Chapter Text
Jimin wraps his hands around his warm bowl of soup and hunches down farther into his cloak. It’s dark out already, and raining, and the tavern Jimin chose for supper is crowded with workers escaping the dreary winter evening.
Jimin isn’t used to being around so many people. He generally only stops by smaller towns, and even then only when absolutely necessary. This is a gods curst city. Jimin can feel all the people around him, an entire city’s worth of fragile lives pressing down on him like so many ghosts.
The tattoos on his arms tingle as lightning sings beneath his skin. Jimin takes a deep breath and picks up his spoon. It’s been years since you’ve lost control, he reminds himself as he shovels spoonfuls of broth and vegetables into his mouth. These people are safe from you.
That’s what his tattoos are for. The ink is an anchor, a way to help keep the lightning he holds inside flowing through him— instead of burning himself and everyone around him to a crisp. The tattoos are both a protection and a brand: lightning mage, written right there on his arms for the entire world to see.
And so Jimin avoids cities, and other places where he will draw looks of fear and envy and greed. He would rather stay far away from the crowds that make him nervous and the people who hunger for his power.
But this city… he had to come here. There are phantoms that need facing, and this is the only place where Jimin can find the answers he needs.
“Excuse me?”
Jimin tightens his grip on his spoon and looks down, rather than up. A pair of boots beside his table, splattered with mud but otherwise well cared for. Pant hems in the stiff, dark fabric of the city guards’ uniform.
Damn it.
Jimin is careful to play by the rules any time he’s at a settlement large enough to care. Many mages skirt the mandatory check-ins and registration lists by hiding their mage marks, but Jimin can’t do that. His tattoos are difficult to hide and easily discovered, and the consequences awaiting any mage caught wandering around a city unregistered are bothersome enough to keep Jimin pretending to be a good little mage.
There is no reason for a city guard to be talking to him, except to stir up trouble.
Jimin swallows a grimace, forces a pleasant smile onto his face, and looks up. “Can I help you?” he asks.
“Jimin?” the guard asks, and there’s something about the tone— Jimin recognizes that voice. And, now that he’s truly looking, he recognizes the guard’s face as well. Those doe eyes that were too innocent for a street kid back then, and are too innocent for a city guard, now.
“Jungkook?” Jimin whispers. The guard smiles wide, and for a second Jimin is transported back seven years. He can taste blood and ozone in his mouth and smell charred flesh in the air, and hear the ringing of alarm bells that echoed in his ears as he ran and ran and ran.
Jimin came to this city to search for his ghosts. He hadn’t expected his ghosts to find him first.
“—can’t believe it’s really you,” Jungkook is saying when Jimin blinks back to the present. “I saw the log books and I thought— it didn’t seem possible, but I wanted to check—”
“Sit down,” Jimin blurts out, grabbing Jungkook’s sleeve and pulling him into the seat beside Jimin’s. They haven’t drawn any attention yet, but they will soon if Jungkook continues to stand there and look like he’s interrogating Jimin. The last thing Jimin needs is people wondering why the city guards are paying him special interest. His pulse thumps in his ears.
Jungkook’s eyes light up with understanding and he hastens to settle onto the seat. “Sorry,” he says. “Let me just—” and he flags down a server. He orders another bowl of soup. Once the server has bustled off toward the kitchen, Jungkook says, “If anyone asks I’ll tell them we’re childhood friends.”
Jimin nods, not trusting his tongue to properly form words at the moment. Jungkook fidgets and looks like he wants to say more, but is suddenly uncertain. In the resulting silence, the two of them study each other— Jungkook with open curiosity and Jimin with wariness.
Jungkook grew up well. He’s handsome, with strong eyebrows and a sweet little mouth. His nose finally fits his face, and although there’s still a hint of roundness in his cheeks, puberty sharpened his jawline. Jimin can tell there are muscles beneath the guard uniform. He is someone that Jimin would pay attention to if they were strangers on the road.
Jimin wonders what Jungkook makes of him. Jimin’s hair is shaggy, pulled back and secured with a band to keep unruly strands out of his face. His cheeks are gaunt and there are shadows beneath his eyes. Winter is not kind to travelers.
And yet Jungkook is looking at him with some sort of awe. He hasn’t stopped smiling since Jimin said his name.
“It’s so good to see you,” Jungkook finally says. “We all thought—”
—you were dead.
Jungkook doesn’t finish the sentence, but the ending is obvious. Jimin disappeared seven years ago in a crackling storm of fire. There was no reason to believe he had survived.
Jungkook’s soup arrives, but he makes no move to eat.
“Well,” Jimin says. “I’m alive.” He tries to phrase it as a joke, but the words come out with a tremble. This is what you came here for, he reminds himself, but it does little to calm the emotions surging through him. He is coming apart at the seams, thread by thread. Jimin can’t let himself fall apart, not in public like this.
He can barely taste the soup anymore, but he forces himself to keep eating. Perhaps Jungkook can afford to order a meal he doesn’t plan to eat, but Jimin cannot. As he eats he squashes down all the emotions he can, firmly stitching them back into place. The hand holding his spoon shakes.
Jungkook is still staring at Jimin, as if he’s trying to memorize every last hair on his head. The scrutiny makes Jimin want to squirm.
“What?” he asks, when he can no longer stand it.
“You’ve changed a lot,” Jungkook says simply.
“So have you.” Jimin dips a piece of stale bread into his soup, letting the broth soften it. “I never would have pegged you for a guard.”
Jungkook shrugs and finally looks away from Jimin. There must be a story there, but Jimin doesn’t pursue it. He was never close with Jungkook, not the way he was close with Taehyung or Hoseok, or even Yoongi. Jimin was the last member to join their little ragtag group, and Jungkook was always the most reluctant to welcome Jimin in.
Back then, Jimin was no one. The fatherless son of a barmaid, left on the streets when the tavern his mother worked at burned to the ground. For more than a year he got by picking pockets, until one day he chose his mark wrong. He was pulled into an alley and figured he was done for, but instead of killing him the boy who had been his mark—a kid named Hoseok who was hardly older than Jimin himself—decided to take Jimin under his wing.
Hoseok and his friends weren’t a gang, exactly. But they ran cons and burglaries, and split all the spoils. They were a family.
Jimin would have done anything to ensure he could continue staying in the tiny attic they all shared. He didn’t have Jungkook’s natural talent, or Taehyung’s illusion magic, and he couldn’t pick pockets as well as Hoseok or fight like Yoongi. He didn’t have Namjoon’s ability to plan cons, or Seokjin’s ability to carry them out.
But he could follow orders, and try not to mess up.
So he did that. He learned how to steal and how to fight, and tried his best to make sure the other boys considered him their friend. Often he tried too hard. The other boys were usually kind about his missteps, but Jungkook tended to flinch away from Jimin’s bumbling attempts at friendship.
Jimin never would have guessed that he would someday sit in a tavern with Jungkook, eating soup.
“The others will be so happy to see you,” Jungkook suddenly says, and the piece of bread Jimin just swallowed sticks in his throat.
“The others,” Jimin says, his voice coming out a whisper. He clears his throat. “They’re all… doing okay?”
“Oh.” Jungkook’s eyes go wide. Jimin can see the realization come over him: that if they didn’t know Jimin was alive, Jimin didn’t know if they were alive, either. “Yes, they’re all— we’ve all been doing well.”
Jimin nods and busies himself with his soup. Tears form, hot and insistent, but he forces them back. He can’t cry. Not here.
Jungkook must notice the cracks in Jimin’s mask. “I can tell you more if you’d like, but… would you like to go somewhere else?” he asks, tentative. “I don’t live far. We could go there, if you want.”
Jimin’s heart hammers in his chest. He shouldn’t. He got what he came for, confirmation that all those years ago he hadn’t destroyed the very people he was trying to protect. He should leave now, get out of the city, return to the safety and solitude of life on the road.
But here is Jungkook, offering Jimin all the things he never thought he could have. Answers, and perhaps a chance to see the family he thought he had lost—
“Are you sure?” Jimin asks. The lightning is back again, fizzing in his veins.
“Of course,” Jungkook says. “Ah, but I should tell you— I live with Taehyung. Just so you know. He shouldn’t be home for a while yet, but I don’t want you to be surprised.”
The lightning disappears in an instant, replaced by first ice and then fire. Taehyung. Taehyung. The friend Jimin had never even dared to dream he could have, who was by Jimin’s side since his very first night he spent in that crowded attic. The last time Jimin saw him, Taehyung was with Hoseok and Yoongi, using his illusion magic to help them sneak into a mansion.
Shortly after, that mansion had burned to the ground. Jimin had burned it to the ground.
“He won’t mind you bringing me there?”
Jimin hates how small his voice sounds, hates all the emotions rioting inside him, how vulnerable he feels. A shiver runs down his spine. Be calm, Jimin repeats to himself, a prayer. Be calm.
“Mind? No, Jimin— Taehyung will be elated to see you, I promise.”
The sincerity in Jungkook’s voice makes Jimin want to curl into himself. He desperately fights back another wave of tears.
“Shall we go?” Jungkook asks, voice soft.
Jimin nods. He wipes the last of the soup from his bowl with the crust of bread and forces himself to choke it down even though it tastes like ash in his mouth. As soon as he’s done, Jungkook stands and places enough coin on the table to cover both their meals. Jimin wants to protest, but it’s been a while since the last trade caravan he worked with and his funds are stretched thin. He bites his tongue and shoulders his pack.
Outside, the sky is still petulantly dripping rain. “Damn,” Jungkook says. Jimin’s cloak may have a hood, but Jungkook’s uniform offers no such luxury. “Suppose we’ll have to walk fast.” He throws Jimin a wry smile, which Jimin does his best to return. The tattoos on his arms are still tingling, all the way to his fingertips.
The Jungkook in Jimin’s memory is roughly fifteen years old, and just slightly taller than Jimin. Jungkook’s stride has grown significantly since then. For each one of his steps, Jimin needs to take nearly two. But although Jungkook sets a brisk pace, it’s never too fast for Jimin to keep up. Their boots click against the cobblestone and slosh through puddles.
They take a right at the crossroads, and then a left. There is hardly anyone on the street. “Almost there,” Jungkook murmurs, just as two men round the corner in front of them. A pair of city guards on patrol.
“Jungkook!” one of them calls jovially.
Jimin acts on instinct. Your face is your most important weapon, Seokjin used to say. Make sure it’s seen when it needs to be, and otherwise keep it hidden. Years of doing his best to lie low have only further ingrained that lesson into Jimin. He pretends to trip and falls into Jungkook, wrapping his arms around his waist and hiding his face against his chest.
He’s close enough that he can feel the way Jungkook’s breath hitches, even as he brings his arms up protectively around Jimin’s shoulders.
“Mingyu,” Jungkook calls back. “You were assigned patrol today?”
“Yes,” The guard—Mingyu—replies. Then his voice turns sly. “Are you heading home?” The implications in his tone are obvious.
Jungkook splutters. Jimin clings more tightly. He nuzzles at the collar of Jungkook’s uniform for good measure, and Jungkook’s breath hitches again.
“Oh, um, yes,” Jungkook replies. “Yes, I was just. Home. Yes.”
The guard patrolling with Mingyu snickers. “We won’t keep you any longer, then,” Mingyu says. “Good evening to you.”
“You, too,” Jungkook says. There’s the splash of footsteps along the street, and then Jungkook lets out a sigh of relief. “They’re gone,” he whispers.
Jimin takes a deep breath. Jungkook smells like damp wool and clean rain. For a silly moment, Jimin is reluctant to leave his embrace. He gives himself a mental shake and steps back.
“Sorry,” Jimin says. “I hope that won’t cause you any problems. I just wanted to be cautious.”
Jungkook shrugs. “It’s fine. I will probably get some teasing, that’s all. Caution is always best.”
Caution is always best. That phrase is Yoongi’s. Jimin’s heart stutters, hearing the familiar words come from Jungkook’s mouth.
Jungkook, oblivious, says, “We truly are nearly there. It’s just down the next street.” He begins to walk once more, and Jimin hastens to fall into step.
The tenement Jungkook and Taehyung live in really is down the next street. It’s a narrow building, with two floors and, according to Jungkook, a small courtyard out back. Their room is on the second floor. The stairs are well-worn, but do not creak, nor does the door squeak when Jungkook pushes it open.
The room is small, but looks clean and comfortable. Two low beds have been pushed together to make a larger one. There is a small table by the window, with wooden stools beneath it. A chest sits at the end of the bed, closed; another, near the window, is open and overflowing with clothes. A spare guard uniform hangs from a peg next to the door.
Jungkook takes Jimin’s cloak and hangs it beside the spare uniform. “You can wash up, if you like,” he says, gesturing to a wash basin in the corner. “Do you need a towel? Something dry to wear?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Jimin says.
Jungkook nods, and starts to unbutton his uniform. He strips down until he’s in his underclothes, then hangs his soggy uniform. When he moves to the chest at the end of the bed and begins to pull out clean underclothes, Jimin quickly turns away and busies himself with rustling through his pack. He would like to change out of his own damp pants, but it feels too presumptuous, even though Jungkook offered him clothes.
You’ll be leaving soon anyway, he tells himself. You’re here to talk for a bit and… and maybe see Tae, and then you need to leave.
“Make yourself at home,” Jungkook says, gesturing awkwardly toward the bed.
Jimin nods, also awkward. He abandons his pretense of looking through his pack and sits on the floor with his back against the bed frame. He can’t bear to sit on the linens, not in clothes that are worn and dirty from travel. The last time he was somewhere this clean was more than two years ago, when he was still living with the master mage who gave him his tattoos.
Caravans may pay him well to guard them, but the jobs are few and often far between— he rarely bothers wasting coin on lodging at all, preferring to camp outside of towns and cities. This quiet corner of the world, dry and safe, is a luxury Jimin does not wish to sully.
If Jungkook finds Jimin’s actions strange, he does not comment. He sinks to the floor beside him, folds his legs into a tailor’s seat, and looks at Jimin expectantly. Jimin looks at his hands, folded in his lap. Some of his hair has come free from the tie and falls loose into his face. Jimin uses it like a shield, avoiding meeting Jungkook’s eyes.
They sit in silence. Rain patters against the roof.
Eventually Jungkook clears his throat. “So,” he says, “What… what do you want to know?”
Everything, and nothing at all. Jimin stares at the tattoos on his hands, swirling ink that reaches all the way to his second knuckles, so hard that they blur out of focus. He thought he’d have time, that he could arrive in this city and spend a few days surreptitiously seeking out information before he had to face anything.
But now the answers are here, waiting to be unlocked, and Jimin is terrified of picking up the key.
Jungkook waits, more patient than Jimin deserves. Jimin’s hands begin to shake. He closes them into fists.
“You said you could tell me more. About— about them. The others.”
The words burn in Jimin’s throat. His fingernails dig into his palms.
“The others,” Jungkook repeats, then stops, considering. “Um, well. You remember how they always wanted to open a business?”
Jimin nods. He has vivid memories of lying curled up next to Taehyung in the attic late at night, falling asleep to the murmurs of the others as they planned. Jimin had known that the older boys—Hoseok and Namjoon and Yoongi and Seokjin—had some big dream that they were working toward, but he never paid attention to the specifics. He simply trusted that they would figure it out, and he would follow along.
“Well,” Jungkook says, “they did that. After the botched job—”
Jimin flinches.
Jungkook pauses again. He regards Jimin cautiously, but Jimin doesn’t speak—can’t speak, can barely breathe—and after a moment Jungkook continues.
“After that night— after everything, when everyone had recovered, we went back to the Upper District. We hit twice, actually, and the haul was good. Good enough that Jin was finally able to talk to an investor, and then things just... fell into place. They’ve been in business four years now.”
The way Jungkook speaks is so matter of fact. That night happened, and then they recovered, and they moved on. Jimin wasn’t able to do that— wasn’t able to heal, to escape the memories, to move on.
“How?” Jimin asks, his voice barely a whisper. “How did you all continue, after that? How did you even survive? There was the fire, and the guards, and—” He cuts himself off. His knuckles are white, and still his hands shake.
The memory is still clear in his mind. It was a warm night, balmy with the weight of summer. Jimin remembers the way sweat trickled down his back as he sat keeping watch with Jungkook. It was their first time working in the Upper District, hitting the house of an aristocrat, and they were all nervous. Namjoon and Yoongi had planned everything meticulously, obsessing over details late into the night, until Seokjin snapped at them to go to sleep. And yet, almost as soon as the plan was put into motion things went wrong.
Jimin doesn’t know what started it. He and Jungkook were stationed outside the back gate, while Seokjin and Namjoon were somewhere out front. Barely a handful of minutes before Yoongi and Hoseok, the most talented thieves among them, had entered the house with Taehyung, who was using his magic to hide them. A thunderstorm rumbled in the distance.
And then, inside the house, someone screamed.
Jimin climbed the back wall just in time to see Hoseok stumble out of the mansion and begin sprinting across the courtyard. Inside the house there was shouting, and a crash. A window on the second floor flew open, and a guard leaned out. The silver buttons on his uniform glinted in the moonlight, as did the head of the bolt nocked into the crossbow in his hands.
The guard lifted the bow, aiming straight for Hoseok—
—and Jimin’s world went still.
He couldn’t hear anything over the roaring in his ears, couldn’t feel anything beside the crackling energy suddenly pulsing through his veins. He knew, distantly, that something was horribly wrong, but he couldn’t fight it, couldn’t control it. The energy inside of him writhed and burned and screamed—or perhaps it was Jimin who screamed—and then the night burst into light.
Lightning struck the guard. A second bolt hit the roof of the mansion. The guard slumped over the windowsill. Inside the house, more people shouted and screamed. Sparks crackled beneath Jimin’s skin. I’m doing this, Jimin remembers thinking distantly. I am the lightning.
But he was too late. Below, in the courtyard, Hoseok lay on the ground with an arrow in his shoulder. The power inside Jimin howled. He pulled a third bolt of lightning from the sky. It forked, hitting the roof and tall willow tree standing beside it.
After that, Jimin only remembers things in pieces. Jungkook vaulting over the wall and running toward Hoseok. Flames, from the lightning, engulfing the roof of the house. Shouting and alarm bells and the cold certainty that Jimin needed to get away now.
He remembers the sparks that followed him as he ran, threatening to set the entire city aflame. Somehow he made it outside the walls and into the open farmland north of the city. He stood in a field as the skies shook with thunder and rain lashed his face. Some instinct told him to raise his hands, and so he did, and the lightning came to him in bursts: crackling through the air and then flowing through Jimin, down into the earth.
Jimin doesn’t know how he lived through that storm. Many lightning mages don’t. When their powers manifest the lightning consumes them, burning them to a husk. But somehow when the last peal of thunder echoed into silence Jimin was still alive, kneeling in a circle of charred earth.
He knew he had to leave. He had participated in a robbery, killed at least one man, and burned a house down. He was a danger to the entire city. The city guards would be searching for him soon, if they weren’t already. And maybe, just maybe, if they were busy looking for a rogue lightning mage they would overlook anyone else who had escaped the burning house—
If Jimin disappeared, what was left of his family would be safe. They had to be. He repeated that to himself, over and over, as he got to his feet and began to walk.
He didn’t let himself look back, even though each step away from the city drove shards of grief deeper into his heart. He told himself over and over that everyone must have escaped, and that they were living well without him, but the doubt ate away at him for seven years.
Until finally, finally he had enough control over his powers that he could trust himself. Until he knew he wouldn’t be putting anyone in danger, and worked up the courage to come back to face his past— and, somehow, ended up here.
The first sob hits him with enough force that Jimin curls into himself. He brings his hands to his eyes, trying to staunch the tears, but it’s no use. “I’m sorry,” he gasps. “I’m so sorry.”
“What?” Jungkook’s voice is startled. “Why?”
“I started the fire and then I left,” Jimin says. “I left you all and— I didn’t know if you were okay, I didn’t try to help, I just left.”
Jungkook frowns. “It wasn’t your fault the job went wrong, or that your powers… did that.” He waves a hand, a vague indication of the chaos Jimin had caused. “When you didn’t come back we looked, but we couldn’t find you. We figured you must have had a reason for disappearing, but then the guards announced that they had found a field where— they said you had died.” Jungkook’s voice hitches. “We didn’t want to believe it, but... you were gone.”
“I was gone.” The words are heavy on Jimin’s tongue, thick through his tears. “I was gone for seven years. Seven years, Jungkook. You all should have forgotten about me, so why—”
“You’re family. How could we forget you?”
Jimin shudders. The words rip into him, slicing his heart wide open. How could we forget you? A simple sentence, and yet under its force Jimin bends and breaks. He sits on the floor of Jungkook and Taehyung’s room, in a city he once thought he could never return to, and cries.
As the tears flow he briefly panics, scared that they may wash away his control over the lightning inside himself. But when he concentrates and reaches he finds the lightning exactly where it’s supposed to be, humming with life but making no move to escape.
Good, he thinks fiercely, and then lets the tears pull him under.
Jimin doesn’t know how long he sits there. His legs go numb. His eyes and throat are raw. Gradually, though, the tears begin to slow. Only then, when he’s sniffling and wiping his cheeks, does he notice the hand rubbing gentle circles along his back.
Jimin stiffens, but Jungkook doesn’t stop. His touch is soothing. Jimin might cry again, if he had any tears left.
“Why are you…” Jimin’s voice is hoarse. He clears his throat. “Today, you saw my name on the registration list, and then you looked for me, and now you’re—” Jimin squeezes his aching eyes shut and breathes in deep. “I always thought you hated me.”
Jungkook’s hand falls still on Jimin’s shoulder. “I didn’t hate you,” he says. He sounds sad. “I just didn’t understand you. At first I thought you were… I don’t know. Insincere, and clingy. And then I realized that I was wrong about you, but I didn’t know how to apologize, and then… then it was too late.” His hand begins to move in comforting circles once more. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize.” Now that Jimin’s eyes are closed, he finds that it’s hard to open them again. His eyelids are heavy, and his chest aches with both the weight of relief and the hollowness of release. “I’m glad you didn’t hate me. I wanted so badly to be your friend.”
“We can be friends now,” Jungkook says.
Jimin summons a smile from deep within himself, tired but genuine. “I’d like that.”
They fall back into silence. The rain, too, slowly dwindles into a gentle lullaby. It must lull Jimin into sleep, for the next thing he knows he is blinking awake with his head resting on Jungkook’s shoulder. Jungkook has an arm around Jimin, keeping him tucked securely in place. Faint light seeps through the cracks in the shutters. False dawn.
The door opens. The sound of keys in the lock must have been what woke Jimin. There are footsteps against the wooden floor, and then a pause.
“Jungkook?” a voice calls out, and Jimin’s heart sings. He knows that voice. It is deeper, and smoother, than the last time he heard it, but Jimin would recognize it anywhere, in any lifetime.
“Taehyung,” Jungkook replies blearily. He must have nodded off, too.
“Who—” Taehyung starts to ask, but Jimin is already struggling to his feet.
“Tae,” he says. “Tae, it’s me.”
Taehyung freezes. In the dim light, Jimin can only just make out the shape of him: tall and broad, with softly curling hair. A far cry from the scrawny teenager Jimin knew— and yet still achingly familiar.
“Jimin?” Taehyung asks, and suddenly his voice is so, so small.
Jimin swallows. “Yes. I’m… I’m back.”
Between one breath and the next Taehyung has crossed the room. He opens his arms, and Jimin falls into them. Taehyung holds him so tightly that Jimin’s ribs protest. Jimin welcomes the pressure. He feels like he’s still asleep, like he’s floating and Taehyung is the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
Taehyung.
“I’m not dreaming, am I?” Jimin asks.
“No, Min,” Taehyung says, his voice cracking. “You’re not dreaming. This is real.” He rests his cheek against Jimin’s head. “Gods, this is real. You’re really here.”
“I—” Jimin starts to say, and then falls silent. All these years, all the thousands of things he imagined telling Taehyung, and yet now he can only think of one thing: “I missed you.”
Taehyung lets out a small noise, almost a whimper. “I missed you, too. I missed you so much.”
Taehyung said Jimin isn’t dreaming, but Jimin has dreamed about this so many times he finds it hard to believe. He pulls Taehyung closer, and doesn’t cry, but he can feel each shuddering breath Taehyung takes. Jimin sinks into the hug, sinks into Taehyung until even their breathing has synchronized. There is nowhere else he’d rather be.
A yawn echoes in the quiet room. As one, Taehyung and Jimin turn to look. Jungkook stares owlishly back at them. He’s sitting on the floor still, with his knees tucked up to his chest. Like this he looks small and young, not at all like the guard who had walked up to Jimin at the tavern mere hours ago.
“Sorry,” Jungkook says. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“It’s late,” Taehyung says, waving off the apology. “You must both be exhausted.”
Jimin is exhausted, but he doesn’t want to let go of Taehyung just yet. Taehyung seems to share the sentiment. He changes quickly, and pulls Jimin with him when he crawls into bed. Jimin tries to protest—he’s still wearing his dirty travel clothes—but neither Taehyung nor Jungkook care.
Jimin ends up in the middle of the bed. To his left, Jungkook is curled up carefully, so that he gives Jimin enough space. To his right, Taehyung has wrapped himself around Jimin completely. He has an arm across Jimin’s waist, and a leg tangled between Jimin’s. His breath ruffles Jimin’s hair.
The last time Jimin was held like this was seven years ago, on the night before everything went wrong. That night, he was wedged between Taehyung and Hoseok. Jimin had thought himself too anxious to sleep—it was a big job, after all—but eventually the comforting presence of his brothers had managed to lull him into slumber.
Tonight as well Jimin is quick to fall into sleep. Taehyung holds him close, and every so often Jungkook brushes his fingers against Jimin’s— like he’s checking that Jimin is still there. Jimin is warm and safe and inexplicably, indisputably loved.
He sleeps better than he has in years.