Jimin scruffs his shoes against the concrete, chubby hands coming up to wipe at his eyes. He can see the eyeliner rub off on them in the dim streetlight, which only makes him cry more.
He’s an idiot. An idiot if he ever thought he could take that stupid football player seriously, an idiot if he thought he ever really had a chance. Now he’s all dolled up with nowhere to go.
“What’s up with you, little flower?” Says a familiar voice. Jimin inhales sharply out of shock, head whipping up to meet the eyes that belong to said voice. Jeon Jungkook sits perched on a stone fence, one foot on the edge while the other hangs beneath him. He’s hard to spot in the night since he wears so much black, but the bright red color of a twin popsicle in his hand has never been more clear.
Jeon Jungkook’s a bad guy. He’s trouble, a biker, a public enemy. And worst of all, he’s that stupid football players worst enemy.
“I—It’s nothing,” Jimin mutters, picking up his pace to walk past the tatted-up fool. Jungkook sticks out his leg before Jimin can get past, eye’s oddly understanding. “Wanna split my twin pop?”
Jimin stares at him for a while. He stares at the tattoo creeping up his neck, at the piercings lining his ears, at that sickly grin that makes Jimin’s heart flip, and decides that it’s a terrible idea. “Sure.”
Jungkook takes the two sticks, pulling them apart and gesturing for Jimin to hop up. He does, turning around to face the same way that Jungkook does. They sit on the wall in silence for a few minutes, watching the night sky and munching on two broken halves of one twin pop.
“So, what happened?” Jungkook breaks the silence, eyes never leaving the night sky. Jimin glances to him, eyebrows raised, searching for the joke, waiting for Jungkook to admit he doesn’t actually care. Jimin thinks for a moment that this is the first time he’s ever had a conversation with the trouble maker, the first time they’ve ever exchanged words longer than three letters. Yet his voice seems so familiar.
“You really wanna know?” Jimin asks, turning back to the sky. There are no clouds tonight, only pure, truthful sky. Maybe it means something.
“I do,” Is all he says. Jimin looks down.
“He stood me up—Hyungmin—I mean. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. That I had a chance, I guess. Turns out it was jokes on me all along. How funny,” Jimin tells him, his voice calm and smooth like what he’s saying isn’t really bothering him. Jungkook knows better than that.
He scoffs, “You actually liked that sleezbag?”
Jimin turns to him with a glare, gripping the material of his pants like he’s been deeply offended, “Hyungmin’s not a sleezbag—“ He stops suddenly, letting out a breath, shoulders slumping, turning his head forward. He’s defeated. Jungkook knows what heartbreak looks like, and Jimin’s showing all the signs.
“Why’d you like him, anyway?”
Jimin’s eyes go soft like he’s reminiscing, living a memory in the blanked out space of his mind. Living in a world where Hyungmin didn’t give him hope then crush it.
“He was sweet to me. He didn’t treat me like a joke, not to my face at least, not like everyone else did. I thought he—I thought he—“ A little teardrop rolls down Jimin’s cheek, voice caught in his throat. He’s lost his appetite for the cherry flavored half of the twin pop, even though it’s already turned his lips red.
Jimin feels sturdy flingers press against his chin, turning his face towards Jungkook. Their eyes meet inches apart, close enough to feel the other’s breath on his lips. Strangely enough, Jimin doesn’t feel scared.
“Don’t cry over him, he’s not your type anyway,” Jungkook says in a voice dripped with honey. Jimin finds himself smiling at this, hypnotized by his warm brown orbs.
“Oh yeah? And what is my type?” He jokes lightly, tone of voice rising. Jungkook smirks back at him, wiping the tear on his cheek with the pad of his thumb. Then his face falls, growing serious.
“Someone who knows how to take care of a garden, little flower.”
Jimin’s smile falls as well, and they simply stare at each other while the stars twinkle. Then he pulls away, watching them dance in the night sky.
“Do you even know my name, Jungkook?”
Jungkook looks away too.
“Yes. You’re Park Jimin, class president. Too pretty for your own good and too good to hate the person who just broke your heart. It’s a pity,” Jungkook starts, and Jimin can feel the black-haired boy’s eyes boring into his cheek. “I’d kill him if you only asked.” His tone is deep and serious, so frightening that Jimin jumps. His head whips around to stare at Jungkook, searching his eyes for any hint of a smile, a joke, a meaningless comment to make him feel better.
Jimin shivers, for he finds nothing of the sort.
“I’m kidding,” Jungkook muses, taking another bite of his twin pop and staring at the stars. Jimin has a hard time believing him, but he’s too tired to care. Besides, he knows by now that he’s not very good at picking up on a joke.
They finish their popsicles in silence, a surprisingly comfortable atmosphere calming Jimin’s beating heart. His phone rings with a notification from his mother, asking him if things are going well on his date.
He couldn’t help but gush to his mother about the whole event, having her help him with his makeup and outfit. He spent at least two hours making sure he looked perfect, testing his mother’s perfumes to see which one was the sweetest. He’d never been on a date before, this one had to be everything he’d ever dreamed of.
Jimin can already see the disappoint on her face when he comes home early, makeup smudged and eyes teary.
“I should get going,” Jimin says, jumping down from the wall with his popsicle stick which he licked clean. Jungkook does the same, adjusting the black leather jacket on his shoulders. “I’ll walk you.”
Jimin thinks about saying no, but he’s enjoyed Jungkook’s company, what’s a little more of it? He nods, and they’re walking.
“You’re not so bad as people say you are,” Jimin comments shyly, looking up at the taller through his eyelashes. Jungkook smirks, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah? And what do they say about me?”
“That you’re in a gang and you do illegal stuff and you smoke and graffiti places and beat people up for fun and—“
“Easy there, little flower,” Jungkook chuckles, not seeming bothered by the accounts that people have made against his name. Jimin wouldn’t be surprised if he already knew what they say about him. Schools talk, and Jungkook’s name is always floating through hallways and shoved into lockers. A dirty little secret that everyone knows and no one keeps.
“Sorry,” Jimin mumbles, blushing in his embarrassment.
Jungkook shrugs, “It’s alright, they’re not wrong. I mean, I’m not in a gang and I only beat people up when I have to, but I let them have their rumors. Something has to keep them entertained or else they’d lose their minds in that hell hole. Who am I to judge for stirring up a little trouble?”
Jimin looks at him again, at the scar on his cheekbone, at the sharpness of his jaw, at the warmth in his round brown eyes. He thinks that if he looked at Jungkook yesterday, he’d see the rumors. Now, in the flickering streetlamp under the stars, Jimin sees someone else entirely. And he’d be a fool to refuse to admit that Jungkook has never been more handsome.
They make it to Jimin’s house not long after, and Jungkook tugs on his arm before he can walk inside.
“I’ll pick you up for school tomorrow,” He states, not giving Jimin room to refuse. “Let’s give those people something to talk about.”
Jimin’s eyes go wide, but then they slowly crinkle up into a smile. He nods, “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow then,”
Jungkook nods back, never taking his eyes off Jimin’s own. “Tomorrow, little flower.”
And boy did they live up to those words. After Jimin walked in with Jungkook’s signature black leather jacket draped over his shoulders, he could practically see the rumors forming on peoples tongues.
Hyungmin was the most appalled out of them all, his easy-going smile turning into pure mortification while his buddies bumped his shoulder in confusion. Jimin winked at him, leaning into the arm Jungkook wrapped around his waist. He’d never felt less like himself, and yet he’d also never felt better.
And maybe now there’s a black-haired boy with tattoos sneaking into his window at night, leaving hickeys over any bare space of skin he could get his hands on, but maybe Jimin can’t be bothered to care. Maybe he loves the thrill of walking into school each morning with Jungkook’s marks on him, or the stares he receives every morning when he gets off the taller’s motorcycle and kisses him like nobody’s watching. Maybe he’s just young, or maybe he’s in love.
Either way, Jimin’s sure that whenever he feels like the world is against him, there’s a twin popsicle and warm brown eyes calling him home. And that’s all a little flower could ask for.