Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

In relative terms, Yoongi was a little underdressed.

“In my defence, Namjoonie, the brief said comfortable and casual,” Yoongi put his arms up as his new employer approached him immediately, tugging him forward by the forearm, deeper into the room. It was chock full of staff members— makeup artists, schedulers, managers— and not a single one was in a t-shirt and jeans like Yoongi.

Namjoon, in an honest-to-god three-piece suit, managed a sigh, reaching up to massage his nose bridge. “You wore this shirt to our uni class reunion last week. The brief for that was smart casual.”

“So you get it then.”

In all honesty, Yoongi was just ecstatic that he wasn't at a job where he was required to wear shirts with buttons all the time. 

Namjoon poked Yoongi in the chest. “I got you this job because I love you, Yoongi. If I stop loving you, you will lose this job.”

Not a twitch, not a flinch materialised on Yoongi’s face, despite the severity of Namjoon’s expression. “That kind of job certainty is rare in this day and age.”

Namjoon gave a dismissive wave of his hand, taking a deep breath to compose himself. Yoongi was acutely aware of his being a patently obnoxious pain in the ass, but he knew, and Namjoon knew, he was right. Namjoon was too caring and worried about his college roomie to fire him for wearing a t-shirt. “Yeah, whatever.”

Leading Yoongi over to a table, he picked up a lanyard, an iPad, and a messenger bag. “Here. Your security clearance and key card’s on there,” he passed Yoongi the lanyard, “So, you know, don’t lose it.”

Yoongi made a show of putting it on, tapping it securely against his chest. 

“Here’s Jimin’s schedule. You’ll be by his side all day, so if at any point there’s no manager nearby to usher him around and he forgets a meeting, you’ll be the one to remind him. Got it?” 

Yoongi was half-listening to Namjoon, and half-surveying his surroundings. It was a bizarre peek behind the curtain— everyone was being so… loud. Boisterous, even. Chatting to each other in excited tones. It dawned upon Yoongi that the reason this was so bizarre was that in every behind-the-scenes YouTube video or livestream of an idol, these staff members were completely silent. The makeup artists would mime for the idols to turn their heads, the managers would mumble under their breaths to the leaders of the groups who’d then relay messages to the others. 

Here, though, they were more than that, more than wordless, faceless objects. People — moving, breathing, organic matter. 

“Yeah, got it,” he finally said, looking back at Namjoon, who seemed to be used to people having such stark realisations. Yoongi grabbed the iPad and the messenger bag — a nice, brown leather, Bangtan logo hidden under the flap. Subtle, just like Yoongi liked it. 

“Now, for the important stuff.” Namjoon grabbed Yoongi’s shoulders and looked down to force Yoongi to look up at him, to feel the weight of the intimidation that Namjoon’s height imposed. “You are mercy to Park Jimin’s every whim and fancy. You are at his beck and call. You do what he says, when he says, how he says.”

Yikes. “Yeah.”

Scrunching his face, immediately recognising the reticence in Yoongi's voice, Namjoon pressed on. “Yoongi. It’s 2am, you’re sleeping, and you get a call— and you pick up, because your phone is henceforth never on silent — Jimin says he wants a foot rub. You say?”

Yoongi grit his teeth and shook his shoulder to get Namjoon’s hand off. “I say, wow, personal assistants should really unionise.”

Namjoon’s eyes widened in a picture of pure horror. “No. No, Yoongi, you don’t say that. What do you say?”

Yoongi looked up at the white ceiling lights. “Yes, Your Highness. Do you need your ass wiped with that?”

“Just that first word is fine.” 

“Ugh.” Yoongi ran a hand through his hair, sucking at his teeth.

“Now, it's 11pm on a Saturday night and your dick is firmly buried inside a steaming hot twink you picked up from that new gay club down at Itaewon.”

“Mm,” Yoongi hummed pensively, “We all need some twink once in a while.”

“You get a call from Jimin saying he needs ramyeon but he can't go to the convenience store for fear of fans. You say?”

Deadpan, Yoongi murmured, “I'm coming, oh god I'm coming—”

“Yoongi.”

“I say, it would absolutely be my pleasure to tuck my suddenly-flaccid cock back into my pants and get you some fucking curry ramyeon.”

Namjoon sighed, the sort of sigh reserved for a 48-hour work day, the sort of sigh that said you see what I'm dealing with , and just nodded resignedly. “I think that's all I'm getting from you.”

He checked his watch and faced the stampede. “Team!” he bellowed, and everyone fell silent and faced Namjoon. “Firstly, thank you for being punctual today. It's going to be a long day ahead of us, so let's keep up the attitude, okay?”

Visceral disgust at Namjoon's corporate persona bloomed in Yoongi's gut. A jarring 180 from Namjoon's usual genuine, warm self, this man wasn't exactly cold, but he was too on-the-ball. 

“Those of you on Jimin duty, you'll stay in this room. Those on Wanna One and Exo duty, go to meeting rooms four and eight respectively. Remain contactable and keep me updated, as usual.”

Yoongi tuned out right about then, setting himself down on a nearby couch and taking out the iPad to inspect the schedule for that day. As much as this job didn't check every single box in the proverbial dream job-list, Yoongi was glad for it— glad for an anchor into adulthood, and he didn't want to screw it up.

His recent career pivot was liberating in the same way going 200 on the freeway was liberating— the feeling of not being in control anymore. Yoongi, corporate lawyer turned personal assistant, was restructuring his life, was trying to find colour in monochrome again, and that was exciting and terrifying, but he couldn’t find it in him to lift his foot off the accelerator.

-

Twinkling.

When Yoongi heard Jimin’s voice for the first time, his mind, out of sheer force of prosaic habit, started cycling through all the adjectives that could’ve possibly applied to it. Pretty was too general, didn't really encapsulate the auditory effect. Enchanting was accurate, sure, but a touch too romantic.

He settled on twinkling.

He’d said “Hey everyone!”, bursting in through the door of the room with his bodyguard, perfectly straight teeth dazzling everyone in the room. “Happy Monday!”

The staff greeted him cordially, bowing low. Twinkling indeed, Yoongi concluded, remaining seated, hoping that his black tee blended in with the black couch. In real life, Jimin was even more striking than on screens. 

Yoongi knew what Park Jimin looked like. He was Korean, and a homosexual. But this was something else, something completely mesmeric. Yoongi hadn't ever seen this amount of sheer beauty concentrated into such a small amount of metric cubes and it was genuinely off-putting.

“Hey hyung,” Jimin went straight to his head manager, who was unfortunately standing right next to Yoongi, who took a gulp of air and held it. Hopefully that way, Jimin wouldn't hear him breathing, wouldn't hear how his breathing was coming out short and stuttery. “Nice weekend?”

“Busy,” Namjoon answered simply. “Long day today.”

“It always is, isn't it?” 

And then, Jimin was looking right at Yoongi, who rose from his seat instinctively. He was looking right at Yoongi with eyes unlike any that Yoongi had ever seen, but Yoongi supposed it was Jimin's job to look at people like that. 

“You must be my new assistant,” Jimin held out a hand. “I'm Park Jimin.”

Yoongi took it. “Really? Couldn’t tell.” It slipped out of his mouth before he could register how inappropriately sarcastic it was. He clapped a hand over his mouth immediately— from the corner of his eye, he saw Namjoon press the heel of his palm into his head, hard. “Shit. Sorry. Habit.”

Jimin’s eyes narrowed. The room was quiet.

Then he was laughing, cutting through the silence and letting go of Yoongi’s limp hand, opting instead to grab his shoulder. Twinkling.

“You’re funny!” Jimin’s eyes were crescents when he laughed, and they shone like the moon too. 

“Min Yoongi,” he murmured, bowing deep. “It's nice to meet you.”

Jimin bowed too, catching Yoongi by surprise. Finally collecting himself after the brief Yoongi-induced heart attack, Namjoon approached them. “Right, so it’s makeup here, then shoots at Jongno, then you’re back here —”

“Hush.” Jimin held out a finger and pressed it right on Namjoon’s lips to silence him. Namjoon just stood there and took it— Yoongi couldn’t help the tiny chuckle that slipped past his lips. “It’s not my job to know my schedule, it’s his .” Jimin pointed to Yoongi. 

“That’s such a weird sentence,” Yoongi whispered under his breath so no one heard him, tucking his iPad into his bag. He had the schedule memorised at this point anyway. The diva didn’t have to fill his pretty little head with it.

“Sure. Just get started with makeup first, then.” Yoongi gestured to the makeup chair with a saccharine smile that didn’t meet his eyes.

Jimin cocked his head and returned the smile, looking Yoongi up and down in a way that was setting him a little off-kilter. He turned around and damn near strutted towards the makeup artists, hips swaying in his too-short shorts. “Sure thing, Min Yoongi.”

And so, there it was. The first thing Yoongi missed about his old job: everyone using honorifics for him, all the time, without fail— even those older than him. He was their boss after all. And now he was, what, babysitting a pop star?

You wanted this, he reminded himself. He didn’t have to— Namjoon was by his side in a second, pinching him hard in the side by way of reminder.

“Youch!” Yoongi flinched away. 

“You got lucky, just that once, dumbass. Jimin isn’t notorious for nothing,” he hissed into Yoongi’s ear, as the latter just watched as Jimin made comfortable small talk with the makeup artists, closing his eyes obediently as they went to work on his face. He looked diminutive, bunny-like, really. “Now, behave. I’m checking on my other groups.”

Yoongi shrugged, plopping back onto the couch. Namjoon’s moodiness was expected. He was nervous. Nervous Namjoon was either frighteningly quiet or exactly like this— strict and bossy. Yoongi preferred this. He started digging around the bag, finding a walkie talkie, a clipboard, and a still-green banana.

“Billion dollar agency and they can’t afford ripe bananas?” muttered Yoongi, rolling his eyes. His fingers made quick work of peeling it nonetheless.

“Yoohoo, Yoongi!” came that twinkling voice. “C’mere!”

Yoongi took a millisecond to appreciate a few things that were about to change — namely, being in a seated position (his favourite position), and decidedly away from Park Jimin. 

He took his time to saunter over to Jimin, who was reclined in a chair, eyes shut, two makeup artists hovering over him. Yoongi could tell right away how comfortable Jimin was like this, in this position— being served. King of his kingdom. Yoongi knelt by him, faux-patience seeping from his dulcet tones. “How can I help you, Jimin-ssi?” 

“Well, I asked you over here to connect with you on a deep emotional level, but now that you’ve asked, I could really use a coffee right now!” Jimin fluttered open his eyes now that the artist was done with them, glancing down at Yoongi, who let himself laugh.

“Ah, so you’re funny too.” He rose. “How do you like your coffee, then?”

Jimin sighed dramatically. “I forgot when you change assistants you have to repeat these things,” he nearly whined, and yep, definitely a diva, then. 

Yoongi made a mental note to find out whoever Jimin’s previous assistant was and gather the relevant nitty-gritties. It would make life easier for him, and at the very least, Yoongi would find it easier to actually enjoy Park Jimin's company if he wasn't complaining about the arduous task of repeating these tidbits.

“Grande, quad, non-fat, one pump, no whip, mocha. At 60 degrees.”

“Jesus.”

“Ah, Yoongi the comedian!” Jimin pouted. “Sadly, right now I need you to be Yoongi the Starbucks-goer.”

Yoongi was more than happy to leave that strange room with that strange man and consider his strange new job alone for a while. “You got it, Jimin-ssi!” he said sweetly, heading for the exit.

“Oh, and a blueberry muffin with that, Yoongi!” Jimin called after the closed door.

-

The day went smoothly, all things considered. There were no major fuck ups and he didn’t much interact with Jimin at all. The coffee handoff came right before he was transported in a comically large black SUV to his music video shoot location— Yoongi rode with him, but Jimin was preoccupied, practising his song with his airpods in. He didn’t pause long enough between run-throughs to interact with Yoongi.

He did get to hear Jimin’s voice in person though, and for that, he chose the adjective enchanting. Serpentine was in the running, but it was nixed— too pretentious.

For most of the day, Yoongi trailed behind him, carrying his stuff when it was asked of him, entertaining him with small talk every few hours about the weather and the hilarious banality with which Jimin viewed his hectic life. A few times he dabbed a bead of sweat off Jimin’s temple with a piece of tissue because, according to a helpful stylist, ‘Idols do not have any orifices.’

She wasn’t Korean, it might’ve been a mistranslation, but the gist was captured.

Jimin’s final job of the day, a studio recording session back at the Bangtan headquarters, ended at 11pm, and the only staff members lingering were Yoongi and Jimin’s bodyguard-slash-chauffeur. They waited outside the studio in comfortable silence, until Yoongi figured it might be a good idea to perhaps get to know other people on the Jimin team. The working class solidarity of it all, or some other bombastic justification other than simply being a nice person. Yoongi didn't like to admit that he was sometimes a nice person, too.

“I’m Yoongi,” he held out his hand. It was taken and shaken firmly.

“Seokjin.” The man’s smile was disarming, and Yoongi theorised that perhaps there was something in the air at the Bangtan headquarters that made everyone who worked there handsomer than the average Korean. This man could’ve easily been an idol— tall, clear-skinned, not bulky but clearly built. “New?”

Yoongi nodded. “First day.”

“Ah, right.” There was an unspoken understanding. “Only gets easier from here on out, I can promise you that.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” This was the most comfortable Yoongi had been all day. The building was quiet, peaceful almost, with its steady whir of centralised air-conditioning and white lights. The man called Seokjin wasn’t chattier than what was absolutely necessary. Yoongi liked that.

“Jimin’s… tough.” Seokjin chuckled, not quite contemptuous but not quite genuine either. “I suppose all idols are, though.”

“When you’re told all your life that you’re more special than everyone else, I suppose you can’t help but internalise that, right?” Yoongi looked into Seokjin’s face for any sign of disagreement— came up empty. 

“Definitely. I suppose I’m being a little harsh, he’s mainly easy. His main issue is that he’s a workaholic. Calls me at the ass crack of dawn. Bring me to the studio, bring me to the gym.”

Yoongi realised that Namjoon’s hypotheticals from that morning might not have been that hypothetical after all. 

“I see.”

The door of the studio cracked open and Jimin burst forth, smiling as widely as he was in the morning, no sign of fatigue despite the 15-hour day he’d just endured. “All done!”

Seokjin and Yoongi stood up, throwing each other glances of silent celebration. “Great. I’ll take you home then, Jimin-ssi?”

But Jimin was looking at Yoongi, and he wasn’t looking away. “How are you getting home then, Yoongi? Are you riding with us?”

“Uh. My car?”

“Ah.” Something brief, an expression Yoongi hadn't seen Jimin show up till now (disappointment, maybe?) flashed across his face, momentary but noticeably present. “Right then.”

Yoongi waved awkwardly, starting towards the direction of the staff car park, opposite from the idol’s. “Wait!” twinkled Jimin.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Yoongi took a deep breath, prepared himself to do something menial and mindless, and turned around. “Yes, Jimin-ssi?”

“Have a nice night, Min Yoongi!” 

And his eyes turned into crescents. Yoongi settled on pretty for that one.

-

Safely sequestered in his room now, having completed the obligatory perfunctory text conversation with Namjoon about how today went, Yoongi was free to whip out the small notepad, barely the size of his palm, in his back pocket. He had a dozen of them scattered everywhere— in almost every bag, in almost every jean pocket. He’d purchased a new one for the new job, of course, and flipping it open, he made sure that he had taken down everything important from the day onto it.

On the first page, Yoongi had scrawled down things he needed to remember regarding Jimin’s quotidian affairs.

• Takes his coffee grande, quad, non-fat, one pump, no whip, mocha, at 60 degrees.
• Nearly always peckish. Likes sweet snacks— cookies, sour candy.
• Likes reapplying cologne every few hours. Carry a bottle in bag.

On the next, general reminders to self about the new job.

• Idols don’t possess orifices. Dab the sweat, especially when there are cameras around.
• Stop being a smart-ass.
• He’s a workaholic. 
• No more silent mode.

And finally, on the last page.

• Twinkling.
• Enchanting.
• Pretty.

-

One week later.

Yoongi’s mind registered two things and two things only: Holly was barking, and why in the hell was Holly barking. Sitting up in bed, he rubbed the two hours of sleep he’d gotten from his eyes and glanced out the window. It was still a pitch black Seoul night. That meant he ought to be asleep. If there was any justice in this goddamn world, Yoongi would be fucking asleep.

It hit Yoongi suddenly that Holly might be barking because of intruders. Perking up, he reached for the baseball bat by his bedside when— 

Ding. His phone text notification went off, and Holly’s barking started up again. He dropped the bat and sighed.

“You absolute pussycat of a dog, c’mere,” he rumbled sleepily, holding his arms open to Holly, who jumped into them gratefully, quieting down. “Daddy’s here.”

He saw that the message had been sent nearly ten minutes ago— practically two decades in Idolverse time. He speed-typed a message, hoping autocorrect would render it legible.

Yoongi had just finished rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and Jimin was telling him to go back to sleep. He glanced at the window again— it was looking awfully enticing.

Yoongi was wide awake now. Holly was looking at him with his head cocked, microscopic yet somehow, Yoongi knew that she knew exactly what was going on. “I already have you,” Yoongi murmured to her, “I don’t need another baby, Holly-ah.”

“If Park Jimin has boy problems, how the hell are the rest of us homos supposed to survive?” Yoongi asked Holly, who whined softly, nuzzling closer into Yoongi. Yoongi couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. Surely, anyone Jimin wanted, Jimin got. That wasn’t a disputable proposition in his mind.

There was no way Yoongi was going back to sleep after that. He got up and headed to his desk, ready to craft an email to the team warning them in advance of Jimin’s hangover-related tardiness.

-

This was the second time this week Yoongi had been in Jimin’s house. It was the first time, however, that he had let himself in. Much like most other top idols, Park Jimin lived in an extravagant Hannam the Hill residency with an unbelievable view of Seoul — but unlike many of the idols here, Jimin lived alone.

There definitely hadn’t been a party; Yoongi gathered that much right off the bat. There was an open bottle of peach vodka on the kitchen Island and a shot glass, and that was all Yoongi really needed to see. 

“Jimin!” he said, deciding not to raise his voice. He weaved through the expanse of the place, taking a moment to admire it all once again. Yoongi’s own flat was homely— beanbag chairs and wood and enough throw pillows for at least three forts. This place was modern, all clean lines and monochromatic harmony. On the other side of the flat was Jimin’s bedroom, and the door was open just a sliver.

Yoongi pushed it open, and as it creaked on its hinges, Jimin sat up in bed, clearly disoriented. His normally perfectly-styled hair was tousled and frizzy— and yet, Jimin looked as beautiful as ever. The imperfections Yoongi were now privy to were just a reminder that even at his least glamorous, Jimin was still leaps and bounds more beautiful than anybody else Yoongi had ever seen. It didn’t make any sense, and yet, there it was, sleepy and messy, right before Yoongi’s eyes.

“It’s me.”

“Yoongi-ah,” Jimin breathed, his voice metallic. “Happy… uh, happy Monday.”

“Very happy indeed,” Yoongi murmured, unable to tear his eyes from Jimin’s bare torso. God, this was why Jimin was an idol. Yoongi got it now. He so, totally got it. He got why thousands of Twitter fangirls would screenshot the moments Jimin’s shirt would fly up during choreography to capture that torso, he got it, he just got it.

Jimin was unaware of Yoongi blatantly checking him out, too busy trying to determine if his brain was fully liquified yet or only partially so. “Here, painkillers.”

Setting himself down on the edge of Jimin’s bed, he grasped Jimin’s palm, which was worryingly warm, and popped two pills into it. In Jimin’s other hand, he placed an uncapped bottle of water.

“You’re good at this job,” Jimin rasped, sleepy eyes meeting Yoongi’s. They were half-lidded and heavy, and Yoongi bit his tongue to avoid giving a shit-eating, simpering grin. Jimin downed the pills.

“Your reward for the compliment,” Yoongi reached into his bag and pulled out a flask. “Coffee.”

“Fuck, yes,” Jimin moaned, reaching for it, but Yoongi pulled his hand back swiftly. “Oi, Yoongi!”

Yoongi stood up and took a step back. “You only get it if you get out of bed.”

“You really are very good at this job,” Jimin hopped out of bed and gave a stretch, cracking his joints loudly. His sweatpants hung off his hips dangerously, and Yoongi wondered, genuinely wondered how a V-line managed to get that pronounced.

“You’re good at yours too.” Yoongi held out the flask. “Now drink that and get in the shower. You reek a little.”

Yoongi didn’t see the pillow coming, but then it hit him in the face, and the thrower of the pillow was glaring at him with arms akimbo. “No, I don’t!”

“Okay, you don’t.”

They stood there and stared at one another for another moment, before Jimin gave in, slumped, and started towards the bathroom. “Fine, jeez,” he mumbled, and Yoongi knew that would be the first tantrum of many today.

-

“You’re a natural, Min Yoongi,” Namjoon’s voice came through the receiver loud and clear, and Yoongi let himself bask in the validation for only a moment before reminding himself that there was still a lot more time to fuck this up. "Jimin's partial to you."

Said Jimin was currently in the dance studio, dancing his heart out with his choreographer despite his ‘left eyeball being crushed under the weight of his skull’ — his words, not Yoongi’s. Peeking through the small window of glass on the door, Yoongi watched Jimin lean on his knees and dry heave for a good ten seconds, before standing right back up and continuing like everything was okay.

It took everything in Yoongi not to burst in there and demand that Jimin lie down and take the rest of the day off.

“I finished law school, Namjoon,” Yoongi answered simply. “I’m capable of looking after Park Jimin.”

“Trust me, Yoons. You could have three doctorates and still not be capable of looking after Park Jimin.”

Again, Jimin leaned his palms on his knees and doubled over, and Yoongi couldn’t just stand there and watch anymore as that tiny sparrow of a man worked himself to death. He could feel it— the haughty feeling of a bad decision gathering in his gut and growing, bubbling up inside of him, threatening to explode. He was going to do it. He was going to do something stupid.

“Gotta go, Joonie,” Yoongi rushed out, hanging up, and opening the door to the studio with what he suspected might appear to the world as a dramatic flourish.

The intrusion got the attention of both men immediately. “Yes?” said the choreographer brusquely. 

“I— Uh, I.” Yoongi scrambled. “Jimin-ssi, I made a mistake with the scheduling and I told producer-nim you’d be at the level three recording studio right now.”

“You did?” Jimin was panting despite only having done the choreo twice— Yoongi had seen him do it five times through without breaking so much as a sweat. He wasn’t okay, so Yoongi kept going.

“I did.” He bowed deep. “My deepest apologies to you both.”

The choreographer rolled his eyes, not even bothering to look at Yoongi, as if his presence was pest-like. Over the past few weeks, Yoongi had been habituating himself to that gaze of superiority. He didn't mind so much anymore. “We’ll make up for lost time tomorrow, Jimin-ssi,” the choreographer shrugged, shutting off the music. 

There was a look Yoongi was getting from Jimin that was unfamiliar, completely perplexed— it was Yoongi’s first big mistake after all. “The hell?” he began, the second the door to the studio shut behind him, storming straight for the lifts. “What is this… this… baloney?”

Yoongi kept his mouth firmly shut, and the lift doors shut.

“Balderdash! Drivel! Nonsense!” Jimin continued, pressing the button for level 3.

Yoongi pressed the button for the basement instead, and finally met Jimin’s eyes. “There’s no recording. I’m taking you home.”

“Hogwash! — Wait, what?”

“You’re hungover, you’re nauseous, you need rest. I’m taking you home.”

The lift doors opened, and Jimin trailed behind Yoongi like a lost puppy as Yoongi led them to his car. “You… you… why didn’t you just tell the choreographer—”

“Because they’d never let you leave, Jimin, you know that. Now, get in.”

Yoongi saw the momentary surprise flash across Jimin’s face when he saw Yoongi’s car. He slid into the passenger’s side, still stunned. Unaccustomed, Yoongi figured. Or maybe, so unaccustomed to being treated like a real human that he was uncomfortable with it. Either way, Yoongi did not care for the system that made Jimin this way.

Yoongi really, really didn’t care for it.

“Nice car,” Jimin finally said, when they were halfway to his flat already. “How does an assistant like you afford a car like this?”

He'd be honest. Why not, right? “I used to be a lawyer. Until two weeks ago, I was a lawyer.”

“Oh.”

There was silence for another few minutes.

Then, “Yoongi, why’d you do this?”

“What, stop being a lawyer?” Yoongi chuckled darkly. “My soul slipped further from me the longer I stayed in that job. Finally, I thought to myself, if I stay one more day, I won’t have one. So I left.”

“No… I meant, why’d you do this?” Jimin gestured to the car, to himself.

It clicked, and Yoongi swallowed, choosing his words very carefully. He needed Jimin to understand what he was going to say. He needed Jimin to really, truly understand it. “Because you’re sick. And sick people need rest.”

Yoongi felt Jimin’s eyes boring into the side of his face. “Right.”

“So you’re going to go home, and take a nice, warm shower, and get in bed, and sleep until you absolutely have to be awake. Got it?”

Jimin’s smile was so dazzlingly bright when Yoongi said those words that even though it was only in Yoongi’s periphery, it lit up everything in Yoongi’s field of vision. 

“Got it, Yoongi-hyung.”