Archive of Our Own

Oftentimes, pain was subjective. 

So subjective, it relied on key individualistic differences, such as an individual's emotional, cognitive, and physiological state during said pain; or at least, that’s what Yoongi had read from quick google searches in his free time over the years. Maybe this was why his younger — and more oblivious — self was never able to distinguish the difference between a toe stub and getting nicked by a dull butter knife as a child, blood barley running down small hands. Why every pain ever accumulated over the first few years of his childhood seemed like a never ending stream of hurt with no end in sight, all equal in their doses. 

It was even easier to mesh all of these misfortunes together into a melting pot of pains when his mother was the kind to listen when a young and impressionable Yoongi would storm into their small but cozy home, tears staining tanned skin as he belted out from the pit of his belly that this pain, was an overall ten out of ten on the pain scale. 

She never once challenged the boy when he had grouped a skinned knee with a split lip, never once questioning how in the world a paper cut was also equivalent to a fractured pinky. He was young, she argued, there was no merit in trying to lecture a child on something as ridiculous as stacking up pain like sacks of rice. So he never thought of them as any different, because sure, it was weird they somehow were all ten’s, but he was small, and when you are small everything made little sense and nothing added up the way it was supposed to. 

It isn’t until he’s nine, when the wind smells like blooming lilies and the soft smell of chocolate chip cookies begin to waft through the crack in his door, that Yoongi comes to realize that not all pain will always be the same. 

That day, his neighbor and good friend, Namjoon, who was approximately a year and six months older than him, had shown up to his house with a bright blue cast on his arm, grinning from ear-to-ear like he had unlocked a secret level in Kingdom Hearts . 

“I broke it, trying to do a back flip on my skateboard at the park by our house,” he says, before Yoongi even has the chance to ask, eyes too wide and too focused on the litter of signatures all over the cast. They were all a variety of sizes, some accompanied with small doodles, others with memos or notes, some with just their names. 

“This ones my favorite,” Namjoon points out, running his functioning fingers over a small and seemingly neat signature, a heart right next to the last name, “It’s Seoyun’s, isn’t it cute?” 

“Yeah, I guess” He replies honestly, moving from the door of his room to sit on the floor in front of his bed, watching as the elder turned on the T.V, waiting for it to come to life.

“I lied when she asked me how much it hurt when I broke it,” he smirks, almost triumphantly, “told her it was like a 2, when it was really like a nine and a half! ”  

There’s a subtle quiet that overtakes the room, Yoongi furrowing his brows as the notches in his brain start to go in circles, “Why’d you lie?” He asks innocently, not fully understanding the way Namjoon was talking about his classmate, missing the fondness in his voice. 

“I wanted her to think I was brave,” he says, shrugging his shoulders absentmindedly, “I don’t think it would sound as brave if I said it hurt more.” 

“When I skinned my knee, I told everyone that it was a ten, too, do you think that everyone thinks I’m not as brave?” he asks, and sure, at the end of the day, he didn’t care as much as Namjoon cared about looking brave, but he was still a growing boy, and if there was one thing he didn’t want his friends thinking he was, it was weak.

Namjoon reaches into the bag of chips placed between them on the floor, eyebrows raising, answering almost reluctantly, “ that skinned knee?” he settles on, pointing at his left knee.

“Yeah,” he nods, waiting for a response.

“There’s no way that was a ten Yoon,” Namjoon laughs, “ because if that was a ten, then mine was like…I don’t know, maybe a bajillion?” 

The wires in his brain start to make their rounds, working together to try and figure out what exactly was wrong with labeling his skinned knee a ten. For the first time, Yoongi had to really think about what constituted a real, painful ten. 

“Isn’t all pain a ten?” he says sheepishly, feeling hot all over, playing with the loose strand of thread at the bottom of his shirt. 

“Mmm, I think sometimes it feels like a ten?” Namjoon supplies, shoving more chips into his mouth, “But my mom told me to never use a ten unless you feel like you’re dying. She said if you used it all the time, then no one would believe you when you really felt like a ten.” 

“Why’s that?” His eyes trail to the television, hearing it slowly come to life as a random news reporter starts to appear on the screen, rambling on and on about a possible hit and run in the next town over. 

“Well heck if I know,” he says with puckered lips, “I just know never to use it unless I think my heads gonna explode.” As if on cue, he uses both hands to simulate an explosion, somewhat falling short as his cast refused to let his fingers ball up into a fist to properly showcase said explosion. Instead it just layed there, on top of his head, as his other hand carried most of the weight. 

Yoongi forgets about the conversation soon after, only momentarily remembering every now and then when Namjoon would give him updates during lunch or on the weekends. Listening in on the way Seoyun would dote on him like a prince in need of assistance, as if he was utterly incapable of doing anything other than grimacing in pain. 

And sure, fast forward a decade or so later, Yoongi now twenty-seven,  and having grown into what his mother would have liked to say was a fine young man , he doesn’t think he’s ever really used the scale to rate a solid - and he means solid - ten. There was never a need to. 

Never really thought of a single instance where he had to compare degrees of hurt and have one come out triumphant and on top. Especially when he didn’t seem to care what pain went where on a numerical scale, finally growing up and not needing his mom to evaluate every skinned knee and busted lip, making it easier to forget. 

Except, for some odd , and totally unprovoked reason, his imagination was now running wild and wondering just where the potential pain of rejection might land on this said scale, years and years after that initial educational lesson he took when he was nine. 

Nervously standing in front of dark, and towering wooden doors, he is too afraid to knock, lest someone should answer the door, and realizes he is thinking of all the ways this was not a good idea, after all. 

His tongue felt a little heavier than usual, the hairs on the back of his neck standing a little too upright, trying desperately to forget the nervousness rattling across his skin, bouncing off every inch. It was comical to think, really, thinking of how nervous he must have looked to guests, to the nuns giving him a soft blessed be as they made their way down the long and confusing corridor, wondering if they could hear his inner thoughts trying to convince himself to hold a tightly closed fist and lightly slam it against the damned door. 

There were intricate carvings on the wooden doors, could see them from how close he was currently standing, hundreds of flowers in a variety of sizes blooming across the surface. He quietly thinks to himself, wondering how long it must have taken for the artist to carve each individual flower and corresponding stem, almost feeling the breeze that was captured in the carving, one that had gently brushed flowers against each other. 

While admiring the artists for his artistic take on the flowers, in a foreign building he knew nothing of, he feels a heavy weight shakily awaken inside of his chest. The sensation uncomfortably hot, as if someone had left the furnace on in a building that was already scorching hot, letting the heat peel the paint off the walls, lifting them at the corners. He wants to pretend that maybe it's just indigestion from the eggs he had made this morning, or maybe from the expired bread he had eaten before realizing it was a week past it’s consumable date.

But deep down, he knew the only reason he was feeling like he was cooking from the inside out was because it was currently 11:10 in the morning; it was 11:10 in the morning and although he had no idea where today might have taken him when he ate his sour bread, he was now currently waiting in front of a heavy door, waiting to profess his undying love to a man that would get married by the end of the day. 

A man who also happened to be his best friend, Park Jimin.

Sure, it wasn’t how he had imagined his day to pan out when looking at the bigger picture, and he certainly didn’t need to have a neurosurgeon's degree to know that this might have been the stupidest thing he could have ever done. More so than when he had pulled the fire alarm at school on a dare and almost got expelled, or when he got so high at a neighborhood party, his parents had to come get him when the police showed up two hours later to bust the event. 

And sure , there were a lot more dumb things he had done over the years, it just didn’t dawn on him that today, of all days, he would wake up, slip on his pant suit, and get ready to sabotage a wedding he had seemingly helped create so many months before. He thinks he might as well brand himself with a large, red, ‘T’ for traitor on his breast pocket, maybe then he wouldn’t feel as bad for pouncing on unsuspecting prey. If this were a K-drama, Yoongi is sure the audience would be rooting for his downfall.

Maybe this was why he was suddenly thinking of reasons not to knock, confidence from moments before dwindling, dissipating as soon as he came face-to-face with the reality of it all, the slight jab in his stomach reminding him that it was real, all of this was. Still thinking of a virtually non-existent pain indicator that was both useless and utterly subjective.  

But that doesn’t stop him from thinking about it any less. 

Adjusting the bottom of his suit jacket, he tries to casually wonder how this might go, thinking of how low — or high — this subjective pain might be, depending on the outcome. If this were the best case scenario, then it would be easy, because easy meant that it would be a Zero. Zero because Jimin would immediately come to his senses and realize that he, too, was in love with him! They would (ideally) run away together, eloping in some questionable — but still licensed — drive thru wedding venue, slurping on non-alcoholic beverages and reciting corny vows they had written on their way there. 

But if this were the worst case scenario? Then, Yoongi thinks, it would be a hard and easily identifiable ten. One that would mean screaming, yelling, and maybe a combination of everything under the sun that was short of murder. Jimin would have every right to be upset at the inconvenience of a professed love that meant nothing more than having one less guest at the reception. And a sight that would be, having to be dragged out by force, like a wounded puppy begging not to be left at the pound by its owners, his best friend not being able to look him in the eyes as they chuck him out of the church's doors. Would being rejected by your best friend (one whom you’ve been in love with for years , might he add), really constitute a ten? He would like to think so.

But had he ever even had a ten, before? 

In the middle of a prospective wedding, where almost all of his friends, and all of Jimin’s family were residing, he begins to dig with his bare hands to try to see if he’s ever had a ten, if it was possible to label this a maybe ten. 

Yoongi isn’t even sure why he’s even thinking about why it would matter if this was a ten, a nine, or a fucking zero , but something about the possibility of this being so high up on the pain scale that he had justifiable reason to use the one number Namjoon told him to only use in case of emergencies, has his skin itching. Because if this was a ten — a real, painful, ten — that meant that the possibility of rejection would burn him as much as scalding hot oil falling off the stove, and that meant that him standing on his two feet to confess would only create a wormhole that he could never come out of. 

He knew that though, he wasn’t stupid enough to think that things could go back to the way they once were with Jimin if he went through with this, especially doing so on a day such as this. It was like being caught snorting cocaine right before taking a drug test, there wasn’t much that could be done to erase already irreversible damage. Jimin was kind, but if he was Jimin, he would want nothing to do with him if he had the option. 

He hopes that the real Jimin wouldn’t be so harsh. 

And maybe the possibility of ruining a white cloth with black ink was what had him on the fence, half of his brain suddenly pleading with him to not be so selfish for once and go back to where he was needed, helping the rest of the groomsmen find their shoes, coats, or ties. He bites his bottom lip, wondering if he’s ever had a ten, trying to search through files stacked upon files in his head, wants to know if maybe one ten in his past was enough pain to last a lifetime; wondering if he only needed one ten for the rest of his life. Curious to know if him and Jimin had ever had a ten between them; if they’d ever curate a pain so harsh in their years of friendship, the backlash almost killed them. 

 Like flipping a coin to decide the fate of dinner that night, he finds himself rationalizing the irrational, coming to the conclusion with his nervous self that if he’s ever had a ten in his life up until now, he would lower his shaking hand. He would put it in his pant pocket, take a few steps back, and pretend like he hadn’t snuck away from the other groomsmen to do the unthinkable. Thinks that if he’s had a ten, that was enough for a single lifetime, and he would deny himself the pleasure of being subjected to another one. It was like breaking a leg, you’d never want to break another ever again if you had the option. He’s not sure why this was the conditions of his potential confession, but he sometimes thinks, months down the line, that it was his own personal way of trying to stop the inevitable. 

While the church bells ring in the distance, and he hears the flower girls shriek somewhere on the first floor below, he tries to find a reason to give him more time before ultimately creating a dent into a seemingly perfect summer day. 

He starts it all off with a memory of when he’s thirteen, the earliest point in his life where he felt real, raw, pain. He remembers waking up in an estranged and uncomfortably cold room, the sheets being too rough on the palm of his hands and the sudden realization that there were tubes sticking out of his forearm weighing heavy in his chest. 

It takes a few blinks before he makes out the blurry silhouettes of a few figures in front of him, feeling like he had awoken from a thousand year sleep, eyelids heavy and irritated. His hair is stuck to the sides of his forehead, the monitor by his side beeping every so often as to alert the staff that he was, in fact, alive. 

He doesn’t remember why he’s there at first, mind too foggy and lips too chapped to speak, having to strain his throat by clearing it to gain the attention of the adults in the room. He is soon informed by the doctor that he had landed himself an all expense paid stay at Daegu’s Fatima Hospital, for hitting his head a little too hard when falling and landing head first on concrete while roughhousing with some friends. 

He can’t help but groan as his mother immediately rushes over, peppering kisses into his hair as gently as she could, moving onto his cheeks, nose, and forehead, before Yoongi had to whine for her to stop, there were professionals in the room, after all. The doctor continues to explain, with a small smile on his lips, that although he would be okay, he needed to stay for a couple more days. For observation , they said, as to make sure there were no signs of internal bleeding or excruciating pain that would be an indication of something more severe. 

He remembers the food being subpar at best, the only thing ever cheering him up were the visits from Namjoon, where he would sneak him in some sweets here and there, the nursing fully aware, but allowing it nonetheless. Namjoon was kind, always coming right after school, telling him about the things he missed, and even went as far to tell him about their new neighbor that had moved in just down the street. Mentioning that he would bring him the next time he came to properly introduce them, even as Yoongi had refused, suggesting that maybe hospital meetings were not the best way to get on the right foot with a new and foreign neighbor he knew nothing of.

But Namjoon never listened, and just as promised, he brings a small and fidgety boy with him to his next visit. He was two years younger than Yoongi, and his father had relocated to Daegu a few weeks prior, the boy too afraid to make any attempts at social interactions around the block. That is, until the clumsy and rather tall boy approached him on his way back home from the hospital, asking if he had just moved into the vacant house next to his. As the days came and went, he learned the boys name is Jimin, and although their friendship was still on its 60 day free trial, he very much enjoyed his company on days Namjoon could not come, even if he was two years his senior. 

He rates this pain a solid three out of ten for the sheer fact that he was able to heal perfectly, as if it almost didn’t even happen. The pain doesn’t leave behind any scars, so there is no uncomfortable feeling in his chest to hold onto. 

But a three was definitely not a ten, he thinks, licking his lips, so he continues to dig deeper until his hands start to accumulate soil under his fingertips, chest heaving as he remembers when he is sixteen, when his first boyfriend — and whom he considers the love of his life up until that point — cheats on him with a boy from a different high school. He winces at the memory, clearly picking at painful heartstrings as he unlocks the repressed memory of finally coming to terms with the fact that his ‘picture perfect’ romance had come crashing down as quickly as it was built. 

They had been dating for about six months — not that he was counting — and Yoongi had introduced him to all, and he means all of his friends, laughing at how naive he was back then. Rambling on and on about an equally young boy who tried to play the victim when coming clean. 

As far as he was concerned, everything was going great. He was falling harder and harder for the first time in his life! What more could he have asked for than a boyfriend who had made him feel like he was a diamond in a pile of stones. Yoongi just failed to realize that falling never necessarily meant someone would undoubtedly catch you. He recalls his boyfriend sitting him down, says the secret is eating him alive, as tears ooze out of his seemingly unapologetic eyes, trying to tell him through stutters that he was drunk and he didn’t mean it . 

And after what had seemed like an hour-long argument that turned into something resembling a screaming contest, the boy finally leaves, and Yoongi doesn’t think he’s ever cried as hard as he had that night. His throat was raw, his mother knocking gently on the door, heart aching as he politely asked her to leave, knowing there was nothing she could say to make the hurt hurt any less. 

So instead, he cried into his pillow, tears soaking up into the fabric as he felt the very heart that had so much love for the boy, begin to deflate in the most unfortunate way. He’s so out of it, that he doesn’t hear the quick and nimble footsteps that climb up the stairs five minutes later, the creak of his door almost non-exsistant as he feels the left side of his mattress dip from behind him. 

He reminds himself to thank his mother when he’s feeling up to it, small and warm hands sliding to his waist as they hug him from behind, the smell of strawberry shampoo permeating the room, the wet hair tickling the back of his neck. He doesn’t have to turn around to know that it's none other than his best friend, Jimin, knowing there was no one else his mother would call on nights when he felt like the world was crashing down. 

Like a rose blooming in the dead of winter, their friendship blooms unexpectedly, both boys not realizing how fast the last three years had gone by, until they couldn’t imagine their lives without the other. It's on nights like these, that Yoongi is glad Jimin is the one to hold him, for he knew what to say, or what not to say, to make him feel better, even if it was only for a second. 

“Jimin,” he whispered hoarsely, “it hurts.” And to that, Jimin just hugs him tighter, refusing to let go, even when Yoongi felt like the room was closing in on him. 

He cries until he feels like a dried out sponge, talks until he feels like his mouth would fall off any second, holds onto Jimin as if he was the only lifeline left in a sea of unfamiliarity. Doesn’t protest when he feels himself drift off to sleep with the other still laying pliant next to him, keeps quiet when Jimin pulls the covers over both of them, silently understanding that if there was anyone to make him feel better during a breakup, it would be him. 

In the morning, the pain is still lodged deep within his heart, but he somehow manages to swallow it down with a glass of milk at breakfast, feeling slightly better as he continues to eat chocolate chip pancakes next to an equally tired Jimin. 

It takes a while before Yoongi is able to heal, he remembers the way the months began to mesh into one another before he was able to say his ex-boyfriends name without a sour taste in his mouth. Because of this, he rates the pain a modest five out of ten, as it was not enough of a match to cut him deeper. 

Knowing this was definitely not a ten, he thinks of when he was eighteen, sitting in his parents living room, heart sinking into his feet as he held a rejection letter from the dream school he had applied to, head reading over and over the lines after much consideration, we are sorry to inform you that…

He was never one for backup plans at that age, even the idea of not getting into his dream school in Seoul, was something he refused to think about, only applying to other schools around the area and in his hometown to appease his nagging parents. He was sure he wouldn’t have to wait for their letters either, knowing he had the grades, the essay, and letters or recommendations to catapult him to the few top spots that guaranteed his admission. He doesn’t understand it, finds it hard to process as tears well up and blur his vision, but that wouldn’t make said school change their already made up minds. Because here he was, a reject upon thousands of other rejects, and now he would have to go to a safety school he almost didn’t apply to. 

He looks up to find an already aware Jimin, saddened eyes as he looks at him with so much care, it makes him slightly uncomfortable at the moment. He suddenly feels stupid for asking him to be there to watch him open up the letter, recalling the way he had rung him up with an excited tone because he was sure by now they would have been planning out what dorm aesthetics he would be using for the first year away. 

Spirits crushed, he finds his voice, telling the younger that he thinks it's best if he goes home, vaguely mentioning that he would spend the remainder of that day — and maybe a few days following — wallowing under crumpled sheets. That he could let himself out when he pleased, making his way up the stairs, crumbling up the rejection letter with such force, he momentarily winces. 

But Jimin, oh he always seemed to have different plans that contradicted the elders, quickly catching the back of his sweater, telling his best-friend that under no circumstance, would he be left to his own devices. It was morally and ethically wrong, he argued. Yoongi remembers being too tired and sad to argue, feeling a small headache coming on when the younger simply tells him to pack his favorite pair of sleep wear, and when he was done, to meet him downstairs, where they would walk over to his house, the promise of a sleepover awaiting them. 

That night, as Jimin’s parents were away for business,  they make the executive decision to steal the the liquor from the top shelf in Jimin's house, promising to replace the now half-empty vodka bottle with some quality tap water (courtesy of a drunk Yoongi), and get almost too drunk for comfort. They stay up until four a.m, leaning against one another as the alcohol warms their skin, rambling about how shitty moving so far away would actually be, and Jimin swears it's their loss, because Yoongi was “a real catch”. 

That night, Yoongi doesn’t stop holding Jimin’s hand, much to the younger's delight, and they fall asleep to the humming of the A.C somewhere in the distance. Jimin deciding to nuzzle in the crook of Yoongi’s neck sometime during the night. 

This was a six out of ten, because maybe not getting accepted the first time around was not the end of the world, looking back at it. It gave him more time to laugh at Jimin’s stupid jokes from the comfort of his own home, and that made it all the more bearable. 

Fast forward to when he was twenty-one, drunk off of cheap tequila that burns his throat as it goes down, hand brushing against the carpet of his house, and he’s suddenly coming to the conclusion that he is in love with his best friend, and partner in crime. The news, as sudden as he might have thought it was, was not actually as groundbreaking as he had originally thought it would be, because deep down, somewhere in the depths of a sober mind, he knew that he had always known, he was just barely coming to terms with it. Something about the way the tequila swishes in his mouth before he swallows, managing to make him feel like he was floating, finally makes something click as he stared at the oh-so-beautiful boy in front of him. 

Jimin is rambling about something his professor had said earlier that day, sipping on whatever mixture he had made for himself with the contents of Yoongi’s fridge, grimacing every now and then. He has his hand sprawled out on the edge of the couch as he sat crossed-leg on the floor, a few feet apart from the elder, and even with the T.V in the background, and the soft music playing from Jimin's phone, he can only seem to pay attention to the way Jimin smelled like jasmine and lavender.  

“ Helloo !!” 

“oh, huh?” Yoongi says, snapping back to reality.

“I said ,” Jimin continues with a laugh, “Is there something on my face? You’re looking at me as if there was cat shit on it.” His words are slightly slurred as he leans in a little too close for friendly questioning, but Yoongi disregards it and blames it on the alcohol and his lack of boundaries.

“No” he says simply, feeling hot as the next words roll off of his tongue,  “I just really love you, Minnie.” 

“Oh” he hears Jimin whisper, “well you already know I love you too, Yoongles.” 

But he doesn’t, not in the way he was meaning, he reasons with his drunk self, because it was hard to ever believe that someone as beautiful as Jimin would love a metaphorical train-wreck like himself. He knows that he can’t stop himself from word vomiting these very thoughts if he had the chance, so instead, he nods with a smile, pulling Jimin in for a hug as he wraps one arm around his waist and the other around his head as it lay directly on his shoulder, the warm embrace making him feel even more fuzzy than before. He feels Jimin both hands around his neck, playing with the baby hairs on his neck, mumbling drunk I Love You’s over and over in different octaves.  

He tells himself he would forget the pain in the years to come, too afraid of the possible outcomes that he could encounter when confessing. That he would learn to forget just how much it hurt to be in love with your best friend. 

This was, without a doubt, a solid seven-point-five out of ten, partly because the feeling had never really gone away ( obviously so ), and partly because for the first time since their friendship had begun, Jimin was not able to heal the hurt in his heart like he had so many times before. 

He hears the echoes of some wedding guests somewhere in the distance, laughter bouncing off of high ceilings, momentarily making him wonder if Seokjin was able to get Namjoon here without forgetting anything essential. 

He presses on, half of him desperate to find a ten in his life, while the other half of him hoping he’s never come close. He’s suddenly twenty-three again, fresh out of college and now in a nicer and slightly more expensive apartment, reminiscing on how Jimin finds himself entering into what his best friend would describe as his first, serious, relationship. Sure, Jimin’s had flings here and there over the years, as had he, but nothing was as serious as his new, current boyfriend, Taemin. 

And even as a young twenty-something that knew little to nothing about how relationships worked, judging by the way Jimin talked about Taemin like he was the only person that mattered, he would reside in Jimin’s heart for longer than he would have liked. 

He tells him they’ve gone ‘official’ — or whatever that means — over breakfast at Yoongi’s one morning, the pancakes still hot and the coffee still steaming. Suddenly, it made sense as to why Jimin had started to spend less and less nights over at his apartment, coming to the conclusion that they had been unofficial for over a few months now, the taste in his mouth bitter. It made sense why he had opted to go home, even when it was approaching the a.m hours. 

“Don’t want Taemin to get the wrong idea.” Jimin says jokingly, popping a slice of bacon into his mouth.

“N-No, yeah...of course.” Yoongi says, moving the scrambled eggs around his plate, but never finding it in himself to actually eat them. Suddenly, he’s not that hungry anymore. 

“Yeah,” Jimin says with a laugh before continuing, much to Yoongi’s surprise, who assumed they would drop it at that. He simply smiles, sucking on his teeth before saying in a joking manner, “I-It’s not like… It's not like there's anything going on between us anyway.” 

He furrows his brows as Jimin rambles, watching as his laughter subsides when he stuffs his mouth with more food. 

“Why would you say that?” he asks softly, genuinely confused, picking up his coffee but making no motion to actually drink it, “there's nothing going on between us, let alone anything he should worry about, you know that.” 

It goes quiet for a few seconds after that, lasting for longer than either of them would have liked, each boy's mind racing with different thoughts. Jimin’s cheeks turn a slight shade of pink as he clears his throat. Yoongi isn’t sure why he’s suddenly so hot from the neck down, making a note to turn down the heater a few notches afterwards. 

“No, I...It’s just that — sorry,” he says with a wince, “It was a stupid joke, I wasn’t thinking. Of course there's nothing going on between us. I mean, why would there be, right? We have to like each other for that to happen.” 

The coffee feels too hot and too cold at the same time in Yoongi’s hand, watching as Jimin refuses to touch his eggs as well. He thinks that there's something in the air, like some unspoken phrase or phrases that need to be said, but he brushes it off, knowing it’s just his imagination getting the best of him. 

“Yeah,” Yoongi finally mutters back, watching as Jimin puts his fork and knife on top of his plate, along with his napkin. It seems he’s no longer hungry; the eggs are still untouched, his coffee more than half full, “that is usually how the ball begins to roll.”

Jimin leaves soon after that, saying he had to get ready for a date with his then boyfriend, promising to call later in the night to talk about whatever they wished to talk about. But Jimin does not call that night, leaving the elder to wait by the phone, too afraid to be the first one to call, lest he interrupt something he shouldn’t be, eventually falling asleep under cold covers. 

This was an eight-point-five out of ten on the pain scale, he can say that with certainty. It was hard to rank it any lower when he knew that he was losing his best friend to a stranger that loved him in ways he couldn’t. 

When Yoongi is twenty-six, Jimin rings him up during the middle of the night to tell him that Taemin had unexpectedly proposed. He’s almost completely out of it, groaning as he’s pulled out of a deep slumber, going to answer the phone like clockwork, close to cursing out whoever was calling him at three in the morning on a Tuesday night, until he hears the familiar chimes of a voice he had missed so much. 

“ Yoonie ! Thank god !” Jimin screams as soon as the call had been connected, clearly overjoyed. 

Yoongi winces, not used to the level of noise so early in the morning, pulling the phone a few inches away from his face, “Jimin? Jimin, you do realize that it’s… 3:10 in the morning, right?” 

“Yeah, I-I’m sorry, it's just that me and Taemin had stayed up late since neither of us work tomorrow-er, today I mean, and one thing led to another and, and-”

“And what? Spit it out!” he says in a joking manner while his eyes remain closed. 

“Taemin proposed to me, Yoon.” 

And there it was. 

His eyes shoot open, like he was never tired, as if he had just run a 10k marathon, heart beginning to race as his body filled with uninvited dread. Marriage ? Yoongi thinks, mind racing, he was only 24 for god's-sake! What did Jimin know about marrying someone at such a young age?

“He...He propo-proposed?” He hears himself ask, but doesn’t remember himself opening his mouth to speak. It doesn’t sound like him at all, like he was somewhere distant, static muffling his ears and making everything hard to process. He puts on what he can only imagine is a congratulatory tone, clearing his throat before saying “Ji-Jimin, that’s...that’s great!”

“Thank you,” Jimin says. They were only a phone call away, but at this point they might as well have been oceans apart, separated by every fear Yoongi could muster up. The reception starts to feel grainy, and Jimin doesn’t sound all there, as if he was also coming down from the high of a marriage proposal, but he paid no mind to it. Knowing that it only made sense that he sounded different, he was growing, finding out who he was, becoming his own person, falling in love . That changes you, makes you different. Leaving Yoongi to only grimace as the inevitable timeline he had prayed to dismantle was ultimately happening. 

“I’m… I’m really happy for you Minnie. I’m glad you called and told me, I…I’m happy you finally found the one.”

In the silence between them, Yoongi begins to notice how dark and cold his room really is, how utterly empty it felt; and not just because it was three in the morning, but because he was inevitably alone, so alone, while Jimin was laid up with someone he loved so much so, he would marry them. 

He clutches the phone just a little tighter, feeling tears pool in his eyes until they welled up and began falling, making trails of their own until the coldness of the tears hit his ears. Like fireworks exploding in his hand and peeling back the layers of his skin like an onion, everything suddenly burns. Everything is metaphorically throbbing and somehow he has to remember to control his breathing, the last thing he wanted was for Jimin to ask if he was okay, because he knew if he did, the dam would collapse. 

“We should celebrate.” Is the first thing that comes out of his mouth.

“You…wanna celebrate? Together?” Jimin asks, and something about the way he says it, makes him think that maybe he shouldn’t have said anything at all. 

“Yeah, Of course I do,” he reasons, “My best friend is going to get married soon. I want to celebrate. But if you don’t want to, I completely understa-” 

“No!” Jimin cuts him off, catching him off guard, “I want to…I’m sorry if I sounded unenthusiastic, I would love to.” There's a split second silence, Jimin lowering his voice, as if afraid that the only other person in the room would hear him, voice barely above a murmur as he says “I've missed you.” 

Yoongi notices the way the tears are still rolling down the sides of his face as he hurriedly goes to wipe them away before they reach his ears, the sensation not a pleasant one. “How does Friday sound? I’m off early…”

“I can be there at nine” Jimin says, biting a bottom lip Yoongi can’t see over the phone, “I can stay as long as you want, I’m off Saturday.” 

“Sounds like a plan.” Yoongi supplies, forcing a softer and more velvety tone to mask the bitterness.

“I’ll make sure to put it on my calendar, then.” 

Yoongi isn’t really sure what else he could possibly say in that very moment that could sum up the way he was feeling without sabotaging everything that was set in motion. So instead, he decides to bid the boy goodnight and promises him that he would have everything set up by the time he arrived, promising to ask Namjoon and Seokjin if they wanted to join, Jimin quietly telling him he’d ask Taemin as well if it was a group gathering that they had agreed to, breaking Yoongi’s resolve down to the bare bones. He hears the click on the other end not too long after, the long and drawn out beep that created nothing but pent up rage to pool at his feet echoing in his ear. He doesn’t think he remembers sleeping much that night, or the few nights afterward. 

Friday finally rolls along, and just as promised, Yoongi supplies the food, the drinks, and the music that would be playing in the background throughout the night. He smells the takeout that he had bought at most twenty minutes prior, mouth watering as he poured a shot of vodka to the rim of a shot glass, barely downing the contents inside of the cup as he hears the chime of his apartment door go off, signaling the man, or men , of the hour had arrived. Taking a deep breath, he fixes the wrinkles in his black button down shirt, moving slowly to open the door and coming face-to-face with Jimin, who was holding a bottle of Gin and a large bag of potato chips. 

He’s wearing a long, yellow, fuzzy sweater, his fingers barely poking out of the sleeves, collarbones on display for the whole world to see. He’s wearing sweats, long black ones, and equally fuzzy slippers, face bare but as beautiful as ever. Yoongi would be lying if he said Jimin didn’t take his breath away, even after all this time. They stand by the door for a couple more seconds, before something like a switch is flipped inside of Yoongi’s head; One of the two future grooms is…missing. 

“Wheres…” he trails off, eyebrows furrowing.

“Ah,” Jimin says, almost expectedly, turning around to wave at the man in question, long arm sticking out the window almost immediately to wave back at him, blowing a kiss through the windshield before pulling out of the apartment complex driveway. 

Making his way inside wordlessly, he only had to take a few steps before getting to the living room, setting down the booze and chips before turning to look at Yoongi, “ He said he didn’t want to impose. Since it would just be the friends he doesn’t know as well.”

Yoongi simply nods, shoving his hands into his pockets as he rocked back and forth between the balls and soles of his feet, feeling the heat pool up to his cheeks as he quickly began to speak, “Joon and Jin couldn’t make it, they were meetings Jin’s parents for the first time today, but told me to tell you we’d have a proper party when we could all get together.” 

It feels like a lie, he concludes by the way Jimin stares back at him, even though it was anything but. He had rung them up, asking (more like pleading) for their presence, afraid of just how awkward it would be, being in a room with just Jimin and his fiancé.

 Fiancé . 

He internally cringes and makes a mental note on just how uncomfortable that word made him feel. Seokjin had simply ignored his pleas, telling him that he would be just fine , and that they would make the best out of a sticky situation, he had a good feeling about it anyway. Or at least, that’s what he told Yoongi over the short phone call.

Jimin doesn’t press further, simply shrugging his shoulders and breaking out into a toothy smile not long after, laughing as he commented on it being just like the good old days. 

They fall into routine rather quickly, though, both making room on the couch facing the T.V as they dug into greasy noodles and beef, the quiet no longer seeming suffocating, and even though they had begun to spend less and less time together as a result of their busy schedules and Jimin’s relationship, it felt like they had never stopped seeing each other every other day. Like the days that turned into weeks and amounted to months without proper communication had been blown away like nothing had ever gone awry. 

After about an hour of giggles and the sound of noodles being slurped, the bottles of chilled liquor staring back at them are finally opened. 

Sips turn into chugs throughout the night, and chugs somehow turn into shots of measured alcohol, until by the end of it all, they each choose a designated bottle to nurse and essentially shotgun whenever they feel like it. 

It’s easy to forget that the whole point of the celebration was as a congratulations to Jimin's newfound status as an almost newlywed. Easy as the shots kept coming and the chips kept being shoved inside of unsuspecting mouths, that is, until Yoongi watches the ring on Jimin's left hand catch the light of the living room lamp, and he’s reminded that no matter how hard he tried, there was no denying Jimin was getting married, whether he liked it or not. 

Jimin catches the elder staring, almost sheepishly trying to hide the ring by sitting on his hand, or hiding it under the couch pillows, but Yoongi only shakes his head, feigning excitement as he asks to see it, in all its glory. And Jimin does as he’s told, giving him his hand as Yoongi inspected the ring with hollow spirits.

 It's beautiful, that he would admit, admiring the giant diamond that was surrounded by a total of twelve smaller ones, the band around Jimin's finger adorning even more diamonds all around. He vaguely remembers Jimin telling him that Taemin’s family were the owners of a large entertainment firm, Taemin being guaranteed to inherit it in a few years, as he was an only child, and Yoongi knows this was all but pocket change to the boy. With the size of the diamond, he swears he can see his own reflection laughing back at him, finger pointed in almost an accusational tone of if only you were quicker . 

They don’t bring up the ring again, Yoongi for obvious reasons, Jimin? He’s not so sure, since he knew that if it were him in his shoes, he’d never shut up about something as elegant and expensive as that. But he silently thanks the lords above for the lack of mention of it. 

By two in the morning, they'd come to the conclusion that although they were not lightweights in any sense of the word, they had drunk passed what they had considered their limit, both clearly intoxicated to the point that even walking to the bathroom was a struggle. Jimin, by now, had moved in closer to the elder, resting his head on his shoulder and linking their arms together, giggling as he makes a comment about being too drunk and needing to spend the night. Yoongi doesn’t fight him on that possibility, instead just puts his head on top of Jimin’s, breathing in the familiar scent of strawberries he had come to know. 

“I’ve missed this,” Jimin’s words are slurred, but he sighs in content nonetheless, trying to scoot closer, but only earning a groan from Yoongi, who wasn’t a fan of the way the couch cushions would bounce ever-so-slightly. 

“You know I missed this too,” He agrees, burying his nose into the younger's hair, “ it's hard not having my best friend over as often anymore. I mean, who can I complain to when something in my life goes remotely wrong?” 

Jimin laughs, airy and light, makes Yoongi feel as if angels had started playing their harps in unison, “Hmm, I don’t know, maybe Namjoon? Jin? Hobi?” he supplies,  “Or any of your recent hook-ups that you would always seem to bring around?” 

Yoongi shoves the younger, who only laughs harder before having to squeeze his eyes shut to stop the room from spinning, “I’m serious! I’m surprised you haven’t settled down yet Yoongles, at this point, it feels like you’re avoiding marriage or something.” 

At that, drunk Yoongi takes offense, dramatically untangling their arms, a groaning Jimin clearly not a fan.

“Marriage is overrated anyway,” he huffs, crossing his arms, “no offense to you Jimin-ah, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to find someone whom I’d want to spend the rest of my life with.” Except you , he hears himself whisper through breachable thoughts, almost having to clasp a hand over his mouth to stop them from slipping out. 

“If I can find someone, you can too Yoonie. I just know it!” 

Yoongi turns to face Jimin, his eyes turning into crescent moons as he looks at Yoongi with such a hopeful expression, he almost believes it. he looks at the rosiness in Jimin’s cheeks and the pink tint to his lips, wonders how much self control he has left before he could dive right in and kiss him. 

“You seem to know a lot these days, huh?” he whispers, eyes wandering over every part of Jimin's face, no matter how fuzzy his vision encapsulated it. 

Jimin doesn’t answer for a while, sitting a little straighter, hand going to trace over the lines on Yoongi’s as it laid flat on the top of the couch. “Like…what?” he whispers back.

And this is when Yoongi feels the dam break, flooding his lungs, liver, heart, until it's hard to breath and the room continues to spin. He isn’t sure what possesses him to even ask, but he knows that it would have come out sooner or later, not registering the weight of his words as he asks, “You really think he’s the one for you?”

Jimin only looks at him, eyebrows furrowing as the crescent moons in his eyes suddenly become solar eclipses, hand momentarily halting the circles it was drawing on a pliant hand. The tiredness in Yoongi's bones suddenly increases and decreases at rapid rates, not knowing what to do and not really sure if he cared enough to even try and backtrack on why he would even ask. 

“Do you think he’s the one?” Jimin asks instead, and suddenly, Yoongi isn’t even sure how to respond. He turns to look at the table in front of them, looks at the condensation of the liquor bottles that create small droplets of water that slowly slide down the glass until they hit the wooden table. 

His mouth is at a loss for words, and he wants to desperately tell him that no, he wasn’t, because the only person who would ever be “the one”, would be the person sitting just a few inches away from him. Jimin was giving him a perfect opportunity to do so, and yet he was still too afraid to. His mouth opens and closes like a Venus fly trap ,and Jimin just lowers his eyes, playing with his hands as they now lay on his lap, looking like he was a few seconds away from bursting. 

“He loves me,” Jimin offers, words slowly coming out with a slight slur, “he’ll treat me good, Yoonie. He’ll…treat me so good.” 

And that wasn’t answering the question in any way, shape, or form, they both knew that. It was like drawing a picture of the Mona Lisa when asked about the importance of the fourteenth century. It maybe could be argued that it sort of touched upon the subject, but it still didn’t account for the fact that there was a picture in place of a paragraph. He simply nods, ready to drop the question that had no merit, and although he knew it was against his best judgment, he goes to pour another shot from the already half empty bottle. 

The pour is loud against the quiet murmur of the music behind them, going until he almost goes over and spills on the table, making a mental note to clean it as soon as he had sobered up. He begins to pick up the small glass from the table, and as if on cue, he hears Jimin from behind him. 

“But I don’t think I love him.” and the grip he has on the glass is almost nonexistent, the drink slipping just enough for it to go splashing on the carpet, eyes going wide. 

“ What? ” is all he manages to say, as the wet tips of his fingers go to his sides, shoulders leaning on the frame of the couch, repositioning his body. He closes his eyes, sticking his hands up in front of him, shaking his head even though it only made his head spin. There was too much to process, and as he opened his eyes, Jimin just stared at him, as if he had said something he shouldn’t have, but had no remorse in doing so. 

If he had ever wanted a response, he’s sure that this was not the one he would actually get. His breath hitches, and knows that this, all of this, was becoming a huge mistake. 

“You’re getting married , Jimin.” he says, throat dry, “what do you mean you don’t-”

“I’m hung up on someone who doesn’t even love me.” was all he says as he cuts off the elder, and nothing can prepare him for the way that his heart breaks into hundreds of pieces he didn’t know were possible. Not just for his own miserable emotions, but because Jimin just looked at him, the lash line slightly damp as he looked…broken. Like he had said something that had been weighing on his chest and had finally been able to get it out with the help of the alcohol.

“Jimin, I-I’m sorry,” Yoongi stammers, heart racing  “I didn’t...I never meant to question…Fuck Jimin its just-” 

“I don’t love him,” he supplies, laughing almost like he meant it, “I…don’t. At least, not as much as I should.” 

Yoongi is so, so confused. His head is still spinning as Jimin only looks at him with hopeful eyes he isn’t sure what to do with. He just knows that Jimin has had too much to drink and he was spouting nonsense that was never meant to see the light of day; wonders if he’ll even remember any of this the next day. 

“Do you think I should have said no?”

And he can only look at Jimin, who's looking at him as if he was expecting him to say something that would make him feel better. But at this point? What would those words even be? Jimin scoots closer, taking Yoongi's hand in his, looking up at him, much to his protest, “I need to know, do you think… was it a mistake?” 

As if he was once again expecting Yoongi to say or do something Yoongi, himself, didn’t seem to comprehend, it all feels wrong, like they were moving onto uncharted territory and were severely under-prepared. The skin on his knuckles feels like it's on fire, Jimin momentarily brushing his thumb over the bones, toes curling and uncurling as if to tame the uncertainty in the room. This was too much to process, even for a completely sober person, so how was he to take the information nine shots in? He feels a headache coming on, and tries to suppress a yawn that bubbles at his throat, knowing that it wouldn’t even be appropriate to signal that he was tired.  

I’m hung up one someone that doesn’t even love me.

The words register in his brain as big, bold, red letters, thousands of exclamation points around them, underlining the words over and over and over until he’s sure it’s burned a hole inside of his brain. The smell of spilled vodka burns his throat, his stomach twisting and turning like he would throw up any second now, and in the midst of the sudden confession, Yoongi comes to the realization that although Jimin had loved — or was more accurately, hung up on — someone other than his current partner, that person still wasn’t him. 

It hurts, knowing that although he sometimes thought of himself as someone being worthy of a love he never had, it was moments like these that reminded him that no matter what he thought he deserved, it didn’t mean he actually deserved it. He feels sick to his stomach, doesn’t know how to tell Jimin that, yes, this was all a big mistake, especially if he was still in love with a mystery man. But with the way he was looking at him like a fragile piece of glass that would crack under any scrutiny, he knew it would only hurt him to tell him this. 

So instead, after swallowing his pride, confession, and advice, he slowly gets up and picks up the shot glass from the floor, taking as many things as his hands could carry, refusing to look Jimin in the eyes as he headed into the kitchen. His words are cold, even though he doesn’t mean them to be. He wants Jimin to know that, but it's kind of hard when he’s trying even harder to not fall with every step. 

“I think,” he says, the dishes clinking together as they hit the sink, “I think you should call your fiancé to come pick you up, Jimin-ah. I don't…I don’t think it’s a good idea to keep the celebratory party going.” 

And although he couldn’t see Jimin’s face contort as if he had suddenly been shot point blank in the chest, he can practically imagine the expression as he hears a broken voice not long after. “ Oh ,” is all he says, as Yoongi plays with the dishes in the sink, hearing the way Jimin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the tone of the buttons in his phone echoing with every press.

“Jimin,” Yoongi says, guiltily, hearing the way the numbers on his keypad were being pressed agonizingly slow, “ it-it's not that I don’t want you here, I just don't want you saying anything you’d regret in the morning.” 

Jimin sounds sober as they wait for the familiar beep that signaled Taemin had, in deed, picked up, “I think the only thing I regret is drinking too much.” 

Yoongi refuses to go back into the living room after that,  making himself busy with putting away the bottles and chips, hearing as Jimin cleared his throat and asked Taemin to come pick him up, explaining with ease that he missed him and wanted to go home; with a voice so velvety, it almost seemed like nothing had even happened. Had he imagined the whole scenario in his head? He forces himself to come out of his thoughts as several minutes fly by in a few seconds, Yoongi gripping the tile of his counter with so much force, his knuckles turn a milky white. 

At three-thirty in the morning, Taemin walks up the stairs to Yoongi’s single bedroom flat and firmly knocks on the door, signaling his arrival. He goes over to open the door, sees the internal struggle as Jimin stumbles his way over to put his shoes on, makes his way to help the younger until he forces himself to stop. He knew that would be the last thing Jimin would have wanted anyway. He waits until Jimin has his shoes on to open the door, Taemin greeting him with warm smiles, oblivious to the hurricane that had made its welcome inside of his home, making small talk as Taemin joked about Jimin having too much to drink. 

If only he knew the half of it. 

He’s respectful, kind, polite. Says his goodbyes in a gracious way as he thanks him for hosting the party for all four of them, Yoongi not correcting the boy when he mentions how much fun they must have had with Joon and Jin. He was rather stupid, too, but Yoongi thinks that it’s better that way as he carries Jimin down the stairs, putting on his seat belt when he’s finally in the car, kissing his lips before going to the drivers side and turning the car on. 

He’s still heavily drunk off of so many different things as he watches Taemin pull out of the driveway and turn left, closing his door when he can no longer distinguish his tail lights from the rest of the cars on the road. He doesn’t remember much else after that, just knows that he sleeps like a rock, despite the confusion of it all. He wakes up to no messages from Jimin, much to his disappointment, even though he understood that if he were him, he wouldn’t have done so either. 

It takes a total of three weeks before Jimin texts him, a simple message asking him if he’d like to be a groomsman, to which he replies that he’d be honored. They do not talk about the incident, can’t talk about something that both refuse to admit even happened, Yoongi reasons. 

This , he thinks, was a nine-point-five out of ten, just because he knew that no matter how Jimin had felt, or appeared to feel, he was still to be married in the year to come, meaning that he would still lose his best friend and ghost of a lover to another. 

He hears the laughter of two groomsmen deep in conversation through an open window right in front of him, making him realize that although it had felt like only seconds had gone by, he had, in fact, been standing outside of the same wooden door for longer than he would have liked to admit. He can’t seem to rummage through his memories anymore, hands coming back clean as the pain of other instances not existing, coming to the conclusion that although he had assumed there had been a ten lodged somewhere deep inside of his head, he could only come up with a nine-point-five. 

He thinks of the past year, thinks of all the input he had put in over the twelve months, all of the suit fittings he had attended with every other groomsmen, and can’t seem to conjure up enough points to make a final ten. Maybe this was his brains way of telling him that he didn’t need a ten after all, that the remembrance of a nine should have been enough to deter him from making a mistake as grand as forgetting to wipe the murder weapon after leaving the crime scene. 

And maybe his subconscious thoughts were right, but somewhere, deep within the lining of his soul, he tries to convince himself that maybe he could just stop by and say hello, that a hello never meant anything malicious. That a hello and a final goodbye wouldn’t lead to a pressing confession. Was that even what he wanted? He knew what he had come here to do, but when actually handed the tools to deliver the final blow, he was finding it hard to when there were so many different sides of an argument. 

It was a lot harder said than done, especially when he had been trying to confess since he was twenty-one for god's-sake, and even with the years of practicing in front of a full body mirror, the notion of looking Jimin in the eyes and telling him that he loves him, was something he wasn’t sure he could-

“Yoonie? What are you doing here?” The words are asked in a sweet, yet confused tone. Yoongi doesn't have to turn around to feel his heart jump up to his throat and know who was the owner of those words. 

Jimin.

Days later, when he’s sitting on the carpet of his apartment floor, eating the leftovers that Namjoon had brought him the day before, he thinks of that very moment. Thinks of how he doesn’t ever remember turning around, only remembering the way he felt like the air had been sucked right out of him. Wonders why the whiplash stayed, even now. 

But there he stood, the man of the hour. He stood tall, waiting for Yoongi with a raised eyebrow and smile tugging at his lips, waiting for an answer as to why he had decided to stray away from the itinerary. Why he wasn’t with the rest of the groomsmen, why he thought he was special enough to be able to step out of line. Yoongi could only stare at the boy, adoration leaking out from every pore of his body, mouth agape and eyes grazing over the beauty that was Jimin. 

He wore a white tuxedo, gold accents adorning the specks of his tie, a gold watch to tie the look together, the gold lining of a white handkerchief the finishing touch to tie the two colors together. He notices his smokey eye, reminding himself just how much of a fan he was of how grey looked on him, the black coal liner on the waterline creating a sharp, intense look. He had seen this outfit so many times, had seen it every time he had gone to a fitting, but just like every time before, it still hit him like thousand bricks because of just how beautiful he really looked. Jimin clasps his hands together, cocking his head slightly to the side, smile still as evident as ever, the silence not one to worry over. 

“ Jimin ,” Yoongi begins, finally finding his voice, “I — wow, you look… beautiful , you look beautiful.” 

And to that he simply laughs in response, light and airy as his shoulder shakes slightly at the compliment, cheeks round and rosy. He had thought his smile was the most captivating in a room full of people, and looking at it once more, he was absolutely right.  

“I could say the same about you ” he says after a few seconds, hiding his laughter as he brought the back of his hand up to his face. Slowly lowering his hand, he presses his lips together for a quick second, “but you still haven’t told me why you’re here and not-” he uses his head to point to his right, where the groomsmen were stationed, “- with everyone else. I need you in the front lines!” he says playfully. 

Jimin doesn’t let Yoongi answer — not that he was planning on it — and takes a few strides as the elder moves to the side, allowing for the boy to open an already unlocked door. He leaves it open as an invitation, continuing to walk further and further inside; the invitation ringing loud and clear as Yoongi quickly follows him inside.

 An invitation that had no need for spoken words.  

 Upon entering, Yoongi notices the way the room seems fit for royalty, high ceilings and large windows adorning the wall facing the church. It made sense why Jimin had chosen to use this venue as the place he decided to get ready in, a palace fit for a king, he supposes. “His shoes,” he finds himself saying with ease, lying through his teeth, “Namjoon forgot his black shoes. We tried to warn him but he still…forgot. Says he had a spare in his care, but they're an off-brown.” 

He places his hands behind his back as Jimin stopped in his tracks, Jimin’s nose huffing a considerable amount of air as Yoongi waited for a response, “he wanted me to ask if it was okay. He’s too nervous to come ask on his own accord.” 

There's fear in his belly as he hopes that Jimin doesn’t actually go and give the man a piece of his mind, or validate the story on his own accord. That, he agrees, would turn out into a mess he wasn’t sure he knew how to explain. He turns to Yoongi, rubbing the back of his neck before breaking into a lopsided smile with furrowed eyebrows that carried no malice. 

He hears the door behind them creak little by little, until he hears the click as it closes. The small sound echoing slightly against the church's walls. He knows that although Jimin was upset, at the end of the day the boy could care less, at least the elder had managed to show up without a broken bone or missing pinky. 

“Honestly? It’s not the end of the world, it’ll be something we can tease him about when he tries to say he’s not forgetful, don’t you think?” 

“I think that’s a wonderful idea.” he jokes, mirroring Jimin's lopsided smile, shoulders deflating at the knowledge that he had bought it, all of it. 

The air around them is comfortable, teetering somewhere between peaceful and playful, and Yoongi wanted nothing more than to bask in it for as long as he could, even if it meant that he was somewhere that he shouldn’t have been. Like a child with an arm elbow’s deep in the forbidden cookie jar at three a.m. 

He looks around, sees a large vanity with three even larger mirrors, makeup neatly in their designated compartments. There are two chandeliers hanging from intricately painted ceilings, gold crystals illuminating in the sun, right below what appeared to be hand painted depictions of angels and gods. It was only fair to assume that the church had that commissioned when it had bought the building twenty-sum years prior to them standing on beige marbled floors. 

The walls just left of him had more biblical paintings sprawled against its surfaces, saints and fathers painted deep in thought as years of wear and tear were nowhere to be seen, it was beautiful really, even if Yoongi was not even the slightest religious. He watches as Jimin moves to sit on a long and equally embroidered couch a few inches in front of the painted wall, stares into the mirrors of the vanity directly in front but several feet away. He places his hands on his lap as if appearing to be deep in thought, maybe reminiscing, maybe overthinking, Yoongi couldn’t be sure. 

“So this is it, huh?” he says, voice carrying out throughout the room before dying down just as quickly as it had come.

Jimin turns to him, the rays of light peeping through the windows, catching the gold accents on his face, he smiles and shakes his head. “You say it as if I’m your husband going off to war, Yoongles. I’m getting married, not getting drafted.” he teases. 

He knows the words are nothing but empty jokes meant to fill space, but somehow they still sting like two meteorites colliding, echoing and creating pulsating burns at unprecedented speeds. He swallows thickly, “I know,” he starts, “but after today, you’ll be a married man! Isn’t that like, a giant milestone or something?”  

To that, the younger chuckles, “I guess you could look at it that way,” using the palm of his hand to pat the spot next to him in an attempt to get Yoongi to sit. Yoongi complies in a heartbeat, making his way over in long strides. He reminds himself that there was no need to show the eagerness in his actions, settling to sit just a little farther away than where Jimin was patting, afraid that if he sat too close, Jimin would hear his heart beating as fast as it did. 

“After…” Yoongi looks at his watch grimly, “.... one p.m, you’ll officially be known as Mr. and Mr. Lee.” he uses his hand to create a fist, extending it to the boy as if he was holding a real microphone in his hand, “how does that feel, Mr. Park?” 

And Jimin just looks at him, playful eyes matching an equally playful smile as his eyes start to turn into crescent moons, laughing once more as he leans in close enough to almost touch the mic with his lips, “I’d say,” he beings, “ It feels pretty fucking amazing.” 

He takes back his mic as they keep their gazes locked, forcing a smile as he hears everything he wishes he wouldn’t, wondering why coming was even a good idea, when he was only hurting himself in the process. He wasn’t sure if he even had it in him to confess now that he thought about it, knowing it was one thing to wish, and another thing to do. 

“-but that would be tomorrow.” 

Yoongi snaps back into reality, eyes fixated on the boy but mind finally tuning in as the younger relaxed in his seat, feet propped up and back pressed up against the armrest. “What about tomorrow?” he says, sheepishly. 

“I said ,” Jimin says, feigning annoyance as he rolled his eyes, “I wouldn’t technically be Mr. Lee until tomorrow. We couldn’t get an appointment to sign the documents with the county clerk until 12 p.m. tomorrow. But if you throw technicality out the window, I think anything goes.” 

“I guess so” he repeats, shrugging his shoulders, “I’m sure god isn’t even paying attention to the loophole. Even so, I won’t tell him if you don’t.” 

Jimin extends a hand towards the elder, smiles wide and appreciative as they continue to play along, Yoongi taking his hand into his own, firmly shaking before letting go, “what a gentleman” Jimin says in return. 

“Well, of course!” Yoongi mimics with an equally enthusiastic tone, “I’m your best friend, I’d be applaud if you thought of me as anything less.”

It’s calming, basking in small conversations meant for two, missing the way Yoongi had felt when talking to the younger, knowing it had been some time since the last time they had just sad down and, well, talked . It was always about what color the petals should be, or what flavors the cake should have, not simple and playful banter that made him feel like they had never missed a beat. 

It was expected though, just as he had always known, planning a wedding was hard, especially when trying to make it as perfect as Jimin had. Knew there were no hard feelings when all the boy was trying to do was find the right cake, make sure the tailoring to his suit fit just right , send wedding invitations that burned the tips of Yoongi's fingers as he pulled the card from a neatly sealed envelope that read Jimin and Taemin cordially invite you to their wedding ceremony, Saturday, July 3rd. Granted, it wasn’t the most pleasant conversation Yoongi would have liked to have, since it still technically included talk of marriage, but it was a conversation nonetheless, one that lasted past a simple nod or sentence. It was more than what they had been able to do in the past year.

It was just that after that night, when Jimin had blatantly admitted to being in love with someone other than Taemin, it was like Jimin was afraid to do anything other than ask for wedding advice. Like if he asked enough times, or let Yoongi have more and more input than was even necessary, it would erase the fact that that night ended in every way but the way both boys wanted. Like he was trying to patch up a sinking boat with hundreds of bandages, like it would somehow stop the flooding of the captain's quarters. 

The conversation was nice, but staying up late with the boy, watching whatever cheesy rom-com he had rented that day while binging on fatty food and cheap liquor was better. The conversation was nice, but laughing with the boy until his stomach hurt and they leaned on each other during finals week was unbeatable. 

It was nice, but nice was never a replacement for the things he wished could have occurred in that very moment, and he knew that. If Jimin could hear his thoughts, he would hope he agreed. 

“So what’s left on the agenda?” Yoongi asks as he pushes back his thoughts, watching  Jimin get up from the couch and walk over to the vanity, sitting on a plush seat while rummaging for something in particular. 

“Not much,” he huffs, lifting up palettes and haphazardly putting them back down, moving brushes to where eye shadows once were, blushes where glitters were supposed to be, “Just need to pick up my flowers, and wait until Tae comes to tell me that they’re ready for me.” 

Yoongi motions to get back up, shoving his hands in his pockets as he walks up to Jimin, standing behind him as he continued to rummage through his makeup, “You’re making a mess,” he notes, “everything was so organized, I’m sure that took you awhile.” 

“Tae did my makeup” he replies softly, continuing to look, “we both know that I am not one to keep a clean-- Aha! Found it! --makeup station.” Jimin raises up his right hand, showing Yoongi a clear tube of lip gloss with bits of glitter reflecting in the sunlight. 

“For a split second,” he says jokingly, “I thought the Jimin who left residue of eye shadow's and blush in my bathroom on night’s out had made their final curtain call. I see he continues to live to see another day” 

“You loved it,” he retorts.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “I did.”

Jimin opens the tube of lip gloss, a small pop as the cap comes undone, pumping it a few times in the tube before taking the applicator out and placing it on his lips, gliding the gloss over his lower lip, before smacking his lips together to coat as much surface area as he possibly could.

Yoongi walks over to the window next to Jimin’s vanity, watching as he adds a little extra setting powder under his eyes, knowing that if there was anything more horrific than lipstick-stained teeth, it was looking like a recently oiled up skillet.The wedding took place in a windowless church with less than subpar air conditioning, he needed the extra layer of protection. 

Yoongi lifts his hands up to unlatch the old-fashioned locks from its compartment, pushing the windows open abruptly with both hands, small gushes of wind rushing in. It smells like sorrow, and he isn’t sure it was even possible for humans to smell like how they were feeling, after all, it might have just been his imagination. Breathing in the air tumbling in, he could only smell the floral scents of the purple hyacinths right below. 

His heart is still racing.

Jimin looks at him, watching as Yoongi looks over the horizon, past the church and its bells, towards the mountains thousands and thousands of miles away. Surprised the fog and emissions in the air didn’t obstruct the view, coming to the conclusion that maybe it was because of the time of day. Momentarily thinks of how the grassy plains would feel on bare feet, how pretty the grass stains would look on a tumbling Jimin, thinks of the thousands of possibilities that all ended with him getting in his old beat up Toyota and emptying a tank he had made sure to refill before arriving. 

“Do you remember,” Yoongi begins, catching Jimin’s attention, as the hot and bright day begins to turn into dark winter skies that were littered with stars in his memory, the painting’s of gods creations replaced with red solo cups and cheap liquor, “ your freshman year, when you got so hammered at a house party, I had to come get you?” 

Jimin simply groans in response, loud and continuously, noise echoing through his throat with ease. He squeezes his eyes shut, scrunching his nose as he places his chin on an open palm, “ How could I forget? I remember splitting my lip on a window before I used it as a make-shift trash can.” 

“The memory of pulling up to the party and spotting you a few hundred feet away, drooped outside the second story window, throwing up like you were a statue at the Trevi Fountain, is ingrained into my skull, you know.

“Don’t remind me.” Jimin pouts.

“I think that warrants financial compensation, if you ask me.” Yoongi teases. 

“At least I didn’t get it on anyone, as far as I remember!” 

“You threw up in the backseat of my car” Yoongi deadpans, lifting his brows.

He laughs in response, “Oh yeah , it smelled like cherry-flavored vodka for a week after that,” he takes his hand and clasps them on his lap, looking up at Yoongi, “What made you even think about me throwing up in the back of your car, anyway? It’s not like it smells like cherry vodka now.” 

He presses the palm of his hand against the bare bones of the window, running careful fingertips against the frames of the glass, “The windows are similar to the ones that I had to pull you out of.” 

Jimin rolls his eyes, tilting his head slightly to the right, as if deep in thought before continuing, “Okay,” he finally says, starting to put brushes back into their bins, dusting off his fingertips on some left-over makeup wipes, “do you remember, when you tried to out-drink me my sophomore year? And don’t ask which time,” he says, almost smugly, “because you know which one.”

And Yoongi doesn’t have to ask to know where this is going, pursing his lips as warmth spreads across his chest,  endearment lodged deep in his throat, “When I got so drunk I tried to fit my leg in between the railings outside my apartment and got stuck? Yeah, I remember.” 

“And you refused to call 911 so we had to wake up your neighbor for help, who len-lent us his chocolate flavored lube to make your leg slippery enough to get out?” Jimin's shoulders are shaking, head thrown back as the giggles come at rapid speeds. 

“How could I forget when you won't let me live it down?” He says, cheeks a rosy pink, walking closer until he's at an arm length away, shoving him with enough strength to cause the chair to wobble, but not enough to actually cause it to overturn. It was simpler then, Yoongi thinks. 

“How can I?” he questions, clicking his tongue, “It’s like asking you to forget I puked up vodka and lasagna when you took me home that night.” 

He can’t help but laugh at the sudden memory, reminiscing on a severely drunk, teenage, Jimin, the smell still sending him on the edge of puking himself. He hears the birds chirping again, only this time, they seem to be closer, like the days heat had brought them closer until he could hear their foreign cries; as if they were disguised into everything other than what he could understand. 

“Those were good times” He recalls, placing a hand on the window frame as they laid dormant on the sturdy walls, leaning as it held its weight. 

Jimin taps his fingernails on the vanity, the small tap tap tapping mixing in with every other noise filling Yoongi’s senses, “do you remember,” Jimin begins, biting his lower lip, refusing to meet his eyes, “when you took me to my senior prom?” His cheeks begin to slightly redden, and Yoongi wants to coo at the younger, suppressing the urge to pinch his cheeks. 

“Yeah,” he says, nodding, “you cried for days because you couldn’t find a date, it was like - hey!- ” He laughs as Jimin gently shoves him back, quickly rising from his seat to push against his chest, a pout evident on his face,  “- you did !” 

“You only focus on the negative Yoon,” he grumbles, “it's almost like you forget that everyone was so shocked I had bagged a college sophomore, we were the talk of the night! Even got to cut in line for our prom pics!” 

He doesn’t say anything further that would embarrass the boy, knows how sensitive the topic is, even if Jimin tried to play it off, “You were so beautiful, all the boys were too afraid to ask and get rejected.” he says instead, meaning every word.  

“You flatter me” he says in response, tilting his head as it rested on his hand, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were flirting with me.” 

And he doesn’t want to correct him, because he was, he always was. He knew that no matter how much he denied it, there was always a part of him, a subsequently large part of him, that wished Jimin would see right through him and call him on his bluff, for real. Jimin continues to look at him, waiting for a denial Yoongi wishes would never have to come, knowing the longer he waited to jump on the denial train, the more suspicious Jimin would get.

 But maybe his refusal to confess to a lie should have been enough momentum to give him the head start to do everything he had come here to do, but it all comes out as everything he had expected it to be. “The day I flirt with you,” he says, bitterly joking, “is the day Poseidon himself comes and drowns us all in his oceans.” 

“I guess that should be a relief, huh?” He laughs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear, “Don’t need you giving Taemin a reason to escort you out of the wedding.” 

And oh the irony of it all.

“Thank god for that.” he says, feigning a sigh as he continued playing along, shoving his hands in the pockets of his slacks.

He watches as Jimin continues giggling, the air around him laughing along as he looks down at his chest. Using one hand to fish something on the inside of his shirt, his hand comes out with a small, and oh-so-familiar pendant, “so caught up in the negative, you forgot you gave me this.” 

Letting the necklace fall from his grasp, it falls about two inches below his collar bones, a flattened-down gold flower accentuated across it. Even from where he was standing, Yoongi could see the tips of the six petals, all still dipped in silver, could even see some chips here and there from the wear and tear over the years. 

“You told me you didn’t want a corsage,” Yoongi reminisces with touched eyes, mouth dry, “said they looked tacky.” 

“And you showed up to my parents house with this instead,” he finishes, “made me feel like I was the only one in the room,” Jimin looks up at him, before quickly adding, “metaphorically, of course.” 

“I’m glad,” he mumbles, “but that doesn’t explain why you’re wearing it today.” 

“What?” Jimin says, gasping, dramatically putting a hand over his chest as he tries his best to look offended, “I can’t wear things given to me?” 

“N-No,” Yoongi laughs, “of course you can, it’s just that, I mean, It’s your wedding-and that’s a cheap necklace I got you in your teens-” 

“Exactly.” Jimin says, cutting him off, “It reminds me of good times. I wanted to wear things that made me happy today, and I saw it in my jewelry box a few months back, I knew I had to wear it as soon as I saw it.” 

Yoongi looks at him, watches the way his breath is steady, listens to the way there are no hitches or stutters in his voice. Knows that he’s telling the truth and meant every word, his heart wondering just how much more of this it could take.

“So,” Yoongi says, clearing his throat as he felt his cheeks heat up once more, Jimin laughing as he watched the elder fidget under his stare, “about those flowers, did you want me to go with you?” 

“Yeah,” Jimin says, getting up to push the seat under the vanity, “I’d like that a lot.”

___________________________________________

The walk down to pick up Jimin’s bouquet was a comforting one. Jimin had suggested taking the stairs, opting out of riding in the newly built elevator just down the hall, saying that it would make for a nicer walk and would also kill the remaining time he had left. 

Yoongi had agreed, knowing that the longer the walk, the longer he would have to teeter between what he wanted to do, and what he would ultimately do. 

The staircase was sort of in a spiral shape, the walls and floor all made of the same beige colored bricks that weren’t as polished as the walls inside of the building. They were rough, some chipped, some fully missing chunks, and he could hear the crunch as they made their way down. The stairs were rarely used with the elevator in place nowadays, as it was narrow and spiraled, making it easier to just take an automated, man-made machinery than have to climb up rickety stairs that were tucked somewhere in the corners of the building. 

“What kind of flowers did you get?” Yoongi wonders aloud, glancing at Jimin, the freckles on his face peaking through. He tries not to stare for too long, but due to their proximity, it's almost impossible. 

“Some Narcissus’s” he begins, “the Accents and Salome. I also got some of the Carlton, too, liked the white and yellow from the petals. Taemin thought they would look good together, with our color scheme and all.” 

Yoongi halts his movements, thinking of the way Jimin's voice comes out smooth and serene, a calm in the middle of a hail storm, watching as Jimin turned to look at him a few steps later, not hearing the echoing directly behind him. 

“You alright, Yoon?” 

“You really love him, don’t you?” he finds himself asking, even though he knew how fragile the ice was underneath such a question. How loaded the gun really was. Understanding that all he would get was an answer he wouldn’t like, Jimin was sober this time, after all. 

“Of course,” Jimin says, almost immediately, “at least, I would hope so,” he jokes, “or this whole ‘getting married’ thing would be kind of awkward.” He looked back at him, smiling. A smile that held no contempt for the question; just full of adoration at a love he knew he had. 

“I know,” he says in response, rubbing the back of his neck as he scrunched his nose, “I just… stupid question.” 

“Don’t sweat it,” he mumbles, going to lean against the wall, ignoring the unspoken knowledge that the walls of the stairwell probably hadn’t been cleaned for decades, judging by the spiderwebs above. 

“He’s one lucky guy Minnie,” Yoongi says, continuing to babble, “I hope he knows that.”

He’s sure not sure why he even says that, just knows that as they stare at each other intently for a couple seconds thereafter, he feels the guilt of his words. And maybe Jimin does, too, because it's like a switch in his eyes is flipped, as if he suddenly remembers that night, too, and clears his throat to cover up any uncomfortableness he suddenly feels. Or maybe Yoongi was just imagining it again, he seemed to do a lot of that when he was around the boy. 

“You think so?” he asks, nonchalantly, “If I’m being honest, I think I’m the lucky one.” There is a smile plastered on his face, stretching so widely, they had pushed his eyes closer together, vision blurring as they became half-moons that grazed the star-lit sky. He’s not sure if it's an act, or if maybe Jimin had finally come to love the boy. Either way, it doesn’t sit well in his stomach. 

“I’m happy you’re happy,” he finds himself saying, and while that wasn’t a total lie, it still stung as the words spilled out of numb lips and onto uneven concrete. Lie or not, it hurt all the same. 

Behind Jimin, there was a window in between the bricks, bringing in sunlight that only illuminated the boy and made him seem as godly as Yoongi thought he was, the yellow of his suit bouncing off and creating a warm glow to bask in. As he continues to speak, it feels like he’s swallowed enough barbed wire to encase a federal prison, grazing the lining of his throat with deadly force. “You really love him, huh?” he repeats, and maybe he does it for the gag of it all, or because he just wanted a reiteration of Jimin’s commitment to the man. He wasn’t really sure what he wanted it for, he just knew he wanted it.

“Yes,” He says, blinking to look up at him, standing his ground, “I loved him even when I thought I wouldn’t be able to.” 

And suddenly, the floor feels like it's caving in, like the four small walls around him are coming together to create a hot compress against his chest, cracking each individual rib until he comes apart at the seams. Jimin knew what he was doing, and he was giving him everything he knew he had to in order to sell their love story. 

And man does it mess with Yoongi’s mind. It wasn’t right, was it?  It wasn’t right of him to walk into the room where his best friend was getting ready to marry the man of his dreams and think of selfish reasons to make him stay. He didn't’ need to ask rhetorical questions to know the answer to it all. It was as unethical as numerous psychological studies breaking emotional havoc on their participants. As unethical as putting his emotions over the love of his life. It was wrong for him to come here in the first place, almost as wrong as calling to RSVP in the months following the engagement, and almost as wrong as dreaming of a boy that was not his.

“Okay,” Yoongi says, clearing his throat, “let's go get those flowers then, we can’t keep the groom waiting forever, now can we?” 

___________________________________________

“What’s wrong?” Yoongi asks as they exit the building and head towards the stairs entrance, a few feet away, a bouquet full of different colored flowers in Jimin's hand. Jimin's shoulders are slumped, and although he had graciously smiled at the woman handing him the final piece of his wedding outfit, something just didn’t seem right. 

“The flowers” Jimin murmurs, lightly touching the petals, “I don’t know, they just seem…sad? I’m not sure if that’s even the right word, they just — they don’t look… right ?” 

“Like they’re not what you ordered?” Yoongi asks, slightly panicking, “Should I go get Taehyung? Or try to see if maybe a florist in town can get you a-” 

“No, no, it's not that,” he says, waving his free hand in front of him.

“Then what is it?” He inquires, thoroughly confused.

“These are what I ordered,” he defends, “but, I don’t know, they just seem so plain .” he laughs to mask the disappointment, “I can’t describe it, they just looked better in my head?”

They both stand a few feet from the doorway leading into the first floor, Jimin biting his tongue until a few more feet of distance was put in place between the florist and the groom, afraid to hurt their feelings. Even when he was thoroughly disappointed with something he had paid for, he was more concerned with hurting some strangers feelings over expressing his dismay. He continues looking at the flowers, gentle fingers running over the petals as he shakes his head, “ They’re beautiful, I’m just acting like a groomzilla.” he reassures. 

Without missing a beat, Yoongi fishes out his cellphone from his pocket without a word, quickly imputing his password before opening up google. It wasn't hard to remember the flowers' names, especially when they were right in front of him. Typing with urgency, he searches for variations of  ‘ Flowers that go well with dandelions’ . Scrolling quickly until coming up on a flower he knew was readily available, thanks to the link provided.

Hyacinths.

“Are you in the mood to steal from god for a good cause?” 

“Am I- what ?” Jimin says, almost bewilderingly, still confused, “what does that have to do with —Yoon, what the hell are you going on about?” 

“You hate you flowers” he deadpans.

“Well, hate is a strong word, I wouldn’t necessarily say-”

“You strongly dislike them” he rephrases.

“Yes,” Jimin agrees, “I strongly dislike them, but what does that have to do with…?” he trails off, eyebrows furrowed. 

“ ‘Cmon,” he says with a warm smile, taking Jimin's hand into his without protest as they quickly jogged to a place Jimin knew nothing of. They round a corner with ease, and what started off as a small jog turns into a slightly faster one, the wind nuzzling up against their faces, sun hitting them just enough to create a warm cast on exposed hands; both bursting out in laughter as Yoongi continued to tug the younger boy without as much as a word. 

It was nice, felt like time had slowed down, like they were the only two in an empty building that was an extension of an already large church. He felt like a teenager again, like he was eighteen and him and Jimin were running away from the police after a block party had gotten busted, running for their lives because they would rather evade arrest than get turned in to angry parents for underage drinking. 

They finally reach their destination, rapidly taking intakes of breaths as Jimin looked all around them, coming to the conclusion that they were at the back of the building, , the part that faced the church and also happened to be right below Jimin's window, where purple hyacinths were planted in the hundreds, like a good luck charm to ward off any evil. Yoongi turns to Jimin, watching as he is still out of breath, faintly realizing that they are still holding hands before letting go, Jimin shaking his head in playful disbelief.

“Hyacinths,” he breaths out, the grass under his feet sturdy as he shifted between legs, “I googled and, um, I googled and it said that Hyacinths were a nice addition. For the flowers, I mean.” 

Jimin looks at him, huffing out a large breath out of his nose before throwing his hands up to his chest in defiance, “ oh no ,” he says, shaking his head, “we are not stealing from the church! What are we? Criminals??” 

“No one’s even here!” he laughs, “what’s god gonna do? Huh? Come out of the clouds and yell at you? Last time I heard, you don’t hear from him unless it’s the end of the world, and I don’t think borrowing flowers constitutes that.” 

“No!” He laughs, “I’m not doing it! The flowers are fine! They probably have cameras anyway and- Hey! Stop that right now!” 

But Yoongi doesn’t listen, watching as Jimin continues to shriek in protest as Yoongi runs up to a bush of them, quickly grabbing some by the roots and pulling, hard . The backlash of it causing some dirt to fall on the cuffs of his pants as he crouches down to avoid watchful eyes, “You hate them” he says, reaching to pull a couple more out from under the ground, dirt starting to fly, trying to be quick, “you shouldn’t hate your flowers on your we-” he hears his voice slightly hitch, quickly coughing to cover it up, “on your wedding day.” 

Suddenly, he sees the shadow of a person right behind him, and for a split second, he thinks the jig is up, that some nun or church official would drag him out by the back of his neck like a dog and make him repent for something he wasn’t even sorry for. It was for Jimin after all, he couldn’t feel sorry. But just as the shadow had emerged, it had left twice as quickly, watching from the corner of his eyes as Jimin crouched right next to him, cursing at him slightly before taking two hyacinths in his hand and yanking them out of the ground, grumbling about not wanting to be an accomplish to such a heinous crime. 

They pause in between the robbery, locking eyes for a second, maybe two, and with hyacinths in one hand and a bouquet in the other, Jimin can’t help but burst out laughing as he whispered for them to hurry up , before any suspecting party would notice their precious hyacinths gone. 

They quickly get up, once again preferring to jog to the old and rickety spiral staircase they had used to get down to begin with. Specks of dirt falling on the beige steps in their quick haste, white roots blooming out of turnip-shaped bulbs being held in airtight grips. They conclude they make more noise trying to be quiet than they would have been if they had acted like nothing was amiss, but then again, they did have uprooted plants and dirty fingernails as proof of their deeds, it was kind of hard to act like they weren’t criminals. It’s not long before they rush into Jimin’s dressing room, slamming the door shut before continuing their fit of laughter that bubbled up their chest and made them feel the exhilaration of almost getting caught. 

Finally, the laughter dies down, shoulders stop shaking, and both begin to stand up straight, smiling as they look at the literal mess in their hands, “so what do we do now?” Yoongi asks, buzz still bouncing on his skin.

“I don’t know,” Jimin says truthfully, “I would assume cutting them from their roots? You can’t just shove the bulbs into the bouquet.”

“That sounds like a great idea” he agrees, and for the next couple of minutes, they try to rip apart the turnip-looking bulbs, nails taking much of the impact before getting tired after a few tries. They agree that although this wasn’t the best idea they’ve ever had, at least they could agree a great memory would emerge out of it. 

“Come on ” Yoongi exasperates, pulling at the roots, “You’re gonna sit here and tell me there isn’t a pair of scissors anywhere in this room? For god's sake there has to be!” 

“And I’m telling you that there isn't!” Jimin argues back, using his fingernails to chip away at the unwanted parts, “It’s not like I thought that I would be doing this thirty minutes before my- actually, hold on. ” Jimin says, mid-sentence, placing his project on the floor to search for something inside of the vanity, Yoongi hearing the rummaging as he marched on.

 It was weird, really, as this was not how he had envisioned what would take place when coming down to profess his undying love, but he wasn’t complaining either. He watches as Jimin opens drawer after drawer, continuing to mumble in what seemed like encrypted code until he hears a small but triumphant aha! and sees a small hand raise a rather large pair of scissors in the air. 

“Let me guess, you just so happened to remember you had an unnervingly large pair of scissors hiding out in your drawer?” Yoongi jokes. 

“ No , you idiot,” Jimin says, rolling his eyes, “The tag on my tuxedo was bugging me, so Tae had to ask for some downstairs, it was the only pair they had. I just forgot about them since I didn’t think I’d need them again.” 

“Okay,” Yoongi says, ignoring the insult, “Let's get to hacking then!” 

And they do, all while bickering about how much to actually cut, and how far down, wondering aloud if they wanted to keep the green leaves attached (spoiler alert: they don’t). They laugh about how eerily similar this situation seems to be, reminding them of a time when Jimin was eighteen, having to decide how much of the roses they would cut before presenting them as an I’m sorry to his parents for flunking out of his first college course. It wasn’t his fault, Jimin had argued, it was his professors. I mean, who else was to blame when he was as tough of a grader as they came?

Eventually, they find the placement for the total of nine hyacinths they had stolen, finding a way to make the bouquet stand out in ways it previously hadn’t, laughing as they used a pack of brand new makeup wipes to clean their hands, throwing away the remaining dirt out an open window, bulbs being tossed into a trash can near the vanity.

“They’re beautiful,” Jimin says, almost breathless, looking directly at Yoongi as they lock eyes, “Thank you, I mean it.” 

“Don’t mention it,” Yoongi says, just as breathless, “the pleasure was all mine.” And he meant it, too. Meant it with every fiber of his being, even if meaning it meant he stood in blatant contradiction with his initial reason for being here.

It felt like he was losing a battle before ever getting a chance to be at the front lines.  

“You know,” Jimin says, lightly grabbing the end of Yoongi’s suit jacket to walk them both over to a previously sat on couch, once again patting the space against where he sat as he plopped onto the furniture.

 Yoongi once again declines the invitation to sit so close, opting to stay a few pats away, afraid of what a small gap between them would do to him. 

“What do you know, hmm?” he says, resting his chin on his propped up palm.

“I always assumed I'd be the one to help you get your flowers ready, before my own.” 

And out of all the things Jimin could have known, it never crossed his mind that it would be this. It was a harmless question, he knew as much, but harmless never meant that he would come out without gaping wounds in his skin.  It takes all of him to nonchalantly shrug and raise his eyebrows simultaneously, trying his hardest to not mention the dryness of his throat. 

“Really?” he weakly manages to say, clenching his jaw in an effort to control his dismay,“ That’s kind of hard to do when you’ve been single for the past few years.” he settles on, trying to make use of playful banter. 

At first, Jimin doesn’t say anything, only scoots a few inches closer to Yoongi, gently scooting until their knees are touching, electric currents running through the elders body. Jimin takes his right index finger and uses it to absentmindedly draw circles on a clothed knee. His breathing is quiet, slow, steady, before Yoongi finally hears him speak.

“Why’s that?” Jimin says, looking at the nonexistent circles left behind on Yoongi’s pant leg, slightly teasing tone as he whispers out,  “too good for anyone, Mr. Big shot?” 

And he laughs at that, unannounced and unplanned, causing the boy to slightly jolt at the loud noise, confusion setting in at the sudden outburst.“Quite the opposite” he replies sullenly, “more like not good enough .” 

“Shut up,” Jimin interjects, shaking his head and leaning in suddenly, taking both hands into his own, squeezing them lightly, “You're kidding, right? You don’t actually think…that?” 

And there it was.

The softness in his voice, so sweet that honey dripped from questioning lips, thumb running along dry knuckles as he waited for a response Yoongi wasn’t sure he could answer without sounding like a pity case. He gently pulls a hand away from Jimin’s grip, using it to awkwardly rub the back of his neck, hearing the bones in his knees slightly pop as he adjusted his seating position. He pulls at the hem of his pants, feeling the need to do something with an empty hand. 

“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully, “It’s a lot harder to explain when you don’t know what you should be explaining.” 

And for once, he was telling the truth. He wasn't sure where he would even start, where he could start painting the story of how he didn’t feel like he was adequate enough for a vibrant and glowing Jimin, to the point that he never found the right time to tell him how he felt, even now. He wasn't sure how to tell him that he also thought that Jimin would be the first to help him with the bouquet for his wedding, failing to also mention the part where he saw Jimin on the other side of the doors, same suit, just different flowers and venue. 

“You think I deserve to be happy?” he asks instead, watching as Jimin furrows his eyebrows, setting their hands on his lap so quickly, it almost lands with a thud. 

“Of course,” he says in utter disbelief, “ why would you even ask that?” 

Yoongi laughs, slightly pulling his other hand back to run it in his hair, “it’s your wedding day, and I’m talking about whether or not I deserve to be happy, I’m sorry.” 

“No,” Jimin interjects, taking his hand in his once again, this time interlocking them, using the other to cup his face, “don’t you ever say that.” 

For what seems like a millennium, but was no more than a few measly seconds, Yoongi waits for Jimin to respond, too afraid to continue the conversation. Instead, Jimin simply moves in closer, silently lifting his body up and crawling over to Yoongi, using his knee to spread Yoongi's legs apart slightly as he settles in between them, almost hesitantly. He settles in between the space his legs make, leaning all of his weight onto the boy's chest as he laid down, Yoongi’s back slowly pressing against the sofa’s armrest before frimly holding both of their weight. He doesn’t register what Jimin was doing until they were lying together on an expensive couch, neither of them doing anything other than getting more comfortable.  

“Out of everyone in this world,” he breaths, “you deserve to be the happiest.” 

This feels intimate, too intimate, even for Yoongi. This felt like the kind of intimacy that would be the talk of the town if anyone were to unsuspectingly walk up to the door and open it, putting them on full display. He knows this, and yet the knowledge does nothing to stop the boy from draping his hands around Jimin’s waist; does nothing to stop Jimin’s hands from automatically wrapping around his back and breathing in sync, either. 

It was wrong. So wrong he knew he would need to repent to a god he didn’t believe in for the sake of it, because although his faith in religion was weak, even he knew the gravity of their actions. 

“I love you” Yoongi murmurs out.

“I love you too,” Jimin says instantaneously, “you know that.” 

“Will you come to my wedding?” Yoongi wonders aloud, feeling like tears are forming in his waterline, but they somehow remain dry, trying to come to terms with the knowledge that he wouldn’t be able to really tell it like it is, “when I find someone to love me, I mean.” 

Jimin tightens his hold on him, as if he were afraid to let go lest someone shook him awake, proving this was all but a dream, “you mean, when you find someone to love you as you love them.” he corrects.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “that.” 

He isn’t sure what made him ask, but it felt like at the end of it all, coming here, all of this, was finally starting to feel wrong, the logical side of his brain finally spewing reason. It wasn’t right of him, and maybe laying here, like this, only made him realize how wrong all of this really was. 

“ I just want you to be happy, Yoonie.” 

And it broke his heart, because under all of the sweet undertones, he knew what that really meant. He wanted him to be happy, just without him. He begins to rub the younger's back, ignoring the constant chimes of the church bells a few hundred feet away, resisting to lock the wooden door and stay the way that they were until the sun had gone down and the guests had gone home, the idea not plausible one. 

It wasn’t his place to do any of this, was it?

“I think our time is up” he says, settling for vague yet hurtful truths.

Jimin stays silent, lying pliant in his arms as the cool air around them swung through the window. The birds are still chirping, only they seem more solemn now, as if mourning the loss of whatever this was, if only they could explain to Yoongi what it even meant. 

“Yeah,” he says, “I should get going.” 

“Got to get married,” Yoongi clears his throat, trying to lighten up the mood as Jimin shifted to get up, lending out his hand to help him up, dusting off non existent dirt off of his tuxedo. 

“I’ll…see you in there, yeah?” he supplies, holding a light but condescending tone. 

“I won’t be hard to miss,” he agrees, feeling the tears well up in the back of his eyes, trying desperately to hide them, “I think I’m the groom's groomsman, or something.” 

Jimin laughs at that, looking down as he did, “ I don’t think I’ll be hard to miss either, I’m the one getting married…or something.” 

They look at each other one last time, before Jimin takes cautious steps to the vanity to pick up his new and improved bouquet, lifting it up in the air as they silently nod to one another. He gives him one last smile, turning with his heels towards the door, the echos load and clear.

And this was it, this was it and suddenly there was nothing left but the crumbs at the bottom of a molded cookie jar. Remnants of everything but the two things he desperately needed at this point in time: courage and blissful ignorance. 

The courage to belt from the hollow of his rib cage and vomit every disastrous sentence that he wished he could excrete, and the ignorance to be okay with doing so. 

Jimin was never his, and as he had watched the way he began to walk towards a future that did not have him painted within it, a blacked out body in a portrait dipped in gold, he had come to terms with being okay with this.

Sure, after all of this was over, and the war was lost, they could pretend to go back to how things used to be, it would be easy for Jimin. But for Yoongi? It would never really be the same for a while. He had tried to secure themselves the world and had come up with an empty bucket filled with broken sand dollars worth absolutely nothing. He wanted to give Jimin the moon, the stars, and the planets in orbit, but he knew all he could ever give him was a lack of courage.

He hated crying, wanted to do nothing more than bottle up the emotions pooling at the corner of his eyes and chuck them into a recyclable bin far, far , away from the venue of choice. But with the way Jimin's back was turned to him, it was harder to contain his emotions when he knew he couldn’t even see him weep for a love lost at sea. 

It feels like he's dying, and sure, maybe metaphorically he was, because sometimes heartbreak did feel a lot like a part of you was being cut off without any anesthesia. Like you were laying on a cold kitchen floor, begging for the pain to stop. He remembers once hearing of the broken heart syndrome, and although he knew he would not die today, it did feel a lot like his last dying breaths were somewhere in the vicinity. 

They say that when you die, you start to see your life flash before your eyes, a free and final movie where everything that was ever of importance plays for you, one last time. Maybe this is why he swears he sees countless memories begin to flood his system, retinas hitting play , creating pixelations that combine to form moving pictures he doesn’t have the pleasure of skipping. 

In a sickly twisted turn of events, every memory from every different point in his life holds a different version of Jimin throughout their time together. It wouldn’t be the sad ending he knew it would be if it were any other way, anyway. 

He is reminded of when Jimin was seventeen, spending weekend upon weekend over at his place, the routine coming easily when they knew nothing else. He thinks of the way Jimin had said something remotely funny during one of his many stays, falling back onto Yoongi’s king-sized bed, landing right next to the already laughing boy. His eyes are closed shut, and Yoongi stared at the boy, eyes watching as he had grabbed his stomach in the hopes of calming down waves of rumbling giggles. 

When the laughter dies down, and their breathing finally slows down, he turns to Jimin , feeling some sort of warmth spread across his chest, feels the innate sensation that everything suddenly felt right . That no matter the bounty placed on the head of said memory, he couldn’t find it within himself to ever trade it in for the stealthy prize, even now, because all he could think about was the way Jimin had looked at him like he held the entire world in the palm of his hand. 

He thinks of a Jimin that had recently turned eighteen, wearing an atrociously yellow colored button up for his part time job as a Pizza Consultant — which was code for a minimum wage worker — at their local pizzeria. Thinks of how ugly the color looked against the bright purple adorning the lettering on his chest and breast-pocket, but stops short of insulting him when he knew that even then, Jimin had made it look beautiful. Even when he would come home after an eight hour shift, crusted pasta sauce on his shirt and flour on the base of his jaw. Subconsciously wonders if he’d ever find someone that would make yellow against neon purple look like a comforting hug he’d never want to get out of. 

There’s a flash of when Jimin is eleven, and they’re sharing a melting Popsicle's outside of his house a few months after they had first met, the day a scorching one. Yoongi feels the heat creeping against his now much larger thigh, reminiscing on the coolness that came with Jimin’s touch as he had playfully shoved him to the side after making a poorly timed joke, Yoongi laughing regardless. Cheeks painted a rosy red as his best friend was just a few inches to the right. 

And finally, as Jimin reached the better half of the room, inching towards the door, he thinks of when he is twenty-two, Jimin a measly twenty, wearing a long-sleeved floral print that was far too big and yet still so enticing on a boy as ethereal as him. They are both drunk, as they usually were during their college years, and he could practically smell the alcohol in the flat in question. 

It was a friend of a friend, he thinks his name was Hoseok, Jung Hoseok, a prospective friendship that blossomed in the years that had yet to come, but as of that point in time, he was just another random face hosting the party, somewhere in the muddle of college students. It’s three in the morning, but all he can think about is the way his threshold for vodka and flavored rum was teetering somewhere between having him tipsy and black out drunk. He was still debating which he would prefer. 

He hears Jimin yell at him over the music, momentarily forgetting they had been side-by-side the entire night, trying to focus as Jimin had insisted that he needed to fix his makeup. Yoongi doesn’t understand the need, promises him that he looks just as beautiful as he did when they had left his apartment and grabbed an uber across town, but Jimin was persistent, proclaiming that if he didn’t help him look for the bathroom, he’d find someone who would. 

They spend the remainder of their time looking for the bathroom.

Taking the younger's hand into his, intertwining their fingers, Yoongi guides an equally inebriated Jimin towards what he can only assume is the bathroom across the room. He successfully helps guide the boy around numerous college students he guesses were also enrolled in the same university as him. 

The music gets louder, and there isn’t much to say when Yoongi could only focus at one thing at a time, the current mission being to try and walk in a straight line and not spill anyone’s alcohol; Jimin only speaking up to mention how buzzed he currently was, not that an announcement was needed.

 Finding the bathroom, to Yoongi’s surprise, was easy enough, only needing to make a sharp right at the first spacious hallway they had seen, leading them to a bathroom a few doors down. They entered as quickly as two drunks could, agreeing that although there wasn’t a line to take a piss in the hallway bathroom now, no promises could be made within the next five minutes. 

It’s silent, as Jimin stumbled in right after Yoongi, gripping the sink for dear life as he applied more liner to his waterline, Yoongi standing there in amazement, wondering how he hadn’t poked his eye out by now. He looks intently at the small tube of gloss Jimin pulls out of the back pocket of his jeans, hearing the small pop that the lid made as it was brought up to already glossy lips, Yoongi not catching until the very last second the sound of the bathroom door slamming open. 

They had forgotten to lock the door. 

Yoongi is sent stumbling forward, pushing Jimin along with him in the process, having them tumble against the cool tiles glued to the wall behind them. He hears Jimin thump against the wall, cursing shortly after,  followed by an oh shit, sorry! from behind them, the door promptly closed thereafter. 

It takes a few seconds before Yoongi realizes that the room is spinning, too focused on the bile wanting to run up his throat and paint the black and white tiles in front of him. He scrunches his eyes, shutting them tightly as his nose wrinkles in protest, palm laying flat against the wall as he tries his best to compose himself. The last thing he would want was to vomit right next to Jimin’s ear, he’d never hear the end of it. 

It is when he opens his eyes, staring straight ahead of him, that he comes face-to-face with a quiet Jimin, staring so intently, Yoongi almost believed it was the same Jimin that had left his apartment hours ago, the sober Jimin. It’s only until the boy bursts out laughing, music muffled in the background, that Yoongi begins to laugh along with him, just as hard, realizing he was, in fact, drunk. 

They begin laughing at the fact that Yoongi’s back was slightly throbbing where the door had hit him, laughing at the way he had almost taken Jimin down with him, laughing at everything under the sun and more, ignoring a small hand that comes up to his chest and clung onto the fabric for dear life. They laughed until their stomachs twisted and turned, until they knew the soreness would still be there tomorrow, until there was nothing more to laugh about; laughing until the quiet set in and all that was left were curious glances being thrown at each other in equal intensities. 

At first, the stares were nothing more than playful banter that required no words, but as the seconds passed, Jimin’s hold on Yoongi’s shirt became more apparent, the grip rather obvious. Yoongi notices the stars in Jimin’s eyes, trying hard to not confuse it with the glassy film over them, the hint of gold in his eye shadow shining through.

He has always liked gold, even then.

 He knows he’s too fucking drunk for this, even as he was double digits deep in shots, somehow finding the strength to remind himself that staring this long wasn’t appropriate, not when it held different connotations for him.

But Yoongi was always good at doing things he never should have been doing in the first place. 

They refuse to break eye contact as Yoongi’s tongue darts out to lick chapped and cracked lips, Jimin boring holes into the deepest corner of his soul as he finds himself discarding whatever common sense he had left to lift up a hand and place it to the side of Jimin’s face. 

He watches for a flinch, for a knee jerk reaction that would indicate in big, instructive, writing that Jimin didn’t want anything to do with what Yoongi was implying. He tells himself that if he does so, he would walk out of there, right then and there, because the last thing he would ever want was to pressure the boy into doing something he wasn’t comfortable with. 

But all he’s met with is hopeful eyes staring back at him as he runs a thumb over the bottom of an extremely glossy lip. Maybe being too preoccupied with overstepping boundaries is what causes him to lower his walls, Jimin taking the opportunity to use the very hand fisting his shirt to pull him closer and crash their lips together. 

And it could be because he was obscenely drunk, but he suddenly thinks that he’s dreaming, because for a split second, it didn’t seem like there was any other possible reason that could explain why Jimin was kissing him at that very moment. There he was, in a small and compact bathroom, kissing a boy he had loved more than he had loved himself, it seemed ludicrous to assume anything else. 

Jimin begins to whimper against his lips, bringing Yoongi back into reality, suddenly hyper aware of the way his heart was so close to beating out of his chest, he knew there would be bruising later. He quickly goes to wrap his arms around Jimin’s waist as the younger wastes no time linking his around Yoongi’s neck, time resuming back to its normal state. 

He begins kissing back with as much force as he could muster up, hoping that with every kiss that was exchanged, he would tell him just how much he really loved him.

It’s nearly impossible to close anymore gaps between the two, but that doesn’t mean they don’t try, Yoongi pressing up against Jimin as he used the wall to balance both of their weights, nipping at Jimin’s bottom lips before moving to press kisses against his jaw, breathing hitched. 

Yoongi soon begins to work on the boy's neck, peppering kisses until he’s lapping at the unmarked skin, nibbling until he hears Jimin babble right above him, asking him to keep going. It’s starting to get hot in the room, but all Yoongi can focus on is soaking in as much of this as he could, knowing that there was no way in hell he didn’t just die and go to heaven. He runs the palms of his hands alongside the curves of Jimin’s body, moving backup to shove his tongue between Jimin’s lips, who had only eagerly accepted. 

He runs his hands alongside Jimin’s chest, going lower and lower until he finds himself palming the bulge that was starting to grow at rapid rates, adding small amounts of pressure as Jimin began to rut into his palm, moaning against his lips. And god could he listen to those sounds for the rest of his life, ragged whimpers being masked by louder and more desperate pleas to go harder, to add more pressure. 

He uses his other free hand to grip Jimin’s hips, holding him in place as the protests only seemed to grow. Jimin then taking the initiative to start peppering kisses on the base of Yoongi’s jaw, moving with urgency as he finally had his turn at nipping at the sensitive skin near the jugular, gently sucking and leaving a small blossoming bruise, as if to claim what was already his.  

“Take them off ” Jimin pleads, beads of sweat forming at the base of his temples, referring to his already tight jeans, and Yoongi didn’t have to be told twice, it wasn’t everyday you’d get to fuck your best friend stupid. 

He takes both of his hands and goes to work on Jimin’s belt, slightly cursing as the shakiness of his hands made it hard to unlatch the prong of the belt from its designated hole. Jimin simply moves his hands from around Yoongi’s neck, sliding them down as he quickly lifted Yoongi’s button down to expose a plain white undershirt, bunching it up in his hands before ripping it away from where it was tucked inside of his pants; his hands starting to roam over his belly, and Yoongi can’t help but hiss as cool hands touch scorching hot skin. 

Bang! Bang! Bang! 

Like two opposite sides of a magnet repelling at lightning speeds, they jolt apart to the sound of large hands banging against the bathroom door. 

“There’s a line out here! Go fuck somewhere else!” the voice grumbles, clearly aware of what was going on behind closed doors. 

Sparing each other a glance, Yoongi can see the way Jimin’s lips are red and swollen, Jimin looking like he had just won the lottery as the small hickey began to blossom into something bigger, bruising already apparent. It doesn’t take long before Yoongi slowly reclaims the space next to Jimin, waiting for consent before gently pressing their foreheads together; Yoongi cupping the younger's face before planting another kiss on already swollen lips. Jimin doesn’t complain though, readily smiling into the kiss as they listened to the whispers behind the door, clearly speculating.

After a few seconds, they part, and Jimin leans against Yoongi, the elder lazily wrapping his arms around him before kissing the top of his head as the boy nuzzles into his neck. Shortly thereafter, they open the door to the bathroom, practically running out so as to not have to come face-to-face with whatever angry party-goer they had encountered. 

They make their way back to the heart of the party, realizing that although it was still alive and kicking, there were a handful of people missing, leaving room open for both boys to find a seat on a random couch. Throughout the night, they talk about any and every little stupid thing they could think of, Jimin practically purring in contentment, Yoongi’s skin feeling like it was on fire. By the end of the night, when most of the guests had gone home and all that was left were empty solo cups and beer bottles, Jimin was the first to go home. 

He whines for the most part, saying that Yoongi surely wouldn’t mind if he hitched a ride back to his, causing Yoongi’s cheeks to heat up as Taehyung eyed him, eyebrows raising at the hickey on his neck. He refuses to take no for an answer, having to practically peel the younger away, promising that they would see each other as early as today afternoon, after the alcohol wore off and the hangover set in. 

Yoongi tells the boy that it was okay, that he would talk to him in the morning, before adding that he might as well catch an uber home soon. Jimin agrees, and it takes everything within himself to not get up and kiss the stupid grin off of his face as he waved goodbye from the steps of the front door. 

At twelve in the afternoon, just as they had both promised, Jimin phones Yoongi, glad to hear that the elder was just as hungover as he was, the taste of alcohol still lingering on his tongue, even after multiple brushes with extra strength toothpaste. 

They laugh about events about the night before, chuckling at how Namjoon had showed up with the T.A, Kim Seokjin, from his intro to biology class, continuing to gossip about how even though Namjoon had tried his best to hide it, he was undeniably head-over-heels for his senior. They’re sure Seokjin knew, too, could tell but the way he would lean in a little to close, and bat his eyelashes at him, satisfaction reigning clear as Namjoon would scramble to find his composure thereafter. 

They talk about everything that had happened only a few hours ago, successfully ignoring the elephant in the room, that is, until Yoongi hears Jimin clear his throat, another pause taking control of the conversation until Jimin finds his voice. It’s a simple yet destructive question, one that sends him spiraling, “Hey, Hyung, so about last night, when we — when we, you know-” 

And once again, Yoongi feels like the air inside of his lungs is being compressed until there is nothing left, suddenly aware of the regret that seems to be oozing out of the other side of the phone, swears he hears a wince in his voice. It sounds like Jimin is absolutely dreading the conversation, even though they were fine seconds before, hears the way the tone in his voice shifts, and for the fear of being rejected by the one person that mattered, he rushes to break his own heart. 

“I’m really sorry that Minnie, last night — I was drunk off of my ass, and I… I did something I didn’t mean, Hell I can’t even remember most of it, I mean can you?” 

He doesn’t expect the silence that follows suit, or expect the way Jimin’s voice is but a whisper when he agrees, gripping the phone with shaking hands, saying that he was about to say the same thing. 

Was glad they were on the same page about something to trivial. 

The conversation doesn’t last long after that, talking for maybe a minute or two more before he hears Jimin shift in what he can only assume is his bed, saying he had to go help Taehyung with something for his political science class. He needed to be a good roommate, anyway. 

Yoongi barely gets a goodbye out before he hears the click of the dial tone, long and monotone noise buzzing in his ear. 

He doesn’t see Jimin for a week after that, but when he does, he’s his usual self, never bringing up the incident again. 

He momentarily thinks of how this was never added to the list of pain, reminding himself that no matter how painful it might have been to sacrifice feelings to save their friendship, it was still one of the only times he could remember ever feeling truly at peace. It was the only time in his life where he could pretend, for a fraction of a second, that maybe there could have been something other than the scraps at the end of a dinner party. This was it, this was everything he could ever offer a boy as beautiful as that, and yet thinking of everything that ever amounted to the relationship that was theirs , it starts to hurt. 

It feels like Yoongi’s teeth are being pulled out without any numbing cream, like his knuckles are being broken with a hammer, like the words are being ripped apart and shredded in a state-of-the-art shredder only million dollar companies could have. It hurts all over, like every regret from every single instant that he didn’t belt out his undying, or in this sense soon to be dying love, would amount to nothing more than pennies on the bedside table, nothing more than socks eaten up by the washing machine, small inconveniences that amounted to absolutely nothing. 

Jimin’s walk, walk, walking away, the steps start to hollow out and his arm starts to reach for the doorknob, the fabric just above his shoulder wrinkling inward, creating a small bubble of loose fabric as he takes the doorknob into his hand. Yoongi knows it’s time to let go, that the cause had been lost even before he had entered a room too big for just one person. 

But even with the knowledge that he was doing the right thing for once, his mind still screams at him to stop and capture the fleeting chance at a romance with a ticking expiration date. His mind continues to scream, pulling up error bars upon error bars across his vision as it all but spelled out all of this being a giant mistake. 

Like two comets grazing together for a fraction of a second, his chest feels oddly tight, hands going colder the further away Jimin got. He tries to close all of the open tabs in his mind as he tells himself that he’ll find the love of his life soon, because just as Jimin had told him, he would eventually find someone who would love him as much as he did them. 

It would be hard, but maybe one day he would find someone who could make him laugh like Jimin had, make him cry out of sheer contentment on days where the world felt bleak, make him feel the way Jimin did on the days he was sure he couldn’t get out of bed. He could find someone who did everything Jimin did, could find the body of another that would morph into the love of his life, but deep down, he knew they would never be Jimin. 

They would never have the crescent moons he had when talking about something he was so passionate about, carry the heart inside of his chest when he thought about everyone but himself, carry the hands that caressed him on nights when he stayed by his side.

 It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all that the only shot of real, raw , love that he could ever think of having was gone in less than a millisecond. He was getting away for god’s sake! 

Yoongi feels the resentment begin to bubble up in his chest, suddenly exploding, seeping out at such rapid rates he cannot control, not being able to be fast enough to cover them with a lid when he hears himself, eyes wide, scream out.  

“Don’t!…P... Please , don’t go.” 

His heart begins to hammer in his chest, as his eyes continue to go wide, hearing the words coming out of his mouth like he was projectile vomiting the only thing he could possibly think of. As if he was taking every single instance of cowardliness and balling it up to create the mess unfolding in front of him.  And maybe he was, except this time, there were no spills that could be cleaned up with Lysol wipes and vacuum cleaners. He feels stupid, saying it out loud, but by the way his legs wont stop shaking, he knows it has yet to be over. 

The door slightly creaks open, as the weight of Jimin’s body slightly leans on its frame, ready to leave at any given second. But by the way he remained still, it was evident he was going nowhere in particular. With the hand on the knob, he turns slightly behind him, eyebrows furrowed as he looked straight into what Yoongi could only assume was the bare bones of his body. Jimin cocks his head slightly, as if waiting for a response to his sudden outburst, receiving nothing but wavering eyes glued to tinted lips. 

“Are you... okay?” Jimin says, clearing his throat, letting his hand fall down to his thigh, laying pliant as the door began closing in on itself.

“I — I’m…” It’s always easier telling Jimin he is in love with him when it's in the safety of his own head, suddenly feeling the weight of his actions as he feels his fingers curl and uncurl towards his palm. “Jimin” he calls out, like a distant whisper in the night, wanting nothing more than to skip all of this and suddenly be on his apartment couch, touching, feeling, uniting in ways that friends could not. 

“You gotta use your words, Yoongles” Jimin jokes, barley above a whisper as well, taking steps back to where Yoongi stood, the anxiety of it all rushing to his head, “You gotta use your words” he repeats gently. 

And Yoongi tries, he really does, but all that can come out are small whimpers as he gnaws on his bottom lip. He watches the way Jimin’s gold watch catches the rays of the sun the closer he walks towards him, and god, he knows he has to use words. Jimin knows that something is inherently off about his outburst, but he refuses to be the one to acknowledge it when he was not the one that had begged him to stay.  

He wants to cry, and maybe its because he’s so fucking fed up with never actually being able to say what was on his mind, to tell the world what he wanted out of it without the fear of getting nothing in return. 

He clicks his shoes together as he thickly swallows, holding his head up high. Again, Yoongi knew it was wrong, so, so wrong, and yet, as he watched Jimin adjust his tie with sturdy hands, blonde hair swooped to the side and chest pushed out with excitement, he wanted nothing more than to be selfish for a few more minutes before having to give up being selfish in the places that mattered most. Clenching his teeth and balling his fists, he feels himself take the deepest breath he could have possibly taken in his twenty-seven  years of living.  

“I love you.” he breaths out. 

The thing about Yoongi and Jimin’s relationship, that Yoongi had failed to realize, was that trying to build a life with him was a lot like trying to build a house with walls full of black mold. No matter how long, how hard, or how enthusiastically he worked to create a home within it, it would never be a viable living space when the foundation was never built to sustain something so grand. 

Jimin simply looks at him, eyebrows raised and a smile slightly spread out across his face, suppressing a laugh that was wanting to come out. Yoongi holds his breath, anticipating his response, hoping that it was enough to convey just exactly what he meant when he said those three loaded words. He waits and waits, only to be met with a confused and slightly amused Jimin. 

“I love you too, you know tha-” 

“No” he cuts him off, palms sweating as they continued to be balled up, “Jimin,”  he breaths, “ I — I’m in love with you.”

He hears the engine of a car passing by a few hundred feet away, watching the way Jimin stands there while pausing to register what he had even said. Watching as the notches in his head turn and turn and turn until the honk of a horn blasts in the distance and Jimin’s face finally falls, as if he had seen the ghost of a memory he had tried so hard to leave behind. 

And just like that, crash, bang, smoke .

The house he had fought tooth and nail for began to collapse under heavy rain and violent winds, newly furnished floorboards twisting and turning until they were ripped away from the seams, the black mold engulfing him in a way that made his lungs burn and skin itch. 

He shoves his hand in his back pockets, giving them something to do, the fabric absorbing small beads of sweat that had accumulated from being balled up. It feels like a scene out of a badly scripted movie.The way he couldn’t stand still, the way Jimin’s eyes had gone from eccentric to confused to something bordering sadness, his mouth hanging slightly open.

 If the audience could hear his internal dialogue pop up on their screens, they would hear him ask himself what his mother would have thought of him at this very moment if she had known he had only complicated the wedding of her best friend's son. 

She would be ashamed to say the least. 

“Y-you, Yoongi you what? ” 

A shiver runs down his spine as Jimin finally speaks up, the tone in his voice laced with disbelief, confusion, anger . 

“I’m in love with you” he repeats, a little louder this time, breathing out while refusing to look away from the boy. 

And Jimin laughs, face contorted in discomfort to show that this all seemed like a joke, eyebrows knitting together, “I get that — you wanna be funny. haha , good one Yoon, but now's not the time to-” 

“I’m not kidding,” he says, cutting him off. 

“I’m being serious. Stop. That wasn’t funny the first time.” 

And at that point, he wasn’t sure how to even tell him that he was being serious, so he simply tries to elaborate as best as he can, “This whole time, when-when we were picking flowers, when we were on the couch just now, when we talked about prom, I was in love with you. I’ve been in love with you this whole time.” 

There’s a silence that follows, a long and terrible one; it makes Yoongi’s bones rattle and skin shake, makes his teeth chatter and mouth feel dry. He doesn’t have the balls to stare at Jimin anymore, opting to instead stare at the floor, the walls, at everything that he possibly could, as long as it wasn’t the man in question. 

“Say it again,” Jimin demands. 

He isn’t sure what compels him to do so, but Yoongi goes to take a couple steps forwards, the space between him and Jimin seeming too large, but as soon as his foot is lifted up and takes a large stride, he watches Jimin flinch, the boy just as quick to take a several small steps backwards, back softly hitting the door. 

“Say what you said again,” Jimin’s eyes, even from this distance, are clearly watering, the bitterness in his voice a juxtaposition to the emotions evident on his face, “I need to hear it again or I’ll feel like I’m going crazy.” 

“I’m in love with you, Jimin-ah.” Yoongi repeats, trying to tame the waver in his voice, licking his lips before continuing, “ I have been since I was twenty-one, and maybe before then, too, I just — it was hard for me to come to terms with it-”

“Come to terms with what?” Jimin bites back.

Yoongi smiles softly as him, eyes glazing over his face, “Being in love with my best friend. And I’m sorry, I really am. When you caught me outside of the door a few hours ago, It was going to tell you what I’m telling you now, but I didn’t have the nerve to do it. And I — I kind of assumed that I’d just hold my peace, or whatever its called, I swear, I was,” he isn’t sure when to stop, feeling the need to explain his actions, words coming out at rapid rates as Jimin just listened silently, “but then you started walking away, and then I kept thinking about all the times you had made me so happy, and all the times I had wanted to tell you, and I just — I couldn’t let you walk out without telling you.” 

Yoongi inhails, so deep he feels it in his chest as it puffed up, looking for something, anything in Jimin’s eyes that indicated there was something other than resentment lodged deep within his irises. 

“I’m getting married in…” Jimin looks down to check his watch, the tears becoming too much, running down perfectly set foundation, staining his blush, “ …about an hour, and you decide to give me an essay long explanation on how you’ve been in love with me for the past couple of years?” 

“Yeah,” Yoongi says, trying not to recoil within himself, “basically.” 

“You know,” Jimin says, clicking his tongue, “Once, when Taehyung had a phase where he thought he could be a clothing designer, he made me this absolutely atrocious pair of slacks. You know the ones, remember? The pant legs were different lengths, and the buttons would fall off if you gripped them too hard? Remember?” 

Yoongi just stares at him, watches the way Jimin grabs his bouquet and begins to rip the petals off, one by one, not sure if the question was rhetorical or not. He opts to stay quiet, knowing that whatever point Jimin was trying to get across to him, he was nowhere near done. 

“They made my ass look lopsided, and I would get weird looks when I wore them out,” He looks up, pausing his destruction of his bouquet, “but I wore them anyway, because I knew that if I told Tae the truth, no matter how much he would try to tell me it was fine, it would do nothing but break his spirit and heart as well. So I wore the fucking pants, because I knew nothing good would come out of telling him I hated them.” 

“Jimin,” Yoongi says, trying hard to comprehend the punchline that had come from an ugly checkered pair of pants, “I’m not sure I’m following all the way.” 

And Jimin only laughs ironically, throwing his head back as the laughter booms out of his chest, head lightly thudding against the door. He shakes his head, as it was still thrown back, eyes shut as they had been mid-laughter, taking a second before composing himself, “ what I’m trying to say , Yoongi. Is who the fuck do you think you are, telling me you hate the pants I made for you?” 

The metaphor takes him back like a thousand shots to the chest. The words are cold, stern, rough around the edges as Jimin looks at him with such repulsion, he knew he had struck a chord. This, all of this, was a possibility he had toyed with before ever stepping foot into the parking lot of the building, yet it still manages to catch him off guard. 

“I’m getting married today Yoongi,” Jimin says, once again falling short of using his nicknames, eyebrows constantly furrowing and unfurrowing; Jimin was never the best at hiding how he felt during the heat of the moment, “ I’m not going out on my first date, or-or having my first fight with Taemin, I’m getting married to the man and you couldn’t extend the same courtesy that I gave to Taehyung when I knew that only telling the truth would make everything worse. So again, who do you think you are?”

“Look” Yoongi begins, running an exasperated hand through his hair, pulling slightly at the roots, “I’m no one, no one to stop you from getting married…but all I could think about was never being able to tell you that I loved you, and I know that you’re allowed to be upset, especially since a one-sided love isn’t the most elegant thing in the worl-” 

“You don’t get to do that,” Jimin says angrily, hands curling around his bouquet, cutting him off. Yoongi sees the stems begin to bend slightly to the right with the force that was being added onto them as Jimin held them, stems slowly curling upward. 

“Do…what?” 

From the corner of his eyes, he watches as Jimin raises his left hand as it held the one-of-a-kind bouquet they had loved minutes before, barely being able to open his mouth to question what he was doing, before Jimin pulls his arm back as far as humanly possible, taking a large stride forwards before chucking the flowers right at him. He doesn’t even have enough time to raise his arms to deflect the blow, the flowers hitting him square in the chest, some of the daffodils that weren’t properly secured slipping out with the sudden impact, hitting the floor seconds after the actual bouquet falls limp onto the ground with a large thud.  

“You don’t get to play stupid on top of everything!”  His chest is slightly heaving and Yoongi sees the way he clenches his jaw, the ‘worst case scenario’ suddenly being the only scenario that seemed to be playing out.  

“Jimin, I’m sorry. But I still mean what I said, all of it, every last bit.”

“No,” he seethes, “I don’t want to hear it.” 

But Yoongi persists, finding the strength to locate his voice as his mouth opens, “Jimin, please , just hear me out.” 

“Shut up,” Jimin breaths, trying desperately to sound stern, but his resolve was crumbling, and no matter how hard he had tried to look and sound tough, the tears welling in his eyes were a dead give away. 

“You have to, I can’t leave until you-” 

“I said I don’t want to!” Jimin interrupts again, but Yoongi only shakes his head even harder, refusing to take no for an answer. 

“I just need-” he pauses, licking his lips, “I just need to tell you how much you mean to-” 

“It won't make a difference,” Jimin says, sounding exasperated, throwing his hands up.

“Jimin please, look, I’m sorry but I-” 

“Stop apologizing!” Jimin screams, breaking point evident, voice echoing and bouncing off beautifully carved walls, “Stop saying you’re sorry , stop telling me you love me, just stop — stop talking !” Jimin continues to shout, bringing his now empty hands to the roots of his hair and tugging slightly. “Was it because I laid on your chest?” Jimin questions, slowly lowering himself onto the balls of his feet, staring at the floor, refusing to look anywhere else. 

“ Laying on my che — What? ” Yoongi asks, almost cluelessly, “What does that even have to do with anything?” 

“Was it because I told you I loved you? O-or because I let you pick out some fucking flowers for me?” 

“Jimin,” Yoongi starts, trying to tread lightly, “What are you going on about?” 

“What did I do ,” Jimin asks, seemingly confused and genuinely interested,  “to make you think that…this…all of this…was okay? That you were somehow allowed to confess to me, today of all days?”  His eyes trail over the floor, making it ways towards Yoongi’s body, gaze going up his knees, his thighs, his chest, before locking eyes for a split second, “I tell everyone I love them, I let Tae help me pick out my outfit, too, and yet no one seemed to tell me they were in love with me today. Except you, So what did I do to make you think it was okay?” 

“Minnie,” he says, shoulders sagging, “you didn’t do anything.” 

“Then why does it feel like it's my fault for having to reject you?” he says, voice cracking at the end.

And Yoongi knew that this was the most probable and likely outcome, even when contemplating his feelings, but it doesn’t make the pain hurt any less, his chest suddenly tender and sore. 

“It’s not your fault,” Yoongi says, trying his best to reassure the younger, who only scoffs in response, “It was mine, I should’ve never said anything.” he says, the words nothing but a large charcoal truth bomb that was staining his hands and covering him with the aftermath of his confession. He knew accepting the invite, agreeing to be one of his groomsmen, helping him pick out the tuxedo , it was all a giant mistake. 

“No,” Jimin replies blandly, lifting himself up to stand up on his feet, removing his hands from his hair, “you shouldn’t have. But you did, regardless of how I would have felt.” 

The roots of the house built for Jimin and him seem to rot under the flooding storm, the walls no longer standing tall, the tiles…gone. It looks nothing like what Yoongi would have hoped it would have turned out, waist deep in debris and remnant of sentimental objects that were no longer identifiable. 

“I think you should go.” Jimin voices out, voice hoarse and eyes devoid of emotion.  

The tension in the room is astronomical, could be cut with the dull end of the comb resting on the vanity just a few feet away. He wonders what Jimin could be feeling, but comes up slightly short, absentmindedly going to chew the inside of his lip. 

“Okay, fine.” Jimin echos, voice cracking at the end, “stay quiet, it’s all the same to me. But I need you to listen to me. I want you to go… and I want you to delete my number. Because if you text me, or-or call, I don’t know what I’d-,” he has to pause as his voice cracks once more, shutting his eyes as he clears his throat, “ -what i’d do if you called. It wouldn’t be fair to me, and it wouldn’t be fair to him .” 

Although the roots were to the point of no return, there was something about actually being able to walk up to the center of the disaster that makes it all real. Jimin had told him he wanted nothing to do with him, not now, not ever, and maybe that had somehow made all of this real enough to understand that there would be no coming back from this. His eyes begin to well, protest shooting up in his chest, “Jimin, please don’t do this.” he says, shoulders deflating. 

“No” Jimin interjects, “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just waltz in here, telling me you love me like it wouldn’t do what it’s doing, and get to act like this is worse for you!”

“I’ll stop” Yoongi bargains, lying through already metaphorically chipped teeth, thinking of what he could say to salvage the burnt tips of the roots, “ I’ll stop loving you, I-I’ll stop, you just have to give me ti-time and I’ll — Jimin I swear I can. I don’t want to lose you, I-” 

“You don’t get it do you?” Jimin asks, bewilderingly, throwing his hands up, “I can’t just go back to being friends after finding out the one person that shouldn’t be in love with me, is. I’m getting married.You know this, I know this, and you expect me to be friends with the one person I’ve-” 

Without an ounce of warning, Taehyung, or rather Jimin’s best man and better half, comes bursting in through the unlocked door. He searches until his eyes find Jimin’s back, smiling slightly as he lets out a large breath, “Jimin! There you are! I texted you! You were supposed to come down to meet the wedding planner and see if you wanted red or white...” He trails off mid-sentence, watching in utter horror as Jimin turns around to look at him, a face certainly not ready for a wedding staring back. His eyes travel to Yoongi, whose welled up irises are making it a little hard to see at the moment, watching as Taehyung’s eyes dart back and forth, confused at the ordeal taking place, “....petals.” 

Jimin raises the back of his hand to wipe away any stray tears still on his face, smearing the eyeliner across his cheek in the process, clearing his throat before speaking up, “I was just leaving, Tae. I’ll…I’ll be right there.” 

Taehyung turns his attention to Yoongi, the elder squirming under his gaze before Taehyung lowered it to the floor, his confusion morphing into something boarding pity and actual understanding of the situation as he stared at the wilted flowers by his feet.  He looks up once more, sad and utterly disappointed irises looking back at Yoongi, subtly shaking his head, “ you told him...didn’t you?” he says, the question more like a statement that required no need for an answer, and yet, he still looks like he was awaiting a response. 

If he had thought he had frozen and choked up while it was just him and Jimin in the room, he’s surprised to find out he’s even more jittery with Taehyung in there as well, eyeing him without an ounce of shame. Eyes refusing to stray away from his, Yoongi isn’t sure what the right answer would even be, “told him…what?” he settles for, testing already scorching hot waters. 

The words following his are deafening, painful jolts as Taehyung began speaking, “That you’re in love with him,” he says softly, “ you can’t just tell someone you’re in love with them and not expect them to look like they’ve been punched in the face.”

He looks as Jimin, the smeared mascara and liner staining his face, bottom lashes leaving black marks that needed a little more than a tissue to repair the damage. 

“He was just leaving,” Jimin says, dryly. 

“You can’t just kick me out,” Yoongi pleads, ignoring the raised eyebrows from the additional person in the room, “ Please, Just let me explain-”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Yoongi-hyung.” Taehyung warns, stepping forward to place a hand on Jimin’s shoulder, trying to sound as impartial as possible, but Yoongi knew that if it came down to a war, his side would never be the one that he would defend. 

“Maybe it’s not,” He says, “but I can’t leave if that means that you’ll hate me for the rest of your life.” 

“I never said I hated you,” Jimin says, voice above a whisper, “but just because I don’t, doesn’t mean that it would be smart to still have you in my life.” 

Taehyung watches as Jimin shoulders starts to shake, trying his hardest not to let anymore tears escape from his eyes, but failing as he continually uses the back of his hand to wipe them away. Taehyung gently squeezes his shoulder, softly reminding him that “There’s only about twenty minutes before the reception starts.”

Jimin only nods to show his understanding, taking a deep and wavering breath as he cranes his head to look at Taehyung, “I need you to go over there. I need you to go and tell them that I’ll need an extra ten minutes.”

“Jimin” Taehyung pleads, “We’ve talked about this, and granted, we were joking, but you know this isn’t-”  and before Taehyung can even finish what in the world they have talked about, Jimin shakes his head, Yoongi wondering what his expression must have looked like from where they stood. 

“It’s okay” he reiterated, maybe more to himself than Taehyung, “ I’ll be out in a few. Just stall them, and I’ll come get you when I’m done.” 

Taehyung stares at him, long and hard, Yoongi watching the way he bites his lower lip and furrows his eyebrows, shouldering finally sagging as he nods his head, telling him he would buy as much time as he needed. To text him as soon as he was ready, knowing that he needed to work quickly if he wanted to fix the face makeup. He looks at Yoongi with lips spread out into a thin line, shaking his head before walking out, not saying another word. 

The door clicks behind Taehyung, Jimin waiting until the sound echoes in their ears before he turns his head back to where Yoongi stood. He takes another step forward as he gulps, “You’re asking me, why we can’t be friends after all of this, right?” 

“Yeah,” Yoongi breaths, unsure of where the conversation would end. 

“Have you ever,” Jimin pauses, bringing up his arms to cross them over his chest, open hands gripping the fabric of his shoulder, as if to try and hide himself from Yoongi’s watchful eyes. “I don’t know…thought about why ?”

And it’s Yoongi’s turn to be confused, surely Jimin was finally at his breaking point. It was clear as to why, they both knew why, so he finds himself saying the only plausible explanation, “You’re upset that I’m in love with you.” 

“But why ?” He presses.

“Well…because you’re with Taemin. A one-sided love isn’t something you’d want to worry about.” his bottom lip quivers, trying to suppress the hiccups he could feel coming, the truth but a bitter cup of coffee he didn’t want to ingest. 

“Not only are you selfish,” Jimin says with a watery laugh, “but you’re incredibly stupid .” 

“What?” he asks, puzzled. 

“Yoongi,” he says, loosening the hold on his chest as his hands fall to his side, a few stray tears falling down a familiar path, stopping to lay on the base of his jaw, “I was literally in love with you until about six months ago.” 

And suddenly, the floor beneath him starts to fall apart and engulf him. His head starts to spin, and the line between the truth and his truth is blurring. He catches the way Jimin stood there, as if embarrassed to even reveal that part of himself with the elder, fidgeting between the balls and soles of his feet, awaiting a response. 

“ What ?” Yoongi says, rather loudly, “Jimi — that’s…that’s not funny.” His skin feels like it’s on fire, his ears are ringing, his toes curl in discomfort, and maybe he would have preferred it that way, because out of everything that was going on around him, the heat creeping up his neck was the only thing keeping him sane. Reminding him that no, this was not in fact a dream, but the remnants of  a situation that was never supposed to take place. 

“I never said it was,” Jimin says, almost solemnly.

“Jimin, You can’t be in love with me.” Yoongi protests, almost immediately.

“And Jesus says you can’t confess to someone on their wedding day, yet, here we are,” Jimin sighs, “ I was in love with you, even if you don’t believe me.” 

“No, you weren’t ,” Yoongi repeats, out of breath, “you couldn’t be, because if you were, — it means that-” 

“That we were running around in unnecessary circles for almost a decade?” Jimin asks, sarcasm practically falling out with his words, “ Now do you understand why I’m feeling the way I’m feeling? I can’t stay friends with someone I was in love with, Yoongi. It’s not fair to either of us. Staying friends only allows for the possibility of feelings to be conjured up in situations where they can’t be acted upon.” 

He’s still refusing to look him in the eyes. 

It’s quiet, as it usually was after the other had spoken, the invisible but very apparent clock ticking down until Jimin really did have to go. He had told Taehyung to buy him ten minutes, and as the time began to slip away from Yoongi like small sand particles through open fingers, he found it within himself to put every last minute he had to use. 

. 

“Jimin” He starts off, tongue darting out to lick dry lips, “Jimin, please, look at me” 

Jimin lifts up his gaze, face unamused, “You have ten minutes to say what you need to say,” he says coldy, drawing a line before Yoongi could even think of crossing it, “ after that, I have to go. I have to go and get married, whether you want me to or not.” 

Time really was ticking, racing against his already exhausted heart, the persistent tick of the hands echoing in his eardrums. He isn’t even sure where to begin, so many thoughts racing against one another, clawing their way to the front of a neatly folded stack.

 All of these questions that held why’s and how comes were outnumbered by the unwavering desire to go back to when he was twenty-one, to a single and patient Jimin, basking in the warmth of days when things were never this complicated. 

“Why did you never tell me?” he settles on asking, “Why didn’t you tell me that you loved me?” 

Jimin only laughs, throwing his hands up, “I tried . Multiple times, but I could only try so many times until you made me feel like I was delusional for thinking you might have-”

“Whoa, whoa,” he says, almost immediately, “what are you talking about? When have I ever rejected you? Jimin, I was —  no, I am in love with you. I’ve told you more times in this room than I could possibly count. So why would I reject you if you tried to tell me you felt the same way?” 

None of this makes sense. Every time Yoongi thinks he’s finally grasped something in his hands, it’s pulled away with the knowledge that he never really understood any of it to begin with. He watches as Jimin's face falls, the smile that was laced with disbelief wiped clean from his face, “You're kidding, right? You have to be.” 

But Yoongi isn’t kidding, and as Jimin watched his expression shift into one that was more confused than his, his anger began to climb, until the fumes became too much, even for him, steam exiting his ears and turning the whites of his eyes red. 

“You know what, Yoongi? I’m so sorry I never told you, I guess its my fault we’re in this situation then, right? Is that what you want to hear?” he asks, voice rising, “That it’s my fault for never explicitly telling you ‘ Hey Yoongi, I’m in love with you’ like a fucking idiot?” 

“I never said that” he says, defensively, “I’m just saying that you could have said something too, and maybe this could have ended differently. That maybe I could have been the one…I could have-” 

“Too??” Jimin says, almost ridiculing the elder, “ When did you ever say anything!” It was Jimin's turn to pick and probe at the wounds, scratching the surface to reveal an untreated gash, “I was always trying to tell you, you idiot ! I told you several times, and you never once listened!” 

The stray tears are now a plethora of streams, falling and falling until they hit the floor beneath their feet, Jimin not bothering to even wipe them away. He doesn’t even care that Jimin is screaming at this point, allowing himself to bask in the anger without daring to interrupt the boy, he deserved it, all of it, even if it meant he still struggled to put the shattered pieces together. Pieces that could have avoided the shattering in the first place. 

Jimin takes another step forward, anger bubbling but coming to a small simmer as he forced himself to take a few large breaths. “I told you I was in love with you when you were fourteen, when your stupid ex cheated on you and I held you so hard I thought I would break yo u -” 

He huffs, pausing as his voice breaks at the end of the last syllable, leaning his head slightly to the right, “I told you at prom, when I wouldn’t stop holding your hand, even when you told me I’d never get a boyfriend if everyone thought I already had one. I told you over breakfast when I joked about not wanting Taemin to get the wrong idea, and you looked me dead in the eyes that I was stupid for even thinking that.”  

His eyes are glassy, they shine like Peruvian jewels catching the light of a full moon, his mouth continuing to twitch downward as Yoongi continued to say nothing. It’s all too much to process, and it's hurting Yoongi’s head to think that Jimin was nowhere being done, more instances of his incompetence being laid wide open. 

“I told you,” he continues, balling up his fists, “ when Taemin proposed, and you invited me over for some drinks. Do you remember that night?” 

“How could I forget?” Yoongi replies, throat dry. 

“I confessed when I said that I was still hung up on someone who’d never love me back, after I had said I didn’t love Taemin, because it was you, it had always been you. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the point across, just like all the other times before.”  

“I didn’t know.” Is his excuse. 

“I know,” Jimin tells him, clenching his jaw, “because instead of kissing me, like I wanted you to, I went home and cried so hard I thought I had woken Tae up.” He pauses, before a wet laugh emerges, pointing his index finger at Yoongi, shaking it slightly, “Joon and Jin never came.” he says, almost matter-of-factly. 

“Yeah,” Yoongi agrees, “They had to meet Jin’s parents for the first time.” And Jimin only shakes his head in defiance. 

“I called them,” he says, truth leaking out of pores that were far from sorry, “asked them not to come. Because I wanted to be with you , not with Jin, or Joon, or Taemin. But you. That was me, and I’m not even sorry.” 

There’s a honk of a car in the parking lot, followed by screaming they can’t decipher. It seemed they weren’t the only ones with issues. He wants Jimin to elaborate more on that night, ask if that was why Jin had seemed so confident it would work out. If he knew exactly how they had both felt. But Jimin gives him no time, continuing to give examples.

“I even told you by kissing you!” he suddenly exclaims, as if remembering the night just a second prior, digging the memory up from the stack of things he would rather forget, “That’s as obvious as it gets. And you sat there, on the phone the next day, telling me that it was all a fucking misunderstanding. That friends could kiss but it was okay because we knew better, I knew better. I told you so many times Yoongi, and each and every time you shut me out and made me feel like a fool for trying.” 

“You can’t —” Yoongi pauses, trying to find the right words, before picking at the skin between his fingernails, “ —just say things like that and expect me to believe you don’t love me anymore.” Yoongi voices out, “You can’t just stop loving someone.” 

“You can,” he says, almost instantaneously, “Because I did. I also should have moved far away the second I got the chance, it would have saved us a lot of trouble.” 

“You don’t mean that” Yoongi’s chest tightens, voice a quiet accusation. 

“You don’t know what I mean. Yoongi you don’t even know me, really know me, or you would have said something before it was too late.” 

And suddenly, as Yoongi felt the universe stitch together pieces of instances where Jimin had expressed to him just how much he loved him, it all made sense. Jimin never had to explicitly tell him he was in love with him, there was no need to when he poured out his emotions into his actions. 

That’s who Jimin was, always letting his actions speak louder than his words.  He was just too stupid to ever stop and think about anyone other than himself and his emotions. Never stopping to look at the way Jimin cared for him like he held stars in his eyes, and for the first time, he cries for a love he knew he would never be able to get back. 

“I can’t change the past,” he reasons, knowing the ten minute mark was almost up, shifting the blame getting them nowhere,“But I don’t want to live my life knowing that we never tried . I don’t believe that you don’t love me anymore, and I know that neither do you.” 

“You’re something else,” he says, absolutely tired, “Yoongi, this isn’t a fucking book, or a…I don’t know...critically acclaimed rom-com for god's sake. This is real life ,” momentarily, Jimin pauses to close his eyes as he tries to regain his composure. His lips are trembling harder than they were when this had first begun, and Yoongi only feels worse about his decision to be a grade-A asshole. “This is my life, where I move on when you don’t seem to love me back when I need you to. You can’t expect me to drop everything to be with someone I didn’t even know felt the same way until literally fifteen minutes ago. ” 

“You have to understand Jimin, I-”

“I didn’t ask” he cut him off, chest heaving slightly, “ I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that you’re telling me you love me on my wedding day , Yoongi. My wedding day . Not yesterday, not during rehearsal dinner, not even when I told you I was engaged or in a relationship. How do you think that makes me feel? What? I wasn’t good enough for you until you realized I wouldn’t keep waiting on a confession that wouldn’t come?” 

Yoongi doesn’t know what more he can say, there isn’t much to say that Jimin hadn’t already heard. He looks at Jimin and feels so far away, like reaching out would only wake him from a thousand year long slumber and give him a hurt in his chest as a signal that although it was real, it was never ending in the way he envisioned it to. 

“I know” he says simply, because he does. He knows he’s wrong. He knows he should have never come here, he knows that Jimin is hurting, he knows, and yet that doesn’t fix anything, not even remotely. 

“You know, and yet you still decided to wait until now.” He says, resolve finally breaking, voice going back down to a whisper as it quivers.The defeated look on his face says it all. There are tears welling in the corner of eyes that continue fighting through it, blinking rapidly as if operating on their own hourly schedule . 

Yoongi momentarily wonders what kind of lie Taehyung must have been spinning to stop anyone from coming into this room and seeing just how bad the situation had gotten. Thinks it must have been a good one. 

“But I love you” he says weakly, as if telling him what he already knew could fix a broken puzzle destroyed by years of wear and tear. He knows he’s pleading to a room that might as well have been empty, and yet he continues to do so. Something about finally lifting up the white flag in defeat making his stomach turn in ways it shouldn’t. 

“No Yoongi,” he says, voice trying to be as monotone as it possibly could, “If you really loved me, you would have never said anything to begin with. You would have let me be happy. You don’t love me, Yoongi, not in the way you think you do.” 

“ I do ,” he says rather exasperated, “I love you so much Jiminnie, I just — I never — the timing was never right and I- I never found the right moment to… you have to understand that I…” but the words are coming out in strained and incomprehensible syllables, they don’t make any sense, he’s not making any sense. He is clouding an already tainted stream, and it's making his lungs feel like he’s running out of oxygen, even with a room full of its supply.  

Yoongi hears the falling of the house boards again, hears the shattering of the windows, smells the petunias being ripped out from the soil, crashing against burnt out wood. 

He remembers once, when he was thirteen, when Jimin had called him selfish. Back then, he was referring to the fact that he wouldn’t share some game console that his mom had just bought him, too enthralled to even care. But now, he often wonders if Jimin had picked up on the things he never knew he would amount to. Wonders if a younger Jimin knew just how right he really was. 

“Yoongi, listen,” Jimin says, shoulders deflating, “I love you. I always will.” 

“And I love you too,” Yoongi repeats. 

Jimin can only look at him through blurry lenses as he speaks,“But just because we love each other, doesn’t mean we were meant for one another.” 

There’s commotion going on from the first floor, they can both hear the way the guests began to make their way to the church, signaling the start of an already delayed show, Jimin only standing frozen in his steps, making no motion to move. 

“I would do anything to be with you.” Yoongi sobs, shoulders finally shaking as the emotions rip through him. 

“We’d be horrible people,” Jimin replies softly, “because the second we’d run away together, we’d spend the rest of our lives trying to convince ourselves we aren't.” 

“I never… Jimin I never meant to hurt you.” Yoongi tries to take a step forward, carefully putting one foot in front of another, but is only met with hands being put up in front of him, as if asking, pleading, to stay where he was. So he does, because although he couldn’t do much, he could at least do that. 

“I might not have loved him then,” Jimin says as he disregards Yoongi’s words, referring to the night he had blatantly told the elder how he had felt, “but I love him now. And you of all people should understand when I’m telling you that I’m not throwing away what I have for something we don’t even know will last. Maybe...this is fate’s sick and twisted way of telling us it was never going to work out.”

As if overcome with something he could not explain, Jimin takes a few more steps forward, disregarding his own pleas to stay away. There is redness in Jimin’s eyes, Yoongi can see that from the lack of distance, sees the small moles on his forehead and collarbone, sees the redness in his lips from all the over biting. Jimin looks at him for what seems like the millionth time, grazes over his eyes, his lips, his cheeks, before cautiously taking a final step towards Yoongi, only a hair's breadth away. 

They stare at each other some more, as if trying to see who had it worse, whose emotions had oozed out more and been displayed on their grieving faces. Yoongi doesn’t have enough time to even think, before Jimin lifts up a hand to gently cup the elders cheek. Yoongi closes his eyes, causing some tears to escape, feeling the warmth of a hand so familiar and so distinct. Jimin’s thumb begins rubbing against his cheekbone, and they stand there for a few seconds, the silence engulfing them.

“We could have been so good together,” Jimin whispers, “so good.”

Yoongi braces himself as he opens his eyes, the mascara stains so prominent as he stares at Jimin, “Don’t do this” he says as a final plea, no bite to his words, “we still could be.” 

Jimin only smiles, regret written all over his face, tears falling in abundance as his eyes down-turned, smile continuing to fluctuate, bottom lip quivering. He uses his other hand to cup the left side of  Yoongi’s face, pulling him forward ever-so-slightly to put their foreheads together, their breathing hitched and irregular. “In another lifetime, we’ll find the love we’re missing in this one.”  

And with that, Jimin releases Yoongi’s face, stepping back a few inches before using his hand to wipe the remainder of the tears from his face. He looks at Yoongi one last time, before opening his mouth to speak. 

“I’m going to go outside and call Taehyung to come in here and help me get ready for my wedding. When I come back, I want you gone, okay?” 

Yoongi doesn’t have the strength to tell him yes, and doesn't think he can without bursting out into tears like he did during the whole ordeal. So he settles for nodding his head in understanding, watching as Jimin gives him one last look before heading towards the door.  

Watching his silhouette walk away, tears threatening to spill at any given moment, he realizes that there was in fact one pain worse than what he had felt when he stood at the wooden door, afraid to knock. 

It was this, it had always been this. As Jimin walked towards the altar to marry a man he had grown to love when Yoongi was too afraid to speak up and love him as his own, it had been this. 

This was the ten out of ten that had hurt more than any pain he could ever imagine in his twenty-seven years of living. And this was the ten he would have to live with until he would no longer remember anything other than what it felt like to be too late. Because he had been too late, he had always been just a little too late. 

He hears the church bells ring in the distance as he stands alone in a room he doesn’t think he’ll be able to forget anytime soon, moving his way towards the exit and towards the parking lot. As if they were ringing to signal the end of an era he would undoubtedly be left behind in.