Sunsets were stunning.
Jimin had never properly had a chance to appreciate them, but now, sitting on the second story window sill with his legs hanging in negative space, the wind gliding over his skin and ruffling his hair as though trying to give him a gentle caress, he had decided they were utterly stunning. The sky closest to the horizon was a deep, bloody red, which faded into pale pink—the same blush color that painted the undersides of the clouds. Pink became violet, and it looked like all the most beautiful bruises Jimin had ever had. Directly overhead, it was blue. Blue was a serene color, and this specific shade made Jimin feel at peace. He heaved a great sigh, letting his head rest against the side of the window frame.
Absentmindedly, he brought a hand to his ribcage, fingers gently prodding at the raised scar under the fabric of his white cotton T-shirt. He didn't mind it so much. Sure, it was disturbing to think that someone had owned him, but it did no good to dwell on it. Jimin had accepted it a long time ago. But now, the prospect of freedom... His current position was so overwhelming. He wanted to go anywhere else, he wanted to go places. He wanted to see the world. Or what was left of it, anyway.
His family was long gone, as were their hopes and dreams, even before the deathdays. That's why it was so easy for the slave traders to pick him up; who would give a fuck about the foster kid who seemed to bounce from home to home faster than you can say "poor orphaned shithead" when the end of the world is nigh? Or better yet, when the end of the world is behind us?
No one.
Simply put, no one. People had to protect what little family they had left after the world went boom boom, and so Jimin and everybody like him fell through the cracks. It was only two years that he had spent in foster care, two years that were at times almost worse than the seven he survived in post-new age holocaust hell.
He felt the ridges and valleys burned into his skin, his touch becoming gentle as he remembered the sting, the sweltering ache, how his throat became scratchy and how he tasted blood somewhere in that whole mess of time because of how much he had screamed, even though he had been gagged and each cry was muffled. He remembered how long it took to heal, how he hadn't slept comfortably for weeks as the pain kept him awake. He remembered wondering what could make someone act without mercy, and at the same time understanding, because he would not hesitate to force the ones who did it to him to swallow down hot coals. And he recalled how the anger inside him seemed to harden, to fester, and he was suddenly sure that he, who had been so gentle, who had cried for strangers and wilted flowers, was capable of murder.
"Hey."
"Sh-shit!" Jimin jumped, body slipping down and falling out the window. He caught himself just in time, arms spreading and hitting the frame hard enough to bruise.
"Sorry, sorry!" Strong hands took his waist and he was lifted easily inside. Jimin glanced down and saw that whoever had caught him was wearing fingerless biker gloves—Hoseok.
With his feet secure on the ground again, Jimin whipped around, hand over his heart and chest rising fast. He could feel the shocks of adrenaline crackling up his legs and down his spine, his blood rushing in his ears.
Hoseok stood before him, looking concerned and sheepishly apologetic.
"Are you okay? Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm-" Jimin swallowed. "I'm okay." He found himself focusing on the faded image printed across the dark cloth on Hoseok's chest to calm down, eyes tracing the band's name and the colorful image below it.
"I just wanted to check in on you. Most people in town respect Namjoon--for some reason--and so if you need anything, it should be easy." He took a breath as if he wanted to say something more, and then held it, silent.
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DEATHDAYS - a BTS OT7 post-apocalypse au
FanfictionThe world has been over for some time now. "Show me, what is the difference between living and surviving?"