounds he’d made himself.
By the time she closed the med kit with a soft click, Taehyung felt like the smallest, most selfish man alive.
Jennie was still crouched in front of him, tucking the last strip of bandage neatly against his skin, when another faint sound reached them.
Crunch.
Both their heads turned sharply toward the barn entrance. The light outside was blinding after the dim interior, making the figure in the doorway appear first as a shadow. But as Taehyung’s eyes adjusted, the shape came into focus.
Jimin.
He looked… surprised. Not wildly so, but enough that his brows lifted faintly and his step faltered. His gaze landed on Taehyung first—their first direct eye contact in over a week. That single second felt heavier than the past seven days combined. Taehyung’s chest tightened; his body moved before his mind could think, and he stood up too quickly, the motion knocking loose a tuft of hay that tumbled to the ground.
Jennie rose too, brushing the skirt of her pastel yellow dress with her palms, and offered Jimin a small, uncertain smile.
But Jimin didn’t smile back.
His eyes slid to her, and there was no warmth in them, no joy, no spark. Instead, there was a sadness there, low and quiet, and behind it… something sharper. The faintest flicker of anger, like the edge of a storm cloud on the horizon.
Taehyung opened his mouth, a word, any word, caught in his throat. But before it could escape, another shadow appeared in the doorway.
Jungkook.
He stepped into the light with an easy grin, his dark hair mussed from the sun, and raised a hand in a friendly wave toward them both. “Hey,” he said, casual as ever, before glancing back at Jimin. “You ready to go?”
Jimin’s answer was a short, silent nod. He didn’t spare another look at Taehyung. He turned and walked away, his footsteps light but somehow final.
All the heat Taehyung had worked so hard to bury came roaring back, coiling through his veins like fire. His knuckles tightened at his sides; the fresh bandages strained against the movement. He was halfway to following—halfway to demanding some kind of answer, when Jennie’s voice cut through the air behind him.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone that it was fake?”
Taehyung froze. The question landed like a stone in his stomach.
He turned, brows furrowed. “…What?”
“The rumours,” she said, her voice even but laced with something brittle underneath. “The rumours about us, about being together, about sleeping together.” Her eyes searched his face, steady and unflinching. “Why didn’t you speak up? Why didn’t you say it wasn’t true?”
He swallowed, the barn suddenly feeling hotter, closer.
Jennie’s voice grew quieter, but each word hit harder. “Do you know how much shit I faced because of that? My dad beat me that day, Taehyung. Beat me until I couldn’t breathe. Then he locked me in my room for two weeks. And you knew.” Her hands curled loosely at her sides. “You knew, and you didn’t say a thing. Why? Was it because it didn’t touch you? Because it didn’t scrape at your life the way it scraped at mine?”
The dust motes hanging in the barn air seemed suspended, waiting.
Taehyung didn’t answer. Because he didn’t know.
He’d always been quick to speak when it was the wrong thing, quick with insults, with jabs, with careless words that burned without meaning to. But when it came to saying something that could save someone, save Jennie, save Jimin, his voice never came.
His mouth opened once, but all that left him was a low, almost hoarse, “I’m sorry.”
Jennie shook her head immediately, a small, almost tired motion. She turned, taking a few steps toward the door before pausing. Her shoulders rose and fell once with a deep breath, and then she glanced back at him.
“If you can’t use your voice for me,” she said quietly, “then use it for someone you actually like.” Her eyes softened, but only for a heartbeat. “Someone like Jimin.”
Then she walked out into the sun, the pale yellow of her dress catching the light as the barn door swallowed her silhouette.
Taehyung was left standing in the cool, shadowed quiet, his thoughts loud enough to drown out the faint rustle of the hay and the distant snort of a horse.
The sun hung low in the late afternoon sky, softened by a haze of thin clouds that let the light spill across the fields in muted golds and pale ambers. The air still carried the heat from earlier, but now a faint breeze rolled lazily through, lifting the dust and bending the heads of wild grass along the fence line. Somewhere, a cicada droned a long, lazy hum, blending with the distant sound of hooves clopping against dry earth.
Jimin was kneeling by the wooden water trough behind the main barn, sleeves rolled up, his hands deep in the cool water as he scrubbed the inside with a stiff-bristled brush. The wood was rough and splintered from years of use, the water already tinged with dirt and flecks of straw that clung to his fingers. His hair clung slightly to his forehead in soft, damp strands, and there was a faint crease between his brows, the only hint of the thoughts weighing on him.
Jungkook came strolling up from the side of the barn, a wide grin already tugging at his lips. He was carrying a dented metal bucket, the kind that clanged if you so much as nudged it, and in his other hand was a rag that looked like it had seen better days. His shirt was rolled at the sleeves too, exposing his forearms, sun-browned and faintly dusted with hay bits that caught in the breeze.
“You look like you’re about to drown that poor trough,” Jungkook teased, setting his bucket down with a thud beside Jimin. “What did it ever do to you?”
Jimin glanced up, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite himself. “It’s dirty,” he said simply, dipping the brush back into the water and scrubbing harder, as though the task required his complete attention.
Jungkook squatted down next to him, peering into the trough. “Hm,” he hummed with mock seriousness. “Looks clean to me.” Then, without warning, he dipped his fingers into the water and flicked a few drops at Jimin.
Jimin jerked back, blinking as droplets caught in his hair and slid down his cheek. “Hey-”
“What?” Jungkook grinned, leaning back on his heels. “Thought you needed cooling down. It’s too hot to be scowling like that.”
“I wasn’t scowling,” Jimin muttered, turning back to the trough, but his lips curved a little more.
“You were,” Jungkook countered, leaning in as if inspecting his face. “Right here” He reached out and gently tapped the space between Jimin’s brows. “Like you were mad at the whole world. Or maybe just at me?”
Jimin huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Not at you.”
“Good.” Jungkook grinned wider, then suddenly rolled his own rag into a ball and tossed it at Jimin’s shoulder. The wet thump made Jimin flinch, and Jungkook let out a boyish, almost guilty laugh. “Okay, okay- don’t murder me. Here, I’ll help.”
He grabbed another brush from the bucket, crouching beside Jimin, and they fell into a rhythm, scrubbing, rinsing, moving the water around with quiet splashes. The barn wall shielded them from most of the wind, but every now and then a soft gust would sweep through, stirring the straw at their feet and carrying with it the faint scent of hay, earth, and distant honeysuckle.
Jungkook hummed under his breath as he worked, some cheerful, aimless tune, and every so often he’d nudge Jimin’s elbow with his own, just to get a reaction. Slowly, Jimin’s shoulders loosened, and the crease between his brows softened.
“You’re quiet today,” Jungkook said after a while, his tone gentler now. He didn’t look directly at Jimin as he spoke, instead keeping his eyes on the water, as if giving him room to answer, or not.
Jimin hesitated, his brush pausing mid-scrub. “Just tired,” he said finally, though it came out softer than intended.
Jungkook didn’t push. Instead, he dipped his hands into the cool water, scooped up a handful, and poured it slowly over Jimin’s wrist. “There,” he said, smiling faintly. “You look less tired already.”
Jimin let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh but wasn’t a sigh either, something in between. And when he looked up, Jungkook was already grinning at him, sunlight catching in his eyes and turning them the colour of warm honey.
For the first time that day, Jimin smiled fully.
When the trough was finally scrubbed clean, the water clear enough to catch the pale shimmer of the late-afternoon light, Jimin leaned back on his heels and wiped his hands on the thighs of his trousers. His forearms were wet, small rivulets running down and soaking the rolled cuffs, but there was a hint of satisfaction in his expression now, the kind you got when a chore was done right.
Jungkook set his brush aside and stood, stretching his arms above his head until his back gave a soft pop. “Done,” he announced with mock grandeur, as if they’d just finished building the whole barn rather than cleaning a single trough.
Jimin huffed a quiet laugh, pushing himself up to stand as well. The ground crunched faintly beneath their boots, straw sticking stubbornly to the leather.
Before Jimin could even think to reach for the heavy metal bucket filled with leftover water and tools, Jungkook bent down and grabbed the handle in one easy motion. The bucket clanged with the shift, sloshing water dangerously close to the rim.
“I’ve got it,” Jimin said, reaching a hand out instinctively.
Jungkook shook his head, swinging the bucket up so it rested against his leg. “Nope. Too heavy for you. Besides,” he added with a teasing glance, “you’re the one who looks tired, remember?”
Jimin rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, not seriously, anyway. “You make it sound like I’m fragile.”
“You?” Jungkook grinned, starting toward the path beside the barn. “Nah. Just… shorter.”
Jimin scoffed, but the faint upward pull at the corners of his mouth betrayed him. He fell into step beside Jungkook, the two of them moving past the wide shadow of the barn into open sunlight. The breeze had picked up again, carrying the smell of sun-warmed earth and freshly cut hay. Overhead, the sky was starting to blush faintly toward evening, streaks of pale rose brushing against the fading blue.
They didn’t rush. Jungkook’s steps were unhurried, the steady weight of the bucket making his arm flex with each swing, and Jimin’s pace matched his without thought. Chickens darted across their path now and then, pecking at the ground, their feathers catching the light in glints of copper and cream. Somewhere further off, a dog barked, the sound echoing faintly against the low wooden fences.
Halfway down the path, Jungkook shifted the bucket to his other hand and gave Jimin a sidelong glance. “Feel better?”
Jimin didn’t answer right away. He watched the dust swirl lazily around their boots as they walked, his mind catching on the warmth in Jungkook’s voice, not the teasing now, but the quieter kind, the sort that was meant for him alone.
“…Yeah,” Jimin said finally, his voice low but honest.
Jungkook’s grin softened into something smaller, more satisfied. He didn’t say anything else, just kept walking, the faint scrape of the bucket’s base against his leg mixing with the sounds of the farm settling into the evening.
When they reached the fork in the path, one way leading toward the water pump, the other toward the workers’ quarters, Jungkook stopped. “I’ll take it from here,” he said, nodding toward the pump.
Jimin nodded back, his eyes lingering for a second longer than necessary before he turned toward his own path. The breeze caught at his hair, cool against the sweat still clinging to his skin, and for the first time that day, the heaviness in his chest felt a little lighter.
Behind him, Jungkook’s steady footsteps faded toward the pump, each one accompanied by the faint metallic clang of the bucket.
1923
The closet smelled faintly of damp wood and chalk, the air warm and stuffy from being shut tight all day. Dust motes floated lazily in the thin strip of light seeping through the crack beneath the door. They sat cross-legged on the rough wooden floor, knees nearly touching in the cramped space, a small tin lunchbox between them.
inside, nestled in wax paper, was a slice of chocolate cake — the kind with thick, uneven frosting that clung to your fingers when you touched it. It smelled rich and sweet, like home, like something that didn’t belong in the rigid, starch-scented halls of a catholic school for boys. Taehyung had smuggled it in that morning, tucked deep in his lunchbox so no one could see. He didn’t even look up as he dug in with a bent spoon, already halfway through his first bite.
Jimin’s eyes were wide, darting from the cake to the door and back again. His voice was a rapid whisper, almost breathless with worry.
“What happens if we get caught?”
Taehyung shrugged, mouth full, chocolate smearing the corner of his lip.
“How much sugar is in this? You think God’s gonna punish us for doing this?”
Another shrug. Taehyung was focused entirely on the cake, each bite a small act of rebellion. The chocolate was dense and slightly grainy from his mother’s homemade icing, and the sweetness was enough to make Jimin’s teeth ache, but he still took a spoonful when Taehyung held the tin out to him.
They ate in silence for a moment, save for the faint scrape of metal against tin. Then Jimin’s voice broke it again, quieter this time.
“I thought you didn’t like me.”
Taehyung glanced up briefly, his expression unreadable.
“Why?”
“You’re mean to me. I thought we weren’t friends.”
Taehyung sighed through his nose, handing him another bite without looking directly at him.
“Shut up and eat the cake.”
Jimin hesitated, then nodded. And so they ate, two boys crammed in a closet, the rest of the world momentarily far away.
Until the door slammed open.
The sudden light was blinding, and in the doorway stood Brother KyungSoon, tall, severe, his black cassock swallowing the dim light. His eyes locked on the tin of cake, then on their too-close knees, and his face twisted in disgust.
“Sinful,” he barked, the word slicing through the air. “Gluttony, deceit, filth, do you think God isn’t watching you?”
Jimin froze, heart hammering so hard he thought his ribs might crack. Taehyung’s jaw clenched, but neither spoke as the man’s voice rose, each word heavier than the last. Then came the sting, a sharp, humiliating smack across the side of Jimin’s head. His eyes burned, tears threatening to spill, but he swallowed them back with a tight throat. The same blow met Taehyung’s shoulder, though he barely flinched.
“Get out of here,” The older man spat, stepping aside. The faint smell of incense clung to his robes, almost choking in the close space.
Jimin stood first, clutching the tin to his chest like it might protect him. Taehyung rose slower, his eyes flicking briefly to Jimin, not with concern, but with something harder. A glare, sharp and fleeting, as if blaming him for the whole thing.
They didn’t speak as they walked across the classroom to the exit, the wooden floor creaking under their steps. But in Taehyung’s chest, a knot began to form, an ugly, unfamiliar mix of shame and anger. The way the Brother had looked at them, the implication in his voice… it was something Taehyung didn’t know how to name, only that it made him want to push the feeling away. Far away. Onto someone else.
And Jimin, he decided, was the easiest person to push it onto.
Notes:
A LOT of things are going to unfold and you guys are not ready for it hehehe
Chapter 6: the storm between us
Notes:
I am so so so sooo sorry for how long it's taken me to update, I hope you can forgive me with this VERYYY long chapter! (over 10k words!) one of my fav chapters too hehe enjoyyyyyy
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning air inside the Park household carried a faint chill, the kind that came from wooden walls that had spent the night creaking against the wind. The kitchen smelled of fried eggs and coffee, though the aroma seemed dulled beneath the heavy quiet that lingered over the table.
Jimin sat in his usual seat, hunched slightly forward, the faint steam from his plate curling up into his face. The soft scrape of cutlery against tin plates echoed in the silence, rhythmic but subdued. His mother’s fork occasionally tapped the rim of her plate, and the only other constant sound was the ticking of the old wall clock above them.
Jimin lifted a bite of eggs to his mouth, chewing slowly, savouring the greasy saltiness against his tongue. The yolk was runny, buttery, leaving a faint sheen on his lips when he drew them back in, the corners glistening under the weak stream of sunlight coming through the window. His father’s coffee mug clinked softly as it met the wood of the table, the scent of bitter grounds wafting stronger for a moment.
Then, a sudden, sharper noise.
The heavy clatter of a fork hitting tin.
Jimin flinched, his head instinctively lifting from his plate. His father’s broad hand had set the utensil down, not dropped but placed with enough weight to demand attention. Jimin’s dark eyes lifted to his father’s face, already fixed on him. There was no anger in the man’s expression, only that weary, measured seriousness that Jimin had grown used to over the years. His father exhaled slowly, the sigh threading through the still air before he finally spoke.
“I want you to go to the market today, Jimin. Pick up some things for us.”
Jimin gave a small nod, swallowing the last of his egg before answering. His voice was soft, careful. “That’s fine.”
He returned to his plate, tearing a piece of bread to mop up the leftover yolk. His lips pressed lightly against it, leaving a faint sheen when he pulled away, chewing with the same steady rhythm as before. Then, between mouthfuls, he asked, almost casually,
“Is uncle driving me there, like usual?”
The silence that followed stretched just a moment too long. His father shifted in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. His voice came firm, steady, but with that finality Jimin hated.
“No.”
Jimin froze mid-bite, the bread still halfway to his lips. He blinked and lowered it back to his plate, his gaze rising again to his father’s face.
“No? Then… who?”
His father leaned back, arms crossing loosely over his chest as if he had anticipated the question.
“Your uncle’s taken the truck for errands elsewhere. Only other truck near enough is my friend’s, few houses down. One of his sons can drive you.”
The words sank like stones in Jimin’s chest. He let out a small, forced hum of understanding, dropping his eyes back down to his plate. He didn’t argue. He didn’t ask which son. He just nodded, almost imperceptibly, and kept eating, though now the taste of bread and egg seemed duller, as though the flavour had already drained out of the meal.
The clock ticked on. The faint whistle of wind crept through the cracks in the wood. And Jimin chewed in silence, lips glistening faintly with yolk, trying not to think too hard about who he might find himself beside in that truck.
Jimin stood at the doorframe, bent slightly as he tugged on his worn leather shoes. The laces, frayed at the ends, slipped stubbornly through his trembling fingers. His clothes were simple, a cream button-up tucked into brown trousers that hung loose at his ankles, cinched at the waist by a belt that had begun to crack around the edges. The shirt’s collar, though neat, was a little wilted from too many washes, and a faint thread hung loose near his cuff. His honey-blonde hair, grown longer than he liked, fell over his eyes in uneven strands, soft but unruly, nearly brushing into his vision. Every time he blinked, the ends seemed to tickle his lashes, giving him the look of someone who’d forgotten to care about his appearance, when in truth it was all he thought about.
Straightening up, he brushed his palms along his thighs, exhaled a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, and forced a small smile.
“Bye, I’ll see you later,” he said quietly, his voice almost too thin to carry.
His parents moved closer to the doorway to see him off. His mother, still in her apron, wiped her hands against the fabric though no flour or grease clung to her palms. His father leaned his weight against the frame, tools clinking faintly at his side from the leather strap he wore. They looked at him with expectant eyes, the kind of gaze that carried a weight Jimin could never quite escape, the weight of trust, of duty, of their son fulfilling his errands.
The morning had dulled into a pale grey, the sky thick with clouds that stretched long and low, the kind that promised rain but not yet. A wind brushed past the house, bending the tall grass along the path, carrying with it a faint earthy smell. The air was colder than it had been the day before, the type of cold that crept past sleeves and collar, raising goosebumps along the skin.
The truck waited just beyond the steps, parked squarely in front of their house. Its body was a dull forest green, paint chipped along the edges of the hood and flecked with rust where rain had worn it down. The tires were dusted with dried mud, the chrome around the headlights dulled and dented. The faint outline of a cross hung from the rearview mirror, visible even through the slightly dirty windshield, catching the little light the morning had to offer.
Jimin’s gaze lifted immediately to the window of the truck, as if pulled there by instinct. And then his stomach turned. His breath hitched, his throat tightening until it nearly closed. Behind the glass, dark eyes stared back at him, Taehyung’s. They were sharp and unblinking, black pools that seemed to pierce through Jimin’s ribs.
The air fled Jimin’s lungs in a sick, stuttering gasp, the kind of sound that escaped before he could stop it. His entire body flinched back, and he spun on his heel, feet moving as if to rush back inside. His parents hadn’t moved from the doorway, blocking his retreat. His father’s voice came sharp, impatient.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Jimin shook his head quickly, hair falling further into his eyes, the edges brushing against his cheeks as he pleaded. His words were strangled, thin.
“I can’t go with him. Please.”
His father’s jaw tightened, and he spat the words like they tasted foul.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Jimin’s lips pressed tight together, the colour draining from them as his throat burned with words he couldn’t say. Silence clung to him like a second skin.
His mother shifted, brows pinching together in concern. Her voice was softer, coaxing, but still firm.
“What’s the matter, Jiminie?”
Still, he said nothing. He couldn’t. The silence was broken instead by another sound, the deep, weighted thud of a truck door opening and shutting. Heavy boots crunched against gravel and dirt, the steady rhythm of someone approaching. Against his will, Jimin turned, every muscle tight with dread.
Taehyung was walking around the front of the truck, his long legs carrying him with an effortless kind of slouch. His hair was dark, inky black against the grey morning, strands curling slightly at the nape where they brushed his collar. It fell messily against his forehead, framing his sharp, almost cruel features, high cheekbones, strong jawline, eyes hooded and narrow. The bandage still clung to his face, soggy and discoloured from sweat, beginning to peel at the edges. Scratches ran raw and red across his knuckles, skin broken where it had split from fights or fury. His clothes were rugged, careless: a loose shirt rolled at the elbows, suspenders tugging it closer to his body, trousers dirt-stained at the knees.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just reached out, long fingers curling around the passenger door of the truck. He pulled it open with a creak and looked at Jimin, wordlessly.
Jimin broke the eye contact immediately, a sting burning at the corners of his eyes. He pressed them to the ground, forcing the tears back down, swallowing so hard his throat ached. He clenched his fists and walked forward, shoulders hunched, feet heavy, each step dragging him closer to the open door like he was being marched toward something inevitable.
The truck’s interior reeked of cigarettes and stale beer, the scent hitting Jimin as he climbed in. Empty cans littered the floor, rolling slightly as his feet nudged them, clinking against one another with hollow echoes. The leather seats were cracked, stuffing exposed in places, the material worn from years of sweat and sun. A wooden cross dangled from the mirror, swaying faintly with the wind sneaking through a cracked window. There were crumpled newspapers shoved into the dashboard compartment, an old jacket thrown across the backseat, and the faint gleam of a lighter tucked beside the handbrake.
Jimin sank into the passenger seat, his knees drawn close together, hands resting in his lap. He fiddled with the fabric of his trousers, thumb worrying at the seam until it threatened to tear. His eyes stayed fixed on his knees, refusing to wander, his hair falling like a curtain to hide his face.
The driver’s door groaned open, then slammed shut with a final, echoing weight. Taehyung dropped back into his seat, the springs beneath him groaning. He leaned forward to adjust something on the dash, the smell of tobacco and soap clinging to his skin, before slumping back again.
The air inside the cab shifted immediately, heavy and suffocating. The silence was thick, filling every corner of the truck. Jimin could feel the warmth of Taehyung’s presence beside him, feel the roughness of his breaths, and it pressed into him like a weight. His chest tightened, his fingers dug harder into the cloth of his pants, and he kept his eyes down, because to look up, to look at him, would be unbearable.
The truck rattled faintly as Taehyung pushed the key into the ignition, twisting until the engine coughed, then rumbled to life. The sound was low and uneven at first, but soon smoothed into a steady growl that filled the cab and vibrated faintly through the cracked leather seats. He didn’t look at Jimin as he reached across his chest, dragging the seatbelt strap into place, the metallic click sharp in the tense silence.
Beside him, Jimin fumbled desperately with his own. His hands shook as he tried to guide the thin metal tongue into the buckle, but every attempt slipped just short, his trembling fingers betraying him. He cursed under his breath, barely audible, pressing his lips together tight to stop them from quivering.
The more he struggled, the more he felt it, Taehyung’s eyes. Heavy, unwavering, watching him out of the corner of his gaze. Jimin could feel the heat crawling up his neck, spreading to his cheeks, burning bright beneath his skin. His heart thundered in his chest, not just from nerves but from embarrassment. He knew he looked foolish, weak, and it only made his pulse race faster.
Suddenly, there was movement. Taehyung leaned toward him in one fluid motion, broad shoulders shifting closer, his arm brushing against Jimin’s side as he reached for the seatbelt.
Jimin startled violently.
A sharp cry burst from his lips before he even realised it, his hand shooting up on instinct, striking Taehyung’s cheek with a flat slap. The sound cracked through the cab, louder than the rumbling engine.
Taehyung reeled back with a grunt, clutching his cheek, his expression twisted in a mix of shock and irritation. His dark eyes widened before narrowing, his jaw tightening as the sting reddened across his skin.
“What the hell was that for?!” he snapped, voice raw with disbelief.
Jimin’s chest heaved as he turned toward him, face flushed, lips trembling.
“Why did you get so close?!” he shot back, eyes wide, his voice high and cracking with nerves.
Taehyung let out a harsh laugh, shaking his head as he rubbed his cheek.
“I was trying to do your fucking seatbelt! Since you were struggling like an idiot.”
Jimin’s fists clenched in his lap, nails biting into the fabric of his trousers. His eyes narrowed, glassy with frustration.
“I’m not an idiot!” he bit out, his voice sharp though his chin wavered.
Taehyung only rolled his eyes, a sound like a scoff caught in his throat. Without another word, he leaned toward Jimin again, this time more deliberate, his hand gripping the loose strap of the seatbelt.
Jimin froze.
He didn’t move away, didn’t dare lift his hand this time. His breath caught as Taehyung’s arm brushed firmly against his chest, the sheer size of his frame overwhelming in the small space. The warmth radiating off him pressed into Jimin’s skin, seeping through his shirt. His scent enveloped his, sharp tobacco clinging faintly to his shirt, earthy soap lingering from a rushed wash, and beneath it, the musk of sweat and leather. It was dizzying, intoxicating, even as Jimin’s chest fluttered with panic.
His heart raced so hard it was a wonder Taehyung couldn’t hear it. His cheeks burned hotter, his lips parting slightly as he tried to steady his breath. His lashes lowered, unable to look directly at Taehyung’s face so close to his own, so instead he stared at the dip of his collarbone, the curve of his throat, the dark strands of hair brushing his cheek.
The metal clicked into place as Taehyung secured the seatbelt for him. The sound was sharp, final. Without a word, Taehyung pulled back, sliding into his own space again with a grunt of satisfaction. He adjusted himself comfortably in the seat, slouching slightly as his large hands wrapped around the steering wheel.
The truck jolted as he pressed down on the pedal, rolling it forward down the gravel road. The morning light shifted across his face, shadowing his sharp jaw, highlighting the faint smear of red on his cheek where Jimin had struck him. For a moment, he glanced sideways, lips curling just enough to reveal the edge of a smirk.
“No need to get all red, sweetheart.”
Jimin whipped his head toward the window immediately, turning his back to him. His shoulders hunched, his jaw tight, the tips of his ears betraying him with their furious flush. His voice was tight, nearly strangled.
“Shut up.”
Outside, the wind hissed against the windows, rattling faintly. The grey clouds above stretched endlessly, heavy with un fallen rain, and the fields they passed swayed with restless unease. But inside the truck, the air was hotter, thicker, Jimin’s embarrassment simmering in the silence, Taehyung’s smirk lingering like smoke.
The truck rattled along the uneven pavement, its heavy wheels thudding over every crack in the road, sending little tremors up through the seat. The pavement itself was old and patchy, thin strips of tar melting slightly under the warmth of the sun, with weeds clawing up through its seams as if trying to reclaim it. On either side stretched endless fields, their tall grasses swaying lightly in the soft summer wind. The horizon shimmered faintly, a trick of the heat, as if the earth itself was breathing.
Inside the cab, the air felt different, thick, almost suffocating. The windows trapped the sun’s warmth, turning the old truck into a little oven. Sweat began to cling to Jimin’s temples, sticking strands of his honey-blonde hair against his skin. His cheek pressed against the cool glass of the passenger window, but even that was warming under the sun’s bite. His lips parted just slightly, pulling in shallow breaths, as if he could trick his body into believing the air wasn’t heavy.
Across from him, Taehyung sat with one elbow slung lazily over the wheel, a cigarette dangling between his lips. Every bump in the road made the ash tremble at its tip, threatening to fall. His hum filled the silence, low and easy, carrying the tune of some old folk song that might’ve come from his mother’s kitchen radio. With each vibration of the truck, another little wooden cross keychain that hung from the ignition bounced and swung, tapping rhythmically against the dash like a heartbeat.
Jimin sighed quietly and shifted in his seat, trying to cool himself. He reached for the small crank by the window and began to twist it. The handle fought against him, stiff and unyielding, squeaking loudly with every half-turn. His fingers trembled against the stubborn mechanism, and after a few attempts, he gave up with a frustrated grunt. Slumping back against the seat, he crossed his arms and muttered under his breath, “Stupid thing…”
Taehyung’s hum broke off, his deep voice slipping into the air instead. “What’re you tryna do?” His tone wasn’t sharp, just lazy, curious, like he already knew the answer.
Jimin kept his eyes forward, lips pursed. “Your stupid window won’t roll down.”
Taehyung clicked his tongue, the sound sharp against the soft hum of the engine, before he tugged the truck to the side of the road with a gravelly skid. The truck gave a little jolt as it stopped, dust rising in a pale cloud around the wheels.
Jimin’s head snapped toward him, confused, but then froze as Taehyung leaned in across the bench seat. Instinctively, Jimin’s body jolted back until his spine pressed against the hot door. His breath caught in his throat, lashes fluttering as his heart lurched in panic, but Taehyung wasn’t reaching for him.
The older boy’s large hand curled around the window crank, veins standing out faintly beneath the taut skin of his knuckles. His nails were short and uneven, fingertips calloused from work in the fields. The handle groaned as he twisted it firmly, the muscles in his forearm flexing as if even the crank itself couldn’t resist him. His shoulder brushed against Jimin’s chest, his body heat radiating in the cramped cab, and Jimin could do nothing but sit there, cheeks flushed, lips parted, as the window finally groaned open with a squeal of metal.
Taehyung leaned back casually, like nothing had happened, and rested into his seat again. Without a word, he reached for his own window and rolled it down too, letting the breeze sweep through the cab. The cigarette smoke rushed out with the draft, replaced with the faint smell of earth and grass.
Jimin hugged his arms tightly across his chest, trying to smother the heat crawling up his neck. He didn’t dare look at Taehyung, not when his heart was slamming against his ribs like it wanted out. His gaze stayed locked outside, onto the rippling fields, as if the golden grass could hide his red cheeks and restless breath.
The road gradually smoothed as the truck rolled closer to town, the crunch of gravel giving way to the dull hum of paved street. The endless fields peeled back, replaced by clusters of homes, brick chimneys puffing faint smoke into the cooling air. And soon, the marketplace revealed itself, a stretch of stalls and carts spilling into the street, lanterns swaying gently above the crowd. The sun was just beginning its slow descent, dyeing the sky in streaks of tangerine and rose, the last heat of the day shimmering above the rooftops.
The atmosphere shifted immediately. The quiet hum of fields was replaced by noise, laughter from children darting between skirts, vendors calling out prices in rough, tired voices, the thud of boots against the packed dirt. The smell of the place wrapped around them in layers: freshly baked bread still warm from ovens, the tang of dried herbs, meat sizzling over open fires, smoke from tobacco curling through the air. It was alive in a way the still countryside never was.
Taehyung parked the truck crookedly along the street, one tire bumping against the curb. He leaned back, stretching an arm across the top of the seat, cigarette hanging from his lips as he smirked at Jimin. “Well, sweetheart,” he drawled, nodding toward the bustling market, “don’t say I never take you anywhere nice.”
Jimin’s eyes narrowed instantly. “This isn’t a date, Taehyung.” His voice came sharp, though his hands fumbled with the seatbelt latch, his body tense from the way Taehyung’s gaze lingered on him.
Taehyung chuckled low, pulling the cigarette from his lips and tapping the ash out the window. “Could’ve fooled me. Little town market, just the two of us. Romantic as hell.”
Jimin rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt, shoving the seatbelt off. “You’re insufferable.”
“Mm,” Taehyung hummed, lips quirking as he watched Jimin slide out of the truck. “But you keep me around.”
Jimin ignored him, slamming the door harder than necessary before smoothing down the front of his shirt, trying to compose himself. His blonde hair caught the glow of the lanterns as he stepped onto the street, strands falling stubbornly over his eyes. He brushed them aside with an irritated huff, though his fingers trembled faintly, not just from frustration, but from the gnawing unease that Taehyung always seemed to stir in him.
Taehyung came around the truck with the easy gait of someone who belonged everywhere, his bandaged cheek catching the lantern light, sharp features cut from shadow and flame. His dark eyes flicked over Jimin with that same boldness that always made his chest tighten, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Careful, sweetheart,” he teased, voice dropping so only Jimin could hear over the din of the crowd. “Keep pouting like that and people’ll think we’ve already had our first lover’s quarrel.”
Jimin whipped his head toward him, cheeks colouring. “Shut. Up.” His words came out through gritted teeth, lips pressing into a thin line afterward as he tried to steady himself. The crowd brushed past him, the smell of spices and bread pulling at his senses, but all he could feel was Taehyung’s presence at his side, heavy and warm.
They walked into the swell of people, Jimin clutching the small list his father had given him earlier. He tried to focus on it, on the neat handwriting, the simple instructions, but every time Taehyung leaned in, too close, his shoulder brushing Jimin’s, it was impossible to think.
“So what’s first on daddy’s list?” Taehyung asked, peering down at the paper like it was the most interesting thing in the world. His breath brushed the side of Jimin’s face, smelling faintly of smoke and mint.
Jimin jerked the list away, glaring up at him. “Don’t call him that.”
Taehyung’s grin widened, sharp and lazy. “Touchy, aren’t you?”
“Annoying,” Jimin shot back, quick and clipped. His lips tightened, but his eyes gave him away, wide, flustered, struggling not to betray just how much Taehyung was getting under his skin.
They bickered like that through the crowd, Jimin sniping at Taehyung’s constant teasing, Taehyung only fuelling the fire with every sly remark. Yet beneath it all, the tension lingered like the heavy summer air, pressing close, impossible to escape.
The stall sat under a sun-faded striped awning, shade pooling in thin bands over burlap sacks and wooden crates. Onions in every shape of gold and white were heaped like river stones, skins papery and whispering when the breeze dragged through. The smell was sharp, earth and acid, riding the heat that shivered above the packed-dirt lane. Flies worried the corners of a vinegar jar; a hand-painted sign leaned crooked against a crate.
Jimin stepped into the strip of shade and let his eyes settle. He read the pile the way he’d been taught: look for tight necks, weight in the hand, skin dry, no soft spots. He picked one up, thumb testing at the root, returned it, chose another. The awning’s edge flicked light over his face; sweat licked his hairline and dampened the collar of his shirt. His hair had fallen forward again, nearly veiling his eyes as he leaned to inspect for sprout nubs. He pushed it back with two fingers and exhaled, steadying.
The vendor, a narrow-shouldered man with sun-bitten cheeks, watched with a kind of distant patience, a stub of pencil tucked behind his ear and a length of twine looped around his wrist.
Behind Jimin, Taehyung lounged with one hip against a barrel of dried beans, chewing invisible air where a cigarette would normally sit. The bandage on his cheek had gone soft at the edges from sweat; his knuckles were nicked and raw, black crescents of grit embedded along a cuticle. He was too big for the sliver of shade, shoulders outlined in light, shirt stuck to his back where the fabric met his spine. When he spoke, it was low, lazy, pitched for Jimin alone.
“Careful, angel. You squeeze ’em that hard, they’re gonna bruise. ’Course…” He tipped his head, mouth tilting. “Maybe you like ’em firm.”
The onion nearly slipped.
Jimin’s jaw set. He pretended not to hear. He chose another bulb, rolled it in his palm, eyes flicking for soft flesh or mould. The smell made his nose sting.
Taehyung’s voice slid in again, warmer, closer. “I can pick faster if you want. Strong hands and all.” A wry hum. “You watching, sweetheart? Learn something.”
The onion thumped back into the crate.
Jimin turned. Slow. He looked up at him, really looked, at the slick heat on Taehyung’s throat, the dark curl at his temple flattened by sweat, the stupid sliver of gauze clinging to his cheekbone, and the annoyance that had been simmering all morning broke the surface.
“Stop,” he said. His voice was quiet, but it carried an edge that made the vendor glance aside and busy himself with twine. “Stop acting like everything is fine.”
Taehyung’s grin held, a fraction too long. “Didn’t say it was.”
“You don’t have to,” Jimin snapped, louder now. The awning cloth ticked in the wind; somewhere a fiddle scraped through a tune, off-key. “You flirt and make stupid jokes and…” he stepped closer, heat rolling off him, off both of them, “and you think that makes it normal.”
Taehyung’s eyes flickered, something quick and wary, then shuttered under a lazy blink. “I think you’re overheated.” He reached for an onion, turned it in his palm, like the conversation hadn’t moved an inch. “This one’s good.”
Jimin slapped it out of his hand. It hit the burlap with a hollow sound and wobbled against the crate.
“Don’t.” His breath came fast now. “Don’t touch anything! Don’t talk to me like that! Don’t talk to me at all!!”
That put a line between Taehyung’s brows. “Jimin-”
“You called me a faggot.”
The word emptied the space between them. Even the flies seemed to back off, droning wider circles. The vendor’s pencil paused against the paper bag he’d started to unfold; he fixed his eyes on a knot in the wood and stayed still.
Taehyung didn’t flinch, not exactly. But his mouth pressed flat, and the tendon in his jaw tugged tight. The bandage edge lifted with the motion, peeling like a petal.
Jimin swallowed. His voice was thinner, but it didn’t shake. “You said it like it was nothing. Like I was nothing. And now you’re- now you’re standing here, making-” he gestured, helpless, a sharp cut through hot air, “those comments. Like I’m supposed to forget.” He laughed once. It sounded wrong. “I can’t stand it!! I can’t stand you when you’re like this!”
Taehyung’s gaze skated past Jimin’s mouth, his eyes, landed somewhere over his shoulder, came back. The mask slipped half an inch; the heat in his face wasn’t just sun.
He tried the old route anyway, like stepping into boots that didn’t fit anymore. “You’re being dramatic, sweetheart. I-”
“Don’t call me that!” Jimin said, and the quiet of it struck harder than the shout. “I don’t like you.”
He felt it the instant it left his mouth: the lie and the wish and the ache threading the same needle.
Taehyung’s eyes cooled. He lifted his chin a fraction, the way he did when he braced for a punch. “Yeah?” A smile without warmth. “Lucky me.”
Jimin’s chest cramped. He forced the next part out before he could stop himself, words tumbling like he’d tripped: “I like Jungkook.”
The name hung there, fresh and clean in the onion bite of the air.
Taehyung went still. Not a blink, not a shift of weight. Just a hard, suspended second where the crowd flowed around them and the awning stripe edged slowly across his shoulder. Then he breathed out through his nose, a sound like a laugh stripped for parts, and looked down at the onion Jimin had smacked away.
“Great,” he said lightly, and the lightness cut. He rolled his wrist once as if to shake something off, anger, hurt, whatever it was he wouldn’t name, and let his eyes climb back to Jimin’s. They were darker now, not from heat. “Then you won’t need me to carry the sacks.”
He turned. The bandage caught the sun, a brief flare of white against tan skin, and then it was just his back, broad and easy, moving into the flow of bodies. He didn’t look back. The crowd swallowed him by degrees, the brim of a hat, the hitch of a shoulder, gone.
Jimin stayed where he was, the noise of the market rushing in, tin forks clinking against plates at the stew stall, a baby crying, a dog barking twice and then losing interest. The vendor cleared his throat softly, apology in the sound, and reached for a paper bag.
“How many pounds, son?” he asked, gentle, as if he were handing Jimin a way to move his hands, to move at all.
Jimin blinked. The sting in his nose might have been the onions; it might not. He set three bulbs on the scale with careful fingers, then three more, counting under his breath, steadying on numbers because they didn’t argue back. His palms smelled of dust and the thin sweetness under the sharp.
The man weighed, poured, twisted the top of the bag tight with twine. “Good keepers,” he murmured. “See? Tight necks.”
Jimin nodded and dug coins from his pocket. They clicked against the wood. His heart thudded like he’d run, though he hadn’t moved an inch. He took the bag, its weight neat and solid in his arms, and realised his hands were shaking anyway.
“Next,” the vendor called, kind again but already turning away, and the moment dissolved into the letting-go buzz of the market.
Jimin stepped back into the sun. The heat hit his face and dried the damp at the corners of his eyes before it could fall. He adjusted his grip on the bag and drew a breath that tasted like dust, and sugar frying somewhere, and onion-skin, and the hollow after a word you can’t take back.
The rest of the shopping dragged on like a punishment. Each step Jimin took through the market felt weighted, as though the bags in his hands were filled not with produce but with stones.
He stopped at a stall of tomatoes, the fruit stacked in a pyramid, their skins gleaming under the afternoon sun. His fingers trembled when he reached out, brushing one lightly, its smoothness almost slippery against his clammy skin. The vendor, an older woman with her grey hair tied back under a kerchief, smiled faintly and asked how many he wanted. Jimin’s voice came out thin, flat, barely more than a whisper. “Four, please.”
He held the paper parcel carefully against his chest and moved on.
At the bakery, the smell of warm bread rose into the air, rich and yeasty, curling into his nose. Normally, he loved that smell, it reminded him of mornings when his mother baked, of comfort, but today it barely registered past the tight knot sitting in his throat. The baker slid a loaf across the counter, its crust golden, still warm. Jimin murmured a thank you, though the man had already turned away to the next customer.
Bag after bag piled into his arms until his biceps ached, and twine cut lightly into his palms. Each coin exchange felt like going through motions he wasn’t part of, his mind a few steps away, replaying the sharp words he and Taehyung had thrown at each other, the sound of his own voice when he’d blurted out Jungkook’s name. The more he thought about it, the more shame burned through him.
By the time he picked up flour, the last item on the list, his shirt stuck to the back of his neck with sweat and his lashes clung together with unshed tears. He was exhausted in a way that felt bone-deep, hollow.
He finally made his way back through the press of bodies, the heat of so many people making the air thick and heavy. He clutched the paper bags tightly to keep from dropping them. The truck came into view, its green paint dulled with dust, the wooden cross still dangling from the rearview mirror. Relief should’ve come, but instead his breath caught in his chest.
The driver’s seat was empty.
Jimin stopped dead, staring. He shifted the bags in his arms and squinted through the windshield. No one was there. His heart kicked up hard against his ribs, each beat sharp. His steps quickened, shoes crunching against the dirt as he neared. Nothing.
His stomach flipped violently.
He spun on his heel and started walking through the crowd, scanning it. The chatter of the market surged around him, too loud, like it was closing in. “Taehyung?” he called, voice breaking high. Heads turned briefly but no one stopped, no one answered.
“Taehyung!” he tried again, louder this time, desperation seeping through. Still nothing.
The weight of the groceries suddenly became unbearable. They slid from his arms and hit the ground with dull thuds, a loaf of bread rolling free, flour puffing up in a soft white cloud that clung to his trousers. Jimin fell to his knees, fingers twisting at the fabric of his pants as a sob ripped from him, raw and helpless.
Hot tears spilled down his cheeks, tracking paths through the dust on his skin. He pressed both palms to his eyes but it only made his crying harsher, his breath shuddering out of him. His shoulders shook as though his small frame couldn’t contain the storm.
Around him, the market carried on. Shoes clattered over cobblestones, vendors called out their prices, children laughed in shrill bursts. But no one stopped for the boy on his knees, crying into his hands.
He whispered the name again, weak and hoarse. “Taehyung…” His voice cracked on it, breaking apart like glass. The thought clawed into his chest: he’d ruined it, he’d said too much, driven him away. He pictured walking home alone, explaining to his father that the truck was gone, that he was abandoned, and his whole body shuddered with fear.
At that moment, a shadow fell across him.
“Are you done having a breakdown?”
Jimin’s head jerked up, eyes wide and blurred from tears. Through the watery veil he saw him, Taehyung, standing there like nothing had happened. Hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, the corner of his mouth curled into that half-smirk that always sounded like trouble. A paper bag dangled from his other hand, glass bottles clinking faintly inside.
For a long second Jimin just stared, chest heaving. His cheeks burned with tears and shame. “I thought you left,” he rasped out.
Taehyung tilted his head, dark hair falling lazily over his brow. He crouched down so they were eye-level, one knee bent in the dirt. “Left? I just went to grab us something cold.” He lifted the bag a little, showing the sweating glass bottles of lemonade, and then pointed at the roasted peanuts wrapped in wax paper. “Didn’t think you’d miss me that bad.”
The smirk lingered, but his eyes were searching, watching every twitch of Jimin’s expression.
Jimin scrubbed at his cheeks furiously with his sleeve, embarrassed beyond words at being seen like this. His voice trembled when he snapped, “I thought you were gone. I thought-” His throat closed around the words, and he bit down on his lip to stop it from shaking.
For once, Taehyung didn’t tease. He leaned just slightly closer, his gaze heavy and unreadable, and said in a quiet voice, “Did you want me to be?”
The question sat between them like a weight. Jimin’s breath stuttered, lips parting but no sound coming out. The answer twisted inside him, yes, no, both, neither. His pulse roared in his ears.
And then, just as suddenly, Taehyung broke the moment. He stood smoothly, scooping up the bags Jimin had dropped with one large hand. “Come on,” he muttered, tone lighter, covering whatever had slipped out in his voice before. “You’re getting dirt all over the groceries.”
He started back toward the truck, strides unhurried. But Jimin noticed—he didn’t walk too far ahead. He left just enough space, like he expected Jimin to follow close behind.
And Jimin, with trembling hands and a chest that felt torn in two, picked up the last paper bag and did.
The truck rattled to a stop in front of the Park household, its engine coughing one last time before Taehyung twisted the key and silenced it. The air between the two boys remained as stiff and suffocating as it had been the entire drive back, neither one daring to speak. Dust settled in a soft cloud around the tires, the faint golden haze of late afternoon stretching over the village. The fields at the edge of Mureung shimmered beneath the heat, stalks swaying lazily in the breeze as though the world itself hadn’t noticed the storm brewing between them.
Jimin was the first to move. He slid out of the passenger seat, his legs stiff, and walked slowly toward the back of the truck. His hair fell over his eyes as he moved, his lips pursed into a thin, unreadable line. He felt the weight of silence pressing on his shoulders. His mother had already stepped onto the porch, apron still tied at her waist, waiting with outstretched hands for the groceries. Jimin forced a polite smile for her, though it never reached his eyes.
Behind him, Taehyung opened the back of the truck. The hinges creaked as he yanked it upward, his movements rough, impatient. He grabbed the first paper bag, bottles clinking inside, and thrust it toward Jimin without a word. Jimin accepted it wordlessly, lowering his gaze as though afraid to meet the taller boy’s eyes. The bag was warm against his palms, the scent of apples and potatoes faint beneath the dust of the road.
He turned toward the porch to hand it to his mother, only to pause mid-step at the sound of a voice calling his name.
“Jimin!”
The syllables lifted lightly through the air, warm, familiar, disarming. Jimin’s head snapped toward the sound, his chest tightening, and there he was, Jungkook, walking toward them with a small smile tugging at his lips. His dark hair was tousled, curling faintly at the edges, and the sunlight seemed to catch in his eyes.
A smile spread across Jimin’s face before he could stop it, so sudden it startled even him. The tension in his chest loosened, his pulse leaping as if it had been waiting for that voice all along.
Behind him, Taehyung extended another bag toward him, arm outstretched. But Jimin never reached for it. Instead, he set the first bag down quickly on the porch and, without hesitation, turned on his heel and jogged toward Jungkook.
Taehyung froze for a beat, the bag still in his hand, his knuckles tightening around the paper. His eyes followed Jimin’s retreating figure, the way his shoulders seemed lighter, how his smile grew wider the closer he came to Jungkook. Something ugly twisted in Taehyung’s chest.
He let out a sharp breath through his nose and thrust the bag against his thigh before rolling his eyes, the motion deliberate, dismissive. Muttering something under his breath, he shifted the weight of the groceries in his arms and stomped toward the porch himself, his boots striking the packed earth hard enough to kick up dust.
Meanwhile, Jungkook met Jimin halfway, his smile brightening at the sight of him. “How was the market?” he asked, voice soft but carrying easily in the quiet yard.
Jimin hesitated, his lips parting before pressing together again. For a moment, an image flickered in his mind, the sharpness of Taehyung’s words at the vendor, the venom, the sting of that smirk. But he forced it back, burying it deep. His smile wavered just briefly before settling into place again. “It was fine,” he answered, his tone light but lacking its usual lilt.
Jungkook didn’t seem to notice. He nodded, satisfied, before glancing toward the fields that stretched beyond the house, their golden stalks swaying in the late light. “Come walk with me? Just through the fields. I wanna tell you about something that happened today.”
Jimin’s chest fluttered, and warmth spread across his face as he nodded eagerly. “Yeah,” he said, almost breathless. His smile widened, more genuine this time, reaching his eyes.
But as he turned, his gaze snagged on Taehyung.
The taller boy stood at the back of the truck, arms loaded with bags. His bandaged cheek was still damp with sweat, his jaw sharp and set. And his eyes, dark, hard, and burning, were locked on Jimin. The glare cut through him, sharp as glass.
For a moment, Jimin froze. His breath caught in his throat, chest tightening as if someone had reached inside and squeezed.
But then Taehyung broke it. He looked away with a sharp twist of his head, veins bulging faintly along his forearm as he gripped the paper handles too tightly. He stalked toward the porch in long, deliberate strides, dropping the bags into Mrs. Park’s arms almost too roughly. She gasped softly at the sudden weight, but Taehyung didn’t look back, his shoulders tense as he moved.
Jimin swallowed hard and looked away quickly, his pulse racing, cheeks burning with something he couldn’t name. He forced himself to glance back at Jungkook, who was watching him patiently, unaware of the silent battle happening a few feet away.
“Let’s go,” Jimin said softly, almost in a rush, before turning away from the porch and stepping ahead toward the fields. His smile felt fragile now, but he clung to it anyway.
Behind him, Taehyung’s huff of breath echoed faintly, low and heavy, as if carried on the evening wind.
The fields behind Mureung village stretched endlessly into the horizon, the late afternoon sun casting everything in shades of honey-gold. The stalks of barley bent in the steady wind, brushing against one another with a soft, whispering rustle that filled the silence between two boys walking side by side.
Jimin’s shoes pressed into the packed earth path, the dust lifting with each step and catching briefly in the sunlight before settling again. His hair shifted across his forehead in the breeze, strands of blonde brushing against his eyelashes. Every so often, he stole a glance at Jungkook, who was walking beside him with an easy rhythm, one hand tucked loosely in his pocket, the other occasionally brushing against the heads of barley along the edge of the path.
Jungkook looked at ease here, like the fields themselves belonged to him. His shirt was slightly rumpled from the heat of the day, the white fabric clinging faintly to his frame. The sunlight kissed the curve of his cheekbones, warming his skin, and his lips were curved into a small, absent smile. His dark hair lifted with the breeze, strands falling forward only for him to push them back with a practiced motion.
For Jimin, the walk felt quieter than it should have. His chest was still tight from earlier, his mind lingering on Taehyung’s glare, on the sharp edge of his voice at the market. But he willed himself to focus on Jungkook, on the lightness that came with his presence. The air between them wasn’t heavy, it was calm, familiar, like the sound of a stream running somewhere nearby.
“So,” Jungkook began at last, his voice carrying smoothly above the rustle of the stalks, “you won’t believe what happened earlier today.” His tone was playful, as though he were holding onto a secret he couldn’t wait to let spill.
Jimin blinked at him, his lips parting before curving into a faint smile. “What?” he asked, his voice soft, eager despite the quiet storm still lingering in his chest.
Jungkook’s eyes lit up as he laughed, the sound warm and unrestrained, spilling into the open air. “There was this calf that got loose from the neighbor’s farm,” he said, his hand gesturing animatedly now, “and it went running straight through the yard. Everyone was chasing it, even the little kids, and I swear, it looked more like a game than anything. I tried to help, but the thing nearly knocked me over.” He laughed again, his nose scrunching slightly, eyes crinkling into crescents.
The corners of Jimin’s lips tugged upward despite himself. He could almost picture it, Jungkook, arms flailing, trying to keep up with a calf bolting across a yard. The thought alone made something warm flutter in his chest. “You? Knocked over by a calf?” he teased lightly, tilting his head, his smile small but genuine now.
Jungkook grinned wider, bumping his shoulder against Jimin’s as they walked. “Don’t laugh. It was fast. Faster than you’d think.” He glanced at him, his dark eyes gleaming, and then let out a little huff as though embarrassed. “Anyway… I ended up just standing there while everyone else actually caught it. Pretty useless, huh?”
Jimin shook his head quickly, almost too quickly. “No, not useless,” he said softly, his voice steady despite the nervous flutter beneath it. His eyes flicked down to the ground, watching his sandals disturb the dust. “You tried. That’s not useless.”
The words hung between them for a moment, carried by the wind that rustled through the field. Jungkook slowed his pace just slightly, watching Jimin’s face, the faint pink in his cheeks, the way his gaze stayed low. Something unspoken tugged at the corners of his lips, a smile he didn’t quite let loose, though it threatened.
Jimin felt the weight of that gaze and quickly tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, his fingers brushing nervously against his temple. His chest tightened again, but in a different way this time. Not sharp and stinging, like Taehyung. Softer. Sweeter.
The sun dipped lower in the sky as they continued walking, shadows lengthening over the barley. The air was cooler now, touched by the evening breeze, and the fields seemed to glow with a quiet, golden peace. Jimin let himself breathe in that moment, just for a little while, even as the memory of Taehyung’s glare lingered faintly in the back of his mind.
Here, with Jungkook’s laughter still ringing in the air, it felt almost far away.
The field stretched on and on, a vast expanse of barley swaying like waves in the fading light. The sun was sinking toward the horizon, brushing the sky in strokes of orange and pink, the breeze carrying the faint smell of grass and earth. Jimin walked beside Jungkook, their shoulders brushing every now and then, each touch sparking something sharp and sweet inside him.
Jungkook was still talking about the calf incident, embellishing the story now, laughing at himself. “I swear, it almost looked back at me like it knew I couldn’t catch it. Like it was mocking me.” He puffed his chest out suddenly, striding forward with exaggerated steps. “Next time, though, I’ll grab it by the rope, swing it around, save the day. Everyone’ll be cheering-”
Jimin laughed, shaking his head, his hair falling into his eyes as he looked down. “Cheering for you? More like laughing when you fall face-first into the mud again.”
Jungkook gasped dramatically, clutching his chest, pretending to stumble. “You wound me, Park Jimin. Is this how you treat a hero?”
Jimin’s lips curved wider, his laughter spilling out in soft, unguarded bursts. He shoved Jungkook’s arm playfully, the push making the younger stumble sideways. Jungkook turned immediately, grinning as he shoved back, not too hard but enough to make Jimin sway against the tall barley stalks. Their laughter tangled in the open air, carried across the fields like music, echoing back faintly as though the world itself wanted to hold onto the sound.
For a moment, it felt like nothing existed but the two of them, their laughter, their voices, the path winding between golden stalks, and the glow of the fading day.
And then, without thinking, without planning, Jimin’s voice slipped out, trembling but clear:
“I love you, Jungkook.”
The words fell into the air between them, sudden, bare, irretrievable.
The laughter stopped instantly. Their footsteps slowed, then stopped entirely, dust from the path drifting upward in the stillness. Jimin froze, his chest heaving, eyes wide as the weight of his own confession sank in. His lips parted as if he wanted to take it back, but the silence was already spreading, thick and heavy.
The wind picked up sharply, colder now, sweeping through the barley so that it hissed and shivered. The warmth of the day seemed to fade all at once, leaving the field cloaked in a strange, tense chill.
Jungkook stood very still, his dark eyes fixed on Jimin. His lips parted slightly, then pressed together again, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. The boy who had just been laughing, grinning, teasing, now looked caught, unsure, his expression softening into something almost pained.
Jimin’s pulse hammered in his ears, his body stiff, his gaze falling to the ground. His fingers clenched at his sides. “I- I didn’t mean- ” he stammered, his voice breaking. “I mean, I didn’t mean to- ” His throat tightened, cutting him off. “I’m sorry.”
The silence stretched. The only sound was the wind brushing the barley and the faint creak of the wooden fence in the distance.
Finally, Jungkook spoke, his voice low, gentle, almost hesitant. “Jimin…” He exhaled, running a hand through his hair as his gaze flicked away, down the path, anywhere but directly at him. “I… I only see you as a friend.”
The words dropped heavy, cutting through the air sharper than the wind.
“I’m sorry,” Jungkook added quickly, his voice strained. His brows furrowed as he looked back at Jimin, who stood frozen, his lips trembling, his cheeks pale except for the raw flush burning across them. “It’s just… that kind of thing… it’s not right. Not here. You know how people are. They’d-” He stopped himself, his jaw tightening, his eyes soft with guilt. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Jimin didn’t respond. His chest was tight, his breaths shallow, his eyes locked on the ground. His hair fell forward, shielding his expression, but Jungkook could still see the faint quiver in his lips, the way his fingers twisted into the fabric of his pants.
“Jimin,” Jungkook said again, softer this time. His face was full of regret, but he didn’t step closer. Instead, he sighed, the sound heavy. “I’m sorry.” He glanced back toward the village, the sky deepening behind him. “I should go.”
The words sank like stones in Jimin’s stomach. His knees buckled, and before he could stop himself, he crouched down right there on the dirt path, pressing his hands over his face. The first sob tore out of him, muffled against his palms, his shoulders trembling. He curled inward, his whole body shaking as the tears came harder, unstoppable, his breath breaking in gasps.
The barley swayed around him, the wind colder now, harsher, as though the field itself had shifted to match the ache in his chest.
Behind him, Jungkook hesitated, his hand twitching at his side as though he wanted to reach out, to comfort, to fix what had broken. But he didn’t. His steps were slow, uncertain, carrying him back down the path toward the village, his shadow stretching long and thin behind him in the fading light.
Jimin stayed where he was, crumpled on the ground, the earth cool beneath his knees, his hands wet with tears. The laughter from before felt like it had happened a lifetime ago.
Now there was only the sound of the wind, the cold air wrapping around him, and the hollow ache of being left alone.
Jimin had been crying so long his throat burned. His palms were damp with tears, his knees pressed into the rough dirt of the path, and each shuddering sob left him weaker than the last. The fields swayed and hissed around him, the barley stalks whispering as if mocking his pain. His chest ached like it had been split wide open, the echo of Jungkook’s words replaying over and over until they carved into him like knives.
He pressed the heels of his hands harder against his face, wishing he could smother the sound of his own crying. The world felt cruelly quiet around him, the air heavy with the weight of his loneliness.
And then, the faint sound of footsteps crunching against the dirt.
Jimin froze, his breath hitching, his wet lashes lifting. His head shot up, eyes wide and red, hope sparking despite the ache in his chest. “...Jungkook?” he whispered, voice hoarse.
But it wasn’t Jungkook.
Through the haze of tears, he saw Taehyung approaching, dark against the soft glow of the dimming sky. The disappointment slammed into him like a physical blow, sharp and merciless. A broken whimper slipped out, and fresh tears spilled hot down his cheeks.
Taehyung’s figure grew clearer with each step: his dark hair tousled by the evening wind, strands falling into his eyes; his sharp features cast in the low light, making him look like he’d stepped out of shadow; the thin bandage still clinging damply to his cheek, slightly peeling at the edges; his knuckles still marked with faint scratches, raw but healing; his clothes the same from earlier, the loose shirt tucked carelessly into worn trousers, dust at the hems of his boots. He carried himself with that same careless swagger, but his eyes, dark, unreadable, were fixed solely on Jimin.
Panic jolted through Jimin’s chest. He scrambled to his feet, wiping at his face roughly with trembling hands, and turned sharply on his heel. His legs moved before he could think, carrying him away down the path, barley brushing against his arms as he stumbled forward.
“Jimin- wait.”
The voice was low, firm, cutting through the evening air. A beat later, footsteps quickened behind him, the crunch of boots growing closer until a hand brushed his arm.
“Don’t-” Jimin snapped, jerking away, his head shaking furiously. His voice cracked as he choked, “Leave me alone, Taehyung.”
But Taehyung’s pace didn’t falter. “Just stop for a second,” he said, breath even despite the short chase. “I just want to know what’s wrong with you.”
That broke something inside Jimin.
He halted so suddenly that Taehyung almost walked into him. Jimin spun around, his blonde hair falling wildly into his tear-streaked face, his chest rising and falling with sharp, shallow breaths. The look in his swollen eyes was wild, grief tangled with fury, desperation laced with exhaustion.
“What’s wrong with me!?” Jimin spat, shoving Taehyung hard in the chest with both hands. The force wasn’t enough to knock him back, but it made Taehyung stiffen, his jaw tightening.
“You’ve never cared about me!!” Jimin screamed, his voice raw. “NEVER! You’ve always been cruel, always mocking, always dragging me down- and now you’re-” His voice broke, tears flooding his lashes again. “Now you’re pretending like you care? Like you- like you’re someone else!?” His fists hit Taehyung’s chest again, weaker this time. “Stop pretending, Taehyung!! It hurts! It hurts more than anything!”
Taehyung’s mouth opened, his expression uncharacteristically shaken. For once, his usual smirk, his cocky remarks, they were gone. His brows pulled together, his throat working like he was searching for words.
“I’m not pretending-”
“Yes, you are!” Jimin cut him off, his voice ringing out across the empty field. His cheeks were wet, his lips trembling, but his rage burned hot through the sorrow. “You don’t care about me! You never will! Because you’re in love with Jennie!”
The name cut through the air like a blade.
Taehyung stilled, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly before narrowing again. He scoffed, sharp and bitter, though his expression faltered. “What the hell are you talking about?” His voice carried a mix of disbelief and anger.
“I know everything!” Jimin shouted back, his hands trembling at his sides. His voice cracked but pushed on, louder, desperate. “The whispers, the looks, the stories everyone tells. Don’t lie to me. I know you’ve been with her. I know you-”
Something inside Taehyung snapped. His fists clenched at his sides, his dark eyes blazing.
“Can you just SHUT UP?!” he roared, his voice deep, raw, and shaking with a force that silenced the field. Jimin flinched, his breath catching, his lips parting in shock at the sudden explosion.
Taehyung stepped closer, his chest heaving, his voice tearing through the evening air. “It was fake, Jimin. All of it. Every single rumor, every story you’ve heard, all fake!” His voice cracked on the last word, rough and ragged with emotion. “I’ve never done anything with her. Never touched her. Never loved her!”
The barley stilled as the wind seemed to die down.
For a moment, silence swallowed them both whole. It was the first time Taehyung had ever used his voice like this, the first time he had defended himself, or Jennie, so fiercely. His words hung between them, trembling in the charged air, a raw truth laid bare.
Jimin stood frozen, his breath sharp, his chest tight, tears streaking his flushed cheeks. His lips parted but no sound came out, his mind reeling. The air felt too heavy, pressing down on both of them, as though the entire village had gone silent to listen.
Taehyung’s shoulders rose and fell, his fists unclenching slowly, his face tight with a storm of emotions he wasn’t used to showing. His dark eyes, though still blazing, softened just slightly as they locked on Jimin’s.
And for the first time, neither of them knew what to say.
The silence after Taehyung’s outburst was unbearable. The air itself seemed to hold its breath. The barley around them no longer whispered gently but shivered under the weight of a wind that had begun to whip across the field. The sky above had shifted into bruised hues of violet and grey, as though the world itself was bracing for the storm breaking between the two of them.
Jimin’s lips trembled. His chest rose and fell like it could barely keep up with the rhythm of his heart. Then, suddenly, he broke again. His voice cracked open like glass.
“You liar,” he whispered, so faint it was almost carried away by the wind. But then it grew louder, harsher. “You liar!”
He shoved Taehyung in the chest, hard enough that his own arms stung. He hit him again. And again. His fists rained against Taehyung’s chest and shoulders, sloppy and desperate, not strong enough to do damage but raw with anguish.
“You don’t care! You never cared! You hate me- YOU’VE ALWAYS HATED ME!” Jimin screamed, his throat tearing with the force. His sobs tangled with his words until they were nearly indistinguishable. He hit Taehyung again, this time with both fists, his face twisted and blotched red, wet streaks shining down his cheeks.
Taehyung didn’t move. He didn’t block, didn’t flinch, didn’t raise his voice again. He just stood there, jaw tight, chest heaving, eyes fixed on Jimin as if every blow was deserved. His body absorbed every weak punch like stone absorbing rain.
The wind howled louder, lashing Jimin’s blonde hair across his face, whipping at Taehyung’s shirt until it clung to his frame. The air was sharp, biting, tasting of earth and electricity.
Jimin’s sobs grew wilder, his voice shredding itself with the force of his pain. The sound was gut-wrenching, the kind of crying that came from the marrow, tearing up from a place deeper than words could touch. His small fists slowed, weakening, finally pressing against Taehyung’s chest rather than hitting it.
And then, before Jimin could collapse beneath the weight of himself, Taehyung moved.
He wrapped his arms around him, strong and unyielding, pulling Jimin into his chest. The impact stole Jimin’s breath, his cheek smashing against Taehyung’s shirt, now dampened with his tears. Jimin thrashed weakly, clawing at Taehyung’s chest, pounding his fists against him even as he sobbed into the fabric.
“I hate you!” Jimin wailed, the sound muffled but piercing, carrying over the wind. His voice cracked, sharp with the kind of hatred that only came from love twisted into agony. “I hate you, Taehyung, I hate you-”
Taehyung said nothing. His face was pressed against Jimin’s hair, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might break. His arms only tightened, crushing Jimin against him as if he could shield him from the storm he himself had caused.
Jimin’s sobs tore the air apart, his voice going raw, ripping through his throat until every word was half-scream, half-broken cry. His small hands twisted into Taehyung’s shirt, holding on even as he said he wanted to let go. The wind shrieked around them, matching his cries, carrying them far into the endless fields.
And then, suddenly, without warning, Taehyung pulled back just enough to grab Jimin’s face in his large hands. His palms were rough, trembling slightly, thumbs digging into tear-wet cheeks as he forced Jimin’s frantic, swollen gaze up to his own.
Their eyes met, Jimin’s blurred with tears, Taehyung’s dark and unreadable, but burning. For the briefest moment, they just breathed each other in: Jimin trembling, lips parted, eyes wide, Taehyung’s chest heaving as if holding himself back from drowning.
Taehyung snapped.
He kissed him. Roughly. Desperately.
His mouth crashed against Jimin’s, all heat and fury and helplessness, crushing the boy’s trembling lips with his own. It wasn’t gentle, it was raw, messy, almost violent in its need. The taste of salt from Jimin’s tears spread between them, bitter and unrelenting.
Jimin froze. His body went still, his lashes fluttering against wet cheeks, his hands still clutching Taehyung’s shirt in tight, trembling fists. His heart stuttered painfully in his chest, too fast, too hard. The world narrowed down to the press of Taehyung’s lips, the suffocating heat of his body, the scent of him, smoke, sweat, and something warmer, something deeply Taehyung.
The wind howled.
And then, with a broken sob escaping against Taehyung’s mouth, Jimin kissed him back.
His small body pressed into Taehyung’s larger frame, trembling but needy, desperate. His fists loosened only to clutch tighter at Taehyung’s shirt, dragging him closer, as though letting go would kill him. His lips moved against Taehyung’s clumsily, hungrily, as tears still streamed down his face, wetting their mouths, making the kiss taste like grief.
Taehyung held him as if he’d never let him go. One hand stayed on Jimin’s cheek, holding him in place as though afraid he’d vanish, while the other tightened around his back, pressing him fully against his chest.
The kiss didn’t slow. It didn’t soften. It remained desperate, raw, a collision of anger and longing and brokenness. It was not a confession, not forgiveness, but something more primal: two hearts, bleeding, slamming into each other in the wreckage of everything unsaid.
And in the middle of that barren field, with the wind howling and the sky threatening to split open, they kissed like the world had ended, and all that was left was this.
Notes:
Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation. - Khalil Gibran
Chapter 7: the sound of silence
Notes:
it's been a while againnn I promise I'll try to be faster with my updates T_T
before this chapter begin I just want to throw out some important notes so PLEASE READ this before beginning the chapter!
- in chapter 1, I made a spelling mistake when mentioning my twitter/X user (im so silly I only noticed recently) so please feel free to follow me on there my @ is veiledmuse (this is correct this time LOL). it's private but I accept requests!
- to help with getting a visual idea of a key moment in this chapter, I recommend searching up 'tin washboard and basin' on google. since this fic is set in the 1930s there may be elements that people may not be familiar with with, so I'll make sure to include explanations in beginning notes :)now, please enjoy and thank you for reading!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Love was never simple.
It moved like the weather, sometimes soft and golden, warming every shadow it touched, and other times cruel and sharp, tearing through everything in its path with the violence of a storm. One moment it was a gentle breeze that carried laughter across fields, and the next it was a wind that stripped the trees bare, leaving them shivering and exposed. Love could be as delicate as morning dew resting on the grass, or as merciless as hail shattering glass in the dead of night.
People spoke of love as though it were steady, as though it had form or structure. But the truth was, it shifted. It tested. It destroyed and rebuilt. Love, when unreturned, curdled into something heavy, a cloud that refused to move, hanging above the chest until every breath felt borrowed. Love, when misunderstood, became lightning, sudden, blinding, dangerous. And yet, for all its cruelty, people still reached for it. Still stood beneath its rains, still prayed for its sun. Because no matter how complicated it was, no matter how many storms it summoned, love was the only thing that reminded the heart it was alive.
Their lips lingered together for a moment that felt suspended outside of time. Jimin’s mouth was soft, warmer than Taehyung imagined, though trembling faintly against his own, salt from his tears mixing between them and turning the kiss into something both tender and broken. When their mouths finally parted, it wasn’t sudden, it was slow, reluctant, as though both were afraid of what awaited once the space opened up between them.
The air hung heavy between their faces, breaths mingling, ragged from all the shouting and crying that had ripped through them moments ago. Their foreheads nearly touched, yet neither dared close the distance again. Jimin’s swollen eyes glistened under the dimming light, lashes clumped together by tears, his lips quivering as if words themselves hurt to form.
“Why…” His voice cracked like brittle glass. His lower lip wobbled, trembling as though the syllable itself was too heavy to hold. “Why, Taehyung?”
The question was not sharp, not angry, but desperate, the plea of someone who wanted something solid to cling to in a world that kept shifting beneath his feet.
But Taehyung only stared. His jaw tightened, his throat bobbing as if he was forcing something down, but no answer came. His dark eyes held their same wintry coldness, though beneath the ice, something unsteady flickered, something he couldn’t name, couldn’t voice, couldn’t let slip.
Jimin’s chest rose and fell unevenly, breath shuddering through parted lips. His voice grew smaller, fragile enough that the wind nearly carried it away. “Are you going to leave me too?”
The silence that followed stretched unbearably. Taehyung’s tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, his hands twitching as though they wanted to reach out but were bound by invisible rope. He stayed quiet.
And that silence broke Jimin in a way no shouted insult ever had. His eyes welled again, lashes heavy with tears, and he hastily rubbed at his lips with the sleeve of his shirt, as though erasing what had just happened. The roughness of the fabric left his skin raw, reddening further the mouth Taehyung had just kissed. Without another word, he shoved past him, small shoulders brushing against Taehyung’s chest, and began walking home.
Taehyung didn’t move.
He just stood there, boots rooted to the dirt path, the tall grass around them whispering as the wind rushed harder across the field. He let it whip against his face, sting his eyes, thread roughly through his hair. Jimin’s retreating figure grew smaller, more blurred by the sting in his own gaze, until all that was left for him was the sound of footsteps fading and the hollow emptiness they carved into him.
He closed his eyes for a moment, chest heaving with something sour and sharp that he couldn’t shake. The image replayed in his mind relentlessly, Jimin crumpled on the ground when he first arrived, shoulders trembling, small body broken against the dirt. Taehyung hadn’t expected the sight to hit him like that, like an iron weight dropped straight into his chest. His heart had twisted strangely, painfully, with an ache that felt too intimate, too raw.
Then came Jimin’s outburst, the way he shoved at him, voice cracking, throat tearing with screams that made Taehyung’s skin crawl with guilt. The mix of sadness in Jimin’s eyes and the fury in his voice had sliced through him like a blade, leaving him angry too, angry at himself, angry at the world, angry that the only way he knew to respond was to yell back, to spit fire when he wanted nothing more than to douse Jimin’s pain. The roughness of his own voice still burned his throat, but the regret burned deeper. He hated himself for losing control, for raising his voice at the one person whose voice he secretly wanted to hear more than anyone else’s.
And then, the confession. The rumours. Jennie’s name on Jimin’s lips, laced with venom. Taehyung had snapped, blurting out his truth in defence, not because he wanted to bare himself, but because he had no choice. Because the thought of Jimin believing he belonged to those whispers made something unbearable snap inside him. It was the first time he had ever spoken about it, ever defended her, and still it had been selfish, cowardly. He hadn’t said it because Jimin deserved to know; he had said it because he couldn’t stand the thought of Jimin looking at him that way.
Now, as the wind lashed harder against him, Taehyung felt it everywhere, in his fists clenching at his sides, in the twitch of his jaw, in the restless itch crawling beneath his skin like fire ants. That itch he knew too well. It was rage, frustration, longing, all tangled into something he couldn’t release. He hated this farm. He hated this suffocating village where people’s eyes followed you and whispered behind their hands. He hated the rules of this society that chained him down, that told him how he was allowed to feel, who he was allowed to touch.
Most of all, he hated himself.
For wanting Jimin when he shouldn’t. For kissing him when he didn’t know what came next. For hurting him with silence when he should’ve said anything, anything at all.
The storm inside of him was louder than the wind howling across the field, and yet he stood there motionless, letting the world beat against him, because it felt like the punishment he deserved.
The wind clawed at Jimin as he stormed through the fields, pulling at his shirt, stinging his eyes until tears blurred the path before him. He didn’t bother wiping them away; he let them spill hot and angry down his cheeks, mingling with the sting of the air. His fists were balled tight at his sides, nails biting into his palms, and his lips moved in a furious mutter only he could hear.
“Stupid… jerk… always- always pretending… doesn’t care, never did…”
His voice was broken between huffs of breath, cracked as though the air itself was slicing his throat raw. Each step landed heavy on the dirt path, boots striking unevenly, fuelled by the need to get away. Away from Taehyung, away from the confusion clawing at his chest, away from the memory of lips that had felt far too good against his own.
By the time the village came into view, dusk had fallen thicker, a deeper wash of blue spreading across the rooftops. The wooden frame of his home stood like a silhouette, faint lamplight leaking through the shutters, but he didn’t go to the door. He never did, not when his chest burned this way.
He veered to the side of the house, eyes darting once to make sure no one was watching, before catching the window ledge. His hands shook as he hoisted himself up, knees scraping against the frame, his body slipping into the small opening like a shadow fleeing the world outside. He landed softly on the floorboards of his room, immediately reaching back to slam the window shut. The glass rattled against the force.
He yanked the curtains together until the world beyond was swallowed, the storm outside cut away. Yet the stinging in his eyes only grew sharper, as if the wind had lodged itself in him and refused to leave.
The house was dark. His bedroom walls swallowed him, a vague outline of his bed barely visible in the dimness. The hallway beyond stretched into shadow, long and hushed, creaking faintly under his cautious steps. He padded barefoot, careful not to wake his mother, the air heavy with silence that only amplified the sound of his uneven breathing.
At the bathroom door, he fumbled with the handle before slipping inside, flicking the switch with a hurried hand. The single bulb hummed to life, washing the cramped space in pale, unforgiving light. The mirror reflected his face back at him instantly, and the sight made his chest cave. Red eyes, cheeks streaked with dried tears, lips swollen, raw, stained with someone else’s touch.
He turned on the tap quickly, the rush of water filling the silence, sharp and almost violent. With both hands cupped beneath the stream, he splashed his mouth, his cheeks, anything to erase the taste that lingered stubbornly on his lips. Again and again, he rinsed, spat into the basin, rubbed the sleeve of his shirt harshly across his mouth.
But no matter how many times he scrubbed, he couldn’t wash away the feeling.
The ghost of Taehyung’s kiss clung to him, the warmth of his lips, the rough desperation of the way he’d pulled him close, the salt of shared tears. And worse, Jimin knew he had liked it. His stomach twisted at the admission, bile rising with shame. His lips had tingled beneath the pressure, and somewhere deep in him had been the urge to never let go.
Yet the voice in the back of his head rose louder, cold and sharp like a knife pressed against his ribs.
He’s a bad guy. He doesn’t care. He’ll hurt you again.
Jimin gripped the sink’s edge until his knuckles blanched, chest heaving. He lifted his gaze to the mirror, meeting his own reflection. His face looked smaller in the harsh light, vulnerable, pitiful, eyes bloodshot and swollen, hair messy, shoulders hunched like the weight of his whole world was pressing down.
And then the memory surged back: Jungkook’s face that afternoon, warm at first, then turning away, his voice saying “I only see you as a friend.” The sting of rejection burned just as much now as it had in that field. The way his stomach had dropped, the way his heart had seemed to cave in on itself.
Then Taehyung’s words came, harsher than the kiss that had followed them. The slurs. The venom. That same mouth that had kissed him had once spit poison at him.
He let out a shaky breath, trying to hold in the sob clawing up his throat. But the thoughts kept circling, crueler each time.
Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m the problem. Maybe I’m ugly. Maybe I’m broken. Maybe no one could ever really like me.
His grip tightened on the porcelain until it hurt. He thought of Jungkook’s smile, had it all been fake? Was he pretending all this time, humouring him until he grew tired?
The mirror blurred as fresh tears welled. His reflection warped, becoming a stranger he couldn’t stand to look at.
With a choked sound, he bent forward, letting his forehead rest against the cold mirror, his breath fogging the glass. His lips pressed together hard to smother the cry, but his shoulders shook with the force of it, and the silence of the house made every broken sound echo louder.
For the first time that day, he wondered if anyone would ever truly want him.
The morning sun burned hot above the valley, though it was still early enough that dew clung stubbornly to the blades of grass. The sky was an endless, pale stretch of blue, unmarred save for a few wisps of cloud that drifted lazily overhead. Cicadas buzzed in the trees, their chorus filling the silence of Mureung Village like an invisible blanket.
Jimin knelt at the wooden basin in the yard, his knees pressed into the packed dirt that had long since lost its softness. A tin washboard leaned against the rim, ridged and scarred with years of use, its grooves biting into the fabric he dragged across it. The water in the basin had gone cloudy already, grey with soap and dirt, suds clinging stubbornly to the surface before popping one by one in the heat.
His arms moved in steady rhythm, scrub, wring, dunk, each motion repetitive, mechanical, born of habit. Yet each pull against the washboard made his knuckles sting, his palms ache. The rough ridges scraped against his skin whenever the cloth slipped, and his hands were already raw, reddened by the constant friction and the harshness of lye soap.
Sweat rolled down his temples, stinging as it slipped into the corners of his eyes. His shirt, an old cotton thing already worn thin at the collar, clung damp to his back. His hair, still messy from having only dragged a wet hand through it that morning, stuck to his forehead in damp strands. Every so often, he paused to push them away with the back of his wrist, smearing suds across his skin without caring.
The garments themselves were nothing special, his mother’s work aprons, his own shirts, fabric faded from the sun and patched in places where the cloth had worn through. Each one carried the stubborn earthiness of fieldwork: the faint smell of sweat, soil, and smoke from the cooking fire. He scrubbed harder than necessary, as if force could erase more than just dirt, as if it could wash away the sting still lodged deep in his chest.
His breaths came short, the kind that made his shoulders rise and fall with a visible heaviness. He hadn’t spoken a word since waking; the silence suited him. But as the cicadas buzzed and the fabric slapped wetly against the washboard, his mind wandered, uninvited, to last night. The rough kiss. Taehyung’s silence. His own trembling lips whispering a question that had never been answered.
The thought of it made his chest tighten until he pressed his lips together, jaw set hard. His arms moved faster against the washboard, ragged scrapes echoing in the quiet yard.
That was when he heard them.
Laughter, sharp, rowdy, familiar. It carried down the dirt path like a stone tossed into still water, disrupting everything. A group of voices, footsteps scuffing against gravel, growing nearer with each passing second. Jimin froze, his hand clenching the cloth mid-scrub. He didn’t need to look up to know.
Taehyung’s “gang”.
The sound of them always came like this, before they were even visible, their voices loud, cocky, unbothered by the quiet of the village. Jimin’s stomach turned, a bitter weight settling low as his mind rushed ahead of him.
So that’s it, he thought darkly, the corner of his mouth twitching in something close to a grimace. Back to them. Back to the way it was before. Last night didn’t mean a thing to him.
His heart twisted, a dull ache spreading through his ribs. For the smallest moment, bitter and impulsive, the idea clawed at him. He could expose Taehyung. Tell them everything. Shout it into the street, tell them that their golden boy, their cocky leader, had kissed him. That he wasn’t what they thought. That he wasn’t untouchable.
The temptation surged hot, sharp, for a heartbeat. But just as quickly, it fizzled, collapsing under the weight of truth. Jimin knew better. He knew how it would end. The laughter would turn on him. They wouldn’t believe him. Or worse, they would, and it would destroy him before it destroyed Taehyung.
And more than that, he wasn’t that kind of person. He couldn’t be. Even through the hurt and confusion, he knew he wouldn’t betray someone like that, no matter how much Taehyung had made him suffer.
So he bent his head back down, gripping the fabric harder, knuckles white. He scrubbed again, forcing his arms into the rhythm, ignoring the way his chest burned with every laugh that floated closer. The sound of their voices tangled with the scrape of cloth against metal, the splash of murky water, his own shallow breaths.
He ignored them. He had to.
The laughter swelled louder until it finally spilled into the yard. Jimin didn’t need to lift his head to know they were there; the shift in the air said enough. Shadows stretched long across the dirt as the boys came into view, rowdy voices overlapping, boots kicking at stones with careless force.
They slowed when they spotted him kneeling at the basin, but the rhythm of their footsteps still carried that arrogance, that lazy swagger of boys who thought the whole village bent to their noise.
“Look at him,” one of them snorted, his voice dripping with mockery. “Washing like an old maid.”
“Don’t scrub too hard, you’ll wear your little arms out,” another added, followed by the kind of laughter that stung worse than an insult itself, sharp, unrelenting, the kind meant to echo in someone’s ears long after it ended.
Jimin kept his head bowed, his hands moving faster over the washboard. Scrub, dunk, wring. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. But the words didn’t just skim over him, they sank deep, settling into the pit of his stomach like stones. His sweat thickened, rolling down his back in heavy lines, his damp shirt clinging tighter. He felt as if the sun itself had inched closer, burning only for him.
“Not even looking at us,” one of them tutted. “Think he’s too good?”
A sudden yank tore the fabric from Jimin’s hands. The sharpness of it made him gasp, his wet fingers slipping against the washboard as his head snapped up. His breath caught in his throat, because the very first eyes he met were Taehyung’s.
He hadn’t been laughing. He hadn’t been speaking. He just stood there, a little apart from the rest of them, tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair tousled from the morning wind. His expression wasn’t mocking like the others; it was unreadable, cold almost, but there was something tight in it too, something Jimin couldn’t pin down. His gaze didn’t waver.
Jimin’s eyes darted away, landing on the boy who had ripped the clothes from him. It was Jaehyun, broad chest puffed like a rooster, a smirk splitting his face as he dangled the wet shirt between two fingers as though it were filth. His hair was slicked carelessly back, beads of sweat shining at his temples, and his eyes glinted with mischief, the kind that relished having an audience.
“Give it back,” Jimin said, voice low but firm.
“Or what?” Jaehyun shot back, his grin widening, leaning in just slightly as if daring him.
Jimin’s fists clenched at his sides. His heart was pounding, his throat tight, but he forced the words out anyway. “Or I’ll tell my father.”
That broke them. The group exploded into laughter, their jeers colliding in the hot summer air. Some bent forward, slapping each other’s shoulders, while others threw their heads back, howls carrying down the quiet lane. All but Taehyung.
Then it happened, quicker than Jimin could brace. The wet fabric came down hard across his face with a heavy smack.
The sting was immediate, sharp as the soaked cotton slapped against his skin, water splattering across his cheek and jaw. His hair, already damp with sweat, plastered itself against his skin in heavy strands. The wetness clung, dripping down the side of his face, soaking the neckline of his shirt.
A startled cry burst from his lips, high and unguarded, the kind that slipped out before he could bite it back. The sound only fuelled the boys’ laughter, louder now, crueler.
Jimin’s chest heaved, his lips trembling as he swallowed hard, blinking against the sting of soap and sweat in his eyes. He didn’t dare look at Taehyung again.
“Your father doesn’t even like you,” Jaehyun sneered, voice sharp and deliberate, every syllable a blade. “He thinks you’re a disappointment.”
The words sliced through him. Jimin’s shoulders stiffened, his jaw tightening as he jerked his gaze away, focusing on the rippling surface of the washbasin. He wouldn’t give them the tears that burned hot at the back of his eyes. He wouldn’t.
But when Jaehyun lifted the shirt again, arm cocked high, laughter spilling from his lips, Jimin’s body betrayed him. He flinched hard, his entire frame shrinking back as though bracing for the strike. His breath caught, his chest tightening with the inevitability of it.
A hand shot out.
The laughter stumbled into silence. Jaehyun’s arm was caught mid-swing, gripped in an iron hold. Veins stood out along the hand that held him, knuckles pale with force. Taehyung’s face was carved from stone, jaw clenched, eyes sharp as steel as he stared down at the boy beside him.
The yard stilled, even the cicadas seemed to quiet.
The air was thick with silence, heavier than before, as though the earth itself was holding its breath. Jimin stayed frozen, one arm still half-raised in front of his chest as if to shield himself, his wide eyes locked on Taehyung. His chest rose and fell quickly, breath shallow, lips parted as though he’d forgotten how to breathe properly.
Taehyung’s glare didn’t waver from Jaehyun. His hand gripped the boy’s arm so tightly the veins stood out, his knuckles white, his forearm tensed with raw strength. Jaehyun’s smug expression had drained away, replaced by unease. He tugged his arm, once, twice, testing for freedom, but Taehyung’s hold was unyielding, solid as iron.
“What’s your issue, Tae?” Jaehyun barked, the edge of nervousness bleeding into his voice, though he tried to mask it with bravado.
Taehyung’s jaw flexed, but no words came. Instead, with slow, deliberate force, he wrenched the sodden cloth from Jaehyun’s hand. And then-
SMACK.
The wet slap rang out louder than expected, echoing sharp against the still air as the fabric struck Jaehyun’s face. The sound was thick, the impact heavy enough to send droplets of water spraying into the air. Gasps exploded from the boys, sharp and startled, even Jimin sucked in a breath so sudden and sharp it made his chest ache. He flinched back, eyes blown wide, a hand clutched against his damp shirt as if to steady himself.
Jaehyun let out a loud groan, staggering a step backward, his palm flying up to rub at his reddening cheek. His glare flickered between shock and fear, but Taehyung’s expression, cold, hard and carved from stone, left no room for retaliation.
“Go,” Taehyung finally said, his voice low but firm, a command more than a suggestion.
Jaehyun clicked his tongue. “Fuck, okay,” he muttered, shoving past one of the other boys. His bravado was gone now, his steps quick, hasty. The others scrambled after him without hesitation, glancing nervously at Taehyung as they fled down the lane.
In that moment, the truth was clear: Taehyung wasn’t just part of them. He was above them. A leader whose silence was more terrifying than rage, whose orders carried weight without question.
The yard was still again. Only the faint rustle of the leaves and the drip of water from the discarded cloth broke the quiet. Jimin’s heart pounded in his chest, the weight of what just happened pressing heavily against his ribs.
This was a different side of Taehyung. Not the cocky boy who teased, not the smug smirk that played on his lips whenever he cornered Jimin into flustered silence. This was different, a side of him sharp and deadly serious. Jimin felt a flicker of something close to fear.
But before Jimin could gather his breath to speak, Taehyung crouched down without a word. His knees bent, lowering him to the dirt beside the basin. His long fingers reached for the soap and the washboard, grabbing the abandoned shirt.
The sight rooted Jimin where he sat.
Taehyung’s broad hands rubbed the fabric hard against the ridged board, the sound of water sloshing with each push and pull. His muscles flexed with the motion, forearms tightening, veins prominent. His biceps shifted beneath his rolled-up sleeves, skin golden and gleaming where the sun struck it. The determination etched into his features, furrowed brows, jaw set, eyes fixed on the task with startling focus, was unlike anything Jimin had ever seen from him.
Jimin swallowed, throat dry despite the dampness clinging to his skin. He’d grown so used to Taehyung tossing around heavy bales of hay, hefting crates as if they weighed nothing, his strength always loud and showy. But this- this quiet act of rubbing a shirt against a washboard, an act Jimin had been ridiculed for, felt stranger, heavier. Wrong, and yet… something about it stirred him.
The sun broke briefly through the clouds, and the glow kissed Taehyung’s tanned skin. The sight pulled Jimin’s breath taut in his chest. He’d always thought Taehyung was handsome, even if he’d never said it aloud, even if he tried not to admit it to himself. But sitting this close, watching him work with such intensity, catching every subtle furrow of his brows, every flex of his jaw, every ripple of his forearms as he scrubbed, it hit him harder.
His gaze lingered too long. His chest felt too warm.
Jimin blinked quickly, breaking himself free of the trance, and in a swift motion he leaned forward and yanked the cloth from Taehyung’s hands. His lips pressed into a thin line, his voice rough as he spat out, “Go away. I can do it myself.”
Taehyung stilled, looking up at him, one brow arching ever so slightly. Jimin avoided his eyes, jaw clenched.
“I told you to leave me alone,” Jimin muttered, his voice low but firm, though it trembled just enough to betray him. “And I meant it.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then Taehyung scoffed, his lips twisting into a faint smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. A laugh, short and dry, slipped from his throat.
Before Jimin could react, Taehyung’s hand shot out again, tugging the cloth right back from his grasp with a sharp yank.
The corner of his mouth curved, dark and stubborn. “Too bad.”
“Give it back,” Jimin hissed, tugging with all the stubbornness he could muster. His voice cracked slightly under the weight of his frustration, cheeks hot and flushed.
“No,” Taehyung replied flatly, his smirk widening as his arms flexed. He gave the cloth a firm pull, yanking Jimin a little closer in the process. “You’ll just scrub it all wrong anyway.”
Jimin gasped, affronted. “Excuse me? I’ve been washing clothes longer than you’ve been-” His voice broke off when Taehyung gave another playful tug, nearly pulling him off balance. Jimin stumbled forward, catching himself on his knees, glaring up at him. “Stop it!”
But Taehyung only leaned back slightly, his grin lazy but sharp, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Make me.”
Jimin growled under his breath and yanked harder, water splashing over the side of the basin with the motion. His hair, already damp with sweat, clung more stubbornly to his cheeks, the strands sticking down against his skin. His arms trembled with the effort, but Taehyung barely budged, his muscles taut and sure, as if this tug-of-war was child’s play to him.
“Why do you have to be like this?” Jimin snapped, his lower lip trembling slightly with frustration.
“Because,” Taehyung said smoothly, leaning in closer, voice low enough to graze along Jimin’s ear, “it’s fun watching you get so worked up.”
Jimin’s patience finally unraveled. His hands trembled as he shoved the damp cloth into the basket, the sudden movement splattering drops of water onto the dirt. His lips pressed together so tightly they turned white, his jaw clenched in a way that made his temples ache. With a sharp inhale through his nose, he reached for the heavy basin, water sloshing against the sides, threatening to spill over as he lifted it against his small frame. His arms strained, shoulders hunching slightly as his boots sank into the damp earth.
He didn’t look at Taehyung. He didn’t want to. His pulse was already racing, and that was without meeting those mocking eyes, without hearing the low chuckle that always seemed to slip past Taehyung’s lips whenever he was around.
But of course, Taehyung fell into step beside him anyway.
His long shadow stretched across Jimin’s shoulder, darkening the glimmer of sunlight. He walked effortlessly, hands loose in his pockets, as though the ground bent easier beneath his feet than it did for anyone else. Jimin’s grip on the basin tightened at the sound of his drawling voice.
“Where you stormin’ off to like that?” Taehyung asked, his tone casual, but his grin audible. “Looks like you’re about to throw that thing in someone’s face.”
“I should,” Jimin muttered, eyes fixed straight ahead, his words cutting short, sharp. His knuckles whitened against the basin. The muscles in his arms trembled faintly, not only from the weight but from how much he wanted to shake Taehyung off like a persistent insect.
Taehyung leaned closer, tilting his head just enough for his shoulder to brush lightly against Jimin’s. His smirk deepened, teeth flashing. “Not me, though. You wouldn’t dare.”
Jimin shot him a glare, though fleeting, before facing forward again. His face was flushed, the sun pricking hotly at his skin, sweat gathering at the back of his neck and soaking the collar of his shirt. His breath came harsh, through gritted teeth.
“Just leave me alone.”
“Mm,” Taehyung hummed, his voice smooth with amusement. “You say that an awful lot.”
Jimin groaned, loud, exasperated, as though the sound alone could push Taehyung back. His boots dragged quicker over the dirt path until the glimmering edge of the river came into view, the water catching the light like broken glass scattered across the surface. The soft rush of the current grew louder, swallowing the silence around them.
Jimin crouched, lowering the basin to the ground with a grunt. His arms ached with relief as he tipped it carefully forward, pouring the soapy water into the current. The froth drifted downstream, breaking apart into smaller and smaller swirls before vanishing. He focused on that, forcing himself to pretend he was alone, that Taehyung wasn’t right there, looming like a storm cloud.
But Taehyung crouched too, one knee in the dirt, watching him with eyes glinting under the sunlight. “Careful,” he murmured, voice low, teasing. “Might trip. Might fall in.”
Jimin whipped his head toward him, glaring, damp hair sticking slightly against his temple. “I told you-” he started, but the words cut off in a gasp.
Cold splashed across his cheek.
He jerked back violently, water dripping down the side of his face, soaking into his collar. His eyelashes clumped together, droplets running down the curve of his jaw. He blinked fast, chest rising in shock as his lips parted.
Taehyung was crouched there with his hand dripping, a wicked grin tugging at his mouth. His shoulders shook with laughter, low and sharp, eyes half-closed with amusement.
“You-!” Jimin’s voice cracked into a squeak, his hand flying to his cheek. He swiped the water, only smearing the dampness across his face. His chest heaved as his anger boiled over.
Taehyung’s laughter burst out fully now, reckless and wild. His head tipped back, his throat bared to the golden light. It was laughter that didn’t care who heard, the kind that filled the air, that made Jimin’s pulse hammer even harder because it was so… him.
“You’re insufferable!” Jimin shrieked, fists clenching at his sides. His eyes stung, not from tears, but from rage and humiliation, his whole body buzzing.
And then, fuelled by something reckless, Jimin dropped the basin and kicked off his shoes, his socks squelching against the wet earth as he stepped straight into the river. The cold hit him like a wall, the current curling around his ankles, tugging at his trousers until the fabric clung tight against his legs.
He scooped water into both hands and hurled it straight at Taehyung’s chest.
The splash was heavy, droplets bursting across Taehyung’s shirt, soaking it through in seconds. The thin cotton plastered against his skin, outlining the faint curves of his chest, the flex of his stomach as he gasped dramatically, stumbling back with a hand over his heart.
“Assault!” Taehyung shouted in mock horror, his grin betraying the act. “Park Jimin has lost his mind!”
Jimin didn’t care. His lips trembled into the beginnings of a smile despite himself as he hurled another splash, harder this time. The cold water sprayed across Taehyung’s face, sticking his dark bangs to his forehead.
“Oh, that’s it,” Taehyung muttered, low, before he lunged into the river too. His boots sank into the mud beneath the water as he splashed with both arms, sending a wave crashing over Jimin’s shoulders.
Jimin screamed, high and sharp, raising his arms to shield himself, his laugh breaking through the shriek. His whole body jolted as the cold drenched him through, the water dripping from his hair, sliding down the sides of his neck.
“Stop it!” he cried, though laughter slipped between his words, ragged and unwilling.
“You first!” Taehyung shouted back, his grin wide, his eyes glimmering like fire in the sunlight. He splashed again, each motion strong, playful, relentless.
Water rained down between them, shimmering in the light before crashing back into the river, droplets catching in their hair, their lashes, their clothes until they were soaked through.
And though Jimin fought to glare, to cling to his anger, his lips betrayed him, twitching, trembling, then finally breaking into a laugh that spilled free, sharp and bright.
The river churned around them, their laughter bouncing off the banks, tangled with splashes and half-hearted shouts. Jimin’s voice cracked from yelling, his chest burning from both fury and the unwilling joy that spilled out in ragged bursts. Taehyung, relentless, swung another wave of water his way, and Jimin, though drenched, raised his arms and retaliated with everything he had left.
The cold seeped into his bones, his muscles trembling from the mix of exhaustion and adrenaline, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t want to.
Then it happened, a misstep.
Jimin lunged too quickly, his foot slipping on the slick stones beneath the water. His arms flailed uselessly as he stumbled, the current catching him at the knees. He let out a startled cry, high-pitched, almost childlike in its rawness, before his body gave in and he toppled sideways.
But he didn’t hit the water alone.
Taehyung’s arms shot out instinctively, strong and sure, wrapping around Jimin’s middle and pulling him in as though his body moved without thought. The momentum sent them both crashing backward into the river with a loud, violent splash that swallowed the air around them. Water surged up and over, soaking them through in a single wave.
For a moment, all Jimin heard was the roar of the river in his ears, bubbles and rushes of sound filling every space. Cold embraced every inch of him, his skin, his hair, his clothes. The shock stole his breath.
When they surfaced, gasping, sputtering, Taehyung was still holding him.
Their bodies pressed together, both trembling, chests heaving with the effort of catching air. The water lapped against their shoulders, their clothes plastered to their skin. Jimin’s shirt clung in translucent patches, the pale fabric moulded tight against the curve of his chest, his collarbones, every trembling breath he drew. His hair clung in heavy strands against his forehead, droplets racing down his temples, catching on the sharp line of his jaw before dripping into the river. His lips, pink and swollen from the cold, parted around shaky breaths.
Taehyung wasn’t much better, his own shirt turned near transparent under the weight of the water, the fabric hugging every ridge of his torso, every flex of his chest as it rose and fell. His tanned skin gleamed under the sunlight, slick with droplets that traced the strong lines of his throat, down the hollow of his collarbone. His bangs plastered over his brows, some strands sticking to his lashes, his eyes burning through the veil of wetness.
Jimin’s heart hammered painfully against his ribs as he realised Taehyung’s grip hadn’t loosened. One arm was wrapped firmly around his waist, the other steadying him by the small of his back. The closeness was suffocating, he could feel the heat of Taehyung even through the cold, the steady pound of his chest, the strength in the muscles that held him so securely.
The laughter that had filled the air moments ago faded into ragged silence, broken only by the river’s song and the sound of their breathing.
Jimin stared at him, eyes wide, red-rimmed from both the river’s sting and the remnants of earlier tears. Taehyung’s gaze was unreadable, cold and burning at once, his lips set in a line though they trembled ever so slightly with each breath.
The weight of their soaked clothes dragged heavily on their limbs, water dripping from every edge of fabric. Jimin’s trousers clung to his thighs, the fabric darkened nearly black, his small frame looking even more fragile beneath the weight. Taehyung’s sleeves moulded to his biceps, the fabric stretched tight against the definition of his arms, veins raised under his soaked skin from the grip he still hadn’t released.
The world seemed to pause around them. Sunlight flickered across the rippling surface, catching on the droplets that slid from Jimin’s lashes, from Taehyung’s chin.
Jimin’s lips parted, but no words came. Only the faint tremble of his chest against Taehyung’s, only the dizzying rush of realising how close they were, how tightly he was being held, like letting go wasn’t an option.
The river cradled them in silence, their breaths ragged, the weight of their drenched bodies pulling them closer, tethering them to a moment that felt fragile and forbidden. Jimin’s fingers twitched faintly against Taehyung’s soaked shirt, his lips trembling as if a word was about to slip out, but then it was shattered.
The faint crunch of footsteps broke through the water’s song.
Both of their heads whipped toward the noise. Before Jimin could even breathe, Taehyung shoved him away, sharp, impulsive, as though fire had licked at his skin. Jimin gasped, stumbling backward until the weight of the river caught him, dragging him down onto his backside with a splash. His palms slapped the surface uselessly, water soaking his sleeves again as his chest burned with sudden ache.
For a split second, he stared at Taehyung, eyes wide, throat closing. He didn’t know what stung worse: the push itself or the uncertainty of it. Did Taehyung do it to protect them? Or was he ashamed? Embarrassed? The unanswered question carved a hollow in Jimin’s chest.
Then his gaze darted upward, and froze.
His father.
Standing on the riverbank, his shadow long against the sunlight, his face contorted in a fury Jimin had rarely seen but always feared. His jaw was locked, the corners of his mouth drawn in a severe line, eyes like sharpened stone boring into his son.
Jimin’s breath hitched violently. He scrambled to his feet, trembling from head to toe. His soaked clothes clung like chains, heavy and suffocating, but the weight of his father’s stare was worse.
“Come here.” The words cracked like a whip, low but commanding, leaving no space for hesitation.
Jimin didn’t even think. He splashed toward the bank, climbing out of the river with slippery, frantic steps, his body shaking from cold and fear alike. Behind him, he felt rather than saw Taehyung slowly rise from the water, every movement deliberate, reluctant.
Jimin stood before his father, water dripping in rivulets down his cheeks and jaw, making it look as though he were already crying. His lips parted, desperate to explain, desperate to erase whatever conclusion his father had drawn.
“It’s not what it-”
The slap came so fast, so sharp, it split the air before Jimin even finished speaking.
CRACK.
The force twisted his head to the side, the sting exploding across his cheekbone. A sharp cry ripped from his throat, high and startled, almost childlike. His knees buckled, nearly sending him crashing to the ground again. His hand flew up instinctively, clutching his cheek as though he could hold the pain in.
Taehyung’s eyes widened from where he stood frozen in the water, his breath catching in his chest. His fists curled tight at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He wanted to move, to speak, to do something.
“D-Dad-” Jimin whimpered, turning back toward him, voice broken, fragile.
Another slap, harsher, heavier.
The sound echoed across the riverbank like a gunshot.
Jimin screamed this time, the sound raw, his voice cracking. His head jerked violently to the other side, droplets of water spraying off his hair. The sting doubled, fire and ice across his face. His vision blurred as hot tears rushed down, mixing with the river water still dripping from his skin. He swayed on weak legs, his whole body trembling now, not just from the cold but from the cruel shock of his father’s hand.
Taehyung flinched as if the blow had landed on him instead. His lips parted, the word stop burning on his tongue, but it died there, swallowed by his own cowardice. His jaw clenched, his chest tight, every muscle screaming for him to intervene, to pull Jimin away, to strike back, even if it meant damnation. Yet his legs refused to move, his body betrayed him.
Jimin cried harder, the sound desperate and broken, shoulders shaking beneath the heavy wet fabric. He looked smaller than ever, fragile, utterly defenceless before the towering figure of his father. His voice broke around a sob, “P-please-” but no plea could rise fast enough to stop the hand already poised to strike again.
Only then did his father’s gaze shift, locking onto Taehyung.
The man’s face twisted darker, his voice a guttural command laced with venom. “Stay away from my son.”
Taehyung’s chest tightened. The words seared into him, heavier than any blow. He didn’t respond, didn’t dare. His hands shook faintly beneath the water, veins stark against his skin, but he stayed still. His silence was both shield and prison.
Without another word, Jimin’s father gripped his son’s wrist, not gently, not tenderly, but like property being yanked back into line. Jimin stumbled forward, choking on his own sobs, the river water streaming off him as his feet dragged along the dirt path. His small hand trembled in his father’s grasp, his cries muffled by the wind that had begun to pick up again, rustling through the trees like whispers of judgment.
Taehyung stood alone in the river, frozen, chest heaving as though he had just fought a battle he hadn’t even waged. His throat ached with unsaid words, his teeth grinding against the bitter taste of cowardice.
And Jimin’s cries, echoing into the distance, were the only sound left clinging to him.
The river had gone still again, but Taehyung’s chest hadn’t. It rose and fell violently, each breath thick and uneven, clinging to the back of his throat like he was drowning even though the water only lapped at his waist. His clothes clung to him like a second skin, heavy, dripping, cold, but nothing stung worse than the silence Jimin had been dragged into.
He forced his limbs to move, the water sucking at him as he trudged toward the bank. His hands shook faintly as he bent down and snatched up the fallen tin washboard and the wooden basin that floated crookedly against the reeds. They were still slick with river water, and so was he. The weight of them dragged at his muscles, but Taehyung barely felt it. His jaw ached from how tightly he clenched it, veins standing out against his skin.
His mind wouldn’t stop replaying the sound.
The crack of the slap. Jimin’s scream. The way his body reeled, small and defenceless, like glass about to shatter.
Taehyung shut his eyes tightly, his chest lurching with something hot and violent. He wanted to tear the memory apart. He wanted to replace it with something else. But the image of Jimin holding his cheek, eyes spilling with both tears and river water, was carved into him too deep.
And beneath all that rage, all that ache, was a selfish, ugly thought that slipped in without warning: What about me?
He hated himself for it, but the thought festered. The shove, the way he’d pushed Jimin away just before his father appeared, had anyone seen? Would the other boys talk? Would rumours crawl through the village about Taehyung, about how he was close, too close, to another boy?
The idea made his stomach twist. He could almost hear the whispers, see the sidelong glances, the smirks and cruel laughter. That fear, the fear of being seen, being judged, being unwanted, dug claws into his chest.
And for the first time, he realised.
That fear… was Jimin’s every day.
The weight of it sank in so suddenly Taehyung staggered, clutching the edge of the basin as if it were the only thing holding him upright. He’d mocked Jimin. Laughed at him. Watched others sneer and spit words sharp as knives at him, and he’d joined them. But one fleeting taste of that exposure, that raw vulnerability, and already Taehyung felt the sting of it cutting deep into his pride.
His throat tightened, his heart crumpling in on itself.
And then came the real pain. Not the selfish panic about rumours, not the fear of being viewed differently, but the truth of what he had done.
He had stood there. He had watched.
He saw Jimin’s father raise his hand once, twice. Saw Jimin scream, cry, shiver like he was breaking apart, and he hadn’t moved. He could have. Every nerve in his body had begged him to. His fists had been ready, his voice hot in his throat. But when it mattered most, when Jimin had needed him most… he had stayed silent.
Taehyung’s teeth sank into his bottom lip, hard enough to taste the copper tang of blood. His hands gripped the washboard so tightly his knuckles went white. He felt furious with himself, furious in a way that set his skin burning and his eyes stinging.
The week that Jimin and Taehyung hadn’t spoken felt like prison.
It was endless, suffocating. A week of Jimin’s silence, his absence, his refusal to even look Taehyung’s way. A week of watching him smile faintly at Jungkook, laugh softly at his words, while Taehyung sat in the shadows, his insides twisting.
Taehyung had never known emptiness until then. The days without Jimin’s voice, without his stubborn fire, without those fleeting moments where their walls cracked and something almost tender slipped through, it was torture.
He knew now. He knew that what he felt wasn’t simple annoyance, or rivalry, or curiosity. He felt something for Jimin, whether he had the courage to name it or not. And when things had finally started to shift, when their fights had softened into something that almost resembled friendship, when he had gotten a glimpse of something normal, something good, he had destroyed it. Again. With his silence. With his fear.
Taehyung slammed the washboard into the basin, the echo sharp and hollow. His breaths came fast, shoulders heaving, damp hair plastered to his forehead. His reflection trembled on the surface of the water inside the basin, distorted and broken. He didn’t recognise himself in it.
He wanted to see Jimin. To make sure he was okay. To hold his face and apologise until his throat went raw. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw his father’s face, that glare, that command: Stay away from my son.
And Taehyung was a coward. He could pretend to be bold, fearless, the leader everyone respected and feared. But inside, he knew what he was. A coward who had let Jimin suffer alone.
The guilt was a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.
And for the first time in his life, Taehyung wasn’t afraid of being hated by the world. He was afraid of being hated by Jimin.
Notes:
uh ohhh.. things are getting messy.
also, do you guys think these chapters are long enough? the last thing I want is for them to be too short, please let me know T_T
Chapter 8: the fire we can't put out
Notes:
I deeply apologise for taking so long with this update. I don't know if anyone is even reading this anymore but I hope you enjoy this chapter ❤️ Love you all
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The sky seemed to collapse with them.
As Jimin’s father yanked him by the arm, the world had turned into chaos, clouds stacked heavy and dark above, their edges swallowing the last bit of light. The wind was merciless, screaming through the fields, tearing at Jimin’s damp clothes until they clung to his shivering body. His hair, still wet from the river, whipped across his face, strands sticking against his lips and cheeks with each sting of the air. The storm did not just rage around him; it seemed to rage through him, as if the world itself shared his father’s fury.
“Stop-” Jimin whimpered, his voice fragile, breaking against the wind. He twisted his arm desperately, trying to slip from his father’s iron grip, but the man’s hand was a vice, fingers digging into his skin hard enough to leave bruises.
“You disgrace!” his father spat, teeth clenched, his words whipping through the night louder than the storm. “You’ll walk home with me and not another word out of your filthy mouth!”
“Please- let go!” Jimin cried, his voice lost in the howl of the wind, his legs stumbling to keep up with the harsh pace. His chest burned with humiliation and pain. Each tug forward felt like he was being ripped apart, piece by piece.
But his father only gripped tighter, jerking him along so violently Jimin gasped. “Shut your mouth, boy!” The words hit harder than the wind, as sharp as a slap already.
The storm thickened, dust and grit carried by the wind stinging Jimin’s already swollen eyes. His cheeks were raw, both from tears and the memory of his father’s hand earlier, and now from the wind clawing against his skin. He could hardly see, but the cold certainty of his father’s anger was enough to blind him.
By the time they stumbled into the yard, Jimin’s breaths were sobs, chest heaving as he tried to bite them back. His father’s grip never faltered. He dragged him inside and slammed the door shut, the sudden quiet of the house suffocating compared to the storm outside.
The silence broke instantly.
“What’s happening?” his mother’s voice quivered as she rose from her chair, eyes darting from her son to the furious man dragging him.
Before Jimin could catch a breath, his father shoved him forward. Jimin fell onto the wooden floor, his knees striking the boards with a dull thud. His palms scraped as he caught himself, a soft gasp escaping his lips.
“Look at him!” his father barked, pointing a trembling finger down at Jimin as though he were something rotten. His chest heaved with rage. “We’ve raised a faggot for a son! Out there with Taehyung- doing God knows what!” His voice cracked with disgust, the word itself spat out like poison. “That boy is filth, and now look, our son, his filthy little shadow.”
The words hung in the air, heavy, venomous. Jimin’s mother froze, her lips parting, but no sound left her. Her face was pale, her eyes wide, her hand trembling as it hovered by her mouth.
Jimin stayed on the floor, hair plastered to his face, cheeks streaked with salt and rainwater. And then, he laughed.
A small, broken sound, rising from somewhere bitter inside of him. His lips trembled around it, and though it was nothing more than a breath of laughter, it echoed like a slap in the quiet room.
His father’s eyes widened with fury. In an instant, his hand was in Jimin’s hair, yanking his head back sharply until his scalp burned. “You think this is funny?” he roared, spit flying, his face red, twisted with rage.
Jimin’s teary eyes blazed back at him now, his jaw tight. His voice shook but rose, cutting the air. “Funny? What’s funny is you-” His voice cracked, but he forced it out louder, stronger. “You used to boast about Taehyung! About how strong he was, how he worked harder than anyone in this damn town. You praised him like he was a son, and now, suddenly, he’s filth?”
The fury that burned in his father’s eyes was matched only by the sharp crack that followed. The slap rang through the house like thunder. Jimin’s face whipped to the side, his cheek blazing with fresh pain.
“Stop it!” his mother screamed then, her voice breaking as she lunged forward. “Enough! Please- enough!”
But Jimin didn’t cry out this time. He only pressed his hand against his burning cheek, eyes glaring through the tears that blurred his vision. With a trembling body, he stood to his feet, his breaths ragged, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts.
Without another word, he turned. Ignoring his father’s yells, ignoring his mother’s desperate, broken pleas, Jimin stormed down the hall. His footsteps shook the floorboards, his tears blurred everything, but he didn’t stop until he reached his room. He slammed the door shut and leaned against it, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, fists trembling against his knees.
The storm outside rattled against the house.
And Jimin broke inside it, alone.
Jimin woke with a low groan, his body heavy and stiff, his head pounding with a dull ache. The wooden floor pressed hard against his back as he shifted, blinking up at the faint cracks in the ceiling. He realised then that he’d fallen asleep slumped by the door, still in his damp clothes, his cheek sticky with dried tears. The makeshift barricade, a chair leg wedged awkwardly through the handle, remained where he had jammed it earlier, a feeble attempt at protection against his father’s wrath.
With another groan, Jimin sat up, dragging the heel of his palm over his eyes. His lashes felt gummy, his face tight from salt and sleep. When his hand dropped, he found the faint imprint of his father’s hand still marked across his cheek, pale against the swelling. He sniffled once, then ran his tongue across his lips, still chapped, still tasting faintly of iron and river water.
A headache throbbed at the base of his skull, growing sharper with every blink. His body was damp and clammy, his clothes clinging uncomfortably to his skin. His hair, half-dried in odd tufts and curls, stuck unkempt against his forehead. He thought fleetingly about the sickness that would surely come, the cold that would crawl into his bones by tomorrow morning, but the thought sparked no real fear. He couldn’t bring himself to care.
His eyes traveled around his small, familiar room. The same old wooden bed shoved against the wall, its sheets crumpled and in need of mending. The small dresser with its chipped drawers leaning slightly to one side. The narrow desk that sat beneath the window, cluttered with stray pencils and folded scraps of paper he never dared show anyone. Everything was coated in the faint dusk light filtering through the thin curtains, painting the room in muted greys and soft, bruised purple shadows
And then his gaze snagged on the one thing out of place: a small, delicate purple flower, pressed flat and taped to the wall just above the desk.
It looked almost silly there, dry and faded, its petals crinkled but stubbornly holding their colour. He remembered the exact moment it had come into his life, the warmth of the sun on the back of his neck, Taehyung’s smirk as he teased him in the field, the shoves that had sent him stumbling. And then… the way Taehyung’s fingers, rough and large, had gently tucked that flower into his hair. That smile on his face, the one that wasn’t mocking or cruel but soft, almost secret, like Jimin had caught a glimpse of someone he wasn’t meant to see.
Back then, Jimin had thrown it aside more times than he could count. He hated what it meant, hated how it made his chest tighten. But somehow, each time, he had picked it up again. Eventually, he gave up and taped it to the wall, as though admitting something silently to himself, something he couldn’t say out loud.
Now, his swollen eyes lingered on the fragile bloom, and the weight of memory pressed against him. He thought of Taehyung again.
Where was he right now? Probably surrounded by his gang, putting up that cocky front. Or maybe pretending nothing had happened at all, pretending that Jimin was just another nuisance.
A lump caught in Jimin’s throat. The thought of Taehyung distancing himself, of him tossing Jimin aside just to preserve his pride and his image, dug painfully into him. Deep down, he had always known that Taehyung cared more about appearances than about anyone’s feelings, that he would never risk his reputation to stand beside someone like Jimin. But that didn’t stop the sharp sting of the thought.
Jimin shook his head quickly, as though to scatter the images away. He forced himself to stand, the room spinning slightly with the movement. He peeled the damp shirt from his body and shivered at the cold air that licked against his skin. From the dresser, he pulled a set of dry clothes, a loose cotton shirt, soft from wear, and a pair of simple trousers. His hands trembled faintly as he dressed, as though even the act of changing carried the weight of exhaustion.
When he was finished, he grabbed an old shirt from the floor and began rubbing it against his hair, trying to soak up the dampness. His arms felt weak, the muscles sore, but he worked at it until his hair stuck up in wild tufts. For a moment, he caught sight of himself in the faint reflection of the windowpane, pale face, red eyes, lips bitten raw, and he quickly looked away.
That was when he heard it.
A sound so soft, he almost thought he imagined it.
Tap.
His hands froze mid-motion, the rag tangled in his hair. He blinked, holding his breath.
Then again, tap tap, light, deliberate, against the glass.
Jimin’s heart jumped in his chest. His body tensed, every nerve alert, caught somewhere between fear and fragile hope as he turned slowly toward the window.
The tap at the glass sounded impossibly small against the roar of the wind, a soft, insistent Morse that made Jimin’s heart jump against his ribs.
He didn’t expect who stood at his window.
Taehyung’s face filled the pane: hair still damp, dark curls plastered to his forehead; his shirt changed, not the showy, sweat-stained work shirt Jimin always saw, but a plain, too-loose button-up that hung wet and heavy at the collar. The bandage at his cheek was still there, the edges dark and lifting. He looked smaller, somehow, like the day had chewed at him and spat him back out. Most of all, the look in his eyes stole the breath from Jimin, not the lazy mischief, not the smirk, but something raw and wide and desperate. It was the sort of look that doesn’t belong to a tease or a captain of boys; it belonged to someone who’d been up all night and had nothing left to hide.
For a second Jimin felt something like pity tangled with fury. He slammed the curtain shut so fast the fabric hit the window frame hard, hiding Taehyung from view. Darkness swallowed the room.
Silence settled like dust.
His breaths were loud in the small space, too loud. He sat there with his palms pressed flat to his knees, the aftertaste of the river and his father’s hand still fresh in his mouth. There was a tiny, stabbing disappointment that Taehyung had not simply gone away, and then, impossibly, the curtain shivered again from another tap, softer this time.
Jimin waited. He wanted this to be a dream, to pass if he just dared to do nothing. But the tapping came again, patient, pleading.
He moved like someone waking from a nightmare. He let the curtain fall and peeled it back slowly, as though any sudden motion would shatter whatever fragile thing the other boy had brought with him. The window opened to a cold sheet of wind that immediately slapped his face, smelled of wet earth and iron and the low pressure of rain. Taehyung’s breath fogged the glass between them; the gust tugged at his wet shirt, clinging it to his chest.
They both froze, listening to each other’s breathing. Jimin’s own inhalations were ragged; Taehyung’s were brittle, hurried. The world beyond the sill, the battered roofs, the lean trees bending under the wind, felt a continent away from the tightness between them.
“Taehyung, you have to go,” Jimin said first, voice small, urgent. He kept it low, the words a scrape of sound. “My father’ll-” He broke off, fingers already closing toward the latch, already picturing another hand, another strike, another blast of shame. “Please. Leave. Now.”
Taehyung’s hand moved as Jimin tried to slide the window shut. For a heartbeat Jimin thought he’d pull away, let the glass smack across the frame, end it, and then the boy’s palm came flat to the ledge and caught his wrist. Warm, sticky. The motion stopped the window; it didn’t clamp it entirely, but it arrested Jimin’s movement.
“Don’t,” Taehyung said, quiet enough that Jimin could have missed it. The desperation in his voice made the word a plea. “Please, don’t close it.”
Jimin’s breath hitched. He glanced down at the bandage at Taehyung’s cheek, at the wet fringe of hair bolding on his forehead, and something inside him ticked with anger, not only at the man who’d hurt him but at the one who stood pleading now, who had been part of the reason for those shouts and slaps.
“You’re crazy,” he hissed, the sound a whisper-venom. “Do you know what you’ve done? Do you know what he- what my whole life is now because of you?” His voice climbed an octave, then smoothed into a low, urgent hiss; he forced it not to carry. “I got slapped. I- I nearly got beaten. You think I can just…run away because you want to play at being a hero?”
Taehyung’s face crumpled for a second, an ugly, breathy look that made Jimin’s throat close. “I didn’t mean-” he began, and then the words floundered. He swallowed and steadied himself. “Please, come with me. Just for a little while. I’ll get you somewhere safe.”
“Safe?” Jimin let a jagged laugh out, half-cry, half-bark. “You call this safe? Do you think you can hold me safe? You pushed me away when my father came. You pushed me like I was a thing to hide.” He flinched at the memory, the shove back into the water, and the hurt flared new. His hands trembled at his sides, nails digging crescents into his palms.
Taehyung’s fingers closed more firmly around the sill, so that Jimin could feel the tension in the tendons. He leaned forward, the movement small but fierce. “I know I- I was an idiot,” he said, the syllables quick and raw. “I didn’t know- I panicked. I thought-” His jaw worked, words snagging. “I can’t lose you, Jimin. Not like this.” The last word was a choke; his eyes were wet now, the desperate kind of wet, not theatrical but simple, like someone who’s been saving up storms until they had nowhere left to put them.
The room swam with a thousand memories, each thrown look, each prank, the times Taehyung had laughed at him in the boys’ circle, the times he’d slipped Jimin an egg on the way home, the half-breath kisses that followed fights. Jimin felt each one like a bruise. He also felt the force of the slap against his cheek again, the sting raw as a brand. He had rehearsed his anger, kept it neat and sharp: Taehyung was trouble; Taehyung was the one who made his life worse. He had let himself be angry because it was something he could control.
And yet, behind that carefully stacked anger, something thin and hot unraveled.
Taehyung’s hand, still on the frame, trembled. “Please,” he said again, quieter, more like a prayer than a command. He reached up, not to touch Jimin’s face, but to catch his wrist, the gesture clumsy, respectful, somehow terrified. “Come with me. I’ll take you. I won’t- I won’t let him-”
Jimin’s chest tightened until it hurt. He saw himself, tiny and wet, dragged by his father’s grip; he felt his mother’s silence like a weight; he tasted the iron of the slap each time he blinked. He thought of Taehyung’s earlier silence, the week of cold avoidance, the way Jimin had watched him laugh with others while his own heart split. He remembered, furious, every barb, every careless insult. He could make a list, a ledger of injuries, a scale to tip. He wanted to sashay away, slam the window, lock the world out.
And yet, why did his feet move toward the sill?
He called himself stupid in his head, an insult whispered like a benediction. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Outside, the wind sharpened, whipping at the panes and snapping the thin curtain into Jimin’s face. He swallowed and then reached up, letting Taehyung’s hand shift from the ledge to his wrist. The grip was warm; it ran a current through him that was at once frightening and necessary. Taehyung’s fingers were callused, rough with labor, and they curled around Jimin’s skin with a careful gentleness that contradicted everything else the other boy had ever been.
Jimin braced his palms on the windowsill and heaved. The frame bit cold into his knees as he curled his legs through the opening and swung his hips, one leg, then the other, until he found himself astride the sill with the wind roaring up under his shirt. The cold hit his thighs; the night smelled of wet earth and something like old fear. His heart was a drum in his throat.
Taehyung’s hands were immediately on him, at his waist, steadying, hauling him out so that his torso cleared the sill. The contact was brief, shocked; Jimin felt it everywhere: the steadiness of Taehyung’s hands, the shore-hardness of his palm pressing into the small of his back, the smell of smoke and sweat and something cleaner beneath it all. For a beat, neither breathed. The river’s hush and the wind were loud enough to drown confession. Below them, the ground rolled away into the dark, muddy earth.
Jimin’s feet found the roof of the eaves before the splintered ladder-like edge. He swung off the sill, the rush of air running down his back, and dropped to the sloped tiles with a small, breathy curse as the cold bit into the soles of his feet. Taehyung followed, moving fluidly behind him, careful, sure, and when they reached the ground the two of them stood shoulder-close in the lee of the house, rain threatening, wind whipping their clothes flat against their bodies.
For the first time in days, Jimin felt the absence of everything that had been keeping him upright: the family’s expectations, the other boys’ taunts, the static electricity of small, constant humiliations. He also felt the fear, taste of it metallic in his mouth, and the thin, dangerous thread of hope that made his hands go numb.
Taehyung didn’t let go. His grip on Jimin’s wrist was steady and insistently present, a center in the noisy, violent night.
“Come on,” he said again, softer, close enough that Jimin could hear the wet catch of his breath. “We’ll go. I know a place. Just- just trust me.”
Jimin’s chest ached with the weight of all he’d lost in the last hours. He remembered every time Taehyung had made him feel small and every time he’d made him feel seen. He thought of Jungkook’s easy kindness, of Jennie’s quiet strength, of his mother’s blank face. He thought of the bruises on his cheek.
Then he took Taehyung’s hand and let himself be led down the lane, the wind cutting at their backs as they moved into the uncertain dark together.
The little house smelled of damp wood and old dust, the kind of small, hollow smell that belonged to places people used once and then forgot. Rain pressed against the thin roof in a steady hiss; gusts of wind whipped the low scrub outside into a rustling chorus that seeped under the door. Inside, the one-room cottage felt like an island, rough stone hearth, a crooked mantel with a scattering of soot, a sagging, threadbare sofa whose fabric had been rubbed smooth where countless bottoms had sat for years. A single wooden chair leaned against the wall. The floorboards creaked with a complaint whenever either of them shifted their weight.
Jimin dropped onto the sofa like a man who’d been carrying a solid load for too long. He dragged one hand over his face, water-matted hair falling into his eyes, then pushed it away hard enough for the strands to sting his cheeks. The dry shirt he’d put on was clinging to him; the smell of smoke mingled with the faint saltiness of his skin from the river. He planted his elbows on his knees and glared at Taehyung as he crossed to the hearth.
Taehyung moved around the fireplace as though he knew the place from memory, stacking driftwood crude and practical, striking a flint, coaxing a small, hungry flame until it took. The fire threw a honeyed light that warmed the room and painted his broad back in moving amber. He was quieter than usual; there was a gravity to the way he bent, a focus that made the familiar curl of his smile absent, and that absence pulled at Jimin like a bruise.
“What is this!?” Jimin snapped finally, standing up. The quiet had chafed at him; the rawness of the hurt from earlier still sat in his throat as an old iron taste. “You gonna tell me you’ve kidnapped me or something? This is ridiculous. If you wanted to talk, you coulda said-”
Taehyung didn’t look up. He was tamping a tiny ember into a wider blaze, the shadows of the room flickering across his knuckles. “I wanted us alone,” he said without turning. His voice was flat, but it carried.
Jimin laughed then, a dry, harsh sound. “Alone? Yeah, well, perfect. I’m alone enough at home. That’s where I had to go to get slapped.”
The words sharpened through the warm air; Jimin hadn’t meant them to be so brittle, but they landed like glass. He took a step forward, voice bumping into the rafters. “Don’t waste my time!! Don’t make me stand here and-” he swallowed, “-and let you make me into a joke again!”
Taehyung stopped. He rose slowly from the hearth, and for the first time since the window, his face turned toward Jimin with something raw and aching in it. Jimin saw the bandage at his cheek, the damp curl at his temple, the set of his jaw; he saw the way the firelight caught in the sweat along his throat.
“You think I don’t get it!?” Taehyung’s voice broke loose, sudden and fierce. He crossed the room in two long strides and seized Jimin’s wrists. The fingers were hot and hard on Jimin’s skin. “I GET IT! I get that I hurt you. I get that I-” His breath hitched. “I know I’m a jerk! God- I know!!”
He didn’t let go. He stepped inside the circle of Jimin’s arms and squeezed, not gentle, not light. The intensity of it made Jimin inhale sharply. “I hate myself for what I did! I hate that I left you out there. I hate that I didn’t step in when your father-” He spat the last word like poison, the sound tearing.
“You ALWAYS say that!!” Jimin burst. The caution he’d held broke. The fury, the months of humiliation and the sting of Jungkook’s dismissal, all the little offences and the big ones, surged up through him. He shoved at Taehyung’s chest with enough force to make the other man stumble back, but Taehyung’s hands slid from his wrists to the curve of his upper arms and held on.
“You say you’re sorry whenever it’s convenient!!” Jimin yelled, voice raw. “You joke, you flirt, you walk away. You make it a game. Do you even mean any of it!? Do you even understand how much you’ve wrecked me!? How much I-” He stopped, the heat in his face flaring as words tumbled into something louder than anger. “Why should I believe you!?”
Taehyung’s eyes flashed, a mix of hurt and something else, an almost pleading light that made Jimin’s chest clinch. “Because I don’t want to lose you!” he said, too low to be entirely a scream, too loud to be a whisper. “Because I’m stupid and afraid and I-” The admission cracked open like an egg. “I don’t want to be the reason you break.”
The yelling became a battering ricochet of accusations. Jimin spat every insult he’d been packing away, selfish, cruel, liar, coward, each one a small blow. Taehyung answered in ragged bursts, confessing in a rush that was almost incoherent: how he panicked at his father’s presence, how the idea of people knowing worried him until he froze. How he’d been ashamed and how that ashamed him more. He bared things like bruises, not with the intent to hurt Jimin, but because he could not hold them in anymore.
They were two figures in a storm of words, voices colliding in the small room. The fire popped, a sharp punctuation; outside, rain began to beat harder against the roof. Jimin’s chest heaved, the sound of his own breathing suddenly too loud. His hands were shaking. Anger made him reckless; pain made him petty; the two together made him cruel.
Taehyung’s hands moved, rough and insistent, and he shook Jimin. It was a long, violent motion, a physical implosion of everything he’d been swallowing. Jimin hit at Taehyung’s forearms, fists flailing, nails digging into the other boy’s skin. “Get off me!” he howled. “You don’t get to-”
And then, in the fierce, thudding quiet after the storm of words, Taehyung’s mouth was on his.
It was not cautious. It was not tentative. It came like a force pulled out of him, like the only way to stop the shaking inside was to close the distance. Taehyung’s hands cradled Jimin’s face with claws that were almost gentle; his palms were callused and warm, trembling a little. The kiss hit Jimin raw, hot, urgent, messy with the residue of their fight. For a fraction of a second Jimin’s instincts fought: he pushed, struck at shoulders, gasped. But the resistance felt watery at the edges; the world narrowed to the weight of Taehyung’s hands on his cheeks, the rough scrape of his jaw against Jimin’s own, the iron tang of the day and the soft taste of smoke.
There was an ache that went beneath anger, beneath fear, something mournful and aching that the kiss unlocked. Jimin’s hands flattened against Taehyung’s chest, not to shove him away anymore but maybe to steady himself, to feel the solidity of the other person against his wracked beating heart. His breaths came in fast, raw pulls; the wetness at the corners of his eyes blurred the firelight. The kiss deepened, a hard press that became a searching thing. Taehyung’s arms tightened, drawing Jimin in as if he would stop the world from spinning by holding on.
Neither of them moved with gentleness. They moved with the clumsy, animal desperation of two people who had been denied each other for too long and had allowed everything ugly to build as a dam. Tongues met briefly, a fierce, clumsy joining that was as much confession as it was surrender. Jimin’s body, exhausted from shouting and cold and grief, responded before he could catalogue consent: he leaned into the press, into the heat and the danger and the salvation. He tasted copper and ash, the river and the smoke and under it, something sweeter, a reluctant kindness hidden in Taehyung’s roughness.
When they finally broke apart, it was in a pant of air. Their foreheads rested against each other, breaths mingling, each of them shuddering. Jimin’s cheeks were slick with tears; his lips swollen and raw. Taehyung’s eyes were bright, unfocused, as if he’d woken from a spell he didn’t know how to name.
“Do you-” Taehyung started, voice a cracked thing. He was holding on to Jimin as if letting go would make him fall through the floor. “Do you trust me at all?”
Jimin could have answered a hundred ways. He could have enumerated every injury, every trust broken, told Taehyung plainly that this could be another joke, another thing he’d regret. Instead, with the room spinning and the rain a drumbeat overhead, he let his fingers find the seam of Taehyung’s shirt and squeeze, an answer that was complicated and small and dangerous.
“I don’t know,” he said, the truth hanging between them.
Taehyung’s mouth crashed against Jimin’s, all heat and desperation, swallowing every shaky breath that left him. Their anger burned into something hotter, something reckless. Jimin’s fingers curled into the back of Tae’s shirt as if trying to hold himself upright against the force of the kiss, knees nearly giving out.
They stumbled together toward the sofa, lips never fully parting, gasps turning into low, breathless moans. Tae’s hands slid under Jimin’s shirt, rough palms against soft skin, making Jimin shiver and arch into his touch. Clothes were pushed aside piece by piece, dropped carelessly over the floorboards, the sound of fabric hitting wood drowned beneath the sound of their panting.
Tae hovered above him, chest rising and falling fast, his eyes dark and hungry. Jimin’s cheeks burned pink as those eyes swept over him, slow, deliberate, reverent. For a moment, neither of them moved. They just stared, breathing each other in, realising there was no turning back.
Then Jimin pulled Tae down by the neck, lips crashing again. The couch creaked beneath their tangled limbs as their bodies pressed tight, skin sliding feverishly against skin. Tae kissed him deeper, messier, drinking every little sound Jimin made, low whimpers and soft moans that filled the room like a rhythm.
Their movements turned needier, faster, months of confusion and anger spilling into touch after touch. Tae’s breath trembled against Jimin’s throat, and Jimin’s hands clutched at him like he might disappear. The world outside was harsh wind and cold dark, but here, here they were heat, and friction, and hungry, aching want.
Jimin’s lashes fluttered, head falling back against the cushion as he gasped Tae’s name, the sound cracking with emotion. Tae answered with a soft, breathless groan of his own, forehead pressed against Jimin’s as they moved together—reckless, unthinking, lost.
There was no logic. No fear. Just them. Just now.
Two boys who had spent too long pretending they didn’t want exactly this.
Taehyung didn’t stop kissing him, didn’t stop pulling him closer like he was terrified Jimin might slip away again. Every touch sparked another rush of heat low in Jimin’s stomach, his body arching toward Tae’s as if it already knew what it needed.
Their breaths turned ragged, tangled together in the warm space between their mouths. Jimin’s fingers dug into Tae’s back, his voice breaking with every shaky gasp he tried to hold back.
“T-Taehyung…” he whispered, unable to hide the plea in his tone.
Tae’s eyes met his,dark, intense, full of something Jimin had never seen from him so clearly before. Not anger. Not annoyance. Want.
And then everything blurred.
The room filled with the creak of the sofa, the sound of skin against skin, the sharp inhale Jimin made when Tae’s hands held his hips securely beneath him. Heat flooded them both like a wave they couldn’t outrun. Jimin clung to him, breath stuttering, small sounds escaping him no matter how he tried to muffle them against Tae’s shoulder.
It felt dizzying, dangerous, like falling and flying all at once. Like every moment of pain and loneliness was being burned away by the heat between them.
“Don’t stop…” Jimin breathed helplessly against Tae’s neck, and Tae shuddered at the sound.
Their movements grew more frantic, both of them chasing something they didn’t dare name. And when it hit, when emotion and heat burst through them at the same time, Jimin cried out against Tae’s collarbone while Tae let out a low, broken groan into Jimin’s shoulder.
For a moment, the world disappeared.
Just heartbeats.
Just warmth.
Just them.
When it was over, Taehyung’s forehead rested against Jimin’s chest as they tried to catch their breath, air leaving their lungs in uneven, disbelieving bursts. Jimin’s fingers absently traced the back of Tae’s damp neck, and Taehyung’s hand stayed pressed to Jimin’s waist, refusing to let go.
The fire crackled quietly beside them.
Outside, the wind still roared like the world was falling apart. Inside, everything was finally still.
They lay together, flushed and breathless, until the storm in their bodies softened into a heavy, drowsy calm, neither brave enough yet to speak first.
Notes:
not the longest chapter, but I really wanted to get something out. I really hope you guys aren't disappointed, I promise a better chapter is coming. I do feel like this is coming to an end, which is really sad considering that I really enjoy this fic, but everything ends eventually 💔 please do look forward to that, the ending is something I'm really excited to write.
Chapter 9: the night we chose each other
Notes:
I love you guys, I hope you'll enjoy this one ❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning arrived with a kind of brightness that felt almost insolent after the night’s rain, a clean, decisive sun that burned the edges off the clouds and poured gold across the fields. Air tasted sharp and fresh; the ground steamed faintly where puddles caught the dawn light. A breeze threaded through the rows of corn and wild grass, carrying the tang of earth and manure and the warm, heavy scent of animals waking. Somewhere a rooster argued with itself, and a dog barked, timid and hopeful.
Taehyung was already out in the open when the rest of the yard had barely come to life. He’d slept little, not for want of trying, but because his mind had been a wheel that wouldn’t stop turning. Now, with the sun carving hard shadows, he set his jaw and threw himself at work. There was comfort in the rhythm of manual labor: a task with rule and weight, a place where muscles answered the call of effort and the mind could, if only a little, be quieted.
Today’s job was hauling sacks of feed and stacking them in the barn’s loft, a chore that required steady backs and patient hands. The sacks were rough with burlap, gritty against his palms, smelling faintly of oats and a dust that tasted like the country. Each shoulder roll, each squat and lift, left his breath hot and his shirt plastered to his back. He moved with practiced economy, legs lifting, back bracing, hands finding purchase on the seams. Sweat beaded at his temples and slicked down to the bandage at his cheek; the plaster had come off in the night, leaving a dark, crusted scab the colour of old rust. It looked smaller in the bright morning than the rage in his chest made it feel, a thin, stubborn thing that would heal and become only another mark.
He was careful with the feed sacks, but not gentle. Anger and tiredness lent a kind of precision to his movements: the wood of his boots sank in soft through the compacted earth, the muscles from his collarbone down to the forearms rolling with every lift. The sun struck the nape of his neck; a stray curl clung damp to his brow. He wiped his hand across his face and tasted metal, a reminder of the river and of last night. He felt fragile but dangerous at once, steady outside, jagged within.
The memory of the night kept stepping forward in spite of himself. The firelight, the rain, the desperation that had driven them together, he hadn’t known tenderness could feel like this, like a wound that was also a salve. It was Taehyung’s first time doing such a thing with a man; that fact had lodged in him and refused to leave, not because the act itself had been strange, but because the person he’d shared it with was Jimin. The way Jimin’s body had fit against his, the sound of his voice in the dark, the small, involuntary sounds he’d made, all of it replayed like a film with soft edges. He caught himself missing Jimin in the middle of a lift, the ache settling as if someone had cut him and left him bleeding slow.
He remembered laying against him after, warm, exhausted. He had helped Jimin home himself, guided him back, made sure the boy slipped in without waking anyone. Quietness had been its own sort of betrayal; they had left words unsaid because they feared what speaking them might invite. Now, in the glaring honest morning, that awkward silence lingered between them. They hadn’t looked at each other; they hadn’t had the sort of conversation that stitched things back. The thought of Jimin’s face, swollen, tear-streaked, still carrying the ghost of his father’s slap, made the ache in Tae’s ribs sharper, more human.
Every handful of oats he stacked felt like penance. Every time he leaned down and felt his back complain, his chest reminded him of the things he’d said and done. Schoolyard taunts, crude jokes, the times he’d shoved Jimin into laughter when he should have protected him, they played like a record in his head, turning and turning until he felt sick. He had wrapped his pride around himself for so long like armour, telling himself that jokes and bravado were survival, that a man could not be soft or he’d be torn open by the world. But that armour had done its work poorly: it had kept others out but also kept out the very thing he’d come to want, had made him cruel to the one person he wanted most.
And now the fear settled in like a stone. What if someone had seen them leave? What if his family, the neighbours, the other boys caught wind? Rumors on a farm were a kind of wildfire; a whisper could run down a lane and scorch reputations and livelihoods. Even if Jimin’s father had been restrained tonight, Taehyung knew how quickly a rumour could be shaped into proof by frightened mouths. He pictured the looks, the half-smiles, the pity, the accusing eyebrows, and it made the back of his neck crawl. He had a reputation that mattered to him, the one he’d built out of smirks and bravado and a willingness to be the loudest. Letting that fall felt like giving away currency he’d spent a lifetime collecting.
Still, the selfish part of him, the human part that had found Jimin’s mouth and lingered there, missed what they had and then resented himself for missing it. He had told himself, over and over, that secrecy was the safest cloak. He had told himself that a handful of stolen nights was all he could risk. He replayed the tiny, private fantasies that had snuck into the quiet hours: a life where they could simply walk together without glances, names with no need for caution. Each fantasy he shook off angrily, ridiculous, impossible, stupid. He was practical; he knew the world they lived in. He knew the cost.
Yet a new and fiercer fear took hold: the fear of losing Jimin entirely. Not to another man, not to shame, but to the same cold indifference he’d inflicted in the past. When Jimin had laughed with Jungkook, something had knotted in his chest with a hardness that surprised him. The memory of Jimin leaning into Jungkook’s joke, the way his lips curved, the light in his eyes, had been a shot through the heart. A week of silence after one of their rows had been the worst week of his life: he’d sat through it like a punishment, watching Jimin smile at others and convincing himself of scraps.
The rational part of him argued: you can’t run. Run from what, exactly? Where to? A husband, a street, judgment that followed like dogs? Even if they escaped the village, the world beyond would be unkind. He imagined the towns they could reach, indifferent faces, new rules, the heavy loneliness of starting over somewhere that didn’t know your shame or your small mercies. He imagined being forced to lie every morning and the lie tasting like rust. Practicality was a grating voice, but it was steady, and for Taehyung it was the voice that had kept him alive so far.
And yet the idea of losing Jimin because of his cowardice, that logic could not slug into submission. He hated how easy it was to think he’d let him slip away. He hated that his pride had been a sharper thing than his care. He hated that the thing he’d guarded most, his “manhood,” his reputation, might cost him the only thing that made him feel like more than the armour he had built.
A pigeon startled near the barn and beat its wings, scattering dust. The sound pulled him back; he blinked, felt the sunlight hot on the back of his neck. A line of women crossing the lane toward the well paused and giggled, glances skimming over the barn where he worked. They were pretty in their gingham aprons and braids, ribbons tied at the nape of their necks. At their skirts’ hems, frost-mottled dust from the night’s rain speckled the fabric. Some of them tossed flirtatious looks toward him, the casual attention that had once felt like fuel. Today it grated. He felt, irritated, raw, as if even kindness from them would be another mirror reflecting all the things he’d yet to be brave about.
He worked until the afternoon, the sun moving from a sharp light to a heavy glow. He shifted his shoulders, feeling the scab at his cheek ache when he tilted his head too far. Every time a shadow fell across the yard and he thought it might be Jimin passing, his pulse jumped; then, every time it wasn’t, the disappointment collapsed in on him like a fist. He had helped Jimin home and watched the boy slip inside like a ghost; the memory of Jimin’s hand falling away from his in the dim had hollowed something out of him. The absence of a single look that morning gnawed at him as effectively as any physical wound.
By the end of the morning, the loft was organised and the loft ladder was propped steady, but Taehyung’s hands shook once when he reached for the tools to drive a final nail. He paused, hand resting on the hammer’s wooden shaft, and let the sound of the wind fill his head. The choice that lay ahead felt enormous and ridiculous at once: to speak and risk everything, or to shut and live with the quiet, aching knowledge of what grief he’d inflicted and what he might have to live without.
He took a breath that tasted like straw and dust and the memory of Jimin’s mouth on his, and promised himself, not with words he would handily throw away, but with the small, stubborn focus of someone who had never been brave enough before, that he would try. Not in grand, theatrical leaps, not in dramatic declarations meant to astonish the town. He would try in ways that might matter: in steady actions, in protection, in a quiet insistence that outlasted whatever cheap victories his reputation had once bought him.
For now, the work demanded him and the world watched with its usual indifferent hunger. Taehyung bent, picked up another sack, and carried it into the shadowed cool of the barn, shoulders tight, heart raw and painfully awake.
The morning sun had warmed the loft to a steady, dusty heat. Dust motes hung in the shafts of light that fell through the slats, drifting lazily as Taehyung worked. The barn smelled of hay and oil and the faint sweet of animal breath; the world outside was a tableau of gold and green, fields rolling toward the horizon under a sky so clear it made the heat look solid. He was halfway through tacking a new board into the feed loft, hands blackened with splinters and grease, the rhythm of hammer-on-nail steadying him, when the faint crunch of footsteps sounded from the yard below.
He didn’t have to think. His shoulders tensed, hands stilled. For a sharp second his chest leapt with hope: maybe Jimin, coming back to check on something, to glance up and meet his eyes. He stopped hammering, head snapping toward the hatch.
Instead, Jungkook’s face pushed into view beneath the loft opening: khaki shirt rolled at the sleeves, dark hair mussed from a morning’s walk, that easy, open expression on his face like sun on water. Taehyung felt the hope curd into a tight, sour weight in his gut. He let out a short, involuntary scoff and turned his back, picking up another tool with deliberate, mechanical motions to occupy himself.
Jungkook climbed up without a word, boots thudding softly. He moved close, kneeling beside Taehyung, letting his hands fall naturally to the tools as if to help. Taehyung could feel the warmth of his presence like another body in the room, and it annoyed him down to the marrow.
“Don’t need your help,” Taehyung muttered, one hand sweeping possessively across the spread of gear. He snatched the wrench from Jungkook’s fingers with a brusque motion.
Jungkook watched him for a beat, then asked, his voice easy but probing: “Are you.. are you mad at me because of Jimin?”
Taehyung made no reply. He tried to will his face into an expression of indifference, to let his hands do the honest work of muscles rather than words. But the question sat there, and even beneath the thrum of anger he felt something awkwardly true twist in his chest: why was he so- so prickly around Jungkook? The realisation arrived like a cold splinter: jealousy. The word was a small, traitorous thing that brought with it another, bigger one: love. The thought skittered across his mind and he shook it away like grit in his mouth.
“You love him, don’t you?” Jungkook said, softer now, as if the words had weight and needed care in their placement.
Taehyung’s head snapped up so fast the hammer rattled in his hand. Heat flared from his ears to his neck. Without thinking, a reflex born from a lifetime of protecting a reputation he’d learned to value, he lifted the tool in his hand and, with a bark that was part command and part rawness, snapped, “Shut the fuck up.”
It was a loud thing, an ugly sound that cut across the barn like a splintered board. Taehyung felt his own breath leave him ragged and fast. He began the next sentence as if to hurl the old slur that had escaped him before, “I’m not a-” and stopped. The rest of the insult died on his tongue. Pride warred with something that clenched his throat and left him unable to finish. The tool hung in the air, trembling slightly in his grasp, metal catching the light.
Jungkook didn’t flinch. He met Taehyung’s eyes with a steadyness that didn’t bully or charm, just held. “Do you think this is what it means to be a real man? You’re scared and a coward, that’s not a real man,” he said, not raising his voice but making the words land hard anyway.
Taehyung felt as though he’d been struck. Heat drained from his face, left him with a sudden, hollow ache. For a moment there were no words; he stared, the barn around him blurring at the edges. The hammer slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the wooden floor with a sharp ping that seemed louder than it should have been. He turned his head away without looking, letting his gaze rest on the green field beyond the open barn door where the grass moved slow and uncaring in the breeze.
“It’s not safe for you and Jimin to stay here,” Jungkook went on, his tone gentler now, like a man trying to lay out a map. “You can’t just- keep pretending this is-” He faltered under Taehyung’s silence, trying again: “Fine, stay on the farm and work until you break your back and watch Jimin suffer.”
The words lodged in Taehyung like a thorn. His chest tightened so painfully that for a second he thought he might choke. He wanted, so fiercely, to argue in the old style, to throw insults back, to belittle Jungkook the way he'd been belittled, but the argument that pressed at his mouth was different: not about proving something to others, but about proving something to himself.
He watched Jungkook stand up, the simple motion like a small ceremonial distance being set between them. Jungkook’s last glance before he left was not triumphant; it was full of that unshakable, weary certainty of someone who had said what needed to be said.
As the footsteps faded, the barn felt suddenly enormous and empty, like a house that had been abandoned mid-sentence. The hammer’s cool handle rested on the plank at his side; the dust that had been kicked up from work drifted down in a slow, silent rain. Taehyung planted his palms flat on the wood and let his forehead drop toward them, the rhythm of his heart loud in his ears, loud as guilt, loud as want, loud as fear.
He had been furious with Jungkook for a reason he had been too proud to name. Jealousy had been a raw, burning sin he clenched inside, but Jungkook’s bluntness, that accusation of cowardice, had bruised something deeper. It wasn’t only the fear of rumour or of being seen; it was the shame of his own failure to protect the person he cared for.
Outside the barn, the field rolled on, uncaring, birds punctuating the morning air, and the work around him waited: sacks still needed stacking, the loft doors still to be secured. But Taehyung’s hands felt strange and foreign as he picked up the hammer again. Each nail he drove in after that was an attempt to drive something else down, the shame, the want, the fear, into the wood and make it hold.
1925
The sky that day was the diluted blue of late autumn, thin, cold, and stretched tight over the small Catholic school like a sheet pulled too hard. A wind drifted through the courtyard, sharp enough to sting fingers and noses, carrying with it the smell of wet leaves and old stone. Classes had just ended, and the students were scattered throughout the dim corridors and drafty rooms, voices echoing off the high ceilings. Sunlight slanted through the narrow windows in pale, angled beams, catching dust in the air and giving the room a hollow, chapel-like stillness.
Inside one of the empty classrooms, the air felt even colder. A circle of boys had gathered in the centre, their boots squeaking on the waxed floor. Their laughter had the kind of careless, ugly thrill that only teenage boys in a pack could produce. It bounced around the room, mocking, sharp, filling every corner.
A slap cut through the noise, crisp, vicious. Jimin’s cry followed instantly, a soft, stunned sound, his breath breaking on it. He was on his knees near the teacher’s desk, where the winter light fell unevenly across his cheek. His face was already flushed a deep, raw red from the hits, tear tracks shining faintly against his skin. His hair fell messily across his forehead, strands sticking to his damp cheeks. His hands were folded tight in his lap, knuckles white, shoulders trembling though he tried to hold them still.
Another slap came. Another cry. More laughter, louder this time, triumphant.
Taehyung stood near the back wall, leaning against the windowsill with practiced nonchalance. The cold from the glass seeped through his uniform, but he didn’t move. His face was a perfect mask: bored, detached, faintly amused. The kind of face he’d learned to wear around other boys, the kind that kept him safe, respected, untouchable. But beneath the surface, something hot and sour twisted in his stomach.
Jimin lifted his head, eyes searching for someone, and found Taehyung. Their gazes locked. Jimin’s eyes were wide, wet, pleading, not for mercy, just for someone to notice, someone to stop pretending nothing was happening. His lashes clumped with tears; his chest rose and fell too quickly. He looked utterly defenseless, heartbreakingly young.
And Taehyung looked right back at him… and did nothing.
He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even let his expression falter. His jaw was clenched so tightly the muscle twitched, but his stance didn’t change. Pride sat thick in his throat, heavy and unyielding. The pressure of the other boys’ presence wrapped around him like barbed wire: the expectation, the hierarchy, the rules that had nothing to do with morality and everything to do with survival. If he stepped in, if he helped Jimin, if he showed even a flicker of softness, he knew what would happen. He knew who the next target would be. His pride would be gone. His reputation shattered. He’d be dragged down beside the boy on the floor.
So he stayed still.
One of the boys grabbed a fistful of Jimin’s hair, yanking his head back so hard his cry cracked mid-breath. The next slap was harsher, ringing through the room like a report. Jimin’s whole body flinched, his knees slipping on the polished floor. His tears fell freely now, collecting at the corner of his mouth, making him look even smaller.
Taehyung watched it happen, every second of it, every tremor, every choked sound, with a blankness that felt like acid pouring under his skin. His hands curled into fists behind his back where no one could see. The shame that flickered in him burned fast and deep, but he smothered it, forcing his breath steady, forcing himself to stay still.
This was what boys like him did. This was what it meant to protect himself.
But as he held Jimin’s gaze again, saw the hurt turn slowly into disbelief… and then into something colder, something like resignation… Taehyung understood fully, painfully, that he was watching a moment he would never be able to undo.
He knew he wasn’t brave. He knew he wasn’t righteous. He knew, with the clarity of a knife pressed to the ribs, that he was a coward.
Eventually the boys tired of their cruelty and drifted off, their mocking voices echoing down the hall. Jimin stayed on his knees a moment longer, his breathing uneven, before he slowly lifted himself from the floor. He didn’t look at Taehyung this time. Not even once.
That, somehow, was the worst part.
Taehyung watched him leave, a hollow thudding building behind his ribs. Outside, the chapel bell began to ring for evening prayers, the sound solemn and unchanging, as if the world hadn’t just shifted inside him. But as he followed the others out, refusing to look back at the empty spot on the floor where Jimin had knelt, Taehyung carried one truth he would never admit aloud, not then, not for years.
He had stood there and done nothing.
And it was the moment he proved himself exactly what he feared most.
A coward.
The sun hung bright and generous, the kind of afternoon light that made every colour look a little sharper, the green of the field, the faded blue of the barn boards, the brown of the stone steps where they sat. A warm breeze threaded through the yard, carrying the faint, honest smells of hay and sun-warmed earth and the distant clatter of a harness being loosened. Somewhere a hen complained, a dog barked once, and the world went on in small, ordinary noises while the two of them stayed motionless on the steps.
Jennie sat angled toward the lane, one knee tucked close to her chest. Her hair was loose, long dark waves spilling over her shoulders and catching the light like oil on water. She’d chosen a pale, pastel dress today, a soft yellow that made the sun seem to blush, the kind that fluttered at the hem in the breeze. A smear of flour marked the cuff where she’d been helping a neighbour bake earlier, and the whole look made her seem both practical and impossibly gentle at once.
Jimin was a little stooped on the step beside her, elbows on his knees, eyes low. His shirt was rolled at the sleeves, the collar a little loose, and his hair, longer than it used to be, fell in soft, honeyed strands that shaded his temples. The river and the roughness of the last days had left his face with a kind of translucent fragility: the freckles across his nose stood out now against the flush of his cheeks, his lips a little chapped, his eyes rimmed with that sleepy ache of someone who’d slept too little and cried even less than he’d needed. He held a single blossom in his fingers, the petals pale and delicate, and he plucked them off one by one with a motion so slow it might have been prayer.
They didn’t speak for a while, not because there was nothing to say, but because silence felt like company. It was the comfortable silence of two people who’d spent years learning each other’s rhythms: a silence full of small truths that didn’t need to be named. Jennie chewed the last piece of pastry, closed her eyes for a breath, and when she opened them she smiled without sharp edges, only the soft curve of someone who knew him better than most.
“What you been up to lately?” she asked, casual, letting her voice drop into the easy cadence they always reserved for each other. She didn’t probe. She didn’t ask about the argument with his father, didn’t force the raw place he’d been through the night before into a spotlight. She knew, intuitively, that pressing would only make the thing hidden thrash.
Jimin looked up and, for a second, his own mouth curved before he could stop it, a small, crooked thing that was almost habit. He shook his head when she pressed anyway, and the little lie was as soft as a well-worn blanket: “Not much.” He didn’t speak of the house at night, the way the ceiling had watched him, or the kiss that had changed everything while also changing nothing. He didn’t tell her about the small, stupid, bright want that kept flaring whenever he thought of Taehyung.
Jennie gave him that knowing roll of the eyes that was part sympathy, part scolding and all affection. “You’re lying,” she said, but nothing in it was mean. She propped her chin on her knee and watched the field spread out, a gentle guardian in a faded dress.
Then her smile shifted. The light in her face changed like it always did when something heavier lay at the edges of her mind. Jimin felt the air between them thin with that tiny, electric pause good friends share when one of them decides to say something true but difficult.
“You’ll always be my friend, you know,” Jennie said, and she didn’t laugh it off or dress it up. Her voice carried a steadiness that made the words sound like a promise she’d given before. “But if one day you leave, if you ever run away from this place, don’t forget me, okay?”
The sentence was small, almost casual, but there was a hush sewn into it, an implication of something she didn’t want to say aloud. Jimin frowned, immediate confusion knitting his brow. “Why would I ever leave?” he asked, the question earnest; the thought of walking away from the field, from the routine and the people who made up his world, felt absurd.
Jennie only shook her head and smiled again, a little sadly this time. She didn’t explain; she didn’t need to. Her eyes moved past him and out to the far fields where a line of trees blurred against the heat, and in that look there was a small, protective melancholy: the sense that she wished for him things he hadn’t allowed himself to want.
Jimin watched her watching the field, and for a long time he simply admired her, the slope of her cheek, the way her lips softened when she looked at the horizon, the quiet fortitude in her shoulders. He understood why people whispered about Jennie, why she carried an aura of being untouched by the petty cruelty of their corner of the world. There was a resilience in her that felt like shelter.
He stopped picking at the petals, the motion slackening and then ceasing altogether. The breeze combed the hair from his forehead and lifted the edge of Jennie’s dress like a hand tucking a sheet around a sleeping person. The silence settled again, not empty now but full, like a room that had finally been furnished with the things that made it liveable.
Jimin didn’t ask her to explain. He didn’t press for reasons. Instead he let the quiet do its work: he let the presence of someone who loved him, unadorned and uncomplicated, fill the space beside him. He accepted, with the small, wary relief of the practiced survivor, that some things had to be learned slowly, that Jennie’s warning would make sense in time, or maybe never at all, but that it was enough for now to know she would be there.
They watched the field together as the sun moved on, two silhouettes leaning into the afternoon, the hush between them a small, steady mercy.
The whole farm had turned into a small, bright village by evening, a place full of booths and bunting and voices that rose and fell like gulls. The heat from the day had softened into a clean, late-summer warmth; the sun hung low and honeyed, slanting light across the route ways and making dust glimmer like golden sugar whenever a cart rolled by. A hush of wind came off the distant hills and carried with it the smell of hay, woodsmoke, frying dough, and the fierce sweetness of fermenting fruit from the jam stalls. Lanterns were already being strung between the oaks and the rafters of the big barn, their paper skins catching the breeze and glowing like soft, watchful eyes as dusk approached.
People milled and clustered around long tables of homegrown produce: brass-legged scales, bowls of glinting apples, rows of jars with neat handwritten labels, hand-stitched quilts folded and displayed, and the inevitable table where someone proudly set out an oversized prize pumpkin like a small, orange globe. Children darted through legs and around straw bales, squealing when someone let them taste a sticky piece of candied apple. A few old men argued good-naturedly over the merits of a particular breed of pig while a fiddler on a crate called a jaunty tune that made folks clap and coaxed the shy to dance.
Jungkook had one of the liveliest pockets of that evening. He was elbow-deep in a stall that sold simple tavern-style tarts and cold lemonade, splashes of flour on the cuffs of his shirt and an embarrassed grin that never quite left his face. He moved with that wonderful clumsy assurance he had, knocking a spoon over once, salting a tray twice, only to laugh it off as he wiped the mess with one of his sleeves. The dirt on his knuckles told you he’d been on his feet all day; the sun had given his skin a warm bronze, and his hair was mussed in a way that made him all the more boyish. He tugged at a tart in a pan as a customer asked for samples, handing them over with a theatrical bow and an easy joke, and his laughter rippled where he went. When he looked up, he was always watching the people around him the way someone watches for stray happiness, quietly hopeful.
Jennie moved through the event like she’d been born to it. She wore a tidy dress of faded yellow, apron tucked in at the hip, braid undone now and swinging over her shoulder. She had a small stand of jars, chutneys, honey, and her best scones wrapped in cloth, and neighbours stopped to ask after her father or to praise the texture of her lemon curd. She handled each comment with that steady warmth she always carried: a half-smile, a small joke, a quick curtsey to an older woman’s compliment. When she wasn’t handing over a sachet of dried lavender or carefully tying a string around a jar, she was eyes-on for Jimin, not in the overbearing way of someone who claimed him, but with a protective, sisterly attention. Sometimes she’d fling him a playful look across the field or nudge Jungkook with her shoulder so he’d fetch two extra biscuits. She was everywhere and somehow reserved, a comfort people leaned on without asking.
Taehyung’s family stall cut a tidy, efficient rectangle into the marketplace. Their name carried weight on the farm; people trusted what the Kim name promised: honest produce, sturdy preserves, pies that never failed. The stall had a row of jars gleaming like soldiers in their sunlight, wooden crates of unblemished fruit, woven baskets lined with soft cloths holding breads, and a small chalkboard with neat, capped letters advertising the day’s special. The men from the family moved with practiced hands: weighing, nodding, taking coins, smoothing the cloth over a jar, making an old woman feel like the only person in the place.
Taehyung had taken charge of the heavy lifting and the front face today. His sleeves were rolled up just so the cotton fabric cuffed above a forearm that showed muscle and purpose. Sweat ringed the curve at his neck; the sun had bronzed him to a hard, burnished bronze that caught the lantern light later and made him look almost carved. When he shifted from talking to a neighbour to carrying a tray of pies, the band of his sleeve revealed the taut line of his collarbone and the defined slope of his chest, a look that drew appreciative, straying glances from the younger women and a few discreet nods from the older ones. He was careful with his appearance only insofar as he always was: a practical, worked-in attractiveness, not a show. Yet there was a confidence in the way he moved that drew eyes, and when he smiled, rarely and cleanly, it landed like the click of a satisfied lock.
All the same, he found his gaze drifting. Taehyung kept sneaking looks across the mingled crowd and coming back to the same place: Jimin. Jimin was not part of Taehyung’s stall operation; he stood awkwardly at his father’s side, wearing a too-neat shirt his father had insisted upon, hands folded like a man trying not to fidget his way into trouble. The older man, solid jawed, apron wrapped, eyes like flint, watched the throng with small glances of satisfaction, but he watched Jimin with a hold that betrayed intention: Jimin was to be the family’s face of responsible restraint this evening, a buffer against whispers. So Jimin stood there, shoulders held back in a kind of forced formality, his face set smooth where his insides might have roiled.
When their eyes met, and they did, again and again, the way two magnets that had been knocked askew finally found their edges, something small shifted in the air between them. Jimin’s lips tightened into the sort of smile he exerted for decency; he fought not to let it stretch into anything loose. The effort was visible: a tiny lift at one corner, a blink away from full surrender. Taehyung felt that and allowed a breathless, private smile to tug at the corner of his mouth, a small admission in the middle of commerce. He returned it carefully, as if it were a risky currency; when he did, some of the men at his stall pretended not to notice, but the look passed like a current felt by those who knew to watch for it.
The evening swelled with laughter and small competitions. A paint-stained old judge called out for entries in the “largest pumpkin” contest, and a cluster gathered around a ridiculous, overgrown orange lump under a burlap cover. Children were called up to guess how many peas were in a jar and left with sticky fingers. Someone set up a battered gramophone near the barn door and the scratch of a record filled the air with a ragged ballroom tune, and soon enough a brave pair started a clumsy slow-dance. People clapped; neighbours who disliked each other still found reasons to smile across a tray of biscuits.
Yet under all that bustle, Taehyung and Jimin’s glances stitched a story of their own. Taehyung caught himself watching Jimin more than he should. He watched the way Jimin’s hands hovered over a basket when his father spoke, the way his jaw tightened when his father offered a sharp reply to someone’s question, the way his eyes softened on the rare chance Jennie approached with a plate. Every small movement fed the heat that had begun the night before and refused to be extinguished; every restraint Jimin showed made Taehyung want to pull him away from the safety of well-meaning eyes.
At one point, Jungkook bounded over to Taehyung’s stall with a flour-dusted apron and a grin as wide as a barn door, laden with tarts he’d “rescued” from an over-ambitious display. He clapped Taehyung on the shoulder and made some noisy, affectionate remark that drew laughter and a slight flush across Taehyung’s neck, not from shame, but from the kind of embarrassment that comes when the world’s attention skitters toward what you’d rather keep hidden. Taehyung answered with a brusque comeback, the two of them trading the easy, brotherly barbs that always made the labor bearable.
Jennie crossed the path to Jimin’s father’s stall with a tray of extra scones and, with a practiced nimbleness, placed one in front of Jimin. “For being the most patient boy on the yard,” she teased, and the corner of Jimin’s mouth lifted despite himself. He refused the pastry politely, his father watching, and Jennie’s face softened with understanding. For a second she gave him that fierce, knowing look, quick as a wink, and it said plainly: I see you. Later she would catch his eye and give him a tiny, consoling nod; he answered with a look that promised nothing and quietly meant a great deal.
Small dramas braided into the bigger evening: an argument over who’d grown the deepest-red tomato, a boy running a prize ribbon through the spokes of his bike, a stray dog demanding crusts from a distracted vendor. And through it all, Taehyung kept an eye on Jimin: when he saw the boy’s father angle him away from a question about the farm’s new wagon, when he saw Jimin’s jaw clench at the sound of someone snickering, his chest turned a little and his heart beat with a patient, painful hunger.
The moment the light dimmed and lanterns bloomed like fireflies, someone shouted the start of the barn dance and fiddles tuned up. The day’s labours softened into a communal song, and hands reached out for hands. Taehyung caught Jimin’s eye one last time before the music took hold, and for a breath the understanding between them was nearly spoken, in the tilt of a head, the faint sharing of a smile. People laughed, children ran, and the farm hummed with the simple, relentless life of small things. The world could be cruel and small, but in the hush that fell between two quick looks, it held a promise: something fragile, perhaps dangerous, perhaps beautiful, breathed quietly in the space where they met.
Taehyung’s look was almost invisible if you weren’t watching for it. He didn’t wave, didn’t call, he let his eyes do the work. Across the swirl of people and lanterns, his gaze slid to where Jimin stood with his father: a quick dart of the pupil toward the dark seam between the barn and the hedgerow, a tiny lift at the corner of his mouth that meant, Come. Jimin caught the movement like a spark, and for a second the world narrowed to the space between them.
The fair hummed around them: the clink of glass jars as someone rearranged a display, the low bark of a vendor calling out a price, the high peal of a child’s laugh as they bit into a toffee apple. Heat from the day still lingered in the stones, but a late wind stitched itself through the lanes and carried the smell of frying dough and sweet preserves. Lanterns were beginning to be refilled and hung, making islands of soft light in the dusk.
Jimin’s heart kicked. He didn’t want to be obvious, not with his father so near, so he kept his mouth a small, neutral line. He leaned forward as if to listen to a question his father was asking and, as he did, he murmured, “Bathroom,” almost under his breath.
His father’s glance landed on him, sharp, appraising. There was no warmth in it this evening, only practicality and the faint sense of being on show. After a heartbeat the man’s face relaxed into a controlled nod. Jimin bowed slightly (a gesture of politeness that was habit, not feeling), and then he moved.
He threaded his way through clusters of neighbours and children, past the jam stall where Jennie’s jars gleamed like little suns, past the game where someone was trying to win a ribbon for the loudest shout. People offered him pastry and cracked, easy jokes, but he offered little more than a thin, polite smile and kept going, his feet quick, his shoulders hunched just enough to hide the tremor in his hands.
Jennie watched him go with a look that pulled at her mouth, worry tugging at the edges. She didn’t follow; she stayed with the stall, but her eyes tracked him like a line. She turned and asked Jungkook in a low voice, the words threading between bowls and sacks, “Did you tell Taehyung?”
He met her quick, worried gaze and nodded. The quiet nod said more than words: Yes. I did. Jennie’s fingers tightened around a jar lid; suddenly she blinked, and tears caught at the corners of her eyes. The festival chatter softened to a background hum for a moment in her head.
“I don’t want him to go,” she whispered into Jungkook’s shoulder once he stepped closer. “But I don’t want him to hurt either.”
Jungkook wrapped his arm around her and pulled her into him, letting the warmth of his body take some of the weight. He kept his voice small and steady, the kind that promised he’d try. “We’ll see,” he said. “We’ll try.”
Their brief confession folded into the din again, and Jennie wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, composing herself to hand another sample to a polite neighbour. Neither of them knew what would come of it, only that they’d nudged a path where one might be needed.
The back of the barn was a breath apart from the festival. Where the front and the lanes were bright and loud, the rear felt like a pocket of night held at bay by a single strand of light. Narrow slits in the barn’s walls let moonlight and lantern glow slip in milky beams, and the stacks of hay broke the light into soft pools. The air tasted faintly of chaff and cool earth; a breeze moved the loose chaff and tugged at the edges of their clothes. Behind them, a gramophone on the far side played a cheerful reel, but here it was a muted heartbeat, there if you listened, but not commanding.
Taehyung found a spot between two half-full bales and dropped down, taking the fall with an easy, practiced grace. He was still in his stall clothes: sleeves rolled, forearms dusted with flour and the pale fingerprint of jam. The warmth of the day had bronzed him; the sunlight had given the sharp planes of his face definition. He held himself casual, but his shoulders were wound tight, the kind of tautness you get from holding a thought and not letting it spill.
Jimin slipped in a moment later, moving through shadows like a small animal. He looked like he’d been running: cheeks flushed, hair damp at the temple, breath quick. He stood just inside the break of the barn’s shadow for a second, giving himself a minute to ease the pulse from his throat. Then he stepped forward and sat, descending into the spot beside Taehyung with the careful deliberation of someone walking across a thin ice patch.
The hay smelled faintly sweet and sharp, the fibres rough against fabric. They sat close enough that their knees brushed with a soft, almost accidental touch, a small contact that made Jimin’s chest fumble. He pulled his knees up a fraction as if to nudge the contact into something deliberate, and Taehyung watched him with that calculating slant in his eyes that always preceded his teasing.
“You made it.” Taehyung’s voice was low, an amused rasp that slid comfortably into the hush between them. He had that half-grin, the one that used to loosen Jimin up and make him laugh against his better sense.
“Of course,” Jimin said, trying for annoyance but landing in something softer; his smile threatened to break free and he worked to keep it contained. “You could’ve at least sent a proper messenger.”
Taehyung’s grin grew. “Where’s the drama in that? Besides, I like seeing you dart about. You look..” He feigned a searching look, then added with deliberate mockery, “-terrified and cute. A dangerous mix.”
Jimin gave him a look and muttered, “Shut up,” but the edge in his voice was gone, worn down by a private, nervous amusement. The teasing slid between them like a practiced dance step. Taehyung’s legs swung easy through the hay, and one boot knocked a loose stalk that fluffed and dusted the top of Jimin’s knee. The tiny tickle made Jimin jump and laugh, a short, startled sound that loosened something in his chest.
Taehyung chuckled. “You’re more of a jumper than you let on. I thought you were all quiet and composed.”
“Quiet isn’t the same as-” Jimin began, but Taehyung lunged with a hand and flicked his ear in that ridiculous, annoyed way that meant affection more than insult. The contact was quick and light, but it made Jimin’s face heat.
They fell into teasing because it was easier than the other thing, the thing made of confessions and shame and unnamed needs. Teasing gave them cover; it let them touch without naming what the touch did.
As the mockery softened, tactile slips began to happen: an elbow that lingered against an arm as one of them shifted; fingers that bumped while reaching for the same tuft of hay and then didn’t withdraw as quickly as they should have; the faint static friction when their outer shirts brushed. Each small incident built a tallness of sensation inside Jimin, like music swelling under a chorus.
Taehyung’s hand moved first by accident. He reached to push back a strand of hay that had fallen over Jimin’s forehead, a lazy motion, and his fingers brushed Jimin’s temple. The contact was feather-light, a whisper. Jimin’s breath hitched. His eyes fluttered closed for that stuttering second and then opened again, startled at how much the simple brush made his heart race.
Taehyung’s thumb lingered there, as if remembering a map. He did not withdraw. Instead, after a small, private pause, he let his hand slide down to rest near Jimin’s wrist, palm up and vulnerable. The hay muffled their movement; insects chirped in the dusk; the world around them thinned.
Jimin’s fingers twitched over the straw. They hovered, then rested on Taehyung’s hand in the briefest of motions, hardly a touch at all, curiosity wrapped around the action like a bandage. Taehyung’s hand closed over Jimin’s without fanfare, not the large, possessive grip of someone trying to prove something, but a steady, careful hold. He threaded his fingers between Jimin’s the way you fit a missing piece into a jigsaw puzzle you didn’t know had been incomplete. The lock clicked into place with an ordinary, astonishing smallness.
They both froze for a beat, the world narrowing to the warmth between their linked palms. Taehyung’s thumb brushed the back of Jimin’s hand in small, slow circles, an absent, almost ridiculously gentle motion that was part soothing, part test to see if the feeling was shared. Jimin’s hand, callused and a little rough from chores, felt solid and honest beneath him. It was not a theatrical gesture; it was private, close, a tiny rebellion against every loud, cruel thing they’d both been told to be.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Taehyung said after a long moment, his voice low, almost embarrassed by the tenderness of it. He smiled, but the smile had no edge. “Holding hands like cowards in a haystack.”
Jimin’s laugh was soft and lost, but it carried a tremor. “I always thought... touching like this… it was for people who were not us,” he said, the words stumbling out in a rush, confession thin as paper. He looked at their joined hands as if they were something he could read. “But my chest feels warm. It’s confusing.”
Taehyung’s face tilted, the light catching the slope of his cheek and making his eyes look darker, deeper. “I know.” His thumb kept the steady circles, like a metronome. “I never meant to-” He swallowed, and his jaw worked. “I’m an idiot a lot, but when I’m with you I don’t want to be an idiot who hurts you.”
Jimin’s breath hitched; truth hung between them like a fragile lamp. He laced his fingers tighter in Taehyung’s. “Why do you do that? The teasing... the things you do when you laugh with the others?” He shook his head, as if to dislodge an accusation. “I don’t understand how you can be such.. two different people.”
Taehyung’s thumb paused, and for a moment his eyes darted away. Then he pushed both hands deeper into the hay, elbowing to make comfortable space and turning his whole weight a fraction toward Jimin as if to close the distance. “Because I’m scared,” he said, low and blunt and not dressed up. “Because it’s easier to hide when you wear a mask that makes others think you’re untouchable. But masks are stupid. They get heavy.”
“You’re not stupid,” Jimin whispered back. It was a kind word that caught Taehyung off-guard like a hand on his face. His throat bobbed. His voice grew small. “You hurt me before, I know that. But…” He swallowed. “But tonight it felt like you were trying.”
Taehyung’s mouth twitched, one corner stubbornly up. He leaned close enough that Jimin could feel the warmth of his breath. “I am trying.” he said, almost under his breath. There was a plea in it that had nothing to do with pride or bravado. “Not for show.”
Their knees touched again; this time neither of them pulled away. The sound of the festival, laughter, fiddles, the hollow thump of a prize announcement,wove through the barn slats and made a distant chorus. Here, in the hush, their breathing was the loudest noise.
They traded small histories: a childhood memory, the name of a neighbour’s stubborn mule, a silly thing Taehyung had done that had once landed him in trouble and made both of them laugh so hard they’d cried. The laughter eased the tautness in Jimin’s chest, loosening the knot a little. Each shared joke, each little secret, made the hand in hand grip feel less like contraband and more like a declaration, a quiet one, but a promise of sorts.
At one point Taehyung tilted his head and rested his forehead against Jimin’s shoulder, a soft, stumbling thing that could have been apology or anchor, perhaps both. “I don’t have answers,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to make this easy, but I know I don’t want to be the reason you feel small.”
Jimin turned his face toward Taehyung’s and, for the first time that evening, did not flinch. He pressed his cheek against Taehyung’s temple and let out a breath like a small surrender. The contact felt like coming home after being lost.
“Then don’t be,” Jimin said, low and steady. “Just... be here. That’s enough for now.”
Taehyung’s fingers tightened around his hand, a small, fierce squeeze that said more than either of them could say aloud. They stayed like that as the sky shifted deeper and stars pricked out above the barn. The world beyond them continued its social flirtations and competitions, but in that dim pocket of hay and wood, two people found a new, fragile balance. Accidental touches had become chosen ones, and chosen touches had the weight of truth.
When at last the music from the festival outside rose and fell, someone calling for the next dance, boots clapping on the barn floor, neither of them moved right away. They sat, palms warm together, letting the comfort spread slow and steady from the point where their fingers linked outward into the rest of them.
Taehyung let out a breath that could have been a laugh or a relief. “You gonna come back out or shall I carry you like a prize pumpkin?” he teased, the old lightness finding its way back into his voice.
Jimin’s reply was a small smile and a soft nudge with his shoulder. “Don’t make me laugh. My father will have my head. But-” He glanced up, eyes bright in the dim. “I’ll come back for a while.”
Taehyung’s smile was a quiet thing, and when he rose he didn’t let go of Jimin’s hand right away. He stood, strong and steady, and gave him a look that was both mischief and promise.
Night had fallen over the farm like a dark cloth. People had packed up their stalls and lanterns, folded bunting and tucked away jars; the chuckle and shout of the fair dwindled to the occasional call and the scrape of crates being stacked. Taehyung and Jimin had said their goodbyes among the last of the lingering neighbours, smiles worn thin from politeness; Jimin had slipped back to his father’s side as if the afternoon had been no more than a small diversion. The day was over. The farm exhaled and settled.
Taehyung lay on his narrow bed, ceiling boards plain and familiar above him, and he could not make his eyes close. Jimin occupied every thought, not as a teasing idea or a scold to be laughed off, but as a raw, aching presence. His heart felt like it had weight now, not just something inside his ribs but something that literally belonged to the other boy: an ache that answered to Jimin’s name. Sleep would not come. He refused it by will.
Memory moved through him in a slow, bitter film: the small, bright embarrassments and the old violence of school days; the endless, stinging arguments out in the fields; the ridiculous afternoon when Jimin had raised a basket and connected it hard across Taehyung’s face. He could watch those moments like scratches on a record. The scar where the wood edge had bitten his skin was fading, the pink softening into pale silver that would live in his cheek forever. He thought of the time he had slipped that little purple flower into Jimin’s hair, a careless, impossible thing, and later the private, sharp sting when he’d noticed that Jimin had kept it on his wall, taped and bruised, losing colour petal by petal. The flower was dying, and yet Jimin had left it where it could be seen. The thought coiled in Taehyung’s chest.
A wetness trickled down his cheek like an accusation. He reached up with long fingers on an impulse and felt the salt of a tear on his fingertip, then another, before he realised he was crying. The movement startled him into action; he sat up too fast and slapped at his eyes, wiped with the back of his hand, then shoved both palms into his hair as if he could wrench the feelings out at the root. A sound, half a groan, half an animal sound, broke from him. Fear and fury rode together in it: he was afraid and furious at himself, angry and ashamed all at once.
Then Jungkook’s voice surfaced in his head, not a real voice but a memory of the way Jungkook had called him out: coward, scared, not a real man. The sting of those words slid like acid behind his eyes. Jungkook had said it wasn’t safe for him and Jimin; that the two of them, together, were the kind of thing the farm would chew up and spit out. Taehyung felt those words as a physical pressure. His fist clenched automatically. He pushed his feet into the floorboard; his muscles tightened. He couldn’t sit with the slackness of being watched or the heaviness of guilt anymore. Determination, hard and ugly and focused, rose like flame.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The motion was sudden, decisive. He crossed the room in a few long strides, yanked open his window, and climbed out.
The night outside was pitch-black and the wind had teeth. It ran through his hair, whipped his thin pyjama shirt flat against his ribs and bit at the skin along his collar and chest. The cold bit deep, but Taehyung barely noticed. All the cold in the world meant nothing compared to the heat of the decision roaring behind his throat. He ran.
He sprinted across the yard with the single-mindedness of someone carrying a fuse and a match. Breath came in short, hot bursts that turned white in front of him. Sweat pooled at his temples despite the chill. Every step slapped against the frozen earth; gate hinges creaked and a distant dog barked, a sound that made a small, panicked echo under his ribs. The farm smelled of turned soil and distant hay; the moon was a pale coin wheeling above the hedgerow. Taehyung’s only thought was Jimin, him, now, immediately.
At Jimin’s house he did not slow. He banged on the window with desperate palms, first one solid knock, then another, louder, a sound that stabbed into the sleep of the ordinary household. He knew he was risking waking Jimin’s father; he knew every knock tightened that risk like a taut wire. He pounded again, the urgency making his knuckles sting.
A curtain moved like a tired eye. A sleepy, half-open Jimin peered through: hair a mess, eyes unfocused and clouded in the way of the just-awakened. For a moment Taehyung was almost struck, this small, honest, unvarnished Jimin, and some foolish, tender part of him wanted to laugh at how human he looked. But there was no time for endearment. He hauled on the window until it surrendered and pushed himself up and in half through the opening, boots thudding on the frame.
Jimin stumbled in the doorway, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. Taehyung grabbed his forearm, hard, raw fingers like clamps, and pulled him close enough to look at him, really look at him, with the kind of intensity that made Jimin flinch.
“We have to go,” Taehyung said, and his voice was a ragged thing, all breath and insistence. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”
Jimin startled, the hoarseness in Taehyung’s tone knocking the wind from his sleep. “Taehyung- what’s wrong? What are you saying? Keep your voice down,” he whispered, words rushed and thin. The cottage seemed to listen; the safe hush of a sleeping house folded in around them.
Taehyung shook his head like a man in a nightmare trying to clear his vision. Panic made his hands almost frantic on Jimin’s arm. He clutched and tried to pull Jimin, pleading with rising urgency. “Please- come with me. We have to leave this shitty farm. We have to flee. Now.” His breathing came in hard, fast bursts that left his chest heaving. The insistence in his voice was edged with something pleading, almost childlike in its desperation.
At those words the blood hammered in Jimin’s throat; his heart began to race in the small, hot way that meant understanding was arriving all at once. Jennie’s earlier warning, her quiet, trembling ask that he remember her if he ever left, folded over him like a fresh realisation. He looked into Taehyung’s face and saw the raw, open desperation there. It undid something. The farm, the safe rhythms and the small cruelties, seemed suddenly unbearable.
Then a harsh, bright light snapped on from outside Jimin’s room, the exact, unavoidable glow of a man rising. It was the soundless signal that a father was awake; Jimin’s abdominal muscles went tight. Taehyung’s voice cut through the moment: his voice was a bark now. “Jimin!” he repeated, urgent, almost a command.
Without thinking, without time to gather fear or weigh consequences, Jimin started climbing through the window. He was trembling, barefoot, motions jerky with sleep and fear, but he moved because the choice had become smaller than the need to move. He was scared, his limbs shook, but the impulse to flee, to escape the small mercilessness of the farm, was stronger.
Taehyung grabbed Jimin’s hand with a fierce grip and they were off again, sprinting into the wind that now felt like an ally scouring the dark. The gusts shrieked past them; their breaths came in ragged, visible puffs. Dodging hedges and the rough stubs of late-season cabbages, they ran, the farm a blurred smear of dark shapes and pale moonlit strips. Their feet slipped once on the frost-hardened soil; both of them lurched but kept going, driven forward by the single hot panic in their veins.
Then, without warning, Jimin screamed, a thin, animal sound that broke the night. He went down hard, hand flying from Taehyung’s grip as if it had been wrenched free. Taehyung’s entire body jerked; he spun back in an instant.
Before him, under the pale smear of a lamplight still burning by the porch, Jimin lay face-down with a shadow pressed to his back. His father was there, huge in the night, hands twisted in Jimin’s arm, pinning him flat to the ground. The older man’s voice was a high, broken thing, ripping through the air as he grabbed Jimin’s hand and yelled. Jimin’s scream split the dark.
Taehyung stood frozen for a second, breath gone, lungs aching, the scene in front of him as if carved into the night. Jimin’s scream split the quiet; it was raw and ragged and cut straight through Taehyung as if someone had struck him. For a heartbeat he only saw a tangle of limbs: Jimin face-down in the dirt, his father’s bulk pressed over him, the older man’s hands gripping like iron. The farmhouse light painted harsh planes of shadow across skin and soil; rain, thin at first, began to sting their cheeks.
Then the father’s voice rolled out, a hard, cold thunder. “You get closer and I’ll kill him right here,” he bellowed, the threat ripping sharp through the wet air. It wasn’t a bluff; the tone was flat with a steadiness that meant he would try. Jimin’s muffled sobs turned to gasps; he twisted his head a fraction and his eyes found Taehyung’s. They were wide with something beyond fear, pleading, pleading that made Taehyung want to melt and vanish and also burst into flame all at once.
Everything that would have been easy, the practiced invisibility, the retreat into the safety of being only an observer, sat on Taehyung like a cold stone. He could have fled. He could have stepped back, vanished into the dark and let the sound of Jimin’s cries fade. He could have told himself that saving his own skin was survival and nothing more. He could have kept his mouth shut and watched, as he had watched so many times.
But in that instant something hard and feral lit inside him and would not be put out. It was not thought-out heroics; it was heat and anger and a fierce, blinding need to stop the hurt in front of him. His breaths came ragged, each exhale a thin white strip in the rain-slick air. His hands flexed and his fists tightened until the knuckles ached. The wind whipped his hair across his forehead; rain stabbed his cheeks; none of it slowed the motion that had taken hold of him.
Taehyung stormed forward as if something had shoved him from the ribs. The wet ground slipped under his boots, but he did not falter. Jimin’s screams rose higher, a keening that made Taehyung’s teeth ache. The father’s arm found Jimin’s throat in a brutal, practiced hold, and every second that hold remained made Taehyung’s blood run hotter.
He acted without counting, without measuring. His hands closed on the older man, a raw, instant grab at the wrist, at the shoulder, and with a shove born of fury and fear he pushed him off Jimin. The older man hit the ground hard, a muffled thud that scattered grit and straw. Jimin collapsed forward and scrambled away, hands digging into the earth, lungs gasping for air.
Taehyung didn’t stop to see if Jimin was safe. He swung himself up on the man’s chest and began to hit. The strikes were furious and not neat, fists coming down in a barrage of anger he had been storing for years. Each blow thudded in the rain-dark, small sounds amplified: the grunt of impact, the sharp intake of breath, the father’s yelps of surprise and pain. Taehyung felt the sting in his own palms as they connected; blood prickled as one strike opened the skin. He barely noticed the red that darkened at his knuckles, only that the hits kept coming because the father’s hold had been breaking something inside Jimin that Taehyung could not bear to leave broken.
Jimin crawled away, pressing his palms to the ground, his body curling as he tried to pull himself into a smaller shape. He covered his ears with his hands, a futile gesture to drown out the noise that had become a nightmare. Rain soaked his hair, plastered it to his forehead; his clothes clung to him and were already speckled with mud. Taehyung’s bare feet squelched in puddles; the soles of them were scraped and raw, the damp biting cold through the fabric of his shirt.
The assault ebbed as the father’s movements slowed. Taehyung’s breathing was heavy and uneven, chest heaving with exertion and adrenaline. The older man’s yelps turned into a ragged silence; his body went slack, then slowly, terrifyingly, began to still. Taehyung felt the tremor in his own hands as the last blow landed and watched, heart thudding, as the man’s response dulled.
Rain came harder then, a sudden, hard sheet that blurred edges and turned faces to a wet smudge. It washed the streaks of blood and grime across Taehyung’s fists and arms; it made the world smell of iron and river and something sharp and wild. The night swallowed the immediate tremble of the fight, leaving only the echo of Jimin’s sobs and the steady slap of rain.
From nearby houses, lights blinked on. Curtains drew back, windows opened, and figures appeared as pale, shocked silhouettes in the doorways: neighbours roused by the commotion, old men in shirtsleeves, women in aprons, the soft murmur of a voice lifted in alarm. Footsteps scraped at a distance as people began to converge, pulled out of sleep by the sound of a man being beaten and the wet, animal cries of someone in pain.
Jimin, still curled and shaking, cried out Taehyung’s name, high, thin, a raw pin through the air. The sound snapped Taehyung back into the world like a hook. He had been somewhere hot and furious; the cry dragged him back to cold reality, to the fact that neighbours were now seeing, that a dozen lights were turning toward them. People were coming.
The scent of wet straw and turned earth mixed with the sharp tang of blood and the metallic edge of the rain. Taehyung looked at Jimin, at the small, broken shape of him, at his hands clawing at the mud, at the way his shoulders shook, and something like clarity slammed into him. He seized Jimin’s hand again with fierce, desperate speed, fingers pressing into wet skin, and without a word he pulled. They ran.
Their feet pounded through mud and shallow puddles; rain lashed their faces and soaked their hair, plastering it to their heads. The world pinwheeled past in swinging lanterns and the occasional shout behind them as the first neighbours spilled into the yard to see what had happened. Taehyung’s lungs burned; his muscles screamed. He dragged Jimin after him, each step a flinging away from the slamming closeness of the farmhouse and the father still lying bent and heavy behind them.
They did not look back. The farm blurred: hedges, low stone walls, the dark swell of fields. Every wet, slippery step took them further, away from the porch light and the man who had pinned Jimin down. The rain hammered a frantic rhythm in their ears as their breath came in gasps and little white puffs visible in the night air.
This moment, the beating, the cry, the desperate sprint into the rain, hung packed with everything that had led them here: old brutality and new defiance, shame and protection, the smell of wet earth and the heat of anger. Neighbours’ shadows lengthened behind them, calls began to rise, and the night closed briefly around two soaked, bloody figures sprinting through the dark toward an uncertain safety.
They ran until their legs felt like handfuls of stone. Fifteen minutes of lung-burning sprinting through sodden fields and along slick dirt tracks had taken everything out of them. Rain still hammered the world in a steady, punishing sheet; it blurred the edges of trees and soaked through collars and shirts until the cotton clung to their ribs. Their breaths came in ragged, white puffs that vanished immediately into the night; every inhale felt like a hard, stolen thing. Jimin’s feet were raw and bleeding where blisters had burst against the heels of his bare soles; Taehyung’s were the same, nicked and raw and smeared with mud and flecks of grass. Dirt tracked their calves, and their clothes were a sodden weight that dragged at them. They were soaked, dirty and shaking.
Still Taehyung kept his grip. He would not let Jimin fall behind. He kept one arm wrapped around Jimin’s middle whenever he could manage it, body pressed close so Jimin’s convulsing breaths might find steadier rhythms against him. He murmured over and over, low and rough and steady, the words Jimin needed even when Jimin couldn’t answer: It’ll be all right. We’re safe. I’ve got you. The cadence of Taehyung’s voice, not poetic, not rehearsed, simply present and unflinching, was a small, stubborn anchor against the storm of adrenaline and fear.
After a time they stumbled into a dim little lot where the market’s extras were piled: pickup trucks waiting with their cargos still half-loaded, tarps flapping, crates stacked in careless mountains on the beds. The place smelled of damp canvas, diesel, old leather, and the sweet, rough tang of hay. A low wall and the shadows of parked vehicles made for an instant hiding place. Taehyung pressed them both up under the lee of a concrete barrier and peered around it, rain stinging his skin, hair glued wet to his forehead. He watched the lanes and the houses with the frantic, spare vigilance of someone who had just escaped a threat and was tallying his luck. When he realised there were no lights moving toward them, that for the moment no one chased, he let out a breath that was almost a laugh and pulled Jimin along.
He led Jimin to the back of a battered pickup where a thick hay blanket lay folded over a scatter of crates like an offering. Without hesitating Taehyung scooped Jimin up in his arms, a rough, efficient motion that made Jimin clutch at his neck, and helped him climb up onto the truck bed before hauling himself up as well. The metal was cold under their palms, but when Taehyung pulled the hay blanket over them both it smelled alive: sweet-smelling straw warmed slightly by their bodies, faint traces of field dust and something like home that felt impossibly tender after what they’d just left. They huddled there, wrapped together under the rough weave, teeth chattering and bodies shuddering from the aftershock of adrenaline and cold.
Jimin hugged himself against the hay and the blanket and the small, unstoppable heat of Taehyung beside him. His face still showed the torment of the night, tear-stained, cheeks raw and wet, but there was a fragile peace inside the shell of him now. The violent tremor in his shoulders eased just a fraction. Taehyung watched him with a kind of awe that made his own chest ache; he reached up with a thumb and wiped the wet hair away from Jimin’s temple, hands tremulous despite the violence he’d just done. The motion was so small it might have been overlooked by anyone else, the tiniest of courtesies, and yet for both of them it felt like a benediction.
They had escaped hell. Saying it aloud would have been too loud, too dramatic; instead they let the silence hold the truth between them. They stared at each other in the close, dim light, no words could be said, but the lift and fall of their chests conveyed the whole language they were too winded to form. They knew, in the sharp, terrible clarity that follows a night of flight, that they were safe for now. The next steps were not promised. The coming days were as uncertain as the horizon behind the far hedges; roads lay ahead paved with choices and dangers and ragged, weary hope. But something steadied itself in the truck bed between them: the knowledge that whatever was coming, they would meet it together.
Slowly, fingers trembling like new leaves in a wind, Jimin’s hand rose. It found Taehyung’s under the hay blanket, hands clumsy from cold and exhaustion but determined. He held on so tight his knuckles paled. The faint smile he gave Taehyung was small and brittle and perfect; it was the first soft thing of the night and it felt like sunlight. Taehyung’s face softened, his mouth turning up despite the salt in his eyes. Tears shimmered at the corner of his lids again, but they were different now, unashamed and sudden and a little relieved. He leaned forward and rested his forehead lightly against Jimin’s, the contact feather-light but absolute.
They stayed like that: two breathing bodies pressed together under a rough hay blanket on the back of a truck, wind and rain and the wide, indifferent dark all around, and in that cramped, stolen space they allowed themselves a quiet that tasted like a promise.
There are nights like this in everyone’s life, when the world roars, and the only thing that can keep you from being torn apart is the single hand you can clutch in the dark. This story began as small cruelties and schoolyard bruises, as the weight of names and expectations pressed down on two boys who never seemed to fit. It moved through laughter and cruelty, slaps that left marks on skin and on the soul, jokes thrown like stones and kindness tucked away like contraband. It was, at times, ugly and loud and impossibly quiet all at once, a stubborn line of people who do not make easy choices, and two people who loved each other before they knew how to do it properly.
If there is anything to take away from what happened beneath the rain and the hay, it is this: love is not only those sharp, bright moments of tenderness people write songs about; it is also the way someone will stand in the storm and smoke and dirt and fight for you when your knees have given out. It is the decision to hold on when the world says let go, the fierce and small and ordinary courage of staying. You will be judged and you will hurt; you will be frightened and you will falter. But sometimes you choose to protect one another anyway. That choice makes ordinary people into the kind of people who can change a life. That is the truth these two stole into the night: that safety can be made of another person’s will, and that the bravest thing sometimes is simply being brave for someone else.
Notes:
and with that, scarlet under the sun comes to an end ❤️ (for now). writing this fic has been so fun for me, and I truly love it so much. I hope you guys enjoyed it just as much as I did. I'm so sad to be finishing it, but I have so much more fics up my sleeve. thank you for the wonderful comments and for reading this far even with my super long updates, I love you all so much. Thank you.
please look forward to a sequel in the future. 😉
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