Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There’s a new volunteer coming in for the after school program.

“A donor,” says Namjoon, leafing through piles upon piles of paperwork organized in a system Jimin has yet to make heads or tails of, despite the years they’ve worked together. “So be nice.”

“I’m nice,” he protests, mostly for the sake of protesting, and fishes the sign-in sheet out from under a file labeled Budgets ‘16-‘17. Namjoon takes it with a distracted thanks, at odds with the tilt of his eyebrow. Jimin wrinkles his nose. “I am.”

“Mmh.”

“Name one time I haven’t been nice.”

“I’m just saying. You can be a little scary.”

“People can be scary and nice. They’re not, like, opposites.”

Namjoon shrugs, unapologetic, and clips the sheet to a clipboard, ducking out of the office. Jimin makes a face at his back and trails after him into the classroom where Taehyung’s prepping for the afternoon’s activity.

“Taehyung-ah.”

He cocks his head but doesn’t look up from the newspaper he’s taping over the tables. It’s Wednesday, arts and crafts day, and this week they’re painting. Jimin’s dressed for the occasion in old jeans and a shirt he decidedly doesn’t care about sacrificing to a gaggle of eager children. Sometimes arts and crafts day means he’s the art project. 

“Hm?”

“Tell Namjoon-hyung that people can be nice and scary at the same time.”

“That’s true,” Taehyung agrees easily, because he’s a great best friend. “Just look at Jimin.”

Okay, well. Maybe not that great.

Namjoon raises both eyebrows, point made. Jimin huffs.

“I can be nice,” he mutters. Namjoon sets down the clipboard and places a hand on Jimin’s shoulder, palm wide and warm and heavy.

“It was a very generous donation,” he says. Jimin stopped quailing under his stares years ago, but sometimes the instinct returns. Like right now. “Very generous. Don’t scare him.”

“I’ll do my best,” he allows. Namjoon hums a thank you and releases him to run the sign-in sheet down to the volunteer on check-in duty, leaving Jimin to unearth paint brushes from the mess of their supplies closet and help Taehyung protect the tables, as much as anything can be protected from twenty rowdy kids with nowhere else to go on a weekday afternoon.

Moonchild is Namjoon’s organization, a program for underprivileged students. They do a little of everything—tutoring, arts education, after-school childcare, even dinner for those who don’t have enough for a meal every night. Jimin’s been helping out since college, when he stumbled across the nascent program for a community engagement seminar. He’d come out of it helplessly engaged in the community, sticking around even after he handed in his final paper. He’d been perfectly happy to donate his time over the years, but Namjoon had walked in on him poring over their sorry excuse for a budget one too many nights in that amorphous time right after graduation, when adulthood had seemed big and all-consuming and impossible, and told him to add a line item for staff salaries.

Five years later and there are four of them: him and Namjoon and Taehyung and Hoseok, and an unsteady rotation of volunteers who come in when they can. And the donors.

Jimin hates donor days. Most of the volunteers are here for the right reasons, for the kids and the community, offering their help free of charge. It’s never like that with the donors. They come in for themselves, to look good for the press or smooth over a spot of scandal, and the kids end up stuck in the crosshairs of a PR stunt. Plus nine times out of ten they don’t know the first thing about working with children, expecting the kids to act like well-trained pets and not people just like everyone else. One jerk is chance and two is coincidence, but Jimin’s been doing this for years and he has the stats training to recongize a pattern when he sees one. It sets his teeth on edge. They need the money—he manages their budget; he knows how desperately they’re holding on, trying to keep things running for the kids’ sake—but god he hates it.

The kids arrive from the yard in their usual clatter of chaos and shouting, drawing him out of his sour mood with their eager, incomprehensible stories about everything that’s happened since Jimin saw them yesterday. They're just starting to settle down when the donor slips in, and Jimin gets a look at the man.

He looks like all the other rich assholes they’ve seen over the years. His dark suit is sharp enough to cut, and his polished shoes tap over the grimy classroom floors, and the sweep of his hair is perfect, the sort of styling that takes time and effort and expensive product to get right. He probably spends more on his barber than they spent on art supplies for the semester.

His face is young, though—round cheeks, round eyes, round lower lip that he bites as he steps in and comes face to face with the usual swell of noise and excitement. He looks overwhelmed already, and they haven’t even started yet.

Jimin smothers a snort. The kids are going to eat him alive.

Well. It's hardly his business. Namjoon materializes next to him in the doorway, inviting him inside, giving the usual spiel. Jimin turns his back on the scene. He has far more important things to worry about than whatever embarrassment the guy wants forgotten—like stopping Yuji from daring all the boys to eat paint. Although, yes, it would be funny.

The kids pick up his mood like nothing else can, and by the time Namjoon stops by with their visitor in tow, he’s ironed out the worst of his ire. Nice. He can be nice.

“Jimin-ssi, do you have a moment?”

“For you? Always.” Jimin leaves Soobin to mix his own paints. Namjoon smiles at him. Next to him, their donor blinks, politely disinterested.

“This is my right hand man, Park Jimin. Jimin, this is Jeon Jungkook.”

“Hi,” Jungkook says, hand outstretched. His voice is deceptively soft. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Jimin shakes it, doing his best to hide his surprise. He can’t say he keeps up with the news much, but once upon a time he was in business school, and he recognizes the name. Jeon Jungkook, the new CEO of Jeon Industries. The stir when he'd been instated had been enough that even Jimin, years out of school, had heard about it. Youngest exec in a generation, head of the biggest telecom company in the country. The man's something of a mystery, as Jimin understands it, never in the public eye except through hearsay and rumor. That doesn't stop him from being one of the richest men in the country. Jimin feels vaguely ill just thinking about that much money. They've never had anyone of Jeon Jungkook's status working with them before.

“Jimin has been with the program almost as long as there’s been a program,” Namjoon says. "He keeps my head screwed on right.”

“Hyung is the brains of the operation,” he demurs with practiced ease. “I’m just here to help.” 

Namjoon laughs. “He’s our numbers guy. Budgets, math tutoring and everything in between. The kids love him. Right, Binnie?”

“Yes,” Soobin agrees. Jimin’s not sure the boy is paying enough attention to know what he’s agreeing to. “Hyung, look!”

He’s made a big brown splotch in the center of his paper, dense enough that it threatens to tear when he holds it up to show off. There’s a similar smear of paint all the way up to his elbows.

“Very impressive,” Jimin says.

“I’m inspired,” says Jungkook with a smile. He’s still wearing it when he looks up at Jimin, and it’s— nice. He has a nice smile. Something about the eyes; there’s a shine there that’s hard to fake. “Thanks for all your work here, Jimin-ssi.”

Jimin opens his mouth to say something pat and not-terrible, but there’s a commotion at the door as a woman sweeps in, tiny and well-dressed and carrying a comically large camera, forcing her way past Hoseok as he tries to catch her. They have a strict no-strangers policy and itchy fingers when it comes to calling in the authorities.

Jungkook’s smile slides off his face. “Excuse me,” he says, vanishing with a perfunctory bow. Namjoon strides after him with the briefest furrow of confusion in Jimin’s direction. Jimin watches the quiet, rapidfire conversation between Jungkook and Namjoon and the tiny camera woman, somewhat distracted as he coaxes Soobin to start a new painting and leave the other to dry for a day or three. Whatever the problem is, it’s resolved quickly. Namjoon nods and says something to Jungkook and the woman, then retreats into the back office.

Of course. No wonder notable recluse Jeon Jungkook has picked today of all days to make an appearance. It becomes blindingly obvious why he's deigned to descend to their level as the woman hefts her camera and begins snapping photos. She trails after Jungkook as he speaks with the kids, tiny and obtrusive. It could be sweet, almost, the smiles and the enthusiasm and the way Jungkook nods along as the kids stumble over themselves to talk to a fancy new stranger, if it weren’t for the camera.

Jimin doesn’t expect anything different. It’s always about the fucking publicity. He doesn’t know why they keep letting it happen, except that they need the money. Especially if they’re ever going to move out of the borrowed, defunct arts classroom and into a space large enough to fit Namjoon’s dreams of everything Moonchild could be. They've had the conversation often enough about how limited everything feels, how insufficient. Namjoon's hopes are so much larger than this.

It's hard, though. Grants and government funding only get them so far. If there's a better way to do this, they haven't found it yet.

The camera woman trails after Jungkook all afternoon. Each time the shutter clicks Jimin’s jaw screws tighter. When Hoseok catches his eye, he smiles, furious. Hoseok’s wince is sympathetic.

“Breathe,” whispers Taehyung when he passes by, and Jimin takes in a big, deep lungful and blows out all the bad thoughts, the way Namjoon coaches the kids. It doesn’t do much, but at least he doesn’t snap any paintbrushes.

He thinks he’ll make it, actually, maybe, except that right at the end, just before Namjoon starts clean-up, there’s a bit of a commotion.

“Eyes up front,” calls Namjoon. “Hands down.”

Two dozen hands drop onto paint-covered newsprint and press flat, watching Namjoon. They’re good kids, really. They’ve all been dealt rough hands, and plenty of them have their own troubles, troubles they’re far too young for, but that’s the point of Moonchild—to give them the resources and support and steady foundation they can’t find anywhere else. There’s not a single kid here Jimin doesn’t love with his whole heart, and there’s nothing he hates more than rich strangers using them for a little clout.

“We had a guest today,” says Namjoon. “That was pretty fun, right? Can everyone say thank you Jungkook-ssi?”

An uneven chorus thanks him. Jungkook, at the back of the classroom, waves a hand.

“It was very nice to meet you all and see your beautiful art,” he says, rehearsed. “Thank you for letting me be your guest.”

Then come the photos, shuffling and rearranging to get Jungkook in the middle with a cluster of eager, paint-stained children around him, beaming for the camera. Jimin watches with his jaw clenched and thinks maybe that will be it. But his photographer smiles, shooing the rest of them into frame, just for a “quick one with the staff, ok, squeeze in a little more, deul set—” and the camera flashes in his face and ugly fury well up in his gut. He hopes it doesn’t show on camera.

“Thank you for this,” Jungkook says afterwards, shaking hands with Namjoon, with Taehyung, with Hoseok, with a pair of star-struck volunteers. Jimin makes himself busy at the sink washing paint from students’ hands and arms (and, in Channie’s case, face). He winces in faux apology when Jungkook turns to him, dripping and paint-stained. His smile is one curt edge. Jungkook blinks, smiles back uncertainly, and returns his attention to Namjoon, who’s thanking him far too earnestly.

“We appreciate it, seriously, and the kids too.”

“Of course. I really like what you do here, Namjoon-ssi.”

His camera person leans over, up on her toes to whisper in his ear, and he ducks his head for her, bangs falling in his face. Jimin turns off the sink and watches him, the way his mouth makes a flat line, cool. The woman pulls away and Jungkook straightens, any suggestion of warmth in his face erased. One more act for the camera.

“I’m afraid I have to go,” he says, and Namjoon bows and walks him out, down the snaking halls and back to whatever concrete and steel world he comes from. Jimin wipes his mucky hands on a spare rag and shakes his hair out of his face and thinks, vicious, that he’s glad the man’s gone.

.

The pictures drop on Monday, Instagram and Twitter and the Jeon Industries website, plus a few celebrity-focused tabloids. Jeon Jungkook in public, Jeon Jungkook with kids; it's the perfect storm of good press. Jimin watches in real time as stocks rocket, nauseous about it. Most of the pictures keep the kids vague, at least: a knot of heads bent over desks, hazy profiles, action shots where Jungkook is a lone pillar in rolled-up shirtsleeves with his jacket abandoned like a rich, doting father of twenty. And then there’s the group shots, two dozen gap-toothed smiles and worn clothes and Namjoon’s eyes tired, glasses poking out of the hand wrapped around Taehyung’s shoulder. Jimin’s relieved to find his anger doesn’t read on his face. Small mercies.

And as much as he loathes the artificiality, they get a small wave of secondary donations, people interested in the program because someone of some arbitrary merit was interested. He and Namjoon share a look and a pair of beers about it, and Jimin updates their finances. It will go towards program laptops, more meals, the possibility of taking on new students in the new year, and those are all good things. It's pointless to be angry about it now. Help is help however it arrives, and it’s not like Jeon Jungkook will be coming back.

That doesn’t stop it from grating. The photos keep showing up on his Twitter feed, dropped in batches all week. He considers blocking Jungkook’s account, but that’s a level of pettiness even he refuses to sink to. Plus it would be unprofessional, since he handles their social media.

“Look at it this way,” Taehyung says over dinner that Sunday, squeezed together on his couch. “You got loads of his money and now you’ll never have to see him again.”

“Silver lining,” Jimin grouses, and mostly lets it go.

He should have fucking known better.

He’s running late, which isn’t unusual, but unprofessionally so, which is. Trouble at work, his other work, the grungy drudgery of a barista gig four days a week, and today he’d had to cover for a coworker following an accident with the toaster oven. Everyone had been fine, except for the panic of getting to the emergency room. When he sweeps into the classroom, still in his uniform and halfway through shucking his coat, the first thing he notices is a head of dark hair and dark suit and crisp, rolled shirtsleeves.

“Jimin-ssi,” says Jungkook, bent over a table with a crayon in one hand. “It’s nice to see you again. I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”

Jungkook’s camera woman flutters around him and snaps a photo. Jimin ignores the dig at his lateness and schools his expression into a smile. It cracks at the corners, dry and fake.

“Welcome back,” he manages, and invents some pretense that leads him to the office, breathing long and slow and wondering why today of all days.

“I texted you,” says Namjoon, following him. “And I tried to call. For the record.”

Jimin pinches the bridge of his nose and crouches down by the mini fridge to see if there’s anything good. It’s mostly child-sized cans of fruit juice. “I didn’t see. Fires at the cafe.”

“Not literal, I hope.”

Jimin gives him a look. Namjoon winces.

“He’ll be here next week too.”

“Great,” says Jimin, because the universe so enjoys shitting on him when he’s down. “I’m so glad.”

Namjoon gives him a flat, unimpressed look. “He’s not that bad. I’ve been talking to him about the program and what we were thinking about a dedicated center—”

“Hyung, he has an in-house publicist following him around. It should be a rule, you know. No photos of the kids.”

“Their guardians have signed the release forms. It’s not like we don’t do the same thing.”

“Well, maybe we shouldn’t.”

“Jimin-ah.”

He scowls. “I’m just saying.”

“And I’m just saying,” Namjoon returns with that infinite patience of his. “You could get to know him, you know, before making judgements.”

He knows. That doesn’t mean he’s inclined to do anything about it.

“Sure, yeah. How’s Jieun doing this week?”

As subject changes go, it’s pretty pathetic. It’s a testament to how bad he must look—or how much Namjoon cares for him—that he gets away with it.

“Missing you. She wants to show you her self-portrait.”

“Ah, is that what it is today?”

“Mmh. We’re talking about self-love. Getting to know the me inside.”

“Any deep revelations?”

“Not yet, but we’ve still got an hour. I have faith.”

Namjoon has a lot more than faith. Jimin respects the hell out of him for it, for his steady leadership and good advice and the way he’s not afraid to take a good, deep look into himself and make some changes. God knows Jimin had needed that kind of role model back in college, and sometimes these days too. The kids aren’t the only people he’s been helping out here. 

Sometimes, though, he wishes his friend were a little less of a meddler.

Jungkook gets a call with half an hour left to clean up. His camera woman has already gone, so Jimin can’t imagine what it is, but he freezes while talking to the kids and retreats to the far side of the room, phone up to his ear, face furrowed. A minute later he’s standing at Namjoon's shoulder.

“Sorry about this,” he says, nearby enough for Jimin to hear. “I have to duck out early, there’s a— thing. If there’s anything else I can do—?”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Namjoon with a smile that looks like he means it. Jimin frowns at him. “I understand. Thanks for coming back. We appreciate the help.”

“Yeah, of course,” says Jungkook with a deep, welling sort of faux earnestness that makes Jimin swallow a snort. He ducks his head, but not fast enough—Namjoon catches him watching.

“Jimin,” he says, waving towards the door. “See him out?”

He says it like a question but there’s a glint in his eye suggesting it is very much not up for debate, so Jimin swallows his complaints about babysitting and passes the crayon back to Jieun.

“But oppa—“ she whines. Jimin pets her hair and gives her his best, warmest smile. He doesn’t want to go either.

“I’ll be right back,” he promised. “Why don’t you finish your portrait with Taehyungie, okay? You can tell me all about it when I get back.”

“Ah, is this your outfit from today? It looks so good!” Taehyung interjects smoothly, pulling the girl’s attention away from Jimin without prompting. God bless Kim Taehyung.

“C’mon,” Jimin says stiffly to the man lingering near the doorway. Jungkook peers over a sea of bent heads and stained tables. “I’ll show you out.”

“Thank you,” Jungkook replies, adjusting his scarf, and he bows briefly to Namjoon, watching them with a polite smile, before following Jimin out of the room. The hallway is oppressively quiet after the buzzing chatter of the classroom.

The silence grates between them as they wind through the empty school to the back lot. They pass by old art projects and cork boards crowded with student work without a word, space between them growing denser the further they go. It sets his teeth on edge, but he can’t possibly think of what he has to say to Jeon Jungkook, or what Jeon Jungkook has to say to him. It’s something of a relief to push through the heavy back door and greet the hazy reddish sunset and the chill cut of autumn air.

“Well,” says Jimin, shoving the brick in the door so it doesn’t lock him out. The wind whips up against the facade of the building, unusually cold for the time of year. His nose stings.

“Well,” Jungkook echoes. Jimin bites down on a sigh and makes himself smile.

“Thank you for coming,” he says as sincere as he can manage. It… isn’t very. “And for your donation. Moonchild is grateful for the support.”

“My pleasure,” says Jungkook. They stare at each other for another heartbeat, Jimin waiting for him to leave, Jungkook waiting for— well, who the fuck knows. Jimin hikes up the corners of his smile and waits for the man to take the hint and go. Or maybe he’s waiting for a car to pick him up? Is Jimin going to have to babysit him until a company car arrives? Fuck.

“Y’know,” Jungkook says slowly into the chilly silence, “I get the feeling that you don’t like me very much.”

The smile freezes on his face. “Um.”

Jungkook hums. Raises an eyebrow like a challenge and it’s an effort to hang onto the smile, gone brittle around the edges.

“I don’t know you,” Jimin deflects as smoothly as he can. “It’s not personal.”

He shrugs, gaze piercing. “Feels personal.”

Jimin shoves his hair out of his face. It flops stubbornly back into place, tangled by the wind. Jungkook watches him, hands tucked behind his back.

“It isn’t.”

“But you don’t like me.”

Jimin catches the inside of his cheek between his teeth and bites down, hard. Jungkook stares at him. He’s got a sort of alarming stare, dark and patient, and Jimin doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say. He settles on the truth, mostly.

“I suppose I’m a little...  leery of people in your position.”

“My position?”

Jimin shrugs. “Rich assholes.”

“Seems a little early to decide I’m an asshole, Jimin-ssi.”

“It really isn’t personal.”

Jungkook purses his lips, clearly sitting on a question, and it’s petty but Jimin fixes his politest smile back in place and waits for him to ask.

“Would you care to elaborate, then?”

He doesn't really. But then he thinks what Namjoon will say if he leaves it here, tension thick and awkward in the air after the guy’s given them millions, and he unclenches his jaw enough to answer.

“Rich donors do this sort of thing for the good press, or the tax write off, or both. They show up and fuck around for an hour or two for a couple photo ops using the kids and the staff like they’re props, then disappear back to their private cars and penthouses once they’ve gotten what they want. It gets old.” Old and exhausting, and the distaste comes almost Pavlovian every time they get word that another celebrity wants to make a charitable donation. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and eyes Jungkook, waiting for whatever mild, sharp-edged comment is coming next.

Jungkook hums. “So what you’re saying is you’re jaded.”

It startles a laugh out of him, short and thin on any real humor. His smile is bitter and more than a little mean. “I guess I am, yeah.”

“Makes sense.” Jimin frowns him and he shrugs, shoulders hunching up like a turtle under the scrutiny. It makes him look young and uncertain. A little awkward, which irritates Jimin even more. “I’d be on edge too if strangers kept coming to my workplace and fucking around with the people I was supposed to be taking care of.”

Jimin hums, pointedly noncommittal. Jungkook tucks his hands into his coat pockets.

“For what it’s worth, I’m not,” he offers. “Fucking around, I mean.”

“Right. And the personal photographer is just for making memories.”

Jungkook winces. Jimin tries not to feel victorious, because that would be petty and unhelpful. Regretfully, he’s a petty sort of guy.

“I could believe you mean well,” he says, and he’s surprised to find he’s not lying when he says it. He can’t deny that Jungkook is good with kids, and none of their high-profile donors have ever been interested in coming back for seconds. “But it’s not that easy. For you it’s a couple hours and some money.” Some money is a gross trivialization of all the zeros scribbled on the check, but still. “For them, it’s their lives.”

For Namjoon too, and the rest of their staff, and the other volunteers who give their time, but at least they get a say in how they help, in what they give. The kids don’t get much choice in anything. They deserve better.

Jungkook fixes him with a long look, blunt and assessing. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He folds his arms tight across his chest and shivers, the cold seeping in as the sun sets. He’s gonna have to get back in for dinner and pickup soon.

“Yeah,” he says eventually, so quiet he could be talking to himself. Jimin furrows his brow at him and he clears his throat, nodding. “Okay, Jimin-ssi.”

“Okay?”

“Yep.” There's a glint of challenge in his eye, and Jimin doesn't like it one bit.

"I'm keeping my eye on you, Jeon Jungkook-ssi."

"I hope you will," Jungkook returns.

Jimin has no idea what to say to that. Fortunately, he's saved the effort by a black SUV pulling into the parking lot. Damn. He really is out here waiting for a company car. Jungkook steps up to the curb as it comes to a stop.

“Those kids really love you, y’know,” he says. “Spent all afternoon asking about you. None of us rich assholes come close.”

The black bulk of the car swallows him whole. Jimin squints against the wind and ducks back inside, kicking the brick out of the door. It clangs shut behind him, echoing all the way back upstairs.

So begins a month of Wednesdays, each and every one of them overshadowed by Jeon Jungkook and his irritating plan to prove himself, or whatever. He’s doing a pretty shit job of it, what with his camera woman tagging along week after week, and Jimin watches in open derision as the publicity rolls out, Jungkook in the midst of two dozen round, smiling faces, fawned over by the media and the masses.

Jimin can't imagine what he needs the press for—his research has revealed nothing except that he's younger than Jimin by two years and inherited the company from his father. No scandals, no embarrassing nights out, no unsound business practices. No social media presence either, except for the Twitter page he’s pretty sure is managed by a publicist. For all intents and purposes, Jungkook is a ghost. An immensely rich, often-gossiped-about ghost, but a ghost all the same. Jimin has no idea what game the man is playing, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

The kids like him, at least. Jimin can begrudgingly admit he’s good with them, that rare one in ten. He’s patient and funny, and they warm up to him so quickly that Jimin is nearly bitter about it. Taehyung calls him jealous but he’s not, or not enough of it to count, anyway. He just doesn’t trust the man, doesn’t trust him not to use up all that goodwill and love and toss them aside when he gets bored, or when his PR department finds a new project that looks good for the company. The kids love so easily. They deserve someone who will keep that affection safe, not spend it like cheap change.

Nobody else seems to share Jimin’s concerns. Namjoon is thrilled about the help and the funding. His stress level drops visibly as the weeks pass; he smiles more than Jimin has seen in five years of friendship. Privately, he resolves to do better. It shouldn’t take a stranger with deep pockets to make Namjoon’s life easier. 

Hoseok likes him too, but Hoseok likes everybody and everybody likes him, so he’s no good as a barometer for personality. Taehyung remains politely distant, but Jimin can tell he likes the guy, because each week the distance fades, and Taehyung is left looking vaguely guilty about it. Jimin feels bad about that too, which is annoying as shit.

“No way,” says Taehyung when Jimin says he doesn’t need to ice Jungkook out for his sake. “Best friend rules. If you don’t like him, I don’t like him.”

“It’s not about liking him or not,” mutters Jimin, sweeping up the pile of pencil shavings that Sunwoo and Yuji spent most of the day’s homework session building in the corner. It comes up to his ankles, which is pretty impressive, and also explains why they’re missing so many pencils. At least they can afford new ones now, he thinks sourly. “I’m just... ”

Every now and then, the thing is, Jungkook will look up at Jimin with an expression on his face, like see? Like do you believe me yet?

It makes Jimin want to grab him and— something. He hasn't figured out that second part yet.

But it’s fine, he’s fine. Namjoon absolutely deserves the help, and the money, and everything else he wants. It’s just Jimin who can’t shrug off the niggling doubt. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the Jeon Industries heir to grow bored playing with his new toy and abandon it, same as everyone else.

Taehyung chews on his lip as they leave, waiting for him to lock the door. “Maybe you should get to know him,” he suggests. “Like, as a person, y’know? Find out his intentions.”

“I—“

“Stalking him online doesn’t count.”

Jimin wrinkles his nose and flicks off the lights. “You’re making me sound like someone’s overprotective father.”

“I mean,” says Taehyung. He darts away before Jimin can hit him. “Just think about it.”

“Maybe,” he allows, but the only thing he can think of worse than seeing Jungkook once a week would be seeing him more often. He sees enough of the man as it is.

As though Jungkook knows what he’s thinking and means to make his life miserable, his car is still there when they push out the door into the chilly evening, sleek and enormous and blocking traffic. Jimin eyes the tinted windows and tucks his frown into his scarf. Taehyung nudges him, looping an arm through the crook of his elbow.

“You have the biggest heart,” he says, tipping sideways so their heads press together. He’s a warm, steady weight all up Jimin’s side. “I know you’re protective of us, but it’s been a month. I don’t think he’d be here if he didn’t want to be.”

“How long will he want to be,” Jimin mutters, too low to hear.

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” He huffs and nudges Taehyung towards the bus stop. “I’ll try to be nicer. Happy?”

“I’m always happy. And you’re always nice. Just be a little less scary about it, maybe.”

“Why do you care anyway?”

“I just think you’d like him,” Taehyung says, guileless. “I really think you’d like him a lot, Jiminie. You just have to get to know him.”

Jimin sighs. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask. Also, do you have any spare change? I left my bus card at home.”

“I’ll give you a ride,” sighs Jimin, tugging him towards his beat-up old car. Across the lot, the hulking black beast of Jungkook’s company car finally pulls away and Jimin feels like he can breathe again. “Come on.”

It’s a sunny, cold Thursday afternoon, and Jimin is on yard duty when a man in a dark jacket and ball cap approaches the knot of kids playing football across the field. Jimin’s stranger training kicks in so hard he nearly knocks Kai over in his haste to stand up.

“Go play with Binnie,” he says, setting the boy down and shooing him off. Hoseok’s out with a work thing for his dance studio job and they’re short staffed on volunteers too, and Jimin’s the only one outside. He can already feel the adrenaline surge. He wraps his hand around his phone inside his jacket, buzzy with a fierce and familiar protectiveness.

“Excuse me, sir,” he calls across the field, angling himself between the man and the kids. “I’m sorry, you can’t—“

The man raises his head and there, under the cap, is Jungkook.

He looks nothing like himself in his old jacket, some leather number that saw better days ten years ago and is still stubbornly holding on. There’s a mole under his bottom lip and a narrow divot of a scar high up on one cheek, and he's got a smattering of acne scarring around his chin. Funny. Jimin never noticed before.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands. Jungkook tugs off his cap and runs a hand through his hair, loose and unstyled and brushing his cheekbones. He looks his age, for once. Jimin tries to match the red-nosed, pink-cheeked stranger to the coiffed and polished CEO, and comes up short.

“I came to volunteer. Namjoon-ssi said you were short-staffed.”

“It’s not Wednesday,” says Jimin stupidly. Has he been in touch with Namjoon? Since when? Why the hell is Namjoon talking about staffing shortages with him of all people?

Jungkook shifts his weight, toe scuffing through the dying grass, like he’s embarrassed about it. His old, chunky sneakers give him about an inch on Jimin in his battered converse, and Jimin is abruptly aware of how he has to look up to meet his eyes, like all of a sudden that's something worth noticing. He has no idea what he's supposed to do with that information.

“Don’t tell anyone, but I’m playing hooky. Rather be here than at a shareholders meeting. Those are the worst.”

“Um,” says Jimin, and nearly kicks himself for the uncertainty. “Okay, well. We’ll be heading up in twenty, but you can go ahead if you want.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll hang out here.” The kids have noticed him anyway, flitting closer in excitement, and he waves. “I mean.” His eyes cut back to Jimin, hesitant. “Is that okay?”

He really looks nothing like himself. Young and big-eyed, soft around the edges. There’s an earring hidden in the mess of his hair which Jimin has never seen before. Not, obviously, that he's been paying so much attention that an earring stands out, but he's pretty sure it's new. Are CEOs even allowed to wear earrings?

Jimin doesn't know what he's supposed to do with this version of Jungkook. He doesn't like it one bit.

“Sure,” he says, too wrongfooted to refuse. Jungkook smiles at him. It makes his nose scrunch up, front teeth sticking out.

What the fuck.

He ends up watching, stewing in confusion, as Jungkook gets roped into a rules-lite game of football that quickly devolves into a one-v-twelve, the kids trying to steal the ball away as he valiantly defends it. He’s hampered slightly by two of the younger ones dangling off his arms, but also his thighs flex in his jeans as he tries to keep the ball away from half a dozen shouting grade schoolers, and it’s not a terrible view.

“That doesn’t seem very sportsmanlike,” Jimin calls as Beomgyu tries to climb Jungkook’s back. The boy hooks an arm around his throat—Jungkook wheezes—and twists around to beam at him.

“Jiminie-hyung, come play!”

“Jiminie-hyung doesn’t have to,” says Jungkook, depositing Yuji so he can pry Beomgyu up and over his head, holding the boy over one shoulder like a particularly wiggly sack of flour. He doesn't seem to mind being their personal jungle gym one bit. Jimin steps in to help unlatch Taehyun from his other arm.

“Hyung, huh?” he says. Jungkook deposits his boy and dusts himself off, a little out of breath, pink in the cheeks.

“You’re older, aren’t you?” he says, like this is a challenge too, and for once Jimin doesn’t entirely mind the competitive glint in his eye. “Namjoon-ssi said you’ve been doing this since you were in school. It’s an impressive commitment. You must like these kids a lot.”

“They’re okay,” he shrugs, winking at Jieun, who giggles. Jungkook runs a hand through his hair—one of the kids appears to have stolen his hat—and smiles. It’s a soft, fond look directed over the sea of heads that come up to his midriff. Jimin knows the feeling intimately, which only makes it stranger to see it on Jungkook.

“So what do you think? Join my team?”

A chorus of voices joins his wheedling. Jimin can’t possibly say what sways him—the unbridled fondness on Jungkook’s face, or Taehyung’s voice whispering in the back of his head, or the pleading eyes of the kids, or his thighs in those jeans—but he shrugs.

“Sure. They’re pretty short. I bet we can take them.”

“No you can’t!” declares Yuji, leaping at Jungkook again with a howling war cry. Later he’s going to have to have a conversation with her about personal space, but for now Jungkook scoops her up and dangles her over his shoulder and taps the ball to him, and he’s immediately beset upon by half a dozen shouting children, so. Priorities.

When they troop inside twenty minutes later, Jimin has grass all down the back of his shirt from some particularly foul play and Jungkook’s jeans are hopelessly stained and they’re sweating despite the cold of the day. Try as he might, Jimin can’t seem to wipe the smile off his face. He lingers behind the kids as they file into the classroom, a little dustier and sweatier than usual. Jungkook hangs back in the hallway with him.

“Good game,” he says, offering a hand, and Jimin takes it with only a twinge of reticence. “You’ve got, uh.”

“My hair?” he asks. He can feel it ticking the back of his neck. Jungkook grimaces and reaches over to tug a twig free. “Ah, thanks.”

“Of course. Y’know, we make a pretty good team, Jimin-ssi.”

“What happened to hyung?” Jimin asks before he can stop himself, and Jungkook makes that scrunching, pleased face from earlier. It’s just as disarming. Jungkook is… cute?

He shuts that thought down so fast he gets dizzy.

“Sorry, hyung ,” says Jungkook, drawing it out. Teasing. Jungkook is teasing him.

“It’s fine,” says Jimin. His face feels unusually hot. What is wrong with him? “Is your, ah, the woman with the camera—?”

“No,” says Jungkook, sobering slightly. His mouth twists. “They got everything they needed.”

“Right.” Jimin clears his throat. “Well, we should. Y’know.”

They’re the only people in the hall now, and Jungkook seems to realize it with an embarrassed flush of his own.

“Right,” he says. “Yeah.”

Jimin runs his hand through his hair and shakes out his shirt as best he can, then follows Jungkook into the room just in time to catch a look from Taehyung. It’s a big, pointed sort of look, written large in the tilt of his brow and the purse of his lips. Jimin wrinkles his nose and ignores him. Taehyung, who is terrible, doesn’t let him hide for long.

“Looking a little windswept, Jiminie,” he says during snack break while Jungkook and Namjoon hand out juice and crackers. Thursdays are homework tutoring days, which are always the longest, the slow unpicking of science terms and spelling lists and math problems, holding all the facets of a new concept up to the light to try to make it as simple and straightforward as possible. Jimin has a pinch between his eyebrows from trying to explain angles to one of the girls who is less interested in answering her math questions and more interested in why triangles and circles work like that. It’s hard enough to explain theoretical trig to a twelve year old on a good day. It’s much harder when he has to do it while staring at Jungkook dressed down in a loose t-shirt that does nice things to his forearms and shoulders and chest and all the rest of him while he patiently helps a few of the younger kids with vocabulary homework. He’s got a hint of a tattoo peeking out around his bicep and Jimin is doing a terrible job of convincing himself he’s not curious about it.

It’s not going well, the point is, when Taehyung corners him with a box of pear juice.

“Next time you can fend off a dozen pint-sized footballers,” Jimin grumbles, accepting the juice. “These kids are vicious.”

“They learned from the best.”

Jimin preens. “Yeah they did.”

“And Jungkook-ssi?”

“It was… thoughtful of him to fill in for Hobi-hyung,” Jimin allows. Taehyung rewards him with one of his patented grins, big and beaming. 

“Thoughtful, huh?”

“Oh, shut up. I’m trying to be nice.”

“You’re being very nice, Jiminie,” Taehyung reassures him, which isn’t assuring in the slightest. “My nice, scary Jiminie.”

“What is up with you?” Jimin grumbles as Taehyung picks grass off his shirt. “You’re being weird.” 

“Take that back. I’m simply looking out for my friend. Who, may I point out, has in turn been making eyes at a certain surprisingly buff CEO all aftern— ouch!”

“You may not point out,” says Jimin, retracting his hand from the tender inside of Taehyung’s elbow. Taehyung rubs at the pink spot and narrows his eyes.

“But you didn’t deny the making eyes part.”

Jimin splutters. “Obviously I’m not making eyes.”

“Hm. You aren’t helping your case.”

“What case? Who are you, my lawyer?”

“That’s mean. See if I bring you juice next time.”

“I brought the juice. You literally helped me bring it up from my car.”

Taehyung sticks out his tongue, undeterred, and Jimin frowns at him around the straw until he spots a disaster waiting to happen with Yuji teaching Channie how to make a juicebox into a water gun, and he goes to put out that particular fire before everyone goes home sticky with fruit juice and ruined homework.

Jungkook stays through clean up and pickup for once, hovering around Namjoon like a body caught in orbit as parents and older siblings sign the kids out for the day. A few of the kids give him hugs as they leave, and he looks vaguely startled and then horribly pleased. Jimin swallows hard and puts himself on cleaning duty, clearing away what’s left of dinner with single-minded focus until eventually only Beomgyu is left, drawing peacefully and kicking his feet under the table. Jimin shares a look with Namjoon and crouches by the boy while Namjoon calls his dad.

“Hey, Gyu-yah,” Jimin says, drawing his attention away from the neon green butterfly he’s coloring. He’s got a great shading technique going. “Who’s picking you up today, hm?”

“My hyung,” he answers. “He’s got basketball.”

“Ah,” says Jimin. “So he might be a little bit late?”

“Yeah. Eomma made him pinky promise though.”

“Okay.” He glances up at Namjoon, who makes a face and checks the clock. “You don’t mind hanging out with me a little longer, do you?”

“Nope. Will you color with me, Jiminie-hyung?”

“Sure, yeah. Let me let Namjoon-hyung know, so he doesn’t worry too much.”

“Okay.”

Namjoon sighs at the news. “Did he say how long?”

“No. Can’t be that long though, right?” He’s pretty sure after-school sports don’t go that late. Namjoon rubs the bridge of his nose.

“Right. Well, I’ll call Yoongi-hyung—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Jimin. “You can’t stand him up again.”

“He’d understand.”

He would, probably, because he’s an appallingly patient boyfriend, but that’s besides the point. 

“Well, he doesn’t have to, because you’re leaving. I’ll stay. I’m not missing anything but television and beer.”

“I can stay too,” says Jungkook, and Jimin nearly jumps. He hadn’t realized he was still here. “If you need help cleaning or anything.”

“See?” says Jimin. He’s not exactly thrilled, but in the grand scheme of making Namjoon’s life easier he’ll bite just about any bullet. “I have help. We’ll take care of it. Go see your boyfriend, hyung. Do it for me. I need to live vicariously.”

“Jimin-ah—”

“Don’t make me call him.”

“Okay, okay.” Namjoon holds his hands up, grinning. “No need to threaten me, I see when I’m not wanted. You boys have fun.”

“We’re going to have a great time. Tear the place down. You’ll see.”

“Please don’t,” says Namjoon, tugging on his scarf and coat and fumbling around for his glasses. “It’s too cold to teach outside and we don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Fine.” He gives Namjoon a hug, big and squeezy. “Have fun tonight. Relax. Tell Yoongi I said hi. I’ll let you know when Gyumie’s signed out.”

“If anything happens—”

“I will handle it. Go, hyung.”

Namjoon huffs at him and leaves. Outside, the sky has gone dark, early winter night creeping up on them. Beomgyu hums as he colors.

“Is he usually like that?”

“Oh, yeah,” says Jimin, collecting the loose pencils left out after pickup. “All the time. Yoongi-hyung, his boyfriend, he’s great about it, but still.”

“Sure,” says Jungkook, like he gets it. Maybe he does. He’s certainly running around most of the time. Not that Jimin knows much about what he actually does as CEO, but if it’s anything like the work Namjoon does, it must be pretty time consuming.

Jimin pauses. That’s true, actually. Jungkook always seems to be sliding in at the last minute and ducking out as soon as the session ends, to Jimin's never-ending annoyance, but he’s been here every single week for the past six, and that’s commitment. That’s… a lot more commitment than Jimin has given him credit for, to be honest. Shame tickles at the back of his throat, and he swallows it down.

“Um,” says Jungkook. Jimin turns around.

“Oh, hey.” Beomgyu’s brother is in the doorway, coat tossed haphazardly over his basketball uniform. “Picking up?”

“Sorry I’m late,” he mumbles, scrawling a signature on the sign-out line. “C’mon, Gyumie.”

Jungkook helps Beomgyu pack up his bag while Jimin puts the pencils and crayons away, pausing long enough to accept a hug.

“Get home safe, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Bye Jimine-hyung. Bye Kookie-hyung.”

“Bye, Gyu-yah,” waves Jungkook, and Beomgyu’s brother bows to them and drags the boy off. Their chatter fades down the hall. Jimin rolls his neck out.

“Right,” he says. “I’ve got a couple things to do, but you can head out if you want.”

“I’d rather help,” says Jungkook. “If there’s anything I can do.”

Jimin gives him an assessing look.

“Sure,” he decides. Being all alone in the building after dark is creepy, and he wouldn’t mind some company. Even Jungkook’s. He’s definitely buff enough to protect him. “Do you mind sweeping?”

“I think I can manage a little menial labor,” says Jungkook, and Jimin winces. He hadn’t even meant it as a dig, that time.

“No, I know that, you—” Clearly don’t mind getting dirty, he’s going to say, but Jungkook is smirking at him and oh, it’s the teasing again. Jimin huffs and scowls. “The broom is in the closet.”

He makes a graceless retreat to the back office, texting Namjoon to confirm pickup and filing away the day’s attendance sheet. He grabs next month’s budget paperwork while he’s there—he’ll probably forget it tomorrow, and he wants to knock a few things out over the weekend. When he emerges, Jungkook is knocking the dustpan into the trash and the last few bits and bobs have been set at the desk in the front of the room. Jimin returns the scrap paper to the bin and pulls on his coat.

“Hey, um,” says Jungkook. Jimin pauses.

“Yes, Jungkook-ssi?”

Jungkook makes a face at the formality. “I know you handle a lot of the logistics for Namjoon-ssi. I wanted to make sure I didn’t cause any problems showing up unannounced today.”

Jimin takes a moment to look at him, really look. Exhaustion peers back at him, obvious without the usual shine and polish and layers of makeup—bags under his eyes, lips chapped, nails bitten down. He could be any other tired twenty-something giving what should be a free evening to the program, and Jimin knows that look well. It makes it easier to find kindness where usually there’s only anger.

“You didn’t,” he says. “A heads up would be nice so I don’t call the cops on you next time—”

“You called the cops?”

“I would have,” Jimin says, and Jungkook snorts.

“Sorry. I can give you my number.”

“Oh,” says Jimin. “Yeah. Sure.”

It’s a little surreal exchanging contact details with the CEO of one of the country’s largest corporations, but— Well, he keeps most of their volunteers’ contact info on hand, because Namjoon is liable to misplace it. And he’s been a regular for weeks, despite Jimin’s attitude. It’s not that strange, really.

Still. His stomach does something weird when Jungkook hands his phone back. Jimin has no idea what that’s about. He clears his throat.

“I’ll walk you down,” he offers.

Jungkook blinks at him. “Thanks.”

They leave the dark classroom behind, Jungkook loitering as he locks up, and make the winding trip downstairs in silence. It’s not quite as brittle as the last time Jimin showed him out. Jungkook lingers every now and then, looking at student artwork up on the walls, and Jimin slows down to wait for him. He thinks the curiosity might be genuine.

Night has well and truly descended by the time they emerge from the building. The bulb over the door has burned out, and Jimin trips over the stupid doorstop brick in the gloom. A hand catches him around the arm as he pitches forwards, tugging him back against a broad chest, and for a heartbeat all he can feel is body heat and Jungkook’s sure grip. Then Jungkook lets him go nearly as quickly as he reached out, and Jimin kicks the brick off the sidewalk.

“Thanks,” he mutters. 

Jungkook shrugs. He’s fiddling with his hat, creasing and uncreasing the brim. Jimin swallows his pride.

“Listen, um.” He clears his throat. “Thanks for coming today. You were right, we needed the help.”

“Sure,” says Jungkook, nudging a loose stone with his toe. He glances up under the fluttering curtain of his bangs, mouth curved up in a smirk. “Am I convincing you yet?”

“Don’t treat it like a game,” Jimin says, heat seeping into it. “If you’re just here to prove a point—”

“Sorry,” says Jungkook, deflating instantly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Your approval means a lot to me, Jimin-ssi.”

That draws him up short.

“My approval?”

“You’ve been here the longest,” Jungkook says. He twists his ball cap between his hands. “I talked to Namjoon-ssi a whole bunch about the program, y’know, back when I was first looking for somewhere to donate. I wanted to pick the right one.”

“Okay,” says Jimin slowly, not sure where this is going. Jungkook shrugs.

“And he just— I really admire everything he’s done so far and everything he wants to do with the project. Like, he talked to me about the center he wants to open, and I think that’s great. I like that you guys are providing community and social assistance, on top of the education.”

“Well, yeah,” shrugs Jimin. He’s pretty sure that should be obvious. Surely if Jungkook’s talked to Namjoon he must know this already. “That’s the point. Social support is way more important. Academic performance is just a corollary measurement—more individual and community support, better study habits, better results. It just makes it easier to apply for funding when you can put a number on things, even an arbitrary one. People seriously underestimate how much a warm meal and someone who cares is going to make a… What?”

He trails off as Jungkook stares at him. Jimin can’t make heads or tails of the look on his face, but standing under the full brunt of it makes him shiver. Jungkook just shakes his head.

“I get what he means.”

“About the program?” Jimin frowns.

“How you make it happen. He says he’s too much of a dreamer.”

Jimin snorts. He is, but Jimin wouldn’t have it any other way. “Someone’s got to have the dream, Jungkook-ssi. Kind of the most important part.”

“No, I get that, I just—” He shakes his head again, expression on his face slowly morphing into a tight, frustrated frown. Jimin’s hackles rise, but Jungkook meets his eyes before he can get defensive. “I admire you. Making something real takes way more effort than just thinking about how you’d like it to be.”

Surprise washes the fight right out of him. Unbidden, he wonders which one Jungkook sees himself as. He kind of has an idea, given the twisting of his fingers and the irritated slash of his mouth. Jimin doesn’t like that look on him, all brittle and irritated turned inwards. He thought he’d be happy to see Jungkook uncomfortable, but mostly he feels like he swallowed a bag of marbles, small and slippery and knocking around in his gut.

“The kids like you, Jungkook-ssi,” he says. “Hell, the kids love you, and so does Namjoon and everyone else. You don’t need to work so hard.”

“I do,” Jungkook disagrees. “But that’s nice of you to say, Jimin-ssi.”

“I’m a nice guy.”

“You’re a little scary.”

“You can be both,” Jimin huffs. Jungkook, surprisingly, nods.

“Yeah, you can.”

The wind whips up around them, carrying the smell of cooking meat, stirring up dead leaves and garbage. The night is dark and cold and tucks itself in close around them. Jungkook sighs and tugs his hat on. Jimin shuffles, unsure how to say goodnight. There’s no big car winding down the street today. Actually, Jimin doesn’t even know how Jungkook got here—the only car in the parking lot is his own. Surely he didn’t walk the whole way?

“Well,” he starts, farewell on the tip of his tongue, but Jungkook cuts him off.

“Do you want to grab a drink?”

Jimin stares at him. “What?”

He shrugs. “You said you were missing TV and beer. Can’t do much about the TV, but I’ll buy you a beer?”

Jimin almost laughs. “You really don’t have to do that,” he says, digging his hat out of his coat pocket.

“I know,” Jungkook says, perfectly serious. Jimin blinks at him.

A dozen excuses flash through his mind, ranging from the reasonable to the cruel. Jungkook watches him from under the brim of his cap in his old jacket and his old sneakers, hands stuffed deep in his pockets and eyes gleaming with reflected lamplight. He’s doing that turtle thing again, shoulders hunched up, frown tucked between his brows and pressed in the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t look rich and he doesn't look like an asshole. He looks like a guy asking him out for a beer after volunteering. 

If it were any of the others he’d say yes. If it were any of the others, he’d probably be the one to suggest it.

Well, what the hell. A drink is a drink. Besides, he’s hungry. He tugs his hat down over his ears, fringe sticking down in his eyes. “Yeah, sure. I know a good spot." He makes it about half a dozen steps before he realizes Jungkook isn't behind him. Turns back with a frown. "You coming?”

Jungkook stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Yeah. Sorry. Yeah."

He takes them a few blocks over. It’s a tiny cramp of a restaurant and all the furniture is hard, sticky plastic, but the beer is good and the chicken is better.

“If you want,” Jimin offers, skimming the menu. Jungkook pouts, strangely distracting. Jimin has never been so aware of what he’s got going on in the face area as he is today. It’s annoying as hell.

“I thought I was buying you a beer.”

“Yeah, and I’m getting chicken. It’s dinner time, Jungkook-ssi, I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”

Jungkook stares at him for a minute longer, then huffs.

“Yes,” he sulks, startling a laugh out of Jimin. Jungkook blinks at him for a moment before an answering smile creeps over his face.

Jimin hasn’t seen this one from him yet—and that’s embarrassing, to be cataloging Jeon Jungkook’s smiles. What the fuck is wrong with him? It’s a good one, though, all scrunching and sweet and true, like his happiness can’t fit on his face. Miles different from the professional, close-lipped thing that shows up in his Twitter photos and website bio, or even from the small, bright-eyed thing he shares with the kids. Jimin likes it. He has no idea what he’s supposed to do with that revelation.

He clears his throat. “How do you feel about spicy food?”

“I feel great. Big fan.”

“Okay. Cool.”

Jungkook smiles again and Jimin tucks into the menu in self defense.

It’s like meeting a different person, kind of, except that Jimin can still see bits of the CEO peeking through in the attentiveness with which he examines the menu and the polite precision with which he orders. Or maybe it’s the other way around; maybe Jeon Jungkook is like this, quiet and furrowing and prone to blunt politeness that reads as awkward more than arrogant when Jimin can see him fiddling with his hat under the table. Jimin doesn’t mind him so much like this, without a camera dogging his every step. He’s pretty sure there’s a point to be made there, but he’s loath to examine it now while they’re comfortably cocooned in the bubble of sticky plastic and frying food. He can deal with it later.

“How’d you get into this in the first place?” Jungkook asks once they’ve got a pair of beers sweating on the table between them. The heater has been turned up to ward off the chill, and it’s hot enough that the cold beer goes down easy. Their coats and bags sit piled in the booth next to them, and Jimin gets a better look at the dark edges of Jungkook’s tattoo peeking out of his t-shirt sleeve when he leans back, one arm slung over the back of the booth. It looks like a flower, maybe, a fractal bloom dripping down from his shoulder. Jimin envies that, a little. Big ink is expensive.

“I guess doing what you’re doing,” he says, tugging his attention from the enticing line of Jungkook’s bicep back to his face. He’s got his head cocked, curious, lips pursed. It’s a little distracting. “Volunteering, I mean. Not donating.”

“Time counts,” says Jungkook, and then he winces. “Sorry. I don’t mean to preach at you.”

“No, you’re right.” Jimin sips his beer. “Way less effort to write a check. That’s sort of the— y’know.”

“The problem with rich assholes?” Jungkook offers. Jimin shrugs.

“Yeah.”

Jungkook nods, rolling the base of the bottle on the table. Silence sits awkward between them. Jungkook’s fingers wrap loosely around the neck of his beer. He has nice hands. Jimin clears his throat.

“Anyway,” he says with too much force, but there’s barely anyone in here. An older man drinks in one corner, and the woman who owns the shop flits around between the register and the kitchen. It’s homey. “It was for my degree originally. This community engagement course. After the semester ended I kept coming back until Namjoon insisted he should start paying me for it. Tae and Hobi-hyung joined up later, and now it’s the four of us. Plus the volunteers, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Jungkook agrees, like there’s a joke to be had in there. “I see why Namjoon-ssi kept you around.”

“He needs someone to run the numbers,” Jimin dismisses, itching between his shoulder blades. He’s never known how to take a compliment. “What about you? I mean, there are a lot of places that will take your money I’m sure.”

“You have no idea,” says Jungkook, which feels unfair. Jimin works in this shit, he knows plenty. But he bites down hard on the instinct to snap back and waits for Jungkook to say his piece. “But no, yeah, I did a whole bunch of research, actually. It’s really easy to write a check and feel like that absolves you of everything, y’know?”

“Do you need to be absolved?”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t that pretty much exactly what you accused me of the first time we met?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” he says, milder than he feels. He has to take a second to tamp down the prickling shame that’s been dogging him all day. He’s not wrong. He’s just— Okay, so maybe Jungkook is sort of making an effort, and Jimin can appreciate that. He can appreciate it more than he has so far, anyway. He swallows hard. “It’s not the money that’s the problem, Jungkook-ssi.”

“Right. Just the rest of it.”

“The spectacle,” Jimin specifies, mouth twisting down of its own volition. He does his best to keep the ire out of his voice, but his best isn’t all that good when it comes to this.

Jungkook tilts his head, slow and considering, and hums. Jimin doesn’t know what that look means. It’s incredibly off-putting to be so wrongfooted around Jeon Jungkook. Usually he knows exactly what he’s getting with their donors, but Jungkook seems determined to set himself against the grain. 

“What?”

“They’re lucky to have you. Wish I had anyone half as solidly in my corner.”

Jimin pauses, bottle halfway to his lips, and sets it down again. It’s hardly his place to ask, but Jungkook already said it, and he’s curious.

“Don’t you?”

Jungkook shrugs, uncomfortable. “They care about the money, or the company, or what I can do for them. A lot like— Don’t worry about it.”

Like rich assholes, Jimin thinks he means to say. He hums and taps the side of his beer, listening to the click of his rings. Their chicken arrives in its baskets, steaming hot and mouth-watering. Jungkook’s stomach growls.

“Ah,” says Jimin, relieved to change the subject. “So you were hungry.”

“I already said yes,” Jungkook huffs, digging in with a mumble of thanks. He looks like a chipmunk, cheeks full and brow furrowed in ferocious anger. Jimin lifts an eyebrow.

“You good?”

Jungkook swallows hard, breath puffing out at the heat. “You were right. This is so good. Holy shit. I mean— No, yeah, I mean holy shit.”

Jimin laughs in spite of himself. Jungkook’s head snaps up. He’s all eyes, dark and focused. Jimin coughs around his laughter and waves a hand, warm again. Damn heater. “Dig in. Hyung’s treat.”

Jungkook frowns. The sauce turns his mouth red and distracting. “But the beer—”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Look, let me just— Let me.”

It’s not an apology, exactly, but it’s something. He hopes Jungkook understands, or at least leaves it alone. He doesn’t want to have to insist, because then he’ll have to dig out the reason why he needs to make the gesture in the first place, and he’d really rather not go there right now. Or possibly ever.

“Fine,” he huffs after a moment that drags on and on and probably lasts two seconds at max. “Rain check.”

“You are incredibly stubborn,” Jimin says, narrowing his eyes. Jungkook, of all things, laughs.

“Are you only noticing now, Jimin-ssi?”

“No, I’ve noticed before,” Jimin assures him. He studiously ignores the squiggly thing in his gut that has nothing to do with the chicken or the beer or even the heater blowing right over them. “Alright. Sure. Rain check.”

Jungkook smiles at him, more reserved but no less disarming. Jimin shoves a piece of chicken in his mouth so he doesn’t have to think about it, and for a moment there’s nothing between them but the sound of a good meal and the divot between Jungkook’s eyebrows as he eats. It’s a little charming. A lot of him is a little charming, and it keeps catching Jimin off guard, like missing a step down the stairs. He has no idea what he’s supposed to do with it all, or how he’s supposed to match up this boy in front of him with Jeon Jungkook, bigshot CEO. He clears his throat, casting around for something to fill the quiet. 

“So what about you?” he lands on. Jungkook glances at him, wiping his mouth. His tongue appears, swift and pink, and vanishes again. Jimin stares.

“How’d I end up here? Well, we walked—“

“Don’t get smart with me.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He doesn’t look sorry though. His smile sticks at the corners of his mouth, and Jimin has to make an effort not to return it. He swirls his beer. “How did you mean it?”

Jimin shrugs. “Your job and everything, I guess. You’re just…”

“Young?” offers Jungkook. His smile dims, goes all bitter and wry, and Jimin nearly regrets asking.

“Busy,” he evades. He had meant young. “I didn’t think family handovers happened in real life. Always wanted to be a hotshot business man when you grew up?”

It sounds disparaging like that. Jimin feels clumsy with it. He means it honestly for once. He’s curious. He shouldn’t be, but he is.

“Ha,” laughs Jungkook, humorless. “No. I wanted to go to school for music production.”

Not, to be clear, that Jimin expected him to come out and say Yes, my great plan was to grow up and take over my father’s corporation. But music school is mundane, made for this Jungkook, the one with sweat beading at his hairline from the heater and the spice. Not suits and polished loafers and brusque phone calls as he slides into the classroom just soon enough to not be late. Jimin wonders if he treats his meetings like that, sweeping in and out, always on the tail end of some important business.

“Oh,” he says, which covers all and none of that. 

“Yeah. It didn’t work out, obviously. Family obligations are… you know.”

Jimin doesn’t really. His mom is a teacher and his dad has a restaurant back in Busan, cozy little thing always one month ahead of catastrophic failure. His dad says it keeps him on his toes, but Jimin knows how hard he works to keep afloat. He supposes he can imagine the obligation of going back home to help, but his dad would never want that. Had argued against it, actually, when Jimin offered. So— Yeah.

“Must be rough,” he says, masking the awkwardness with another sip of his beer. Jungkook shrugs, resigned.

“I mean, I shouldn’t complain. I sound like an asshole. A business degree is more useful anyway, right? I’m lucky to have a ready-made job waiting for me. It’s just.” He makes a face and sips his beer, and that flashpoint guilt that keeps climbing up Jimin’s throat makes a reappearance. He chokes it down.

“Well, clearly the degree isn’t everything,” he says. “I mean, I have a business degree and look at me.”

“It’s good to know there’s still hope,” says Jungkook. That isn’t how Jimin meant it. He’d meant more, look at me working at a failing nonprofit, shift manager at a local coffee shop that can’t pay its people enough, versus Jungkook's billions in net worth.

But he’s happy, mostly, besides the barista gig. He’s not sure what to do with this slantwise suggestion that Jungkook isn’t. 

“Depends on what you’re looking for,” he offers. It's a thin sort of comfort.

Jungkook hums, knuckles sliding along the edge of his bottle, frown fixed fierce and pensive on the table between them. “Yeah,” he mumbles.

He looks young again. Small. Jimin’s hand twitches, reaching out on its own volition. He snatches up his beer before it can complete the journey, and he takes a long gulp. There’s a flush working up his throat that doesn’t have anything to do with the spicy chicken, but the food makes a good excuse. He shoves another bite in his mouth and has to breathe in sharp through his teeth against the heat. He coughs.

“Okay?” Jungkook asks. Jimin nods and sips his beer. The roof of his mouth burns.

“Do you miss it?” 

Jungkook stares down at the table. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, but the mole under his lip stands out when he frowns.

“Never got that far. Nothing to miss.”

That seems sad. Surely Jungkook should at least know if it’s something he’d miss. He clears his throat.

“What kind of music?”

Jungkook’s eyes flick up. “What?”

“What kind of music did you want to go to school for?”

For a moment Jimin thinks he won’t answer. He frowns like he’s trying to pick apart a puzzle, like the question is a trap or a trick and not genuine curiosity. Jimin sips his beer, waiting. Has he been so frosty that one question is enough to make the man uncomfortable?

He feels bad about that, suddenly. Shame eats away at him, caustic.

“Sorry,” he mutters, turning his attention back to the table. They’ve worked their way through most of the chicken. He picks at the detritus just to do something with his hands. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“No, that’s not it.” There’s a strange note in Jungkook’s voice, and his expression is even stranger when Jimin glances up at him. “It’s just that nobody ever— Um. What kind of music, you were asking?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t know why Jungkook is stalling. Six hours ago it would have annoyed the shit out of him. Now he’s pretty sure the thing in his gut isn’t anger. Jungkook shrugs.

“Everything, honestly,” he says. “I like a challenge, and I’m not good at pacing myself.”

“Oh, really?” It comes out all a drawl, unsurprised. He’s starting to get that sense about him, that he doesn’t really know when to say stop, say no.

“Hey, okay,” says Jungkook in protest. He doesn’t look upset, though. More amused.

“Sorry,” says Jimin. “Go on. Tell me more.”

“Are you going to make fun of me?”

“No, I promise.”

“I don’t believe you,” says Jungkook. His smile is back.

“Yah, see if I buy you dinner next time.”

It’s out of his mouth before he can stop himself, and then the only thing he can think is that he wants there to be a next time, wants it so badly he can feel it in his molars and his fingertips. The force of it shocks him, mouth clicking shut. Jungkook doesn’t seem to catch the slip.

“This was supposed to be my treat!”

Across the restaurant, the older man gives them a dirty look. Jimin hunches down over the table.

“Shush,” he hisses. “You’re going to get us kicked out.”

“You’re going to get us kicked out,” Jungkook huffs back, whispering just the same. His nose is scrunched  with snickering. “That would be something, though.”

“Jeon Heir Kicked Out of Chicken Restaurant Over Public Disturbance?”

“More like Jeon Heir Spotted In Chicken Restaurant.”

“Sorry to have you slumming it.”

“No, no, don’t be.” He winces. “That’s really not what I—”

“I’m teasing,” says Jimin. He hadn’t been, really, but he hadn’t meant it as a dig either, and if it’s going to be one or the other he knows which he’d prefer. “Relax, Jungkook-ssi.”

“What happened to not making fun of me?”

“You’re just so…”

“What?” he pushes. “Easy?”

Jimin runs his tongue over his teeth. “You have a nice smile.”

Jungkook stares at him. Jimin clears his throat. It’s the beer; he swears it’s the beer. He’s never been a lightweight before but he hangs out with Hoseok a lot, so maybe his hyung is rubbing off on him?

“Come on,” he pushes, doing his level best to ignore whatever just came out of his mouth. “Tell me about your music dreams. You know, Namjoon’s boyfriend produces. I’m sure he’d talk to you about stuff, if you’re interested.”

Jungkook is still staring at him, though. Jimin doesn’t know how to rescue this conversation. He has no idea what he’s doing at all, actually. Feels like he’s putting two and two together and getting six, or twenty-three, or apples and oranges. This is Jeon Jungkook, he reminds himself—hotshot CEO, top five richest men in Korea. But he’s also a little awkward and eats like he’s personally offended and smiles like his face isn’t big enough for his joy, and it’s fucking with his head. 

He blames Taehyung. This is definitely Taehyung’s fault.

“What?” he says when Jungkook still hasn’t moved. He looks like he’s been struck, a little, like Jimin has hit him. Jimin can’t imagine why. Surely he’s gotten compliments before. Rich people always get compliments. In Jimin’s experience, they practically expect it.

Though. Jungkook’s proving to be something of an exception to his rules. Like, all of them, collectively. Annoying little shit.

Jungkook shakes himself. “Nothing,” he says, startling back into motion like a stalled-out car. He peers at something across the restaurant with such focus that Jimin turns around to see what it is, but there’s nothing there. When he turns back, Jungkook’s eyes are on him, pinning him in place. He tamps down on a shiver.

“What?” he presses, laughing a little, almost nervous. Jungkook’s mouth softens.

“You’re just— Those kids are so fucking lucky.”

Jimin has no idea what that means.

“Yah,” he mumbles, looking away, hiding behind his beer. “Don’t be like that. I’m not doing anything special.”

“I know,” says Jungkook. Honestly he’s giving Jimin whiplash. “Um— Music, yeah. I don’t know. I wanted to do a little bit of everything. Producing seemed the easiest way to get started, and I like being hands-on.” He seems distracted, almost anxious under the attention.

“Would you do it now, if you could?”

“It’s not that simple,” says Jungkook. Jimin frowns at him, leaning forward. He could at least play along.

“Okay, but like, pure hypothetical. Tomorrow you wake up and make one major life-changing decision. What do you do?”

“What do you do?” Jungkook shoots back. Jimin shrugs.

“I’d travel.”

It’s an easy answer. He’s happy, mostly, as much as he figures anyone can be at his age. He likes his job—Moonchild, not the café, fuck the café—and he likes his friends and he likes his apartment, even if it’s a bit small. He’d get a cat, maybe, except for the allergies. But if he could, tomorrow, if he could just forget about all the rest and do what-fucking-ever he wanted—

“Where?”

“Anywhere. Just get up and go. I like being places, seeing the sights with my own eyes, y’know? Knowing I was really there.”

“Sure,” says Jungkook slowly. “I guess.”

“You don’t?”

“I mean, a bunch of stuff is online these days, so—”

“No, boo. How are you going to connect if you’re not there in real life?”

“With wifi, probably.”

They stare at each other for a long minute. Jimin breaks first, and he doesn’t even regret it. 

“You’re hopeless,” he snorts, and Jungkook laughs. “That was so bad, what the fuck. Wifi?”

“I’m not wrong though.”

“Okay, whatever. You’re wrong, but we’ll agree to disagree. It’s your turn.”

Jungkook opens his mouth and closes it. Jimin raises an eyebrow, and he shrugs. He’s twisting his fingers around the brim of his hat. Nervous.

“I don’t know,” he says finally. Jimin frowns at him.

“That’s a cop-out.”

“I really don’t. I’ve never thought about it.”

Jimin stares at him. “What, never? No daydreams, no what-ifs?”

Jungkook shrugs, fiddly, not meeting his eyes. Jimin can’t tell if he's embarrassed or if he's lying. He doesn’t like either option.

“Well,” he says firmly. “Think about it. Doesn’t have to be a major life goal or whatever. Just one nice thing you’d really like to do for yourself, if you could do anything in the world.”

“Haven’t you heard, Jimin-ssi? I can already do that.”

Jimin takes in the thumbprint bruises under his eyes and his chapped lips and the raw skin around the beds of his nails where he taps against his beer bottle and hums.

“Sure,” he allows. They’re not friends, and up until tonight they haven’t even been friendly, and Jimin has no right to call him out. Still. “It’s nice to have a dream though, you know?”

Jungkook clears his throat and finishes his beer. Jimin watches his throat work for a heartbeat longer, then rises to pay so Jungkook can hide in peace. It’s fine; Jimin needs the space too. There’s a welling surge of protectiveness in his chest that he has no right to and doesn’t want. He just keeps saying things around Jungkook, which wasn’t a problem until he showed up in old sneakers and that stupid fucking baseball cap and made Jimin look at him.

Worse, Jimin feels like he should have looked sooner, and he doesn’t want that, the looking or the seeing or the regret. So instead he spends money, two servings of chicken and two bottles of beer, and pretends that makes them even. Or, not even maybe. But it could be a fresh start.

When he gets back to the booth, Jungook is pulling his coat on.

“I meant to ask earlier,” Jimin says, joining him—coat, scarf, beanie. “How’d you get here in the first place? You didn’t walk, did you?”

“Oh, I bummed a ride from my hyung leaving the office. It’s fine, I can take the bus.” He shrugs and stuffs his hat back on his head, tucking his hands into his pockets. “This was really nice, Jimin-ssi. See you Wednesday?”

“Sure yeah,” Jimin responds, dazed. He’s going to take the bus? Now? How far away does he live anyway?

Jungkook halfway out the door before Jimin drags himself back into motion.

“Hey! Jungkook-ah, wait!”

Jungkook pauses. Jimin takes a deep breath. Ah, fuck it.

“Do you need a ride?”