When a Lotus Blooms; 연꽃 | Yoonmin

Chapter 2

Mid-December marks a chill that never quite finds its dissolution. Air is silvered and frost-tipped, and breaths all but leave ivory tendrils to swirl with each parting exhale. Jimin's fingers numb despite their place beneath the pillow— ones hard, leaving his neck to ache and head to pound— yet as he moves from beneath the wax-worn covers, he notices Yoongi's arm strewn against that of the sofa. Its rounded edge houses a pale limb— newborn soft and delicate— and as Jimin draws closer, he can't quite believe how gentle he looks with eyes flitting behind heavy-lashed lids. His rose-petal lips part, sweet and small puffing gentle heat with snores that find their falter, and despite the heating having ticked off during the night to conserve energy, Yoongi's cheeks remain crimson-tinted in warmth. But Jimin remains cold, and after what tea all but heated their frames the night prior, he knows they have nothing left. Perhaps he could wake the man, he thinks, yet he'd hardly want to as serenity finds its rest against his face, and whilst it may be a rare occurrence, it's one Jimin doesn't wish to taint.

He leaves quietly, tugging Yoongi's coat over his frame that never quite halts its shiver, and settles a small note detailing his brief departure in the small kitchenette. The sun has all but dried what rain marred the skies over the evening, thick brushstrokes of gunmetal grey tinting the Earth dark before dusk even settled, and whilst its gentle heat is welcome, it does little to stave what brunt the breeze bears. The journey is short— small littered laneways lining his path— yet as he gets that little closer to the shop, apprehension settles. A group of men with burly frames approach him, teasing smiles tugging at their lips as their eyes all but hone in on him, and despite Jimin's intentions, he can't quite escape them.

"Pretty little thing you are," one of them drawls, hair grazing his lip with each breath. Jimin knows to let his gaze wander— to drink in all that makes them from training born through childhood fears of those wishing for his father's fame— and as his eyes land on an inked tiger that tugs at the man's neck, he leaves it to rest within his mind should trouble arise. It does, the men walking that little closer as Jimin steps back, each movement hushed yet it does little to deter them. "Far too pretty for a town like this."

"Thank you, sir." Jimin replies, a nicety born through a strained smile and gritted teeth. His descent leads him to a wall— curses strung within his mind as the men inch further, one placing a firm hand against his shoulder as his gaze turns all that bit more piercing.

"Where are you staying, love?" He asks, fingers in an almost bruising hold just shy of his neck.

"I'm— I'm just passing through." Jimin's stammer falls impossibly weak, little fingers clutching around the sleeves of Yoongi's coat and he all but wishes the man was beside him as fear leaves its mark through his veins. He's outnumbered— vastly— three men with frames much larger than his own with eyes housing little more than the want of pain.

There is the shock before the sting— Jimin knows this all too well— open palm leaving its mark against his cheek with rings drawing out crimson beads with each graze, and as small gasps part and pleas find their fall, the men simply laugh. It's bruising what hold the man has, his shoulder tense beneath his grip and cheeks now all but raw, and as he leans in— Jimin's breath catching in his throat as what leaden feeling lines his bones strengthens— he whispers. "Begging? How cute."

None relent as hands turn closed prompting bruises to tug mauve at Jimin's jaw. The weight of shoes leaves his knees to buckle and grazed hands to meet his fall, and as begs turn into quiet whimpers— sobs leaving a sting to line his cheeks with cerise trails— a final blow leaves him all but keeled over. It feels familiar; the taunts, how their hands proved his worth— open or closed— to little use more than for men to lie with, his father's words bitterly painful at the tip of his tongue, and as the men spit those same burning vowels against his skin, Jimin feels all but numb from what singed liquor erupts against his body tumbling from their mouth. But it's love, he's so often been told by those who think he's pretty— those who see what little keep that he holds. They're never gentle, never could be, not when faced with someone so pretty, they all say.