Yoongi exists at nights.

He is alive between the hours of eight, two hours after his shift at restaurant ends, and five in the morning, when the sun breaks the dark continuity of the sky. His pale skin glows under the fluorescent glow of downtown Seoul. Smoke fills his lungs and accompanies the alcohol that thrums thorough his veins and warms his throat. ‘Pick your poison’ the bartender asks him, and he laughs because anything can kill you, so why should alcohol be treated any differently? There’s a 1 in 242 chance that he could die in a car but only a 1 in 3.4 million that he will die in a plane so statistically speaking he should sit in that bar instead of calling for a cab to take him home. So yeah, give him the one in the brown bottle with the red star on the label, he hasn’t tried it before, maybe it will kill him sooner. Or maybe it won’t. Maybe he’ll live forever.

There are people everywhere, anywhere. They are other creatures of the night that try to forget their mediocrity in the heavy bass thumping from the speakers in small dark rooms. They curse at their bosses, their jobs, their families, the people who never gave a damn about them because they didn’t live up to some unrealistic expectations. Because instead of going to law school they got an art degree and work freelance for magazines with a barista job on the side. It hardly pays enough for rent, but they’re happy, they’re young and happy and why don’t their parents understand. Why don’t they call and ask: How are you?

When are you coming home?

Yoongi, talk to me.

 He wouldn’t answer the phone, but it would be nice if they called. If they pretended to care. Any sign to show that they still think about him.

He performs on a stage, tastes someone backstage, and then spends the hours before dawn hanging off of a friend’s shoulder s and laughing into the face of the upper class of society. They can’t hear him. They avoid him. But still he laughs at them. Because he is alive, he is young and indestructible and who needs eight hours of sleep when the black polluted sky is your home and embraces you in the lengthening nights with what’s left of the warm summer air. And when it’s early in the morning and he’s obnoxiously shouting with his friends, the middle aged women on the subway shouldn’t glare at him, unlike them, he knows what youth is, it’s that reckless abandon and the prayer for your phone so that it will still be lying on the counter where you left it that afternoon and not by the toilet you were hugging not even an hour ago. What are they even doing on the trains this early anyway? They don’t have their office jobs to get to at nine in the morning? Really? Why are you here?

Why are you here? The boy shrugs his shoulders. From the far away smoky haze of the club, he was an enticing silhouette against the backdrop sea of dancers. But here, with his chest pressed against Yoongi’s and his fingers threaded through his hair, he looks a thousand years younger. And then he smirks, and he’s again old enough to be attractive. Yoongi slides his hands down his back and settles them on his hips, he can feel every roll of his body, every rhythm and finds himself mesmerized by the sweat building up under his bangs or the dark glazed over look in his eyes. And because he’s invincible Yoongi lets himself be shoved against the wall and closes his eyes as soft, needy lips claim his own.

The music is too heavily synthesized and the bass is too low and it’s getting hard to breathe, but Yoongi is completely comfortable with this. This is his world.  He tastes the whiskey in the kid’s mouth and thanks the dark ruse of the night for covering the scars on his wrist, and the imperfections on his face, and he thanks the night for giving him the bravery he doesn’t have during the day.

~~

Jimin exists in mornings. He enjoys waking up early and jogging when the city is just starting to wake up. Where the ground is still slightly wet and it’s just cold enough that he has to wear a sweater when his sneakers slap against concrete. It’s surprising, but in a city so full of people, he enjoys it best when it’s near empty.

When he returns to his apartment, the boy is still buried in the sheets. His hair is mussed up and his pale exposed skin has roses trailing down his neck and back. Jimin almost regrets leaving so many marks, almost. It’s the weekend, he should study for his Psychology final on Thursday, or maybe he could read the lecture slides the professor posted online. Instead, he showers. Then turns on the coffeemaker and begins making pancakes, he sure as hell isn’t going to let his guest leave without breakfast. It’s the least he could do.

Jimin sets the hot mug on the table next to the bed. He still isn’t awake. Jimin feels mischievous, so he pulls back the curtains, grinning, to let the sunlight flood the room. The coolness of the early morning was gone, now Seoul was warming and slowly, lazily, waking up. The light reveals the disarray state of the bed room, Jimin begins collecting the clothes scattered around the room.

The bedcover began moving, eventually revealing the guest hidden beneath it. Jimin mentally patted himself on the back, even after two shots he still had good taste. Pale hands rub at small still closed eyes, “God what time is it?”

“Almost ten.”

“That early, god,” he whines.

Jimin chuckles, “Coffee’s next to you, there are pancakes in the kitchen.”

He hums in affirmation.

Jimin piled pancakes on to his plate and went looking for syrup somewhere in the cabinets.

“Whoa, you actually cooked.”

Jimin turns to see him wearing one of his shirts from his high school wrestling team. “Help yourself.”

He forgoes the plate and eats the pancakes rolled up by hand. There was eyeliner smudged under his eyes and glitter from the club was still in his hair. “This is a nice place. Definitely the nicest one I’ve ever woken up at,” he said.

“Yeah?” Jimin finally found the syrup.

“Yeah, usually I end up in these really trashy apartments with graffiti on the walls. Then again, every other time I’ve woken up with my pants still on.”

Jimin chokes on his food. When he looks up again, the guy had a lazy grin covering his face and hiding his eyes. Jimin felt his cheeks heat up.

“Thanks for the food, and the coffee. It doesn’t do much for hangovers,” he teases as he walks out of the kitchen.

Jimin sat there and contemplated mornings, life, the universe, and crazy cat grins. He had groceries to buy and laundry to do and dishes to clean. He was deep in his thoughts he almost missed his guest leaving. The front door opening breaks his train of thought.

“Wait,” he runs out, almost tripping on the front rug. The guy raises an eyebrow at him, expectant. If Jimin squinted, he could see the messy hazy of the club and the flashing colors surrounding him. But now was morning, and mornings lit up every scar and freckle and the slight bags under his eyes. Jimin found him more attractive in this lighting.

Jimin crosses the distance separating them and attacks his mouth once more. He tastes like ash, alcohol, and a little bit of Jimin’s coffee but not enough. The whines weren’t as needy as before. He reciprocated, but it wasn’t sloppy, not like last night. But Jimin wasn’t this desperate last night. He didn’t cradle his head between two strong hands and press them as close as humanly possible. Even without the help of the wall their chests were still touching. Jimin could feel an eradicate heartbeat but couldn’t decipher to whom it belonged to, where Jimin began or he ended.

And when Jimin’s lungs threaten to burst, they break apart. Jimin’s hands slip from his face when he sees his expression, lost, confused, why? Why?

Because this was the morning, and mornings reveal everything in blinding light, and while Jimin prefers the honesty of day, he could see the fear in the strangers eyes.

So Jimin steps back, uncertain of what to do, because he has never done this before- the whole anonymous one night stand thing. He scratches the back of his head, “Have a safe trip home?”

He almost smiles back, more of a grimace, and says “Yeah, thanks.”

He closes the door. Jimin hears the diminishing sounds of his footsteps running down the hall. The final light step. And yet, Jimin’s pulse doesn’t slow down.

Fun fact: this story is exactly 1.5k (at least that's what Word told me, I'm not going to count to make sure) without trying. 

Also, this was the first competed Suga/Jimin story. YAY confetti for everyone!

The original ending had Yoongi leaving without a kiss but with Jimin's number sloppily written on the palm of his hand. This one, where he leaves as a stranger, felt more realistic to me.

Thanks for reading ^_^