Work Text:
The first time Jimin steals a snack from the cupboard without asking, he pours it in a bowl like a good little boy. Like he would have if he had gotten the approval of his mother.
The chips pour into the bowl slowly, without noise, so no one in the house could take notice of the illegal (in his eyes) action. He sits in the dark living room at three in the morning, nine years old and thinking of being caught eating chips without permission to be the biggest fear anyone could ever have. His heart beats fast as he pretends his mother is there, smiling at him, saying, it’s okay, Jimin, you can have it, and he feels a little bit better with the approval he never got.
When Jimin is eleven years old, he can't remember the last time he poured chips into a bowl.
He stomps his way down the stairs — typical boys, his grandmother would say — and rushes into the kitchen to grab the family-sized bag and rips it open in glee. In two minutes, half the packet is gone. His mother scolds him, tells him, Park Jimin, eat it like a civilized human being, and Jimin grins at her with a mouthful of Cheetos Puffs and licks his hands clean of the sticky cheese powder. She swats at him, and he runs away laughing, his mother staring after him with an exasperated smile on her face.
When Jimin is thirteen years old, he pours his chips into a bowl.
He sits down in the living room in broad daylight, with no one home but himself, and takes small bites of each chip, eating them slowly, one by one. He had heard somewhere that eating slowly makes one lose appetite quicker and eat less. His stomach growls, loudly. He remembers trying to suppress the urge to eat it at all, but he had caved. The chips taste bitter. He feels even more so.
When Jimin is fifteen years old, there are no chips in the house.
He can't remember the last time he had anything of the sort. His mother had stopped buying them in favor of them not lying around the house with no one to eat them. Jimin doesn't let himself miss it; anything that could add another layer to his thighs, to his stomach, to his face, to his self-deprecation. Words ring in his head, comments passing by, whispering, speaking, yelling, screaming: Oh my God, Jimin. You got fat. He ignores the concerned look his mother gives him everyday in the morning and at night when he goes to bed simultaneously hungry and filled.
When Jimin is sixteen years old, he collapses at school.
His head hits the corner of a desk, feeling as sharp as his protruding cheekbones. He doesn't remember anything else, other than the blinding pain cracking through his skull, doesn't remember being surrounded by his classmates, doesn't remember the murmurs of he looks so pale and weak, and has he even eaten?, doesn't remember the tear-stained cheeks of his mother as they pass him through to the ER. All he remembers is that the ground had felt hard beneath him, and he had felt like mush, like a heap of bones melting and melting and melting. His stomach roaring, his body screaming, too big, too soft, too much, not enough.
When Jimin is seventeen years old, he stares at a bag of chips in the cupboard.
His mother is behind him, silent and watching, but all Jimin feels is the tingling at the tips of his fingers, telling him no and telling him yes. His head spins, he remembers them telling him, it’s okay, Jimin, you can have it, and he feels bitter with the approval he doesn’t want. He caves, pouring it into a bowl, just enough to make the tingling go away. He doesn’t hear his mother’s sigh of relief.
When Jimin is eighteen years old, he pours his chips into a bowl.
There’s sweat running down the sides of his face, and his muscles burn in all the right ways. The bowl fills over a little, and some of the chips fall out. There is a voice in the back of his head telling him, too much, but he picks up a chip and puts it in his mouth, tells himself, it’s okay, Jimin, you can have it. He takes the bowl to the living room, his mother watching an old rerun of a Korean drama he hadn't learned the name of. Jimin! she says as soon as she sees him, Take a shower and eat it like a civilized human being! Jimin grins at her and plops down beside her, popping a Lays into his mouth. She grimaces at him and he turns to watch the screen. Her grimace turns into a smile.
When Jimin is nineteen years old, he's offered a free bag of chips.
He looks at the cashier, an attractive looking boy who looks older than him. Jimin had come to the new corner store to grab a pack of gum on his way home from gym, but he doesn't expect to find himself suddenly at a loss under doe eyes and a watchful gaze. The cashier has a strange glint in his eyes as he says call me Suga and Jimin stares at the chips, confused. Suga says, it's on the house, and slides it over with a piece of paper. Jimin smiles and thanks him, palms even clammier and knees trembling. He'll give the chips to someone else later; he'd already gotten more than what he bargained for.
Two hours later, Jimin sits on his couch, staring at the slip of paper in his hands. He thinks of the boy who calls himself Suga, looks at the scribbled name and number, along with an address and how to get there: thought u were cute. come watch my performance and i'll treat u after the show. Jimin's heart pounds. There is an empty chips packet beside him.