Chapter Text
Day 1, December 22nd.
To say that Jimin is nervous would be a horrific understatement.
“Jimin,” Minjeong’s soft voice somehow cuts through a Mariah Carey high note that scratches its way out of the car’s busted stereo. “You’re strangling the steering wheel.”
Casting a brief glance down, careful to keep her eyes mainly focused on the road, Jimin can see her knuckles have turned white, and the veins in her hands are threatening to break out of the skin. Jimin relaxes her grip slightly, flexing her fingers over the leather. Minjeong turns down Mariah Carey by a few notches and reaches across the console to place a warm hand on Jimin’s tensing thigh.
“It’s going to be fine,” Minjeong squeezes the flesh gently. In the two years that they have known each other, Minjeong’s touch is unable to calm Jimin down for once.
Minjeong would say that. Minjeong, despite numerous failed attempts from Jimin, does not, at all, seem to understand the gravity of the situation, the literal week of hell she is driving them both into.
Jimin's jaw twitches with poorly concealed disagreement. She thinks it’s going to be anything but fine, potentially even disastrous. “You haven’t met my family,” she mumbles, flicking the turn signal with a bit too much force.
Jimin’s heart has been pounding against her ribcage for the entirety of this three-hour drive, and they still have another two hours to go. Jimin’s heater doesn’t work, so both she and Minjeong shiver slightly in their seats. Not that Minjeong would ever complain, but Jimin is getting a little tired of pretending she can accurately make out the shapes and colours through the fog of her windshield.
At least it’s not snowing.
To rewind and offer some context as to why Jimin has the steering wheel in a chokehold, Jimin doesn’t like her family, nor does she, really, like spending Christmas with them. You’ll never guess where they’re driving to.
Jimin’s family home. With Minjeong. Her best friend. Awesome.
Minjeong comes from a family straight out of a Hallmark movie. They’re hearty, full of love, a family that would, naturally, produce someone like Minjeong. Minjeong, who laughs so sweetly that it dizzies Jimin, who has beautiful blonde hair that she recently cut into an adorable bob, smiles so brightly that it’s impossible for Jimin not to smile back. Minjeong, who, rather unfortunately, is physically incapable of not seeing the good in literally everyone.
The professor who stiffed Jimin out of a grade she desperately needed was just having a bad day. Minjeong’s demonic ex-boyfriend had redeeming qualities, somewhere, like his lovely eyes, even though he cheated on her. Jimin’s parents love her, really; they’re just busy people, and maybe Jimin should give them more grace.
“I think they’re lovely,” Minjeong says calmly, before going back to humming Mariah Carey under her breath.
She thinks that because Jimin’s family want her, and everyone else, for that matter, to think that. It’s a shame that’s just something Minjeong thinks, rather than the reality.
Minjeong sees the family photo Jimin keeps on her desk in their shared apartment; Jimin remembers that it was taken two minutes after a heated argument. Minjeong hears Jimin calling her mother every weekend; Jimin bites her tongue and agrees to come home for the holidays for the first time in three years. Minjeong touches the rosary ring on Jimin’s index finger, a gift from Jimin’s father; Jimin thinks about how she stopped believing in God when she was fifteen.
Jimin sighs and steals a quick look. Rosy cheeks puffing with a small smile, wrapped up warmly in a garish, ugly pink sweater her mother sent Jimin for Christmas last year, Jimin doesn’t know how she’d be able to come home without Minjeong with her. She’s never liked pink or sweaters, so Jimin gave it to Minjeong, and now, the fabric frays from overuse.
“You have to take that off before we pull in,” Jimin reminds her.
Minjeong pouts. “Won’t they think it’s cute we share clothes?” she questions before breaking out into a blinding grin. “I think it’s cute that we share clothes,” she confesses proudly, batting her eyelashes at Jimin.
Jimin snorts.
Minjeong is spending her first Christmas without her family this year. As it turns out, an all-inclusive cruise for three had been won, and with her brother just getting promoted at his job, her parents decided to take him. She’s not mad, honestly, because now it means she gets to spend Christmas with Jimin, instead.
Minjeong goes home every time they have more than a two-day break from classes; she’s never around long enough to realise that Jimin doesn’t go, too. Minjeong comes back with an armful of gifts for Jimin from her family, and Jimin nearly cries every time. Minjeong wants to see her face when they, for the first time, can actually exchange gifts on Christmas Day.
Jimin had said no at first, the excuses endless and increasingly ridiculous.
You wouldn’t like my family. You’re a better cook than my mom. You’d have to go to church, and you're sort of Buddhist, is that not sacrilegious?
In the end, pleading puppy eyes and pouty pink lips won, and now, here they are, driving to Jimin’s childhood home in two completely different moods.
“Do you have any favorite Christmas memories?” Minjeong asks curiously before breathing onto her window to draw a crude but cute snowman on the glass.
Jimin catches the action out of the corner of her eye. She should reprimand Minjeong, as she now can’t see out of her right side-view mirror at all, which is unbelievably dangerous, but she’s never really had the heart to scold the younger woman. “Favorite memories?” she replies, eyebrows knitting together in genuine confusion.
Minjeong giggles sweetly, punching Jimin’s shoulder, the jolt almost causing Jimin to swerve into the next lane. “Yeah, idiot,” Minjeong starts, still giggling. “You know, like, carolling, baking cookies?” Minjeong continues, and then she starts to ramble. “One time my dad forgot to take my gingerbread house out of the oven before we went ice skating, so when we came back, there was a small fire in the–” Minjeong cuts herself off with her own laugh, boisterously loud and bubbly.
Jimin is too busy racking her brains trying to come up with one of her own to question why Minjeong is entertained by starting her own housefire. Not that she’s too shocked, because Minjeong can seem to find the slightest flicker of light in the darkest of places. Jimin’s really struggling, gnawing at her bottom lip until she tastes iron blooming on her tongue.
She’s never liked the idea of letting Minjeong down. Maybe it’s because she’s a year older and feels responsible, to some degree, for Minjeong’s happiness. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t want Minjeong to stop following her around all starry-eyed, bragging to her friends and family about her cool best friend. Whatever the reason, Jimin keeps searching through the thin file in her brain titled ‘family memories’, just to make sure Minjeong smiles.
“Oh!” Jimin says triumphantly, snapping her fingers with her free hand. “One year, my father was home from overseas travel, and we all ate together on the 25th.” A real, genuine grin finds its way to Jimin’s face as she recalls it.
Seventeen-year-old Jimin drinking wine for the first time, her father allowing emotion to cross his features, her mother cooking instead of paying someone else to do it, and her sister giving Jimin a gift she actually put some thought into. The feeling of her father’s arms wrapping around her in a warm embrace, the taste of something homemade and prepared with care, and the sound of her older sister reminding Jimin that she loves her.
Minjeong’s smaller frame deflates. “That’s your favorite memory?” she questions, almost a mumble, uncharacteristically quiet. “I thought you loved Christmas…”
Jimin’s heart sinks underneath the highway she’s driving down. She doesn’t mind Christmas, but loves it? That’s a little far.
She likes Christmas when she’s with Minjeong, a longtime lover of the holiday. When Minjeong force-feeds Jimin her eighth batch of gingerbread cookies, when Minjeong kicks Jimin out of their apartment for three hours so she can concentrate on wrapping her gifts without distraction, when Minjeong falls asleep on the couch halfway through the cheesy, awful Christmas movie she begged Jimin to watch with her. Jimin’s never been a fan of romcoms, but Minjeong loves them, so she tries to indulge, and it always makes her laugh whenever Minjeong’s soft snores fill the room.
She likes Christmas when it’s just the two of them in their apartment, the day before Minjeong leaves to be with her family. Clad in their matching pyjama sets, huddled on the floor around whatever small, artificial tree they could afford, exchanging their gifts. Just the two of them.
“My family just aren’t that big on Christmas,” Jimin says instead, something she’s tried and failed to instil into Minjeong for days now.
Minjeong hums in acknowledgement, a hand still languidly placed on Jimin’s thigh.
⋆.˚
The closer they get, the tighter Jimin grips the steering wheel. Now, as they drive down Jimin’s street, she thinks she might pull a muscle in her shoulder from how tight her body is wound. It’s like she’s trying to go headfirst through the windshield, ramrod straight in her seat. Minjeong does her best; really, the hand on Jimin’s thigh now traces soothing patterns with a purpose, or massages the muscle.
It helps.
Minjeong’s appreciative whistle cuts through the noise inside Jimin’s head. “This area…” she trails off, eyebrows knitting together as she tries to place the word she’s searching for.
Jimin has a few of her own. “Uptight, snotty?” she mutters under her breath, but Minjeong hears it, anyway.
“I was going to say nice,” Minjeong says with a cute giggle.
Nice? Jimin isn’t so sure. She casts a swift glance around the street she grew up on. Sure, her car travels smoothly down the road, not even a stray piece of gravel creating friction against her tyres. Fine, maybe the sidewalks are well-maintained with not a single speck of litter, illuminated by modern lampposts, a bright white light showing Jimin the route home. Okay, steel gates that separate Mercedes and lavish houses from the rest of the street do look swanky.
There are pretty rose bushes, too, but Jimin knows from experience their thorns cut deep.
Minjeong thinks it’s beautiful, Jimin thinks it’s artificial. It looks just as it did years ago, still pretty in a way, but stagnant–like still water. Beautiful on the surface, serene without ripples, but hiding malicious pathogens festering underneath. Or, a fake Christmas tree that can never wither and wilt, or grow. Jimin knows there’s one in the entrance of her family home, and in the living room, too.
Nice still feels like the wrong adjective to use, but Jimin doesn’t press the matter any further. Jimin flicks the turn signal for the final time after driving for another minute, reaching the gates of her childhood home, which opens instantly once the scanner notes Jimin’s license plate. Jimin raises an eyebrow; she hadn’t expected that to happen–she doesn’t ever remember giving her parents that.
Minjeong, uncharacteristically quiet until now, notices. “I called your mom a few days ago,”
“Why?” Jimin asks, attempting to park the car a few spaces away from her father’s beloved Porsche. He must be away on international travel, Jimin thinks, because he always brings it to work. She hates that her heart still sinks, even though she predicted this would happen. He’s never home, not really, physically absent, and emotionally so whenever he does happen to be inside the premises.
“I wanted to make sure she knew I was actually coming,” Minjeong teases, a little snarky, but entirely playful. One of her many moods, and probably Jimin’s favorite. It breathes fresh air into the stillness hanging between them, and maybe that had been what was fogging up the windows all along–the tension they’ve found themselves dancing around the last few days.
Jimin doesn’t want to be here. Minjeong knows that, but she’s determined to make this a Christmas Jimin will never forget. She knows exactly how.
“I deserve that,” Jimin admits defeat with a small smile as she switches the engine off. “You ready?” she asks as she turns to Minjeong, releasing a shaky exhale.
Minjeong rolls her eyes gently. “Much more than you, obviously.”
Her behaviour elicits a hearty laugh from Jimin; it often does, but it can’t quite ease all of the tension in Jimin’s body. Minjeong taps her thigh, coaxing Jimin to look at her, which she reluctantly does. Minjeong can see the wear and tear of anxiety present on Jimin’s usually coherent and calm appearance. Dark circles under her eyes that she’s trying to cover with her glasses, even though she has preferred contacts as of late. Fingers twitching in her lap, flicking at the rosary ring, a self-soothing gesture that now leaves her skin red and raw, angry.
Minjeong’s heart tugs, confined by her ribs, like it wants to leap out of her and reach Jimin’s skin itself. She takes the twitching fingers and clasps her larger hands around them, squeezing gently, but Jimin feels the comfort in her bones. “It’s going to be okay,” Minjeong reassures her, a warm smile on her pretty pink lips. “And if it’s not, I’ll make it okay, alright?” She squeezes Jimin’s fingers hard.
Jimin nods, not trusting her voice, something large and sharp caught in her throat.
“Besides,” Minjeong continues with a grin, eyes glinting in the darkness. “You’ve got me, you’re bound to have a good time.” She finishes, tracing a finger tip across Jimin’s taut knuckles.
Jimin suppresses a shudder; it’s so cold, even with warmth radiating off of Minjeong and her touch. Jimin rolls her eyes, but a small smile manages to break its way through, anyway.
As much as she wants to keep sweet, angelic Minjeong away from her family, as if she’s ashamed, Jimin’s very grateful that she’s here. Minjeong has been a constant source of light in her life over the last few years, and Jimin thinks she’s more than lucky to have her as her best friend.
Minjeong matches her perfectly, in almost every way.
“Let’s go?” Minjeong suggests, but it’s more of a prompt than a question. Jimin nods, still a little shaky, but she can’t feel her toes, and they can’t sit in this car for much longer without getting frostbite.
They get out of the car, Minjeong linking their arms as soon as Jimin is by her side. It’s natural, and it warms Jimin from the inside out. However, Jimin’s expression quickly morphs into one of confusion upon walking up to the house.
It looks almost entirely the same.
An imposing, dark brown front door made out of thick oak. If Jimin strains her ears, she thinks she can hear the last time she slammed it ringing through the night. Strong, white pillars holding up the outer foyer, decorated with the same cobblestone steps Jimin can remember scraping her knees on. Large windows with striking black accents, an elegant, cookie-cutter house for a picture-perfect family.
Except, there’s one thing out of place, one thing that’s raising Jimin’s eyebrows. A wreath, hanging proudly in all of its festive greenery, dotted with striking red baubles and a cute red bow, right at the top. Actually, Jimin realises somewhat belatedly that there are two new additions to her house. Under the top step before the door, a bit of mistletoe hangs.
What the fuck?
Minjeong shivers beside her, tugging on a frozen-in-place Jimin’s arm. “Can you hurry up and ring the doorbell already?” she whines impatiently, very close to stamping her feet.
Before Jimin gets a chance to reply, to reassure her pouty best friend they’ll be warm and cosy very soon, the unmistakable sound of the deadbolt unlocking, clicks of metal Jimin could place anywhere, interrupts her. Jimin’s heart pounds in her ears, her pulse thumping across every inch of her body, trembling in places she never knew could tremble, everything suddenly piling up on her until–
“Jimin! Minjeong!” her mother calls, far too jolly even for this time of year.
And then, a much deeper voice, gruff, like hers, smoothness chipped away by the years. “We’re so glad you two made it.”
Her father.
Jimin’s head snaps up to focus on the entrance to her childhood home so fast it’s a miracle she didn’t snap it. She blinks once, then twice, to make sure that both her eyes and ears are not deceiving her, but no, there they are.
Her mother has her hand wrapped around the door frame, and her father stands a few inches behind her. Both in winning, warm smiles Jimin hasn’t seen in over a decade, and in matching Christmas sweaters.
Again, what the fuck?
“Do you plan on freezing out here all night?” Minjeong hisses, subtly elbowing Jimin in the ribs, before grinning, letting go of Jimin and bounding towards her parents and a house with working heating. “Mr and Mrs Yu!” Minjeong beams, pulling both of them into a firm hug despite being a good few inches shorter than both of them. “It’s so nice to finally meet you both!”
Jimin’s mouth is practically on the cobblestone steps, and she almost chokes on her own spit when her father, Her Father, wraps large arms around Minjeong and reciprocates the hug so fiercely it lifts Minjeong off the ground. Her mother watches them both with a small laugh and a look that Jimin can’t quite place, seemingly foreign on her mother, before smothering Minjeong with her own hug.
Standing in the cold in her own foyer, looking at parents who seem to have undergone a lobotomy fawning over her best friend, Jimin feels entirely and completely alien. After a few beats, Jimin’s body finally remembers how to move, and she shuffles into her house awkwardly, sliding past Minjeong and her parents. She removes her coat and shoes without a word, hoping to slip out of the entrance silently.
It doesn’t work.
With her father still talking animatedly to Minjeong, Jimin’s mother is on her in seconds, placing a hand on Jimin’s forehead with such force that Jimin nearly topples over her shoes and straight into the coat rack.
“Still so clumsy,” her mother chastises with a click of her tongue. Okay, maybe they haven’t had a lobotomy, Jimin thinks. “God, you’re so cold!” Jimin’s mother continues, snatching her coat out of Jimin’s hands, fussing over her completely. “Go warm up by the fire, I’ll take care of your things.”
Jimin stares at her like she’s grown a second head, but her mother pays her no mind, starting to shoo her into the living room. Jimin sits on one of the white leather couches rather stiffly, noticing the real fire blazing between the marble. The last time she was in this room, they had an artificial one instead. Jimin draws closer to the flame, focusing on the crackle of wood splintering. The heat expelled feels rawer, more real, as it nips at Jimin’s exposed forearms.
Am I in the wrong house?
Minjeong bounces into the room, collapsing by Jimin’s side, who is still crouched, staring at the fire in wonder. “You never saw fire before?” Minjeong teases, bumping her shoulder.
“Not in this house,” Jimin mumbles, sounding a little lost.
Minjeong, somehow, seems to hear what lingers underneath Jimin’s words. “It’s nice though, right?” she says gently, tucking a strand of hair out of Jimin’s face. “And you look very nice with the flame shining on your skin,” she adds, tapping a finger on Jimin’s nose before resting herself on her palms.
Jimin feels her body flush with heat, and not from the fire. Minjeong’s always been like this, touchy, complimentary, and it’s always made Jimin’s cheeks redden. There’s an added layer of something Jimin can’t figure out, with Minjeong doing it in her childhood home, with her parents in the next room. She feels almost ashamed of her blush.
“Have you two eaten?” Jimin’s father calls as he enters the room, and Jimin puts a bit of space between her and Minjeong. She feels so awkward with him standing there, watching her with a little smile on his face, like this isn’t the first conversation she’s had with him in 3 years.
Jimin can’t even look at him, let alone speak. Minjeong replies for her. “Yup, Jimin cooked for us before we left,” she says proudly, and Jimin’s stomach does that thing again.
“You any better than when you were a kid, Jimin?” her father jokes casually, and the memory hits Jimin like a freight train.
She’s thirteen, and it’s her father's birthday. He spends all day at work, as per usual, always a fire he needed to ice out there. Jimin decides to cook for him, a surprise at the end of the day. Her mother tastes it when it’s done, says it’s terrible, but Jimin is steadfast that she’ll serve it to him. The dinner is cold by the time he comes home, but he eats it anyway, and Jimin can still hear his voice when he thanks her for her hard work.
It’s one of her only memories of her father from that year, and a flicker of anger ripples underneath her skin. Why is he bringing that up? Does he think he can mention one of the limited interactions they’ve had over the course of her life and she’d, what, run and jump into his arms?
Minjeong looks at her expectantly, but not with judgment, as she waits for a response. “I’d say she’s pretty good,” Minjeong offers to her father with a giggle when Jimin’s lips remain pressed in a tight line. Jimin’s father laughs heartily, and Jimin has to stop herself from physically flinching.
“Your mom cooked dinner just in case, so if you get hungry during the night, just look in the main fridge,” he says warmly.
Jimin’s eyes go wide. “She cooked?”
Her mother walks into the room, joining her husband by the staircase that matches the marble fireplace. “Sure, I did,” she replies, sporting a look of confusion. “I’ve told you a few times on the phone that I’ve gotten back into it,” her mother almost pouts, and Jimin feels a wave of shame wash over her.
Had she really, and Jimin had just been too busy wishing for the conversation to end to even notice? An apology scrapes and sticks in Jimin’s throat, but it doesn’t seem like her mother was looking for one, checking her watch with a startled look. “Wow, it’s late, I’m sure you two want to rest, right?”
Jimin nods dumbly, exhaustion anchoring her bones.
“Well, we shall see the two of you in the morning!” her mother beams. She walks over to the two of them for reasons Jimin is not privy to, but Minjeong herself stands up, meeting her mother in a hug Jimin seems to have missed all the cues for. Jimin tries to reciprocate when it’s her turn, but her body is stiff, rigid, and her arms only loosely hang around her mother’s shoulders. “We have a busy day tomorrow, so get a lot of rest, okay?” her mother says, before pressing a small kiss to Jimin’s cheek.
Jimin is stunned; her mother hasn’t done that since she was a very little girl. It takes her a second to process, but when she does, there’s a question on the tip of her tongue. “Where’s Minjeong sleeping?” Jimin asks.
Her mother pokes her head out of the kitchen, an eyebrow raised. “In your bed, I presume?”
Jimin is sent reeling. “W-what?” she splutters, earning a small giggle from Minjeong, who stands over her with a shit-eating grin. “Are none of the guest rooms set up?” she questions, scrambling for a reason not to have Minjeong in her childhood bed.
Her mother stands in the doorway now, hands on her hips, looking at Jimin, stuttering on the floor, like she left her brain in the car. “I’m sure Minjeong would much rather be with you in your bed.”
Now, Jimin feels like she’s running a fever.
Before she can protest any further, because, seriously, what on earth is her mother talking about, Minjeong’s voice cuts across the room, sickenly sweet. “I’d love to share a room with Jiminie, thank you, Mrs Yu!”
Jimin’s mother beams at Minjeong before sending Jimin a concerned look. “Are you feeling alright, honey?” she asks.
In all honesty, no, Jimin is absolutely not feeling alright. Her parents are playing a perfect parent simulator, which is confusing enough on its own, and now her mother is suggesting she share her childhood bed with her best friend, as if they are not both in their twenties and don’t have four guest bedrooms at their disposal.
What the absolute fuck is going on?
⋆.˚
After washing up, Jimin leads Minjeong to her bedroom on shaky legs. Minjeong had cooed over teenage Jimin’s idea of decorating, fairy lights and band posters she shamefully still listens to, and left to change.
Jimin finds herself sitting bolt upright on her own bed, waiting for Minjeong to come out of the bathroom. It’s like she doesn’t know how to exist outside of the shorter girl, yet the idea of her being in here, sleeping in here, makes her skin crawl a little. Minjeong, in her clothes because they were too lazy to grab their suitcases, sleeping soundly underneath her blankets, drooling onto her pillows, and cuddling up with her plushies. Jimin lets her mind wander.
What plushie will she pick? How big will my shirt look on her? What side of the bed does she prefer?
The image looks so intimate, Jimin isn’t sure it’s something she’s supposed to see when she thinks about her best friend. They live together, sure, but they have separate rooms, and Jimin can’t recall the last time she was even in Minjeong’s room back home.
“Why do you look like a re-animated zombie?” Minjeong jokes as she opens the door, bouncing over and flinging herself onto Jimin’s bed, lying completely on her back.
Jimin doesn’t move. “Just tired,” she explains, fiddling with the drawstrings of her own shorts.
Minjeong gives her a dry chuckle, bumping Jimin’s thigh with her calf. “I know when you're lying, you know that, right?”
Jimin snorts; she does, Minjeong has told her many times.
“I know this is a lot for you,” Minjeong says, reaching up to rub Jimin’s back. “And I know you don’t want to talk about it,” She continues, tracing a smiley face over Jimin’s warm skin. “But when you do, I’m here.”
Jimin hums in thanks, leaning into the touch. She thinks it’s crazy that someone she’s known for such a short amount of time knows her so well, inside and out.
Minjeong lets her have it for a few minutes, relishes in the way Jimin’s body sags, tension dissipating. “What side do you want to take?”
Jimin blinks, having lost herself to the soothing sensation of Minjeong’s palm. “Huh?”
“Of the bed, dumbass,” Minjeong says as she sits up, sending Jimin a wry grin. “Or would you rather we just cuddle?” she teases, resulting in a hard shove from Jimin, sending her flat onto the bed.
“Stop,” Jimin warns in mock seriousness. She leans over Minjeong and starts to tickle her sides, a sure-fire way to get Minjeong to listen and agree with her, no matter what Jimin says. The actions earn a shriek from Minjeong, followed by a breathless laugh. Jimin always thinks Minjeong looks the prettiest like this, entirely carefree, smiling so wide it must hurt her cheeks.
“Okay! I’ll stop!” Minjeong practically screams, batting Jimin away with her hands, still laughing.
“Just pick your favorite,” Jimin says as she relents her attack. She’d go on for longer, in all honesty, but Minjeong is reaching a fever pitch, and she’s a little worried about the volume. Besides, she’s really so exhausted, her limbs heavy as she tries to stretch. She feels completely drained, emotionally and physically.
Minjeong’s chest heaves, but she still lets out an incredulous sound. “It’s your bed,” Minjeong points out, shoving a finger into Jimin’s chest gently. “You pick!”
“I usually just sleep in the middle,” Jimin admits, starting to peel back the covers, eager to finally sleep.
But then, Minjeong grins so bright that Jimin can see it, even in the dark, and it’s like a spark re-ignites in Jimin’s chest. “So, you do want to cuddle?” she teases, the grin morphing into a slick smirk as Jimin whines in embarrassment.
Jimin throws a pillow at Minjeong’s head.
⋆.˚