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It’s eerie, this apartment of theirs is.
It’s located right in the middle of the city, up in a high-rise building for the rich and the famous. Every one of their neighbours are socialites, actors, models, producers, artists… It’s a home for all the people who crave the limelight, who crave the money, who crave the saccharine taste of fame.
And yet, Jimin thinks, the apartment is still so eerie.
He belongs here, in this swanky apartment with six rooms and a first-class view of the city skyline, with all the other elite folk that live on their floor, but it’s eerie. It’s eerie, sometimes, when it’s just him alone and all the little souvenirs perched on the shelves seem as if they’re staring holes into his back. He tells Yoongi to get rid of them, or put them in a spare room where he can’t see, but still they stay there and it’s eerie.
It’s not that he has any problem with them, really. He loves Yoongi, and loving Yoongi means loving everything he owns, so he doesn’t mind when a newer item is pushed onto the shelves next to the older ones. But when Yoongi is away, collecting more to display as prizes in their apartment up in a high-rise building for the rich and the famous, he thinks they’re kind of eerie. Spooky. Creepy, if you will, because although Yoongi collects them and they’re up on the shelves now, they weren’t always there in the beginning.
“You’ll get used to them,” Yoongi promises sometimes, when he brings a new one home. Jimin likes him best like this, when they’re hugging at the door, because Yoongi smells like fresh blood and the scent is intoxicating. “Don’t worry, they’re not going to bite.”
And they don’t, but it takes time for Jimin to get used to them. He doesn’t know the stories behind most of the others, like the necklace of fake diamonds or the revolver that doesn’t work anymore, so it takes a while to get used to them but there’s always been one that he doesn’t mind having. That he doesn’t mind seeing. It’s the only thing he recognizes, out of all the others on the shelves, and he thinks it’s become something of a favourite of his.
It’s a watch, and it’s not eerie at all. A Rolex, one of those limited-editions that only the top 0.1% of the world can readily afford, and Jimin loves the feel of it between his fingers. Loves the ridges, the smooth metal, the silent ticking of the clock hands, and maybe it’s enough to outweigh the eeriness of everything else. Maybe, for all that it’s worth.
It was expensive. Rare. Hard to acquire. But Jimin knows that its worth doesn’t stop there; it’s familiar, it’s his favourite one, because the story behind it is the only one he’s ever been part of.
And the story goes like this: the watch used to belong to his ex-fiancé.
His name was Jeon Jeongguk, and he was rich. The heir to a world-famous conglomerate, and Jimin had known him for as long as he could remember.
He hadn’t known it then, but their parents were looking for a way to officially announce their partnership, to legally bind it with something stronger than words, and it was perfect. Jimin and Jeongguk, they were the cream of the crop, children of the richest men in South Korea, and they were perfect.
They were given rings, matching rings adorned with priceless gems and engravings of their initials, and they were pretty. Nice on his finger, Jimin used to think, until he grew old enough to realise that it wasn’t sitting prettily there for nothing. No one would let him take it off, not even if he were alone or asleep, and it became somewhat of a chain. Shackles, holding him down and letting freedom slip through his grasp.
Jeongguk hadn’t wanted to go through with it either, at first, but that changed. He changed, and it was terrifying. Here was a man who would tie him to the bed, who would lock him up in their room for days on end, who would slap him and bruise him and punch him and use him and Jimin didn’t want a life like that. He didn’t want to have a life where he was only half-living, half-surviving every day. Jimin’s parents didn’t know that, they couldn’t have known that and Jimin doesn’t blame them, has never blamed them, but he needed to get away. He didn’t want to live just half a life so he took off the ring and showed the world his empty finger.
He showed the world his empty finger, and he’d gotten hell for it.
Hell. He’d gotten hell in the corner of a little alleyway just behind Jeongguk’s main company building, and it had hurt. The pain was blinding, maddening, sickening, breaking his bones and marring his skin, and it was hell. He’d seen red, the corners of his vision blurring, as Jeongguk swung the metal bat that would smash his head into smithereens.
He’d closed his eyes, waiting for the end to come, because really, he’d rather it all end than live a life such as this, but it never came. Yoongi came, though, and that’s when all the magic happened.
Min Yoongi came into his life and turned all the fear into magic. Dark magic, sinister magic, but magic nonetheless. His magic is in the way he kills, and the way he kills for pleasure, the sick kind of pleasure one finds in leaving their victim in a pool of their own blood. He’s evil, he’s psychotic, and he’s a little fucked up in the head, but he comes into Jimin’s life and brings magic with him, and it’s enough. It’s enough, because without his dark, sinister magic, Jeon Jeongguk wouldn’t be in a casket buried six feet underground, and Jimin wouldn’t be free.
He still remembers it, the entrancing way Yoongi had sliced his skin. Stab after stab after stab, and Yoongi was laughing. A shrill laughter, so happy with what he was doing, that still lingers in Jimin’s ears to this very day.
“Come with me, I’ll get you patched up,” Yoongi had said, after Jeongguk’s body had dropped cold on the concrete floor. Jimin had slowly gotten up, wincing at the sharp pain of his broken rib, and he’d seen a glimpse of his saviour unclasping the Rolex from Jeongguk’s wrist before he was whisked away into a world of colour.
Now, four years later, the Rolex is still in their possession.
The doorbell rings, bringing Jimin back to the present, and he clambers to the door in cautious steps. It’s late, just past 2 AM, and nobody else would ever ring the doorbell at a time like this, but Jimin has learnt from years of being at Yoongi’s side never to let his guard down, and now’s not the time to stop doing just that.
There’s a little screen next to the door, where it shows live footage of a miniscule camera just outside their apartment. The man outside takes off his cap, as if aware of Jimin’s presence behind the door, and Jimin smiles because who else would it be, other than Yoongi?
“Hey,” he whispers, after he opens the door for the older man to step in. Yoongi smiles at him, softly and void of any madness that might have been on his face before. “You look kind of tired.”
Yoongi chuckles, and gathers Jimin into his arms, his grip tight and secure. It’s nice, and the eeriness is gone. The eeriness always goes away when Yoongi comes home. “Yeah, I guess so. Little lamb put up a bit of a fight.”
Jimin frowns, and there is concern there, as he runs his eyes on Yoongi’s figure to check for any injuries. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?” he asks.
Yoongi brings them to the living room, where the shelves are. The prizes are there, of course, and some of them glint slightly in the dim light as if awaiting the newest addition. “Of course I didn’t, baby. Who would I be, if I did?” Yoongi kisses Jimin’s forehead lightly, setting him down onto the couch so he can take out his newest trophy from one of the pockets of his suit.
“What is it this time?” Jimin asks, leaning over to have a glimpse. “Something I might find interesting?”
Yoongi grins, and holds it out for Jimin to see clearly. It’s a snow globe, small, fitting snugly in his hand. The little wooden cabin inside it is dainty and elaborate and covered in snow and Jimin thinks it’s nothing short of beautiful.
There’s a bit of blood on it though, a little stain somewhere in the glass, and it should be slightly worrying. He should worry, but really, it’s nothing that Jimin can’t fix.
“You should clean that,” Yoongi prompts, and Jimin sighs. It’s become a sort of arrangement of theirs; Yoongi will collect, to put more on the shelf, and Jimin will be there when he gets home, ready to clean any traces of murder on the things he brings back.
“I’m tired, though,” he mutters, pressing his face to Yoongi’s chest. “It was so busy today, and Taehyung fucked up on some of the paperwork again.”
The elder laughs, and it doesn’t fail to fill Jimin with a little bit of warmth. “That happens every day. And anyway, he wouldn’t be giving you so much grief if you didn’t make him CFO like, what, a year ago or something?”
“Yeah,” Jimin sighs, leaning in closer to him. “A year. I’ve had to deal with him for a year.”
“That’s what you get, though, for giving your best friend a position like that.”
“Ugh, yeah, I guess it is.”
It’s nice, really, the way they see each other again after they finish their work, the way they greet each other at the door, the way their days end. It’s domestic, kind, forgiving, the way Yoongi hugs him every day and makes him feel safe and secure, and there’s no evil there. Min Yoongi is an evil man, but never to Park Jimin.
“I’ll clean it tomorrow,” Jimin promises, taking Yoongi’s hand and entwining it with his own. “I don’t have to be in ‘til noon, that’s enough time to get rid of everything.”
“You better,” Yoongi threatens, but it’s soft. Gentle. Like he wouldn’t really do anything if Jimin didn’t clean the damn thing. He doesn’t even have to, Yoongi can do it himself, but Jimin likes to take the items Yoongi brings back home and hold them just enough to make them feel like they’re his, like they’ve always been his, even though it doesn’t really help the eeriness go away much.
“Come on, then, let’s go to bed,” Jimin urges, getting up from the couch and pulling Yoongi up with him. He’ll have to clean everything tomorrow—the couch, their clothes, Yoongi’s shoes, the doorbell, their bedsheets, the floor, everything Yoongi touches tonight. The snow globe is brought with them, to stand on disposable plastic at their bedside table so no traces of evidence ooze into the wood. It’s a risky practice, bringing little things like this back home that could incriminate them, but Yoongi likes the thrill and Jimin thinks he might like it, too.
Yoongi changes into more comfortable clothes, and falls into bed with Jimin like he does every night. It’s domestic, the way they do it, the way their limbs tangle together and their hearts beat as one beneath the fabric of their shared comforter, and Jimin wouldn’t have it any other way. There is no discomfort, no resounding slaps, no muffled sobbing as they hold each other like they’re holding the world, because those were all things of the past and Jeongguk’s limited-edition Rolex is sitting innocently on one of the shelves in the living room.
“Was it anyone I knew?” Jimin asks. He doesn’t ask because he’s concerned, or because he’s scared. Yoongi kills for pleasure, for the thrill, for the enjoyment, but he never kills for nothing. His murders are justified, and that’s why Jimin loves him so much. “Anyone important?”
“It was this guy,” and there’s a flicker there, in Yoongi’s eye, something animalistic and mad. But it’s never directed at him, and he likes that so much. “Might’ve been after you, but I don’t think you knew him. You’re important, baby, I gotta protect you.” The arms wrapped around Jimin tighten slightly, and it’s safe, secure, never eerie.
“Thank you, love,” Jimin’s smile is present even in his words. “I appreciate that.”
“You know, I was gonna visit you today,” Yoongi continues, kissing the crown of Jimin’s head. “Then I saw him, and he looked so damn suspicious. But there’re loads of suspicious guys out there, you know, so I just let him be. But then I saw the gun in his coat pocket just sitting there so obviously, and then I saw which floor he was headed for, so I got worried.”
“You were careful, weren’t you?” Jimin whispers, snuggling into Yoongi’s chest and lying his face against his collarbone. “No one saw you?”
“Nah,” the elder answers. He’s running a hand through Jimin’s hair, softly, and it feels so nice. “I reported him to the lady at the front desk, made it look like I was just leaving. He was escorted out, even though no one else saw the damn gun in his pocket. I dealt with him soon enough, though.”
Jimin pouts. “As long as no one suspects you.”
The lights go out. They fall asleep like that, limbs tangled together and hearts beating as one, breathing the same air, and it’s bright outside when Jimin finally wakes up. Yoongi’s in the kitchen already, preparing breakfast and dressed for work at the hospital.
He thinks it’s slightly ironic, sometimes, that Yoongi works as a psychiatrist when he himself is in desperate need of therapy. He’s mad, crazily so, but he hides it well and that’s why Jimin loves him so much. He guesses that maybe it’s part of the reason why Yoongi is so successful at his job; he knows what goes through his patients’ heads, and he knows how to fix them. He knows how to fix himself, even. He just doesn’t want to.
“I’m heading off,” he announces, just as Jimin walks into the kitchen. He smiles at him in that smile he reserves just for him, for the mornings, for the moments just after Jimin has woken up, because he knows that Jimin is never so happy this early in the day. “Stay safe.”
“Okay,” Jimin mumbles, still half-asleep, but grins wide when Yoongi pecks him on the lips. “You too. Did you wash up properly?”
“Of course I did,” Yoongi says, gently, as Jimin fixes his crooked tie. “Love you, baby.”
“Love you too,” Jimin says, holding Yoongi’s face for a moment. And Yoongi lets him, he always lets him, because it’s Jimin and he’ll always let him touch him, no matter how crazy he feels in his own skin.
Jimin takes his hands away from Yoongi’s face, just smiling at him because he’s lucky. He’s lucky, because with Yoongi, it’s never eerie, it’s never unsettling, it’s never unsafe. Yoongi is dangerous, a walking nightmare, someone he shouldn’t love, someone he shouldn’t know and someone he shouldn’t live with but Jimin can’t care less. Not when whenever he looks at him, at the madness and the evilness and the psychotic flashes behind his eyes, he sees love.
Yoongi presses his lips to Jimin’s fingers, fleeting and paper-thin and lost quickly to the air. He presses his lips to the band on Jimin’s finger, binding them together in life and in death, and Jimin revels in it before he has to push Yoongi away fondly.
“You should go,” he urges, because the sun is almost rising. “You’ll be late for work, at this rate.”
“Fine,” but Yoongi isn’t mad, he’s never mad. “I’ll be home early today.”
Jimin’s heart leaps, and he loves it. “Then I’ll make sure to cook for two.”
Yoongi walks out the door, car keys in hand. The eeriness seeps in again, from their trophies, but as Jimin sets about to clean the invisible fingerprints and traces of blood almost everywhere in the house, he finds that he doesn’t really mind.