Chapter Text
The rain had been falling in steady, cold sheets for hours, turning the narrow streets near the university district into slick mirrors that reflected the blurry neon signs of late-night convenience stores and pojangmacha tents. Seokjin kept his head down, one hand clutching the front of his thin jacket while the other gripped the strap of his worn backpack. Every step sent a sharp throb through his left thigh and up into his ribs, but he bit the inside of his cheek and kept moving. The noodle shop had been slammed tonight—two birthday parties and a group of drunk grad students who kept ordering extra broth and sides. Double shift. Fourteen hours on his feet. And then that idiot in the black sedan who hadn’t even bothered to slow down at the crosswalk.
He could still hear the screech of tires, feel the blunt impact against his side as he’d tried to jump back. Not hard enough to knock him down completely, but enough. Bruises for sure. Maybe worse. He hadn’t stopped to check. Just apologized to the driver out of habit, bowed even though his vision had spotted for a second, and limped the rest of the way home.
The apartment building was old, the kind where the elevator groaned like it was personally offended every time someone called it. Seokjin took the stairs. Slower than usual. By the time he reached their floor, sweat had mixed with the rain on his face and his breathing was shallow, careful not to pull at whatever was hurting under his shirt.
He fumbled with the key, wincing as he twisted the lock. The door clicked open into the small, dimly lit living room. The familiar smell of Jimin’s vanilla diffuser and leftover ramyeon greeted him. Home. Thank God.
Jin kicked off his wet sneakers with a soft hiss, trying not to put too much weight on his left leg. The motion pulled at the bruise on his thigh and he grabbed the wall for balance, biting back a curse.
“Hyung?”
Jimin’s voice came from the hallway. He stepped out of his room still wearing his practice clothes—black leggings and a loose cropped hoodie that had slipped off one toned shoulder. His hair was damp with sweat, bangs sticking to his forehead. He’d clearly just finished a long session in front of the mirror again. His eyes landed on Jin and narrowed immediately.
Seokjin forced a bright smile, the one he used on difficult customers. “Hey, Jimin-ah. Still dancing? You’re gonna wear yourself out.”
Jimin didn’t smile back. He tilted his head, scanning Jin from head to toe. “You’re soaked. And you’re moving like an old man. What happened?”
“Just a little bump on the way home,” Jin said lightly, shrugging as he hung his jacket on the hook. The motion made pain flare across his ribs like someone had pressed hot iron to his skin. He couldn’t quite hide the wince. “Some guy didn’t see me crossing. No big deal. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” Jimin crossed the room in three quick steps. Up close, the dancer’s sharp eyes caught everything—the way Jin was favoring his left side, the careful way he breathed, the mud on his jeans. “Lift your shirt.”
“Jimin—”
“Lift it, hyung. Now.”
Seokjin sighed, knowing there was no winning this one when Jimin used that tone. He grabbed the hem of his damp t-shirt and tugged it up slowly, exposing his torso to the warm apartment air.
Jimin’s breath caught audibly. “What the fuck…”
The bruises were ugly. Deep purple bloomed across his ribs on the left side, spreading in irregular splotches like spilled ink. Another darker mark wrapped around the top of his thigh, disappearing under the waistband of his jeans. There was a smaller one on his shoulder where he’d apparently hit the ground harder than he remembered.
“It looks worse than it is,” Jin muttered, trying to pull the shirt back down. His voice came out softer than he wanted. “I’ll just put some ice on it and sleep it off.”
Jimin’s small hands shot out, stopping him. His fingers hovered just above the worst bruise on Jin’s ribs without touching. “Hyung… you almost got yourself killed working that shitty job and you still won’t ask for help?” His voice cracked halfway through, rising in pitch. “I have money! Namjoon gives me more than I need. Why are you so stubborn?!”
Jin felt heat rush to his face. He stepped back, tugging his shirt down roughly. “I’m not your charity case, Jimin-ah. I’m older. I should be the one helping you, not the other way around. I’ve been taking care of myself—and sending money home—long before you started seeing your… whatever Namjoon is.”
“Boyfriend,” Jimin snapped. “Sugar daddy. Whatever you want to call it, he takes care of me and I don’t have to kill myself every day just to eat. You think I like watching you come home like this? Looking like you’re one bad night away from collapsing? You dropped out for your family, fine. But you’re running yourself into the ground and for what? So you can keep pretending you don’t need anyone?”
Jin’s jaw tightened. The exhaustion from the day, the pain, the constant weight of bills and his mother’s worried texts—all of it pressed down on him at once. “Because I don’t want to be another burden on you! Or on anyone. I’m twenty-eight, Jimin. I should have my shit together by now. Not… not relying on my roommate’s rich boyfriend’s handouts.”
The words hung heavy between them. Jimin’s eyes glistened with angry tears. “You think you’re a burden to me? After four years of you cooking for me when I’m dead after practice, listening to me cry over auditions, letting me hog the blanket every movie night? You’re my family, you idiot.”
Jin opened his mouth to retort, but the fight drained out of him as quickly as it had risen. His shoulders slumped. The pain in his side throbbed in time with his heartbeat. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I just… I hate this. All of it.”
Jimin made a soft, wounded sound and closed the distance. He wrapped his arms around Jin’s waist carefully, mindful of the bruises, and pressed his face into Jin’s chest. Jin hesitated only a second before hugging him back, burying his nose in Jimin’s damp hair. They sank down together onto the living room floor, backs against the couch, legs tangled in a familiar mess. The rain continued tapping against the windows.
“I’m sorry for yelling,” Jimin mumbled against his shirt after a long silence. “I was scared. You looked so pale when you came in.”
“I’m sorry for worrying you,” Jin replied quietly. His hand rubbed slow circles on Jimin’s back, the same way he’d done a hundred times before. “I really am okay. Mostly. Just sore.”
Jimin pulled back enough to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed but determined. “Stay there. Don’t move.”
He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with the first-aid kit, a tube of ointment, and a damp towel. Jin let him push the shirt up again without protest this time. Jimin’s touch was gentle as he smoothed the cool ointment over the bruises, fingertips feather-light.
“Does this hurt?” he asked softly when Jin hissed at a particularly tender spot near his ribs.
“A little. But it’s helping.”
They sat in quieter conversation after that. Jimin kept one hand on Jin’s knee while the other worked.
“You’re so tired, hyung,” Jimin said eventually, voice barely above a whisper. “I see it every day. The way you drag yourself out of bed, the dark circles you try to hide with that expensive concealer I got you last year. You deserve better than this.”
Jin stared at the ceiling, throat tight. “I know. I just don’t know how to do better right now.”
Jimin capped the ointment and set it aside. He leaned his head on Jin’s uninjured shoulder. “Maybe it’s time we figured that out together. No more pretending everything’s fine when it’s not.”
Jin didn’t answer right away. The apartment felt smaller in the quiet, the rain a steady backdrop. For the first time in a long while, the idea of letting someone—anyone—help didn’t feel quite as impossible. Not with Jimin looking at him like that, fierce and protective and full of love.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice rough. “Maybe.”
They stayed on the floor a while longer, neither quite ready to move. The bruises still hurt, but the weight in Jin’s chest felt a little lighter. Just a little.