Chapter 10: Twilight of the God
The world narrowed to the frame of the doorway, the light from the hall sconce casting a cruel, clear spotlight on the scene in the foyer. Jungkook stood frozen, the chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon dangling from his fingers like a forgotten prop. The cheerful "I come bearing peace offerings and—" died in his throat, the words turning to ash.
Jimin was perched on Andrei’s lap on the sleek, low bench, his body a languid curve against the older man’s solid frame. His shirt was open, revealing the delicate line of his collarbones and the smooth, pale skin of his chest. His lips were swollen, glistening and red, and his eyes, when they slowly turned to meet Jungkook’s, held a dazed, unfocused quality that swiftly sharpened into sheer panic.
Andrei’s hand, large and possessive, was splayed across the small of Jimin’s back, holding him there. He didn’t startle. He didn’t push Jimin away. He simply looked over Jimin’s shoulder, his expression one of mild, almost bored inquiry, as if interrupted during a mildly interesting business call.
The silence was a physical thing, thick and suffocating. Jungkook’s brain short-circuited, trying to process the image. This was Jimin. His Jimin. The one who always smelled of turpentine and patience, who waited, who forgave, who looked at him as if he’d hung the moon even when he was hours late. The Jimin who was currently straddling another man in a foyer that cost more than Jimin’s entire life.
“J-Jungkook,” Jimin breathed, his voice a ragged whisper. He moved to get up, a flurry of awkward, aborted motions, but Andrei’s hand pressed down, a subtle, firm command that stilled him.
“Jeon Jungkook,” Andrei said, his voice a calm, smooth counterpoint to the roaring in Jungkook’s ears. “This is a surprise.” His gaze flicked to the champagne bottle. “You brought a gift. How… thoughtful.”
Jungkook’s eyes remained locked on Jimin. He saw the flicker of shame, yes, but beneath it, something else. Something that made his blood run cold. A defiant spark. A glimpse of satisfaction. The shattered look in Jimin’s wide eyes wasn’t just about being caught; it was layered with months of quiet resentment, and in that moment, it tasted infinitely sweeter to Jimin than any hollow revenge he’d imagined.
“What,” Jungkook’s voice was dangerously low, a rasp of broken glass, “is this?”
“It looks rather self-explanatory, don’t you think?” Andrei replied, his thumb stroking a slow, deliberate circle on Jimin’s back.
“I wasn’t talking to you.” Jungkook took a step forward, his knuckles white around the neck of the bottle. “Jimin. Get up. Now.”
Jimin’s chin lifted a fraction. The gesture was so small, so uncharacteristically defiant, that it stole the air from Jungkook’s lungs. This wasn’t his Jimin. This was someone else. Someone who had been forged in the fire of his neglect.
“Why?” Jimin asked, the single word trembling but clear. “You were busy. Remember?”
The memory of the club, of brushing Jimin off, of leaving him alone for hours, slammed into Jungkook with the force of a physical blow. He had come here to apologize, to smooth things over with expensive champagne and his patented charm. He had expected to find a sad, forgiving Jimin, not this… this breathtaking betrayal.
“I came to fix it,” Jungkook said, the words sounding weak and pathetic even to his own ears.
“Some things aren’t yours to fix,” Andrei interjected, his tone conversational. “They just are. He needed a studio with good light. I have one. The rest… is chemistry.”
A studio. The casualness of the statement was the final, twisting knife. Jungkook had never once asked about Jimin’s studio, about the light, about the things that actually mattered to him. He had bought him drinks, taken him to parties, given him fleeting access to a world of glittering nothing. Andrei had given him a reason to create.
The green bottle felt heavy in his hand. He could feel the condensation beading and running down the glass onto his skin. He imagined the sound it would make, the explosive shatter of crystal and the fizz of wasted champagne against the pristine marble floor. The violence of the thought was a hot, sudden surge in his chest.
But then he looked at Jimin’s face. The defiance was crumbling, replaced by a raw, heartbreaking vulnerability. He saw the artist, the man he claimed to enjoy, completely unraveled because of him. Because of them.
With a slow, deliberate movement, Jungkook set the bottle down on the floor with a soft, definitive clink. The sound echoed in the tense silence.
He looked at Jimin, really looked at him, taking in the open shirt, the kiss-bruised mouth, the way he was held in place by another man’s hand. He didn’t say another word. He just turned and walked out, pulling the heavy door shut behind him with a quiet, final click that was louder than any scream.