Chapter Text
December.
The amount of ego being held in the hallway probably isn’t what it’s able to contain.
But Jimin smiles anyway, the energy swelling around the two of their teams. Security, stylists, and production members bustle about. Jimin gets his makeup touched up once more. “A little pale,” his stylist frowns before dabbing at him with concealer.
His stage partner is nowhere to be found. They’re due on stage, together, in fifty seconds and they haven’t spoken in weeks. He doesn’t think there was much speaking last time anyway.
The bruise on his hip is still fading from when it was slammed into the door frame, pressed so hard into the handle as he was drove into over and over again by—
“Min Yoongi!” Jimin feigns happiness over the way he strolls in barely close to call time. “So kind of you to grace us with your presence, finally.” It comes out snappy.
Yoongi smirks, eyes trailing in only a way that Jimin notices. He knows his thoughts. I want to take off those jeans. You need to ditch the stupid jacket. Leave the necklace on. Always. It had been a birthday gift three years ago.
“You were waiting for me? So sweet, Park Jimin.”
The alpha practically purrs.
Jimin buzzes with anticipation of what this will mean for them later behind the closed doors of one of their hotel rooms.
He'll probably utter the same phrase.
"You were waiting for me..."
Jimin would probably never stop waiting.
They get in their positions. Rivals, taking the stage together. The media eats up this dance they’ve been doing since their debut years. They’re frenemies, if things are going cutely.
They go cutely on stage, announcing an award then a performance of one of the newer groups that debuted last year. Jimin pokes at Yoongi’s dark rapper persona. Yoongi scoffs at the pretty boy energy Jimin is so accustomed to displaying. They walk off stage laughing, then part immediately as if they’re poles drawn in opposite directions when their teams are around.
If only they knew.
Yoongi is still standing close enough that Jimin can catch his scent, all woodsy but attempting to be restrained. His rut is coming in the next week or two. Jimin will get the call and he will go like always, because his heat has synced to him perfectly after so many years of doing whatever it is they do behind closed doors.
Jimin doesn’t turn to look at him again. Neither does Yoongi. Their shoulders don’t brush, their breath doesn’t share any air. They’ve learned better than that.
Someone snaps a photo anyway.
Jimin hears it, the faint but mechanical shutter, the whisper of potential. In an hour there will be a thousand slow-motion edits dissecting the space between them. Their fans will fight. They will laugh at the social media comments later, when their legs are covered in nothing but post-sex sweat and hotel sheets.
Rivalry is such a useful narrative. It fills in all the blanks for people. They don’t search for everything that’s clearly lying directly under the surface.
“Looking amazing, hyung!” Jungkook, one of the lead media specialists approaches Jimin. “You’re on in a few sets, right?”
Jimin nods, posing effortlessly as Jungkook snaps a few pictures. Jungkook has been taking pictures of Jimin for years, writing good press about him, so much that he’s become someone Jimin calls a friend. The photos from this evening will end up as some of the highlights from the evening, but only because of who’s looking at Jimin in the background. “Big night.”
“Do you think you’ll get Album of the Year?”
Jimin laughs, easy and bright. When he swivels, he notices that Yoongi has paused in the conversation he’s having with Namjoon, an artist from the same company. They’re close and known for that friendship. Both rappers, but not an ounce of rivalry between them.
“Oh, I’m just happy to be here.” It’s a small lie, but Jungkook is filming now. He is happy to be here. But he both wants to win and is exhausted. He’s been preparing this performance for weeks and it still doesn’t feel as perfect as he’d like it to. Something is off.
Under the lights, it’s easier to forget the quiet. It’s easier for Jimin to let the adrenaline do the work. He can field questions and wave at fans, blow kisses to the camera from the crowd. He can pretend as long as the noise continues to block it all out. He ends his conversation with Jungkook to get ready to dress down to something simpler, flowy for the stage.
He doesn’t look for Yoongi as he goes.
He doesn’t need to.
The performance goes well. They always do.
By the time Jimin’s team clears the stage and funnels back towards their respective dressing rooms, his ears are ringing and his pulse feels to big for his own body. Someone hands him a towel, another bottle of water. The deep swig makes his stomach swell uncomfortably in a way he’s not used to. He hands it back off and slips his in-ears into someone else’s hand.
His phone vibrates as it’s passed back over to him.
He doesn’t check it.
That, too, has become a habit.
Inside the dressing room, the noise drops off like a cliff might. He sheds his costume quickly with the help of one of the stylist Noonas. Another wipes at the sweaty makeup on his face. His manager, Hoseok, flops onto the couch with a heavy groan. “You did amazing.”
Jimin hums while they dress him back up like the pretty doll everyone enjoys him to be. Hoseok is scrolling through live reactions, already chasing validation like it’s oxygen.
Jimin sits, then stands again. The room feels too warm.
“You okay?” Hoseok asks, glancing up from his phone.
“Yeah,” Jimin replies automatically, smooth and practiced. “Just…hot.”
Hoseok hums, unconvinced. He gives him a deep look.
“Hobi I’m fine,” he snags the water he thinks he was drinking earlier. It still taste off so he sets it back down.
In his pocket, his phone vibrates again.
This time, he checks it.
MYG: you alive?
Jimin exhales through his nose before he can stop himself. He types back without looking at the screen.
PJM: Barely. You?
There’s a pause. Yoongi must be getting ready to take the stage. He’s the final act before they announce Album of Year, which already means he’s going to win, because they usually save the last act for whose fans will stay up the longest waiting for them. Yoongi’s probably reading his message, really considering it. He’s probably deciding on how much of himself he’s allowed to give away in seven characters or fewer. Jimin knows how nervous he still gets when he goes on stage, not because he doesn’t think he’s good. He knows he’s the best. And he wants to live up to it.
Jimin imagines he feels as nauseous as he does right now. What the fuck is wrong with him?
His phone buzzes.
MYG: I’m good.
Jimin locks his phone and leans into the table, taking a deep breath to settle himself. His eyeliner is at least smudged enough to soften his eyes. He looks good tonight. He knows that. He’s been told at least thirteen times in the last hour.
He wonders if Yoongi noticed.
He hates himself for wondering.
The envelope opens so slowly, deliberately. Jimin wants to scream at Taehyung, known to the world as V, but Taehyungie to him, to hurry the fuck up.
In his smooth tone, Taehyung reads the nominees names again. Jimin’s pulse is so loud he wonders if Hoseok can hear it next to him. It’s drowns almost everything out. But not the sound of his own name, followed by the name of his album, FACE, landing in a clear and unmistakable way. There’s a half-second where the room seems to tilt, like the world needs to recalibrate around the fact that he’s truly won.
Album of the Year.
The roar hits him all at once, zeroing back into a space full of sound. He breathes like he’s coming up for air from beneath the surface. Hoseok drags him into the standing position, pushing him to his feet. The lights find him immediately, hot and unforgiving, and Jimin smiles because he knows how. He bows. He walks. He does everything right.
He does not look at Yoongi. He does not see him smiling in his direction, in a way that is proud. In a way that he is never supposed to in public.
He knows better than that.
Onstage, the award is heavier than he expects it to be. He’s won everything but this before. Why does that surprise him so much? He grips it with both hands, fingers tight around the cool glass, grounding himself from the heat that hasn’t seemed to stop clinging to him this evening. He thanks his team, Hoseok specifically, his parents, the fans who believed in him even when it wasn’t easy to be visible. He thanks the academy for allowing someone like him to have this reach.
There’s a beat–a singular breath where he could say more about what it truly means to have an openly gay idol win something this prestigious, but he stops because there are already tears trailing down his cheeks. He’ll sob if he says another word.
So he doesn't.
Backstage after is chaos. Congratulations collide with logistics. Someone presses a drink into his hand that he takes the tiniest sip of and has to hold back a gag at the bite of alcohol. He sets it down. His phone buzzes in his pocket, relentless now, but he ignores it until the noise thins and he can breathe again.
When he finally checks it, there’s only one message that matters.
MYG: where are you?
No congratulations. No softening.
Just direction.
Jimin stares at the screen longer than necessary. Winning was supposed to feel like closure, like this proof that he hadn’t lost anything by being honest, by being himself.
Instead, it feels like provocation.
PJM: Dressing room.
The reply is instant.
MYG: the stairwell. ten minutes.
Jimin swallows. He hates how his body is already drawn to the idea of it, his omega practically purring to be back in the alpha’s proximity again.
PJM: No. Not here.
Another pause. This one takes a moment and Jimin almost puts his phone away. He’s supposed to be celebrating, not pining for the one secret he still has to fucking keep.
MYG: My hotel room.
He drops the location.
1am. Knock twice.
Jimin’s knuckles meet the door once and then once more. It’s wrenched open before his skin has left the wood.
Jimin barely has time to step inside before Yoongi is dragging him in, pulling at the loops of the jeans he’d slipped into to be more comfortable after the show. He closes the door with care that feels deliberate, controlled. He looks the same as he did all night, composed and unreadable. But there is something sharper in his eyes, stripped of the stage lights and distance.
They just stare at each other, hands on each other’s waists. How long has it been? Almost two months?
“I might not have come,” Jimin says.
“I knew you couldn’t stay away.”
That’s true. It always has been. It’s been what, seven? years since they started this thing up.
The space between them closes without any more discussion. Habit carries them forward, Yoongi’s hand going up to cup Jimin’s jaw. His mouth finds him like it’s something he’s practiced into muscle memory. Yoongi presses Jimin backwards until his knees meet the softness of the mattress. He guides him down like he’s something delicate.
Jimin had been rushing so his shirt isn’t buttoned correctly. It slips up, revealing the soft skin of his stomach. His tattoo poking out already. And, another thing that makes Yoongi’s brow quirk up in surprise. The body chains from his performance dangle against smooth skin, glistening. Yoongi kisses his hip once before going back to his lips, trapping them in something that tastes like both adrenaline and restraint. It’s dangerously close to resentment.
It’s always good. So good. That’s the problem.
“You looked good up there tonight,” its murmured into his neck. So he did notice.
Good.
“I just looked good?” Jimin begs for more. More touch. More praise. More. More. More.
Yoongi doesn’t look at him, he’s busy unbuttoning Jimin’s pants. They discard them. “What do you want me to say?”
Jimin laughs softly. “Congratulations. Maybe that it’s not killing you that you lost to me?”
Yoongi’s jaw tightens, miniscule, but it’s there. “This isn’t about that.”
“Isn’t it?” Jimin asks. “I mean I went up there and I thanked people for letting me be seen. And you-” he stops himself with a deep exhale, “you didn’t even look at me.”
Silence stretches between them, familiar and heavy. Yoongi plays with one of the chains, still not meeting Jimin’s eyes. “You know how this works.”
“Yeah,” Jimin says, taking off his shirt himself. He rolls his eyes. With one swift motion so that he’s straddling Yoongi’s hard cock. With practiced ease he lifts his weight and sinks down. “I do.”
Yoongi tried to pretend like when Jimin sank down on him his entire body hadn’t been begging for this exact moment all day. From the second he saw him backstage he’d wanted to fuck him.
He wanted to hear his little pants and whimpers, his omega preening for him as Yoongi drove his hips harder and harder into Jimin’s ass before he became a puddle of release beneath him.
Of course he had looked at him tonight. He had to tell himself a million times or more to stop looking at him. People would notice how he looked at him if he did it for too long.
Jimin rides him slowly, too slowly and Yoongi shudders. “F-fuck, Park Jimin.” Jimin has his head thrown back and he isn't looking at him. His throat is exposed and his scent gland is practically pulsating, throwing that intoxicating mix of cardamom and vanilla into the room where it would seep into the sheets and probably stay for hours. Yoongi would smell him when he was gone.
And he wanted to.
Yoongi watches him bounce, his cock bobbing between their stomach’s, so hard it looks like it hurts. He’d wanted this too. He looks so close to coming undone. “F-fuck, I’m so close.”
And Yoongi is too, with Jimin’s tight hole squeezing around him, opening and closing as the speed picks up. He needed to flip Jimin over. He wanted to be deeper. He does, with the stamina he has left. His hand splays across the moonscape of his spine, holding him down as he drives into him.
“Ahh, ahh–” Jimin cries out into the sheets, louder than he normally might. “I’m gonna–”
Yoongi is too. They still as Yoongi’s knot pops hard and fast, and Jimin’s gasps, a sob on the end of it. It was too quick and neither were ready. He doesn't always knot him. He squirms and it catches, but he spurts strings of come all over his own chest and the bed. He’s panting, keeping himself from whimpering pitifully as Yoongi’s knot pulsates inside of him.
“Lie still, you’re fine, it’s okay–” Jimin wriggles once more, pushing his ass back and Yoongi feels like he’s orgasming again at the slick that leaks around his cock. “Fuck.”
It takes ten minutes for the swell of his knot to come down, transferring to Jimin. Jimin’s stomach now rounded with a faint curve just below his navel, filled in a way that makes Yoongi look twice. He doesn't always notice the change when he knots him.
He pulls out slowly, turning so that they were both on their backs, looking at the ceiling above.
“You did good tonight,” Yoongi’s pinky rested against Jimin’s. “You should be proud of yourself.” His hand covers more, reaching slowly like he’s asking for permission even now with no one else around. It’s a touch that feels more intimate than anything that came before. There's so much more he wants to say. I wish I was as brave as you. How the hell do you carry all that weight? He settles for holding his hand.
Jimin swallows.
The words land too gently and he wants to push them away. Praise without presence. He allows their fingers to stay tangled anyway, keeping his eyes at the ceiling. His other hand rests against his abdomen. He should feel warm at Yoongi’s words. But there’s a strange heavy feeling sitting low in his body, an awareness he can’t quite name. He feels different than earlier–too full, maybe, or not settled right. He presses his palm there absentmindedly, just below his belly button. He stills when Yoongi’s fingers interlock with his. His eyes start to burn.
“Yeah,” he says quietly after a moment. “I am.”
It isn’t clear who he’s trying to convince.
When Jimin leaves, Yoongi is left to a quiet he has both grown so accustomed to and feels crawl across his skin like minuscule parasites. He is so fucking lonely.
But asking Jimin to stay would be a horrible idea. Their entire thing whatever it may be is already enough of a horrible idea that sleeping together, actually sleeping, feels like too much.
Even though somewhere either inside his heart or inside his alpha, he already knows it’s too much.
He sits on the balcony with a lit cigarette and more than half empty glass of whiskey. He’s not upset about losing tonight. At all. His album did more in sales than Jimin had, not that it was a measure of who was better at this whole thing. But the sales, the streams, the fans are what mattered to him. The awards and accolades were an added bonus.
And Jimin cared about them so much. He was glad the big awards had gone to him. The person he was jealous of in all of this was Jimin’s manager. Not jealous in the way some people might think. Hoseok and Jimin were friends, the best of friends. And Hoseok was fucking Yoongi’s best friend, so it sandy that kind of jealousy.
He was jealous that it was Hoseok who stood on the stage with Jimin to congratulate him tonight. Hoseok who wrapped Jimin in a strong hug, a cheek kiss where Yoongi would have gone for the lips. A simple “raise your glasses in congratulations” to the crowd when Yoongi would have made them all stand and then bow, “don’t you see who wonderful…how beautiful he is?”
But instead, he clapped quietly. His face was schooled into an expression that was blank in a way that didn’t make him seem upset about the losses. Because the losses were not what was upsetting him at all.
He takes an inhale too deep for his liking that has him stubbing out the cigarette in frustration. He briefly wonders if Namjoon’s still at the party they were all invited to. He could go. Make conversation. Stop feeling so fucking lonely.
But he won’t.
He downs his glass of whiskey in one gulp and goes into the room to refill from the fully stocked minibar. When he goes to the bed Jimin’s scent is there.
He wants to press himself into the sheets and roll around like a dog in it. His alpha fucking loves Jimin’s scent. He takes a deep breath. There’s something different in it, he realizes when he lays down.
On the nightstand his phone buzzes. He trades his already re-emptied glass for it.
PJM: You did good tonight, too.
You should be proud of yourself.
Yoongi was proud, of the career he’d built, the performance he’d put on. That, he was always proud of. But as he’d watched Jimin so beautifully put on a performance that showcased his true self, win an award as authentically as he could, Yoongi realized there was something else he was jealous of that had nothing to do with the music.
There was a part of himself, the part he only gave to Jimin, that for a reason he couldn’t figure out, he wasn’t very proud of at all.
He tosses his phone to the end of the bed and taps the light off without a reply.