Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

If you don’t want to turn into a human chew toy—don’t make any noise. Even during the day.

From the roof, the car looked promising. Four stories down, jammed halfway into the glass-front entrance of the old office building across the narrow street. Jimin spotted the hefty-looking backpack in the back seat like a crow would with something shiny—eyes narrowing and hand shooting out to grip Jungkook by the sleeve to get his attention.

The only issue was getting to the damn thing.

A handful of infected were bumping around in the alley behind it, drifting in and out of the shade. It wasn’t a swarm, not yet, but even small amounts of noise carried wide in the empty streets of the city. One wrong move and they could get overrun. Or worse—they could get noticed by something worse, like people.

“We could go in from the top,” Jungkook had said, crouching down beside him. “Quick in-and-out. Less time on the street that way.”

“There’s a lamp post,” Jimin had pointed out airily. It leaned toward the office façade like a bridge. A stairwell window three floors up had been smashed in at some point, jagged glass nothing but glitter in its frame. “We could… you know.”

Jungkook had given him a cautionary sideways glance, just to check if he was bluffing. Jimin didn’t budge, eyes fixed on the prized backpack. But he could feel the giddy grin practically radiating off the bastard next to him.

Which was how Jimin ended up here, clinging to a cold metal pole like the world’s most stressed stripper.

The first rule of dangling four floors above the pavement is don’t look down.

Jimin looks down.

The street is a long way away. The car is directly under the stairwell window now, its roof crumpled, hood nosed into the shattered glass doors.

One false move and Jimin would be a modern art piece next to it.

“You’re doing great,” Jungkook whisper-shouts from the crumbling edge of roof above. His fist is wrapped in the back of Jimin’s hoodie, bicep shaking slightly from the effort.

“If you say one more word,” Jimin grits out, sweaty fingers gripping the steel for dear life, “I’m letting go.”

He’s sweating all over, thighs shaking from being clamped around the lamp post for the past five minutes. Why the fuck did he wear jeans today of all days?

“We agreed,” Jungkook says matter-of-factly, “that you dangle for loot and I get to judge.”

“Don’t say ‘dangle,’” Jimin groans. “I’m going to throw up.”

He sneaks his feet lower. The lamp post is bolted into the façade just below roof level and runs down past the shattered stairwell window. To his left, brick. To his right, nothing but consequences.

From this angle he can see the alley at the back of the building, the slow, jerky shadows moving through it. One of the infected bumps its shoulder into the wall and groans, head snapping up like it can smell Jimin’s fear radiating down.

Doing stunts like this in broad daylight is, for the lack of a better word, fucking stupid. But night-time isn’t any better, nor safer. They had to take their chances.

“Okay,” Jungkook calls down. “You’re right above the window. Step on the frame, break a bit more glass if you have to. I’ll cover the noise.”

“With what, your face?”

“My rock-solid faith,” Jungkook grins. “And also, this brick.”

He waves said brick cheerfully with his free hand.

They had used a sheet of scaffolding from the other roof to cross the narrow gap to this one, breaths held the whole way over. They tried the stairwell door first—no dice. Jammed, swollen in the frame and refusing to budge. Which left the broken window and the lamp post as the only way down without advertising their presence at street level.

“Let go of me,” Jimin hisses, nerves starting to make him twitchy. “I need to lean.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I can’t reach if you’re hauling me up like a misbehaving cat!"

There’s a pause. Jungkook has never liked trusting physics more than his own fists. Jimin feels his fingers twitch where they’re bunched in the fabric, clearly in some stupid, internal fight between logic and his own convictions. But eventually they loosen and slide down from Jimin’s hood to fist in the back of his belt instead.

“If you fall, I get your jeans.”

“You can have my ghost punching you in the dick every night too, Jeon.” Jimin rolls his eyes.

He shifts his weight, toes searching. The stairwell window frame scrapes his shoes when he finds it. He lets go of the post with one hand to brace himself against the wall, easing past the worst of the glass. Tiny shards ping against the pavement below, bright and traitorous.

For one awful second his centre of gravity tilts the wrong way and his stomach lurches, but Jungkook’s grip on his belt yanks and hauls him towards the window.

Then he’s through.

His feet hit dusty concrete inside the stairwell with a very ungraceful wobble. It’s cooler in here, air stale and thick. Light knifes in through the broken window behind him and down the stairwell to the jagged wound of entrance where the car punched through three levels below.

“Okay,” Jimin calls up through the window. “I’m in.”

He hears Jungkook’s heavy boots shuffle around, then a sigh.

“Don’t move.”

“What, you’re coming too?”

“Yes?”

“That’s not necessary,” Jimin scrambles for the window just as said boots come into view. “The plan was I go, you lookout—”

“The plan was we don’t split up,” Jungkook says casually as he slides down the pole inch by inch, the metal creaking in protest from having two grown men abuse it in one day.

“If you think I’m letting you rummage alone, you’re broken in the head.”

“The car’s right there,” Jimin argues weakly. “We need someone in case the back-alley party hears us.”

“I can lookout from inside.”

“That’s—” Jimin starts, then gives up. Might as well argue with the fucking lamp post.

Jungkook drops through the window with considerably less drama, knees bending on landing, one hand slapping the wall for balance.

“Idiot,” Jimin can’t help the insult.

“Maybe. But my ass looked good,” Jungkook pants, straightening up. “And that’s what counts.”

Jimin refuses to dignify that with a comment.

“Come on then,” he mutters instead, jerking his chin downward. “Before our friends out back come say hi.”

They descend the stairs in a practiced formation: Jimin a step ahead, Jungkook close enough behind that if Jimin stopped short, they’d collide chest to back. The stairwell reeks like damp gypsum and the familiar stench of rot that permeates the entire city. Jimin wrinkles his nose and pulls the neckline of his hoodie over it, eyes watering a little. Something rolls off a step when they brush it—a bottle cap, by the sound of it—and skitters into the dark.

The ground floor door hangs open, ripped and bent. They edge up to it and pause.

The lobby is a wreck. Shattered glass everywhere, the reception desk crushed on one side where the car forced its way in. The right side of the car is completely caved in on the driver’s side, the door practically folded in half.

Jimin eyes the dark splats and smears on what remains of the seat before glancing away.

“Clear?” Jungkook murmurs quietly behind him.

Jimin sighs and shuts his eyes for a moment, listening. The sounds of the city seem distant. No footsteps, no signs of life except their own. Even the undead noise from the back alley is nothing more than a dull, far-off gurgle.

“Clear enough,” he says finally, nodding at Jungkook.

They slide out into the lobby.

The afternoon sun flashes hot off the jagged pieces of broken glass and metal, and Jimin feels instantly exposed, like someone has pulled the roof off his skull.

“Passenger’s side's jammed,” Jungkook whispers hurriedly, circling the front of the car, eyes constantly flicking to the street, the alley, the roofs opposite. “Glass is weakest on the back.”

“This just keeps getting better and better,” Jimin mutters.

He moves to the rear window, picks up a chunk of concrete and taps the glass once before pausing and biting his lip. His eyes find Jungkook’s face in the reflection and wait until the younger turns his head and their gazes meet.

Then he smashes it in.

The crack is loud, punches the air and ricochets off nearby walls. They both freeze.

Jimin’s pulse slams hard against his ribs. He strains his ears for any incoming danger. There’s a quiet shuffle from somewhere far off, nothing else. His shoulders sag.

“See? Fine.” Jungkook teases.

“Stop saying that word,” Jimin hisses. “You’re going to jinx us one of these days.”

He knocks the worst of the shards out with his sleeve and reaches in. The backseat fabric is stiff, flaking under his fingers where they brush over it. He ignores the icky feeling and rummages, teeth gritting when a pointy piece of glass nicks his skin.

“What if it’s textbooks,” Jungkook ponders next to him.

“I’ll die,” Jimin wheezes, yanking the backpack free by the strap. “I’ll actually die right here.”

“On the bright side, then I get your socks.”

“You have all my socks already.”

“Yeah, but then you can’t bitch at me for stretching them.”

“Shut up,” Jimin grunts, but there’s an edge of a smile on it.

He manoeuvres the bag free and pulls it through the shattered window, careful of the straps. It’s heavier than it looks, which is either really good or a complete bust.

“Inside,” Jungkook says immediately, hand already pushing at the small of his back. “Stairwell. Then we have our little unboxing party.”

They retreat back through the bent door, up the stairs to the mid-landing—the one that feels least exposed—and sag against opposite walls.

“Moment of truth,” Jungkook says, cheeks flushed, breath still a little fast. His eyes look a little wider, a familiar glee shining in them as he stares at their bounty.

“Please be useful, please be useful,” Jimin chants under his breath, fingers fumbling with the zipper.

The first layer is a hoodie that smells like old sweat and the faintest hint of soap. He drops it on the step between them.

“Isn’t that Dior?” Jungkook gasps, picking it up from the ground and dusting off the fabric.

Next, a notebook. Jimin flips through quickly—lecture notes, messy doodles, a to-do list that includes “call dentist” and “buy milk”. The mundane words punch him straight through the chest.

He shuts it before his brain can spiral into imagining the person who wrote “call dentist” never getting round to it.

“Paper’s useful,” Jungkook says softly when he spots the tremble in his hands. “Keep it.”

Jimin nods stiffly, sets it aside.

Then, cans. Lots of them too. Beans, beans, soup, more beans, fucking SPAM. Objectively, it’s a haul.

“At least pretend to be excited,” Jungkook whispers reverently as Jimin pulls out the third tin. “That’s protein, you brat.”

“I’m the one who has to live with your protein farts,” Jimin snorts and shoves the tin into his waiting hands.

He digs deeper until his fingers hit something soft and crinkly at the bottom. He frowns and wraps his hand around the item fully, pulls out a vacuum-sealed packet.

Coffee.

Actual fucking coffee. Not the instant crap too. Ground, the real deal, with a brand name he vaguely remembers seeing on shelves and ignoring it because there’d been too many options back then.

“No way,” Jungkook breathes, stepping closer, beans and designer forgotten.

Jimin can't help it—he laughs. The sound bubbles out of him in one sharp burst and bounces around the empty stairwell. His hands shake a little as he turns the packet over, squinting at the tiny print to make sure he’s not simply imagining it.

Nope, still coffee. Not even past its expiration date.

“I love you,” Jimin whispers to it, cradling the pack to his chest like a baby.

Jungkook huffs and steps a little closer, eyes darting curiously between the precious cargo and Jimin’s face.

“Don’t be jealous,” Jimin grins harder. Fuck, it’s been so long since he smiled this much, it feels almost rusty and unnatural on his face.

Happiness is a fleeting thing in this new order of the world. Mostly, you’re just happy to live another day and to have food in your belly. Happy to not get sick or torn apart by those who already faced that unfortunate fate.

Jimin used to be happy about lots of things in the past, like petting a stray animal on the street or seeing his mother’s face. But those things were gone now. A past life that’s fading quickly from the corners of his mind, replaced by the animal need to survive, survive, survive.

He pushes the ugly thoughts down and bumps the toe of a worn sneaker against Jungkook’s boot playfully. Looks up at him, wide grin like a beam.

“You know I’ll share—”

The rest of the sentence gets swallowed by a muffled “mmmph” and a pair of warm lips against his.

It’s like the sight of Jimin lit up like that short-circuits something in Jungkook’s brain. One second, he’s leaning against the wall, pink in the cheeks and ready to bitch, the next he’s crowding into Jimin’s space, hands pawing at his clothes and licking into his mouth frantically.

The backpack slides out of Jimin’s grip. It hits the step beside them with a heavy thud that sounds way too much like a door slam in the otherwise quiet building.

The noise snaps through both of them, they break apart just enough to freeze.

Jimin’s back is pressed against the cool, flaking wall, and Jungkook is right there in front of him—chest heaving, breath hot and coffee-sour from the last of their instant stuff. His hands are bunched in Jimin’s hoodie at his ribs, knuckles white, their noses almost touching. Jimin can feel every place they’re pressed together, the warmth of the other like a brand against his skin even through layers of fabric.

When he risks glancing up—Jungkook’s eyes are dark as they stare back. Not just from the low light—as dark as Jimin’s ever seen them, blown wide, familiar want spilling over the edges of all the jokes he usually hides behind.

“Jung—” Jimin croaks, then stops himself, suddenly afraid to speak.

Jungkook just stares at him, eyes flicking down to his mouth and back up again, like he’s waiting for the go-ahead to lean back in.

Heat crawls up Jimin’s neck, up over his ears and cheeks. His fingers tighten over the pack of coffee, the foil crinkling.

“N-not here,” he manages, barely above a whisper.

Jungkook’s eyebrows pull together. Something flashes across his face—hurt, frustration, Jimin can’t quite tell. Then Jungkook shuts his eyes, just for a second, and sighs.

When he opens them again, the weird darkness is gone, replaced by a neutral mask.

“Yeah,” he rasps, finally glancing away. He lets go of Jimin’s hoodie, steps back a half-step and takes all that warmth with him. “Yeah, okay. Sorry. Got overexcited.”

Jimin laughs nervously and crouches to grab the backpack, not really trusting the shake in his hands or the tingle in his lips.

“Good haul,” he mutters, trying to dissipate the awkward tension between them. “We should, uh—go. Before it gets dark.”

“Yeah,” Jungkook sighs again. His face is turned slightly away, jaw tight in profile. “Same way up. Don’t look down, yada yada.”

They climb up the stairs without another word. Back through the glass-slashed window lip, onto the lamp post, back to the roof. The physical act of moving gives Jimin something to focus on that isn’t the ghost of Jungkook’s mouth, or the way his hands fit too easily at his sides.

By the time they’re crossing the makeshift plank between roofs, his breathing has calmed, but the rage of emotions still feels like an ocean.

He’s in love with Jungkook.

The gravity of the thought sits like a boulder in his mind. He’s been dancing around it for a long time, blaming proximity and survival—anything but himself. But it’s there, exposed now, singing through his veins.

He loves the idiot. He loves the way Jungkook’s eyes crinkle when he’s mocking him, the awful jokes, the wonderful engineering brain that keeps building the most useful things out of trash, the absurd tenderness of keeping Jimin’s supply run checklists hidden away in a desk drawer.

He loves that Jungkook heard his laugh in a dead stairwell and just couldn’t stop himself.

And if that means he’s trapping Jungkook here—keeping him tethered to their stupid, crumbling building, this brittle half-life—then that’s on him. Jungkook could probably find other people. A bigger group, maybe a semblance of a normal life with some sort of structure. A less anxious person who doesn’t spiral every time something makes noise in the dark.

Instead he’s here. With Jimin. Climbing back into their decrepit ex-dorm with a backpack full of beans and coffee, and a kiss they’re both pretending didn’t happen.

The first rule they’ve ever agreed on was no feelings.

Jungkook broke that rule a long time ago, Jimin knows that. He can feel it in every touch, in every glance shared between them like a humming thread. Jungkook is bad at saying no to himself and even worse at hiding things. Sometimes, Jimin thinks, he’s not even trying to hide anything at all.

Sometimes he wonders if Jungkook knows that he broke that rule too, but chooses to cling to the idea that loving in this life is just a sure way towards more pain.

When they finally clamber into their dorm building, the sun is dipping low behind the horizon, painting everything a hot orange. Jimin walks ahead, keeping to the pattern.

“You’re weirdly quiet,” Jungkook probes lightly, tugging gently on the strap of the backpack. “You planning my murder? Because if so, please wait until after we drink the coffee.”

“Maybe I’ll poison it,” Jimin throws back.

“Ouch,” Jungkook laughs, dramatically clutching a hand to his chest as if the words shot him. “Romance is truly dead.”

“Romance, huh,” Jimin whispers under his breath.

He doesn’t look over his shoulder, doesn’t need to. He can feel Jungkook behind him like a phantom limb, unbearably alive. His hands tighten briefly around the straps of the backpack, feeling the edges bite into his palms.

Later, he’ll lie awake in their shared bed and replay the day in his head. The thud of the dropped bag, the look in Jungkook’s eyes. He’ll wonder if he’s selfish for wanting to keep Jungkook for himself, for not telling him to leave and go find something better.

But for now, he walks down the hall toward their room, toward the shitty makeshift stove, the cracked mugs and the promise of one good cup of coffee between them.

For now, he lets himself have this one thing without really earning it.

For now, Jungkook’s footsteps sound behind him, steady as a heartbeat, and Jimin thinks: don’t go, don’t go, don’t leave—and hates himself just as desperately.

♡

The roof has become their little escape.

Someone, way before their time at this dorm, tried to make it nice for the rest of the residents. There are still the rusted bases of what used to be parasols, a couple of long-dead planters, metal chairs welded to the floor as a safety measure. Now the chairs are just scrap metal and the planters are only good for weighing down tarps.

Jimin dragged a crate into the flattest patch of concrete and bullied a whining Jungkook into sitting on it. The younger’s back is to the low wall that rings the roof, legs spread and hands braced on his thighs. Laundry lines cut across the sky above them, a few worn shirts and a single ragged towel flapping like half-hearted flags. Afternoon light slides over the nearby buildings, soft and lazy—a beautiful day, all things considered.

“Hold still,” Jimin mutters, fingers raking through Jungkook’s mess of hair.

“I am still,” the younger bitches back. “You’re the one waving those scissors around.”

He is anything but still, fucking liar. He keeps doing little full-body comments every time he talks—shoulders hunching, neck twisting, head tilting to look at things. His hair has grown out badly, curling around his ears and flopping into his eyes. Jimin taps the side of his neck with the flat of the scissors in reprimand until Jungkook sighs and lets his chin drop.

“We need to fix that second-floor window,” he mutters when fingers tangle into his hair again. “The one by the old vending machines? The board’s slipping.”

“Mm.” Jimin snips a section, watches it drift down by his feet only for the breeze to pick it up and dust it away.

“And the pipe in the third-floor bathroom’s still dripping. I think if I find the right size wrench in the maintenance office, I can—”

“Yeah.”

He is listening—sort of. The list of Things Wrong With Their Building lives in his head rent free now—Jungkook just likes voicing it out.

Nearly a year, he thinks. Almost.

They used to be just neighbours. Strangers.

Next door, floor five, just a thin wall between them. Jimin would hear snatches of Jungkook’s life whether he wanted to or not. Bursts of off-key singing in the shower, sudden shouts when he gamed, laughter bleeding through at two in the morning if he had someone over. In the hallway they did the polite nod thing. A quick, “hey,” nothing more.

Jimin had always noticed his clothes, though. The band T-shirts, the ripped black jeans, the piercings catching the light at his brow and lip, the flash of ink on skin. Jungkook was always a walking magnet for attention, good or bad. Jimin, on the other hand, perpetually in gym shorts or sweats on his way to or from the studio, had felt almost dull in comparison.

“We need to check if we can snag a new mattress or something,” Jungkook goes on. “I don’t think my back can handle much more on that lumpy fucking thing we call a bed.”

“Yeah.” Jimin separates another section of hair, careful with the angle. The scissors make a soft shk with every snip.

They’d only spoken properly once before the world fell apart.

A few weeks before the winter break, floor five was throwing an illegal party. Someone had smuggled in enough cheap vodka to drown a small herd of horses while the RA was out of town for a family emergency—a golden opportunity no sane university student would pass on.

Jimin had been on the right side of hammered that the edges of his vision blurred anytime he shifted his head too fast. Somehow, he ended up sitting squished between a group of girls he didn’t really know, questions about his dance degree peppering in and out from all directions.

“So you’re, like, gonna be in music videos?”

“Can you show us something? Like a move? Can you do the splits?”

“Do you do TikTok?”

He’d been in the middle of formulating an escape route in his head when a new voice barged in.

“You dance?”

Jungkook had appeared in front of him with a red solo cup and dangerously unsteady sway. He’d looked Jimin up and down, eyes clearing a little like he’d just found something interesting.

Jimin still remembers the weird twist in his gut at being inspected like that. Mysterious hot neighbour, suddenly close enough that Jimin could see the tiny nick of a scar in his cheek, the silver ring glinting at his lip.

“Uh. Yeah,” Jimin had stuttered, praying the dim light hid how hot his face felt.

Jungkook had hummed, glazed eyes lingering on his legs.

“You should let me draw you sometime—”

Then a guy with a mean set of dimples and a buzz-cut had crashed into their little circle, arm hooking around Jungkook’s neck.

“Mario Kart,” the guy had declared. “You and me. I’m knocking you off Rainbow Road, Jeon.”

Jungkook’s protest had turned into a laugh. He’d been dragged away with his cup sloshing and a half-shouted “see you later” tossed over his shoulder.

They never got to that part.

“We should probably reinforce the door to the roof again too,” Jungkook is saying now. “The lock’s fine, but the frame’s cracked at the top. I can feel it when it closes.”

“If you say so.”

The scissors glide, hair falls. The breeze tugs at the shorter strands, makes them stand up in soft chaos. Jimin pushes Jungkook’s head a little lower, thumb at the back of his crown.

Calling it “The Apocalypse” feels a little too on the nose, but that’s essentially what happened. Not an overnight incident, but it didn’t take too long for the fragile structure of society to come crashing down.

At first it was posts online. Grainy videos and typo-riddled threads about some new virus that didn’t act like a virus—people collapsing and then getting back up wrong. Headlines that sounded like cliché zombie movie plots.

Everyone said it was fake, or propaganda, or a marketing stunt for some horror show.

Then it started happening closer.

Footage was posted from their own city. A clip of someone banging on the doors of a tram, skin grey, eyes filmed over and their face smeared with a shiny layer of fresh blood. The comments underneath spiralled from memes and conspiracy theories to the first signs of panic.

Jimin still remembers the first night the sirens started. An air-raid howl that sank under his skin, followed by screaming from the street that didn’t quiet for a long time.

The dorm group chat went insane. Rumours of attacks near the river first, then on campus. Somebody saying the university was fully shut down, that the government was closing the bridges and sending in the army with barricades.

His dorm building made the unanimous descision to barricade itself from the inside. Night after night, Jimin listened to fights on the other side of his door—people shouting about food, about who got to leave, about who wasn’t coming back. He locked himself in and tried to interact as little as possible.

The electricity shut off soon after along with the internet, flickering in and out before dying for good. Water pressure dropped from a steady stream to a resentful trickle. It took barely a week before someone breached the building. He never found out if it was infected or normal people, just that there was blood on the lobby tiles the next time he went down to help reinforce the doors.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Jungkook mutters.

“I can’t help it,” Jimin says mildly. “It’s my only personality trait.”

“Tragic.” Jungkook shifts, tries to look over his shoulder, and Jimin swats the side of his head with the flat of the scissors. “Ow!.”

“Chin down.”

He remembers the first infected student on their floor. She lived three doors down—a shy, quiet girl. Always wore headphones and was busy with studying instead of making friends or going to parties. He never knew her name.

He remembers her body in the hallway that fateful day, the way it moved like something had rewired her joints from the inside. The sound of her teeth ripping the flesh off the screaming RA’s neck. The way the blood arced in the air, spilling bright on the linoleum floor.

People scattered and screamed when she jolted and twitched to find her next victim. Jimin only barely managed to flatten his body to the corner wall as people barrelled past him like a spooked herd.

For some reason, he thought of Jungkook in that moment. He’d thought he wasn’t home. His door had been shut for days, not a single peep coming through the walls. Jimin had pictured him already gone, one of the smart ones who left early. He seemed the type to survive.

Turned out he was the unlucky fucker who got backed into a corner at the far end of the corridor instead, pressed against the wall where the fire extinguisher used to be. Empty hands raised, no weapon on him at all. Just a look on his face that Jimin had never seen before—stripped of the usual self-assured attitude, boiled down to scared and angry.

Jimin doesn’t remember what spurred him on to make the decision, only the weight of the ceramic plant pot in his grip and the crunch when it met the girl’s head. The sickening sound of her rotting skull caving in jumping straight down his spine and settling in his bones.

She dropped. The pot shattered. Soil and leaves went everywhere.

Jimin had stood there, chest heaving, little bits of pottery digging into his bare feet, while Jungkook slid down the wall a bit, breathing just as laboured and eyes as wide as saucers.

“You okay?” Jimin asked after a moment, voice thin.

“No,” Jungkook answered honestly. “You?”

“No.”

They looked at each other. At the mess on the floor. At the rest of the hallway.

“Wanna, uh.” Jungkook tilted his head, gesturing vaguely toward his own room. “Team up?”

It was a little bizarre, but better than nothing. Two dudes against the apocalypse. Jimin didn’t have a good reason to say no.

They barricaded the stairwells together along with a few other survivors that night. Dragged desks and mattresses and whatever else they could find. Jungkook got the bright idea to tape knives to broom handles because neither of them owned anything more serious, and Jimin busied himself with combining and rationing their food.

Everything blurred after that. Days started blending into each other. Checking floors. Avoiding windows. Dragging bodies up to the roof and tossing them onto the street day in and out, until it was just the two of them left.

Somewhere in the middle of all that chaos and trauma, they started touching more.

Nothing more than an end of the world practicality, at first. A hand on a shoulder in the dark to make sure the other was still there and alive in the non-dangerous way. Holding hands while climbing over walls or rickety sets of stairs when they got brave and hungry enough to go on their first supply runs. A shared blanket on nights when the temperature dropped and the precious generator was having a tantrum.

The kissing just got mixed in there. Somewhere, sometime.

They didn’t talk about why that started either. Jungkook just… leaned in one night when they were sitting on the floor of Jimin’s room, with their backs against the bed after a particularly rough run. His mouth simply found Jimin’s during a quiet moment.

They pulled away after a few seconds and laughed it off. One of them, Jimin can’t remember who, said something about how everyone needed a little physical comfort in times like these, right? Human contact, blah blah. Better than talking to the wall, or making out with your hand.

Yeah? Yeah.

Well it wasn’t the first, second, nor last time. It kept happening. Random places, random times. Sometimes with their hands still full of looted supplies, sometimes right in the middle of a petty argument. But it was always brief. Always stopping before things could get out of hand.

Jimin never sought Jungkook out for it, not for that at least. Sometimes he’d end up tucked under Jungkook’s arm in the dark, cheek pressed to his chest because nightmares were easier to ride out with a heartbeat under his ear. That was as far as he allowed himself to ask.

Jungkook was the one who’d smudge that line between simple comfort and...whatever this was. He’d back him against walls and corners, hands hot and searching as they grabbed and pulled, mouth even hotter. But it would always end just as quickly as it started.

Sometimes, Jimin hesitates. Sometimes he stares back at those big brown eyes and wants to say “fuck it” and pull him back in. To wrap himself around the solid frame of Jungkook’s shoulders and let every single worry and fear crumble away into dust.

“Roof fencing’s still holding,” Jungkook says now. “I want to add another layer of wire to the far side, though. The bit near the old satellite dish? Too easy to climb if some genius decides to try.”

Jimin simply hums, barely listening anymore.

He snips the last stray pieces at his nape, smoothing the line with his fingers. The hair there is soft and damp with sweat. His thumb pauses just for a second, feeling the solid pulse under skin.

“You’re zoning out,” Jungkook says. “Am I hideous?”

“Always,” Jimin says automatically. He brushes the loose hair off Jungkook’s shoulders, flicks some at his ear. “I said keep your head down, c’mon.”

“So bossy,” Jungkook mutters, but he ducks his head again.

He keeps talking, but something in his cadence shifts. The words slow down, the pauses grow longer.

“Also,” he takes a deep breath, “we should talk about moving.”

The scissors pause in mid-air.

For a second, the only sounds are the wind nudging at the laundry and the distant, warped echo of some siren miles away.

Jimin’s chest does a neat, unpleasant little flip.

He looks down at the top of Jungkook’s head, at the clean strip of exposed nape and the ears he’s freed from hair.

“What?”

Jungkook tilts his head back a fraction, enough that one dark eye can glance up at him upside down.

“We need to move from here.”

Jimin can only stare at him, the scissors in his hands suddenly feeling like a ton of bricks.

“N-no, we don’t,” he stammers finally. “We talked about it. Being in the city is safer.”

“Being in this building was safer,” Jungkook corrects gently. “Past tense.”

“We’re above ground level and we have multiple sets of traps. The city has everything we need, you said that yourself.” Jimin can hear his voice climbing and hates it, but doesn’t pull it back down. “Where the fuck are we supposed to go, Jungkook? Out there? To what, some fantasy farm?”

Jungkook bites his bottom lip, the piercing catching on his teeth. His gaze drops for a moment, then comes back up. He stays stock still, just keeps looking up at Jimin from that crooked angle.

“Not a fantasy, I just—I need to show you something.”

Jimin narrows his eyes.

He can almost taste the familiar urge to say no rise in his throat. Shut it down, shut it out, keep the world contained to only this building, this one boy and a life lived day to day. Something safe and familiar, a bubble just for the two of them.

Instead he stands there with hair on his shoes and scissors in his hand, the sky leaning heavier over them, and realizes that he can’t keep that up forever. It’s only logical that he has to learn to give too.

He swallows.

“Fine,” he mutters, turning away from that piercing eye. “Then show me.”

♡

Jimin groans when Jungkook eagerly tugs him down the second-floor hallway toward the back end of the dorms.

“Stop moaning, you agreed to this,” Jungkook laughs over his shoulder, hand locked around Jimin’s wrist like a shackle.

Jimin rolls his eyes and groans louder, purely to prove a point. If he’s going to be dragged into something stupid, he might as well commit to the bit.

After the roof and his reluctant agreement to whatever the fuck this surprise is, Jungkook’s been bouncing off the walls all day. He barely sat still long enough to eat, pacing between the windows and their sad excuse for a kitchen like an excited puppy getting ready for a walk.

“We gotta wait until around eight,” he’d said, all serious. “Then I can show you.”

Eight. How ominous.

Jimin had genuinely considered checking him for a concussion. Or maybe the food for mould, just in case Jungkook had eaten something that was quietly digesting his brain. In the end, though, he hadn’t had it in him to rain on his parade.

Soft heart be damned.

He usually does his best not to wander the other floors of the dorm. Ever since the rest of the inhabitants either died or left and it narrowed down to just the two of them. Walking these corridors feels too much like wandering a graveyard. Every door is a gravestone for someone who doesn’t live there anymore. Some still have little traces, here and there, stickers half-peeled off the wood frames, names written on whiteboards and crusted over with random splatters of old blood.

He looks away as they walk. It’s easier not to think about it.

Jungkook finally stops in front of an unsuspecting door at the end of the corridor and does a little “ta-da” motion at it.

“This is it,” he announces.

Jimin folds his arms, unimpressed. “A door? Wow.”

Jungkook just grins, annoyingly pleased with himself.

“This,” he says, reaching for the handle and jiggling it. The rusty hinges protest immediately. “Is—fucking door—”

He mutters the last part under his breath and gives it a solid hip-check. The door groans open after a few stern pushes.

“This room used to belong to Buzz,” he continues, poking his head inside to make sure nothing will jump out at them.

Jimin tilts his head. The name rings exactly zero bells.

“Buzz,” he echoes.

Jungkook looks back at him with an incredulous little frown. “You didn’t know Buzz?”

“Uh, no?”

“Like Buzz Lightyear?”

“What, from Toy Story?”

“Exactly,” Jungkook ushers him in with both hands like Jimin is the fussy one here. “Except this Buzz was a uni student and a professional conspiracy theorist.”

The room is definitely something.

It genuinely looks like a Tumblr dashboard vomited all over it—every inch of wall coated in posters and random scraps of paper with illegible words scribbled on them. They overlap in layers, peeling and curling at the edges, stuck over each other like a second layer of wallpaper. Bands Jimin half-recognises, cult movies, anime girls with humanly impossible breasts, those overdone galaxy prints that used to be everywhere a few years ago.

Even the ceiling isn’t safe. One massive Illuminati pyramid with an eye dead-centre stares down directly over the bed, so whoever lay there had to fall asleep under it. Fucking creepy.

There are fairy lights drooping dead along one wall, bulbs long gone. An ashtray overflows on the bedside table with the fossilised remains of joints and rolling papers. The carpet is an indistinct grey-brown, worn down in the middle from pacing, darker around the desk and bed.

Jimin opens his mouth, fully prepared to mock Jungkook for dragging him down here for a nostalgia tour of a dead guy’s questionable tastes, when his eyes catch on the desk.

His mouth clicks shut.

There’s equipment there that doesn’t match the rest of the chaos. A stationary desktop tower sits uselessly to one side, but the space beside it is occupied by an old-school radio setup, the kind you only ever see in those cheesy movies about Cold War spies or some ex-military dad’s garage.

There’s a big metal box with a panel of dials and switches, a scratched digital display to the right of them. Surprisingly, there’s also an intact microphone on an articulated arm with a foam cover, connected to a small mixer table with half of its sliders missing. Tangled cables spool around it like a birds nest, but the whole area is oddly clear. Not dust-free, but tidier than the rest of the room, the surfaces wiped down at some point in the last few months.

On the floor beside the desk sits a small yellow generator.

Jimin’s head snaps toward Jungkook so fast his neck twinges.

“Before you start—” Jungkook says quickly, hands already up in surrender.

“Were you hiding that here, Jeon?” Jimin demands, stabbing a finger at his chest and then at the innocent little generator. “Ours is about to kick the bucket and you stashed a second one in this shithole?”

Jungkook laughs nervously and scratches the back of his head, absently tugging at the hair Jimin trimmed earlier.

“I-I kinda found it by accident a few months ago,” he rushes to explain himself. He steps closer to the desk and plops down into the spinny chair like he’s using his body as a shield, rolling forward just enough to put himself between Jimin and the equipment in case Jimin decides to get destructive.

Jimin crosses his arms and glares down at him.

Three months ago, he got sick. Really fucking sick.

What started as a cold turned into a stubborn fever that had him bedridden for almost a week. Jungkook had hovered over him anxiously, trying to coax water and soup into him while Jimin sweated and shivered through their blankets.

Then one day Jimin had finally drifted into a proper sleep, and Jungkook had decided to be a colossal idiot and go on a run for some medicine. Alone.

Despite the fact that they’ve raided every single place in a ten mile radius months ago.

He’d come back hours later with a limp, torn clothes and blood on his sleeve that, thankfully, wasn’t his. Jimin’s fever had broken sometime while he was gone, leaving him wrung out and empty enough that anger had been the only thing could fill his worn-out body.

They’d had a genuinely stupid fight, mainly Jimin yelling himself hoarse about risks and promises, about how many goddamn times they had agreed not to go anywhere alone. They didn’t speak for days after that. Jungkook started vanishing in the evenings, and Jimin, stubborn and petty as he was, had refused to ask where.

Apparently, here.

“So what do you want to show me?” he sighs eventually, the fight draining away before it can properly flare. There’s no point in picking at old scabs.

Jungkook lights up like a Christmas tree and swivels toward the desk, fingers already reaching for the controls.

Jimin watches as he flips a couple of switches on the radio setup and then on the generator. The little machine coughs once, then chugs reluctantly to life with a steady rumble. The rest of the station hums and clicks, lights flickering on one by one.

“I can’t believe you never met Buzz,” Jungkook mutters while leaning over to detangle a few cables. “I used to smoke with him sometimes. The guy had some wild ideas about the government.”

“You did drugs?” Jimin asks, slowly lowering himself onto the dusty single cot pushed against the wall. Extreme cleanliness kind of died with the rest of the world, but he still has to try very very hard not to think about what a guy like Buzz did on this mattress.

Jungkook snorts. “Only pot sometimes. I was an art student, what did you expect? Kale smoothies?”

Jimin rolls his eyes, but lets that one slide.

“So you just remembered this room one day?” he asks. “Out of nowhere?”

“Kind of,” Jungkook says, twisting a dial with practised fingers. “After our big fight, I couldn’t sleep. I was walking around trying not to punch a wall, and remembered Buzz and his ‘Bat Cave’.”

He does air quotes with his fingers, then uses them to adjust the mic arm.

“He used to sit here and rant about how he could hear the government on weird frequencies,” Jungkook goes on. “Said he could pick up military channels, number stations, all sorts of shit. I thought he was full of it, but he let me hang out and draw sometimes while he mashed buttons, so, you know.” He shrugs. “Free weed and background noise.”

Jimin can picture it with freaky clarity: pre-apocalypse Jungkook in his art-kid getup, curled up in that very chair with his sketchbook while Buzz hummed and muttered over this same equipment. The image is almost comforting.

“So you…” Jimin prompts, more than a little dubious.

“So,” Jungkook says, that megawatt grin cranking up to full voltage, “I thought—why not spy around and see if there’s anyone left alive.”

He pats the side of the radio with affection.

“And I think I found something.”

Jimin’s eyebrows sink, expression softening before he can stop it. What bubbles up isn’t the golden shimmer of excitement—it’s something closer to dread.

“Oh, Jungkook…” he murmurs gently and reaches over to squeeze Jungkook’s wrist, thumb brushing the warm skin there.

Jungkook groans loudly and immediately grabs both of Jimin’s hands in his larger ones. He uses the grip to tug himself closer, the chair squeaking loudly as it rolls over the carpet, and pulls Jimin in until he’s sitting right between his spread legs.

“Hey—” Jimin huffs and tries to tug his hands back, but Jungkook’s fingers wrap fully around his wrists. The grip is solid but not aimed to hurt, thumbs rubbing instinctive, soothing circles into the delicate skin on the inside.

“I know how this looks,” Jungkook says, eyes locking on his, crowding in until their noses almost touch, “but please—”

He leans forward that last inch and bumps their foreheads together.

“—please, just hear me out, yeah?” he finishes, voice dropping to a murmur.

Jimin breathes in and squeezes his eyes shut. Hope is so fucking dangerous. It has a habit of sneaking in even when you bolt the door and swallow the key. He’s lost count of how many times he’s felt that small flicker in his gut, only to have it stomped out by the cruel boot of reality.

These days he only trusts two things: what he can prove with his own senses and—

He exhales slowly and opens his eyes, meeting the second thing right in front of him.

Jungkook’s gaze is wide open and stupidly earnest, lashes fanning out in a shadow on the tops of his cheeks. There’s no jokes in them this time, just a plea.

Jimin nods and hopes that this won’t hurt too much later.

“Okay.”

The grin that breaks over Jungkook’s face is instant and blinding. He leans in and smacks an exaggerated kiss against Jimin’s cheek, loud enough to echo faintly in the cluttered room.

“I promise you won’t regret it,” he says, pushing off with his feet to spin back toward the desk in one smooth motion.

Don’t, Jimin thinks desperately. Don’t promise.

His eyes follow Jungkook as he hums under his breath and fiddles with the machinery, all twitchy focus and restless hands.

Jimin sighs and sags on the bed, picks at a loose thread on the cuff of his hoodie until it unspools. His fingers work on autopilot, twisting the frayed end tighter, then letting it go.

He glances at the watch on his wrist.

Almost eight. Give or take a few minutes.

Jungkook lets out a silent whoop when the small speaker gives a crackle and a wash of soft static fills the room. It’s barely more than a hiss over the thrum of the generator, but his whole face lights up anyway.

Jimin raises a sceptical eyebrow. The snide remark is already lined up in his throat when Jungkook flicks a finger to his own lips in a sharp shhh.

Jimin rolls his eyes and flops back against the wall, sinking into the musty mattress. Fine. He’ll play along. Let Jungkook have his moment.

The orange evening sun slides across the small window in Buzz’s room, striping the posters in honeyed light. They never boarded the windows on this floor, too busy securing their own. The glass here is naked and exposed, looking out over a slice of city Jimin has no interest in seeing.

He doesn’t like being here. It doesn’t feel safe without the cramped familiarity of their own room’s clutter. It’s getting late, too—they should be doing rounds and checking their alarms. Not sitting in some dead stoner’s lair playing pirate radio.

He’s halfway through composing a speech about all that in his head when the speaker crackles again and explodes into—

“Ah—!” Jimin jerks as Stayin’ Alive by The Bee Gees blares out at full volume.

“Jesus fuck—” He lurches up, scrambling for the volume knob, but Jungkook bats his hands away with a laugh and nudges the slider down himself.

“Are you fucking serious?” Jimin hisses, heart drumming in his chest. “That’s your big secret? Fucking disco?”

“Just give it a minute, it’s just the intro,” Jungkook whines back, eyes never leaving the panel.

The ridiculous falsetto bounces around them. Jimin presses his lips together and scowls through the extended “ah, ha, ha, stayin’ aliiiive,” wondering what kind of weirdo chooses to beam this song in the middle of their predicament.

Eventually, the chorus fades and drops into a softer bed of instrumental, and then a voice cuts in, bright and weirdly professional.

“Gooooood evening, survivors of the zombie apocalypse!”

Jimin’s whole body goes stiff, eyes blowing wide.

Jungkook just grins harder when he sees his expression.

“You’ve got to stop yelling into the mic, man. You’re going to blow it out one of these days,” a second voice drawls faintly in the background.

“Oh shit, yeah.” The first voice clears his throat, the cheer sliding into something a little more grounded.

“Anyway, welcome back to another broadcast from the settlement. For those of you tuning in for the first time, this is your semi-regular dose of news and proof that you’re not the last ones left on this planet.”

Jimin forgets how to breathe. The words wash over him in a rush, but his brain struggles to comprehend what he’s hearing.

“Today’s been a busy one,” the first man goes on. “We’ve finished reinforcing the south wall and started putting up frames for the new shelters. If you’re listening from inside, you’ve probably heard the hammering and my sincere apologies. If you’re listening from outside…” A smile sneaks into his tone. “It means we’ll have more space if you decide to join us.”

“We’ve also finally bullied enough people into helping with the planting beds.” The other voice cuts in smoothly.

“Right, right, the gardens,” the first voice chuckles. “Weather’s warming up, so we’ve started trial beds on the east side. Potatoes, carrots, some herbs if the seeds are still good. We’re trying to move away from canned mystery meat.”

“For the record, you can keep eating whatever you want,” the second man sighs. “Some people just don’t know how to appreciate the finer things in life.”

Jimin’s ears ring.

Mundane words. Mundane words about mundane life things. It sounds like someone flipped past all the gore and landed in a community meeting.

“We’ve also cleared another block around the perimeter, too,” the first man continues seamlessly while Jimin continues to freak out. “Big thanks to the scouting teams and clean-up crews. The fewer infected shambling around close to the fence, the easier it is to sleep at night.”

“And the fewer opportunistic dumbasses trying to break in and steal our batteries,” the second adds. “Hypothetically.”

“Hypothetically,” the first agrees, amused. “In more good news, we’ve taken in a qualified nurse this week. Say hi, nurse Hanna, even though you’re not on the air, we love you.”

 “She’s the only reason some of you idiots are still alive.”

“Very true. So if you’ve got injuries, chronic issues, or general health concerns, we can help more than we could a few months ago.”

Jimin sits there and listens, feeling like his soul is trying to leak out through the top of his head. The mattress under him, the dust in his nose, the pressure of air in his lungs—all of it feels distant and thin, like he’s listening from three feet to the left of his own body.

Is this real?

Living people. Not just one or two, not just him and Jungkook clinging on to life like barnacles—a settlement. A community.

He doesn’t even notice he’s stood up until he realises he’s closer to the desk now, closer to Jungkook. His hand has found the back of the spinny chair for balance, knuckles white.

Jungkook glances up, clocking the look on his face, and his expression softens. He hooks two fingers in the hem of his hoodie and tugs until Jimin folds down and sideways and ends up slumping into his lap like a dropped sack of potatoes.

His brain is too busy short-circuiting to protest the position as Jungkook’s arms come around his middle automatically, anchoring him there, chin finding a familiar perch on his shoulder.

“World situation update,” the first voice says. “Such as it is.”

A soft rustle of paper. Someone shifting in a chair.

“Most remaining government forces, from what we heard, are concentrated on figuring out the cause of this… disease,” he says, the slight hitch over the word making it obvious he hates it. “And on trying to secure more areas for survivors to live in. We’re in contact with a few other safe zones now.”

“In case you were wondering—WiFi is still off the books,” the second man notes. “Believe me, we asked.”

“We’re doing okay without it though,” the first replies mildly. “But I do miss Google daily.”

Jimin snorts before he can stop himself. It’s an ugly, involuntary sound.

Jungkook huffs a quiet laugh into his neck and pinches his side gently.

They survived almost a year without any help. No soldiers or radio signal in sight. Just the two of them. Everything they have is either hand-made or scavenged. They learned the hard way which doors not to open, which roads not to cross, which sounds meant hide and which meant run.

He can’t help but wonder how many people didn’t.

“Listen,” the first voice says after a pause, tone shifting a little. “I know some of you listening are probably sceptical. I would be too.”

The second man hums in agreement, no snide comment this time.

“I would be wondering if this is a trap,” the first continues. “or if we’re some weird cult, or raiders trying to lure people out. I get it. Paranoia is healthy out there. It kept you alive, us too.”

“But,” he continues after a short pause, “this isn’t a cult. No one’s going to ask you to drink anything weird, or worship my beautiful voice.”

The second man makes gagging noises in the background.

“If you come here,” the first goes on, amusement threading through the seriousness, “you’re free to leave whenever you want. As long as you contribute to the community while you’re with us. Everyone does their part—whatever they can handle.”

“No freeloaders,” the second summarises. “And no tyrants. Every decision is made together, by vote. Everyone gets a say, whether you like talking or not.”

“Some of us like talking a lot,” the first admits. “I promise I shut up sometimes.”

“That’s a big fat lie,” the second mutters.

Jungkook’s chest shakes against Jimin’s back with a quiet, helpless little laugh. Jimin feels it rather than hears it, pressed as he is against his warm chest.

“Now, there are rules,” the first man says. “Weapons are not permitted inside the compound. We have designated storage at the gate and you can check them in and out when you want to leave. That’s non-negotiable. We’ve all seen what happens when people panic with guns.”

“Don’t bring drama to the safe place,” the second adds. “We have enough anxiety.”

The first man laughs softly. Then his voice lifts just a fraction, something like conviction sharpening the edges.

“Point is,” he says, “when pushed to its limit, humanity can still set aside differences and work together to live. We’re not designed to do this alone. We’re supposed to work together.”

“Here you go with your motivational crap, Namjoon,” the second voice sighs.

‘Namjoon’ laughs, unbothered. “I contain multitudes, Yoongi.”

“I have to listen to your multitudes every goddamn day,” ‘Yoongi’ mutters.

“Anyway,” Namjoon raises his voice just enough that the mic catches it clean, “before we leave you for the evening, as usual, we need to let you know about the next round of scouting trucks heading out.”

Papers rustle again. Jimin sits up a little straighter.

“As always,” Yoongi continues smoothly, “please know that you will be patted down for weapons and checked over for any signs of infection before you’re allowed on the truck. No exceptions. We’re not bringing the problem inside the fence.”

“Right,” Namjoon agrees. “Bring whatever you can comfortably carry—documents if you still have them, keepsakes, anything you’d regret leaving. But know that food, water, clothing and shelter will be provided when you arrive. You don’t have to drag your whole kitchen sink with you.”

Jungkook nearly knocks Jimin off his lap when he lunges sideways, stretching to grab something from the hollow inside the old PC tower. He yanks out a folded map and slaps it down across the desk, flattening it with one hand while the other arm tightens automatically around Jimin’s waist to keep him in place.

“Hey,” Jimin complains weakly, but he doesn’t move. Can’t seem to make himself.

Namjoon’s tone takes on a weirdly official cadence, like he’s reading the weather or stock prices.

“I’m going to read out coordinates now for the next collection round,” he says. “We’ll hit three locations this time, all within what we believe is safe travel distance for most of you listening.”

Jungkook flicks his eyes between the map and the speaker, breath held. Three black circles are already drawn on the creased paper. One on the western outskirts. One further south. One—

Jimin’s gaze locks on the one closest to them. Just outside the city limits. He recognises the pattern of roads there, the big empty block labelled in small print.

The old mall parking lot.

“…the first truck will stop on the west side, at the industrial park off Highway Seven,” Namjoon reads. “Coordinates as follows—”

Jungkook tracks them with his finger, nodding along, but Jimin only half-hears the numbers. His pulse is roaring in his ears.

“The second stop,” Namjoon continues, “will be in the big lot in front of Riverside Mall, east entrance. You’ll see the old cinema sign, if it’s still standing. Third stop further south, in Meadowridge, there used to be this nice café with a great view, I used to love going on walks—”

Yoongi coughs pointedly.

“Right, right.” Namjoon lets out a breath and his tone firms up. “The next collection rounds will take place in two weeks from today. We’ll wait for approximately two hours at each stop, so this is your chance, if you want to take it. We don’t have set dates for the following rounds yet, so please keep that in mind.”

“And for the love of god,” Yoongi adds, bored drawl sharpening, “please don’t try to ambush us. We’re armed to the teeth.”

Jimin huffs out a tiny, disbelieving laugh through his nose. It’s all nerves.

“Yeah, that too,” Namjoon chuckles. “Okay. That’s it for the serious stuff. We’re going to sign off for tonight and, as always, leave you with some music to make the evening a little brighter.”

He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer, closer somehow.

“Thank you for listening,” he says. “Stay safe out there.”

“Stay safe and keep fighting,” Yoongi echoes.

“This was Kim Namjoon,” the first voice signs off.

“And Min Yoongi,” the second adds, a smile audible despite the deadpan.

The line clicks and for a second there’s nothing but static filling the room. Then a song bleeds in under it, something older that Jimin dimly recognises but can’t name because his brain has stopped comprehending anything that isn’t the circles on the map and the echo of Namjoon’s voice

Two weeks.

Mall parking lot.

He feels Jungkook’s breath at the back of his neck, the rise and fall of his chest pressed warm against his rigid spine. One of his hands found its way over Jimin’s, bigger fingers loosely tangled with his, like if he lets go Jimin might float away with all that new information in the air.

“See?” Jungkook whispers, voice a little hoarse with excitement, right against the shell of his ear. “I promised.”

Jimin doesn’t trust himself to answer, not with his throat this tight and the ground feeling like it’s shifted an inch to the left.

He just stares at the circled spot on the map, thoughts running wild.

If it’s a lie, they’re fucked.

If it’s real...

He squeezes Jungkook’s fingers once and says nothing at all.

♡

Later that night, Jimin lies flat on his back and tries very hard to quiet the buzz in his brain.

The ceiling stares back, cracked lines cutting through weak shadows. The vanilla candle he lit earlier flickers on the crate they use as a bedside table, breathing its artificial sweetness into the room. It does fuck-all to soothe his weird mood.

After they left Buzz’s room, Jungkook didn’t immediately push for a discussion like Jimin expected him to. They did their rounds around the building like normal, ate dinner like normal, carried on with their small, stupid rituals—all normal.

Jimin kept waiting for the dam to break.

It never did.

But the air has weight now, almost humming with unsaid words. Jimin can feel Jungkook marinating on the other side of the bed. They’re not even touching but the tension radiating off of the younger feels almost palpable.

Two weeks. Mall parking lot. The deadline keeps playing in his mind on a never-ending loop.

Jimin sighs and rolls onto his side. The mattress springs creak under the shift.

Jungkook is on his back, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it might have the answers to whatever question eating his brain.

“So,” Jimin says and cringes from the sound of his own voice disturbing the silence. “Kim Namjoon. Ever heard of him?”

Jungkook flinches a little at the name. Guilt flickers across his face like he’s been caught hoarding something—which, to be fair, he kind of has.

“Yeah,” he says. “He was one of my best friends. Smiley guy with a buzz cut. You probably saw him around.”

Jimin tries to conjure a face, but only a vague memory comes to mind. He wasn’t exactly tuned into student life back then, let alone anyone Jungkook hung out with. If it wasn’t about dance, he didn’t let it matter.

“Are you sure it’s him?” he asks instead.

Jungkook snorts. “How many Kim Namjoons do you think there were in this city?” He tilts his head back, eyes going a little soft. “I’d recognise that asshole’s voice anywhere.”

Jimin grunts at that, a little puff of a laugh. Fair point.

He stares at Jungkook’s profile for a beat—the familiar slope of his nose, the piercings catching the light. Then his gaze skates away to their stuff instead. The taped windows, the stacked crates littered with random crap. The dirty clothes tangled in the corner. The whole room suddenly feels too small, claustrophobic almost.

There’s a whole world out there. It should be good news. It is good news.

“Do you trust him?” Jimin asks, picking at a loose thread on the blanket.

Jungkook’s eyebrows pull together. That faraway look drifts into his eyes, the one Jimin’s starting to recognise and hate, because it means Jungkook is thinking about moments that didn’t have Jimin in them.

“I’d trust Namjoon with my life,” Jungkook says eventually. He pushes up onto one elbow so he can see Jimin better, candlelight washing over his handsome face. “He’s… he’s one of those people who was born annoying nice, you know? His dad was this hardcore military guy—wanted him to enlist, do the whole soldier thing even though he wanted to do psychology.”

He huffs a disbelieving laugh and rakes a hand through his hair. A short piece Jimin missed earlier sticks up like a stubborn cowlick.

“Fuck,” Jungkook mutters. “He was actually going to do it too. Then all this happened and now he’s running a survivor camp instead. Fucking Kim Namjoon for you.”

Jimin smiles, but it sits stiff on his face. He glances away, back to the space they both started calling ‘home’.

He should be happy. There are good people out there still, somehow. A whole cluster of them, if the story over the radio is real. A friend of Jungkook’s, no less. He should be buzzing with relief, giddy even.

Instead his brain does that thing it always does: grabs the good feeling and dunks it in ice, twists it rotten.

“Hey,” Jungkook murmurs softly.

His hand slides over the blanket and finds Jimin’s forearm, warm fingers wrapping around it.

“If you don’t want to go, we won’t,” he says. “I’m not going to force you.”

A hot and mean sensation flares down Jimin’s spine.

Rotten. Rotten. Rotten.

“There you go again.”

The fingers on his arm freeze.

“Huh?”

“Doing that.” Jimin’s own voice sounds foreign in his ears, sharp and too loud in the small room. “Acting like you’re just happy to—just sacrifice whatever you want if it means I don’t freak out.”

Jungkook pushes up properly now, sitting half-cross-legged, confusion knitting his brow. “I literally just said I’m not forcing you. How is that—”

“It’s the way you say it,” Jimin cuts in, words tumbling out now that the dam’s cracked. “ ‘If you don’t want to go, we won’t.’ Like you don’t want anything for yourself. Like you’re just—” his hand flaps uselessly, searching for a word big enough, “—living for me.”

“That’s not what I—”

“You always do this,” Jimin barrels on, heat climbing the back of his neck. He sits up too, facing Jungkook, blanket bunched around his hips. “You act like you’d be totally fine never getting anything you want, as long as I’m okay. You keep putting everything on me and then you look at me like—” he breaks off, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough for the taste of copper to flood his mouth.

Like I’m worth all of this.

It makes his skin crawl and his heart ache in the exact same beat.

“I’m not trying to martyr myself, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Jungkook says, baffled. “I just—this is a big thing. If you’re not ready—”

“I’m never ready,” Jimin snaps. “That’s the point. I’m going to be terrified whether we stay or go. And you—you keep saying ‘whatever you want, Jimin,’ like if I say ‘stay’ you’re not gonna resent me in a year when you realise you could’ve had all of that.”

His voice cracks on that last bit. Great. Fantastic. Emotional breakdown speedrun.

“I’m not going to resent you,” Jungkook says quietly.

“You don’t know that.” Jimin laughs, and god does it sound ugly to his own ears. “I’ll just slow you down. I already slow you down. You move faster without me. You should just—” he swallows, the words tasting like dirt in his mouth, “go by yourself. I’ll figure it out here.”

The silence that follows is thick. The candle pops softly in the background, wax shifting.

Jungkook’s jaw works. For a second, Jimin thinks he might actually be considering it, and a cold feeling seeps through his chest in panic.

He hates it. He wants to hate it—how dependant he’s become on this one person who was a complete stranger not that long ago. But no matter how hard he tries—he can't hate Jungkook. Even if he woke up one day and the younger wasn't there anymore—he couldn't.

Jungkook exhales, and reaches for him. His fingers latch around his wrist and give it a firm tug.

“C’mere.”

Jimin tries to twist away on reflex. “Don’t—”

“Jimin.” Jungkook’s voice drops, not leaving any room for arguments. “Look at me.”

He drags him around until they’re face to face, both sitting cross-legged, knees knocking. It’s close enough that Jimin can feel his warmth radiating over his own skin.

Jungkook doesn’t start talking right away. Instead, he lets his hands move.

He slides them up Jimin’s arms, over the tight biceps and knotted shoulders, thumbs digging in just enough to make Jimin suck in a breath. Then down again, fingers trailing over his forearms, calloused fingertips catching on the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He squeezes gently at his wrists, right over his pulse.

“Stop that,” Jimin whines. But it’s weak. Fuck. He’s so weak for this man.

“Stop what?” Jungkook asks innocently, hands wandering again. One palm presses briefly over Jimin’s sternum, right in the middle where his heartbeat keeps fluttering like a nervous bird. His thumb strokes over the spot, absently, like he’s smoothing out a wrinkle.

Jimin feels like he’s being skinned alive. No one has ever touched him like this. Ever.

Jungkook’s hands slide down to his knees, thumbs drawing slow circles into worn cotton. The touch is infuriatingly steady. It makes Jimin’s ears burn.

He stares at a frayed patch on his own sweatpants instead of Jungkook’s face. Looking up feels dangerous.

“You know we’re sticking together, yeah?” Jungkook murmurs after a moment, voice low and steady.

Jimin’s teeth catch his lower lip. He bobs his head weakly, because if he tries to speak right now, he might throw up or start crying like a baby.

“So that means,” Jungkook goes on, like he’s explaining basic math, “I’m not ditching you here. If we decide to leave, we leave together. There’s no version of this where I truck off to Cult Town and leave you in Hell Tower.”

A weak laugh snorts out of Jimin.

“Cult Town.”

“Yeah,” Jungkook chuckles with him. “You think I wanna suffer through Namjoon’s motivational speeches alone? No chance.”

Jimin finally risks a glance up.

Big mistake.

Jungkook is watching him with that look again—soft around the edges, tired and fond and so nakedly devoted that Jimin’s lungs seize up again.

Jungkook swallows, looks down at where his thumbs are still moving against Jimin’s knees, then back up.

“You know I’m in love with you, yeah?”

Jimin doesn’t even try to stop the gasp.

Heat burns down his face, out to his fingertips. His mouth falls open.

He does know. He just… wasn’t ready to be handed the word like that. So simple, so casual. No fanfare, no big romantic set-up. Just Jungkook sitting cross-legged on a shitty mattress, calming him down with his hands and saying it like it’s the easiest truth in the world.

Jungkook huffs a little laugh at his expression and shakes his head.

“It’s not like I’ve been subtle,” he says. “I thought the constant flirting and ‘hey, let me almost die for you on the regular’ kind of gave it away.”

Jimin hears himself make a noise. It might be a laugh, might be a choked sob—he’s not taking questions at this time. His hand twitches, wanting to grab onto Jungkook and never let go.

“I—,” it’s the most he can manage, then nothing. The words pile up behind his teeth. I know. I’m sorry. I love you too. I’m so scared. I don’t know how to do this without destroying everything. None of them make it out.

Jungkook searches his face, eyes softer than he has any right to be, and sighs when he doesn’t get more than a wide-eyed look and a mouth opening and closing.

“I don’t know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours,” he says quietly, “but I know it’s not one-sided.”

Jimin flinches at that. He knows that too. Of course Jungkook would know. Jimin has never been as hard to read as he wishes he were.

“I’m not trying to guilt you into anything,” Jungkook goes on, voice still maddeningly gentle. “You don’t have to say it back, or decide everything tonight. I just—I don’t want you talking like you’re some dead weight I got chained to my ankle. I’m here because I want to be with you. Whatever we pick, it’s not just your weight. It’s ours.”

He gives Jimin’s knees one last squeeze, then lets his hands slide up, palms curving around the sides of his neck. Thumbs rest along his jaw, fingers warm against the nape where Jimin always runs hotter.

“Okay?”

Jimin’s throat works. The pressure of those hands, the steadiness in Jungkook’s eyes—it all pins him in place. There’s nowhere to run in this tiny room and even less space inside his own chest.

“Okay,” he whispers back, even though it’s not. Nothing is okay. Nothing will ever be just okay again in this lifetime. But Jungkook is here, and maybe that can be enough for now.

Jungkook leans in, presses their foreheads together and, for a second, Jimin thinks he’s going to kiss him. He wants him to, kind of, but he doesn’t. Jungkook just breathes with him, in and out, until Jimin’s shoulders drop.

Then he lets go—only to hook an arm around Jimin’s waist and haul him sideways. Jimin squawks, but Jungkook is already lying down, dragging him along so Jimin ends up half on his chest, one leg tangled between Jungkook’s.

“Shut up,” Jungkook mutters into his hair when Jimin tries to protest. “We’re conserving heat.”

“It’s not even cold,” Jimin grumbles, but his fingers have already fisted in the fabric of Jungkook’s shirt, traitors that they are.

Jungkook reaches past him, pinches the candle wick out. The room drops into dark, the last curl of icky vanilla smoke slipping into the air.

They lie there tangled for a long time, nothing but their breathing and the random noises from the building filling the space.

Jimin stares into the black, cheek pressed against Jungkook’s chest. He can feel his heartbeat under his ear—a little fast, but steady. Solid.

Two weeks. Mall parking lot. A settlement. People. A life.

“You’re not going alone,” Jimin hears himself say hoarsely into the fold of Jungkook’s shirt. “If you’re going… I’m coming too.”

Jungkook goes very still under him, breath hitching.

Then his arms tighten, squeezing the air out of Jimin’s lungs in a brief, crushing hug before he eases up again.

“Yeah?” he whispers hurriedly, as if looking for a lie. “Yeah?”

Jimin swallows. “Don’t make me say it twice,” he mutters. “I might change my mind.”

Jungkook laughs, the sound muffled, breath puffing against Jimin’s hair.

“Okay,” he says, soft and sure. “Okay—yeah. We’ll go. Together.”

Jimin closes his eyes and lets himself breathe with him. His fear doesn’t vanish—it tugs and claws and whispers bad idea at every beat. But under it—

There’s hope.

He curls his fingers tighter in Jungkook’s shirt and closes his eyes.

♡

By midday, Jungkook is pretty damn sure his calf muscles have doubled in size.

The city looks different today. Don’t get him wrong, it’s still a shitty ghost town, full of abandoned cars and trash tumble weeding through the empty streets. It just feels different knowing that they’re finally leaving it.

If he glances over his shoulder, he can still just about imagine the line back to the dorm. Home, in the fucked-up way the word has become an association to that place.

He doesn’t look back.

They’ve already had to detour twice.

The first time, a cluster of infected was grinding down the main street like a parade—dozen or so bodies moving in that off-sync way that makes Jungkook’s skin want to crawl right off his face. Jimin clocked them first and tugged him back by the wrist into the doorway of a laundromat, one hand braced on Jungkook’s chest to keep him flat to the wall.

They’d waited there, breaths held, listening to the dull shuffle of feet and occasional groan. One of them turned its head as it passed, milky eyes sweeping over their doorway like it could feel them there.

Jimin’s fingers had curled tighter into his shirt. Don’t move, said his grip. Don’t make any noise, Jungkook screamed back with his eyes.

They didn’t, and the pack shambled on.

The second time, they hit a real mess. Whole intersection clogged with stalled cars and something like twenty infected all piled around the wreck in the middle. Jungkook didn’t look too hard at what they were pulling apart, he’d seen more than enough of that to last a lifetime.

“Back,” Jimin had whispered, tugging him into the cover of an alley before Jungkook had even had time to fully process the scene. “There’s a side street two blocks over. If we cut behind the pharmacy, we can slip past.”

“Thought you didn’t like the pharmacy,” Jungkook had muttered, but his hands had already been adjusting his pack, feet already moving.

“I don’t like being eaten more. Come on.”

Sneaking around has become Jimin’s speciality. He maps routes in his head like he used to with dance choreographies, all clean angles and precise timing. He moves quietly and expects Jungkook to do the same—no stomping, no heroic swinging unless it’s absolutely necessary.

They’ve still needed steel a couple of times. A lone straggler that lunged out from behind a bus stop, one that toppled off a low truck as they walked past, bone-brittle limbs flailing for flesh. Jungkook’s machete had met rotten skull with a dull crack almost too easily.

But they’ve gotten so far without a hitch. So far, so good.

The sun is starting to lean toward late afternoon by the time they reach the little stretch of shopfronts that includes the sad excuse for a bookstore.

“Break,” Jimin says, voice betraying his own tiredness. “Ten or fifteen. Then we keep going.”

He wants to argue for thirty. His hips and knees are chanting for sixty. But he can see the calculation in Jimin’s eyes—the distance still ahead, the unknowns they haven’t tripped over yet—so he just nods.

“Fine. Ten.”

Jungkook vaguely remembers when the sign above the door was shiny and brand new. Now all that’s left is OOKS & COF E, the metal hanging at a weird angle and rusted over.

The door doesn’t quite close properly—the frame is warped and the latch is missing. They drag a free-standing rack of paperbacks in front of it for good measure. It’s not a fortress, but at least it’s something between them and whatever’s out there.

Inside, the bookstore is dim and reeks of old paper, and the faded ghost of burnt espresso. Patches of sunlight slip through dirty windows, striping the carpet in pale rectangles. The last sign of life ever being there—a fanned out pile of knocked-over thriller novels by the register.

Everything else is quiet. Eerily so.

Jungkook drops down, legs folding under him with an audible pop from his knees. He leans back against a shelf of out-of-date guidebooks. Europe on a Budget. Solo Backpacking for Young Adults. Fifty Hikes Within Fifty Miles. All those glossy promises of safe adventure and zero risk.

Now the whole world is a hike and the only achievement at the end is getting to live another day. It’s almost ironic.

Jimin perches two shelves over on a low wooden stool, elbows pinned to his knees. His fingers press tight over the bridge of his nose like he’s trying not to let his brain leak out.

“Ten minutes,” Jungkook mutters, mostly to the section labelled MAPS & ATLASES. “Then we move.”

Jimin makes a vague noise behind his hand. Agreement, probably. Maybe a nice “fuck off and die”. Hard to tell.

Jungkook tips his head back against the spines and breathes out through his teeth.

He doesn’t like it here.

The shop itself is fine. It would’ve been his sort of thing, back in the day. He would’ve wandered around looking at nice covers, maybe nursed some sugary abomination at the ‘COF E’ part of the sign while sketching.

It’s the street that gives him the creeps. Everything about it is just too damn quiet. Silence used to be peaceful. Now it’s like walking into a suspicious room—you know something’s off even if you can’t name it.

“I don’t like it,” he voices it out loud.

“What, books?” Jimin’s voice comes muffled through his fingers.

“The vibe,” Jungkook snorts. “Street’s too quiet.”

“It’s been quiet for blocks,” Jimin points out, finally dropping his hands into his lap. “You should be happy about that.”

“Yeah,” Jungkook sighs. “Still don’t like it.”

Jimin’s gaze slips toward the front window, then flicks away again. His shoulders climb half a centimetre higher.

“You’re imagining it.”

Jungkook leans his head back and huffs a laugh.

“What?”

“You’re doing the jaw thing,” Jungkook says, tapping his own chin. “Means you’re thinking the same thing.”

Jimin glares at him, which is as good as him agreeing.

They let the mutual paranoia sit there between them.

“Well, you’re doing the face,” Jimin says after a beat, almost grudging.

“What face,” Jungkook asks innocently, even though he knows.

“The one where your eyebrows try to escape into your hairline,” Jimin says flatly. “You’re going to wrinkle early.”

“Wow,” Jungkook drawls teasingly. “I’ll get more tattoos. No one will know where the art ends and I begin.”

Jimin huffs, the tiniest smile threatening at the corner of his mouth.

Jungkook watches him, unable to stop the fond feeling from blooming in his chest.

Jimin is always like this. Folded in tight, like he’s trying to take up less space in the world. Always excruciatingly cautious over the smallest things, as if the wrong choice will make him explode.

Jungkook stares at his hands as they twist around the fabric of his sleeves nervously, then up at dirt smear on his cheekbone from where he wiped sweat away earlier, and wonders if this man has ever realised how much gravity he possesses. Just by existing.

They agreed to leave two weeks ago and Jimin hadn’t voiced a single doubt since. Jungkook kept waiting for it, would’ve agreed to whatever the older wanted, but it never came.

“We can still back out,” Jungkook hears himself say. “We’re like, what, half a day out? We could call it a test run and go home.”

Jimin’s eyes narrow.

“If you keep saying stupid shit, I’m going to bite you,” he says.

“Kinky,” Jungkook pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue.

“Shut up.” Jimin rolls his eyes, but there’s some colour in his cheeks now that can’t be all from exertion. “I didn’t haul my ass all this way just for you to get cold feet.”

“I don’t get cold feet,” Jungkook lies.

He absolutely does. Just not about zombies.

To be honest, he’s scared shitless. Scared of rolling up to this settlement and finding out it’s not what they imagined. He’s also scared of it being all real and too good, and Jimin realising how much more he could have without Jungkook hovering around him.

He reaches blindly to his right and pulls a book off the shelf. YOUR BEST YEAR YET: GOAL-SETTING FOR THE MODERN WOMAN. The woman on the cover smiles up at him, all white teeth and red lipstick. She looks like she’s never had to cave in anyone’s skull with a blunt object, or pine after a man who was scared of his own emotions.

“Show off,” he mutters, dropping the book face-down on the carpet.

“Hey,” he says, mostly to quiet his own thoughts. “What’s the first thing you wanna do if we actually get there?”

“There where.”

“Potato Town,” Jungkook shrugs. “Cult Central. Namjoonland.”

Jimin makes a face at him.

“Every name you come up with is worse than the last.”

“Gotta keep it interesting,” Jungkook grins. “Now answer.”

Jimin leans his head back against the shelf and stares up at the ceiling for a second.

“I don’t know,” he says after a moment. “Probably sleep for three days without worrying about something biting my face off in the dark.”

“Solid,” Jungkook nods. “I want a shower that doesn’t involve counting to forty-five in my head. Enough soap to turn me into a slip and slide.”

“You don’t even know if they have all of that,” Jimin says, but his mouth twitches up. “Maybe they’ll turn you into a bar of soap instead.”

“That’s a bit dark,” Jungkook whines, but he can’t keep the grin off his face now. “Do you think you’ll try dancing again?”

The question doesn't land right and Jimin’s smile melts back into his usual flat line. Jungkook curses himself mentally for ruining the mood. Even after a year of living together, he still forgets that certain topics are a forever sore spot for him.

“I don’t know,” Jimin mutters, glancing away. “Feels dangerous to think that far ahead.”

Yeah. He gets that. Hoping for things too much is a sure road to heartache.

A sudden creak snaps through the shop.

Both of them go still.

It’s the front door. Just a tiny shift in the frame, the display rack giving a strained little squeal as something nudges it from the outside.

Jungkook’s body moves before his brain finishes cursing. He drops low—knees, then palms, then belly, breath shallowing out. Across from him, Jimin slides off the stool and hits the ground in one smooth motion too, flattening himself behind a low table, hand flying to the knife at his belt.

Jungkook meets his eyes across the dusty strip of carpet. Raises two fingers to his own eyes, then flicks them toward the door. Check.

Jimin nods.

Jungkook presses his fingers down, palm flat to the floor. Stay. Quiet.

Jimin rolls his eyes but nods again in agreement.

The door creaks again.

Jungkook lowers himself fully and crawls closer.

The carpet drags at the front of his jacket. Every movement feels too loud, even though he’s going slow enough to make a snail impatient. A couple of paperbacks rattle on the shelf above his head and he freezes, watches one tilt, then settle.

He slides closer until he has a clear angle on the strip under the door—a thin bar of dirty light cutting across the floorboards. His own pulse is pounding hard enough to make his vision pulse with it.

A shadow falls over the light.

Boots. Heavy tread, toe scuffed near-white, dried mud in the grooves.

Whoever’s in them is standing right up against the door, weight settling from one leg to the other in small, impatient shifts.

Jungkook clamps down on his breathing.

Another set of boots steps into view, just off to the side. Slightly smaller, toe tapping once against the cracked pavement.

“Door’s blocked,” someone mutters. The voice is gravely, fraying with annoyance. “Told you.”

“So what,” another voice hisses back, higher, more nasal. “It’s a fucking bookshop. What the fuck is there that’s worth barricading?”

“You’re not listening, stupid,” the first one whispers harshly. “It wasn’t blocked from the inside before. Means somebody’s using it.”

Jungkook’s stomach sinks.

He drags his gaze sideways, away from the boots. Through the gap between two overstuffed shelves, he finds Jimin again. The older boy is pressed flat beside a display table of forgotten bestsellers, eyes narrowed. When their gazes meet, Jimin’s mouth shapes the universal word they’re both feeling: fuck.

Before Jungkook can begrudgingly agree, there’s a sharp crackle from just outside the door.

“Yeah, it’s Lee,” the first voice says louder. There’s a tinny echo riding under it—the sound of a walkie-talkie catching the words. “We’re on Market, couple shops down from the old laundromat. Got a door blocked from the inside. Looks like someone’s holed up. Might be worth a sweep.”

Jungkook looks back at Jimin, eyes wide.

Backup, he mouths, exaggerating the shapes.

Jimin’s jaw flexes. His fingers twitch through a quick pattern—two, then three—more coming. Then he curls his hand and jabs his thumb back over his shoulder. Hide. Back.

No time to argue. Someone slams their shoulder into the door.

The frame lets out a full-bodied groan. The display rack they shoved in front of it jumps, metal feet screeching against floor. A rain of paperbacks tumbles from the top row and hits the ground with a series of dull thuds.

“See?” the second voice hisses. “Told you it’s blocked.”

“Yeah, and that means there’s someone inside,” the first one bites out. Another bang, another protest from the wood. “Help me push, genius.”

Jungkook uses the noise and scrambles back on his elbows, then twists and scuttles deeper between the shelves. Jimin moves too, always the quicker one of them two, ghosting away from the open space and into the maze of bookcases.

They separate—Jimin veering left, Jungkook right—each drawn to a narrow gap between tall shelves.

By the time the door takes the third hit, they’re wedged behind their respective bookcases, backs pressed to the plywood boards.

“Again,” someone grunts outside.

One last shoulder slam, a high, splintering crack, and the door bursts inwards. The display rack topples with it, paperbacks and flimsy metal clattering across the floor.

Jungkook slaps a hand over his own mouth as the sound of boots crosses the threshold of their short-lived sanctuary.

He forces himself to look through the narrow gap between two rows of books—sees a slice of the shop front and a pair of legs stepping fully inside.

Whoever they belong to stops, turns a slow circle, surveying the space.

Jungkook doesn’t dare breathe. He can only hope for Jimin to stay calm and collected while his own nerves sit in his throat.

The first guy into the shop moves like he owns the place.

Up close, through the thin gap between books, Jungkook can see scuffed cargo pants, a battered jacket and a large hunting knife at his belt. Dark hair hacked short with no care, jaw dusted in patchy stubble.

“See?” he says, voice louder now that he’s inside. “Told you. Blocked from the inside.”

The second guy squeezes in behind him with a wheeze, shoving the fallen rack aside with his foot. He’s taller, broader, carrying a length of metal pipe as his weapon of choice.

“Still don’t get why we’re wasting time in a bookstore,” Pipe mutters. “Place has been cleaned out for months.”

“Yeah, and yet somebody decided to camp it again,” Knife snaps back. “Nobody boards up a door this late in the game unless they’re using it. Means they’ve got something worth protecting.”

Cool. Great. Love that for them.

Jungkook’s fingers creep toward the machete strapped to his hip, inching the hilt sideways so he can grab it if he needs to.

“Check the back room,” Knife orders. “I’ll sweep the aisles.”

Pipe grumbles but obeys, stomping toward the back of the store. His steps are heavy, almost obnoxiously, and kicks a fallen book out of the way. It skids and smacks into a nearby shelf.

Knife moves slower, more careful. He walks down the central aisle, head turning left and right, eyes flicking along the signage.

He pauses near Jungkook’s aisle and squints at the TRAVEL sign hanging overhead.

For a second, Jungkook’s sure he’s going to turn in, but he doesn’t. He keeps going, heading straight toward where Jimin is.

Jungkook’s pulse spikes.

Jimin’s hiding spot is good, but not that good. If Knife decides to round that corner—

Jungkook glances down at the pile of books near his feet.

His brain throws up ten reasons about why it’s a really fucking bad idea and one very strong image of Knife turning that corner and catching Jimin with nowhere to go.

He grabs the nearest paperback and lobs it. The book arcs high and hits a metal display stand two aisles over with a sharp clang.

Knife startles, head snapping toward the noise. He changes course instantly, cutting away from Jimin’s section.

“Thought you said cleaned out,” he mutters, stalking toward the sound. “You hearing that?”

“Probably a rat,” Pipe calls back from the rear. “Who cares.”

Jungkook presses himself flatter as Knife steps into the other side of his isle.

Boots stop barely an arm’s length away on the other side of the shelf. Through the thin line between BACKPACKING IN SCOTLAND and DISCOVER NEW ZEALAND, Jungkook can see the side of a leg, a hand resting on a hip, fingers tapping impatiently.

The hand lifts. A book disappears from the shelf overhead.

Jungkook ducks his head lower.

Silence. A page flips. Another.

“You don’t even read,” Pipe calls. “Quit pretending you can.”

Knife scoffs and tosses the book back. It lands half-on, half-off the shelf, hanging there in a way that makes Jungkook’s eye twitch.

He reaches up without thinking and nudges it properly into place with one finger.

The world stops. The hand on the other side of the shelf freezes too.

For one horrible heartbeat, Jungkook thinks maybe—maybe—the guy didn’t see—

The shelf jerks violently when Knife shoves it hard.

The whole bookcase rocks back, then slams forward again. Jungkook dives sideways on reflex as a rain of guidebooks pours down where his head used to be.

“There you are,” Knife snarls.

Jungkook scrambles to his feet amid the papery avalanche, hand already yanking his machete free. By the time he’s upright, Knife is rounding the end of the aisle, knife drawn, eyes narrowed in mean satisfaction.

Jungkook gets his machete up just in time to block the knife aimed toward his ribs. Metal screeches against metal, the impact jarring up his arms. Knife curses and drives in closer, their shoulders slamming together.

“Friendly, aren’t you,” Jungkook sneers through gritted teeth.

“Should’ve stayed in your hole,” the man hisses back, breath hot and sour.

He shoves hard. Jungkook stumbles back a step, catches himself on a shelf and ducks another swing. There’s no room for big movements—they’re too close. His machete is better for chopping than fencing, and the guy clearly has experience in using a blade in cramped spaces.

A flash of movement on his left—

Pipe appears at the other end of the aisle, eyes lighting up when he sees them.

“Oh, will you look at that,” he crows, hefting his metal bar. “Found ‘em.”

“Just take his pack!” Knife snaps, slashing for Jungkook’s arm.

The blade kisses through the fabric above his elbow in a hot flash of pain. Jungkook snarls and twists, using the momentum to slam his shoulder into Knife’s chest. They both hit the shelf together. Books jump, a couple of them smacking Knife in the face.

“Fuck—!”

Something moves at the edge of Jungkook’s vision.

Jimin.

He appears out of the side aisle in a blur, his own knife already in his hand. He doesn’t go for a stab—that would mean getting way too close—he goes for the wrist.

Steel flashes. Jimin’s blade scrapes across Knife’s forearm, not deep, but enough to make him yelp and drop his own knife on instinct.

Jungkook doesn’t waste the opening. He slams the butt of his machete into the guy’s shoulder and feels something crunch then give. Knife swears, tries to grab for him with his other hand.

“Behind you!” Jimin shouts.

Jungkook doesn’t think, just ducks and pivots.

The metal bar whiffs through the space where his head was a second ago, connecting with the shelf instead and rattling the whole thing.

Books rain down on all of them. One particularly hefty hardback clocks Pipe across the nose. He yelps and jumps back, eyes watering from the sting.

“Jimin—," Jungkook wheezes as he shoulders past the dazed man.

“I got it!” Jimin shouts.

He grabs the end of the battered shelf and shoves it with his whole weight. The bookcase is already off-balance from all the abuse. It tips in slow motion then crashes sideways into the neighbouring unit with a thunderous WHUMP.

Like dominoes, the others start to go.

For an exaggerated moment, it’s just a chaos of books exploding everywhere along with thick clouds of dust.

Knife and Pipe both go down under a cascade of fiction, arms pinwheeling as the world turns into paper and splintering wood.

Jungkook doesn’t wait to see how bad they’re buried.

“Back!” he coughs, eyes streaming. “Go!”

He grabs for Jimin, fingers locking around his forearm, and drags them both through the narrow gap between the falling shelves and the wall. They stagger, trip over a fallen display stand, and barge through a flimsy ‘STAFF ONLY’ sign.

They spot a door at the end with a push-bar and a cracked EMERGENCY EXIT sign hanging above it at the same time.

“Move!” Jimin chokes, already sprinting.

Jungkook boots the bar.

The door flies open in a burst of cool outside air. It smacks the wall so hard he’s pretty sure the glass in the tiny wired window cracks a little more.

They spill out into a narrow service alley—

Straight into the path of three infected.

All three snap their heads toward them, teeth clacking blindly through the air as they stumble over each other to get to the noise. One of them still has a name tag pinned crookedly to his shirt, the name torn in half.

“Fuck,” Jungkook spits.

Why did this day have to turn into an absolute shit show?

One of the infected lurches first, fingers clawing at the air.

Jimin doesn’t hesitate. He steps into its space, pivots, and drives his knife up under its jaw. The blade punches through rotten palate and into brain. The body gives a horrible shudder, then drops like a cut puppet.

Jungkook meets the second one halfway with his machete. The blade bites cleanly into its temple with a meaty crack. He has to wrench it free, boots skidding slightly on the sludge of old blood that leaks out onto the ground.

The third is closer than he wants when he turns—right there, rotten teeth bared as it lunges over his fallen comrade.

Jungkook gets his forearm up just in time for teeth to clamp down on the leather bracer he strapped there months ago after learning the hard way about close calls. Pain blooms along his arm from the pressure, but there’s no puncture.

“Off—” he snarls.

Jimin is there again, faster than the panic in Jungkook’s veins. He ducks under Jungkook’s raised arm and jams his knife into the thing’s eye with a twist. The body spasms and lets go, collapsing against Jungkook’s chest before sliding bonelessly to the ground.

“Go!” Jimin barks, grabbing Jungkook by the shoulder and shoving him deeper into the alley. “More’ll come if they hear—”

A shout rings behind them.

“There! Back door!”

They bolt.

The alley spills them onto a wider side street littered with trash and a couple of abandoned bins. Jungkook’s lungs are already burning, but the adrenaline coursing through him smooths the edges, makes his legs feel almost weightless.

Jimin is just a breath ahead, weaving around obstacles with lightning-fast grace. Jungkook sticks to his heels the best he can, pack bouncing against his back.

Bootsteps slam after them from behind. At least two sets, maybe more. One person yells for them to stop

Jungkook doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need the visual—he can feel how close they are in the way his own body won’t let him slow down.

“Left!” Jimin throws over his shoulder.

He cuts down a narrower passage between what used to be a nail salon and a betting shop. It’s tight, barely wide enough for one person at a time. Somewhere behind them, someone swears as they barrel into a dumpster they didn’t see coming.

A bottle explodes near Jungkook’s feet, glass skittering. He jumps it over it, fingers grazing the brick as he squeezes through the gap.

“Jimin—” he pants.

“Shut up and keep going,” Jimin snaps, doesn’t even look back.

They burst out into a quieter street, choked with abandoned cars. Jimin pauses for a second, eyes scanning over their surroundings.

“There,” he gasps suddenly, jerking his chin toward a narrow slit of darkness between two buildings.

Jungkook spots it a beat later—a narrow space between two buildings, partly hidden by a collapsed awning and a toppled metal stand.

Jimin veers towards it, Jungkook follows. They dive in with just enough space for both of them if they press in close.

Jimin yanks him by the front of his jacket and shoves him back, chest to chest, until Jungkook’s shoulders slam into cool, damp brick.

“Don’t move,” Jimin breathes, already flattening himself in front of him like a shield.

Jungkook barely has time to adjust his grip on his machete before people thunder past the mouth of the alley.

Two, three, four—Jungkook counts as they streak by. Three men, two women. He recognises Knife and Pipe from the bookshop in the middle of the pack. The other two look just as pissed.

“Where the fuck did they go?” the woman snaps. “They were right here.”

“They can’t have gotten far,” another voice—Pipe’s—barks back. “Spread out. Check the side streets. They’ve got good shit, I saw it—”

“Probably got more at their nest.” Knife interrupts. “If they’ve been in the area this long, they’re definitely hoarding.”

Jimin’s fingers bunch in Jungkook’s shirt, right over his sternum. Jungkook can feel the tremor in them.

“We find them,” the third man says, tone flat and mean, “and we follow. See where they’re sleeping. Hit it at night, yeah? Take everything we can.”

“Or we take them in instead,” Pipe drawls casually. “Strong backs. Could use them for heavy lifting.”

“Nah, they’re too flighty,” Knife scoffs. “You saw the pretty one? Rat-fast. Pain in the ass to keep penned. Just strip ‘em and bounce. Kill them if you have to.”

Jungkook’s vision goes sharp-white for a second.

Pretty one. Kill.

He feels Jimin’s body go rigid against his, anger and fear spiking through both of them like a shared current.

“No blood,” the more sensible-sounding woman snaps. “I don’t want to be out here longer than we have to. The sooner we find them, the sooner we’re home.”

Their footsteps start to spread out down different directions, voices overlapping and blending into the noise of the city.

Jungkook presses the back of his head into the brick and forces himself to even out his breath. Jimin’s own fans hot against his throat in equally shallow puffs.

He wraps his free arm around Jimin’s back without thinking, palm splaying over his spine to pull him closer.

That was close. The closest call they’ve had with an actually dangerous group of people ever. No one really comes to snoop in their neck of the woods. The taller buildings packed closely together are more of a deterrent than an invitation.

“Still feeling good about leaving the Hell Tower?” Jungkook whispers finally, voice so low he barely hears it himself.

Jimin huffs a shaky breath against his collarbone.

“Ask me when we’re on the truck,” he mutters. “And not a second before.”

They stay pinned there a long time.

Long enough for Jungkook’s calves to start burning from holding the same angle and for the sweat at the back of his neck to cool. Long enough that the strip of sky above their little wedge of brick shifts from washed-out grey-blue to a dusty pink.

The footsteps fade. Then come back further away. Then fade again.

Jimin doesn’t move off him. If anything, the longer they stand there, the more he seems to push in, like he’s trying to physically glue them both to the wall.

Jungkook sighs and stares up at the slit of sky above them.

Fuck. It’s getting late.

They were supposed to rest in the shop for ten minutes then keep going.

Instead, they played dodge-the-assholes, toppled a small library, killed three zombies, and have now spent… what, forty minutes? Over an hour? In a smelly alley, blending with the brick.

He licks his lips, feels the dryness crack at the corners.

“Do you know where we are?” he whispers, hoping that it comes off casual enough to mask the worry.

Jimin shifts just enough to tilt his head back and look at him. His eyes narrow, eyebrows pinching together in a way Jungkook knows means he ain’t fooling anyone here.

Instead of calling him on it, Jimin reaches back blindly and plucks at the strap on Jungkook’s pack.

“Hold still.”

He wriggles one arm between them and drags the folded tour map out of the sleeve pocket. Then flips it open and presses it flat against Jungkook’s chest, using him as a table.

Interesting choice of position. Jungkook, for one, is absolutely not complaining.

He braces his hands against the brick behind him, trying very hard not to think about the way Jimin’s forearms cage him in on either side, or how the heat from his body seeps through both their layers of clothing.

Time and place. Time and place. He focuses on his face instead.

Jimin’s eyes track the lines on the paper, scanning street names half-obscured by creases and old stains. His mouth goes into that little pout it does when he’s thinking hard about something—lower lip pushed out, upper lip pressed tight. The smudge on his cheek turned into multiple from their earlier scuffle and Jungkook has to try really hard to resist the urge to wipe them away.

“Okay,” Jimin sighs eventually. “We’re… here.”

He taps a spot with his finger. Jungkook squints down at it, feeling the pressure through the map and his shirt.

They’re a few blocks off their original route. The mall symbol sits further along with its little shopping bag icon, just on the other side of the river.

“We were supposed to come up Market, cut across here, then follow this road to the mall,” Jimin says, drawing an invisible path. “But we veered off here when we ran. So now we’ve got two options.”

“Hit me,” Jungkook sighs, already not liking where this is going.

“Option one,” Jimin says evenly, “we backtrack.” His finger slides back along the streets they just tore through. “Hope Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dick have gotten bored and moved on. Pick up our old route and keep going.”

“Pros and cons?”

“It’s familiar, that’s a pro,” Jimin sighs. “We know where the choke points are and how to get around them. Cons: we literally just ran away from a group of armed assholes who know we exist and want our shit.”

“Minor con,” Jungkook says. “Just a little one.”

Jimin shoots him a flat look.

“Option two,” he says, and moves his finger across the river.

“The bridge.”

They say it at the same time and stare at each other over the map, neither wanting to be the first to say how colossally stupid that idea was.

They snooped around it once. Early on, when they were still figuring out how to navigate the city, still under the illusion that there might be a neat, safe path out.

Back then, the military barricade had still been half-standing. Cars jammed up either end, concrete blocks and metal fencing were dragged into place. Most of it had already been ripped apart by panicked people trying to get through.

The bridge itself was pretty much bare. Just one long stretch of open concrete over dark water, maybe a few crashed cars scattered around. If anything spots you on there—human or not—you have nowhere to go.

Jungkook exhales slowly through his nose.

“I fucking hate the bridge.”

“Yeah,” Jimin echoes. “Me too.”

Jungkook lets his head thunk back against the wall.

“We’re so not ready for this,” he laughs. Nothing is funny about this but he can’t help it anymore. “We should’ve… I don’t even know. Done a trial run? Or something.”

Jimin snorts, but his smile is brittle.

A singular thought keeps bouncing around Jungkook’s head: We could go back.

Go back to the dorm and re-plan. Maybe see if Buzz had some notes stashed away. Try to find some magic alternative route that doesn’t involve either walking into an ambush or rolling the dice on a giant shooting gallery over a river.

“Maybe we really should go back,” he says slowly, testing the waters. “I mean. Not, like, forever. Just… regroup and try next time? I could mess with Buzz’s setup and see if I can reach out to Namjoon, maybe he can help out—”

“We can’t go back,” Jimin cuts in.

Jungkook blinks and looks down.

Jimin’s eyes are still on the map, but his knuckles have gone a little white where they press into the paper.

“What do you mean, we can’t?”

Jimin takes a deeps breath.

“Those goons are going to look for our place,” he mumbles. “They’ve survived this long, so they’re not complete idiots. Once they calm down, they’ll start thinking about where we came from. And if we go back…” He shakes his head and looks up at Jungkook. “They’ll find everything. Traps or no traps.”

Cold slides down Jungkook’s spine, settling low and ugly in his gut.

He’d been so singularly focused on getting away that he didn’t think to push his brain for alternatives.

“Fuck,” he squeezes his eyes tightly for a second. “Fuck. I left the radio in Buzz’s room. If they find that and it boots up, they’ll hear—”

He pauses when he spots the corner of Jimin’s mouth tug upwards.

“What’s with the face?”

The older boy huffs and glances away.

“What did you do?” Jungkook presses.

Jimin shrugs, finally lifting his hands off the map. He folds it back into a neat square, then stuffs it into Jungkook’s front jacket pocket and gives it a little pat.

“I ripped up all the cables and destroyed the controls,” he shrugs, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “No one can use it anymore.”

Jungkook just stares at him.

“You… what.”

Jimin bites the inside of his cheek, unsuccessfully hiding the smile trying to break out.

“I knew you’d get weirdly attached to it,” he says, a little smug. “So I went there when you were doing the rounds last night. It’s dead.”

Jungkook gapes, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline.

“You killed my spy rig!” he gasps.

Jimin’s smirk falters.

“Your spy rig was also a beacon to everyone in a five-mile radius that we exist,” he points out, jabbing a finger in Jungkook’s chest. “We’re not the only ones who can tune in. If those guys found it and realised it was active, they could find a way to the settlement.”

Jungkook’s brain attempts to compute.

On one hand: his precious, stolen, tinfoil-hat radio set got murdered.

On the other hand: Jimin, always five steps ahead, always thinking of their safety.

His body does the thinking for him and then he’s surging forward, both hands coming up to frame Jimin’s face.

Jimin yelps when his back hits the opposite brick.

“Wh—”

Jungkook kisses him.

It’s not the smoothest execution. His mouth finds Jimin’s with more force than finesse, teeth clacking a little. The angle’s all wrong, bodies awkwardly squished and not nearly enough space.

Jimin makes a low noise in the back of his throat, and Jungkook’s heat spikes at the sound.

For a moment, Jungkook thinks he’s going to pull away, like usual.

Instead, Jimin’s hands climb hesitantly up Jungkook’s chest, fingers finding the collar of his jacket, then the back of his neck. He fists his hands in Jungkook’s hair and gives it a sharp tug.

Jungkook groans into his mouth, knees wobbling.

Oh, he’s so in trouble.

It takes effort, but he pulls back before they both do something incredibly stupid, and opens his eyes to find Jimin’s half-lidded ones staring back, pupils blown wide.

“Not—” Jungkook pants. “Not the best time to get all hot and bothered in a trash hole, probably.”

Jimin dazedly glances down at his lips then back up.

“Understatement of the year."

They stand there for a second, stupidly close. Jungkook can feel every hitch of Jimin’s breath against his own mouth, the hammering of his heart through both their chests.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” he blurts, the need to praise bubbling up. “You always are.”

Jimin ducks his head, but can’t escape when Jungkook’s still holding his face.

“Amazing or stupid,” he mumbles and bumps their foreheads together instead when Jungkook doesn’t let go of his face. “Not even we can use that equipment now.”

Jungkook snorts.

“Guess we’ll just have to wing it, like always.”

Jimin’s mouth curls, despite everything. His fingers relax a little in Jungkook’s hair, thumb rubbing absent circles at the back of his neck.

“Bridge, then,” he says quietly.

“Bridge,” Jungkook whispers back.

He lets his hands fall from Jimin’s face, but only so he can grab his shoulders instead and give them a small squeeze, more for himself than anything.

“Okay,” he says, mostly to steel himself, to the place they can no longer go back to, to the mental image of a mall parking lot a bridge away. “Okay. We’ll take the stupid death-trap bridge, avoid our little fan club, and try not to get eaten or shot. Easy.”

Jimin rolls his eyes and gently pinches the side of his neck.

“Your definition of easy needs work.”

“Lucky for us,” Jungkook grins, vicious and fond all at once, “there’s two of us and only one bridge. We can take it.”

He peels himself off the wall, waits until Jimin does the same. They both stand there a second longer, listening for any hint of footsteps or voices.

Nothing. Just the usual sounds they’ve both gotten used to.

“Ready?” Jungkook glances down, fingers searching instinctively for the hilt of his machete.

“No,” Jimin answers honestly. Then he reaches out, curls his fingers into the strap of Jungkook’s pack, and tugs him toward the mouth of the alley anyway.

“Let’s go.”

♡

From this angle, the bridge looks deceptively harmless.

Jungkook sits flat on his ass behind a busted billboard, binoculars pressed to his face hard enough to leave imprints in the hollows of his eyes. The river below drags by slowly, dark enough to suck the light straight out of the sky. A few infected drift along the near the bank, bumping into rocks and railings aimlessly.

Weirdly enough, none of them are on the actual bridge. There’s never a lot of them near water, which Jungkook would find kind of funny any other time. But today, it’s almost unnerving.

“Well?” Jimin mutters beside him. “How bad is it?”

Jungkook tracks the binoculars along the span.

The military barricade didn’t age well, more skeleton than structure now. Beyond it, the bridge stretches out in a long, exposed strip of concrete and steel beams. No other cover except some abandoned vehicles.

There’s a little silver hatchback skewed sideways near the start and minivan further along, every window punched out. Near the centre, the a delivery truck lies tipped over on its side, the logo bleached by the sun to a near-white.

No other signs of life.

“Five on the riverbank,” Jungkook says finally. “Left side, not paying attention to us. Bridge is clear.”

Jimin presses his lips together, eyes following the line of road.

“Truck?”

Jungkook gnaws on the inside of his cheek.

“Namjoonie’s joyride should roll in…” he squints up at the washed-out blue above the far bank, “I dunno. An Hour? Maybe a little less if he’s feeling spicy.”

Jimin checks his watch. The thing has survived three different drops down staircases and still ticks, just as stubborn as the owner.

“He said sunset.”

“He also used to be late to literally everything,” Jungkook mutters. “Dude made tardiness an art form.”

Jimin hums absently, gaze locked on the bridge.

When they came to scout it before, the sight had punched Jungkook right in the hindbrain. It still does—something about that long line over open water that makes every instinct in him scream absolutely not.

“Thoughts?” Jimin asks without looking.

“Too many,” Jungkook sighs. “Mainly—how do you want to do this?”

“Slow and steady,” Jimin answers instantly. “We do it in chunks.”

“Slow and steady is how you become dinner,” Jungkook sing-songs and stands up slowly.

He drags the binoculars down and glances at Jimin.

“We do it your way and we’re gonna be halfway over when the truck pulls in,” he says. “Best case, we wave bye-bye at it from a scenic spot. Worst case, we get there late and spend the night in the abandoned mall of nightmares.”

“If we sprint the whole thing, we’re going to be loud,” Jimin counters. “If something’s hiding anywhere on that thing, it’ll see us coming a mile off.”

“Jimin,” Jungkook tries to keep his voice as even as he can. “There is literally nothing out there right now. We checked. It sucks, but if we’re going to gamble, I’d rather do it with speed than time.”

Jimin’s jaw ticks in annoyance, fingers tapping a distracted rhythm against his thigh, like he’s counting beats only he can hear.

“Look, we’re both terrified,” Jungkook presses gently. “That’s why we need to do this as quickly as possible.”

That gets him a flat, unimpressed look, but it’s a little less hostile.

“I love how you talk like your brain isn’t also fighting everything about this.”

“Oh, it is,” Jungkook agrees with a grin. “Which is why I’ll think about how stupid I am after we’re over there.”

Jimin stares at the bridge for a long moment, eyes tracing the path he’s building in his head. He exhales a second later, shoulders slumping the tiniest bit in surrender.

“Fine,” he mutters. “We go fast. But I better not die, Jeon.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Jungkook grins, happy with his tiny victory. “Let’s go before one of us becomes sensible.”

They get down from their perch and skirt along the railing, keeping their heads low until they reach the gutted remains of the barricade.

Jungkook plants both hands on a concrete block and swings his legs over. His boots hit the bridge itself with a hollow thud. Jimin follows, movements more reserved, one hand catching the top as he climbs down.

They stand there for a second at the edge of it all, the city behind them, the other bank small and far away ahead.

“Last chance to back out,” Jungkook says, glancing sideways. “We can always go home and play whack-a-mole with our new friends.”

“Let’s not,” Jimin snorts, but his mouth twitches like it wants to smile. “First car, on my count. Don’t slow down.”

Jungkook nods just as Jimin sucks in a breath and squares his shoulders.

“One,” he says quietly. “Two—”

He doesn’t bother with three, just goes.

Jungkook throws himself after him, legs already complaining. The first stretch is a blur of concrete, the slap of their boots, the rough inhale-exhale rhythm that’s kept them alive this long. Wind claws at his clothes, at his ears. Everything else is a blur he doesn’t bother looking at, eyes glued to Jimin’s back.

They reach the little hatchback in what feels like seconds and also years. Jimin skids behind it, palms smacking the cool metal, and Jungkook follows, folding down into a crouch so fast his quads scream.

“Okay,” he pants. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“Shut up or I’ll throw you over the rail,” Jimin wheezes.

Jungkook flips the binoculars up with shaking hands, the view wobbling before steadying out. Van, truck, nothing else. The far end still the same monotone stretch of concrete.

“Still clear.”

“Good,” Jimin wipes his forearm over the sweat beading on his forehead. “Again.”

He gulps down one lungful of air, then pushes off.

They do it again.

Run. Car. Breathe. Check.

By the time they throw themselves behind the minivan, Jungkook’s legs feel like someone poured hot glue into his muscles. His shirt clings to his back under his pack and jacket, everything uncomfortably damp and sticky.

Jimin looks even worse somehow. Dark hair plastered to his forehead, the line of concentration between his brows sharper than usual. He rests for a second longer this time, hand flat on the van’s useless back door, head tipped down as he trades ragged breaths.

“Water,” Jungkook says, dragging his pack around on one shoulder. He unclips the bottle, takes a small swig—just enough to rinse the dryness out of his mouth—and hands it over.

Jimin takes it without comment, tips his head back and lets a mouthful sit on his tongue before swallowing. There’s a drop that misses the corner of his mouth and runs down his neck. Jungkook watches it disappear under his hoodie collar like an idiot.

“Hanging in there?” Jimin asks when he hands the bottle back.

“Barely,” Jungkook laughs and tips his head back. “But I’ll live.”

“Then we keep going,” Jimin mutters, fingers quickly tangling in Jungkook’s sweaty hair in a brief show of comfort.

The third sprint is the worst.

The truck looms up ahead, a dented metal whale on its side, cab crumpled and empty. It’s further than it looked from behind the minivan, the space between stretches out cruelly as they run, all open air and nowhere to hide.

Halfway, Jungkook’s lungs start to burn properly, vision edging a little dark. But Jimin doesn’t slow down even for a second, so Jungkook grits his teeth and keeps his eyes on the back of his hoodie again.

They throw themselves into the truck’s shadow like they’re diving into water. Jungkook hits the concrete on one knee, sucks in a ragged breath that barely feels like it reaches his brain.

“We’re halfway,” he gasps eventually. “We’re alive and halfway and I really fucking hate this.”

“Told you to do more cardio,” Jimin teases despite looking a mess himself. He slumps against the frame, breath sawed out in ugly spurts.

It takes longer to get his breathing under control this time. Jungkook feels his pulse hammer against the insides of his skull. His hands shake a little when he drags them over his face.

“We’re doing it, though,” he says peeking at Jimin between his sweaty palms. “Fuck, we’re actually gonna make it.”

“And you didn’t trip even once, I’m so proud,” Jimin teases.

He ducks his head to mess with his laces, fingers quick and practised. The smudges on his cheeks from earlier have mixed with sweat, the whole thing turning into a streak that makes it look almost like really shitty camo.

Jungkook watches his hands move while his breathing slows.

It’s still crazy to think about how he got to this point.

He’s never been too good at voicing his emotions out loud, always too embarrassed and too self-aware. Spending a year with Jimin didn’t change that much, he still bites his tongue more than not, especially when words try to spill out. But—

But all it takes these days is one hard look from Jimin’s slanted eyes for the ground to feel solid under his feet again. For all of his nerve endings to light up like colourful fireworks, for his body to start buzzing like an eager bumblebee around a beautiful flower.

What’s so special about Jimin? Jungkook doesn’t know if there’s enough words in his vocabulary to explain it.

He never thought much of love, just understood it in the poetic sense. He’s not stupid about it though—he used to love watching cheesy romance movies and thinking “oh, that’s nice” when the starry-eyed leads would realize their feelings.

But he never thought it was something meant for him. He tended to love too many things all at once to give focus to just one person.

Who would’ve thought it would take the world ending for Jungkook to find out how wonderful it could be?

Jimin jerks away with a scowl, batting away the fingers in his hair Jungkook didn’t even realise he placed there.

“Stop messing up my hair. If it gets in my eyes and I fall, I’m blaming you.”

“Noted,” Jungkook mutters, even though the brief contact already helped unkink the tightness in his chest.

Jimin gives his laces one last tug, then pushes up to stand. He rolls his shoulders once, as if trying to shake the tiredness off like water from a dog.

“Last stretch,” he says. There’s a weird glint in his eyes—fear, yeah, but edged with something more reckless.

Jungkook runs a hand over his pack straps, taps pockets—machete handle under his palm, knife at his other hip, everything where it should be. His heart is trying to punch a hole through his ribs, but that’s fine. He can do this. They can do this.

“Yeah,” he says, and means it enough. “Let’s get it.”

Jimin flashes him a grin that’s bright enough to blind—sharp and wide, almost cocky.

“Race you,” he throws and takes off in a sprint.

Jungkook swears and lunges after him, adrenaline spiking all over again. The truck falls away behind them, the far end of the bridge reeling closer. The off-ramp sign looms up, the sinking sun glinting off its faded green.

Every muscle in his body is tensed, but he keeps his eyes locked onto the back of Jimin’s hoodie like a lifeline, refusing to look anywhere else. If he looks at the water, he’ll puke. If he looks at the sky, he’ll trip and eat concrete.

Just Jimin, just the way his body moves, just the fact that they are actually making it—

Something glints ahead. A spiderweb-thin line catches the light between the last parked car and the guardrail.

Jungkook’s brain registers it a fraction too late.

There’s a sharp twang as the line snaps and recoils, an ugly yelp from Jimin as it whips against his shin. His feet fly out from under him and he slams forward, palms and knees skidding hard on rough concrete.

“Jimin!” Jungkook chokes, stumbling to slow down.

His boots skid on the ground, body struggling to keep his own balance steady.

He’s three steps away when he spots movement from the blind spot behind the last car.

A hooded figure peels out from behind the rusting bumper. In two strides they’re on him, boot planting between Jimin’s shoulder blades, the barrel of a gun dropping clean and steady to the back of his head.

Jungkook’s body slams to a halt so hard it jolts his teeth, everything inside him going icy and hot at the same time.

The person pushes their hood back just enough for him to see their face. It’s one of the scavengers from the bookshop—the woman. Sharp jaw, faded auburn hair knotted tightly on the top of her head, dark eyes glinting in malicious victory.

Her stare pins him in place across the short stretch between them.

“Don’t,” she says slowly, finger settling on the trigger, “take another step.”

Jungkook’s hands go up before his brain even has a chance to catch up to what’s happening.

“Okay,” he rasps, throat dry. “Okay—just—wait.”

Very slowly, he reaches back with one hand, fingers fumbling with the buckle of his pack. The strap slips off his shoulder, the weight dragging his arm down. He shrugs it off and kicks it sideways.

“Take it,” he rasps. “Take everything. Just—just let him go.”

The woman doesn’t even glance at the pack.

Her eyes stay glued to his face, dark and flat, the faintest curl of amusement at the corner of her mouth.

“Do I look stupid to you?” she asks pleasantly.

Jungkook opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He closes it again.

His gaze drops to Jimin.

His palms are flat against the concrete, arms trembling weakly when he attempts to push himself up. The woman digs her boot harder between his shoulder blades, making him hiss and flatten back down

“Eyes on me, pretty boy,” she snaps.

Jungkook wrenches his gaze back up, swallowing hard.

“What do you want?” he forces out.

She huffs, like all of this is just some mild inconvenience in her daily routine. Then bends her knee and nudges Jimin with her boot.

“Roll over.”

Jimin grits his teeth but obeys, twisting onto his back. Jungkook’s stomach churns when he spots his knees and palms, both scraped raw and bleeding. Even his chin didn’t escape the abuse, a thin layer the size of a coin already scabbing over just below his lip.

The woman shifts with him, stepping neatly to keep her boot planted on his chest this time, heel digging into his sternum. The gun follows, barrel sliding until it sits right between Jimin’s eyes.

“I thought I recognised you two,” she muses.  “All that running around earlier kind of threw me off. But now…” She tilts her head, eyes sliding from Jimin’s face to Jungkook. “Yeah. I’ve seen you scurrying around the city before.”

Jungkook’s mind does a frantic rewind.

Did they miss being followed? Did he not notice a pair of eyes on them?

“Thought to myself,” the woman goes on, tapping the tip of the gun lightly against Jimin’s brow, “give it a few months. Food will run out eventually and I’ll be the one hacking their brains out.”

Jimin closes his eyes at that, lashes twitching. When he opens them again and stares up at her furiously.

“Imagine my surprise,” she continues lightly, ignoring the angry eyes on her, “when you two rats not only beat the crap out of two of my boys, but you actually manage to ditch us.” She smiles then, vicious. “You’ve honestly outdone yourselves.

Jungkook tries to remember her face. Did he see it anywhere before? Did she watch them from some upper window while they did their idiot patrols?

His stomach turns, bile burning bitter in the back of his throat.

They were so careful.

“What do you want,” he asks again, because he has to keep talking or he’ll start screaming.

She sighs and lifts her boot, just enough to wind up, and kicks Jimin hard in the ribs.

The sound that tears out of him is sharp and punched-out, tearing down Jungkook’s spine like a strike of lightning. He lurches forward a step before he can stop himself, hands flying out as if he can physically grab and rip the pain away.

“Stay put,” the woman snaps, swinging the gun a fraction and shaking it in Jimin’s direction. “You move any closer and I get to decorate the bridge with his brain.”

Jimin curls around the pain, arms wrapping around his ribs. Jungkook can practically feel the reverberation of the kick in his own body.

“You,” she barks, then kicks him again, lower this time, catching his hip. “Up.”

Jimin wheezes, but forces himself upright, one hand still clutching his side. His legs tremble as he pushes off the ground, swaying slightly with every movement.

Their eyes meet for a heartbeat.

Jungkook desperately hopes that his own expression says everything he can’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I’m so fucking sorry.

The woman steps in behind Jimin, fist twisting into his hair. She yanks his head back, exposing his throat and the thin trickle of blood that escaped his chin and soaked into the neckline of his hoodie. The barrel migrates again, pressing into the side of his skull just above his ear.

Jimin freezes, eyes widening a fraction before narrowing down.

“I know you’re trying to leave this shithole,” she hisses, eyes never leaving Jungkook’s face. “And I want to come with you.”

“Are you fucking kidding me—” Jimin blurts, then bites it off when the metal digs harder into his temple.

Jungkook’s own mind keeps screaming, the mess of a situation making it hard to think. He drags a hand over his mouth, like that’ll somehow catch the panicked laugh clawing its way up.

“What about your little Addams family of degenerates?”

The woman blinks at him then starts cackling.

“Please,” she snorts. “I’m the only reason those idiots are still alive. They won’t last a week without me—not that I care. Let them rot.”

She lifts one shoulder in a careless half-shrug, the movement dragging Jimin’s head with it.

“I want a way out,” she says simply. “You two clearly know something I don’t. So you’re gonna play nice and share.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Jungkook lies instantly, but even he can hear how bad it sounds. “We were going to scout the mall for some supplies—”

He gets interupted by an unimpressed snort.

“No sane person crosses this bridge with that little gear,” she cuts in. “No one wastes supplies on a sightseeing tour. You’ve got just about enough on you to go one way.” Her grip tightens in Jimin’s hair, making his eyes squeeze shut. “So don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.”

Jungkook clamps his jaw before the angry ‘fuck’ can escape.

He and Jimin look at each other again.

Jimin looks even worse up close, face streaked with grime, sweat and blood. His eyes narrow when they catch Jungkook’s and he shakes his head in a tiny ‘no’.

Jungkook looks away before he can let that sway him.

They don’t have an abundance of choice.

Option one: say no and call her bluff. Hope she hesitates long enough for him to rush her and not get Jimin’s skull ventilated in the process.

Option two: keep lying until she gets bored and shoots one of them to make a point.

Option three is his least favourite one. They could agree. Walk her out and hope she doesn’t shoot them the second they’re in sight of the truck.

“Jungkook—” Jimin starts, but doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to. Jungkook hears it in his voice, clear as day.

Don’t.

He swallows around the lump in his throat and glances away.

“Fine. We’ll take you with us.”

The words taste disgusting.

“Finally, we’re getting somewhere,” she chirps brightly, a grin splitting her gaunt face. “You. Get your shit and lead the way.”

Jungkook glowers at her, hoping that the look is nasty enough for her to choke on. Unfortunately, it’s not. The woman just gives him a sleazy wink and tilts her head towards his pack.

He grunts and slowly edges sideways, keeping his palms where she can see them until he reaches his pack. Every cell in his body is screaming at the idea of turning his back, but he has to if he wants the straps on right.

He crouches down, fingers fumbling only a little as he hauls the pack upright and shrugs into the harness. Chest strap. Waist belt. He feels weirdly naked even with all the gear on—like none of it will do shit against a bullet if things go south.

Once it’s as secure as it’s going to get, he steps back to Jimin’s side, hand automatically reaching out for him.

“Ah-ah,” she sing-songs and yanks Jimin’s head back by his hair before he can take the half-step toward Jungkook. He grunts, hands flying up to grab at her wrist.

“No funny business,” she coos, gun nudging his temple. “You lead. Me and your boy toy follow.”

Jimin rolls his eyes and breathes out through his teeth.

“How do you even know it’s safe to cross?” he grits out, eyes flicking along the short span ahead of them.

“Is anything ever safe?” she laughs. “That’s why we use him as a meat shield, just in case.”

Jungkook ignores the comment and glances toward the far end of the bridge.

They’re already past the worst of it. The barricade is just a stones throw away.

He starts walking towards it, their whole plan of sprinting and sneaking long forgotten. One step, two steps. He tries to keep his breathing steady, mind fixed on the two sets of footsteps behind him.

“So.” The woman’s voice lifts over the wind in an almost bored drawl. “Tell me more about this magic getaway.”

Jungkook opens his mouth.

“We heard a government broadcast over the radio,” Jimin cuts in smoothly before he can say something stupid like the damn truth.

“A government broadcast, huh,” she echoes. “And you two just… happened to hear it?”

“We found some equipment and fucked around with it out of boredom—not exactly much else to do these days.” Jimin doesn’t miss a beat, but Jungkook can hear the tightness in his voice. Luckily, the woman doesn’t seem to catch it.

“They change the frequencies randomly, probably so it’s harder to track. We caught a broad announcement about them picking up survivors in a truck. That’s it.”

“No address?” she presses. “Where are they taking everyone?”

“What, and risk security?” Jimin says flatly. “They’re not exactly going to say, ‘Hi, raiders, here’s our front door.’”

She hums, considering.

“Did they mention any names?”

“Only heard a couple,” Jimin shrugs, as much as he can with her hand in his hair. “Didn’t exactly get a roll call. Point is, there’s a truck. It stops in a few places and we’re heading to one. That’s all we know.”

Jungkook risks a glance back.

Jimin’s face is a little paler than before, probably from the nerves coursing through him. But his eyes are sharp, steady as they meet Jungkook’s, like he can see every stupid thought ricocheting around in there.

This is my fault, Jungkook’s brain hisses. If he had agreed with Jimin and eased across the bridge slow and steady, they might not be in this mess right now.

He has to look away before he does something mortifying, like cry or drop to his knees or both.

They reach the far barricade sooner than he’s ready.

It’s virtually the same as the one on the other end, except for the rusted hatchback wedged sideways between a few of the cement blocks.

“Careful,” he mutters, picking a path through.

He steps over a busted headlight and around a chunk of concrete, then glances back to make sure they’re following. Jimin moves carefully where she shoves him, jaw clenched, sneakers crunching on debris.

On the other side, the road drops down toward the retail area. An old green motorway sign leans overhead, hanging by one twisted bracket. They tuck themselves into the shadow of its support post.

Jungkook fumbles the binoculars out of his pack, nearly drops them twice while trying to lift them to his face.

The road ahead is simple enough. A straight shot, gentle curve, then the spread of the parking lot. No infected that he can see, just empty tarmac and overgrown grass.

He sweeps left, then right.

There.

The cinema sign sticks up over the mall’s roofline, half its letters gone.

Jungkook’s chest tightens for all the wrong reasons.

It’s real. They’re actually here. They made it in one piece, somehow. They should be celebrating. Why did bitch with a gun have to go and ruin that?

“We need to move,” he says, lowering the binoculars. “Truck should be there soon."

The woman sniffs and flicks hair out of her face with the barrel.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” she says crisply. “You—Mr. Meat Shield. What’s your name?”

“Jungkook.”

“And you?” She jabs the gun lightly against Jimin’s temple.

“Jimin,” he grits out.

“I’m Sylvia. Now,” she goes on, “here’s how we’re doing this. Jungkook is going to be my loving boyfriend—no offence, cutie,” she adds, rubbing the gun affectionately along Jimin’s cheek. He flinches and tilts his head away, disgust written all over his face. “You’re just not my type.”

Jungkook has never felt the need to punch something so badly before. Ever.

“We’re going to play pretend,” Sylvia continues calmly. “Happy couple takes in sad little lost stray out of the goodness of their hearts. We show up at your truck, bat our lashes, tell them we couldn’t leave him behind.”

She bares her teeth.

“And when we get to this miracle refuge? We mysteriously break up and live our lives as far away from each other as humanly possible. You live, I live, he lives. Everybody wins. Understood?”

Jungkook nods on autopilot and hopes to every deity in existence, ever, that his face managed to stay neutral through the insane spiel.

It would almost be funny if it wasn’t horrifying. There’s one pretty crucial detail Sylvia doesn’t seem to know:

Jungkook absolutely does not play for her team.

And Namjoon knows that. Knew it back when their biggest problems were exams and hangovers. Pretty sure Jungkook had used Namjoon as a personal councillor to bitch about an ex more times than it would be considered decent.

If they have even a sliver of luck left in this universe, Namjoon will be on that truck. And as soon as the word “girlfriend” leaves his mouth, Namjoon’s going to look at him like he’s grown a second head.

Jimin’s eyes narrow just the tiniest bit. Jungkook can’t tell if he’s on the same brainwave or not, but judging from the way his eyebrows smooth out and lips press together into a thin line—he can’t be too far away from it.

Clueless, Sylvia claps her free hand once against Jimin’s shoulder, like she’s wrapping up a briefing.

“Alrighty boys, time to go the fuck out of here.”

♡

Jungkook is pretty sure he’s walked the same five metres of concrete enough times to start a trench.

He paces in front of the cinema entrance, back and forth, back and fucking forth, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. The old marquee above them is half-collapsed, the faded red fabric full of holes and sagging in places. The last of the sunlight bleeds around the abandoned building conglomerate, making every remaining window look like they’re on fire.

Jimin sits a little off to the side between Sylvia’s spread legs. His knees are drawn up to his busted chin, arms wrapped tightly around them. Her gun sits tucked neatly into the back of his head, hidden under the drape of her jacket sleeve.

His gaze is somewhere else entirely. Distant. Eyes fixed on a point above the horizon.

Jungkook wonders how the fuck is he keeping so scarily calm with a weapon near his head. Must be yet another one of the mysteries that make up the person that is Park Jimin.

Yeah. Jimin is a conglomeration of mysteries and juxtapositions. Bitingly cold and harsh on some days, then unbearably brittle and caring on others. Jungkook could flip a coin a thousand times and have little of to no chance of guessing what side he’s going to get each time.

Jungkook forces himself to walk another length, then another, as if staying still will make him unravel.

Distracted, he thinks back to the time he fell in love with the mystery that is Jimin.

It wasn’t a big moment. His life isn’t programmed for big, cinematic revelations. It was just another day lived.

They’d come back late from a run, soaked to the bone from a random downpour. Jimin had been shaking with cold but still managed to bitch at Jungkook for trailing water into their room.

Later, Jungkook had walked past the bathroom and caught him in the half-open doorway. Jimin was standing there in one of Jungkook’s oversized shirts, damp hair sticking up in every direction, carefully brushing his teeth by the weak yellow light of a battery lantern.

He’d looked so… so soft. Sleepy eyes, foam at the corner of his mouth, brows drawn just a little in that perpetual Jimin way. He’d hummed around the toothbrush when he noticed Jungkook looking and turned to garble something about tomato soup for dinner.

The weird feeling that slipped down his spine and into his heart still lives rent free in Jungkook’s head. A secret click of bone and cartilage, muscles sighing a distinct ‘oh’.

Oh. Okay. This is it then. You. It’s you.

Now he watches the same man sit perfectly still with a gun pressed into his skull and that feeling pulls tight enough to snap.

“How much longer until the truck gets here,” Sylvia mutters impatiently. “You said sunset.”

Jungkook drags his eyes away from Jimin and looks toward the west. The sun is getting dangerously low, orange leaking into purple. The shadows are getting longer by the minute, nightfall is just around the corner.

“They’re late,” she says, sharper, when neither of the men answer. “How late do they usually run?”

“We don’t—,” Jungkook croaks around the dryness in his throat. “We’ve… never done this before.”

“Fantastic,” she snorts.

“Maybe they’re not coming,” Jimin mumbles quietly.

He’s chewing his lower lip raw, eyes still glued to the horizon.

It’s fucked up to see him like this, all battered and bruised. The way the words leave him like he’s already bracing for this to be another thing life dangled and then yanked away.

Every fibre in Jungkook wants to cross the space, sink to his knees in front of him and take his face in his hands. Anything to chase that defeated look away.

“Shut up,” Sylvia hisses suddenly.

Her whole body tenses around Jimin’s shoulders as she tilts her head. Jungkook stops pacing and holds his breath, also listening.

There. Under the low whistle of wind and creaking metal signs—a low rumble of an approaching engine.

Jungkook’s heart lodges itself into his throat.

Sylvia springs up and drags Jimin up with her by the back of his hoodie. He stumbles, a bitten-off groan slipping out between his teeth as his abused ribs protest.

“Up, up, up,” she mutters, manoeuvring him in front of her. She yanks her jacket sleeve down over the hand holding the gun, then shoves Jimin’s arm across her shoulders so it looks like he’s leaning on her for support.

The concealed barrel nestles back against the base of his skull, hidden under the layers of fabric.

“Remember the plan, darling,” she drawls at Jungkook sideways, voice honeyed and venomous all at once.

He forces himself to stop looking at the way Jimin is gripping her jacket sleeve and meets her eyes instead with a curt nod.

Jimin looks at him over his shoulder.

They don’t share words. Just a look they’ve traded thousands of times before. A whole conversation packed into it—this is it. Make or break.

Jungkook nods back and tears his gaze away to stare down the road.

The truck rounds the far corner in a slow, heavy turn.

It’s more beat-up than anything Jungkook’ expected. Someone’s patched the sides with welded scrap metal, the front grill protected by a crude cage. The bed is roofed over with corrugated sheets and canvas, a few shapes moving in the dim interior—other survivors. People they’ve picked up along the way.

Every muscle in Jungkook’s body locks up as it growls closer, and finally hisses to a stop a few metres away in a wash of exhaust fumes and heat.

The windows are tinted so he can’t see who’s in the cab, but there’s no time to wonder as the passenger door swings open with a loud groan.

A pair of scuffed boots come into view as a man climbs out.

Jungkook holds his breath as his brain refuses to believe the image for a brief second. It’s Namjoon. Fucking Kim Namjoon, in the flesh.

He looks older, he thinks uselessly. The buzzcut Jungkook remembers has grown awkwardly and now flops against his forehead. He’s filled out a bit, shoulders broader under the faded jacket, the lines at the corners of his eyes deeper.

But it’s still Namjoon. Same slightly puzzled resting face, same gentle expression taking in his surroundings.

His gaze lands on Jungkook and stops dead, jaw dropping in shock.

“Jung—”

“Oh thank god!” Sylvia shrieks dramatically.

She barrels forward, dragging Jimin along for the ride. Jimin stumbles with a grunt, but manages to catch his balance at the last second.

Jungkook squares his shoulders and steps closer after her, tries to arrange his face into something neutral. His eyes burn anyway, just from the sheer, gut-deep relief of seeing a living, breathing Namjoon in front of him.

“I’m so glad you came,” Sylvia gushes, throwing herself into the performance.

Namjoon’s eyes cut from Jungkook to her, confusion creasing his brow.

“Me and my boyfriend are helping Jimin here, he had a nasty fall on the bridge,” Sylvia steamrolls on. “You’ve got no idea how hard it was to get here, but Jungkook figured it out. I knew we could count on him.” She throws a beaming at Jungkook, like she hasn’t been holding his actual subject of affection hostage for over an hour.

“Boyfriend?” Namjoon mutters under his breath, glancing between them three.

He looks at him with the exact same expression he used to reserve when he sometimes found Jungkook passed on his dorm floor instead of the bed.

Jungkook’s face does this awful grimacing thing he hopes from the bottom of his heart reads how really, truly fond he is of his...girlfriend.

“Yeah,” he croaks. “I, uh. Love her so much.”

Sylvia lets go of Jimin and sashays the two steps over to Jungkook like she’s on some deranged catwalk. She wraps her arm around his middle, pressing herself against his side, and giggles in the fakest, most nails-on-chalkboard way Jungkook has heard since the world ended.

He stares over her head at Namjoon, begging him to see through this bullshit.

Namjoon’s eyes have gone even narrower. He slides a look over to Jimin, taking in the bruises and the wobble in his feet. Then back to Jungkook.

Sylvia just keeps spinning the lie, completely oblivious.

“It was so hard to track you at first, we almost gave up a few times. But this one managed to figure it out the signal patterns,” she pats his chest like he’s some kind of trophy. “So smart, right?”

Namjoon’s stare drags back to her, lips pressing together.

“Right,” he says slowly.

Jungkook feels the urge to squirm.

He can practically hear the gears turning in Namjoon’s head. Jungkook never “officially” came out to any of his friends, never saw the need to. But Namjoon’s whole aura just makes a person want to spill their guts out for no reason. And Jungkook did, loads of times about loads of different things.

So when he’s standing there, looking at his best friend with a random woman hanging off of him and claiming to be his loving girlfriend, while one of those “loads of things” stands to the side of them, looking back and forth between them two with a scowl...

Well, no wonder Namjoon looks like he wants to put his face in his hands.

Instead, he licks his lips and nods once like he’s in on the bit.

“Okay,” he mutters and throws a sharp whistle over his shoulder.

“Yoongi! Tom! Need a hand!”

There’s movement near the back of the truck. Two figures drop down from the bed.

The first man is fairly short, wrapped in loose, layered clothes that hide his exact build. A jagged, vertical red scar slices down over his milky right eye. The left eye narrows, flicking rapidly over the four of them as gives Namjoon a quick two-finger salute and beelines for Jimin.

The second man is huge in contrast—taller than Namjoon even—a constellation of faint, intricate tattoos trailing from the dark skin of his jaw down his neck, half-hidden by a shirt collar. He adjusts the strap of his rifle, nodding at Namjoon as he walks closer, and tips an imaginary hat at Jungkook and Sylvia as he comes to a stop.

“Tom,” he introduces himself with a grin. “Nice to meet y’all.”

“Tom’s going to pat you two down,” Namjoon says mildly to Jungkook and Sylvia. “Yoongi’s got Jimin.”

Sylvia’s arms tense around Jungkook’s middle.

“Pat down?”

Namjoon glances at her, expression going politely blank around the eyes.

“No weapons at the compound. Standard procedure.”

Tom gives Jungkook an apologetic shrug. “Gotta do the dance. Promise I’ll be quick.”

“It’s fine,” Jungkook mutters, already stepping away from Sylvia and unclasping his pack. He shrugs it off and lets it drop by his feet.

From the corner of his eye he sees Yoongi stop in front of Jimin, one hand hovering—clearly asking permission before he goes in. Jimin, always the good student when rules are clear, lowers his gaze and lifts his arms, letting Yoongi get to work.

Tom pats Jungkook down with professional detachment. Hands quick but not invasive—over his arms, down his sides, across his back. His fingers pause when they find the machete and knife strapped at his hip.

“Gonna take that, friend,” Tom chuckles, undoing the sheath. “Don’t worry, you’ll get them back if you’re nice.”

“Fine by me,” Jungkook nods.

Tom fishes a knife from his boot too, eyebrows raising in faint approval.

“Well armed. Not bad.” He passes the weapons to Namjoon, who takes them without comment, tossing them into the foot-well of the truck.

“Clear,” Tom calls.

Yoongi’s voice also pipes up from the side. “He’s good too. Just knives and bruises.” A beat. “More of the second.”

Tom turns to Sylvia.

“Alright, ma’am,” he says politely. “Your turn.”

Sylvia takes a half-step back.

“I don’t think so.”

Tom’s smile doesn’t falter, but does tighten just a fraction. He keeps his hands where she can see them.

“Afraid that’s not how it works,” he says. “Everyone gets checked.”

“So you get to feel me up for free,” Sylvia sneers mockingly in return. “That part of the job description?”

Tom blinks, a little taken aback. “Ma’am, it’s about weapons, not—”

Namjoon calmly steps in.

“It’s normal procedure. If you don’t cooperate, you don’t get on the truck. That’s it.”

“No,” she snaps.

Her hand disappears into the fold of her jacket and comes back out with the damned gun.

The gun swings not at Namjoon, not at Tom, not at Yoongi.

At Jungkook.

“Everyone,” she snarls, voice cracking at the edges, “step back.”

The gun looks kinda bigger when it’s pointed at his face.

Jungkook’s body locks up. His heartbeat rockets, but his expression smooths out almost against his will. He’s gotten good at this particular kind of numb.

Namjoon freezes, hands lifting just a little from his sides. Tom goes still too, but his fingers twitch towards the hilt of his rifle.

“Whoa,” Namjoon says carefully. “Okay. Lady, think about this. You don’t want to—”

“Shut up,” she barks, jerking the barrel toward him for a second, then snapping it back to Jungkook. “On your knees.”

Jungkook swallows.

He hesitates long enough to see Jimin jerk a step forward and Yoongi grab him barely a second later.

“Don’t,” Yoongi hisses, arms locking around Jimin’s torso from behind. “Don’t make it worse.”

Jungkook lowers himself slowly onto his sore knees and looks up at her, past the barrel.

Sylvia’s face is a mess of sweat and frayed hair. The sharpness that made him wary on the bridge is still there, but there’s a wild sort of desperation in her eyes. Like a cornered animal.

He can’t help but feel pity for her.

To be that desperate. To be so convinced that the only way to get what you want is to put a gun in someone else’s face.

“Let him go,” Jimin yells hoarsely, struggling against Yoongi’s grip. “I swear I’ll —”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sylvia spits, not even looking at him. “One more word and he’s dead.”

Jungkook hears the sound Jimin makes. It’s somewhere between a growl and a choked sob, and somehow that's even worse than having a gun pointed at his head.

Namjoon lifts his hands a little higher.

“Okay,” he tries again. “Listen. You want out, we get it. But this isn’t the right way. You’re outnumbered here.”

Sylvia cackles loudly, the shrill sound bounces around the deserted area and makes the hairs stand up on the back of Jungkook’s neck.

“You think I care?” she spits. “You think I give a shit about your stupid rules?” She flicks the barrel toward the truck, then the horizon. “Either I get on that truck or we can do it the hard way, captain”.

“Drop the gun,” Namjoon voice gets louder, patience wearing thin. “We can work it out. We’re not—”

“I’m not in the mood to negotiate.” she doesn’t let him finish. “You think I’m out here alone? My crew knows I came to check out the bridge. If you don’t let me on that truck, we’ll sniff you out. We’ll find your little fairy-tale compound and take everything you’ve got, you hear me? We’ll gut you in your sleep.”

She blows a stray strand of hair from her face and tilts her chin up.

“So let’s skip the part where you pretend you’re not terrified of losing your little kingdom and get me on that truck.”

Namjoon’s face goes completely unreadable.

“I don’t respond well to threats,” he says quietly.

“Yeah?” Sylvia’s lip curls. “Maybe I should make an example then.”

Her thumb flicks the safety off with a crisp click as the barrel nudges back closer to Jungkook’s forehead, right between his eyes.

Everything around him narrows to that single point of black, the background melting away.

“Don’t—” Jimin’s voice cracks from the side.

“Stay back,” Yoongi cuts him off with a hiss.

Jungkook feels like he’s watching himself from outside his own body in fucked up, cinematic slow-mo.

He sees Jimin wrench out of Yoongi’s hold, hears the crunch of shoes on concrete. Sees Sylvia’s eyes snap sideways while her other hand shifts to brace the gun in a two-handed grip, her focus splintering between target and threat.

Jungkook closes his eyes.

He wonders if it’ll hurt. Will it be quick, or will it take seconds? Minutes? He even stupidly tries angle his body in the vague direction he thinks Jimin is coming from—maybe he’ll get to feel his weight against him one last time.

A gunshot tears the air apart, so loud this close that it blanks out every other sound into pure white.

Impact slams into him—but from the side.

Jimin crashes into his chest like a comet, tackling him hard enough that the world tips out from under them. They both hit the ground with equally loud grunts and tumble sideways.

Jungkook’s eyes fly open as his back meets the tarmac. He’s already wrapping himself around the older man without a second thought, arms clamping around his shoulders and waist, trying to make his own body a shield.

“Fuck—fuck, are you—” His hands go frantic, skimming over Jimin’s sides, his chest, his back, searching desperately for a wet warmth that isn’t supposed to be there.

Jimin wheezes into his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” he coughs. “I’m—fuck—get your elbow out of my ribs—”

Jungkook’s vision swims with relief so sharp it makes him dizzy. He grabs Jimin’s face in both hands with a whine, fingers digging into his jaw, and stares up into his wide, startled eyes.

No blood. They’re alive. It’s been only a few hours since he got to touch Jimin, but it’s almost scary how it feels like an eternity has passed.

A hysterical laugh tears from Jungkook’s chest as he hugs Jimin closer and buries his nose into his hair. The older boy huffs his own ragged laugh against the skin of his neck, but Jungkook can feel the tremble in his hands as they slide up to his shoulders.

He glances back.

A few feet away, in the spot Jungkook had been kneeling in just seconds before, Sylvia lies on her side.

Her lifeless body is twisted awkwardly, one arm flung out, the other crumpled under her. The gun is on the ground, lying uselessly beside her open hand. Blood is already beginning to pool beneath her head, threading its way into the cracks in the concrete.

Her face is turned away from them, curtained by the dull auburn of her hair.

The last thing he sees is Yoongi tucking away his own weapon into the front of his pants and Tom approaching the body cautiously before a pair of boots come into view. He looks up.

Namjoon’s face appears, backlit by the dying light of the evening. His eyes dart over the both of them first with worry, then with relief when Jungkook blinks back, very much alive and in one piece.

He sighs and squats beside them, running a hand through his sweaty bangs.

“Always a dramatic entrance with you.”

Jimin huffs at that and turns his head from Jungkook’s neck to look at Namjoon too.

“Wouldn’t I fucking know it.”

All three share a morose chuckle, Yoongi’s and Tom’s quiet voices melting in the background along with a few other unfamiliar ones piping up from the truck.

They made it.

Fuck. Fuck.

♡

The truck rocks along over the seemingly endless stretch of road.

Jungkook sits with his back against the metal wall, legs stretched out as far as they’ll go, lap full of sleeping Jimin.

Namjoon didn’t waste time back at the lot. No other words beside a tight “let’s go, both of you,” and a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder steering him toward the tailgate while Yoongi and Tom dealt with Sylvia’s body.

They covered her with a grey blanket—one of those that look like they belong in a hospital—and carried her off the tarmac. Jungkook didn’t ask where, nor did he look.

There’s no time to dig a grave. But despite what she did, his stupid brain still insisted that the right thing would’ve been flowers, a marker, something. Instead, all she gets is a stretch of nameless ground and the remembrance of how close she came to killing them.

She was still a person, he thinks. Someone’s kid. Probably had favourite songs and stupid inside jokes. A life. Then she just… made the wrong choice.

Namjoon had looked like he wanted to say something when he helped them climb up into the truck bed. Instead he just squeezed Jungkook’s arm once and muttered, “We’ll talk when we’re home.”

Home, huh.

Jungkook had nodded numbly and focused on not letting go of Jimin as he guided him to a spot near the back, away from the clusters of other survivors. Curious glances skated over them, hushed whispering that neither of them paid attention to. But nobody dared to approach.

Jimin wasn’t talking either. As soon as they sat down he just collapsed between Jungkook’s spread legs, curled himself into a tight ball with his head on his stomach and shut off. Asleep before the engine even turned over.

A minute later, Yoongi hauled himself up, did a quick sweep of the people in the back, eye sharp even in the low light. Satisfied, he moved toward and reached through a gap in the tarp to rap twice on the roof.

The truck growled to life and unceremoniously pulled away from the mall.

That was hours ago now. Hard to tell exactly—time has turned into a vague smear of motion and engine noise. They stopped once more at the last designated pickup point, but no one else got on. Just an empty McDonald’s drive-through, a couple of rusting cars, and eerie silence.

Jungkook lets his head loll sideways against the metal, eyes fixed on a gap in the canvas draped over the makeshift roof. Through it, the sky is just a thick, starless band of black.

Back at the dorm, they’d probably be doing their rounds now, making sure all the little alarms and traps were still where they were supposed to be. Then they’d argue about which sad can to sacrifice for tonight’s dinner and eat it on their bed while talking about nothing important. The day would end with them huddled under their too-small blanket, bubbled up and cocooned in their small world as sleep took over.

Did they make the right choice?

His arms tighten unconsciously around Jimin, pulling him closer just the tiniest bit.

The older man makes a small sound under his breath and burrows his face deeper against Jungkook’s stomach.

“Sorry,” Jungkook whispers automatically, even though he’s not sure what he’s apologising for. The jostling, the day, or his own decision to burn what they had built just to be on this truck.

The shuffle of footsteps pulls him from his thoughts. Yoongi’s pale face appears out of the dim, expression unreadable as he drops down on the floor a few feet away. Jungkook waches warily as he pulls a crumpled pack from his pocket and taps out a cigarette. The ding of a lighter gets swallowed by the noise of the truck, the flame lighting up his face briefly before melting back into darkness.

The tip glows orange in the near-dark, smoke curling up and disappearing into the cracks of the tarp.

“You both good?” he mumbles, voice low enough only for him to hear.

Jungkook snorts, can’t help himself.

“That’s a nasty habit."

Yoongi pauses mid-drag and raises an eyebrow. He looks between the cigarette and Jungkook like he’s trying to decide if he’s being serious, then huffs a soft laugh and takes another pull.

“Right,” he says. “I’ll put it on my list of things to worry about.”

Jungkook glances at the stark vertical scar over his blind eye, the way it cuts through brow, lid and into the cheek. There’s a question mark lodged behind his teeth—a million questions, actually: What happened to your eye? How long have you been with Namjoon?

How many times have you done what you did today?

None of them make it out.

“I—” He clears his throat quietly. “Thanks.”

Yoongi glances at him, head tilting to the side in question.

“For saving us,” Jungkook finishes, feeling stupidly shy all of a sudden.

Yoongi’s gaze holds his for a second. Then he looks away.

“You don’t need to thank me.”

“Why not?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer straight away. He watches the tiny ember at the end of his cigarette for a long moment, frowning. Eventually, he sighs, leans forward and stubs it out on the floor, flicking the butt through the same gap Jungkook’s been staring through.

“It wasn’t loaded.”

The words take a second to make sense. When they do, Jungkook’s first reaction is a weird, cold rush of something like anger, layered over with relief. Then dread.

“So she was just…what,” he asks slowly. “Pointing an empty gun at us? The whole time?”

Yoongi rolls his head back against the tarp frame, eyes closing briefly.

“I only found out after,” he mumbles. “Magazine was empty, chamber too.” He opens his good eye and glances his way, the corner of his mouth tilting into a brief, sad smirk when he sees the expression on his face.

“Doesn’t change what she did.”

Jungkook tightens his arms around Jimin in hopes that the weight and warmth will ground him.

“She threatened you both,” Yoongi goes on, voice dropping even lower. “Empty or not, that’s enough for me. Someone that desperate and reckless—” He shakes his head, gaze flicking over the other people in the truck. “She would’ve caused trouble inside the settlement. I’ve seen her type too many times.”

The truck jolts over something. Jimin snorts against his stomach, but doesn’t wake.

Jungkook stares at Yoongi, a weird sensation coursing through his body. Not sure if he should be amazed or scared.

“Have you killed people before?”

The question feels weird in his mouth. He never thought it’d be something he’d ask another person in his life.

Yoongi snorts softly like he saw that one coming a mile away. He turns his head, good eye meeting Jungkook’s dead-on.

“The world’s become very black and white, kid,” he says simply. “We all have to make choices we don’t like.”

It’s not a yes, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the implications.

The truck rattles on. Somewhere from the cab, Namjoon and Tom’s voices carry in quiet conversation. Someone else shuffles around from the back of the tailgate, readjusting. Someone coughs.

Jungkook looks down.

Jimin’s face is slack with sleep, mouth pressed against the fabric of Jungkook’s shirt, leaving a faint damp patch where his breath hits. There’s a bruise already starting to bloom along his chin and jaw from the fall, a shadow darkening under his eye where the day’s strain caught up.

His fingers stay curled in a death-grip against Jungkook, not letting go even once.

If Jungkook had been in Yoongi’s place—empty gun or not—would he have done it?

If Sylvia had actually pulled the trigger and exposed herself, if things had gone even a little bit differently...

Stupid question.

Jungkook knows the answer down to the marrow. He can feel it in the way his chest tightens and his fingers tremble when hand automatically lifts to card through Jimin’s hair, careful not to wake him.

He’d kill for him.

He doesn’t like that thought. Hates it with every fibre of his being, actually. Hates that the world had to go to shit and turn him into someone who can even think thoughts like that in the first place.

But if the choice is between Jimin and someone who wants to put a gun to his head…

His fingers slide down, thumb brushing gently over the corner of Jimin’s mouth.

Yeah.

Yoongi pushes himself up with a quiet grunt.

“Get some sleep,” he says. “We’ll be there before sunrise.”

Jungkook nods without looking up. Sleep feels like a bad idea right now. He’s still too wired from what happened earlier, still scared that if he closes his eyes for longer than a second, he’ll open them again to Jimin with a hole between his brows.

But he’s tired and sore. The steady motion of the truck and the weight of Jimin on him are slowly turning his bones to lead.

Yoongi disappears back into the half-dark, his footsteps swallowed by the rumble of the engine and the murmur of low voices.

Jungkook lets his head tip back against the cold metal, eyes tracing the shadows.

The dorm. The roof. Buzz’s room. The bookshop. The bridge. Sylvia’s face. Namjoon at the truck. Jimin slamming into him and the sound of a gunshot tearing through the air. It all flickers through his mind like someone’s flipping through TV channels too fast.

He focuses on the here and now instead.

The faint smell of sweat and dust and cigarette smoke. The warmth seeping through his jeans from Jimin’s curled body. The dull vibration of the engine under his spine. A future, terrifying and unknown, waiting at the other end of this ride.

His eyes start to droop.

“Hey,” he murmurs, not even sure if Jimin’s anywhere near awake enough to hear. “We’re going to be okay.”

Maybe if he says it enough, the universe will finally cut them a break.

Jimin doesn’t respond, but his fingers twitch against Jungkook’s side, like his body heard something his brain didn’t.

Jungkook lets out a long, slow breath.

He stares at the tiny gap in the tarp until the black outside turns into one big smear, until the shapes around him blur at the edges.

His grip never loosens on Jimin, but despite everything—despite the day, despite the blood on his conscience, despite the roaring in his own head, Jungkook closes his eyes and lets sleep drag him under too.

♡

Panic isn’t a new flavour to Jimin.

“Jungkook, wake up. We’re here.”

The first time he tasted panic, he was four or five years old, desperately gasping for air while a stray wave dragged his small body under.

He still remembers the roar of the water drowning out his mother’s panicked shrieks when it’s too quiet in a room. Can still see the distorted glare of the sun when he squeezes his eyes shut just hard enough.

But most of all, it was the briny taste of the ocean that still haunts him to this day.

You see, death or dying aren’t scary to Jimin. He’s had enough opportunities to make peace with it, in his own weird way. It’s survival that terrifies him. The thing that comes after. The constant reminder of just how close you were to not making it to the other side.

Ever since he got to experience what it meant to survive, it always tasted the same on his tongue, no matter how it presented. Surviving exams, surviving a breakup, surviving a fucking global catastrophe—all of it made his mouth flood with seawater.

“Ngghh, five more minutes.”

The grumble vibrates under Jimin’s ear, but he’s too far away, floating face down in the middle of an ocean.

“Jungkook, c’mon.”

The sound of an engine rumbling gently to a stop. Footsteps rattling metal. A canvas flap snapping.

Is there a boat nearby? Will he be saved?

“...”

“Dude, wake the fuck up!”

Jimin’s eyes rip open.

Nothing makes sense. It’s dark and loud, and his mouth is full of salt. There’s something heavy around him, pinning him in place—water, his mind screams desperately, you're drowning.

He tries to jerk upright—get the fuck up, move, move, move, don’t let the water get you, don’t make your mom sad—and slams the top of his head into something hard.

“Fuck—!”

“Ow, what the—,” Jungkook’s voice yelps above him and then he’s tipping backwards. The weight around his middle grips tighter, pulling him back.

The motion makes pain flare white-hot around his ribs, forcing a pained gasp out of him as the present floods in bit by bit.

Suddenly, he’s aware of the truck and the way the floor vibrates under him from the footsteps. Fabric under his stiff hands. The smell of rust and sweat. A strip of grey light around the edges of the tailgate.

“You alright?” someone asks at the open flap.

No. His brain wants him to shout it, but he can’t make his jaw unhinge. No, I’m not alright, where are we, how long was I out, why can’t I—

It’s a brief flash, but his fragmented mind decides they’re still on the bridge. That Sylvia is still there with the gun. That if he blinks, the concrete will tilt and he’ll go tumbling over the rail into the river.

“Hey. Hey.” Jungkook’s hand slides from his back to his shoulder and squeezes. “Jimin. Look at me.”

Jimin’s vision snaps to him.

It’s almost too dark, but he’s close enough that Jimin can make out the important parts—big eyes, mussed hair and the tiny mole under his lip.

“Breathe,” Jungkook says softly. “In and out, yeah? We’re in the truck, remember?” He squeezes again. “You’re okay.”

Jimin drags in air—it hurts. It’s like his lungs somehow shrunk to half their previous size. He breathes out a lungful—it does absolutely nothing to calm the electric current under his skin.

“Try again,” Jungkook urges. “C’mon. In.”

He exaggerates it for him, chest rising under his fisted hands. Jimin copies without meaning to, matching the expansion, the slow count in his head. One, two, three—

“And out,” Jungkook keeps his voice low while letting his own breath go slowly. “Just imagine I tracked mud into the room again.”

A tiny, hysterical snort punches out of Jimin, but he keeps up with the rhythmic breathing. In. Out. In. Out. His heartbeat is still racing, but the edges of the world stop flickering quite so violently.

Someone at the flap clears their throat.

Namjoon stands there, one hand braced on the rim, watching them with a mixture of concern and a weird softness in his eyes.

It makes Jimin horribly aware what the two of them must look like, all tangled up around each other like a pair of octopuses.

He forces himself to move, grimacing at the stripe of cooling sweat on his front from where he was glued to Jungkook—and instantly regrets it when every single muscle in his body screams in protest.

“Fuck,” he mutters, curling an arm around his side. His other hand presses gently at his jaw, feeling out the damage. “I feel like someone ran me over.”

“No shit,” Jungkook snorts next to him. “You full on rugby tackled me earlier, remember?”

“Vaguely,” Jimin grumbles. “I liked it better when my brain knocked itself out after.”

Namjoon steps up onto the tailgate, ducking under the canvas roof. The close space shrinks even more with his height filling it.

He looks them over, gaze skipping from Jimin’s kneecaps to his scraped palms to the bruised set of his mouth, then to the way Jungkook is still braced around him.

“You two good to move? We’re at the gate.”

Jungkook blows out a slow breath and pushes himself up with a groan. Jimin follows suit, a little slower, careful not to make any sudden movements.

“Yeah,” Jungkook says, cracking his neck from side to side. “We’re good. Just, uh. A little tenderized.”

All three men shuffle to the front. Namjoon jumps down first in a graceful leap, Jungkook follows suit with a grunt, then immediately spins back, arms raised.

“C’mon,” he says up to Jimin while making grabby hands. “I’ll catch you.”

Jimin makes a face. “I can climb off a truck on my own, you know.”

“Sure you can,” Jungkook rolls his eyes. “But also had a full-body makeout session with the concrete, so forgive me if I’m suspicious of your coordination today.”

Namjoon chuckles quietly into his fist behind him.

As always, Jimin wants to argue. There’s too much attention on him, too many eyes he’s no longer used to having there. But his ribs pulse in time with his heartbeat and the ground does look further away than usual.

“Don’t drop me,” he mutters, scooting to the edge on his butt and swinging his legs out.

“When have I ever done that, huh?” Jungkook teases.

Fair enough.

Jimin leans forward with a sigh and loops his arms around Jungkook’s shoulders. There’s a brief sensation of weightlessness and then Jungkook’s hands find the backs of his thighs and lower him down slowly.

His body protests as soon as he’s vertical on solid ground, bones near damn rattling from the gravel under his feet. He sucks his teeth against another curse and straightens up, smoothing his palms over the front of his hoodie.

When he looks up, his eyes meet Namjoon’s curious ones. The look lingers long enough for Jimin to start feeling a little like he’s a bug under glass, but Jungkook comes to the rescue with a loud snort.

“I kinda miss the buzzcut.”

Namjoon’s mouth twitches. Whatever cautious, assessing thing was going on in his eyes melts away and his whole face morphs into a wide grin.

“Fucking asshole,” he mutters, and then he’s stepping forward and tugging an already laughing Jungkook into a bear hug.

They stand clutching and slapping each other’s backs for a long while. Long enough for Jimin to start feeling like he’s imposing on such an intimate moment.

He lets his eyes wander.

It’s strange to see so many living, moving bodies in one place, the air almost humming with low conversation from the people of their truck. The other vehicle in front of theirs has its own cluster of survivors, all doing the same awkward dance of looking around suspiciously.

Solar lamps line the packed dirt road, their soft yellow light barely denting the thick black of the forest on either side. Further ahead, a gate looms—large scrap metal plates bolted together, a chain-link fence stretching out into the trees on either side of it.

Jimin cranes his neck to get a better look beyond the treeline. The movement makes a sharp stab of pain rake through his sides. Fuck, everything really hurts.

“You’re real,” Namjoon is laughing into Jungkook’s shoulder. “Holy shit. A whole year, you little freak. Where the fuck were you hiding?”

Jungkook responds with a watery giggle of his own.

“You know I’m hard to get rid of,” he sniffs, clapping Namjoon on the back. “We holed up at the dorm. Luxury suite, you totally missed out.”

Namjoon pulls back to arm’s length, hands still clamped on Jungkook’s shoulders like he’s worried he’ll suddenly vanish.

“I’m not even surprised,” he mutters. “Students and roaches, man. Indestructible.”

His gaze slides past Jungkook and lands back on Jimin.

“And you’re really… Jimin?” he asks. “Park Jimin? The neighbour Jimin?”

Jimin blinks slowly and glances at Jungkook, who suddenly looks very interested in the general area of his own boots.

“That’d be me,” he says carefully.

Namjoon’s face lights up. “I knew you looked familiar. We’ve met a few times.”

Jimin doesn’t need to look twice to know that. He’s seen Namjoon around before, just never had a name for the face. For a while he thought that maybe him and Jungkook were a couple, but that idea was quickly clarified. Thin walls and, ahem, a lack of certain sounds.

“Yeah,” Jimin nods. “I remember seeing you around.”

Namjoon grins, then locks his arm around Jungkook’s neck, other hand coming up to ruffle his hair.

“This one was always curious about the pretty neighbour to the left,” he teases cheerfully. “Wouldn’t shut up about how you came and went like a ghost. Never had the balls to say hi properly, either.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Jungkook whines and pushes weakly at his chest. “Don’t embarrass me, Jesus Christ.”

He’s gone full red, colour climbing all the way up to the tips of his ears. There’s a cute frown on his face as he keeps his eyes on Namjoon despite Jimin’s staring.

It’s… weird. Jungkook isn’t exactly shy. He’s been cocky and annoying and weirdly fearless about everything from killing the undead to amateur parkour. Seeing him flustered like this, over him of all people, makes something small and hot flare right under Jimin’s bruised ribs.

He watches the two men scuffle around like overgrown children for a while—giggling and grunting, trying to pinch each other’s nipples playfully, while he and some of the other survivors stare curiously. He kind of feels like he should say or do something, maybe thank Namjoon for having them, maybe introduce himself properly, but it feels out of place. He feels out of place.

A sharp double-rap on the side of the truck saves him.

“Joon,” Yoongi’s pale face pops out from around the truck. “Got a situation.”

Namjoon’s whole aura shifts in a heartbeat. The warmth drains from his expression as he squares his shoulders, brow furrowing into a stern line.

“What kind?”

“Beats me,” Yoongi shrugs. “Some commotion at the gate.”

Namjoon nods once and heads off after him without another word. Jungkook falls into step on reflex, only turning back to grab Jimin by his sleeve and tug him along gently like a little kid.

There’s a cluster of people near the gate—armed, all of them. Among them is one person who stands out because of the… horse.

There is, in fact, a guy on a horse.

Jimin has seen some weird shit in his life. Fuck, he lived in a dorm full of barely-adult goblins. He’s walked in on things that will haunt him until his last day on earth.

But the sight of some lanky dude in faded jean overalls, perched easy on the back of a brown mare with a goddamn katana strapped across his back—that’s a new one for the books.

“—for the last time, I’m not spying!” Horse Guy snaps, throwing his hands up. “Who the fuck would I even be spying for? My cows?”

One of the guards—a shorter man with round glasses and a very exasperated face—jabs a finger at him.

“Dude, you just appear out of the trees with a sword and a horse and we’re supposed to just believe you ‘got lost’?”

“I didn’t say I got lost,” Horse Guy protests. “I said my well’s full of corpses, which is a very different, much shittier problem—”

“Okay!” Namjoon cuts through the noise. “What’s going on?”

The cluster parts when he walks in, breaking open like a school of fish around a shark. Jungkook slows, dragging Jimin to a halt a few steps back.

The horse snorts and tosses its head. Up close, Jimin can see she’s a little underweight, ribs faintly visible, but her coat’s brushed and her eyes are clear—clearly cared for.

Her rider turns in the saddle and stares Namjoon up and down with mild suspicion.

“Our friend over here,” says the glasses-guard, clearly fed up, “was just explaining why he thought it’d be a great idea to ride right up to our front gate in the middle of the night, without warning.”

“First of all, asshat, the name’s Taehyung,” Horse Boy drawls, shoving his hair out of his face with one hand, “secondly, my farm’s half a day’s ride from here, give or take, and a bunch of those walking corpses decided to have a pool party in my well.”

Namjoon’s brows climb. “In your… well.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung grimaces. “Fence held for a good while, then one of ‘em managed to break it and stumble through, more followed. Couple somehow fell in before I noticed, thrashed around, and now the only water I had is contaminated zombie soup.” He spreads his hands. “So, you know. Took Millie here and left.”

“Just like that,” the guard mutters.

“What was I supposed to do?” Taehyung snaps, then sighs, tone softening a fraction as he looks back at Namjoon with tired eyes.

“I headed along the old highway thinking I’d try my luck further out, kept off-road so no raiders would spot me. Then I saw your fence line by accident and figured ‘hey, either it’s a good sign or I die faster’. So...” He shrugs. “Here I am. Not spying. Just hella thirsty.”

Jungkook leans closer to Jimin, breath warm against his ear.

“We reached the man on horse part of the quest,” he whispers. “Do you think he plays the banjo?”

Jimin sputters and chokes on a laugh, which turns into a cough when his ribs flare up in protest.

“Fuck,” he hisses, hand flying to his side.

Immediately, an arm slides around his waist, fingers gently pulling him closer.

“Hey,” Jungkook murmurs. “Easy. You okay?”

Jimin nods stiffly. “Yeah. I probably look worse than I feel.”

“Liar,” Jungkook chuckles quietly. “You’ve probably never looked bad a day in your life. Lean on me, yeah?”

There’s the Jungkook I know, Jimin thinks weakly, face flushing hot as he lets himself lean more of his weight on the younger.

“And the sword?” one of the guards pipes up. “The fuck’s that about?”

Taehyung rolls his eyes. “What, you’ve never chopped wood or a zombie? Multifunctional tool, you should try it out sometime.”

A few chuckles ring around, Namjoon’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t bite.

“One guy on a horse isn’t our biggest problem,” he says finally. “We don’t turn people away, that’s the deal. We’ll do the usual checks. If you’re telling the truth, you get a place to sleep and chores. If you’re lying, you get thrown out on your ass.” He lifts a brow. “Sound fair?”

Taehyung considers him, then nods once.

“Good,” Namjoon smirks, gaze dropping pointedly to the katana. “We’ve got a strict no-weapons-inside policy. That stays at the gate.”

Taehyung’s shoulders go tight. His hand flies automatically to the hilt, body turning just enough that his frame angles between the sword and everyone else.

Jimin feels Jungkook tense up with him, the air going a notch heavier.

After a few seconds of silent stand-off, Taehyung lets out a harsh breath, swings his leg over Millie’s back and drops to the ground.

He unbuckles the sheath and pulls it off his shoulder with practised movements, then tosses the whole thing towards the guard he’d been arguing with. The man yelps and fumbles, but catches it.

“You could’ve just handed it to me,” he grumbles.

“Consider it a trust exercise,” Taehyung waves him off.

Namjoon sighs and crosses his arms.

“Alright,” he says. “You’ll get it back if you don’t cause trouble. We’ll add your name to the list.” He looks him up and down, then glances up at Millie, then back at him.

“And, uh, Millie,” he adds a little nervously. “We don’t have proper facilities inside for a horse. She’ll have to stay out here.”

Taehyung gives him a flat stare.

“Do any of you know how to handle a horse?” he asks slowly.

There’s an awkward ripple of murmurs and a few coughs among the guards, someone mutters, “I rode a pony once,” and gets elbowed immediately.

“Right,” Taehyung drawls, petting Millie’s mane lovingly, “Then Millie comes with me. You can park us away from whatever delicate infrastructure you’ve got in there.”

Namjoon glances up at the horse again, then over his shoulder at Yoongi, then past them at Jimin and Jungkook, like he’s checking if anyone else is processing the sheer absurdity of this.

Jungkook just shrugs with the arm that isn’t currently keeping Jimin upright. Jimin does his best not to make eye contact at all.

“Fine,” Namjoon sighs finally, defeated. “We’ll find something for her, just...don’t let her loose.”

Taehyung’s face brightens with a wide, boyish grin. “You got it, boss.”

Namjoon claps him once on the shoulder and gestures at the gate guards. “Get him processed. Same as the others.”

As Taehyung leads Millie forward toward the opening gate, Namjoon turns back to Jimin and Jungkook. The stern line of his mouth softens a fraction when his gaze catches on the way Jungkook’s arm curves around Jimin’s waist.

“You two go ahead,” he says. “Intake hut’s just inside the gate, follow the line. You need to head to the medical area,” he adds, nodding at Jimin. “And we…need to catch up.” His eyes slide to Jungkook. “Properly.”

Jungkook gives him a tight nod. “Yeah,” he says, a little breathless. “Okay.”

Namjoon gives them a small, tired smile and steps away, already fielding another question from a different guard.

Jimin feels Jungkook’s fingers tighten at his hip.

“Come on,” Jungkook murmurs, voice quiet enough just for him to hear. “Let’s go see what we’ve signed up for.”

Jimin stares up at the looming gate at the line of people trickling through it, getting patted down and questioned. His eyes meet Horse Guy’s curious ones for a brief second, just as a guard sticks his hand in the pocket of his overalls.

He turns his head to look back at Jungkook.

There’s a sparkle in his eye. A little fire, glinting with unbridled joy and relief as he looks at the people and the gate. He’s clearly excited, proud even, that they made it.

So why doesn’t Jimin feel the same?