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When my time comes around, lay me gently in the cold dark earth.
No grave can hold my body down, I’ll crawl home to you.
Jimin. It’s the first thing he thinks when he wakes up. Jimin. Jimin. Jimin. Like a mantra, repeating itself in his thoughts, while he lays there, staring up into the darkness. He doesn’t know the word. Doesn’t know any words, in fact. Just the repeating syllables inside his head, their meaning lost to him. They do, however, still stir something in him. It’s a feeling in his chest, warm, but with an edge of urgency to it. He doesn’t know the feeling, even though it warms his cold body.
Jimin, Jimin, his thoughts keep chanting and the sense of urgency intensifies. There’s a new knowledge brought forth – he has to get up, get out, find this Jimin. Nothing else makes sense.
He starts to shift his body, only now realizing he’s lying down. The surface underneath him is hard, but cushioned, walls surrounding him on every side. He begins to sit up and promptly smacks his head against another wall above him. Sinking back down, he lifts his hands. It’s not easy. His arms feel kind of stiff, not used to being moved. Nonetheless, he pushes through. Jimin.
His fingers scratch against the wood above him, but it doesn’t budge. Slowly, his hand curls into a fist and soon, he’s pounding against it, gaining strength with every dull thud revibrating through the small space. Finally, the wood gives in and his hand punches straight through it, touching something cold and wet. When he pulls his arm back, little clumps of dark earth tumble through the hole and onto his chest. It smells dank, but rich.
He doesn’t waste any time (Jimin, his thoughts remind him), forces his hands through the hole in the wood and pushes it further open, until a steady stream of loose earth keeps raining down inside his small space. He pushes it aside, makes room for himself, as he slowly digs his way upwards.
Jimin. Push. Jimin. Push. Jimin. Push.
The tips of his fingers breach the surface of the earth, cool air kissing them. There’s a new feeling coursing through him, freeing, making him more eager – if he knew words, he’d call it relief. It doesn’t take long and his head follows the path of his hands, surfacing from the earth. As he pulls the rest of his body outside, he chances a look around.
It’s dark, the only light coming from the full moon above him. Various shapes, spaced evenly apart surround him and it takes a while before his eyes adjust enough to see them clearly. Graves. It rises from the depths of his consciousness, briefly interrupting the chant of Jimin, Jimin inside his head. The word doesn’t hold any meaning to him, but he still turns around, as if compelled by it.
There’s a stone, similar to the others, right behind him and he crouches down, touches his hand to it, tracing the letters engraved into it.
Jeon Jungkook
1997 – 2022
You are me, I am you
One of the words seems familiar, makes something inside him stir, but none of them are Jimin, so he gets up and walks away.
This, too, proves to be hard. His legs won’t obey him properly, his steps more shuffling and stumbling than the determined stride he wants them to be. They feel heavy with disuse, making it hard to lift them. But not impossible, so he trudges on, his thoughts once again controlled by a single word.
Jimin. Jimin. Jimin.
As he makes his way through town, nothing seems familiar. Not surprising, considering his brain is a blank slate, primarily occupied with a single word. There’s the occasional break when another word surfaces as his gaze lands on different things. House. Car. Streetlamp.
He doesn’t know where he’s going. There’s only Jimin and the feeling those syllables inspire, driving him forward on a path his body seems to know. It’s nice, the feeling. Warming him from within, giving him a purpose, making him feel not as cold and alone as he is.
He slows down as he enters a new street, the sight of the houses and lawns scratching against something in his mind. There’s this familiarity, a vague sense of already knowing what he’ll see whenever he turns his head. He quickens his steps again, pushing himself to be faster than before, as this eerie sense of direction guides him right to a little house at the far end of the street. Its yellow façade looks bright even in the pale light of the moon and his heart – which he didn’t even notice up until now – squeezes not uncomfortably. The feeling of familiarity increases, doing funny things to his face. The corners of his lips twitch, not quite used yet to being moved again.
He walks up the pathway through an unruly garden, eyes fixed on the white door. There’s no real light coming from the house, just a flickering blue shine from one of the downstairs rooms. His steps make a heavy, dull sound as he trudges up the porch, coming to a standstill in front of the door.
This is it. Jimin, his mind screams. He knows this door is the only thing separating him from whatever the word means and there’s another squeeze of his heart accompanied by the fleeting thought. His first instinct is to smash through the door, like he did earlier, but something's holding him back. Makes him raise his hand, fingers curled into a fist and gently knock against the door.
There’s no reaction, so he does it again. And again. Again, and again and again, his knocks becoming louder and more frequent until he’s nearly pounding against the door, in sync with the rhythm of Jimin, Jimin, Jimin inside his head.
There.
He pauses as he picks up on something else – the sound of steps, much lighter and quieter than his own had been. It’s getting closer to the door, pausing for a minute. A quiet gasp.
His heart, dormant for a good long while, is jumping in his chest, as if trying to break out of it.
Then the door opens and he’s face to face with a beautiful man. A bit smaller than him, lithe and muscled, blond hair framing a puffy, tear-streaked face.
The warm feeling in his chest expands, enveloping his very being, making him practically glow from within. His lips finally move again, stretching into a big, stupid smile as he gazes fondly at the man. Jimin.
The man is staring at him, aghast, hopeful, maybe a little frightened. “Jungkook-ah?”, he whispers, small hands reaching out.
They carefully settle on his face, stroking his cheek and he closes his eyes, leaning into the touch. So warm. He tries to say something, his vocal cords rusty, so it sounds more like a grunt when he finally voices his thoughts. “Jimin.”
He's not sure the other man understands, but he still reacts to it, mouth dropping open and releasing a small, strangled sob. Then he’s pulled into a warm embrace, arms wrapping around his torso, face burying into his neck.
He sighs, his arms coming up slowly to wrap around Jimin – his Jimin, his lovely, perfect, wonderful Jimin – and a new word floats into his head. It settles deep within him, resonates with the warm feeling, makes him finally relax and close his eyes.
Home.