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Jimin never meant for any of this to happen. He didn’t! And okay, he can understand why everyone is struggling to believe him given his notorious tendency to self sabotage at every possible moment, but for once in his life, it wasn’t him. In fact, for once in Park Jimin’s chaotic little clusterfuck of a life, he actually has no idea whose fault it is which is...kind of weird. It makes his throat itch, like something’s stuck in there that he can’t pull out, a calico cat with a lingering hairball desperately attempting to retch it up all over a nice Persian rug. Or, more accurately, all over his two very nice and very beautiful boyfriends.... well...ex boyfriends now, he supposes. He rolls his eyes, imagining the look Joonie would be giving him right about now, before launching into a lecture about “catastrophising” and “mind reading” and whatever else he’s picked up on his latest training course. In Jimin’s defence, he had attempted to warn everyone that letting Namjoon train as a therapist was a goddamn terrible idea, but no-one listened. No-one ever listens to Park Jimin. Apart from Taehyung. And Yoongi. Jimin sighs. They don’t listen to him any more of course but once upon a time, they used to listen to him.
Before all of this happened.
Jimin pulls in a long breath, lungs aching against the icy wind, resisting, telling him to give up, to turn back. To curl up in a little ball and let the sadness and defeat wash over him. Allow himself to wallow for a few days, unwashed and unloved, before finally, shamefully, letting someone in to bathe and dress and feed him. To pick up all the tear stained tissues he could surround himself with. To place the responsibility for piecing him back together into somebody else’s hands. But he just can’t quite shake the feeling that’s tugging at him, working its way beneath his skin, into his bones. And so, he’s dragged himself out of the apartment. Out of safety and comfort and warmth, and down to the harbour, where the gusting bite of the wind can’t be escaped, no matter how many layers he’d wrapped himself in before heading out for one last try. At least, that’s what he told himself it was, before he left. And what’d him told himself last night. And the night before that.
The thing that he’s struggling with most isn’t the thing everyone thinks he’s struggling with and, quite frankly, it’s pissing him off. All of his friends, and he means all of them, have decided that Jimin is having some sort of break down, a delusional daydream. That he’s pushed himself so deeply into denial about the break up that he’s invented a whole story to try and cover for himself, to avoid their usual analysis of 25 Ways Park Jimin Has Ruined This Relationship Before It Even Had Time to Start.
But that’s not what had happened here. In fact, It couldn’t be much further from the truth.
Because the truth? The truth is that somehow, Park Jimin had been happy. Truly, sickeningly happy. For the first time, aged 31 and 3/4, Park Jimin had said the words “I love you” and had known deep down in his soul that he meant it. For the first time, he had fallen into bed at night with firm arms wrapped around him and no fear that he’d need to put on a show with his body because, for once, Park Jimin’s soul was enough. And not just enough for one (although Jimin would think himself lucky to even be loved so deeply and so sincerely by even half a person), but enough for two gentle, shining souls who had wrapped him in the soft blanket of their love. Who had welcomed Jimin as he was, as he wanted to be, as he chose to be. Who had loved him in a way that made his heart soar for joy, with gentle kisses and pyjama clad cuddles and a tangle of limbs falling asleep for the night. It had been everything Jimin had never allowed himself to dream of. And now, it was gone.
He tugs at the hem of his coat, trying to wrap it closer to his body, trapping the little heat his tired limbs are managing to produce. It doesn’t do much, but Jimin lets himself pretend it does, just as he lets himself pretend that it’s not his hands pulling the already taught fabric ever closer, but the two familiar pairs of hands he’s grown to know almost as well as his own. He closes his eyes momentarily, not wanting to risk missing anything by letting his guard down for too long, and the faintest hint of a smile passes across his lips as he remembers a trip of the harbour from better days. A trip soaked in sunshine and laugher and pure, unbridled joy. A trip meant to forge memories, to weave stories to tell when they were all grey and old. The thought snaps Jimin back to reality, a sharp contrast to his present; stood alone, naught but the sound of the boats creaking in the moorings and the whip of the sea spray air for company. He shudders, realising that now this story is a much darker tale, and one that he will tell alone, if only anyone will take the time to listen.
You see, the thing is that Park Jimin has not lost his boyfriends through failure. He hasn’t run away out of fear. He hasn’t hidden so much of himself that he’s ended up an empty shell unable to either give or receive a gift of love. He’s not entirely sure how he’s lost them, not for certain, not with the clarity expected when he tries to tell his story again. But he has a hunch, a feeling he can’t shake out. And it all starts with a day trip. And three men, arms linked and grins spread wide, throwing stone and making wishes, right here, into the sea.