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Jimin hasn’t seen Yoongi since the night they, presumably, broke up.
The last time Jimin saw him, the air was filled with angry curses thrown at each other, yelling, and hot tears.
He tries not to think too much about that night. He remembers waiting at the kitchen table in their shared apartment, the fluorescent light in the room casting a harsh light on his pale face. Jimin always stayed up to wait for Yoongi to come home, no matter how early or how late it was. Sometimes Yoongi would finish his work at the studio quickly, and Jimin would welcome him with a kiss and a hug. Other times, Yoongi would stumble back into the apartment at two in the morning, eyes bleary and unfocused. Jimin would meekly mutter a “Welcome home, Yoongi,” while his boyfriend of three years grunted a noncommittal reply before collapsing on the sofa to sleep. Dinner would go untouched, as Yoongi was always too tired to eat and Jimin never had an appetite if Yoongi didn’t eat with him.
The weeks and months of not sleeping and eating has taken a toll on Jimin, a sickly complexion replacing his usual flushed and glowing face. He wakes up every morning to a cold bed and no note before getting himself ready in the bathroom. Jimin used to like to dress up and look nice, used to like to apply makeup and carefully style his hair in order to look his best, used to take pride in his reflection. Nowadays, Jimin leaves his dark circles as they are, throws a beanie over his messy and dry hair, and pulls on a pair of sweats. After all, what’s the point of looking your best when the person you wish to impress most isn’t around to see it?
Jimin makes himself a meager protein shake for breakfast every morning before heading to work at the dance studio. His friend, Hoseok, is the owner, and is kind enough to grant Jimin flexible hours. Jimin works his hardest throughout the day, skipping lunch in order to practice his own routines. By the time he leaves the dance studio, his muscles are screaming in pain and his eyes are drooping. Nevertheless, he heads home in order to prepare dinner and wait for his boyfriend’s return.
That night, that one fateful night, Jimin was sitting in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt on one of the two cold wooden chairs in their kitchen, waiting for Yoongi to come home. He’d sent a few texts to Yoongi periodically throughout the evening, asking his whereabouts and how he was. He was always met with no replies and a heavy heart. He contemplates whether he should try calling Yoongi or not, before he remembers the time he had called him and it had ended with Yoongi reprimanding Jimin over the phone about disturbing his work.
Jimin hasn’t called him since then. Although he’s afraid of losing Yoongi, he’s even more scared of disappointing him.
He looks over at the time on the microwave. 2:00 am. Not his first time in this situation, and certainly not his last.
(He didn’t know it was at the time.)
He dozes off, sitting upright in that uncomfortable wooden chair, knowing he’ll wake up tense and hurting and in an even worse state for dancing than usual.
Somewhere around three in the morning, he hears keys jingling outside the door and the sound of someone fumbling with the doorknob. Perking up, Jimin quickly collects himself and wipes the sad, tired frown off his face in order to replace it with a very bright, but very fake, grin.
Yoongi finally gets the door open and stumbles in, slamming the door shut behind him so it rattles the hinges. Jimin immediately gets up to help him with his bag, rushing over to greet his boyfriend.
He stops halfway, though. Because he’s hit with the unmistakable scent of alcohol and cigarettes.
Tears immediately begin collecting in his doe eyes, the liquid pooling and clinging to his eyelashes.
Yoongi had promised. He’d promised Jimin on their second anniversary, a day filled with laughter and happiness and high spirits. He promised to quit drinking excessively and to never touch a cigarette ever again. Jimin had beamed his crescent moon eye smile, and rewarded him with a kiss.
Jimin can’t remember the last time he kissed Yoongi out of love and not out of pure lust.
“Yoongi? Where have you been? It’s three in the morning, love,” Jimin whispers tentatively.
“Why do you need to know? I was working. That’s it. I don’t need you getting on my ass about everything, Jimin,” Yoongi scoffs, angrily taking his boots off and throwing his jacket on the coat hanger.
His words are slurred. His breath smells like cheap booze. Jimin knows.
It’s like a freight train crashes against his chest. Suddenly, his heart feels too heavy, his throat closes up, and the room feels too small. It’s as if Love took her beautiful hands and grabbed Jimin’s heart and squeezed, squeezed until every drop of blood is drained and his chest feels empty.
Because Jimin knows. He knows he’s lost Yoongi. He knows he wasn’t enough to make him stay.
The tears begin to spill.
"Is that so? Is that why you smell like you’ve been smoking? Is that why you smell like you brought home an entire club?” he bites out angrily.
That barrage is what pushes Yoongi over the edge, pushes him to explode at Jimin.
And really, he should’ve been expecting it. Because Jimin is Yoongi’s boyfriend. He should’ve known. He knows that alcohol causes Yoongi to be easily irritated. It’s his own fault for making Yoongi mad.
“What the fuck is with all the questions, Jimin? Stop being so damn clingy and nosy all the time. I don’t need you to worry about me all the time. So what I went out with some friends? There’s a fucking reason I didn’t tell you. Because you would’ve held me back and ruined it. That’s all you do. Ruin things between the two of us. Can’t you give me some fucking space for once?” Yoongi barks.
And that’s what pushes Jimin over the edge. But not towards anger, towards despair.
A sob tears out of Jimin’s throat.
“You don’t mean that, Yoongi, I know you don’t. Please take that back. I know you’re tired and you want to rest. I’m sorry for bothering you. It’s my own fault for asking you all these questions, but please, darling, take that back,” Jimin pleads through tears.
Yoongi doesn’t say anything, just glares daggers at Jimin and crosses his arms.
And that’s the exact moment anything left inside Jimin crumbled into dust and blew away in the wind.
He starts crying, bawling really, fat tears falling down his face freely. They taste salty and feel hot against his cheeks and yet he feels stone cold, can’t feel anything without Yoongi’s arms wrapped around him like they should be.
Yoongi continues to stand there, arms crossed and eyes dark.
Jimin starts begging, starts pleading hysterically for his boyfriend to take the words back, to apologize, to say something.
“Please Yoongi, I’m sorry, I’m sorry for asking you all these questions, I’m sorry but please, please take that back. Please say something.”
A look passes Yoongi’s face, one that Jimin has never seen before when they’re together, a mask Yoongi only wears when standing in front of people who disgust him and people he hates.
Jimin’s fingers go numb when he thinks about the possibility that he might be in one of those categories now.
“What do you want me to say? To say that no, you’re not annoying? That you’re not clingy as fuck? That yes, I still want to be with you? Please, Jimin. I may be a lot of things but a liar is not one,” Yoongi sneers.
Jimin knows, Jimin knows that it’s the alcohol speaking and not truly Yoongi, his sweet and precious Yoongi, who feeds stray cats and couldn’t even bring himself to kill a spider. And yet the words still stab him. They act as knives and dig deep into his delicate ribcage, twisting and turning to draw more blood, more pain out. They feed off of Jimin’s already fragile self-esteem, adding more poison to his corrupted mind.
At the same time, Jimin can’t ignore the fact that these words and thoughts didn’t magically appear inside Yoongi’s head. The alcohol didn’t just plant them there, their roots had to have come from somewhere deep down in Yoongi’s heart, somewhere that truly believes these words.
And Jimin knows he’s lost. The days leading up to this, where he was trapped in his own mind wondering if he had done something wrong or if he plain and simple wasn’t enough to keep Yoongi home, and the words Yoongi has just thrown at him mix together like fire and gasoline to set fire to his already ruined soul. At that same moment, Jimin realizes that he doesn’t know the man standing in front of him anymore. He stopped knowing him the second they stopped going out on dates, stopped eating breakfast together, stopped telling each other they loved the other.
Despite everything going on inside his mind, Jimin tries one last smile at Yoongi. The corners of his lips wobble into something closer to a grimace than a smile and his tears continue to spill over his eyelashes, over his cheeks, and over his lips until finally, they fall onto the cold, wooden floor.
“Okay. I’m sorry Yoongi. I really am. I thought I could be enough for you, but I can see that it won’t happen. I’m so, so sorry. Let’s get you to bed, shall we? Come on,” Jimin whispers, extending a shaking hand out to Yoongi to take.
For a second, it seems like Yoongi will take it. Something passes in his eyes, something makes them go softer for a second and he almost looks apologetic. But it passes, and Yoongi instead reaches out to slap Jimin’s hand away.
“I’m fine, I can get to bed by myself. I’m not a baby,” Yoongi says. The unlike you goes unsaid but recognized.
Yoongi pushes past him, knocking into Jimin’s shoulder roughly as he heads to their bedroom. Vaguely, Jimin can hear the sound of his boyfriend getting ready for bed in the background, but it’s all silent to the white noise in Jimin’s head. He doesn’t know how long he continues to stand out there in the hallway, feet growing cold and tears drying on his face. Eventually, he comes back to his senses and cautiously walks to the bedroom. Opening the door quietly, he sees Yoongi sleeping, mouth ajar and snoring peacefully, as if nothing had just happened. Normally, Jimin would be ecstatic and overly excited to jump in and cuddle with his boyfriend, but he feels nothing but heartbreak and sadness now. Silently, he pads over to their closet and takes out an old ratty suitcase. He quickly begins shoving his clothes into it, not caring about missing anything or what clothes are getting packed in. After he decides he’s packed enough of his clothes, he goes to the bathroom to pack up his toiletries and other belongings. He ignores the stab of pain that pierces through his chest looking at his toothbrush side by side with Yoongi’s. Lastly, he goes around the bedroom and the rest of the apartment for any last items that he owns. He avoids looking at the pictures of himself and Yoongi hung up throughout the rooms and instead focuses on finishing his task as quickly and as quietly as possible. Once Jimin is all packed, he heads to the bedroom one last time.
Walking over to the bed, he places a final gentle kiss on Yoongi’s forehead.
“I love you, Yoongi,” he murmurs, and turns his back before the tears can start again.
He heads out of the apartment at around four-thirty in the morning, breath coming out in fast puffs in the cold air, flags down a lone cab operating in the middle of the night, and flees from his home.
He never comes back.
Yoongi wakes up to an empty bed with cold sheets and no note.