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Fuck.
They knew.
They…they knew. They knew. They knew. They knew. They knew. How did they know?
He was dead. He was dead.
He’d woken up at 3 A.M., a fist pounding against his door, demanding to be let in. Jimin quickly blinked the sleep from his eyes, heart surging into a panic, falling out of bed in his rush to get to the door. He could see five of them through the peephole, his manager and four others he couldn’t recognize, their images blurred by the little circle of glass.
Looking around wildly, he’d grabbed the chair from his small desk and jammed it under the door handle. It was only a matter of time before they retrieved the key to his lock. Before his weak attempt at holding it shut was overcome with force.
“Jimin-ah!” his manager growled. “Open the fucking door, you little shit!”
They knew. He was only on the third floor, but there were bars over his window, and there was no way he would be able to squeeze between them.
“Fucking Park Jimin!”
His hands were shaking so badly that he could barely hold his phone, much less slide it unlocked and pull up Jin’s contact information. It felt like it rang for an eternity, kept ringing and ringing and ringing but neither Seokjin nor Namjoon picked up. Jimin let out a cry as the answering service beeped, “J-Jin hyung, they know. Fuck, they know! Please help me! Please!” he whispered into his phone, quickly hanging up and trying the only people his panicked mind could come up with.
“Park Jimin!” they yelled, banging louder and harder. “Open it, you rat! You’re going to fucking get it if you don’t!”
He gasped when Yoongi picked up, trying desperately to maintain a grip on the phone while his fingers refused to obey his orders, goosebumps flaring across his bare skin. “Why the fuck are you calling me at three in the morning?” Yoongi grumbled. “I was in the middle of a brilliant arrangement—“
“Hyung!” Jimin cried. “They found out, hyung! They’re gonna’ kill me! Please, please…” he begged, jerking his head up as he heard a key being inserted into his dorm room lock. “Hyung, oh God, I’m going to die! Please…what do I do? Please tell me what to do!”
“Jimin, what’s wrong?” Yoongi demanded, his own voice now panicked and on full alert. “Jimin, answer me! Jimin! Ji--”
Jimin could only stare in horror as his door was unlocked, as they tried to push it open, only his desk chair standing in the way. He didn’t know what to do. There was nowhere to go. He had nowhere to hide. He slid his phone under his bed sheets, leaving the call connected.
“Hyung,” Jimin whimpered, flinching as the door was finally forced open, the chair crashing to the ground.
“You little bitch,” his manager hissed, flicking on the light switch, eyes landing on Jimin’s shaking frame where he sat on his bed in nothing but his boxers, arms wrapped around his knees. Jimin whimpered as he was grabbed by his hair and thrown to the floor, shoulder slamming hard against the cold laminate.
He was acting purely on instinct, mind blanking out as he crawled to his knees and raised his hands over his head in apology, rubbing them together like that had any hope of saving him. “Please, I’m s-sorry,” he begged, too shocked to even cry. “Whatever I did, I’m s-so s-sorry,” his voice broke. How did they know?
“Oh, you’re s-sorry?” the man mocked. “You’re sorry? Well not nearly as fucking sorry as you will be.”
“Please,” Jimin gasped, terrified. “Hyung-nim, please, I’m sorry, I’ll do anything—“
The room was tiny, but the slap echoed resoundingly, Jimin clutching his face with one hand as he fell onto his side, dazed. “You think you can fucking get away with breaking your contract, you piece of shit?” his manager hissed. “After all we’ve done for you? After what we’ve made you?” He grabbed a fistful of Jimin’s hair again, shaking hard before letting him fall back to the floor. “After all the money we’ve channeled into you?”
Jimin felt his mouth open and close, but nothing came out. What could he say? What could he possibly say?
One of the men standing by the door wrenched him up by his bicep in a bruising grip, and Jimin would have fallen on his jelly legs if he hadn’t continued holding him up. Almost casually, his manager jammed a knee up and into Jimin’s middle, causing the smaller boy to bend double, still only being held up by the large hand encircling his bicep. Jimin wheezed, unable to breathe as his other bruises were aggravated by the rough treatment. Everything hurt, it hurt so much.
“Aw, is little Jiminnie gonna’ cry? For fuck’s sake, that’s all he’s been good for,” his manager smirked. “Well, not just yet! We haven’t sent him off with a drink, yet, have we? It’s tradition!”
Jimin blinked, vision blurry, as someone else took hold of his other side, and between them he was unable to move. In front of him, his manager reached out to take hold of his chin and force his face upwards, shoving the rim of a glass bottle to his lips.
Jimin tried to turn his head away, but he was forced back in place, caustic liquid poured into his mouth and over his face, spilling onto his entire body. It wasn’t soju, he thought, but something stronger that burned everywhere it touched, down his throat and into his lungs and across his skin. He tried to spit as much of it out as he could, but then fingers were clamped over his nose, and he couldn’t breathe except in the gasps between swallows.
He fell to his knees, coughing and heaving when he was released. It had been so long since he’d eaten, the alcohol was hitting him like a freight train, his mind fuzzy and the room beginning to spin despite how desperately he wanted to hold on to reality. “Please,” he slurred, trying to blink everything back into focus. He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand.
A shiny black leather shoe slammed into his chest, and he collapsed, boneless, staring uncomprehendingly up at the white tiled ceiling. The same shoe dropped down onto his ankle, and he started crying at that, the pain horrendous even through the alcohol haze. “Please,” he begged again, not his legs. He needed to dance. He needed it to live. His limbs all felt like they weighed a million kilograms.
Suddenly, a little choked laugh wound its way out of his throat. He’d often had the passing thought that being an idol might kill him, but this wasn’t the way he’d expected it to end. The foot settled over his throat, pressing down to crush his trachea. He couldn’t even lift his arms up to try and push it off, just lying there while his vision spotted and started to blacken until, on the verge of passing out, it was removed, leaving him barely conscious.
“This asshole thinks it’s funny,” his manager’s voice came from above, but to Jimin it sounded like it was underwater. “Can you fucking believe this kid?”
Jimin was sure he was going to die.
“Fuck you,” he mouthed, barely able to make any noise at all, barely able to think, barely able to breathe. But he at least wanted to say that before they killed him.
“Get him up,” his manager ordered, and he felt himself being pulled roughly to his feet, swaying dangerously in between the bodies that held him up. “Park Jimin, you think you can leave us, just like that? You think you’re too good for us now, you bastard?”
Jimin looked at him blearily, uncomprehending, sweat beading on his forehead from the pain and droplets of the burning alcohol running down his neck.
“Yah!” his manager growled, slapping him across the face again, then sighed. “Clearly, this is going nowhere. Well, if you’re that determined to leave, I guess we can’t stop you,” he shrugged. He turned his attention to one of the other suited men. “Put him in a car and dump him by a massage parlor. Get a girl out there. Hell, get a boy out there. Call Park from channel 5, make sure he gets all the suggestive pictures he could ever want.” He jammed his index finger into Jimin’s chest, right above his erratically beating heart. “Your career is fucking dead, you traitor bitch. You hear that? You’re done.”
The last thing Jimin remembered was an explosive pain and the sound of shattering glass.
The world slowly came into focus, a series of irritating beeps assaulting his eardrums.
He felt like he was floating, untethered to earth in any way except for the line that appeared to be attached from his middle finger to the machine that was the source of the unpleasant noises. Everything was blurry, and he was having a hard time remembering…where was he? What was going on?
He tried to open his mouth to ask, but he couldn’t get anything to come out, throat bone dry and hit by a sudden, overwhelming pain. He groaned.
“Fuck,” a familiar voice next to the bed said, and Jimin struggled to turn his head to the side, but he smiled when he finally managed.
“Hyung,” Jimin mouthed, no noise actually coming out.
“Fuck,” Yoongi repeated, eyes bright with concern. Jimin felt his own eyebrows furrow as he blearily looked at his hyung’s face. Yoongi had a black eye and split lip, his pale skin even whiter than normal, stretched tightly over his cheek bones. “Jimin-ah,” he said, voice raspy. “You’re awake.”
Jimin was slow to come to the realization that Yoongi was holding his hand. When he opened his mouth again, Yoongi reached out to press a finger against his dry lips, shaking his head.
“Jimin, your throat’s been bruised pretty badly, plus they had to…they pumped your stomach,” he said, face pained. “Please don’t talk for a while.”
Jimin nodded once in acknowledgment, hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion as he rested his head on the pillow under it. It felt like there was something wrapped around his forehead, because the area was itchy, but he was too tired to lift his free hand to scratch it.
“The doctor said,” Yoongi swallowed, “the doctor said you’ll be fine, okay? So don’t even fuckin’ worry about anything, just get better, you understand?”
Jimin smiled, feeling a little bit strange and realizing he must have been on some strong medication.
“Seokjin and Namjoon will be here in a little while, too, okay?” he said, not quite looking Jimin in the eyes. “They had to talk to the police for a little while, but they’ll be here soon.”
Police?
The question must have been on Jimin’s face, because Yoongi nodded. “I recorded the phone call, everything they were doing to you in your room,” he said. “There’s that, plus whatever Seokjin had on them. There’s no…there’s no way they’ll fucking get out of this.” He let his head fall into his free hand, the one that wasn’t entwined with Jimin’s. “Fuck, I was so scared I wouldn’t get there in time. I was…don’t you ever do that to me again.”
All Jimin could manage was to lightly squeeze Yoongi’s fingers.
“Ah, you’re really high right now, aren’t you?” Yoongi said, the corner of his mouth quirking into a smile.
Jimin nodded and kept smiling.
The door clicked open slowly as Hoseok tip-toed into the room with two steaming cups of coffee, nearly dropping them when he saw that Jimin was awake. He looked a lot like Yoongi did, one cheek enveloped in a massive purple bruise. “Jiminnie!” he cried, rushing to the other side of Jimin’s bed and setting the coffee down on the nightstand. “Oh, thank goodness,” he sighed, stealing Jimin’s other hand. “The kids were so worried, I have to call them and tell them you’re alright.”
Jimin looked back over at Yoongi, hoping he might explain what was going on.
“Jin hyung and Namjoon both sleep like the dead,” Yoongi said, “so I had to call in the second string reinforcements.”
“Yah!” Hoseok said, putting a hand to his chest and looking highly offended. “We got punched for you!”
Jimin frowned, feeling a tightness in his chest. Him, they got punched for him. Yoongi got his attention by squeezing his hand. “Yah, don’t you dare feel guilty, Park Jimin. All of us would do it again.”
“Oh, of course,” Hoseok said, chastised. “It was the scariest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life, but you bet your ass I’d do it again for you!” he said loudly, avoiding the swatting hand of Yoongi telling him to quiet down. “Jiminnie, you should have seen Kookie, it was like a martial arts movie! He was like Wham! Bam! Straight to the face! Out like a light!”
“My hero,” Jimin mouthed, but Hoseok seemed to understand, smiling brightly.
“He’ll come visit you tomorrow, Jiminnie, but he had to go back home tonight, he’s too young to stay out by himself. Taehyung, too! He said to tell you that the aliens are watching over you…whatever that means.”
Jimin tried to adjust himself in the bed, his position starting to feel uncomfortable, when he finally noticed it. The hard plaster cast around half of his foot and covering his ankle. Before he could even think about controlling it, the tears began to spill from his eyes. His leg. His leg was…
“Wh-what?” Hoseok panicked. “Are you hurting? What is it? What’s wrong?”
Yoongi followed his line of sight down to his ankle, scowling, before trying to reassure Jimin. “Jimin, it’s just a fracture. Once it heals, you’ll be fine. I promise there’s no permanent damage, just six weeks or so—“
Jimin could only cry harder. Six weeks without dancing? How was he supposed to do that? What good was Park Jimin if he couldn’t dance?
“It’s the medicine,” Yoongi hissed at Hoseok. “Jimin, you’ll be fine! Hyung promises! Please stop crying, you’ll hurt yourself!”
Jimin couldn’t stop crying. His life was ruined, he was in the hospital, nobody would want him anymore. His fans would leave him, they would hate him.
He was so focused on his own misery that he didn’t even notice the door opening again until Jin had pushed Hoseok to the side and pulled Jimin gently into his chest for a hug, running a soothing hand through his greasy hair until the crying had subsided into hiccups. Jin poured Jimin a plastic cup of water, inserting a straw and holding it to Jimin’s face to allow him to take a few sips to sooth his parched and damaged throat. It hurt like hell for Jimin to swallow, barely managing the few drops.
“My poor Jiminnie,” Jin sighed, continuing to pet Jimin’s head as he helped him move where he wanted on the bed, carefully avoiding where it seemed to hurt the most. “Everything will be fine, hyung will take care of it. Don’t cry,” he said gently.
As he became more and more awake, he also began to notice just how much everything hurt. His ankle hurt in its cast, the pain radiating all the way up his leg. His chest hurt, his ribs hurt, his face hurt, his throat hurt, his forehead hurt. “It hurts,” he mouthed, pulling at Jin’s sleeve.
“Oh, I know, Jimin,” Jin said, voice full of anguish. “Please just wait a little bit longer until you can have another dose, alright? Just squeeze my hand as hard as you want if it gets to be too much. Or Yoongi, too, please use him as you will.”
That earned him a small smile from Jimin and a flushed glare from Yoongi.
“Is it taken care of?” Yoongi asked.
“Of course,” Jin said, eyes hardening. “Unfortunately, our justice system is shit, and it’s likely they’ll only get a few months. Luckily, though, Jimin’s come through this looking like the world’s biggest angel, thanks to your recording and our statements. I made sure those were leaked immediately.”
Jimin frowned. He didn’t want people to see him like that.
“Hundreds of your fans are outside in the parking lot,” Jin said quickly, hoping to distract him. “They’re all out there hoping you get well soon, and they’re leaving presents at the front desk for you. We’ll bring them up when you’re feeling better.”
Fans? His fans? They still…
“Of course they still support you,” Jin assured him. “In fact, I think you have even more than before. With your name in the news, you’re the most searched term on the internet, and your videos are spreading like wildfire.”
“Jin, one of your reporter friends is looking for you,” Namjoon said, poking his head into the room.
Jin sighed but nodded, pulling Hoseok back into position to hold Jimin’s hand. Namjoon stood awkwardly at the door, like he was afraid to move any closer. Jimin tried to wave him over. He wasn’t able to lift his hand all the way, but Yoongi seemed to understand.
“Probably not the best idea,” Yoongi warned him, eyeing the expensive hospital machinery. Still, Jimin furrowed his eyebrows and pouted his lips stubbornly. “Aish,” Yoongi sighed. “Namjoon, he wants you to come over here.”
Namjoon was hesitant, but after a few seconds he complied, shuffling over to stand next to Jimin’s bed and trying not to touch anything. Namjoon was a little afraid. Jimin was already so small, and he looked so hurt, every part of him covered in some kind of bandage or wired to a machine. Namjoon didn’t want to do anything to risk hurting him further. “I’m sorry Jin and I didn’t get your phone call,” he said, feeling like the worst hyung in the world. “You…you could have died, and I…we didn’t answer.”
Jimin let go of Yoongi’s hand and struggled to lift his own up. Namjoon took it quickly, frowning at how small and cold it was. “Not your fault,” he mouthed, hoping Namjoon would understand.
“Jinsoo hyung offered to move you into one of his dorms as soon as you were able, but I told him no,” Namjoon said.
Jimin frowned up at him in confusion.
“You’re moving in with us, at least until you get better,” Namjoon added quickly. “Seokjin wouldn’t have it any other way, and me either. Ugh, I do…snore…though.”
When it looked like Jimin was about to protest, Namjoon cut him off with a “We’ll talk about it later. Until then, just focus all your energy on getting better. I’m gonna’ go find Jin before my luck runs out, and I snap your I.V. pole in half.”
Yoongi sighed in relief like they’d dodged a bullet. “Hoseok, would you go get a nurse or a doctor, or something? Just to let them know Jimin’s awake.”
Hoseok looked at Yoongi suspiciously, but he complied, glancing back at Jimin once last time before leaving the room.
Yoongi looked down at Jimin, a strange expression flitting across his face. “I heard it, you know,” Yoongi said softly, a smile worming its way onto his face. “I heard you tell them ‘fuck you.’ I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud to hear anything in my life, even while you were scaring the ever living fuck out of me.”
“The new Jimin,” Jimin mouthed, heart beating a little bit faster. He still wasn’t sure where that surge of bravery had come from. The idea of dying did strange things to a person.
“I hope you’ll say it more often,” Yoongi said. “Say it to everyone who tries to mess with you, okay? Just square up in their face and give them a big fuck you. It would make hyung unbelievably happy.”
Fuck you, Jimin thought. Maybe he could do it.
He was a little bit sick of being a pushover.