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There were many things in Jimin’s life that he hated; late night, hot summer dinner under the open sky with his coworkers. He was aware he was being oddly specific. Jimin sighed and dug his nails into his palms, feeling the sticky sweat gathering over the flesh, to avoid scratching at the skin swollen into a red, hard bump infected by the toxins inside the saliva of mosquitos turning evil and bloodthirsty the moment they got a sniff of carbon dioxide.
The movement-sensitive sensor chiming at the top of the wide metallic arch that, besides dividing the area inhabited by shoes placed next to many doors cutting the old, ugly wallpaper from elevators, was collecting most of the grime cumulating over the corridor, made a soft clicking sound and as the heel of Jimin’s sandal touched the dirty tiles, a strong ray of white light jumped from walls and lightened up each corner, making the irritated bites on Jimin’s bare legs look like bruises.
Against all odds, sliding to the barriers, that could hold five grown-up men in the high of the fight, at the full speed, baring the purple spots resembling the spilt ink rather than annoying him, made him feel an odd sense of pride after he caught a glimpse of his classmates' unblemished legs and arms. Despite not tying his dearest pair of skates around his ankles for nearly a decade now, the sight of little round bruises didn’t faze him, it was the itch that was making him mad.
The soles of his sandals were squelching every time he took a step, with his muddy toes nearly touching the ground as the water from puddles slid his foot to the front. Jimin didn’t mind the dampness of his clothes soaking to his skin as long as he had clothes to change to before the small of his back could begin to hurt.
It was the stormy cloud that didn’t get their attention until they were sipping on the cold soup from the flat plates that helped the sudden strike of adrenalin in his muscle fibres after he remembered the closeness of Jungkook’s place. While he could have easily waved at a taxi and spared himself the hassle, he chose to dash through the streets. Perhaps Jimin's eagerness to catch a glimpse of Jungkook, or simply his unwillingness to spend money on a taxi when he could pill the drenched fabric of his body within a few minutes, motivated the peak of his athleticism.
The bulged plastic of the doorbell under his finger shone blue, matching the hue of his nails, and a loud melody pushing through the wood rang twice before dying in the empty corridors in the same silence as when the elevator’s heavy doors slid open and offered Jimin the first sight at the somehow familiar rough carpets.
The sound of the bell was still resonating inside him ears and he was quite sure Jungkook’s closest neighbours were also aware the young man was getting a late-night visitor, yet there was no sign of a movement on the other side of the door.
“Jungkook-ah?’ he cleared his throat, listening to his hoarse voice attempting to travel through the narrow space of Jungkook’s dark entrance hallway he remembered hiding behind the curtain whose thick fabric he could see peeking where the lock didn’t quite fit into the door frame, ‘Are you home?”
There was a brief pause, the silence weighing heavily on Jimin as he waited for a response. It would feel suffocating not to be the hot feeling of presence at the back of his head; he knew if he were to spin on his heels he would catch the glimpse of eye disappearing from the peephole drilled to the surface of the door opposite Jungkook’s.
He shifted on his feet, the dampness of his clothes clinging uncomfortably to his skin. The flickering hallway light above him cast long shadows that seemed to dance around him mockingly.
Just as Jimin's hand hovered uncertainly over the doorbell again, contemplating whether he should ring it once more, he heard a faint shuffling from inside the apartment as if someone’s rubber slippers were kicked across the floor. His heart leapt in his chest, hope mingling with an early sense of relief.
The locks clicked softly, one after the other, and the door swung open slowly to reveal a familiar build of strong, wide shoulders and thick thighs standing there. Jungkook’s hair was tousled, sticking to every direction as if he had been running his fingers through it for a good hour before Jimin showed up at the border of his apartment. However, even if Jimin squinted his eyes, a shadow over Jungkook’s face was thick enough to prevent him from seeing more than the sparkles of light’s reflection in his eyes.
“Hyung?” Jungkook’s voice was raspy with a hint of scratchiness to it that made Jimin’s heart skip a beat with worry, while his lips had to barely move as the word came out sounding more like a tired hum rather than a language. A faint scent of cigarettes lingered around Jungkook’s breath, mixed with the burning smell of whiskey. The smell made Jimin wonder what made the boy’s otherwise healthy lifestyle break into deadly habits.
“Were you…” But Jungkook was already turning around, letting himself be swallowed by the darkness of his small apartment; wordlessly inviting Jimin inside.
The place was sparsely furnished, awaking the phantom of the laugh of the old inside joke in Jimin’s ears. Jungkook would never bother to unpack the dust-hungry cardboard boxes not for Taehyung who had brought a gleam of inhabitant inside the empty rooms. Jungkook’s lack of enthusiasm in decorating, or making the apartment look like not abandoned, made it rather easy to match every piece of chair, frame or vase to the style. For example like that table with a half-empty glass of something transculent which clearly wasn’t water that was dripping down its wooden sides.
The further Jimin stepped, the more he allowed his muddy soles to leave trails of brown behind their backs, the lingering scent of alcohol and smoke only seemed to grow stronger, as if the cushions on the sofa and the curtains drawn close over the door absorbed it instead of Taehyung’s favourite flowery laundry detergent. Jimin couldn't help but notice the disarray of the place, the scattered things that seemed to tell a story of neglect and loneliness.
The apartment was filled with random objects Jimin was stumbling over as if a tornado had ripped through and left everything in disarray. Clothes were strewn across the couch and floor, books were piled on the coffee table in a risky tower, and empty bottles and cans littered the room. He bent down to lift the expensive-looking jacket which looked rather small to fit over Jungkook’s shoulders, revealing a lone shoe lying forgotten by the sofa. It was a stark contrast to the neat Jungkook he once knew.
"Jungkook," Jimin finally called out, trying to keep his voice steady despite the force of emotions pushing from his gut and up his throat. He took another step forward, Taehyung’s designer jacket hanging from his fingertips by the sewn label as if his hand was nothing more but a hanger. The floorboard creaked beneath his weight.
"Are you okay?" Jimin asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Jungkook remained silent, his back turned towards him as he stared out of the window, his eyes perhaps counting the raindrops racing down the glass.
The distant rumble of thunder roared through the apartment, painting the dark sky electric orange and later white. Jimin felt a knot form in his stomach as he watched Jungkook's unmoving figure by the windowsill. For a moment he thought Jungkook hadn’t heard him, his silhouette stood rigid against the dimly lit room, his shoulders tense as if carrying the weight of the world on them. The only sound in the apartment was again the soft patter of rain against the window, a steady rhythm that seemed to echo Jungkook's silence.
Then, slowly, almost inaudibly, Jungkook heaved out a sigh. His broad frame seemed to deflate slightly before he turned around to face Jimin. The street under the window cast deep shadows across his face, emphasizing the lines of exhaustion and something darker lingering beneath the surface.
"I'm fine, hyung," Jungkook finally spoke, his voice rough and weary. But his eyes betrayed his words, revealing a storm of emotions swirling within their depths. Jimin could sense a silent plea for understanding, for someone to see beyond the facade he had carefully constructed.
Without waiting any further, Jimin threw himself into the space, the jacket, still clutched in his hand, slapped Jungkook’s hip as their chests met in a hug. Jungkook flinched at the touch, startled out of a trance that faded from his dark, blown-out pupils. The taste of whiskey and nicotine was absorbed by Jungkook’s clothes, clinging to him with a faint aroma of something sweeter that remained from a long-forgotten perfume around the collar of his T-shirt.
For a moment, Jungkook stood frozen, the sharp bone of his chin digging a hole into Jimin’s forehead while the warmth of their bodies pressing together created a contrast to the coldness of the room. Jimin could feel the race of Jungkook’s heartbeat stealing the counts of his own beats. And then slowly, hesitantly, Jungkook raised his arms, returning the hug, his grip tight as if afraid to let go. Despite the walls Jungkook had built around himself, Jimin could see through them, see the vulnerability hidden beneath the mask of indifference. He always could.
The eternity could have passed but it was only that stormy cloud getting bored of flooding Seoul’s streets. Jimin could feel Jungkook finally relaxing in his arms, the tension in his upper body melting away as if Jimin was emitting a comforting heat with each of his exhales.
The suffocation finally crossed the threshold, Jimin pulled away from the hug only to check if they had closed the door, however under the moonshine, Jungkook’s face had become clear for the very first time that night. His skin was pale, only, the gleam of stars instead of complimenting his shade, made him look not far from sick. Someone had blown their fire from his eyes, they turned dark, lifeless. Jungkook's gaze flickered from the rain-marked window to Jimin’s eyes, a tear of vulnerability smearing over his vision before being blinked away by a stoic expression.
Without a word, Jimin gently took Jungkook's hand and led him towards the worn-out sofa that had seen better days. He lived them, remembered them - the countless memories held between its cushions. On similar nights, but the three of them sharing the apartment’s supplies of oxygen, he could force his arm down the sofa’s gap in search of his phone and pull out the evidence of Jungkook’s and Taehyung’s relationship.
They sat right on top of Jungkook’s unwashed clothes, used Taehyung’s jacket as a makeshift blanket. The sofa creaked under their weight, the pillows behind their backs sagging slightly from years of use.
The apartment seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the storm that boiled between them to either break or dissipate into nothingness. In the dim light seeping through the rain-streaked window, Jimin studied Jungkook's profile, a weariness that seemed to go beyond physical tiredness made itself an inhabitant to his features. He reached out to brush a strand of hair away from Jungkook’s face, his touch light and gentle. The boy closed his eyes briefly at the contact, a shiver of emotion he couldn’t conceal passing across his face before he let out a shaky sob.
With a deep breath, falling somewhere to the pits of his stomach, Jimin mustered up the courage to break the heavy worries that weighed down upon him, “What happened, Jungkook?” his voice quivered as if jumping from the shattered fragile peace that had settled between them.
Jungkook's shoulders slumped, a defeated sigh escaping his lips. He turned to look at Jimin. The mask he had worn for so long cracked, revealing the raw vulnerability hidden beneath. His gaze held sorrow and resignation at the same time.
“We broke up,” he said, saying the words with a sense of urgency as if trying to release the weight of the truth that had been falling on their love.
In the stillness of the apartment, the faint scent of something broken and sadness lingered, blurring with the musty scent of the furniture Taehyung had chosen. It seemed so long ago.
Watching the wet paths from Jungkook’s red and swollen eyes down his cheeks and jaw where they quivered like raindrops on the edge of an umbrella, Jimin’s mouth became dry. He dipped his tongue into a liquid iron and tasted the same metallic tang on his teeth. Only then he realised the painful throbbing under the roof of his mouth. He must have bitten on his tongue from the shock, probably to stiffen a yell. Looking from the cracked lenses of Jungkook’s camera, to torn pages of his books, he finally understood. It was the yell that could not be heard dashing through the apartment, even if he could imagine the tense muscles pulsating in Jungkook’s neck while his mouth hung open, showing the bottom of his teeth. Despite lacking the sound of vocal cords damaging at the human’s highest pitch, it must feel as raw and guttural under Jungkook’s hands destroying his home before fading into shock; the dust and melting to whimpers; the spilt whiskey and damp cigarettes.
“What?” Jimin felt foolish, there was no other way to describe it. “Can you repeat that?’ he asked lowly, ‘I think I heard you wrong.”
Or maybe there was - Jimin was a madman, laughing at the misery, clear as the tears dripping from his friend’s eyes. The image of Jungkook and Taehyung, once inseparable, now torn apart by an unseen force, haunted Jimin. How could something so beautiful turn into something so broken?
Jimin was haunted by many things in his life, there were regrets, his childhood dreams or fears so unmistakenly human representing terror of the cold, dead hand hiding under the mattress of his bed.
The room felt smaller, the walls closing on them, Jimin’s mind once again racing through the memories shared between Jungkook and Taehyung and witnessed by his own eyes in this very space. They danced together in the living room, threw pillows and laughed during the pyjama party. They burned a hole in the middle of the kitchen cloth while extinguishing the dinner, patted the bandaids of broken glasses of each other wounds or simply cuddled on the couch in front of the TV. Jimin could see the way they looked at each other with adoration and how their bodies fit perfectly together as if made for each other. He used to think they were, just a minute ago, the only constant in his life was the bond his two best friends shared.
“We broke up.” The same words.
“No, you haven’t,” Jimin was breathless, a spreading ache settled in his chest. Strange how something he had not owned once made the world seem at its final breath. He refused to accept the reality before him, clinging onto the fragments of a once-perfect image of Jungkook and Taehyung together. “We can fix this, Jungkook. We can talk to Taehyung, we can work through whatever it is that-”
But Jungkook didn’t even need to speak to make Jimin see the finality in his eyes. He was shaking his head as if Jimin was the unreasonable one.
“We can’t fix this, Jimin,” Jungkook’s voice was barely a breath, filling the frames that held their history with pain until the protective glass in front of them cracked and the paper got torn.
“It wasn’t just one thing,” Jungkook began, his voice trembling with emotion. “It was a thousand little cuts that we ignored until they became too deep to heal. We lost ourselves in trying to be what we used to be… before” He fisted the fabric of Taehyung’s denim jacket still thrown over his knees. Jimin, following the tone of frustration behind his words closely, thought he would toss it away, bleed the dot of the room’s yell into a comma, but he brought it towards his nose, breathing in its scent.
Jimin watched as Jungkook clung to Taehyung's jacket, his knuckles turning white from the tight grip. Memories were still swirling around them, their haunting echos, see-through like ghosts of something once living. Perhaps they were trailing after him just like how Jimin couldn't shake them off, and now he was attempting to either protect himself with the thin denim or chase them away. It wasn't a simple breakup; it was the unravelling of years of shared laughter, tears, and secrets; planning for a lifetime if they already weren’t living it.
Tears welled up in Jimin's eyes as he gazed at Jungkook, holding his heart just by the strength of his mind. At that moment, Jimin understood his role was not to fix everything but to simply be there, a pillar.
There were many things in Jimin’s life that he hated; the light blue denim jacket with carefully glued jewels along its stitches, covering the stains of unkempt on Jungkook’s light T-shirt as it stretched over his stomach. He was aware he was being oddly specific. With a trembling hand, Jimin reached out over the gap between the worn-out cushions of the sofa. His nails were no longer stained blue, not matching the shade of purple on Jungkook’s lips. Despite the remembrance of rain outside and blown-out heat inside the white pipes adorning the walls, summer nights felt sweaty.
Jimin’s hand landed just over Jungkook’s waist, he struggled to keep watch on who was shaking more. He felt a wave of helplessness in the moment of realisation that there were no visible wounds thirsty for the cooling ointment as infected bumps on his own skin. He wanted to offer comfort, to be the rock that Jungkook could lean on in his time of need. But the truth was, he felt just as lost and uncertain as Jungkook did.
The moon was slowly taking its path, swimming across the sea and stopping by each star as if they were a lifebuoy in the sea, casting milky light into Jungkook’s apartment. Jimin’s gaze lingered on the mess closed by the walls. Against all odds, being short of temper, he had never been too proud of losing control. With a deep breath, Jimin made a decision. Determination drying the grief in his eyes, he stood up.
Jungkook’s room was still yelling, the random books, clothes, cups, bottles and frames he was stumbling upon, were falling. Without a word, Jimin began to pick up the scattered belongings, each item a piece of their shared history. He carefully placed the torn pages of books back together, straightened out the crumpled photographs, and gathered the spilt whiskey-stained papers. It was a small gesture, but with each action, he felt a glimmer of hope spark within him, perhaps he would gain a few bruises. Bruises had always made him feel purposeful.
Jungkook watched in silence as Jimin moved through the room, the heaviness from his eyes fading as if the bottles Jimin threw into a bin or clothes he gathered into a laundry basket were the pieces of his heart and soul sewn back together. They would leave scars, Jimin’s bruises had always marked his skin with ugly red and dark blue tiny dots for weeks before reabsorbed. It was a sign of healing.
As he straightened a picture frame that had tumbled to the floor, Jimin finally turned to face Jungkook, outstretching his arm. But Jungkook refused to give away the jacket. It was alright, thought Jimin, he also liked to dab, pinch, massage the blood leaks under the layer of his skin. Prolonging was a process of healing.