Work Text:
Arsonphobia – fear of fire
“Yoongi, stop.”
Jimin’s whining drone reached Yoongi’s ears much fainter than it had been said in reality, most of the sound scattering due to the latter’s distraction.
Yoongi twirled the flickering match around between his fingers, the flame dancing closer and closer toward the pad of his thumb with each passing second.
Jimin watched with his bottom lip worried between his teeth; the chip on his front tooth making an appearance and making him look much younger than he was. His breath came in short gasps as he watched the flame near the pale skin of Yoongi’s fingers. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he could feel perspiration begin to dampen his clothes though the weather was cold and unforgiving outside and their heater was broken. He knew it wasn’t the warmth from the match which was making him sweat but rather the pure dread which was weighing down his stomach as the room before him became unfocused.
15 Years Earlier
‘Jimin-ah! Can you tell your brother dinner is ready?’
His mother’s voice clearly ran out into the living room where little Jimin was watching his Sunday evening cartoons like he did every week.
He scrambled up from his blanket fort on the couch and yelled an affirmative back to his mother before racing up the stairs to his brother’s room.
In his haste, Jimin forgot the manners his mother had taught him and flung the door open in lieu of knocking like a good boy would do. His brother stared back at him wide eyed as smoke billowed around him, stemming from the white stick poised between his long fingers.
‘Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?!’ his brother retorted angrily, the mysterious smoking stick slipping from his fingers and onto the papers which littered the carpet of his brother’s room.
‘S-sorry, hyung but eomma-’ Jimin began but his brother was already bustling out of the room, slamming the door behind him with a soft click following.
Jimin toddled over to the door, jiggling the handle with increasing force as it refused to budge.
‘That’s what you get for not being a good boy, Jimin-ah’ he heard his brother’s voice say as it got further away.
‘H-hyung!’ Jimin called, but there was no reply.
A pungent scent reached Jimin’s nose and he inhaled; unfamiliarity resting at the forefront of his mind. He turned when he felt heat behind him; sudden and insistent.
The white stick his brother held before was unable to be seen now through clouds of smoke wafting from the carpet, small orange flames licking the pages before swallowing them whole. The billows of smoke were nothing like when Jimin first opened door; now too large and the smell was overbearing. Fear and uncertainty crawled through Jimin’s veins and seized his lungs, causing them to expand and contract rapidly, doing nothing to help the situation.
A stray flame caressed his sweat pants and Jimin stared at it in wonder. The way it twisted and flickered completely unpredictable and fascinating to watch.
His vision grew blurry as his lungs slowed and he tried to step back from the flames. No matter how pretty they were to watch, they sure were warm. His foot caught on a stray soccer boot littered on his brother’s bedroom floor and Jimin toppled to the carpet with a thud.
In his semi-conscious state, Jimin noticed 3 things with varying clarity.
One was the way his body seemed unresponsive to what he wanted it to do. He wanted to raise himself up, breathe deeply, but it refused to cooperate, instead staying situated on the carpet, boot digging into his calf and lungs heaving out deep breaths between stuttered coughs.
The second was the sound of thumping footsteps racing up the stairs, muted yelling growing louder along with the footsteps.
The third was that even through his daze, even though the flames were beginning to eat through his sweatpants and tickle his skin, Jimin couldn’t help but think how beautiful they looked.
Though time had passed and the scars had healed into patches of tightly pulled pink skin, Jimin couldn’t deny the love–hate relationship he shared with fire, and by extension, Yoongi.
Though his eyes were registering their surroundings too slow to be completely alert, Jimin could clearly see the way Yoongi tilted the match this way and that, making the single flame dance upon the small surface of the wooden matchstick. His skin was still pale, untouched. It was a game of Russian roulette; a kind of push and pull where – if the stakes on one end were high enough – the danger of the deal triggered adrenaline to begin pumping, just waiting for the inevitable loss.
Jimin sucked in a deep breath and gathered the strength he had left to utter:
“Yoongi, stop, please.”
The flame was out with a flick of his wrist.
Yoongi set the no doubt still hot match onto a little glass plate on their dresser to avoid it leaving burn marks. It was there for that specific reason and Jimin wasn’t sure if it was thoughtful of Yoongi or incredibly inconsiderate that he went to such great lengths when he could simply just stop.
Yoongi turned to Jimin and walked toward him with a palm outstretched, caressing the younger boys’ cheek once he came close enough.
“You okay, Jiminnie?” he whispered, searching his eyes for signs of discomfort.
Yoongi slid the hand down to Jimin’s neck, two fingers pressed under his jaw as his eyes continued to measure up his boyfriend’s face. The steady rhythm beneath his fingertips left him satisfied, along with the coherency alight in Jimin’s eyes.
“You were a good boy, Jimin.”
Yoongi slid his hand down from Jimin’s neck to rest on his jutting hipbone.
“A very good boy.”
Yoongi spoke in hushed tones, as if he was afraid of being overheard. (Which was a fair call, seeing as the walls that separated the apartments in their building weren’t the kind built for privacy but rather cost efficiency).
Jimin’s eyes fluttered shut as his lungs heaved a sigh he’d been holding in as he allowed Yoongi’s fingers to skirt beneath his sweatshirt and over his abdomen.
He knew their relationship was irrational and stemmed from a mix of fear and fascination, but what he’d come to learn was that trust and love could join the swirl of emotions and create something even stranger.
Jimin needed Yoongi to keep him and his obsession fear in check just like Yoongi needed to feel the heat licking at his skin to feel alive.
It was strange, dysfunctional. But it worked.