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Jimin looked at him, sometimes.
He was always at least two drinks from fully relaxed, body thrumming with a tension that made Jimin nervous even as he watched from afar. His hair was bleached a shiny, platinum blond—roots grown in at least an inch and unapologetically black and angry. His legs were always clad in too-loose skinny jeans, shoulders strained in a too-small leather jacket. It certainly wasn’t the look of his usual fare, but the clothing choices were obviously a remnant of some misplaced teenage defiance, long since worn down and barely an attempt at any sort of stylistic expression.
He would tap his foot to the beat of the music—always right on tempo, sometimes in an alternate rhythm, a complementary cadence—and sometimes his fingertips would pitter-patter haphazardly along. They were long and milky pale, a pianist’s fingers, Jimin would chance to guess, if he knew what those looked like. More often then not, they were twitching for something, and he’d seen Taehyung wean himself off cigarettes (and replace them with lollipops, used often enough to land him three straight weeks in the dentist’s chair) to know that the man was itching for a smoke.
He’d brushed past him on occasion, a coquettish little smile in his eyes and enough of a graze to know that the man smelled like stale cigarettes and cheap cologne; a bit like desperation and not-so-honest survival.
They had that in common, then, he supposed.
He’d wondered, sometimes, as he sat next to Namjoon on the bartop, laughing raucously and putting on a show (because that was how he made his living and he loved the spotlight) what it was like to be out there and not in here; if survival was any different when it smelled like white powder and tickled like needles. Jimin wasn’t stupid; he’d been slipped enough pink pills and little powder packets from his clients after they’d mingled with the blond man to know what he was about.
Just like Jimin knew well enough that the blond man had seen him disappear into the bathrooms time and time again, sometimes more than once in a night—sometimes with strangers and sometimes not. Presumably coy, hands smoothing down expensive wool suits and easing open silk button-downs, and long since having recognized the pay-off that came with sharp haircuts and ivory cuff-links.
Min Yoongi, Namjoon had told him once—offhand, as he’d wiped down the counter-top, dealer.
And Jimin had found himself looking at Min Yoongi, dealer, ever since—sometimes taking a while to find the man, because platinum blond was transient and pink and mint and gray were ever-changing. A chameleon, then, because bleach was cheap and koolaid easy to find.
Jimin wondered why he’d want to stand out, given what he did. But then again, he didn’t really know Min Yoongi, dealer.
“Can I have a smoke?” he’d asked once, a bit sweaty from his set and uncomfortable in Taehyung’s jeans (because his had gotten too scuffed up at the knees and he had to look the part to work the part and Taehyung was at least two sizes slimmer). He’d found the man outside, smoking next to a no smoking sign, looking up at the stars through the murky violet-gray of city light-pollution and seemingly trying to decipher the meaning of life in the meaningless little twinkles from above.
“Sure,” came the gruff reply, coupled with a fumble through the pockets of his worn leather jacket, “unfiltered, only,” he’d grinned.
“Unfiltered, sure,” because really, lung cancer wasn’t going to be the thing to kill him.
They had sat quietly next to each other, Jimin smoking and wondering if Taehyung would smell it on him when he got home. It was companionable silence, the type that wasn’t stifling or awkward—that kind that really wasn’t begging to be filled.
He’d snuffed out his cigarette with the toe of his boot shortly thereafter, heard Min Yoongi, dealer inhale a bit sharply because he’d wasted a fairly good cigarette after a few puffs. But Jimin had smiled the way he always did—leaned over with a flirty little laugh and taken a deep drag from Min Yoongi’s cigarette, instead. “That’s better,” he’d said.
In that moment, staring into those surprised, dark brown eyes, he’d almost wished Min Yoongi would play his game.
When he’d licked his lips, still flushed and a little bit enthralled, he could’ve sworn he could taste the man against his lips —raw, angry, inexplicably deep. “Park Jimin,” he’d breathed out, because this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, a whim of chance that had found them outside, under a murky sky, desperate to survive, “…I’m a dancer.”
“Min Yoongi,” the man had replied, voice deeper than he would’ve expected, eyes a bit hesitant and jaw perpetually tense. Dealer, Jimin filled in, Min Yoongi—dealer.
“I’m…a musician.”
Briefly, illogically, Jimin wondered if Min Yoongi was mocking him. If Park Jimin, dancer had somehow become an open invitation to poke fun at the type of dancing he did. But Min Yoongi lit up another cigarette, squinted his eyes a bit and stared up at the sky again. “That last set,” he started conversationally, surprisingly loquacious given the apathetic tilt of his mouth, “…the tempo was off.”
And Jimin had felt a rush of warmth at that, because yes, yes it had been.
That night, Min Yoongi, dealer had become Min Yoongi, musician.
“Careful,” Namjoon had cautioned him once, a few weeks later, brown eyes crinkled in concern, watching as Jimin zeroed in on a potential client, “…I don’t like that guy.”
And Jimin didn’t really like him either, but it was hard to miss the cashmere sweater and the Prada shoes and his very blatant, very naked sexual interest. Over his shoulder, he could see Yoongi watching him—could almost feel the heavy warmth of his eyes sliding along the exposed flesh of his neck. Jimin flashed a toothy grin, waved a hand in greeting—felt a small pitter-patter in his chest at the way Yoongi flashed him a lop-sided smirk in turn.
That night, his knees had purpled up for his trouble, but he had gone home pleased at the way he had put a chip in Yoongi’s impenetrable fortress of a face.
If he were being honest, though, the thing he loved the most was watching Yoongi watch him.
It was almost second nature. His eyes would find him—usually near Namjoon, his third drink of the night in hand, shoulders hunched as he looked around in that incessantly paranoid way of his—and Jimin would feel himself bloom. There were clients, sure, and they loved him all the same. He was theirs—to admire, to worship—some would argue, to own. But none looked at him the way Yoongi did. With a muted understanding and maybe a bit of sadness—not pity, not shame—with an undercurrent of encouragement, maybe…because Park Jimin, dancer wasn’t a title he had thrown out carelessly—and Yoongi understood that.
Some nights, if he were feeling particularly brave, he would venture past his usual fare—would drape himself along Min Yoongi’s lap with a cheeky little laugh and ignore the way the man’s hands on his hips would send his skin goose-bumping. There was no reward there, no big tip and no real promises, but Jimin liked the way Yoongi’s eyes looked up close. Especially when they were glazed in a bit of a high, rimmed in red and coupled with a fragrance he hadn’t dabbled in.
On those nights, Yoongi was a bit reckless, too.
On those nights, Jimin would strip slowly, shyly—would flutter open his eyes to unblinking brown ones—imagine them on his body, in a different place, away from the fluorescents and the heckles and the dollar-bills that chafed along his beltline. And Yoongi was always too far to touch, but Jimin was imaginative and sometimes shameless and it was never enough, even when he was bent over a sink or pushed into a stall—and sometimes he’d go home and end up with his hand down his jeans and his head thrown back, making a mess in his bed before falling asleep to the sound of desperate hip-hop bleeding through his headphones.
It was a bit sloppy, at odds with his own instincts for self-preservation.
“Careful,” Namjoon had cautioned him, a few weeks later, brown eyes crinkled in concern, watching him watch Min Yoongi with uninterrupted focus. He had slid him a vodka seltzer—the only thing he drank—and frowned. But there hadn’t been an appended I don’t like that guy, so Jimin smiled back, raising his drink in thanks.
It had been another three weeks before he’d begun to understand Namjoon’s careful.
Min Yoongi, musician — his now sometimes regular, occasional fan—had stumbled into the club with a sprawling purple bruise along his cheek, eye puffed up and nearly swollen shut. His lip was cracked, busted open and bleeding, blood trickling down his chin and seeping steadily into the dirt spattered white of his tee. He was alarmingly disoriented, stumbling into customers and chairs, barely able to keep himself upright. Jimin had been in the middle of a set, groin pressed flush along the pole—shirt half-off, muscles straining as he stretched backwards—when he’d seen him. And it wasn't his place to approach, not while he was on stage, at least; not when Min Yoongi, musician was clearly deep in the throes of Min Yoongi, dealer.
Jimin had watched quietly as the bouncers jostled Yoongi outside—the man stumbling to keep up with them, bleach-blond hair sticking to his forehead in a mixture of blood and sweat. Unfiltered, Jimin thought grimly, not missing the delicate, neurotic flexing of Yoongi’s fingertips. He wondered how long it would be before Min Yoongi was lighting up a cigarette, looking up into a smoggy sky and pondering where he’d gone wrong. How many times he’d have to flex his bruised up hand before that dexterity would be back.
“I’m…a musician,” he remembered.
The applause hadn’t felt quite as enthralling that night. The pretty little mouth that had pressed insistently to his own had been sweet, but not sweet enough. “Sorry,” he had said, fingertips numb as they tugged down a zipper, “Sorry.”
Unfiltered, he’d thought, watching his own, clumsy fingers.
The hands in his hair hadn’t been quite right, not pale enough—not calloused enough, a touch too clean and polished for his liking. There had been a faint sting of tears in his eyes, but Jimin congratulated himself on a job well done. The deep throat had earned him a nice tip, and survival never looked a gift horse in the mouth.
Min Yoongi had been gone for a few days.
The next time he’d seen him, his eye had still been bruised a mottled purple—the pretty violet splotches along his knuckles fading. His hair, for the first time in six months, was dyed an unforgiving black, twinges of electric blue gleaming when they caught the glittering lights of the nightclub. Min Yoongi had stared at him without comment, his fingertips unnervingly still and unmoving along the cheap linoleum of his tabletop. There had been no nervous energy, no tapping along to the now-familiar melody of Jimin’s songs. Jimin had watched from his little platform—had wondered—and coyly made his way over, dodged a few paws on the way there. And he had draped himself along Yoongi's lap again, felt that familiar heat that reminded him Yoongi was just as human as he was—recognized the pull of desire, even if it was new. He had pressed his hips insistently to Yoongi’s—might’ve even whined a little against his neck, because he was close and no one would know, even if no touching was Seokjin’s mantra.
“Hey,” he’d whispered, unfamiliar unease beginning to build in the pit of his belly when Yoongi’s hands didn’t just drop to his hips, rubbing soothingly at his thighs the way they sometimes did when no one was watching. “Hey—touch me.”
And he’d never really had to ask before, because Yoongi was handsy by nature, negative parts tentative and at least eighty percent sure.
But Min Yoongi hadn’t touched him.
Instead, he had blinked up clear, sober eyes at him—stared into his own, beyond them maybe—smiled a surprisingly soft smile that was unlike any of the other ones he’d ever given him. The words came to Jimin, unbidden, foggy like a hot summer night—a bit fuzzy, almost deja-vu. “You’re a good dancer, Park Jimin.”
And Park Jimin loved his job.
He loved dancing and the spotlight and the way music thrilled and thrummed through his body, filling him up like nothing else ever could. For a moment, transient—suspended in time—Jimin would cease to be little more than a living manifestation of music, symbolic and tragic and free. And the emptiness that chewed at his belly and clawed at his feet was kept at bay by that spotlight, nullified into a nothingness that crawled into his closet and under his bed like the monster it should have never been. It was an adrenaline high—the best drug, better than Yoongi’s pink pills and Jungkook’s Red-Bull concoctions—a high that he’d ride all the way to bed; sometimes alone, sometimes with strangers—any and all welcome. But that night, watching Min Yoongi watch him, Park Jimin, dancer had unraveled, deferred to the almost clandestine part of him— to the vulnerable twenty year old who believed in fairy-tales and tomorrows; the one that peeked through when he was out on lazy afternoons with Taehyung, sipping boba and racing Jungkook to the corner store.
Again, unbidden, in a mellow-tone punctuated by the scent of cheap cigarettes—etched into his memory with the sharpest blade, “You’re a good dancer, Park Jimin.”
The words played in his mind on endless repeat throughout his set. On endless repeat afterwards, when he was on his knees in the hallway, sticky hands on his cheeks. Even later on, when he’d braced himself against the bathroom sink and grit his teeth. Soon, he thought to himself, feeling the vibrations of Seokjin’s favorite eighties ballad bleeding through the floorboards, tickling at his feet, soon.
And fifty dollars was maybe not soon enough—presumptuous, even, to think that Yoongi would still be around. But Yoongi’s lips quirked up in that familiar smirk when Jimin stepped out of the bathroom, hand half raised in greeting. And Jimin was flushed and disheveled— jeans scuffed up and neck a bit bruised, sweat beading at his forehead and trickling down his temples. He knew Yoongi had seen the way his client had palmed his ass as he walked past, bending down low enough to whisper a sultry little thank you in his ear before stuffing a wad of cash in his front pocket.
He had seen it, but somehow, Yoongi never really seemed to react the way Jimin expected him to.
He wasn’t sure why, really—or how—but he suddenly had his clammy fingers wrapped tight around Min Yoongi’s wrist—words still on his mind as he pulled him wordlessly out of Novice and past the six blocks to his apartment.
“You’re a good dancer, Park Jimin.”
He didn’t know what he had expected Yoongi to taste like. Maybe those stale, unfiltered cigarettes his fingers were always twitching for—the ones he was always smoking next to no smoking signs while he staved off philosophical existential crises by staring unblinkingly into the muddled, starless night. It certainly wasn’t this: a sharp tang of lemon layered on top of sweet cherry Coke with the barest hints of fragrant alcohol. And he knew that Min Yoongi was too-thin and wore beat up Converses without laces, but Jimin was on his knees before he even knew what he was doing—offering only a loud, warning shout to Taehyung—glancing up anxiously into a pair of wild, dark brown eyes.
And it was a little like the first time he’d had sex. Too fast—with a lot of anxiety, fumbling—an embarrassing lack of finesse, given what he spent most of his nights doing. But he couldn’t be calm when Min Yoongi was staring at him, breathing in deeply and noisily as he worked him open, bangs too-long and hair a shock of deep blue-black. He had so many questions—why?—why the black eye, why the dye, why wouldn’t you touch me? But he was too afraid to ask and his voice would’ve been drowned out by the angry hip-hop Yoongi had set up on Jimin’s old speaker-system, anyway, a barely there attempt to keep Taehyung safe from the sounds of their coupling.
“Don’t,” Jimin whined, impatient and a bit surprised that Yoongi were so through, “I’m okay,” he insisted, planting his heels and arching into the man’s touch to prove his point. He’d had sex once tonight, already; several times over the course of the week. There wasn’t any need for the consideration; for the pseudo-romanticism of Yoongi’s pace. “Fuck me.”
The words rolled off his tongue easily, force of habit; routine enough that he barely registered them. They weren’t quite what he’d wanted to say—not really what he needed, right now—but Yoongi didn’t listen anyway, fingertips just as soft and smooth as they’d been, easing in and out of him as though they had all the time in the world. Pianist fingers, he remembered, momentarily distracted by the sight of those long, thin fingers splayed out along his hip. Bruised up pianist fingers.
Jimin squirmed, curled his fingernails brazenly along thin shoulders—frowned until Yoongi was tearing a condom open, lubing himself up and—“This is a terrible song to fuck to.”
A little unorthodox, and entirely at odds with the mood, but Jimin had no chance to comment because Min Yoongi was suddenly filling him up, overwhelming his senses—consuming his body and his mind and bits and pieces of his soul as he shook up all that emptiness inside him. He was drowning, Jimin realized with a choked inhale—sinking willingly into the unknown of Yoongi’s creamy skin and the curious regard in his dark brown eyes. It was a strange urge—that inexplicable need to bury himself in Min Yoongi’s essence and lose himself in this precious moment; etch it onto his skin like an inky tattoo that no one else could ever scrape off.
A vibrant enough memory to recall the next time anyone else tried to fill him up the same way.
He buried his nose in the man’s neck—inhaled deeply. Yoongi smelled like cigarettes the most, he decided—the kind you find at biker’s rallies and at Sorority houses. The kind that were a bit cheap but gave you the just the right kind of high. His skin was almost suffused with it—an oaky, bitter fragrance he could almost taste. He nosed along the man’s neck, pressing his tongue along the smooth slope of his jaw, arms tightening about a slim waist—legs pleasantly tight from the stretch.
It was late, almost early, and Jimin could feel the prickles of Yoongi’s stubble against his cheek.
“What do you smoke?” he asked when Yoongi finally rolled away, digging compulsively through the pockets of his jeans, comfortably nude and shamelessly familiar. Curled up on his side, face half-buried in his hair, Jimin watched as Yoongi heaved a relieved sigh, shook out a cigarette with practiced ease. Jimin’s eyes followed a bead of bright blue sweat as it trickled down the nape of the man’s neck, dipping into the hollows of his collarbones before slipping past.
“Lucky Strike,” Yoongi answered, tossing the condom away and glancing up at him with that same curious look in his eyes. “Want one?” he asked, long, thin fingers already bringing one up to his own lips.
“Sure, unfiltered, yeah?”
A familiar, lopsided smirk, “Unfiltered.”
Jimin reached out, felt a little shy under the sharpness of Yoongi’s gaze. “Light me up?” he asked, leaning forwards just a bit.
Fill me up?
“Sure.”
He closed his eyes and breathed in deep, ostensibly to smoke—really, just because Min Yoongi was close again, and Jimin wanted to lose himself in that scent a little while longer. It was late—early, early if the eerie light filtering in through his thick, black curtains were any indication—and he wanted to savor this alternate reality, bask in it for as long as he could. He could feel Yoongi’s eyes on him as he took in that first inhale—could almost feel the burn of his curiosity pricking at his skin. He ducked his head a bit and closed his eyes, turning away at the attention. Because, while Park Jimin, dancer flourished on stage and with the spotlight, Park Jimin was a bit more shy.
He heard some rustling, imagined Yoongi were gathering his stuff to leave.
He lay back amidst his pillows, deep in thought—too wired to relax, even as his body started to settle down. He stared unblinkingly at the smoky little trails that drifted upwards on his exhale, understood—maybe—why it had been so hard for Taehyung to quit smoking. Felt a little pang of regret and longing as the thick, gray smoke trails dispersed farther and farther away—ethereal and ghostly—until they ceased to exist, blending into the muted beige of his room as though they’d never been there in the first place.
He frowned, stared at the barely there tremble of his fingertips.
He half-listened to Yoongi’s soft mutterings, a bit surprised by the mellow, soothing cadence of his voice. He had thought it could only ever be that deep, half-slurred tease he’d often heard at Novice. Then, absently, he remembered: musician.
Jimin turned on his side, let his bangs fall over his face and hide him.
He recognized what he was feeling even when he refused to acknowledge it. Because his heart was pounding fiercely in his ribcage, threatening to escape—domineering and frightening and altogether too much. He did this, sometimes, after sex; when he was trying to reconcile his frantic mind with the rest of his loose-limbed, satiated physical body. Already, sleep was crowding the edges of his vision—welcomed, a reprieve—and he was battling an internal struggle between sinking into it and having reality creep back in. His reality: insistent, alarming, and there.
Hiding, under his bangs, he took in a deeper drag and waited quietly for Min Yoongi to leave.
Business settled, pleasure done.
He startled when he felt a weight settle back into his bed, instead, calloused fingertips working the cigarette gently from his grip, “…You’re gonna set the bed on fire,” came the explanation, a bit of a chastise maybe, coupled with a tsk that sparked an irritation so profound that Jimin was already opening his mouth to argue. The fuck do you care if I set my bed on fire?—he wondered, body tense and sleep remarkably fleeting. He hesitated when those same hands pushed at his bangs, brushing away his hiding place so that he was staring into the shadowed face of Min Yoongi.
Jimin’s cigarette hung loosely from the corner of the man’s lips, ashes dangerously close to falling at the slightest provocation. “Not a good way to go,” Yoongi continued, mouth quirked up in another half-smile as Jimin watched the ashes float down in a pretty little snowfall, settling against his skin like a warm winter flurry.
“Can I have that back?” Jimin asked, thumb already brushing against the pink, moist jut of Yoongi’s lower lip. The man shrugged, took another deep drag before he could.
“Suit yourself, Park Jimin.”
And maybe Yoongi was going to get dressed and be on his way, after all, because he leaned back—stared at him for a long moment before turning to his pile of clothes.
Take a chance, Jimin thought, remembering that first night, outside Novice—underneath the purple-bright, smoggy lure of light-pollution. “Hey,” his fingertips brushed, barely there, against the skin of Yoongi’s hand. Jimin held up the cigarette in offering at the curious quirk of the man’s brow, feeling the strained pull of his own nervous smile, “…hey, what kind of musician are you?”
Yoongi took the cigarette back without comment, holding it easily in his mouth as he hunted around for his boxers. “The good kind.”
Jimin snorted, flopped back into bed with a deep chuckle and ignored the sharp press of life that was threatening in on this moment.
Cheeky, smiling in a way that made Jimin wonder if it hurt, “…What kind of dancer are you, Park Jimin?”
Immediately, without thought, the answer out of his mouth within seconds, “The best kind.”
Across the room, clad in scuffed up too-loose jeans, belt-undone and shirtless, Min Yoongi smiled at him like he knew that was the truth. “I believe it,” he said quietly, nodding to himself as though it were an idea he could get behind.
Another smile, this one a bit softer, to match the look in his eyes, “…See you around, Park Jimin.”
Jimin smiled, comfortably, relaxed for the first time in a long while, “See you around, Min Yoongi.”
Yoongi ran his fingertips lightly along his skin as he walked by, settling the cigarette back into his numb fingers.
See you around, Jimin thought, bringing it back to his lips and taking a long drag.
See you around.