Chapter Text
He doesn’t know what he’s doing here.
It’s still early but despite the hour—just past 11 pm—club is already packed. Unfortunately for Yoongi, it’s a bad mix. It’s mostly eager and awkward college students, too young to be throwing back the number of shots they are; tourists and expats looking to experience the thrill of clubbing in a foreign country, especially a club like UniQ; and the single sad excuse for a person called “Min Yoongi,” who’s sitting at a booth all by himself.
It’s been years since Yoongi’s gone clubbing, not since the early days of dating Sanghoon. He’d somehow thought it’d easy to fall back into the energy, the feeling of it, the way the music used to burrow under his skin and leave him buzzing with a high all its own. Instead, he’s sitting in a booth in the darkest corner of the club, sipping his drink. It’s awkward—he feels awkward, especially when most of the crowd is young enough that he doesn’t understand half the references they’ve made in the snippets of conversation he’s overheard. He isn’t even dressed right, he mourns, glancing down at his t-shirt and jeans combo.
So, no, he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing here. But he can’t leave. Because leaving would be admitting failure. All he has waiting for him is his dirty apartment, dishes piled up in the kitchen sink because he hasn’t bothered to wash them, laundry strewn over his bedroom floor that he hasn’t folded, and unwashed bedsheets from where he’d holed up for the last three days crying after Sanghoon had sat him down and told him, with pitying twist to his lips and a distant gaze, that they were over and no, there wasn’t any particular reason, he’d just grown tired of being with Yoongi and he’s sorry but he’s got plans so can they make this quick?
He can’t leave, because leaving before midnight, or fuck, before he’d at least gotten hit on, would mean admitting that the five years with Sanghoon had meant more to Yoongi than it ever had to Sanghoon; that Yoongi had been the only one in love and thinking of taking the next step, of moving in and maybe, one day, having house together and taking that vacation to Mexico City like they’d planned.
Leaving would mean admitting that he feels fucking horrible, like a piece of unwanted shit, like he’s on the verge of crying all the time, chest choked up and twisted. Even thinking about it now has pain shooting through his chest, his fist clenching involuntarily in reflex. No, he can’t leave, not until he doesn’t feel like he did last night, and the night before that, and the night before that. Undesirable.
Except. Is sitting at the club, alone and not even tipsy, surrounded by people having a great time, any better than sitting at home, alone and drunk, surrounded by ice cream? At least at home, if his mascara runs, there’d be no one to judge him for it. At least at home, he could call Namjoon and confess that he’d tried going out (even though Namjoon had gone quiet when he’d originally floated the idea before saying softly, with so much compassion it’d burned Yoongi’s chest, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Yoongi. Please don’t go by yourself.”) and had regretted it because he still feels so fucking pathetic.
Grimacing, he picks up his drink and throws it back, the liquor barely burning given how thick his throat feels.
This is ridiculous. He should just go home. He’ll call Namjoon and Jin and force them to move their romcom movie night to his and they’ll all watch something absolutely brain numbing. And then he’s going to open his fucking laptop and adopt the first cat he finds and name it something ridiculous like Marshmallow and stop wallowing over Sanghoon.
He shimmies out of the booth, mind made up.
The bartender must sense his determination—probably because a pale and short omega stomping angrily toward you is something to see—and comes over almost as soon as Yoongi reaches the bar. “Closing out?”
Yoongi shoves his fringe out of his face. “Yeah.” He wavers. “Actually, I’ll have a shot of whatever is cheapest.” One more drink for good luck or something—then he’s leaving.
The bartender scans him quickly, pouring the shot. The look is less a you’re hot look, let’s fuck and more a you’re a total mess, huh? “Rough night?”
“Yeah.” Try like several.
The bartender nods, slides the card reader and shot over to Yoongi. “Hope it gets better, man.”
The laugh that blurts out of Yoongi is bitter. Yeah. That’s what he’d hoped too. He spins around, intent on getting his things from the booth and calling an Uber.
He pauses. There’s two people sitting at his booth—not his booth to be fair, but he’d been sitting there for the last two hours and he’s begun to think of it as his own private space of solace—huddled close to each other and looking out at the dance floor, drinks in their hands.
Yoongi feels himself deflate, his bravado fleeing. Clearly, he’s just been taking up space with the way people are so eager to grab his (not his) booth. He downs the shot in one go (god, that’s fucking awful). The burn of the shot warming his throat, Yoongi walks back to the booth.
The two strangers aren’t even looking at him as he walks up, but the one sitting closest to where he’s approaching glances at him, eyes tracking down then up before turning to say something to the second one. Even from a distance, Yoongi can tell they’re gorgeous. One’s got big doe eyes and lush lips that are covered with some sort of shiny lip gloss; the other’s hair is tousled like someone’s recently run their hands through it and the kind of bone structure that models dream of.
He can’t even feel envious: they’re the kind of beauties that are so far out of Yoongi’s league, he can’t even compare himself to them.
By the time Yoongi makes it back to the table, he’s got two sets of eyes watching him, each accompanied by a slight head tilt of curiosity. Under the strobe lights of the club they’re really fucking gorgeous, almost ethereal.
“Sorry,” he yells when he gets close enough. He gestures to the jacket being crushed behind the first of the two. “D’you mind?”
The first one—how the hell can they both look the way they do, they don’t even look real—glances down at the black puffer jacket and jolts in surprise.
“Oh shit,” Plush Lips says, laughing. “I didn’t even realize.” He doesn’t make any moves to grab the jacket. “You leaving?”
“Yeah. You can have the table,” Yoongi says, waiting for them to pass him his jacket.
They just continue staring at him, a slight smile lifting the corner of their lips.
“Do you mind?” he asks, gesturing to the jacket.
The one on the right—again, his bone structure is insane—leans forward. “Are you an omega?”
That’s—it’s not exactly taboo to ask, but it’s not exactly something you just ask someone you just met. Usually, Yoongi does what everyone else does: vaguely sniff the air and go off pheromones. To be fair, though, the club is so saturated with scents it would be hard to tell. Maybe Insane-Bone-Structure can’t tell? Still…
“Yeah,” he answers cautiously.
Plush Lips brightens at that, smile widening. “Oh, so are we! I’m Jimin. This is Taehyung.”
Bone-Structure—Taehyung—gives a little wave of his fingers.
“Yoongi,” Yoongi introduces.
“We saw you from the dance floor,” Jimin continues, “and thought you looked a little lonely. So, we thought we’d come keep you company while we cooled down. What has you so sad, Yoongi?”
“Oh.” God, is he that obvious? “I, uh, I broke up with my partner a few days ago.”
Jimin hums in sympathy. “Aw, that’s sucks. Came to forget about them?”
Yoongi laughs awkwardly. “Yeah, but I don’t think the dance scene is for me. I’m just gonna head home. Can you pass—?”
Taehyung interrupts with a pout. “Aww, nooo. You should hang out with us.”
Jimin nods. “Yeah, UniQ is really dead now.”
Yoongi glances around at the packed dance floor in disbelief.
Jimin makes a face. “The alphas here kind of suck.” His voice drops. Yoongi has to lean forward to a little to catch his next words. “You should totally come with us to Gone. It’s the perfect place to celebrate a breakup.”
Even Yoongi knows about Gone. He’d considered going there instead of UniQ but had ultimate had the decision made for him: Gone isn’t the kind of club you can just walk into. It’s filled with celebrities and high-powered people and has a carefully curated guest list. There’s no way Yoongi would make it past the front door.
He laughs a little awkwardly. “I don’t think I’m really dressed for that. Plus, I’m really tir—”
Taehyung claps his hands excitedly, turning to Jimin. “Oh! Oh! Jimin, we can do a makeover!”
Jimin smiles, gaze travelling down Yoongi’s body. “Yoongi would be so pretty all dressed up. He’s already so pretty.” He’s still watching Yoongi but he’s clearly talking to Taehyung.
He stands up, sliding out the booth. He’s tiny—tinier than even Yoongi. Jimin tilts his head to the side, eyes drifting over Yoongi’s figure. “We’re about the same size, aren’t we?” His gaze is considering.
“Uh,” Yoongi says intelligently.
Jimin steps up to Yoongi, their chests almost brushing. He grabs Yoongi’s hand, interlocking their fingers. “Can I call you hyung?”
Jimin’s pupils are massive, gaze almost hypnotic.
“Sure,” Yoongi says weakly. He startles when Taehyung pops up on his other side, Yoongi’s jacket in hand.
“Hyung, you don’t have to worry. Jimin will get you ready. His makeovers are the best,” he says seriously, as if the fate of the world depends on Yoongi getting a makeover.
The thing is…The thing is, Jimin and Taehyung aren’t exactly being pushy, but they’re clearly not taking no for an answer. Yoongi can’t tell if it’s just Drunk Omega Etiquette at play, where any and every other omega becomes your closest friend when you’re drunk enough, or whether Jimin and Taehyung have just never felt the embarrassment of being told “No.” Either way, a large part of Yoongi is telling him he should just politely decline, take his jacket, and go home.
But. But a small, very vocal part of him is flattered. He’s never had someone—let alone two someone’s—think he’s pretty. It’s even nicer that it’s coming from two other omegas. It feels real, like it’s not just a line, but real admiration. And it’s been so long since he felt pretty. Even before they’d broken up, it’d been a long time since Yoongi has had anyone compliment him like this.
Jimin and Taehyung don’t seem like serial killers. And he wants to forget Sanghoon. What better way than dancing at the swankiest club in the city?
Hesitantly, Yoongi nods. “O-okay. Let’s go.” He tries for a smile, but he’s kind of astounded he actually said yes.
Jimin and Taehyung grin.
The first thing they do is head to the bathrooms.
Yoongi’s not quite sure why, to be honest. Neither Taehyung nor Jimin are carrying a bag with them, and their outfits (a tight-fitting black dress with billowing sheer sleeves for Jimin; tight leather skirt and a cropped knit top for Taehyung) lack any discernable pockets to carry the make-up he assumes they’ll need for the makeover. But he follows them obediently, his hand still clasped in Jimin’s.
Except, instead of walking up to the mirrors like Yoongi expects, Jimin drags him into the accessible stall. Taehyung follows right after, shutting the door and locking it.
Yoongi spins around, alarmed. “Wait, I don’t—”
Taehyung places his hands on either side of Yoongi’s hips, gently turning him around. Jimin is in the middle of stripping off his dress, revealing the silhouette of smooth pale skin through the sheer black shirt he’s been wearing underneath the dress. Taehyung hooks his chin over Yoongi’s shoulder, whispering in his ear. “So pretty, isn’t he? Like you, hyung.”
Yoongi swallows, not sure what to say. This close, he can smell Taehyung’s pheromones. They’re misty, fresh, and airy, the smell of the air after rain. There’s a hot edge to it.
It takes Yoongi a moment to place the heat. Arousal. But it’s a deep, ripe heat, the kind that happens when an omega has just finished a heat—or on the cusp of starting one. It’s appealing, the heat in Taehyung’s scent.
Taehyung nudges his chin into Yoongi’s neck. “Take it off.”
Yoongi thinks he’s still talking to Jimin before he realizes—“What? Me?”
Taehyung nods, his chin ghosting the edge of Yoongi’s scent glands. “You should take off your clothes so you can wear Jimin’s dress, hyung.”
Biting his lip, Yoongi hesitates. Jimin finishes taking off the dress, slipping it down long legs and past a frankly daunting pair of heels, before holding out for Yoongi. “Come on, hyung.” The look in Jimin’s eyes is daring. Taehyung moves away—as much as he could in a stall with three grown men standing around—to lean against the locked door.
Releasing a breath, Yoongi pulls off his shirt, feeling a blush dust his cheeks at the thought of being watched by the other omegas. Yoongi unbuttons his jeans, stepping out of them. God, what the hell is he getting into? Wearing someone else’s clothes?
He grabs the proffered dress and pulls it on, feet first. It’s tiny, but surprisingly goes on smoothly. There’re no straps, but it hugs him tightly enough that he has no doubt it’ll stay up.
It's also warm from Jimin’s body heat and smells like jasmine in the summer.
“Did you, uh, go through a heat recently?” he blurts out, recognizing the same heat note in Jimin’s scent.
“Yeah,” Jimin says distractedly, studying Yoongi’s face and hair. “Tae and I cycle at the same time. Bite your lips for me.”
Yoongi bites them.
“Release.”
Yoongi lets his lips slip from between his teeth. They sting.
Jimin steps closer, reaches behind Yoongi to undo the hair tie holding back Yoongi’s hair. It’s long, he knows, and he’s been thinking of cutting it recently, but Taehyung makes a happy little sound when his hair falls forward to frame his face.
“Oh, you’re so pretty, hyung!” he exclaims in his deep voice.
Yoongi’s blush intensifies. “What do I do with this?” He holds up his clothes.
Jimin grabs the jeans. He pauses, reaching into the front pocket, pulling out Yoongi’s phone. He hands it over with a “Don’t forget your phone, hyung!” before bending over to slip on the jeans, somehow making the baggy pants look stylish. He grins at Yoongi. “We’ll trade. Do you like your shirt?”
“Not really.” Yoongi slips his phoen band over his wrist, tightening the strap.
“Great.” Jimin grabs it, bundles it up, and throws it in the trash can on the side of the stall. “Let’s go.”
Yoongi feels like he should protest someone throwing away his clothes, but Jimin is hustling them out the stall (another omega stares as they all come out the stall, eyes wide, no doubt assuming things).
Taehyung throws an arm around Yoongi’s hips, “Look, hyung.”
He’s pointing at the massive mirrors lining one side of the room—
Holy shit.
Yoongi stares at himself. He actually. He actually looks hot. The dress doesn’t just fit; its magic, making curves appear where there’ve never been. He’s also been pale, but underneath the lights of the bathroom, his paleness makes him glow with the way it contrasts his hair and deep red lips.
He doesn’t just look hot. He feels hot.
Jimin and Taehyung are watching him in the mirror as he stares at himself in disbelief.
“Yup,” Jimin says, popping the “p”. He grabs Yoongi’s right hand while Taehyung twines his grip around the left. “I think hyung’s ready.”
Clearly Yoongi’s newfound hotness isn’t just reserved to omegas. When they step out of the bathroom and start making their way to the exit, Yoongi can feel everyone staring. Jimin and Taehyung are clearly accustomed to being stared at because they weave through the mess of bodies as if people were parting for them. Yoongi clings to Jimin and Taehyung’s hands as he’s pulled through, trying to shrug off the double looks he’s receiving.
The night is slightly chilly when they step out. Goosebumps raise on Yoongi’s arms but he barely has a chance to feel it before a car is pulling up in front (how the hell was Jimin able to hail a cab this fast?) and he’s being made to slip into the backseat between Jimin and Taehyung.
The door shuts and almost immediately reality sets in.
What the fuck am I doing?
Why did he agree to this? Yeah, Jimin and Taehyung might not be serial killers but that didn’t mean they didn’t have their own reasons for befriending a lonely, sad omega at a club. Yoongi was too old to be swept in things like this—
Taehyung reaches into his top and pulls out (from where, Yoongi has no idea) two small blue pills with smiley faces on them. He passes one to Jimin before swallowing his dry.
Taehyung notices Yoongi watching. “It’s allergy meds,” he says was a slow smile. “Want some?”
The goosebumps from before return, something akin to hysteria rising in Yoongi. There’s no way that’s allergy meds. He laughs shakily. “No, thanks.”
Taehyung shrugs. Studies Yoongi. “Feeling nervous?”
Yoongi licks his lips. “A little.”
“Don’t worry,” Jimin says from his other side. “We’ll take care of you, hyung.”
Yoongi lets out another shaky laugh. They’re still holding both of his hands. Suddenly, a thought occurs to him. “I’ve gotta text my friend, he’s probably wondering where I am.”
Taehyung coos, releasing Yoongi’s hand and leaning closer. “Oh, send him a picture of us!”
Jimin wiggles excitedly and leans as well, head resting against Yoongi’s shoulder. His jasmine scent floats up, warm and content. “Make sure to get my good side.”
“Every side is your good side, Jimin.”
“I know.” Jimin sounds very smug.
Yoongi pulls up the camera on his phone, angling it to capture all three of them. It’s objectively a good photo. They look like good friends, out for a night of partying. Absolutely nothing untoward at all.
Still. Yoongi feels a little disturbed as he opens his messenger app, pulling up his text thread with Namjoon. Both Jimin and Taehyung are openly reading his message.
Headed to Gone. This is Jimin—
“Park Jimin,” Jimin interrupts.
This is Park Jimin and—
“Kim Taehyung.”
I’ll text you when I’m on my way home.
He hits send.
Almost immediately his phone lights up.
“Are you safe? Blink three times in succession if not.”
Yoongi laughs at Namjoon’s ridiculousness. A rush of fondness fills him. “I don’t think you’ll be see me if I did. I’m fine though.”
“Why are you going to Gone? Who’s this Jaemin and Taeyang??” Namjoon demands.
“It’s Jimin and Taehyung. I met them at UniQ,” Yoongi replies. Said Taehyung snuggles closer, twirling a lock of Yoongi’s hair between his fingers. Jimin just watches, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
“Ask for their ID cards!” That’s Jin’s voice in the background, clearly trying to get Namjoon to focus on the important things.
Yoongi hesitates. “Err—”
It’s clear that both Jimin and Taehyung can hear the conversation without a problem because, without being asked, Taehyung pulls out two drivers licenses (again, where is he stashing these things?) for Yoongi to take a picture of.
“I’m sending pictures over now,” Yoongi tells Namjoon.
There’s a moment of quiet while the pictures send.
“Let me talk to him,” Jimin says suddenly. He doesn’t wait for Yoongi to even agree, gently taking the phone from Yoongi.
“Park Jimin speaking,” he says.
Yoongi wants to listen to the conversation, but he’s distracted by Taehyung wrapping his arm around his waist, hugging him sideways and squeezing. It forces Yoongi to have to breathe deeper against to pressure. His lungs fill with the mixed scents of jasmine and petrichor. Once again, Yoongi is struck by how nice their scents are. It’s soothing, the scent and pressure. He breathes deep again.
“Still feeling nervous?” Taehyung asks.
He goes to say yes but actually—“Not anymore?” Yoongi admits.
“That’s really good, hyung,” Taehyung sighs. Yoongi echoes to move unconsciously. “I promise you’ll have a good time. Jimin and I won’t let anything bad happen.”
For some reason, the sentiment touches Yoongi. He’s been so freaked (by what? He really can’t think of why he was in the first place) that he hasn’t stopped to think about how, for Taehyung and Jimin, they probably think they are just helping another omega. They haven’t really done anything untoward the entire night; the worst thing they’ve done is not let Yoongi’s hesitance stop them.
Yoongi breathes deep. It will be okay. He’ll dance, have a good time, and then head home once he’s tired. Maybe Jimin and Taehyung would be interested in meeting up as friends after this.
Whatever conversation Jimin has with Namjoon must be over because Yoongi gets his phone back and all Namjoon says is, “Make sure you call as soon as you leave—again when you get home! You hear me, Yoongi?”
Yoongi laughs, giddy. “Sure thing, Joonie. We’ll talk soon, okay?” He hangs up.
“You’ll like Gone, hyung,” Jimin says with excitement. He pets Yoongi’s hair, crown to the base of his neck. “You'll like it alot.”