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Jimin lets himself into the dark apartment with numb fingers, frozen stiff from the bitter cold outside. He can barely feel his toes either when he kicks off his boots by the door, but then he’s pretty numb all over save for the whirling sickness in his stomach and the taste of the night still sharp in the back of his throat. Too many words and not enough said. He can still hear the yelling, but he can’t remember what led them to that point, the screaming and the fistfuls of fabric. It’d been coming. That sort of thing rarely creeps up out of the blue, but Jimin’s seen it pounce so many times now he hoped he might’ve learned to catch it prowling.
All the lights are out save for the bathroom and Jimin heads there first, leaning over the sink to rinse his mouth and splash his face with a couple palmfuls of cold water. He’s pale in the mirror, kind of sickly yellow and unfamiliar under the flickering light, hair hanging lank and dark over his eyes. His lip is split, he realises, leaning in closer to his own reflection to see the cut up close, but it’s already well clotted, shallow, the least of what he deserves tonight. Pitiful, really. He drops his gaze from it, stares into the plughole instead and spits the last of the pinkish water to join the swirl heading downwards.
The living area is washed blue from the neon bar sign across the street, the lumps of furniture reduced to inky black shapes. In the kitchenette, Jimin opens the fridge in the same old routine, but forgets to look for anything before he lets the door swing shut again. He leans against it for a moment, metal cool against his clammy forehead, breathing deep and blinking the glare of the fridge light from his vision. The whole apartment reeks of Chinese food and those herbal cigarettes Hoseok’s been smoking since Taehyung read him some quack Reddit thread that claimed it’d help quit the real deal. Jimin wasn’t fond of the tobacco, but this cloying stench is almost worse, clinging to every spare inch of the place like chapel incense.
He finds Hoseok on the couch, tipped sideways and fast asleep under the quilt he dragged from his bed. His laptop is on the coffee table by the ashtray, open and black-screened, standby light flashing periodically in the dark. Jimin shuts it, just sort of stands there for a moment, watching him. He looks different like this, Hoseok, always does, like a whole other creature with his face wiped clean of any expression, mouth slack and soft so that even the freckle at the tip of his cupid’s bow looks peaceful. His eyebrows are the only things moving, twitching in his sleep, and Jimin’s reminded of the way his dog’s legs used to kick when he dozed, like he was dreaming of running. It’s kind of precious, makes Jimin’s mouth twitch wondering what the fuck Hoseok could be dreaming about to set his eyebrows off so wild.
It's not much of a night for smiling proper, though, the dull sting in Jimin’s lip enough to remind him of that as he sinks to sit on the edge of the coffee table. After everything that’s happened, seeing Hoseok here, like this, curled up and warm and sleeping sound, it makes his chest feel tight, throat thick. He’s the first person Jimin would tell about something like this, usually, nudge him awake and fill him in and let Hoseok switch to full hyung mode, with the tea and the icepack and the beaten tin lunchbox he likes to call a first-aid kid. On a night like this especially, with Jimin’s head spinning and his chest aching with every sick thud of his pulse, Hoseok would have all four limbs around him by now, murmuring soft things into the crook of his neck. It’s healing stuff, Hoseok’s gentle touch, and Jimin sure as shit doesn’t deserve it tonight, but he still wants it, wants him close, kind of needs it as he watches him breathe slow in his sleep, lips parted, lashes fluttering.
There’s a little room between Hoseok and the back of the couch, and Jimin knows he’s no giant. He tries his luck and climbs over to slip in behind him, careful, slotting into the empty space and barely jostling Hoseok in the process. It’s a tight fit, but it’s still not enough with the duvet bunched up and wedged between them. Jimin finds the edge and snakes his arm underneath, but a moment later shuts his eyes and prays for the universe to catch him a damned break when he finds bare skin. Of course – of course Hoseok would choose this moment, here, now, on this sub-zero night, to be shirtless in the dead cold of fucking winter.
Still, he is warm, skin smooth and hot, and Jimin continues, curling his arm snug around his waist. Maybe it’s that, the soft heat of Hoseok’s skin that bleeds inside him and defrosts all his numbed nerve-endings because he can suddenly feel it hard. Like a breaking wave, the sick stab of guilt in his stomach enough to make his throat feel tight, the raw ache from all the yelling, the pain pulsing deep inside his skull because there are too many things in there tonight, all of them clamouring for attention, a fucking racket. Jaw clenched tight against it all, he inches his head forward on the pillow till his nose is practically buried in the hair at Hoseok’s nape, and he almost thinks he’s gotten away with the whole stealth invasion, too, but it’s only a couple seconds before Hoseok stirs next to him.
‘Jiminnie?’ he rasps, sleepy, accent thick, and Jimin’s stomach swoops hard enough to make his breath catch. In the dark, he sees the shape of Hoseok’s head lifting slightly off his pillow.
‘S’okay, hyung,’ he mumbles in reply, praying he can’t hear any of it in his voice. He strokes lightly with his thumb somewhere around Hoseok’s ribs trying to get him to settle back down again, but Hoseok’s already rolling over.
‘You’re home,’ he croaks, neck straining round to see Jimin, eyes glinting glossy in the bluish light. Jimin can just about see the set of his eyebrows, surprisingly harsh considering he just woke up. ‘Jiminnie, you’re home. You—where the fuck did you go? You’ve been out all night.’
Jimin doesn’t even know what time it is, but now that he thinks about it, he guesses it’s somewhere deep in the small hours. No wonder Hoseok seems angry; he must’ve been worried sick. ‘Yeah, I’m sorry,’ Jimin whispers, shutting his own eyes again in the hopes that Hoseok might do the same, won’t notice anything amiss. ‘I’m here now, hyung, just… go back to sleep.’
But like the stealth invasion, not much gets past Jung Hoseok.
‘Your lip,’ he says suddenly, squirming even more to turn over properly, Jimin finally having to loosen his grip and let him move. It’s a tight fit on the small couch and Jimin almost gets a knee to the crotch with all the wriggling, but he perseveres, sighing through his nose. He keeps his eyes shut till he feels warm fingers under his chin, blinking them open then to see Hoseok’s brow furrowed deep as he struggles up onto an elbow to get a proper look.
‘Jimin, what the fuck?’ He sounds suddenly much more awake. ‘What happened?’
‘It’s nothing, hyung,’ Jimin insists tiredly, reaching up to catch lightly at Hoseok’s narrow wrist, tugging. ‘It’s really nothing, c’mon.’
Hoseok doesn’t seem to think it’s nothing, tipping Jimin’s head up to peer at it, even though the sight of the blood’s already got him looking pale. He’s never been good with this kind of stuff, walking list of phobias that he is, but he tries anyway.
‘Did you clean it out at least?’ he asks, eyes flicking over the rest of Jimin’s face, like he’s scouting for more injuries. When he doesn’t find them, his gaze settles back on Jimin’s, bleary, but steady. ‘Does it hurt bad?’
Not as much as it should, Jimin thinks, but he doesn’t say it aloud. He shakes his head as he drops his gaze from Hoseok’s gentle frown, ‘No,’ he whispers.
Hoseok doesn’t look convinced, looks a lot like he wants to pry more, push for details, mouth doing that one grumpy, dimpled thing it does sometime, but he must see in Jimin’s face that he’s not ready, not tonight.
After a moment, he sighs through his teeth. ‘Okay,’ he grumbles, nodding, poking gingerly at the bruised skin underneath the cut once more before he takes his hand away. ‘Okay.’
He stays propped on his elbow, peering down at Jimin with that furrowed brow, eyebrows all low and serious under the sleep-tousled flop of his dark hair. Jimin feels kind of like he’s trying to dig inside his head, somehow see the night’s events plastered over the walls of his skull, and it’s a little disconcerting, but that’s Hoseok. A little disconcerting.
He’s something else, Jimin thinks. He’s cut all sharp, but still soft and there’s nothing softer than his eyes – not even his hands, which are pretty fucking soft. No, his eyes are on another level. Sort of sad eyes, Jimin’s always thought, like a lot of the ones who spend all their time smiling, but soft nonetheless.
You think I don’t see the way you look at him? The way he looks at you?
That’s what he said, the guy – the Guy, deliverer of Jimin’s fine fat lip this evening. Jimin has no idea how he looks at Hoseok – he’s never seen it for himself, never thought about it – but he guesses it really must be some kinda way if he can let that sappy shit fly through his mind unchecked while he does it. Even now, he can’t help it, really; it’s an absent thing when he reaches up, fingertips trailing light along Hoseok’s jaw. His skin’s not so smooth there, rough with late night stubble, but Jimin doesn’t mind, lets his nails drag gently.
How Hoseok looks at him, though, he’s seen that for himself, with his own two eyes, and he’s seeing it now as Hoseok frowns at him and his gentle scratching.
‘Jiminnie…’ he says softly, half snapping him out of it. Hoseok reaches up by his own face, like he’s going to take Jimin’s hand, but Jimin’s already dropping it.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, watching Hoseok smoothly lift that hand to comb his hair off his forehead instead. It flops right back, though, always too silky after a shower. Jimin knows; he’s spent long nights running his fingers through it before, humming under his breath till Hoseok drifts off to sleep. He takes those kinds of moods sometimes and Jimin almost wishes he’d take one now, lie down on Jimin’s chest and forget whatever he’s about to say. It’s not a night for granting wishes either, though.
‘What happened tonight?’ Hoseok asks again, softer this time. ‘Did he hit you, Jiminnie?’
Jimin shuts his eyes with another sighed breath out through his nose. ‘No,’ he mutters, but he can hear the look Hoseok is pinning him with. ‘I mean, yeah, we fought,’ he amends quietly, thinking it best to leave out the part where he refused to throw any punches. He took them well enough, two, three, ten, who the fuck knows, but he wouldn’t throw any. He deserved every hit.
Hoseok doesn’t speak, but his worried look is very loud, loud enough to get Jimin to slit his eyes open again, blinking wearily up at him. ‘It’s fine, hyung,’ he says softly.
‘It’s fine?’ Hoseok echoes, eyebrow arching, unconvinced.
‘It’s over, but it’s fine,’ he clarifies.
Jimin thought that part was fairly obvious, but Hoseok seems surprised, eyes widening a touch, propping himself up further on his arm. ‘With him? It’s over?’
Jimin tips his head back to scoff a laugh at the ceiling. The bitterness kind of comes out of nowhere, startles Hoseok and makes the guilt in Jimin’s stomach coil tighter. ‘’Course it’s over, hyung, what’d you expect?’ he says, spitting out the question like a worn curse because the cycle is just so fucking predictable by now. Seems like every relationship he’s had in the past couple years has festered and died in the exact same way – not always this bloody, but always angry, explosive, grand finales that seem to pop out of nowhere after a few months.
They don’t, though. They don’t pop out of nowhere, but this guy has been the only one so far to lay it out bare, all the twisted truth of it. I knew it. I knew it from the start, from the first fucking day you mentioned him, I could see it.
‘What happened?’ Hoseok asks now, seeming kind of stricken, something dark in his eyes. Jimin wonders how the fuck he looks himself to get Hoseok staring at him like that, but he can barely hear him through all the harsh noise in his own head.
I knew it then, but you didn’t seem to and I guess that was enough for me. I dunno what I fucking expected. But you know now, don’t you? You’ve figured it out in that pretty, little, twisted head of yours, haven’t you, Jimin-ah?
Jimin takes a slow breath through his nose, reaching up to rub at his own forehead, the throbbing point between his eyes. ‘I told you, we fought,’ he says softly.
‘What about?’
You. The word rolls to the tip of his tongue and it would be so fucking easy to say, to spit it out and get this over with, but he can’t. He feels a little like he might be sick.
He shakes his head. ‘He just made me think about some stuff, hyung,’ he mumbles, swallowing hard. Hoseok seems to notice the movement, the strain of clenched teeth in Jimin’s jaw, because he strokes his knuckles lightly up the side of his throat, his cheek. Jimin shouldn’t, but he turns his head a touch, leaning into it. His hands are so warm.
Hoseok ducks his head a bit, trying to catch his eye. ‘Some stuff?’ he asks, and it’s still soft, but Jimin needs him to stop. He needs him to stop speaking, stop asking questions, because any minute now, Jimin might actually fucking tell him and that – that’s when it all goes to shit, isn’t it? That’s when this whole thing goes balls up, this whole thing Jimin’s come to call a life and a home.
‘Stop repeating what I say, hyung,’ he mutters, gaze flicking up again to pin Hoseok with a weary glower. He’s still stroking, light fingertips combing through the hair at Jimin’s temple. ‘You’re like a fuckin’ parrot.’
Hoseok smirks, smile hiding in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, entirely unapologetic. ‘Well, you’re being vague, Jiminnie,’ he points out simply, hand dropping to poke once at his chin again. ‘You come home to me with your face broken like that and now you’re being vague.’
‘Broken?’ Jimin echoes, eyebrow hitching up. The split is barely papercut level and certainly not as painful, but trust Hoseok to be fucking dramatic.
He gives Jimin a look, pitching his voice high in a shitty imitation of Jimin’s own. ‘Stop repeating what I say,’ he squawks, and Jimin reaches up to shove his face away, making him laugh.
It’s nice to hear it, the genuine cackle, bright in the dark before it fades out slow as Hoseok lowers himself down onto his elbow again. He’s still smirking, still got that teasing glint in his eyes when he tugs on Jimin’s chin a bit.
‘Who could hit that face anyway?’ he asks, voice taking on the lilt of his favourite old auntie impression. Jimin rolls his eyes as he shuts them, so fucking tired now that it’s hard to keep them open, especially with Hoseok’s heat all pressed up against him, bare foot stroking at Jimin’s shin under the duvet. ‘Those lips, it’d be like trying to punch a feather pillow. Did his fist just bounce right back?’
‘Shut up, hyung,’ Jimin grumbles, only sort of joking, rolling over to throw an arm over Hoseok’s stomach, burying his face into the pillow by his ribs. His skin presses hot and sticky against Jimin’s forehead, that light scent of his leafy shower gel sneaking into his nose, Hoseok’s fingers sneaking into his hair.
‘You know I didn’t like him,’ Hoseok says, voice back to normal now, displeased dimples popping again as he turns to reach for his cigarettes on the table with his free hand.
‘You never like them,’ Jimin points out, listening to him fumble with the pack, coax one out one-handed. He can already smell the damn things, scent climbing thick into his nostrils.
Hoseok shrugs, untangling his fingers from Jimin’s hair, and Jimin turns his head a bit to see him properly. ‘Well, they’re always fuckbags, Jiminnie, aren’t they?’ he mumbles, cigarette bouncing between his lips. ‘You can do better. You could be dating that flowery idol dude you like – whatshisface?’ He hums low for a moment while he lights up, squinting hard down into the lighter flame as he thinks of the name. Once he does, he whacks triumphantly at Jimin’s chest for a couple seconds till he’s blown out his lungful of smoke enough to speak. ‘Kim Seok… Seokjin?’ he ventures. ‘Yeah, that’s the one. You could be dating that sparkly fuck and you could still do better, Jimin-ah.’
Despite everything, Jimin almost laughs for real, smirking up at him through the wisps of pungent smoke. ‘You think I could do better than Kim Seokjin, hyung?’ he asks.
Hoseok nods, very solemn. ‘Sure,’ he insists. ‘With that ass, you’d at least make a fantastic trophy wife.’
‘Thanks,’ Jimin mutters, rolling his eyes as Hoseok settles down next to him again.
He takes another drag, seems disgusted by it himself, lips pursed with the corners turned down, nose almost crinkling. Namjoon bought him a vape for Christmas, but he won’t touch it – That shit’ll kill you quicker than you can say tobacco. Probably something Taehyung told him; he believes anything that brat says and Taehyung knows it, too. Everyone who knows Hoseok knows it, how gullible he can be when it comes to the people he keeps close. He’s trusting, too trusting, tries to see the good in everyone right to the grizzly end, no matter what.
That poor fuck you call a roommate, he can’t even see it, you using him, stringing him along like a pup on a leash. It’s fucking pathetic. The Guy said that, too, tonight. He said a lot of things and most of that nasty, useless filler shit bounced right off Jimin, but that one stuck.
He watches Hoseok reach over to tap some ash into the ashtray, hissing a soft curse when he misses. His collarbones stand out in sharp relief against the blue wash over his skin, the knob at the edge of his wrist as he brings the cigarette back to his mouth, his long fingers stick thin in silhouette form. Delicate. Jimin’s always thought so, always too skinny, always too happy, the HANDLE WITH CARE sticker pasted across his chest almost visible to the naked eye. Definitely delicate.
Using him. Stringing him along. Jimin’s pretty sure his own heart would shatter if he thought that was true, but it is, isn’t it? That’s exactly what he’s been doing – what he’s still fucking doing.
‘I guess we’re sleeping out here, then,’ Hoseok sighs, breath smoky. His voice hasn’t gotten a chance to stop sounding sleep-hoarse yet, eyelids still looking lazy as he turns his head on the pillow to face Jimin. He smiles wearily, hair falling into his eyes again. ‘You’ll massage the cricks outta my neck in the morning, won’t you, babe?’
He’s joking, but Jimin isn’t when he thinks that he probably would like to do that, sleep tangled up here with him on the couch and massage his neck when they’re woken by the dawn, maybe kiss it or whatever, see what way Hoseok sighs when he does.
Jimin almost snorts aloud at himself. Kiss it. A simple thought, his lips on that fine curve linking Hoseok’s neck and shoulder, and he’s got heat rushing into his cheeks like a schoolboy with a fucking crush. It really would be funny if it wasn’t for the accompanying ache tight in his chest because it’s more than that schoolyard shit, isn’t it? Of course it fucking is. It’s Hoseok.
It’s Hoseok.
They’ve lived together for two years, shared a room and too often a bed, both squished into Hoseok’s narrow single because his sheets always smell like home in some strange, generic brand cotton fresh way. Jimin knows what Hoseok’s body feels like curled around his and how soft his skin is and the way his muscles start to give under Jimin’s hands when he helps him out with those post-practice massages, turns him to jelly with just his prodding fingers. They eat together, binge bad movies together, lie on the floor and listen to their carefully compiled hangover playlist together.
Jimin wants to tell himself he’s never wondered what it might be like to have more, that sweaty rolling around between the sheets and the taste of Hoseok dumb fucking herbal potions in his own mouth, licked right off his lips. He wants to tell himself it never crossed his mind, on nights when Hoseok crawled into his bed to cling tight and have his hair stroked, on that one summer evening when Hoseok was sitting shirtless on the kitchen counter with that tiny fucking battery fan and looking like the most incredible thing Jimin had ever seen his life – he wants to tell himself he never thought of pressing his lips to his ear and whispering it softly, or growling it against his sweaty neck.
It’d be a lie, though, telling himself all that.
It’s him. Just admit it. It’s him and I think it always fucking has been, Jimin-ah.
Jimin knows what it feels like to have Hoseok, he’s always had him. It’s just taken him a little longer to realise he might not need anything else.
Hoseok is still watching him now, through those lazy lids, not seeming to think much of it when Jimin shifts, props himself up on a shaky elbow. He doesn’t seem to think much of it when Jimin moves closer, either, but when he ducks in slow, nose brushing against Hoseok’s, he can hear his soft intake of breath, eyelids fluttering shut. The way he tips his own chin up seems almost unconscious, but the movement makes his lips brush warm against Jimin’s and he forgets whatever was holding him back just there.
It’s not a graceful thing, no real thought behind it, just Jimin’s mouth on Hoseok’s, soft, lingering, a hot shiver running through his veins and making his fingers curl tight into the pillow by Hoseok’s head as he uses it to brace himself. They part for just a second, long enough for Jimin to swallow down the thick lump in his throat, remember to fucking breathe, before he catches Hoseok’s mouth again, harder this time, pressing his head down into the pillow. Hoseok makes this noise, quiet, deep in his chest somewhere, hand not holding the cigarette slipping up the back of Jimin’s neck, into his hair. He tastes like shitty burnt herbs, but when his tongue licks hot at the seam of Jimin’s lips, he couldn’t fucking care less how he tastes. He wants to pull him closer, arms around him, feel all his skin and see what he can do to pull more of those low noises from him, but—but he shouldn’t even be doing this. This is wrong. This is not what he was meant to do when he came home tonight.
‘Fuck,’ he hisses, pulling away, rolling quickly back into his tiny portion of the couch. That’s all he says for a moment, chest heaving, only the sounds of their heavy breath disturbing the hush of the room. ‘Hyung, I’m sorry,’ he finally whispers. ‘I really—shit, I didn’t mean to do that.’
Jimin isn’t looking at him, but he can see him out the corner of his eye, Hoseok’s own eyes still shut, back of his hand pressed to his mouth. He’s very still. Too still. Jimin can feel his heart thudding sick and wet too high in his throat.
‘Hyung—’ he begins again, but cuts off when he sees Hoseok moving his hand off his mouth, bringing the cigarette up to his lips once more. It seems like he forgets it’s one of those herbal horrors, barely takes a drag before he all but spits the thing out, reaching over to toss it into the ashtray.
‘Jimin, you can’t fucking do that,’ he says, voice low and tight in this way Jimin’s sure he’s never heard before, makes his veins feel icy. He turns to look at him, but Hoseok’s got his eyes on the ceiling, nothing soft about his dark profile, cut sharp in blues and blacks. ‘You know that I—’ he begins, voice cracking a touch. Jimin can see his eyelashes fluttering, hopes he isn’t about to fucking cry. He’s not sure he could take it. ‘You know how—about you, I—’
‘I know,’ Jimin whispers.
‘I know you know, everyone seems to fucking know,’ Hoseok half spits. Fuck, he sounds angry. He sounds angrier than Jimin’s ever heard anyone sound, never mind Hoseok himself. ‘So, why the fuck would you—’ He cuts off for a second, breathing harsh in the quiet apartment. Jimin counts four before he speaks again, more measured this time, but his words still sharp as pins. ‘You can’t just come in here and kiss me because you broke up with your fucking boyfriend, Jiminnie, what kinda sick headspace are you in?’
Jimin swallows thick, tasting iron in his mouth because he’s bitten his split lip right open. ‘Hyung, that’s not why I kissed you.’
‘Why, then?’ Hoseok demands, turning suddenly to look at him again. His eyes are too shiny in the dark and Jimin feels it like a punch to the gut. ‘You just fucking said you didn’t mean to do it—’
‘Now—I didn’t mean to do it right now,’ Jimin cuts across him quickly, realising what Hoseok thinks. He thinks Jimin meant it was a mistake, heat of the moment desperation, that it meant nothing, when it meant fucking everything. Hoseok doesn’t try to speak again, jaw set, eyes still so stony even through the tears that he’s barely recognisable. He seems to be waiting on Jimin, breathing hard and shaky.
‘Why d’you think we broke up?’ Jimin asks him quietly, watching his brows pull together slightly. He still can’t say, not the way he should, not the way Hoseok deserves, but he can say something:
‘Hyung… I said I know how you feel.’
And Hoseok seems to catch on, realise what Jimin’s saying. He doesn’t just know like the others know, like everyone who’s seen Hoseok look at Jimin knows; he knows because he can feel it, too, the same gnawing burn in the pit of his stomach, heart thudding too fast and then faster still when Hoseok’s breath catches, chest hitching visibly. He knows.
Hoseok’s eyes soften up a bit, wet tracks on his cheeks catching the blue light from the window and it’s like that for a long time, the staring, Jimin watching all the subtle shifts work over Hoseok’s face, the way he chews on his cheek from the inside, the way his gaze drops to watch Jimin fiddle with his rings.
It’s Hoseok who finally speaks, just when Jimin thinks this might be it, the stand-off, the part where one of them walks out and rids themselves of this cursed fucking night.
‘Let’s—’ Hoseok stops, voice a rough croak, ducks his head and clears his throat as he scrubs his hands over his eyes. When he resurfaces, he looks exhausted, even more so than he did when Jimin woke him up. ‘Let’s just talk about this in the morning, Jiminnie.’
He starts to move then and Jimin’s heart drops.
‘Hyung, wait—’ he says suddenly, but trails off when he realises Hoseok’s only shifting to settle down beside him again, not to get up and leave.
Hoseok catches him by the back of the neck, squeezes gently. ‘In the morning, Jiminnie,’ he says, his words still shaky, but his tone firm.
He holds Jimin’s gaze a couple seconds longer before he leans in, tips his chin up to press his lips to Jimin’s forehead. Jimin’s eyes slip shut, hands untangling from the duvet and reaching out blindly for the first part of Hoseok he can get. He finds his waist, bare skin cool now with the duvet kicked low around their hips. He pulls him close when Hoseok ducks his head again, tucking it in under Jimin’s chin.
‘Get some sleep, Jiminnie,’ he mumbles against his collarbone, tugging the duvet up over them both once they’re settled.
Fat chance of that, Jimin thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Instead, he focuses on breathing steady with the familiar weight of Hoseok on his chest, trying to even out that panicked panting he was doing before, calm the noise in his head. Hoseok’s hair smells faintly of something citrus – Jimin’s shampoo; he must’ve run out of his own unscented. It’s comforting, somehow.
‘Hyung,’ Jimin murmurs, sliding a hand up the cool skin of Hoseok’s bare back to comb gently into his hair instead. He scratches at his scalp the way he likes, the way that always lulls him off to sleep, no matter how worked up he is. ‘Is, uh… is this okay?’
Hoseok doesn’t answer right away and Jimin wonders if he can feel his heart thudding like a jackhammer underneath his cheek. His hair falls so silky through Jimin’s fingers that it makes his head spin, but it’s not enough to keep him calm waiting for Hoseok to speak.
‘Yeah, s’okay,’ he finally whispers, and Jimin feels something bloom warm and sweet down in there with the sour soup of aching guilt and terror.
Letting out a shaky sigh, he buries his nose down into the crown of Hoseok’s head.
Maybe he was wrong; maybe it is a night for granting wishes.