city boys vs province boys

The silver Mercedes-Benz screeched to a halt at the edge of a dirt road, kicking up a thick cloud of dust that immediately coated the polished paint job. Inside the car, Park Jimin let out a scream that was high enough to shatter crystal.

"My skin! My pores! Uncle Hoseok, you cannot be serious!" Jimin shrieked, clutching his limited-edition leather tote bag as if it were a shield. He looked out the window with pure horror at the sprawling green fields and the smell of fresh manure that wafted through the vents.

"It’s just for the summer, Jimin-ah," Hoseok said from the driver’s seat, his smile unnervingly bright. "You, Taehyung, and Jin have been living like princes for too long. You need to learn the value of hard work. Besides, the fresh air will do wonders for your 'arty' soul."

Taehyung, Jimin’s twin who looked nothing like him—sporting sharp, feline features compared to Jimin’s soft, doll-like beauty—was busy trying to save his silk scarf from the dust. "Uncle, I came here for a rustic aesthetic photoshoot, not to actually touch the grass. There are bugs out there. Huge ones."

In the backseat, Jin was busy checking his reflection in a hand mirror, adjusting his perfectly coiffed hair. "I am too beautiful for this province life. My face is a national treasure, Hoseok. If a mosquito bites me, I’m suing the entire government."

Hoseok just laughed, a sound that usually brought joy but today sounded like the tolling of a funeral bell. "Out. Now. Your cousins and their friends are waiting to 'welcome' you."

As the three of them stepped out, their designer loafers sinking into the soft, uneven soil, a group of three men approached from the direction of a large, weathered barn.

Leading the pack was a man who looked like he had been carved out of granite and then rolled in dirt. His white t-shirt was stained with grease and sweat, clinging to a lean, muscular frame. His hair was a mess under a backwards cap, and his expression was one of pure, unadulterated annoyance.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," the leader muttered, stopping a few feet away. "Hoseok-nim, these are the 'helpers' you promised us? They look like they’d faint if they saw a worm."

Jimin’s eyes narrowed. He took in the man’s muddy boots and the smudge of dirt on his cheek. "Excuse me? Who are you calling a faint-heart? And stand back, you’re getting your... whatever that smell is... on my atmosphere."

The man stepped closer, invading Jimin’s personal space. He smelled like sun-warmed skin and cedarwood, but Jimin refused to acknowledge that it wasn't entirely unpleasant. "The name’s Yoongi. I run this section of the farm. And that 'smell' is called work. Something you clearly know nothing about, Princess."

"Don't call me Princess!" Jimin snapped, his face flushing a deep pink. He stepped forward, poking a finger into Yoongi’s chest, only to recoil when he realized he’d just touched a damp sweat stain. "Ew! Gross! You’re disgusting!"

"And you’re loud," Yoongi retorted, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Go cry to your stylist. We have cows to feed."

Behind Yoongi, a tall, broad-shouldered man with messy hair and a shirt that had definitely seen better decades stepped forward. He looked at Jin with a mixture of confusion and amusement. This was Namjoon.

"Is he wearing sequins?" Namjoon asked, pointing at Jin’s jacket. "In a barn?"

Jin gasped, his hand flying to his chest. "It’s hand-beaded embroidery! And who are you to talk? Your shirt has a hole in the armpit and your shoes look like they were chewed by a lawnmower. You're an eyesore."

Namjoon scoffed, crossing his arms. "At least my clothes are functional. You look like a lost disco ball. If you want to stay here, you better lose the attitude, Pretty Boy. This isn't a runway."

"My attitude is the only thing keeping me sane in this wasteland," Jin snapped back, though his eyes lingered a second too long on the way Namjoon’s biceps filled out his tattered sleeves. "And don't call me 'Pretty Boy' unless you're prepared to pay for the privilege of looking at me."

Meanwhile, the third member of the farm crew, a younger guy with a mischievous glint in his eyes, was already circling Taehyung. Jungkook was covered in bits of hay, looking like he’d just finished a wrestling match with a goat.

"Wow," Jungkook said, grinning widely. "I didn't know they made humans this shiny. Are you a robot?"

Taehyung glared at him, pulling his luggage closer. "I am a masterpiece. And you are a nuisance. Stay away from my bags, you’re shedding hay everywhere."

Jungkook laughed, a bold, boisterous sound. "You’re the twin, right? You don't look like the short one. You look more like... a grumpy cat."

"I am not a cat!" Taehyung hissed.

"Meow," Jungkook teased, stepping closer and intentionally shaking his head so a few strands of hay landed on Taehyung’s shoulder.

"I hate you," Taehyung whispered, his eyes practically shooting sparks. "I’ve been here five minutes and I already want to bury you in that field."

"I'd like to see you try, Gucci," Jungkook winked.

Hoseok clapped his hands, ignoring the palpable tension and the various insults being hurled. "Great! Everyone is getting along! Yoongi, Namjoon, Jungkook—take them to the bunkhouse. They’re staying in the old quarters. No AC, no Wi-Fi, and chores start at 5:00 AM."

"5:00 AM?" Jimin shrieked, turning back to the car, but Hoseok was already peeling away, waving cheerfully out the window.

Jimin turned back to find Yoongi watching him with a smirk that made his blood boil. "What are you looking at, Dirt-man?"

"Just wondering how long it'll take for you to start crying for your mommy," Yoongi said, turning on his heel. "Grab your bags. We don't have valets here."

The walk to the bunkhouse was a disaster. Jimin tripped over a protruding root, sending his designer suitcase tumbling into a patch of weeds.

"My bag!" Jimin wailed, rushing to pick it up. He brushed at the fabric frantically. "It’s ruined! This is calfskin!"

Yoongi paused, looking over his shoulder. "It’s a bag, Park. It goes on the floor. Get over it."

"It’s not just a bag! It’s art!" Jimin shouted, his face turning red. He was always the center of attention in Seoul, the star of the dance studio, the one everyone wanted to look at. Here, he felt small and messy, and he hated Yoongi for being the one to see it. "You wouldn't understand art if it bit you on your dusty nose!"

Yoongi walked back to him, his shadow towering over Jimin. He reached down, grabbed the handle of the suitcase, and hoisted it effortlessly onto his shoulder. "Art doesn't pay the bills around here. Now move your feet before I leave you out here for the coyotes."

Jimin stomped his foot, but he followed, his eyes fixed on the back of Yoongi's head. He hated him. He absolutely, 100% hated him.

Inside the bunkhouse, things weren't much better. It was a single room with wooden bunks and a small kitchenette.

"You expect me to sleep on this?" Jin asked, poking a thin mattress with his index finger. "I have a ten-step skincare routine that requires a temperature-controlled environment. This room is practically an oven."

Namjoon leaned against the doorframe, watching Jin with an unreadable expression. "It’s a bed. You sleep on it. If you’re hot, open a window. Just try not to fall out of it—I don't want to have to fix the floor if your ego hits it too hard."

Jin turned on him, his eyes flashing. "You are the most rude, uncultured, fashion-disaster of a man I have ever met. Why are you even talking to me?"

"Because you're in my house," Namjoon said calmly, though his jaw tightened. "And because despite that 'savage' tongue of yours, you’ve been staring at my chest for the last three minutes."

Jin’s face went scarlet. "I was looking at the dirt! It’s offensive!"

"Sure it was," Namjoon muttered, turning to leave. "Dinner is at six. If you're late, you don't eat."

In the corner, Taehyung was trying to unpack his clothes while Jungkook kept "accidentally" bumping into his bunk.

"Oops," Jungkook said for the fifth time. "Sorry, it’s just so cramped in here with all your... fancy stuff."

"If you touch my silk shirts one more time, I will use your toothbrush to scrub the pigsty," Taehyung threatened, holding a hanger like a weapon.

Jungkook leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I don't use a toothbrush, I just chew on mint leaves. Want one?"

Taehyung made a face of pure disgust. "You are a barbarian."

"And you’re a snob," Jungkook countered, grinning. "This is going to be a fun summer."

The sun began to set, casting long, golden shadows across the farm. Jimin sat on the porch of the bunkhouse, his legs pulled up to his chest. He looked at his hands; his manicure was already chipped. He felt like crying, but he was too angry to let the tears fall.

Yoongi walked by, carrying a bucket of water. He stopped, looking at Jimin’s slumped posture. For a moment, the hardness in his eyes softened, but it was gone in a flash.

"Hey," Yoongi called out.

Jimin didn't look up. "Go away."

Yoongi set the bucket down and walked over, dropping a small, round object into Jimin’s lap. It was a peach, fuzzy and ripe, smelling sweet and heavy.

"Eat that," Yoongi said roughly. "You haven't eaten since you got here. You'll get a headache."

Jimin looked at the peach, then up at Yoongi. The elder man looked exhausted, his skin glowing in the twilight. "Is it clean?"

Yoongi rolled his eyes. "I washed it myself. It’s not 'dirty,' Jimin."

Jimin picked up the fruit, his fingers brushing against the soft skin. He took a small bite, and the sweetness exploded on his tongue. It was better than any expensive dessert he’d had in the city.

"Thank you," Jimin whispered, his voice small.

Yoongi grunted, turning to walk away. "Don't get used to it. Tomorrow morning, you're cleaning the stables. And I don't care how much your clothes cost—they’re going to get covered in shit."

"I hate you!" Jimin yelled after him, his mouth full of peach.

"I know!" Yoongi shouted back without looking.

Inside the bunkhouse, the sounds of bickering continued. Jin was complaining about the lack of high-quality olive oil, and Namjoon was telling him to shut up and eat his stew. Taehyung and Jungkook were arguing over who got the top bunk, their voices rising in a crescendo of insults.

As night fell over the province, the three city boys lay in their uncomfortable beds, listening to the crickets and the distant lowing of cattle. They were far from the lights of Seoul, far from their comfort zones, and surrounded by people who seemed determined to ruin their lives.

Jimin stared at the wooden ceiling, the taste of the peach still lingering on his lips. He thought of Yoongi’s rough hands and his arrogant smirk. He was dirty, he was rude, and he was the most infuriating person Jimin had ever met.

He couldn't wait to go home. But as he drifted off to sleep, he found himself wondering what Yoongi would look like if he actually smiled.

The next morning, the sun hadn't even broken the horizon when a loud metal clanging echoed through the bunkhouse.

"Up! Get up!" Yoongi’s voice boomed, followed by the sound of a ladle hitting a pot. "Work starts in ten minutes! If you aren't out there, I’m dragging you out by your hair!"

Jimin groaned, pulling the thin blanket over his head. "I'm going to kill Uncle Hoseok," he whimpered.

"I'll help you," Jin’s muffled voice came from the bunk below. "But only after I kill the giant man who keeps calling me 'Pretty Boy.'"

"Meow," a voice whispered from the door.

Taehyung sat bolt upright. "Jungkook, I swear to God!"

The summer had only just begun, and the war between the city and the farm was already in full swing. But amidst the dirt, the anger, and the endless chores, something else was beginning to grow—something as stubborn and wild as the weeds in the fields.