Chapter Text
Jimin lived most of his life being careful.
He was careful in how he acted, what he said, what he wore, what he ate. Even down to the degree of movement of his limbs, cursing himself for having been born so naturally clumsy.
He had to be.
So, so careful.
He was so busy being careful that life passed him by without him even realizing it, the days flying like seconds and the years measured by sighs of relief. He hadn’t been sure he would make it so long without…without incident.
It was staring down at the acceptance letter in his shaking hands that had woken him up. Was he really living at all if he was so careful and afraid all the time? Was he really living at all when he refused to make friends, worrying over hypothetical looks and judgment and disgust? And if that was living…
It was empty.
He told himself that he would change. He promised himself that he would be brave. But it was always easy to lie when he was the only one involved.
And so, even on into university, he just…“lived.” He didn’t live.
Carefully.
He woke up, hurriedly dressed, went to class, watched his steps. Avoided risk. Always avoidance.
Another year of nothing.
He sighed as he slid carefully into his seat, opening his laptop and arranging a notebook and pen to the side, just in case. He sighed again as he noticed the large bruise decorating the top of his thigh, peeking out from under his shorts. The first day, and already…
Things like this made it so much easier to rationalize being careful. He frowned, tracing the broken capillaries with the tips of his fingers.
He startled when the double doors flew open, nearly slamming into the wall on either side. Jimin swallowed, watching nervously. The few people littering the room began to whisper among themselves.
He relaxed when he recognized the cause. “They’re so affectionate,” Jimin muttered, rolling his eyes at the group of six who clambered loudly and dramatically into the lecture hall, a flurry of hands and hugs and loose clothing. It wasn’t that he knew them, exactly, but they were hard to miss, probably recognizable to most people on campus. They never went anywhere without each other.
He’d gotten a few glimpses of them his first year, but there had only been five of them, then. They were known for being loud and intimidating, scaring off anyone who tried to get close. They were admired for their good lucks. They were hated for standing out. Jimin stayed far away.
They had never been in any of his classes before, so he had never had to try very hard. But one semester of English was a university requirement, and Jimin had wanted to get it over with. Maybe they had, as well.
A new head of dark black hair was now among the other, lighter colors. A freshman? Jimin fought the urge to chew on his bottom lip. He didn’t want to bleed for the entirety of class. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t any of his business.
He sat up straighter as they made their way to the row of chairs behind him, unnerved as he felt a few pairs of eyes on his back. They chattered about nothing, and he tuned them out, rolling his pen across the long table.
“Hey,” one of them hissed, much closer than Jimin was expecting.
Jimin tensed up, startled again. He turned around slowly. “Me?” he questioned softly, pointing at his chest.
The other nodded happily. This one had light brown hair. That was the only way Jimin could differentiate them. “Can I borrow a pencil? These stingy traitors won’t give me one. And it’s the first day! It’s not like I’ve been forgetting all year.”
“S-sure,” Jimin said, hunching his shoulders as he hurriedly combed through his backpack. Finally getting his fingers around one, he pulled it out, reaching to offer it behind him.
A tan hand clamped around his wrist, jerking him out of his seat and to the side.
“Why do you smell like that?” the owner’s deep voice questioned, nostrils flaring.
Jimin hissed, desperately fighting his instinctual urge to jerk his arm away. He would have been more concerned about the strange question if he didn’t have something much more pressing to worry about. “Let go of me!” he said, panicked, watching with horror as the fingers squeezed even tighter. “Please, let go!” he begged.
“Joon, what the fuck are you doing?” the shortest among them said, narrowing his eyes. “Let the kid go!”
The room had fallen silent.
“You don’t understand!” Jimin nearly cried. “Let go of me right now!” He could see the red creeping from under the hand, already bruising.
The hand released him, and Jimin quickly pulled his wrist back to his chest, whimpering at the damage that had been done. A clearly visible hand print, dotted with deep red broken capillaries. “Oh no,” he muttered, trying to pull his sleeve down. “Oh no, this looks bad.”
“I didn’t…” the one who’d grabbed him stared, wide eyed. “I didn’t mean—“
“Hyung, what did you do?” the one with the bright orangey hair asked, his voice unsteady.
The professor walked in, pausing at the strange atmosphere among the students. “What’s going on here?”
No one said anything.
Jimin quickly returned to his seat, mind racing.
It…it would probably be fine. It…he’d had bruises before, so this one…was…probably…He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the spreading discoloration. It was no longer a hand print, but a giant swathe of his arm. Hos…hospital? But he hated the hospital. Would he let himself risk dying just because he didn’t want to go to the hospital? He would give it a few hours. If it didn’t stop, then…
Then it may already be too late.
No. No! It…it was fine!
He didn’t hear one word the professor uttered.
He was snapped out of his daze at the sound of zipping, people shoving books and notebooks into bags. Quickly, he stuffed his own belongings into his bag, wincing at the soreness of his arm. He pushed past people to sprint from the room, probably earning more bruises in the process but needing to leave.
“Hey, wait!” Jimin heard behind him. He didn’t stop. Just…just get past the quad, watch for the uneven cement on his way home, open the drawer, pull out the--
“Yah!” the voice called again, vibrating with the edges of a growl.
Jimin was forced to come to a stop as someone sprinted in front of him, throwing their arms out to the side. The one with the orangey hair.
“I need to go,” Jimin said, eyeing him uncertainly, clutching the strap of his bag tighter. “Please, don’t…”
“Don’t what?” he said curiously, tilting his head.
“If you beat me up, I could die,” Jimin said quietly. “So please…” Twenty-one years of avoiding bullies, and he starts getting picked on in college?
“Do what?” the one with orangey hair said incredulously. “Hyung, he thinks we’re gonna’ beat him up!” he yelled, earning several odd looks.
“Shut up, Taehyung,” the shortest one said. “So noisy,” he grumbled, eyes flicking to Jimin, who curled in on himself under the pressure. “Hey, are you okay?”
“I…” Jimin swallowed, unsure of what to say, especially as his eyes landed on the one who’d grabbed him in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” that one said, bringing a hand up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I thought…you were someone I knew,” he said shortly, gaze falling to Jimin’s arm. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said.
“No, it…” Jimin said, swallowing. “I get hurt easily,” he said.
“That looks bad,” the one with black hair said quietly.
Jimin attempted to cover his bruised arm with his unbruised one, but couldn’t quite manage to hide all the red.
“Please, I need to get home,” Jimin said nervously, looking between the one in his path and the five behind.
“We aren’t holding you hostage!” the soft-looking blonde one said, brows furrowing in concern. “Taehyung, move out of his way!”
The boy in front of Jimin lowered his arms, stepping to the side.
Jimin didn’t trust it. If he moved, would they pounce?
“You forgot your pencil,” the one who’d asked to borrow it originally said, holding it for Jimin to take.
“K-keep it,” Jimin said.
“Hey,” the one who’d grabbed him said, taking a slow and deliberate step forward. “I didn’t mean to scare you, either. Really. I’m sorry,” he said again. “If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you—“
“Stay away from me,” Jimin said immediately, taking a step back. “Just…please, stay away.” He turned on his heel, speed-walking away again. He couldn’t afford any more episodes like this.
It made Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at 10:00 A.M. rather awkward.
Because no matter where Jimin sat, they managed to find a way to sit directly behind or in front of him.
It made him nervous.
It made him careless.
And by the end of week two, it felt like he’d been through a meat grinder. Looked like it, too.
And they could see it. Of course they couldn’t just leave it alone.
“Okay, I can’t take this anymore,” the shortest said. “Kid, what the fuck is going on with you?” he deadpanned, kicking a chair into Jimin’s path so he couldn’t run away. “This time, to be clear, we’re holding you hostage.”
“Yoongi!” the soft looking one hissed.
“Is someone…doing that to you?” the one who’d grabbed him asked, broad shoulders bent with guilt and…something else. Were his teeth bared?
“No!” Jimin said quickly, wrapping his arms around himself. “If anyone, you did!” he said defensively.
“Me?” he said, stricken.
“You can’t just go around grabbing people who—“ Jimin cut himself off, breathing heavily. “Look, just…can’t you please just leave me alone?”
“He owes you a debt,” the pencil one said, pointing to the one who’d grabbed him.
“No, he doesn’t! He doesn’t owe me anything!” Jimin said. “I…” he sighed, seeing no other choice. “I have hemophilia. I bruise easily, and when I bruise, the bleeding doesn’t stop for a really long time.” He held up his arm, which was still a sickly yellow. “This? This wouldn’t have happened to anyone but me. You don’t owe me anything,” he finished.
“Hemophilia?” the shortest one repeated, as though chewing on the word. “That probably explains the smell to you, Joon,” he looked towards the grabber.
“What—I don’t smell!” Jimin said angrily. “Now, can I go?”
“If you bruise so easily, you need to be more careful,” the one who’d grabbed him—Joon—said.
“I don’t need your patronizing,” Jimin said darkly. “I’ve lived with this for a really long time, and I was doing fine before all of you showed up.”
“Yoongi,” the soft one said again, a warning in his tone. “Let him be.”
“You shouldn’t be so rude, kid,” the one called Yoongi said, ignoring him, narrowing his eyes. “You never know who you’ll piss off.”
Jimin couldn’t fight the shiver that passed through his body, looking at him with fear. Something about him made Jimin incredibly nervous. Granted, it didn’t take much to do that when a well-placed scratch could bleed him out.
“Hyung!” Joon said, deep voice cautionary. “Don’t do that.”
Yoongi gave him a look. “Your soft spot’s gonna’ get you killed, Namjoon,” he muttered, shaking his head. He reached out and pulled the chair from Jimin’s path, slamming it back in place.
“If you beat me up, I could die,” the orangey one said.
“Wh-what?” Jimin said.
“You said that to me. You meant it,” he said, tilting his head.
“Of course I did,” Jimin frowned, readjusting his bag on his shoulder. “I’m…I’m leaving,” he said, looking around to see if anyone would stop him. None of them moved.
“I’m sorry,” Joon said again, softly, as Jimin took his first step down.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Jimin said more firmly, meeting his eyes. “And that includes pity.”