Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Jungkook didn’t do drugs.

Sure, he’s hit a blunt a couple of times at sweaty, congested frat parties out of peer pressure; and he, out of pure childlike curiosity, snuck a pack of his father’s gas station cigs to fumbly light up with his cousins at his seventh birthday party; but he never became addicted.

Drugs weren’t an outlet but a distraction, and a distraction is the last thing he needs.

He gets his fix in other ways. Ways that involve more motor skills than flicking up a lighter and blowing ashy smoke through his nostrils. Ways that are a little more dangerous, a little more illegal, but get his brain going crazy unlike any other.

It’s the rush. The crash. The energy that surges through his veins like a wild hurricane when one of his busted-up boxing gloves collides with his opponent. Demolishing cities of soft bone and leathery skin in its wake, drowning them in not crystal blue waters but frothy saliva and coppery blood.

He lives for the cracks. The squelches. The groans. The sounds of victory that pound against his eardrums like hot thunder, making him dizzy and determined in the same breath.

In the ring, he’s a force to be reckoned with. Feet planted firmly on the tattered foam mats—a dull shade of red to conceal the myriad of stains left from previous fighters—splattered all over the floor like cheap paint. Chin tucked into the sharp of his collarbone, knuckles tight inside his gloves. Eyes narrowed, mimicking the thin slashes on the vinyl mat. He’s a hurricane ready to strike.

The dried blood under his feet scratches against his bare heel. He can feel it crack disgustingly when he shifts his weight onto his right foot, but he couldn’t give a fuck. His brain is focused on one thing, and one thing only.

To win.

He fights with everything in him. With the force of a tropical storm. He has everything to lose. His dignity. His money. His life. That notion pulses through his body, reflects in every rough cut and sharp punch he delivers without a second thought. The only thought crossing his mind is to destroy and conquer.

To win.

To survive.

But all hurricanes have weak spots. Spots that are quieter, softer, and vulnerable. The eye of the storm. And Jungkook hates to admit he has some of his own, lingering in the deepest crevices of his body. Sandcastles ready to collapse.

The man in front of him—he can’t quite remember his name, was it something like Michael? Mitchel? It doesn’t matter—spits out a tooth. One Jungkook punched out of place. It lands on the mat with an angry splat. A statement. A threat.

“It’s always the quiet ones to look out for, ain’t it?” He sleazes, spitting up a glob of reddish saliva. It lands dangerously close to Jungkook’s pinky toe. A cocky grin spreads across his cracked lips. He licks off a fresh bead of blood with a languid swipe of his tongue, almost like he can taste his victory.

Jungkook scoffs quietly.

People like him are easy to fight. They’re too confident, too careless. Think too much with their fists, not enough with their brain. Talk too much through their mouth guard.

“Not gonna say anything, huh? Then show me. Show me what you got, pretty boy.”

Jungkook says nothing.

He holds onto his resolve, clenches his fist. Steps back. He doesn’t swing yet. Knows a bait when he sees one.

“C’mon. Give it to me. Give it to me good, doll.”

Not yet.

He clenches his teeth, grinds them like stone. The skin under his jaw beats faster, blood running hot.

People like him are easy to fight, only when they know when to shut the fuck up.

Unfortunately for him, this man doesn’t look like he intends to fight in silence. A strategy. A distraction.

“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue? Not gonna fight me anymore, huh?” He continues with his incessant slew of taunts. Slowly chipping away at the walls of his sandcastles, digging closer and closer to his weak spot. “Did I scare ya? Is that it? Scared of me, baby. Scared I’m gonna hurt ya?”

Something inside Jungkook snaps like a piece of string. He lets go of the tension in his right arm and knocks his gloved fist right into the man’s cheek, hard, feeling the force of the impact strike back against him, rippling through his muscles. The man stumbles back and hacks out a string of coughs and curses. Spits up another gush of blood.

The first tooth Jungkook knocked out should’ve been enough.

Looks like the man didn’t mind parting away with another.

“You little bitch—”

Jungkook dodges the first punch the other tries throwing at him, feeling the wind cut against his cheekbone where the other’s glove missed him by a centimeter. He can feel little droplets of sweat fly off the ends of his soaked hair and slither down his throat onto his chest that inflates and deflates like a balloon ready to pop.

His heart is a jackhammer, pounding wildly against his rib cage. It’s a little hard to breathe. A little hard to see. His vision is blurred around the edges. The harsh white lights above the ring pierce his retinas with a vengeance. Makes his head spin like a cyclone.

His vision gets even blurrier when he miscalculates a punch and feels a sharp force hit the underside of his jawline, sending a shock of pain throughout his body.

The other’s gloved fist digs so tight into his skin that he is scared it would have torn if the man pressed just a little harder, if he knew he could’ve pressed a little harder. Jungkook winces when he unlocks his jaw. It burns like hell.

“You like it, don’t you? Like getting taught a lesson. Getting put in place like a little bitch. Am I right, baby?” He grins with bloody teeth and a black eye.

Too confident. Too careless.

Jungkook answers him with a sucker punch to the face. Under his heavy padded gloves, the man’s nose bone crushes like hard candy. A spurt of red shoots from his nostrils. Something terrifying floods through Jungkook’s veins when the man’s bloodshot eyes roll to the back of his skull for a split second, body recoiling like a spring, as a blood-curdling almost animalistic noise is ripped from his chest.

He can’t stop now. He needs to win. Needs to survive.

Within a span of a heartbeat, the man is on the floor writhing in a pool of his own blood and sweat, suffocating in the bittersweet tragedy of his defeat. Collapsed in a way that is similar to how Jungkook feels. He kind of wants to collapse. Kind of wants to throw up.

Jungkook towers above him, observing the consequences of his victory.

“It looks like we have a winner, folks!” The emcee choruses into a microphone. Jungkook doesn’t know when he got here. He also doesn't know when another man appeared next to the blacked-out boxer, carrying him in a way that makes him look like a corpse. The emcee swings Jungkook’s throbbing arm into the air. Shouts more words that are drowned out by a roar of cheers, loud enough to vibrate the whole den. It’s deafening. Validating. Something in Jungkook’s chest tightens and loosens all at once. A knot coming undone.

He feels the rush. The crash. The energy surging through his veins. He’s a hurricane. A storm of power. Of passion.

Eyes soaring the crowd, he watches their rugged faces cheer for him, for the blood, for the viciousness that can exist between two human beings. Two vicious storms.

He reels in it, clings onto it. It’s the only thing keeping him from crumbling like a sandcastle right now. Instead, he’s the wave that delivers the crash. He’s alive with it, energy moving through him like water. The rush. The crash. The adrenaline.

He needs it to survive. Needs it more than any rolled up joint or cigarette.

If adrenaline was a drug, Jungkook would be an addict.

Jungkook didn’t do drugs. But sometimes he wishes he did.

The knock at the door would’ve startled him if he hadn’t been expecting it.

With a grunt, he replies, “Come in.”

He left the door unlocked. For convenience, of course. The last thing he wants—or needs—is to drag his bruised-up body to the door just to unlock it. That, and he also doesn’t want to greet the face on the other side of the door, trying to prolong being in the other’s presence as long as possible.

When he hears the door open, followed by a pair of shuffling feet, he throws his head against the back of the sofa.

Sometimes, he wishes he did drugs.

Maybe this would be easier, more bearable, if he had a blunt hanging from his lips. If he had some kind of narcotic to numb everything inside him, turning him into a mindless pile of cotton. It would've made dealing with people like Kim Taehyung so much easier.

The latter stands in front of him now, holding a bright white box. A first aid kit. He’s still in his scrubs, probably finished a lab before this. Not that Jungkook cares. He’s seen him like this enough times to just know. 

Know that the latter’s car is probably parked somewhere in front of the building because he doesn’t live on campus anymore and his apartment is a good fifteen minutes away. Know that the medical student is probably as exhausted as Jungkook, but with less scars to prove it. Know that it’s almost nine pm, dark and quiet on the other side of the window in his living room, as the moon silvers through the thin gaps in between the curtains.

He didn’t bother turning on the lights. Just flicked on the lamp next to the couch. 

The orange glow, although faint and only lights up the space near Jungkook, makes the room feel much warmer than it actually is, comforting, and he’s gonna need every bit of comfort to deal with someone like Kim Taehyung. Especially when he doesn’t have the drugs, the adrenaline, pumping through his blood to keep him going. 

Right now, he’s in a state of passivity. A sandcastle waiting to be washed away by an angry wave. That wave being none other than the medical student in front of him.

Taehyung sets the kit down on the coffee table. 

He scans over Jungkook once. His eyes land on his jaw, the blooming red patch, and stay there for a couple seconds before they move down to the rest of him. Jungkook already spared him the trouble of slipping off his shirt, chest displayed in all its bare and bashed glory. He couldn’t be bothered to take off his sweats, though. Not that he would need to since his legs are fine except for a slight throb in his left thigh. 

Nothing a couple of painkillers can’t fix.

“What kind of bars do you go to?” Taehyung says it with more irritation than concern.

“None of your business, Kim.”

“You need to stop getting into fights like this. This is the third time this week. Can’t you drink your beer, or whatever, in peace?” 

“Aw, is someone worried about me?”

The scowl on the medical student’s face twists even more in disgust, as if it was possible.

“I’m worried about my own schedule. I could be doing so many other things than playing cutman for someone who can’t keep his hands to himself.” But he plays cutman anyway, opening the kit and rummaging through it.

“Then why the hell are you here?”

“You think I want to be here?” He pauses to shoot Jungkook a nasty glare.

“Sure fucking seems like it, Kim. Why don’t you find someone who’s less of a bitch to come clean me up? No one’s forcing you to be here. Or better yet, don’t send anyone at all. I don’t need your fucking help. I can take care of myself just fine.”

“Clearly.” Taehyung deadpans as he motions to the countless cuts and bruises littering Jungkook’s skin. “Trust me, I wouldn’t be here if I had a choice. Everyone else is busy. Plus, I owe Yoongi hyung.” He mumbles the last bit to himself as he sets aside a few bottles and sterilized packets. He pushes up his glasses, silky black strands falling over his eyes. Jungkook doesn't even want to imagine how much he spends on hair care products to get his hair to look like that. As flawless and pretentious as the rest of him.

“I don’t care about what you owe people, Kim.”

Taehyung seems to get the hint and drops the conversation. He stretches a pair of baby blue gloves that match his scrubs over his hands. Clean hands. Pristine. Free of scratches and calluses. Smoothed by a lotion, probably one of those ridiculously expensive products with shea butter or aloe vera or whatever other exotic ingredients that put the all-in-one moisturizer Jungkook bought at a random drugstore to shame.

He’s reeled out of his thoughts when he feels a rubbery finger prod at his chest. The medical student inspects his injuries. The way he squints his eyes makes Jungkook feel like he’s under a microscope, splayed out on a petri dish. A specimen to be taken apart and analyzed. He hates that feeling more than anything else. Hates people who think they can pick apart his life. Think they know him based off a couple of judgmental glances.

“Patterned abrasions. Split lacerations. Cuts and bruises everywhere. Messy and thuggish. Not surprising for someone like you.”

Jungkook considers himself a patient person, he really does. It isn’t easy to get under his skin, especially after all the years he spent thickening it up like leather, but that comment was so unnecessary. He feels his fingers tighten into a fist, but he remembers he’s not in the ring so he holds back. Lets go.

“The fuck is your problem, man? Daddy didn’t give you an allowance today, or what?”

“Shut up.” Taehyung growls. Definitely hit a nerve. Good. Maybe that’ll make him finish and leave faster. “Stop talking as if you know me.”

“You’re the one that can’t keep your fucking mouth shut. Just—” He hisses sharply when the other digs a cotton pad drenched in antiseptic harder than he needs to, right into the cut flesh on his collarbone. It burns, like someone poured hot acid over his skin. Fucking hurts. “do your shit. Fix me up. Then get the fuck out.” He finishes through clenched teeth.

“That’s the plan, Jeon.”

“Then hurry the fuck up.”

It’s quiet for the next few moments. Taehyung is kneeled on the carpet in between his legs but still maintains a safe distance, not touching him anywhere that isn’t his latexed hands. He’s more careful this time, tracing the wounds and cuts with less hostility. Patching him up like he doesn’t want to rip his head off. Being this close in his space, Jungkook can almost smell his cologne; something musky and strong that makes his nose twitch in disgust. He can picture the number of zeros on the price tag before the man splurged his money on the expensive little bottle because that’s what rich people do, and Taehyung is as rich as they come. He could be a Great Gatsby character, but never Gatsby himself because Gatsby represents new money, a self-made survivor, and Taehyung is the furthest thing from new money. He’s the legacy of generations of privilege and wealth. Old money. And here he is, with someone like Jungkook who isn’t new money or old money. He isn't anything. He isn’t worth a dime, and part of Jungkook thinks Taehyung knows this. Revels in it because that’s what rich people do. Revel in what they have and what others don’t.

Taehyung tosses the used cotton pads and bandage wrappers onto the table. Then gets up to throw them away.

Jungkook sinks into the couch. He’s finally feeling the aftereffects of an underground boxing match kick in. Exhaustion trickles under his skin, settling into his bones and he’s just so numbingly tired. He kinda wants to pass out like this. Would pass out for the rest of the night if he could.

Taehyung comes back and it’s back to the tension and venom. A routine they got down like clockwork. The bites. The growls. The taunts. There’s familiarity in animosity. You have to know someone to hate them. And Jungkook knows enough about the snobbish medical student to resent him with every fiber of his being.

“All done.” Taehyung announces, plucking off the gloves and stuffing them in his pockets.

“You can get out now.”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice.” Taehyung grumbles. He gets up and has all of his things packed up and ready to go. At the last second, he seems to remember something and begrudgingly turns back to him. “Don’t forget to take the antibiotics I gave you. Instructions are on the bottle. The last thing I need is for you to call me up again for being an incompetent bitch.”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice.” Jungkook mocks. He grits his teeth, feeling his blood boil with every snobbish remark the other throws at him. Because that’s what he is, snobby and pretentious and everything Jungkook doesn’t need at nine pm.

Taehyung takes that as his final cue to leave and shuts the door behind him, loudly, with enough force that it feels like a dirty blow to the skull.

Jungkook tosses his head back, letting a sigh escape his sore body. He could really use a smoke right now.

Too bad he doesn’t smoke.

Too bad he’s addicted to his bad habits instead.

He takes out the envelope from his back pocket. It’s a little bent, a little dirty. There’s a smear of red in the corner—doesn’t know whose it is but he knows where it’s from, or he at least has a good idea. He opens the flap and pulls out a thick wad of cash. His bandaged fingers sift through the bills, counting them in his head.

He has enough to the rest of his rent for the month. A little left over for necessities. Necessities being new mouth gear, gauze, maybe some tape for his gloves—maybe even a new pair of gloves, but that’s just wishful thinking. He could spend it on something else. Maybe instant noodles, if he feels like being a productive human being and using his kitchen appliances. Then he thinks about the work and the mess, and the possibility of setting off the smoke alarms. Maybe he’ll order takeout instead. He still has a coupon he needs to spend from his last few orders hiding somewhere under the cushions.

Jungkook stuffs the money back into the envelope.

Tomorrow he will have to visit the bank and order a check, then go to the landlord’s office and try to charm his way into the old woman’s heart for being late on payment again. On the way back from the bank he could stop by his usual sporting goods store and see if they restocked on gauze tape. If they have a sale on the gloves he’s been eyeing for the past few weeks. He sighs as he plans out the day in his head, already feeling exhausted just thinking about it. 

But he needs to do this. Plan things out like he's in the ring calculating his next move. His opponent is life and he fights it everyday.

He fights so he can live. 

He lives so he can fight.

Either way, he always ends up chasing that feeling of adrenaline that feels more like home than anything else.

Jungkook reaches over for his phone and orders his favorite takeout. He pulls on his shirt and gets up from the couch for the first time since got back home, joints crackling like a burning fire. He feels warm from the glow of the lamp. His body is yelling at him to rest, but it doesn’t hurt as much as before. Something about the ointments and bandages caressing, soothing his bruised skin. He still needs to take the painkillers though, and goes to the kitchen to do that.

When he’s done, he grabs his laptop and Psych 101 textbook and does some homework. There’s a lot on his mind as he studies the mind. A lot about upcoming fights and money. A little about everything else. Definitely nothing about a certain pretentious medical student and the way his thumb faintly traced the cut on his collarbone after he pressed way too harshly on with the cotton pad, the pad of his thumb soothing the burn and sting better than any gel or salve—

Jungkook shakes his head. 

What the hell is he thinking? 

He blames it on the painkillers.

Disoriented thinking. Common side effect. A distraction. All drugs have one, even the one Jungkook is addicted to.

He gets back to work.

When Jungkook is like this, nose stuck in a textbook, eyes soaking up every word like a piece of cloth and warm blood, drowned in soft orange hues, he feels the most at peace. Nothing but himself and the quiet storms inside to keep him company. He doesn’t need a joint or cig, just needs the silence of the night. The buzz of the stars. The bruises on his chest.

The ring of the doorbell would’ve startled him if he hadn't been expecting it.

This time, he hauls himself from the couch and opens the door. A pleased sigh slips past his lips when he smells sesame oil and burnt ginger, mouth watering at the steaming takeout bag in the delivery guy’s hands. He quickly pays him using some of the money that he earned at the ring, practically shoving the bills into the guy’s chest so his eyes don’t linger on his jaw for too long, and thanks him for the food.

Closing the door with his foot, he rushes to the table and sets everything down. He rustles through the plastic and takes out the white boxes, warm and stained with grease. Smells like heaven. Tastes like it too.

If there’s one thing Jungkook is more addicted to than adrenaline, it might be his favorite takeout noodles.

The autumn sun is way too harsh on Jungkook’s eyelids, piercing them like shards of glass. 

He is brutally welcomed to the new day as he blinks his eyes open, taking in the golden light flooding through the grimy windows of his way too small apartment. 

Mouth stretching around a yawn, he decides to stretch his arms too. Big mistake. He had momentarily forgotten about last night's events and now suffers the consequences. His body hurts like hell. The fibers of his muscles feel like they’re being ripped apart at the seams like a voodoo doll. He wouldn’t be surprised if someone cursed him with bad karma. He can barely lift his legs without feeling the urge to scream in pain.

So it’s a miracle how he gets out of bed—a miracle how he got into it in the first place—and limps to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face. 

He changes a few of the bandages in exchange for fresh ones. Clean ones. Carefully sticking them over the reddish brown scars.

He stares at his reflection for a while. Lingers at the spot on his jaw that he couldn’t find a bandage big enough to cover. He stares into his eyes. If he stares long enough he can see the hurt and anger burning behind them. A different kind of storm. A wildfire.

He looks away.

Somewhere in his room, his phone chimes. He goes over to check it. Sees it’s from Yoongi. He sends a quick reply and tosses his phone on his bed—which is more of an old mattress with a couple of pillows and a blanket that’s way too thin to keep him warm from the chilly autumn winds. It’s why he always sleeps with a hoodie. But he’s learned to live with it. The cold.

Jungkook changes out of his well-loved Thrasher hoodie and wears a tight fitting turtleneck that covers most of the damage. Except for that spot on his jaw.

Slipping into his most faithful pair of combat boots, he heads out the door. 

He walks to the cafe Yoongi told him to meet him at because he didn’t factor the costs for a bus ride. Because he needs to erode the aches in his muscles. Because he doesn’t have the ointments or cotton pads, pads of thumbs, to smooth them.

Jungkook shakes his head at the last thought.

This time, he didn’t have the painkillers in his system to blame because he forgot to take one. 

It’s like he fell for a trap, one that makes him feel like the incompetent bitch Taehyung thinks he is, and in a way he’s right. Because the medical student is rich and smart and the opposite of incompetent. But he’s also a bitch. The biggest one Jungkook’s ever met. 

So, with the last shards of his pride, he sucks it up. Swallows the bitter pill of his pain and deals with the side effects. The consequences.

“Are you secretly a loan shark?”

“You and I both know I don’t have enough money or guts for that.” Yoongi scoffs, used to random questions like this from the younger. “Why do you ask?”

Jungkook shrugs. 

“Heard some people owe you.” He replies. It’s not that he has a problem with someone owing his older friend, but he has a problem with him somehow being connected to Taehyung because he has a problem with Taehyung. If it’s not money, then he doesn’t know what else it could be.

“Where’d you hear that from?”

“From someone who owes you.”

“Gotta be more specific, Kook.”

Jungkook does what he does best. He dodges.

“Actually, I think I’m good with pretending you illegally lend people money and beat the shit out of them when they can’t pay you back.”

“You make me sound like a mobster.”

“You already look like one.” He nods to the older’s beat up leather jacket and ragged black hair. The gold chains are a plus. “You’re just missing a badass scar covering half of your face.”

“Speaking of scars, you got some of your own.” Yoongi’s gaze lowers to the ugly red bruise on his jaw that’s turning an uglier shade of blue. The one he couldn’t find a bandage big enough to cover it without drawing more attention to it so he said fuck it. Hoping people would think it was a hickey, or something. “Another match?”

Jungkook looks at the table when he nods his head.

He hears the older sigh, and it’s filled with sadness. Pity. Jungkook hates that feeling more than anything. More than getting picked apart like a science experiment. More than getting an uppercut to the face. More than spitting his own blood on a tattered gym mat.

“I made good money. Almost five hundred thousand won this week.” He defends weakly.

“That’s barely anything.” The older scoffs. And it’s like he’s mad at himself more than Jungkook. Because he doesn’t get mad at Jungkook. Has all the patience in the world when it comes to him, but his patience wears thin when it comes to the world. “That’s not enough to keep your head above the water.”

He knows.

“It’s enough.”

He lies.

“Bullshit. If it was enough you wouldn’t have fought two other times this week. You wouldn’t be sitting here with a fucking bruise on your jaw. God knows how many more you have on the rest of your body.”

Jungkook understands where he’s coming from. He usually fights three or four times a month and it’s enough to get him through until the next month, yet here he is having his third fight of the week.

He understands, but money’s been tight recently. Nobody comes to the den to bet anymore. It’s all about the blood. The viciousness. The sadistic pleasure of it all.

“I’m saving up.”

That isn’t a lie, but it feels like one.

“There are better ways to make a quick buck. This isn’t worth it, Kook. You’re killing yourself out there. You’re gonna kill yourself in that ring.”

“I won’t.” Because he knows how to fight, how to survive. He’s been doing it for five months, for his whole life. “I’m careful.”

“I know you are, but you can only be so careful when you’re in a room full of people who wouldn’t hesitate to spill your guts out for a couple thousand won. It's dangerous. It’s not worth it.” He repeats, like he knows how much Jungkook is worth. Like he’s worth more than a couple thousand won. But Jungkook knows he’s not worth a lot. He has nothing to lose, so what does he have to offer? He and underground fighting go hand in hand. Glove in glove.

“I’m not different from them.” I’m not worth anything. “They’re just trying to survive like me.”

“There are other ways to survive.” It’s not about the money anymore, maybe it was never about the money in the first place. Maybe it’s about the adrenaline. The addiction. The consequences.

“I like boxing, hyung.” 

Yoongi knows.

“I know. I trust you.”

Yoongi lies.

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

It’s quiet for a moment. A heartbeat. Doesn’t last more than a second, but he feels the weight of it like a storm cloud. Dark and ugly and suffocating.

“Hey,” Yoongi nudges Jungkook’s foot under the table with the toe of his beat-up Jordans. “Your coffee’s getting cold.”

Jungkook glances at the paper cup he had forgotten about. There’s no more steam or warmth, just the cold that Jungkook is used to.

“Thanks, hyung.” 

“Let’s talk about something else, yeah?”

Jungkook nods, eyes still cast down.

“There’s a party tonight. Remember? It’s at the Food Chain. They throw the shittiest parties but have the best fucking weed supply on campus. You in?” That makes Jungkook lift his head.

The Food Chain is one of the many fraternities that exist at their university—which is not known for being a party school but that doesn’t stop the rowdy college students. They’re already spending millions just to attend the elite, prestigious school. Might as well get their money's worth.

Not Jungkook, though. He’s on a tightrope when it comes to money, punching teeth out of people’s mouths to pay his tuition. One slip-up and he’s done.  

“I’m gonna pass.”

“You’re gonna pass on free weed?” 

“You know I don’t do that shit, hyung.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re addicted to beating the shit out of people. Fucking sadist.” Yoongi rolls his eyes. He’s not far from the truth, just the sadist part. Jungkook doesn’t get off on hurting people. He just likes the way it makes him feel, gets his heart rushing and blood pumping. 

Jungkook frowns.

Maybe he is a sadist. 

“Am not.”

“Stop pouting. I can’t take you seriously like that. Makes me wanna wrap you up in a blanket or some weird shit. Stop that.”

“What?” He asks innocently, feeling a spark of mischief flicker inside him. “This?” He pushes out his lips in an exaggerated pout that Yoongi shoves away when he leans over the table and gets way too close to his face. 

“Brat.” The older mumbles.

“Where do you think I got it from?”

“Definitely not me.”

Another lie, but this one makes Jungkook smile.

“So are you gonna go?”

“Where?”

“To the party.”

Right.

Jungkook thinks. 

He still needs to go to the bank. Order a check. Look at gauze tape (and unattainable boxing gloves). Charm his landlord. Beg for forgiveness. Finish his psych reading. Order takeout. Call it a night.

“I’m busy.”

Not a lie, the honest truth. But sometimes, the truth isn’t enough as he observes the knot tugging in between Yoongi’s eyebrows. The frown forming on his lips. Jungkook thinks he gets why he hates the whole pouting thing.

“C’mon, Kook. You owe me for getting my ass out of bed this morning to buy you a coffee.”

“I thought you were just being a good hyung to your favorite dongsaeng.”

“But you’re not my favorite, so where do we go from here?”

“I’m your only dongsaeng. So I’m your favorite. By default.”

“Doesn’t mean you're my favorite.”

Jungkook huffs.

“Why do you want me to go to this party so bad? Like you said, it’s nothing special. And I don’t do weed. So what do I get out of it?”

Yoongi bites his lip, the bottom one that’s fuller than the top, smooth and shaped like an archer’s bow. There’s a visible look of contemplation in his eyes, as if he is deciding whether he should come clean or not. Jungkook knows the truth isn’t always enough, but he thinks it would be in this moment.

“You’ll just have to wait and see.” He replies, successfully catching Jungkook’s curiosity like a wild butterfly. Pinning its wings down with an arrow and a bullseye.

Jungkook keeps up the staring contest for a little longer. He’s not one to give up easily in the ring or outside of it. But this isn’t a random thug trying to knock the lights out of him for a few thousand won. This is his hyung who thinks he’s worth more than that. Who wants to show him that, and going to this party would probably prove it somehow if the optimistic shine in his eyes is anything to go by. He’s never seen the older this excited. Barely able to contain it like a kid getting the toy of their dreams on their birthday.

He does something he never does when he wears boxing gloves.

He surrenders.

“I better not regret this.”

Yoongi bites back a smile.

“You won’t.”

Jungkook regrets this.

It’s four pm. Or five. He lost track after his third cup of his raspberry lemonade—or what he hopes is lemonade. Tastes like it, but there’s a weird aftertaste, something burnt and peppery that leaves a slightly gritty texture in his mouth. His phone gave up on him the moment he came here, drained to its last percent, so he can’t even check the time. And it’s not like there’s a clock around here because what kinda college student keeps those around anymore?

Leaning on the wall behind him, he scans the room. He doesn’t see Yoongi anywhere in the mess of strobe lights and bodies and smoke. Neon colored chaos. And it’s not like he can text him either because his lovely little device is a dead weight in his pocket.

His other pocket has an envelope—a clean one—filled with all the money he made from fights this week. Almost five hundred thousand won. He promised himself that after he catches up with Yoongi and sees what this infamous “surprise” is he would leave and go straight to the bank that closes at six. Now it’s four. Or five. 

He should probably invest in a watch. Or maybe ask someone for the time like a normal person. But the people here aren’t normal. They think of themselves as anything but. 

Business kids, law kids, medicine kids. 

And that’s not saying that they’re studying to become these things, but that they’re literally kids with parents who thrive in these professions. 

Kids whose parents are CEOs at the top conglomerates of the country, lawyers working under the most highly ranked firms, surgeons whose paychecks are more handsome than the faces they operate on. And here their kids are, drinking and drugging themselves up like they’re at an underground fight. Dirty and trashy and everything that they’re not.

He feels more like a referee than anything. Standing at the side, the perimeter, watching all the action happening. 

The hands. The groans. The red liquids. Hell, even the smell, dank and sweaty and musty, it’s all the same. Just a little more polished. 

Jungkook thinks it’s time to call break as he pushes himself from the wall, plastic cup now sitting empty in his hand.

Heading towards the kitchen, he grimaces as some of the sweat and hands meet his skin.

He shouldn’t have worn that flimsy black t-shirt that has more cuts and slashes than his own body, but it’s one of the comfiest (and one of the only, if he’s being honest) shirts he owns. It’s a survivor, like him.

When he reaches the kitchen, he stops dead in his tracks. The cup crushes a little in his hand, knuckles tense and turning an alarming shade of white. He doesn’t make a noise. Standing as still as prey. He makes slow movements to back away, and thinks he will be able to get away, when hears a bottle slam down on the countertop.

“Look what the cat dragged in.”

Jungkook really wishes he had accepted the blunt someone offered him when he first got here. Sure, it was half-smoked and rolled like a three-year-old had their hands on a tootsie roll, but it would’ve made things easier. Would've made dealing with these snobby stuck-ups so much easier.

“Don’t be daft. No cat would want to go near him.” A pair of eyes look up and down his body, a smirk settling on her perfectly stained lips. Song Seohee. Her father is a highly regarded neurosurgeon. “Unless they want to get a disease. God knows how many dirty things he’s caught. You know, with how much he sleeps around.”

“Good one, Soehee!” The bottle slammer laughs, and it’s the most annoying sound in the world. Grating against his ears like chalk on a blackboard. Kim Dongchae. His mother is the dean of the university.

“He’s so shameless about it, too.” Another voice patronizes him. Sipping from his cup with elegance and class, as if it was a luxurious wine and not some cheap beer. Lee Jungwoong. His parents run a sophisticated distillery along the outskirts of the city. “Look at him. Walking around with a hickey on his neck like it’s a trophy. Fucking repulsive.” 

On impulse, Jungkook feels the bruise burn. It’s something that feels hot and ugly and repulsive. 

“You think that’s bad? Look at what he’s wearing. I would never be caught dead in that.” Seohee gags, as if the sight of Jungkook’s clothes is the most atrocious thing she’s ever seen. 

“Cute shirt, Kookie. Where’d you get it from?” Dongchae steps forward and pinches the material of his sleeve, pulling too hard and forming a new tear over his bicep. Over one of the scars he got from the ring a couple of days ago. “The junkyard?” Dongchae snickers. The fucking comedian. He continues chastising him, working to get under his skin and into his nerves. Because that’s what rich people do. 

“Matches the rest of him.” Seohee hums, but it’s anything but sweet and melodious. “Slutty.” She finishes off with a cruel curl of her lips. Loaded like a punch. Hits him all the same.

He would do anything to be high right now. Lungs filled with gravelly black clouds. Choking him from the inside out. It would make dealing with these people so much easier. Because if there’s one thing they have in common—besides being filthy rich assholes—is that they’re friends with Taehyung. Bad apples from the same orchard.

Some of them are new money. Some old money. But it doesn’t matter because they’re all worth more than Jungkook who is repulsive and dirty. Who is worth nothing. Who is nothing. And they’re getting off on it like a middle schooler with their first pack of Camels.

“When are you gonna cut your hair, Kookie?” One of them asks in mock concern.

“Probably has a thing for people pulling his hair before biting him like a bed bug.” 

“Can’t afford to go to the salon? Here.” Dongchae sticks one hundred thousand won in his face. A taunt. An insult. “Get yourself a nice haircut. Might make you look less trashy.”

Jungkook doesn’t take it.

He doesn’t take any of their bullshit anymore and pushes past them. Whatever reason he came here for in the first place is pushed far back into his mind. Instead, his mind is taken over by the same three words.

Repulsive. Slutty. Trashy.

Each word drills into his brain with a vendetta. Piercing it until it’s the only thing he can think about. He knows he shouldn’t let their words get to him, that they’re just being assholes for the fun of it, but he can’t. It’s like their words are a leash wrapped tightly around his neck. Making it hard to think. Hard to breathe.

Jungkook stumbles into the living room. He’s far away from the kitchen. The three rich assholes. The three words plaguing his mind like a disease. But it’s not enough. The music is too loud. The bodies are too close. The smell is too nauseating. 

It’s too much. 

He doesn’t register the body he bumps into until he feels a sharp pain in his bicep. He stumbles back with an apology on his tongue until he sees who it is.

Cha Eunwoo.

One of the few members of the Food Chain who is tolerable only because he doesn’t really talk to Jungkook. Not that he has a problem with that. Honestly, he would be fine if no one from this school talked to him again.

“Hey, man! Glad you could make it!” 

“Do you have concealer?”

Eunwoo’s expression flickers with confusion for a second. His eyes find the bruise on his jaw and he smiles sympathetically.

“Yeah, come with me.”

Jungkook follows him through the crowd. He ignores the eyes glued to him, wondering why someone like Eunwoo is with someone like Jungkook.

The thing about ignoring is that it can only get you so far. Once your brain fixes on a piece of information it’s hard to forget about it no matter how hard you try. Just like a fly trying hard to get out of a sticky trap. Because that’s what it is, this party. A trap. 

A food chain. 

So when Jungkook tells his brain to ignore the three familiar gazes piercing his skin, his brain does anything but. Against his better judgment, he turns his head to meet their gazes head on. They’re like a pack of lions. Predatory and ready to strike. Leaning against the wall like they own the fucking place. Licking their lips and flashing their teeth maliciously.

Jungkook is nothing but their snack. A morsel. Something for them to play with when they’re bored.

Jungwoong casually has his hand in his pocket, the other holding his cheap beer as he wears an amused smirk. 

Seohee is right next to him saying something animatedly, waving her arms around like she’s in a soap opera. She’s definitely talking about him, if the pointing to her neck and mouthing the word “slut” is enough evidence.

He hears more than sees Dongchae throwing his body over with laughter, the shrill sound ringing in his ears. The son of the University’s dean, in all his elegance and poise, guzzles down a bottle of Jack Daniel’s like a drunkard. Spilling dirty gold waves over his shirt, one that probably costs more than Jungkook’s tuition. He grabs onto the nearest thing for support. That thing happens to be a person. The last person Jungkook wanted to see. 

Kim Taehyung.

He is the only one who is not laughing his head off. Standing there with arms crossed and looking mildly uncomfortable. That is, until he makes eye contact with Jungkook and throws his head back, laughing loudly. Some of the neon sticks to his skin. Shades of purple and blue that tempt Jungkook to stare at the column of his throat. Strong and sweaty, bobbing with the force of his laughter.  

Something in Jungkook’s gut churns. Waves of bitter, salty water bubbling and foaming inside him like a sick ocean. 

Repulsive. 

He feels repulsive. 

And trashy, and dirty, and everything that makes him worth nothing.

He needs to get out here.

“Almost there.” Eunwoo mumbles above the music.

Jungkook nods but he doesn’t really hear him. Or the music, or anything really. He feels drifty and floaty. Unsteady. A ship lost at sea. Waiting for the crash and sink.

He doesn’t know when they entered the bathroom. When Eunwoo grabbed a thin, cream-colored tube. When the back of his arms touched the cold marble of the sink.

“How’s the party going?” Eunwoo asks. Probably to fill the silence. The party is loud outside, the walls of the bathroom vibrating to the beat of the electro EDM track blasting on the speakers. 

“S’okay.”

“Did you hit up Rocky yet? You wanna go before he runs out. Heard he has a limited supply.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“He has edibles too.”

“I don’t do weed.” Jungkook says as politely as he can.

Thankfully, Eunwoo understands and nods.

“Do you drink?”

As someone who spends hours punching and getting the shit punched out of him on a regular basis, the last thing he needs is to fuck up his system alcohol. Even a couple sips of wine can affect his strength and performance in the ring. It’s also a good idea for anyone who’s as busted up as Jungkook to avoid booze altogether. 

So he shakes his head.

“Aren’t you the party animal?” Eunwoo teases as he unscrews the tube of concealer. He dabs the tip of the applicator over the bruise a couple of times. The skin of his jaw pulses in reaction. Jungkook hisses. The liquid cream is cold and doesn’t have a strong smell. It must be coming from Eunwoo. Soft and floral. Expensive.

“I don’t see you much on campus.”

“I’m not on campus much.”

“You live far?”

“Near Lim’s.” Eunwoo looks at him for a second, blinking curiously. “The ramen shop.”

“Oh, that place! I think I passed by it before. Looks cozy.”

“Yeah. Cozy.”

Eunwoo’s about to ask another question when the door bursts open. Both boys flinch at the sound. Eunwoo is so startled he almost drops the concealer.

“Learn how to knock, dude!”

“Sorry, man. I didn't know this bathroom was occupied.”

Jungkook stills.

He knows that voice. Hates that voice. Hates the owner of that voice more than anything. 

His fingers grip the edge of the sink.

“It’s all good.” Eunwoo reassures, all gentle and polite. “You’re glad I wasn’t doing this guy’s eyeliner. That would’ve been a horror movie waiting to happen.”

Jungkook holds his breath when the newcomer’s gaze shifts from Eunwoo to him. 

Every trace of warmth and friendliness is drained away from his face as a scowl sets on his lips. Resembling the predatory mien of his friends. Lions from the same pack.

“What the hell are you doing?” He seethes, completely ignoring Eunwoo and focusing on him now.

“None of your fucking business, Kim.”

“Don’t you know this shit is gonna irritate your bruise?”

“Does it look like I give a fuck?”

Taehyung all but explodes. 

He barrels his way into the bathroom, growling at Eunwoo to, “Get out.” before the latter raises his hands and leaves. 

Jungkook is now sitting on the edge of the bathtub. Taehyung is kneeling on the tiles. This position is something he’s familiar with, along with that scowl that never leaves the other’s face. 

Taehyung pulls a mini first aid kit from his pocket. 

Must be a med student thing.

“This isn’t a hickey, it’s an injury. Adding chemical-filled shit to it will only make it worse.” Taehyung scolds.

“Well, it’s not like you gave me anything to cover it up.”

“I thought you wanted people to think you were a fuckboy, or whatever.”

Jungkook stares at the medical student, speechless.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” He scoffs, amazed in the wrong ways. “How can you be studying to become a doctor?”

Taehyung stills, mimicking Jungkook from a few moments ago.

He definitely hit another nerve. 

“You don’t know what it takes to study medicine. So just stick to your little therapy sessions, yeah?”

“It takes brains to be a doctor, and I'm all about that. I bet I could be a better doctor than you ever could.”

He’s just bullshitting at this point. He knows this. Taehyung knows this. That doesn’t stop him from winding up the other. 

It’s his turn to play and entertain himself. 

Maybe preys are as much of predators as predators themselves.

“You’re so full of bullshit I wonder how you’re still in this university.”

“Maybe because I work hard for it. Something you privileged bastards will never understand.”

He doesn’t have adrenaline in his veins, just agitation. 

He needs to let it out somehow. 

“For someone who studies the brain, you sure lack a lot of brain cells.” 

“I have you to thank for that.” Jungkook grins, but it’s anything but sweet. “Every time you open your mouth, my IQ goes down a point.”

“Why don’t you shut your mouth so I can do my fucking job, okay?”

“No one asked you to do anything.” 

“Your ass is gonna thank me tomorrow when you don’t wake up with a rash on your face.” Jungkook winces when Taehyung grips the side of his jaw, the side that isn’t bruised, forcing him to face him. “So shut the fuck up, and let me work.” He grunts in a voice that is lower than normal. Huskier.

Jungkook attempts to stare him down. Intimidate him. But it’s kinda hard when half of his face is squished in Taehyung’s annoyingly big hand.

So he gives up. 

This isn’t a fight worth fighting.

“Be quick.”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice.”

Taehyung cleans him up. Wipes off the concealer. Sticks a clear patch on his jaw. Goes over it with a thin layer of concealer. Uses the fucking pad of his thumb to smooth it out.

“Done.”

Jungkook gets up and looks in the mirror. 

He hates it. 

Hates how Taehyung did a perfect job at covering up the bruise, making it look like his skin was never harmed in the first place. 

Hates how Taehyung does a perfect job at everything because he’s perfect, and smart, and rich, and is going to be a perfect doctor in the future.

And then there is Jungkook.

Jungkook who isn’t perfect, or rich, or anything.

“You missed a spot.”

“You’re fucking lying.”

“Maybe you’re fucking blind.”

Taehyung pops open the concealer, dabs some on his thumb, and spreads it over his jaw. He does it all within a beat of his heart. Or Jungkook’s heart skipped a beat.

Might explain why he feels so lightheaded.

“Now get out. Unless you wanna watch me take a piss.”

Jungkook blinks back to reality, face twisting with disgust.

“Don’t gotta tell me twice.”

He doesn’t waste another second and leaves the bathroom.

The party is still alive. 

The music is louder. The bodies are closer. And the smell is as nauseating as ever. 

But Jungkook feels okay.

His phone is still dead, he finds out there weren’t any raspberries in his raspberry lemonade, and he doesn’t see Yoongi anywhere. 

But he’s okay.

That is until someone bumps into him.

“Shit, are you—” 

Speak of the devil.

“Hyung?”

“Kook?”

Then it’s an explosion of questions.

“When did you get here? Why didn’t you answer my texts? Do you know how many times I called you? You know I don’t call people, Jungkook.”

“My phone died.”

“You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“I’m sorry for worrying you, dad.” 

Yoongi rolls his eyes. 

“I was scared someone drugged you and kidnapped you. Like in those gang movies. Fucked up shit.”

“You know I can defend myself.”

“Yeah, I know.” Yoongi’s eyes linger over his jaw, squinting when he notices the lack of blue. “Are you wearing makeup?” 

“It’s a long story.”

“Heard you were in the bathroom with Kim Taehyung.” 

“That’s the long story.”

“Did he do this to you?” He asks quietly.

Usually when Yoongi asks this question, it’s in a different context. One where Jungkook is covered from head to toe in bruises and cuts, limping like his body is gonna shut down any second, as he crashes on the couch and tells him about his match. About the asshole who almost knocked his nose bridge to a different city. 

But this is different. 

The way Yoongi asks the question is different. 

Because instead of hurting Jungkook, Taehyung did the opposite. 

He healed him.

But he knows it’s not because he wanted to. It’s because he owes his best friend. So he ignores the warm little flowers growing in his chest because if there’s one thing worse than addiction, it’s affection.

And he has no room in his heart to have affection for someone like Taehyung.

“Yeah.”

“He’s not so bad.” 

Jungkook laughs.

“He’s the worst.”

“You’re just saying that because you think he’s a stuck-up rich kid.”

“I mean it, hyung. I don’t like him, and he doesn’t like me. It’s mutual. So I don’t see the problem here.”

“The problem is that you don’t give him a chance.”

“Chance to what? Play me like a puppet and cut me off when he realizes I’m worthless?”

“First of all, you’re not worthless. Second, Taehyung’s not like that.”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause he owes you.” 

Something flashes across Yoongi’s eyes. Jungkook can’t tell what it is. Hurt. Confusion. Anger.

There’s a story there, but now is not the right time to ask.

“No, I’m saying it because it’s true. He’s a good guy, Kook. As good as they come.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“You’re gonna see it. I believe that.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes.

“So what did you want to show me?”

The muddled emotions fizzle out and something softer fills the sharp edges of Yoongi’s face, turning him into something that reminds Jungkook of the gummy candies he used to devour as a kid.

“Come with me.”

Jungkook follows him.

“Where are we going?”

“To the drinks table.”

“You know I quit, hyung.”

“Who said we’re going for you?” He shoots him a grin. Playful, but still soft and gummy. It looks good on him. Jungkook wants to see him smile like this more often.

“Then who are you going for?”

“You’ll see.”

Jungkook eyes him suspiciously. 

He’s grinning a little too widely now. Like a serial killer who found their next victim. Jungkook doesn’t think he’s ever seen the older’s bottom teeth before.

They’re almost at the table. It’s farther away from the loudness of the party, near the back of the ridiculously large and lavish dorm. 

Jungkook remembers when he used to live in one of these during his freshman year. Remembers how good it felt to sleep in a bed that didn’t give him back pain, to have heat during the coldest winter nights, to have enough space for his dream gaming setup.

But then it became too expensive. His scholarship could not cover the costs anymore. He realized luxury was never made for someone like him.

So he moved out. 

Now he wakes up in his cold, hard mattress in a cramped apartment where he barely has enough room to breathe. 

But he’s still breathing; he’s still alive. 

He’s surviving. 

“So where’s the surprise?”

“I’m looking for him.”

“Him?”

Jungkook barely has time to react when Yoongi spots a guy, who is a few inches taller than him, wearing a silky red button up and the tightest pair of leather pants in existence. 

“Babe, you’re back!” The guy says before pulling his hyung by the waist and smacking their lips together in a very loud, very wet, kiss.

Jungkook doesn’t think he ever saw something more appalling.

Watching someone suck his best friend slash older brother figure’s mouth was definitely not on his bucket list, and he could’ve gone his whole life without seeing that image that is now burned in his head. 

“You must be Jungkookie!” He outstretches his bracelet-covered hand towards Jungkook, who awkwardly shakes it. “Yoongs has told me a lot about you.”

“Stop embarrassing me in front of my dongsaeng.” Yoongi groans. The tips of his ears are red like they are only when he’s shy or flustered.

“I’m sorry, babe.” He leans in close and waggles his eyebrows. “Want me to make it up to you?”

Yoongi’s ears only get redder.

“You can do that by introducing yourself.” The older affirms, pushing him back by the chest and gesturing to Jungkook. 

“Oh, right. Let’s try that again.” He stretches his hand again and says, “Hi. I’m Jung Hoseok. It is a pleasure to meet you.” 

There’s a smile on his face that Jungkook could compare to the sun, filled with so much teeth it’s almost blinding. It makes all the awkwardness melt away. He feels himself relaxing in his warm presence.

He wonders how Yoongi, someone who basically lives in the shadows, met someone like Hoseok, who is the epitome of sunlight.

But then he sees how they act with each other, a pull of gravity that only brings them closer together. Keeping them in each other’s orbit. It’s beautiful in the bright kind of way. 

Every moon needs their sun.

“The pleasure is mine, Hoseok-ssi.” Jungkook lets go of his hand and bows deeply. Hoseok makes a noise of surprise.

“You raised a gentleman, Yoongs.”

“Don’t let him fool you. He’s a brat under all that chivalry.”

“I wonder where he got that from.” Hoseok winks. Jungkook likes him already. 

Meanwhile, Yoongi looks like he regrets every choice he made in his life.

“I made a mistake introducing you two. Forget you met each other. Kook, there’s a really good chicken place nearby that we should try out—”

“Sorry, babe. You two can have your chicken date another time. I’m gonna have a drink with our little maknae over here.” He throws an arm over his shoulder and grins at him. “The lemonade here is ass, but the orange juice is good. And that’s because they bought it! I’ll pour you a glass. Also, call me hyung. Or Hobi. Or whatever you feel like.” Hoseok keeps rambling on. Jungkook can't keep up with everything he's saying, but he says it all with a warm smile.

For the first time since Jungkook came to this party, he feels like he can breathe.

He returns the smile.

“Okay, hyung.”

Hoseok was right.

The orange juice is good. It’s a little too sour, and kinda warm from sitting out for too long, but it beats the lemonade by a long shot.

Jungkook’s sitting on one of the couches in the corner. Hoseok went off to find a sulky Yoongi because he still needs to “make it up to him,” whatever that means. Jungkook doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t need another mentally scarring image in his brain, so he thinks about something else.

Reclining in the plush seat, he remembers the envelope in his pocket. 

Five hundred thousand won. 

He’ll finally be able to pay off this month’s rent and have some leftover for gauze, takeout, and maybe a new pair of gloves. 

Wishful thinking.

He sighs.

Jungkook saw the time earlier on Hoseok’s phone—noting the latter’s wallpaper which is a picture of Yoongi drinking his favorite coffee—when he took it out to give Jungkook his phone number. 

It’s almost five thirty. 

He should go.

Jungkook throws his empty cup on the table and makes his way to the door.

On the way, he hears a conversation that catches his ears.

“How much is he offering?”

“Five hundred million.”

“Only? That’s not enough to feed my dog.”

“It’s a little cheap, but no one’s beaten him yet. He’s on his fourth game.”

“What’s he playing?”

“Cards.”

Cards. Game. Five hundred million.

It’s like a switch goes off in his head.

“Uh, hey.” Jungkook cuts in awkwardly. “Where can I play this game?”

They look at him for a second. Probably wondering why someone with a raggedy old shirt is breathing in their direction, before one of them smirks. 

“In the kitchen.”

“Be careful.” The other says, something like amusement coloring their voice. “He bites.”

Jungkook glances at them warily.

“Thanks.” He says before making his way back to the kitchen.

Back to the lion’s den.