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there are two worlds in jimin’s universe.
“Choose one world,” Namjoon says, flicking the lighter on, “or the other.” He flicks the lighter off. On. Off. It forms an unsteady morse code, or maybe that’s just Jimin’s heartbeat. Perhaps he is nothing but arteries and heart chambers and pumping blood.
“What’s the difference?” Jimin asks him. “I’ll always end up—back there—”
“All roads lead to home.” There’s a lollipop in Namjoon’s mouth, the ever-familiar hat, but Jimin knows that this is not his Namjoon. This is another Namjoon, a wrong Namjoon, for when he smiles it forms a cruel curve that his Namjoon could never manufacture.
“Where am I?” Jimin says.
Namjoon shrugs. “Beats me.”
“Where am I?” Jimin repeats, frantic. “Where am I?” He cannot see past the end of the white lollipop stick, that tunnel vision, a spiral—
one is white, bounded, blank walls like fresh pages, barred doors like a prison cell, blaring alarms like jagged knives in his head.
Jimin does not know where he is. This is a sterile place, a humanless place, walls the color of bones. The sun glares against him, teeth-yellow and weak light.
Jimin does not ask where he is. This is a place without questions. There is only what is, and to think of what is not—
To question the outside world—
Outside. No, no, Jimin only knows the slam-shut door. Jimin only knows that siren, that blaring alarm, his external heartbeat.
The white walls form a pretty cage.
the other is sunshine, warmth, the scent of lavender and clean linen, calloused hands wrapped around his own, words falling like rose petals from a heart-shaped mouth.
“Tell me about your favorite song,” Jimin says. It’s late, late enough to be in bed yet early enough to continue talking. He’s caught between two choices: between staying awake and going to sleep.
Hoseok hums. If Jimin rests his head under Hoseok’s chin, he can feel the vibrations of it, like seismic waves through his heart.
“It’s hard to choose,” Hoseok replies.
Jimin shuts his eyes, nuzzles closer so that he can hear Hoseok’s heartbeat. “Try, hyung,” he mumbles.
Hoseok smells like home, like lavender and laundry detergent. If softness were a scent— If warmth were a person— If he were strong—
No. He does not indulge in what-ifs.
“Clair de lune,” Hoseok answers, finally. “I will never forget the piano.”
the difference between them is like the sun and the moon, and jimin oscillates helplessly between them.
Jimin opens his eyes. Or, no—they were never closed. There’s no difference in what he sees no matter what he does. Surrounded by blankness, covered in white, covered in white, covered in white—
He opens his mouth and screams. He is surprised that he can even make a sound. It’s a broken noise, like that of a whimpering dog. It sounds like torture. Is that really what he sounds—
the moment he tries to hold on to one, the other tugs him away.
—like? Jimin wakes up, gasping for breath.
“Nightmare?” Hoseok asks drowsily. He reaches around blindly in the darkness until he grasps Jimin’s hand.
“No, hyung,” Jimin whispers.
Nightmares aren’t real. This is.
“Go back to sleep,” Hoseok replies. “Come here, Jimin-ah.”
Jimin lies back down, pulse racing in an unnamable way. Maybe this is morse code. Then, finally, he succumbs to the softness of Hoseok’s touch.
in his room, the metallic taste of his pills lingering on his tongue, jimin dreams of music and laughter. he dreams of dancing, hands moving automatically to their habitual positions, tracing out a pattern he remembers learning—
They move like automatons in the dark. Habitual is another word for familiar is another word for practiced. Jimin knows these floors, the shine and the slide. Jimin knows this song, this beat.
He relaxes. This is fine.
“What did you chose?” Hoseok asks. He smiles, and his mouth is all metal. His eyes shine strangely, silver in the light.
Jimin steps closer. No, it isn’t silver. Hoseok isn’t real. He’s pyrite, a tarnished metal, fool’s gold.
“What did you chose?” Hoseok repeats. Jimin reaches out to cup Hoseok’s cheek. He cannot feel, because this is a dream.
Jimin’s mouth tastes like metal. He is filled with Hoseok, with fool’s gold, with a foolishness that only he can treasure. It stings.
“Dark or light?” Hoseok asks. Dream Hoseok. Fake Hoseok. Or maybe this is the real one, maybe the other one is fake, maybe: “Dark or light—”
somewhere. he remembers a pulsing beat, a polished mirror, cold wooden flooring. he remembers hands on his, an amused voice.
“let’s try it again, jimin-ah.”
“Are you okay?” Hoseok asks. His hands grip onto Jimin’s shoulders, slide down to meet his palms. “Are you okay, Jimin-ah?”
“Yeah,” Jimin replies. “I don’t know, hyung, I think I just—zoned out. For a second.”
Hoseok pauses the music. It leaves the room quiet, the sort of eerie silence that rings in Jimin’s ears.
“You can tell me,” Hoseok says softly. “I want to help—”
“Let’s try again?” Jimin interrupts. He attempts a smile; something in it must provoke sympathy, for Hoseok drops the subject. Instead he turns away to switch the music back on. Jimin watches the curve of his neck and tries not to love.
“Let’s try it again, Jimin-ah.”
he can’t—can’t remember the face, can’t place the voice. he knows it with an aching familiarity; every fiber of his being yearns for it like a flower in winter longs for the sun.
Jimin tries to remember. He recalls Namjoon, a hazy memory of Taehyung and Jeongguk, has the faintest inkling of someone playing Clair de Lune. Then he has his other memories, knife-sharp, insidious.
I love you. Come back to bed, Jimin-ah. I miss you. You can tell me if you’re not okay. Let’s try again, Jimin-ah. Please. Please. Please, I can’t take it any longer.
This is a place without any questions. This is a place without any answers.