Chapter Text
I have led a toothless life, he thought. A toothless life. I have never bitten into anything. I was waiting. I was reserving myself for later on — and I have just noticed that my teeth have gone.
Jean-Paul Sartre, The Age of Reason
Jimin is texting her boyfriend when she meets Minjeong for the first time.
Typing on her phone while holding heavy bags is an annoying task. The straps nip at the skin of her forearms, straining under the weight of more dresses, crop tops, skirts, and pants than the leather can likely endure. Impatient, she taps her shoe on the laminate flooring, the only sound to echo in the empty hallway.
Aeri is taking too long to open the door. Jimin spends the time watching Dowon’s white message bubbles try to overtake the yellow of her own. Apologies. Apologies upon apologies, and Jimin does her best to be understanding. He really had to deal with the unforeseen situation that will keep him from attending the party, the party they’ve been looking forward to for days, the party that was supposed to be their first proper meeting in what felt like ages.
Frustration climbs up her chest, crawls through her windpipe, and lodges in the back of her throat as something colder, clammier. It’s fine, honey. I completely understand. I gave your ticket to Aeri, so it’s no big deal, really—
The dorm door creaks as it finally swings open. Jimin lowers her screen with its empty words and tries to compose herself. After all, they’re here to pick their best outfits for the party, not to drag down the mood with her melodrama over a crumbling relationship. So, she plasters her brightest smile and chirps a slightly shrill, “Hey, Riri-chan!”
Her smile freezes. Wait. The person standing before her is definitely not Riri-chan.
The not-Riri-chan frowns, looking unimpressed at Jimin. It's a girl dressed in sweatpants and a baggy Doosan Bears T-shirt, the oversized clothes practically swallowing her small frame. Bleached hair nearly silver under the hallway’s LED lights, delicate features, lips the color of red currants.
She’s beautiful. Jimin has no idea what to do with this realization.
“May I help you?” The girl leans against the doorframe, blinking lazily. Her voice is higher-pitched than the outfit or facial expression suggests, a hint of dialect bleeding into the syllables.
“O-oh, hi!” Jimin stammers, bowing awkwardly as the bags strain her arms. Did she get the wrong apartment? A quick glance at the silver numbers above the door says no. “Uhm, is Uchinaga Aeri here?”
The girl frowns deeper. For someone so short (well, not that short, but her small frame just makes her seem tinier), she’s surprisingly intimidating. “Aeri unnie is in the bathroom.”
Jimin swallows hard. Shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Adjusts the straps digging into her forearms, where the skin is now a raw-pink. The girl’s eyes follow every movement. “Oh, okay. I-I’m her friend. Yu Jimin, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Kim Minjeong,” not-Riri-chan, now Kim Minjeong, replies. A lightbulb clicks in Jimin’s head, Oh, the roommate, nearly overlapping with, What a cute name, it matches with mine! “Wanna come in?”
Minjeong extends a hand toward her. Jimin almost shakes it before realizing Minjeong is actually offering to take the bags. Arms thanking her for the relief, Jimin steps closer to hand them over and catches a scent that oddly reminds her of the ocean.
Aeri’s roommate isn’t what she expected. After weeks of hearing about this mysterious girl, Jimin had tried to fill in the gaps with theories that now don’t seem quite accurate. It’s somewhat jarring finally putting a face to a name.
Jimin knows that Kim Minjeong studies at Seoul National University, just like Aeri. Knows she’s already started her graduate program in some complicated engineering field (and, gosh, she’s so smart). Knows she’s from a city in Gyeongsan. Knows she’s a year younger. Knows she used to live with three other girls before moving out for reasons Aeri never shared. Knows she spends her mornings and afternoons buried in study, her evenings at an internship, and what little time she’s at the dorm locked away in her room. And that’s about it.
Truth be told, Jimin resented her for an embarrassingly long time. This stranger got the privilege of living with Aeri — seeing her every day, gossiping freely, having boy talks, going to parties, shopping, and sharing meals. Everything Jimin misses about their nostalgic high school days together. Well, except maybe the part of going out so much; Jimin couldn’t afford to neglect her studies.
Not that the extra study time had done her any good. Jimin didn’t get into SNU all thanks to her own stupidity. And thanks to that same stupidity, she wasn’t the one sharing a room with Aeri now.
The thought stings, though less so when it isn’t coming from her parents’ mouths.
Before Jimin can say anything, Aeri steps into the room, all cotton-candy-pink hair and sparkling eyes. “Unnie! You’re early.”
“Hey, Riri-chan! Yeah, I was just too excited to start getting ready.” Actually, I just couldn’t stand another minute alone in my apartment without breaking down like a pathetic crybaby.
When she turns back to speak to Minjeong, Jimin blinks in surprise.
Where Aeri’s roommate should have been, there are only two neatly placed bags on the couch.
She keeps running into Minjeong after that.
Fetching snacks in the kitchen, waiting at the bathroom door, coming home late from her internship. And every time, all she gets is a brief nod. Never a smile.
For some reason, it feels like Minjeong doesn’t like her much. When she asks Aeri about it, all she gets is a shrug and a comment about how Minjeong’s introverted and takes time to warm up to people. Still, there’s something off about the way she stares at Jimin like she’s invading her dorm, as if Jimin’s very existence is somehow offensive.
It’s weird. Minjeong is weird. Yet, at the same time, she might be the most interesting person Jimin has ever met.
Minjeong doesn’t talk much, that’s clear enough. She prefers to keep to herself, locking herself in her room whenever Jimin is around. On the rare occasions she’s roped into small talk, she barely shares anything about her life, even when Jimin tries to coax it out of her.
But everything Jimin does know about her is fascinating.
Kim Minjeong is just so cool, so blasé. A math prodigy who skipped a year of high school. Once elected vice-president of her student body. Currently interning at Hanwha Aerospace (which, wow). Birthday is on January first, two thousand and one. Supposedly amazing at badminton. Spent most of her life in Yangsan but was born and raised in Busan by the sea. And yet, there are so much more, so many little, mundane details about her life that Jimin wants to dig, and dig, and dig until she can piece together the mosaic that is Kim Minjeong. It’s just so satisfying to see capable, empowered women.
Aeri doesn’t quite see it as a women empowering thing. “Don’t you think you’re a little obsessed?”
Yizhuo’s obnoxious laugh turns heads at their table in the café. Sometimes (always), Jimin regrets introducing the two.
“What? Of course no— Why would you even think that?” Jimin sputters. The two brats she calls friends exchange judgmental looks. So much for respecting your elders. “So what, I can’t admire a fellow girl? A very smart, very gentle, and very pretty one at that?”
She stops herself from adding, and one that smells amazing, because, well, that might come off as a little too creepy.
Yizhuo smirks, her lips stained with hotteok filling. “I think she has the C word.”
Jimin has no idea what the C word is and doesn’t want to admit that the first thing that came to mind was Christ. Cross was a close second, followed by Coronavirus.
“I second that. We should make a game ‘take a shot every time Jimin babbles about Minjeongie,’” Aeri unhelpfully adds. “And since when do you two have nicknames for each other? Minjeong looks like she’d murder me if I called her that.”
Oh, the infamous Minjeongie. Aeri might be right to theorize that Minjeong would happily commit homicide over the nickname, but Jimin can’t confirm since she’s never actually called her that out loud. It’s just how she thinks of her in her head. Because sometimes, Minjeong is so... Minjeongie.
“You guys are annoying. And mean.” Jimin shoves a spoonful of her green tea bingsu into her mouth, hoping to swallow the nervous flutter in her stomach at the thought of Minjeongie’s version of Minjeong. It doesn’t help her case to think about how squeezable her cheeks look. “And for your information, we’ve had nicknames for each other since we became really, really close friends. Besties, in fact.”
It’s a pathetic attempt to get back at Aeri for the jealousy Jimin feels over Minjeong, which, of course, backfires when Aeri just snorts. “Classic sign of obsessive behavior: stalkers often have delusions of connection with their victims.”
“Oh, shut up,” Jimin seethes over Yizhuo’s cackling. Her bingsu would look great dripping down both of their heads right now. “You guys aren’t ready to handle my super amazing, next-level friendship with Kim Minjeong. Just wait, soon you’ll be crawling back to me to beg for my attention again.”
“My deepest apologies, Jimin sunbaenim.” Yizhuo dramatically stands up to bow in front of the table. More stares from the other customers, and Aeri’s shoulders shake as she tries to stifle her laughter. “I’ll never doubt your super amazing, next-level friendship with Minjeongie ever again.”
Jimin tries to keep up her annoyed facade, but the scene is so ridiculous she ends up choking on her own laughter.
Half of her bingsu doesn’t end up on their heads, just all over her shirt.
There’s a steaming plate of tonkatsu in her hands.
Jimin is giddy. Finally, after countless failed attempts that left the kitchen reeking of smoke and burnt pork ribs, here it is: a potentially edible version of the recipe. Aeri doesn’t even look up from the pile of books on cell autophagy she’s buried in to notice Jimin’s victory dance in the kitchen.
Snapping a photo of the dish to post on her Kakao Blog (the overly shiny breaded coating giving away how oily it truly is), Jimin hurries off to deliver her gift. Since Aeri couldn’t care less, then Jimin will give this Michelin-star-worthy masterpiece to someone who truly loves tonkatsu, someone she’s definitely not obsessed with, and someone she absolutely doesn’t have the C-word for (though she still has no clue what that means).
Humming, Jimin skips from the kitchen to the hallway to a very particular bedroom door, knocking with one hand while balancing the plate with the other. There’s a lime-green sock hanging off the doorknob, which is… well, weird, but Jimin is too excited to care.
She doesn't exactly want Minjeong to eat alone in her room — though every time Jimin has come over for a meal, Minjeong fleets with protein bars to lock herself in there. All Jimin wants is to see her study-worn face light up with a smile. Minjeong doesn’t smile much, at least not around her, and Jimin wants to feed her until her meals no longer consist of convenience store snacks.
No answer. Strange, because Jimin’s certain Minjeong is in there. It's Saturday night, no internship, and Aeri has said time and time again that Minjeong isn’t the type to go out much. Jimin knocks again, a little harder this time, but all she hears is... music ?
Straining her ears, Jimin catches the soft lull of an electronic beat, R&B or something similar. It’s not a song she recognizes, definitely not from her playlist of classical piano compositions, gospel, party hits, IU, or Girl’s Generation. Still, it sounds nice, and Jimin finds herself wondering what it’s called.
She knocks again and softly calls out, “Minjeong?” Still nothing. Could Minjeong have fallen asleep at her desk? Maybe she put the music on to help her stay awake while studying but accidentally dozed off? Poor thing, she works herself so hard. Here in Seoul, her family must be too far away to spoil Minjeong the way she deserves. But Jimin is here now, with a steaming plate of food, a (very) supportive shoulder and a gentle lecture about not pushing herself too hard.
Smiling brightly, Jimin adjusts the plate in her hands and opens the door.
The sight is a girl on Minjeong’s lap.
Jimin’s jaw hits the floor so hard it might have cracked. She blinks, as if that might somehow change the surreal scene in front of her, but no, it’s still there.
Minjeong with a girl on her lap on her bed. A girl. On her lap. On her bed.
Minjeong in a bra. Her hand under a half-removed shirt.
Minjeong. Looking straight at Jimin.
Jimin’s brain melts, solidifies, melts again, and solidifies just enough for her to stammer, “I—I’m s-sorry. I’m so, so sorry, uhm— I was just about to— I’m so sorryokaybye!”
The door slams shut behind her. She can’t believe she just saw that. This can’t be real. Maybe she’s still dreaming.
“What happened?” Aeri finally looks up from her textbooks to see what Jimin assumes must be a face drained of all color. “Wait, who died?”
“Oh, uhm, it’s—” Melts, solidifies, melts, solidifies. “Uhm, well— I–”
Apparently tired of Jimin’s stalling, Aeri cranes her neck from the dinner table to peek past Jimin’s trembling form, still holding the now-cooling plate. Her eyes widen under pink bangs. “Oh, shit. The sock is there.”
“What,” Jimin says intelligently.
“The lock on her door doesn’t work,” Aeri explains, remarkably calm. “She usually puts a sock over the doorknob to let me know if she has someone over. It’s our code to avoid... situations.”
Situations. Minjeong with a girl on her lap. Minjeong in a bra. Minjeong with swollen lips. Minjeong with a hickey on her neck. Minjeong looking straight at Jimin.
“I guess we didn’t see them come in. I was so busy studying, and you were— well, I don’t even know what you were trying to do— and we must’ve had our backs turned.” Aeri snorts into her book. “Minjeong’s got guts, bringing someone over while we’re here. Was he cute, at least?”
He. He, he, he, he.
“She,” is all Jimin says. “It was a she.”
Silence. Jimin looks down at the plate in her hands, watching the oil pool and bleed over the shredded cabbage. The pale strips get stained a dull clay shade.
“Oh. Okay.” Aeri’s tone is forcefully casual. “Then, was she cute, at least?”
“I didn’t know Minjeong was a dyke.”
Because Minjeong seemed normal. She’s mentioned having an ex-boyfriend. She flirted with a guy at a party. She even gave her opinion on which Twilight love interest was hotter. None of this makes sense. Minjeong was supposed to be normal.
Aeri clears her throat, and Jimin glances up to see a cautious expression on her face. When Aeri speaks, her tone is the kind you use to calm a growling dog. “She’s bisexual.”
Jimin doesn’t have the courage to ask what that means.
Her stomach twists, though not from hunger. Of course she knows gay people exist. They’re the ones her mom talks about with a wrinkled nose, the ones in news reports about hate crimes, the ones in those obscure anime Aeri watches, the ones plastered all over corporate logos during July when brands want to make an extra buck. But they’re distant, something she hardly ever notices in her day-to-day life.
It’s shocking to find out someone like that has been right under her nose all along. Like discovering the stray puppy you’ve been feeding has rabies. The fondness is still there, but the caution outweighs it. It makes you realize you were at risk the entire time.
“Doesn’t it... weird you out? That she brings girls here?” Doesn’t it weird you out that someone like her lives under the same roof as you?
“Not really. I bring guys over sometimes, too. It’s a mutual exchange.” Aeri pauses for a moment, then adds, “And, unnie, can you please not call her that word again?”
Oh. Jimin didn’t know it was wrong to call someone a dyke. She thought that was just what you called girls who liked girls, the same way boys who liked boys are faggots. That’s just how her sister explained it to her.
A few minutes later, Minjeong emerges from her room with the girl in tow. She’s presentable now, wearing that baggy Doosan Bears T-shirt, but her lips are still swollen, hair is slightly tousled, and the hickey on her neck gleams red and shiny with saliva.
The two bow at ninety degrees over and over and over again, babbling about how they really were just there to study at first, and how it was only a slip-up, and, “I’m so, so sorry, Aeri unnie and Jimin, please forgive me for the disrespect, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Minjeong doesn’t eat the tonkatsu.
Jimin’s dream goes something like this:
Dowon is standing by her bed. Shirtless, messy hair, boyish smile. The same look Jimin has gotten used to.
Her stomach twists, a feeling she’s learned to associate with butterflies. Except they don’t feel much like butterflies, but more like the weight of the world pressing on her guts.
As expected of her, she lies down on the bed and waits. Waits for a heavy, warm body over hers, waits for strong, rough touches, waits for something grotesque between her legs. But when the bed shifts under added weight, she’s surprised to see Dowon face-down on the mattress, his feet near her neck.
Jimin blinks. Is this some new sex position she doesn’t know about? She already feels like an amateur most of the time, letting Dowon guide her with his touches, but this one she really doesn’t understand. Is she supposed to ride his back? What about his pleasure? What does he want, and how is she supposed to ask without frustrating him?
“Touch my back, Jimin,” he says, craning his neck to look at her. Getting to her knees on the bed, Jimin scrambles to obey.
His skin is warm under her palms. Unsure of where this is going, she traces the outline of his taut muscles.
“Is this nice?” Jimin can’t help but ask. She needs validation for whatever this experiment is.
It’s when she’s running her fingers over his shoulder blades that everything changes. The rough outline of his body softens into delicate curves. A slender waist, narrow shoulders, bleached hair cascading over bare skin.
“Yeah, it is,” says a voice that isn’t deep, isn’t male, and for sure isn’t Dowon.
Kim Minjeong is smiling at her. Dimples and all.
She has a pretty smile, Jimin thinks. Pretty, even prettier when Jimin massages her shoulders, prettier when her nails dig into her nape, prettier when the coolness of her rosary ring sends shivers across arms. Her hair is soft under Jimin’s fingers, skin carrying the faint scent of the ocean.
“Touch me, unnie,” Minjeong whispers through red-currant lips.
Jimin’s heart pounds as her hands slide lower. Lower, lower, lower, over the ridges of her spine, the enticing curve of her waist, the swell of her hips, and far beyond.
“Touch me, unnie,” Minjeong repeats, her tone so sweet, so pleading. “Please.”
“Yes.” Jimin is warm, boiling from the inside out. “You’re gonna feel so good. So good for unnie.”
When her hand slides between Minjeong’s thighs, all she catches is cold sheets.
Jimin blinks. Blinks again. Blinks and finds no naked Minjeong in her bed, only a ceiling decorated with glow-in-the-dark star stickers.
What? No. No, no, no. This didn’t just happen. Jimin rubs her eyes, heavy and slightly sore, and sits up in bed so fast she pulls a muscle in her back. This didn’t just happen. This didn’t just happen.
She absolutely did not have a wet dream about… about…
About a woman.
Sleep abandons her completely. She clenches her fists around the sheets, heart pounding way too fast in her chest, nausea simmering at the back of her tongue. Why did her traitorous mind conjure up something so sinful? Everything was going so well. Dowon and her, about to copulate — predictable, comfortable, easy — and then there was Minjeong.
Kim Minjeong, driving her insane all over again.
It’s not like Jimin usually has wet dreams, either; more often, she wakes up in a haze of lust without any memory of how her dream-self got there. So, there must be some very rational, very objective, very normal explanation for this.
And, oh, of course. After seeing Minjeong with that faceless girl, some part of Jimin must have been simply curious about how intimacy works between women. That’s it. Because she doesn’t really know. It’s a world she’s not part of and never had any interest in before. So yes. Very rational, very objective, and definitely very normal. If anything, it just shows she’s finally becoming a good ally, like Yizhuo and Aeri.
Even so, it’s hard to fall asleep after that. With restless eyes, she stares up at the glowing stars, a poor attempt at representing Orion’s Belt. There’s still a sticky feeling between her legs that pulses like a heartbeat, aching, vicious, wrong.
Jimin will have to confess to the priest until her tongue falls off. In the meantime, she’s going to bury this dream deep, so deep she’ll forget it ever happened.
Dreams are unpredictable like that, after all. Absolutely meaningless.
The taste of alcohol and sobs is sour.
“Shh, it’s okay, unnie, it’s okay,” Yizhuo whispers in her ear, gently rubbing Jimin’s trembling back through her dress. “Just let it out, it’s okay.”
They’re on their knees in a dingy bathroom. It doesn’t smell good, whiskey, sweat, urine, and something worse lingering in the air. The floor is sticky, and there’s an impatient knock on the door every few moments, but Jimin feels safe here. She likes parties’ bathrooms. They’re her sanctuary, the eye of the hurricane, the dissected heart of the Red Sea.
“I’m okay, Yizhuo.” Jimin tries to smile, but ends up choking on a sob. Her head is foggy from too many sips of bitter drinks. “I’m not even, like, upset that it’s over. It was bound to happen.”
And maybe that isn’t a lie. Breaking up with Dowon had been underwhelming. Neither of them had their hearts in the relationship anymore, and Jimin had grown tired of performing the role of the perfect girlfriend, just as he had grown tired of tolerating her veiled disinterest. So it only took one last dinner, one last conversation, and it was over. No drama. No heartbreak. No tears.
The tears are plentiful now, though. Because, at the end of the day, Dowon was a great guy. Polite, considerate, funny, interesting, thoughtful. He brought her flowers and sweets, listened to her piano pieces, and stayed up for hours talking about her least interesting interests. He had his flaws, like everyone does, but he was a good person. The kind of person Jimin should have fallen in love with.
And that’s exactly the problem.
“I’m okay,” she sniffles, then reaches for Yizhuo’s cup. Her rosary ring glints under the harsh overhead light like a star. “Can I have just one last sip? Please?”
“C’mon, unnie, I think you’ve had enough.” Yizhuo brushes sweaty strands from Jimin’s forehead, offering her a teasing smile. “Doesn’t the Bible say getting drunk is a sin or something?”
Jimin’s eyes well up with tears.
“Oh, fuck, I’m so sorry, why did I even say that— I just mean, maybe you should slow down on the drinks, unnie. Maybe drink some water, eat a snack. There’s dumplings over by the stands under those, uhm, I’m pretty sure they were banners or something—”
“There’s something wrong with me, Yizhuo.” Jimin trembles, and snot drips from her nose to her mouth. The salt burns her lips. “Something really, really wrong.”
“Hey, hey.” Yizhuo wipes her nose with the sleeve of her dress. What a terrible friend Jimin is, ruining Yizhuo’s night with her pity-party and now dirtying her favorite piece of clothing. “There’s nothing wrong with you, okay?”
“You don’t understand,” Jimin says, and she means it. Yizhuo doesn’t understand, can’t understand past the polished facade Jimin puts up. “I’m rotten. I—” Her next breath catches. “Why can’t I like anyone, Yizhuo? It’s not fair. I try so hard, I’ve met so many handsome guys, guys my family would approve of, kind guys, amazing guys, and I feel nothing. Nothing, nothing at all. Why can’t it be like in the movies? Why can’t I be like everyone else? Why did I just break up with my perfect boyfriend, and all I feel is relief?”
Jimin has never managed to explain to her giggling friends, who happily share stories of steamy moments with their boyfriends, that she can’t stand so much as a finger inside her because she’s always too dry. That she desperately tries to pleasure the man instead, to avoid hands, tongues, or something worse beneath her skirt. That she doesn't understand why it only hurts for her.
It’s love, isn’t it? It wasn't supposed to hurt.
“Jimin.” Yizhuo drops the honorific, and it makes Jimin lift her head. She’s looking at her differently, as if seeing Jimin for the first time. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you, do you hear me? Your love is not and will never be wrong.”
She starts crying again, and Yizhuo hugs her tightly until Jimin’s head is buried in her shoulder.
“I mean it. You’re such a good person, unnie.” Jimin shakes her head against her neck, but Yizhuo just shushes her. “Yes, you are. You’re always so cheerful, so good-natured, so willing to give. You spread love to everyone around you, and it’s contagious in, like, the best way.” Yizhuo’s laughter comes out damp. “You’re not broken just because you don’t love like everyone else. Don’t call all the love inside you something rotten. It’s something beautiful, unnie.”
Jimin sobs, sniffles a bit, then manages to mutter a choked, “I love you, did you know that? You’re my best friend in the world.”
“I’m honored to hold that title. You’re my best friend, too,” Yizhuo whispers. “You can tell me anything you want, okay? I’ll always be here for you.”
Jimin thinks about the dream, thinks about touch me, unnie, please, and knows Yizhuo is wrong. Jimin is rotten. The kind of rot that corrodes blood, that gnaws bones, that mangles guts. The kind of rot that devours from the inside out. The kind of rot she tries desperately to keep God from finding.
In the end, He always does.