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The purgatory is nothing like Yoongi had imagined it to be. In his imaginations, it was supposed to be cold, null, and void. However, Yoongi sits here in front of the heater, and a waiter serves him a menu card. Yoongi isn't sure what to do with it, so he opens it quietly. There's blood marring the front of his shirt, and he feels it splattered all over his neck and collar; Yoongi thinks that if he looks into the mirror, he'll absolutely abhor his face.
His brows furrow in confusion when he looks down at the menu, there's a series of numbers on it and so he quickly shuts it. Yoongi was never good with it. It was always Jimin’s forte. Jimin. A deep ache blooms in his chest and Yoongi sucks in a hard breath.
“Are you ready to choose?” The waiter asks, coming up on him quietly, like the impending shadows of doom. Yoongi should probably say something like ‘no, thank you, I’m so confused.’
He shakes his head slightly and murmurs a quiet, “no, let me think about it.”
“You probably should.” The waiter hums. He is dressed in a black suit and the cleanest pair of gloves Yoongi’s ever seen. Yoongi is confident that his socks are also immaculate. Now that Yoongi thinks about it, this place doesn't look like a restaurant and the man doesn't look like a waiter. Maybe the folder in his hands isn’t a menu, either.
“But we’ll have more people coming in soon, you see,” the man says, “and this is a very busy place. How about I take you somewhere and you can sit and think while we wait for your decision?”
“Okay.” What does the deceased stand to lose, anyway?
“Excellent!” The man exclaims, then unexpectedly pulls out an hourglass. He flips it and sets it on the table in front of Yoongi, leaving him further appalled, “you have all the time in the world and no time at all, good sir. Let's go.” As baffling as the cryptic man's words are, Yoongi gets up from his chair and follows him.
At least the blood on his skin is not sticky and uncomfortable in the purgatory.
The room that the man — Namjoon , as he claimed to be — had led Yoongi into, sends a cold shiver down his spine, like a block of ice sinking into the empty, hollow pit of his non-existent stomach. It is his living room, exactly as he remembers it — neat, organized and yet somehow in a disarray, the walls are sage green with numerous photographs. In a corner by the window, a man sits in a rocking chair humming to himself.
Yoongi feels like everything around him stops, and a raw ache mixed with dread fills up his heart. Briefly, he's aware that Namjoon has left and has quietly closed the door behind him. All he can focus on is the quiet figure on the rocking chair in a pale blue sweater and messy, disheveled hair. He'd recognise him anywhere. He isn't supposed to be here.
“Jimin?” Yoongi calls out, an empty void opening up in his body. The man springs up from the chair and spins towards him with a bright smile on his face.
“Yoongi-ah!” Jimin asks. Is he even Jimin, or is Yoongi simply dreaming? “So, this is where you were.” If horror were a colour, to Yoongi, it would be a flash of white. He takes a tentative step toward the man before feeling his world sway. Yoongi stumbles, his hands fumbling as he tries to steady himself.
“Honey?” Jimin takes a step towards him, the chair behind him is still rocking. Yoongi’s hands finally find the wall to grip on. “Are you okay?” Jimin is impossibly close now, his palms extended and on Yoongi’s bloody shirt. Upclose, Jimin’s face has an asheni pallor, his eyes are sunken and his face looks bereft of any effects of the skincare that he religiously follows.
“Don't touch me!” Yoongi screams, his raspy baritone voice sounds impossibly shrill to his own ears. He doesn't want the blood on his clothes to stain Jimin’s hands, blood is filthy. Jimin recoils as if he's been burnt, but Yoongi doesn't relent, “What are you doing here?”
“What do you mean?” Jimin's voice trembles, “what do you mean?”
“I told you …” Yoongi heaves, “I told you to stay at the apartment and not go out! I told you to run! What did you do?”
“Yoongi-ah…” Jimin mumbles, “you're scaring me, what is wrong?” The realization hits Yoongi suddenly — Jimin is here, it must mean Jimin is hurt. He straightens up, eyes turning frantic.
“You must be hurt,” Yoongi grips the other man’s arms, and even if he cannot truly feel them, he thinks they're soft as ever, “why did you have to step out… oh Jimin, I told Hoseok!” his voice takes a frustrated turn “I told him!”
“Who's…” Jimin looks at him like he's gone crazy, “who’s Hoseok?”
“What? What do you mean?” then, Yoongi notices the unblemished skin on Jimin’s face. Jimin’s face is not unblemished, he has a tiny scar on his left cheek from an injury in childhood. “You…” Yoongi quickly lets go of the other's hands and takes a step back, “you're not my Jimin.”
“Yoongi,” Jimin pleads, “what is wrong with you?”
“Where do we live, Jimin?”
“What…” Jimin’s brows furrow, confusion seeps into his eyes, “we live in Gyeongsan, you had to shift because of your job, remember? I still have the house.”
“Jimin,” something in Yoongi breaks and a part of him is filled with relief, because this was probably just death playing tricks with him, and Jimin is alive, untouched by the shadows, “I live in Gangnam, in a high rise apartment. We moved in together just a few weeks ago.”
Jimin’s silence is palpable in the air. He stares at the dead man with wide unbelieving eyes and asks softly, resolutely, “what is our son's name?”
“Son?” Yoongi blanches knowing he would only disappoint the other, “Jimin, marriage is illegal between two men, let alone having a son.”
“Oh.” Yoongi sees the exact moment Jimin’s heart breaks. “You're not Yoongi.” He murmurs.
“I am,” Yoongi swallows, he moves towards the pale yellow sofa set and sits down on it, the cushioning doesn't feel like anything, “I am just not the Yoongi you're looking for.”
“I get it now.” Jimin drops down on the seat beside him, “do you think we're from different worlds?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Did they give you this weird card with numbers, too?”
“They did.” Jimin nods. “They put on an hourglass too. I wonder when the time runs out. How old are you?”
“Thirty.”
“My Yoongi would've been thirty two. I am twenty seven.”
“I see.”
Silence fills up the air between them and Yoongi wonders how much time has passed : how long till he has to sit beside someone who looks an awful lot like the person that makes his heart bleed.
“What do you think my Yoongi is doing now?” Jimin asks in a quiet murmur, the air between them shifts into something even more somber and heartbreaking. “What do you think your Jimin is doing now?”
“My Jimin?” Something rotten crawls up Yoongi’s metaphysical body — ugly, heavy, guilty — and Yoongi fumbles to answer.
“On a normal day,” Yoongi chooses the easy route, “my Jimin would wake up and see that I’m gone, he'd know that I have gone for work and he'd eat the oatmeal breakfast left on the counter, he’d …” Yoongi swallows, “he’d go to work and call me during lunch break and bring back flowers to add to the vase.”
“And…” Jimin’s hesitates, “what would he do on a not very normal day?”
“I —” Yoongi's voice cracks and he takes in a mouthful of non-existent air for comfort, “I don't know. He'd… he'd be mourning wouldn't he?” Yoongi looks up at Jimin’s face, the other man gazes at him with unconcealed pity and sees his heartbreak reflected in brown eyes. Yoongi thinks death makes people horribly honest and strips away their inhibitions. “He'd have gotten the phone call by now, right?”
“My Jimin… he'd be so … sad.” Yoongi looks away at where the window blends into the abstract corners of the room, “he's a silent mourner. He'd… oh Lord, he'd probably shed tears for me.” He senses the warmth of a hand resting on his.
“I’m sorry, Yoongi.” Jimin whispers. “I shouldn't have asked. Forgive me.”
“It's okay.” A certain blue washes over him, silent and heavy, “speaking about my feelings did bring a sort of peace within me.”
“It is difficult,” Jimin consoles, “I’m sorry”
Jimin removes his hand and Yoongi continues, “it’s just … as a child, I’d always thought that I’d live forever, guess I didn't. It breaks my heart to think that my Jimin will bury me.”
“What do you think your Yoongi is doing now?” Yoongi asks. He feels it when Jimin stills beside him, the man quietly lets go his hand and pulls his knees to his chest.
“My Yoongi,” Jimin clears his throat, “would probably not know.”
“What?”
“I hope my Yoongi is happy. I hope he has everything he wants, and I hope he never gets to know that I have passed.” Jimin chokes up. It's Yoongi’s turn to place a comforting hand on his back.
“You can tell me what happened if you want to,” he murmurs, “or we can just stop and wait till the sand runs out.”
“My Yoongi,” Jimin curls his fist, “went missing a few years ago. No one knows where he is. Not even the police. At one point, I thought he was dead and that he’d wait for me here. The man outside who gave me the register? Seokjin? He said that my Yoongi hasn't come here, and seeing that you're not him…” Jimin shrugs, “I guess he's alive somewhere.”
“How did he go missing?”
“He just…” Jimin mumbles, “he was a school teacher and he returned home everyday around five after all the students left. One day, he just didn't return. What does your Jimin do?” Yoongi senses the sudden shift in topic but doesn't comment.
“He's a corporate worker.” Yoongi tells with pride. “He works in the HR. What do you do?”
“I'm a taxi driver.” Jimin leans back on the sofa and Yoongi removes his hand. “Can I ask something?”
“Mmh?”
“How did you die?”
Yoongi thinks that there is little comfort in death, why is he being questioned about everything that hurts him? But he thinks that he’ll answer anyway, because the dead have nothing to hide.
“Gun wound.” Yoongi sighs. On the wall opposite to them, he now sees numerous photo frames; in the corner, nearly invisible, is Jimin, his Jimin. Yoongi feels dry, unable to take his eyes off the photo.
“Were you a gang member?” the man next to him blinks owlishly.
“No, Jimin,” Yoongi laughs, “gang members are not really that common, you know? They exist only in those airport novels you read.” But does this Jimin also read pirated paperbacks with cringey male leads who make you sob at the end? His voice turns soft. “I’m an investigator. My team and I were investigating a drug racket in a club. Someone had tipped us off, everyone escaped but I didn't. They shot me square in my chest and I had no chance to survive it.”
“I’m sorry, Yoongi.” Jimin quietly says, looking at the photo frames with a pensive look in his eyes, “I’m sorry you had to go through something horrible.”
In another frame, Yoongi stands behind a cash register in a convenience store, his hair swept back. In another, Jimin's delicate face is coated in soot. One shows Yoongi holding a little girl, while in another, Jimin cradles a dog. Yoongi wonders if these are the Jimins and Yoongis from different worlds.
“How did you die, Jimin?”
“I…” Jimin’s voice wavers, “to be honest, I don't remember much of it. I dropped my son off at his school and drove onto the main road. It was green and a woman waved at the taxi, so I stopped.” Jimin sucks in a sharp breath. “I don't remember much after, I remember the flashing headlights and the burnt smell of the engine and the feel of my body shutting down. By the time I heard the sirens, I was already floating.”
“All universes have drunk drivers, it seems.” Yoongi's voice dips in sarcasm, then he nods his head in apology. Jimin smiles at him. “You have a son?”
“Yes!” Jimin’s eyes sparkle with pride, “his name is Youngbae, Yoongi and I adopted him three years into our marriage. He's ten now.”
“That's sweet.” Yoongi looks down at his hands, tearing his gaze from the innumerable photo frames. He wonders if in any one of these, he can see Jimin with a child. For a moment, he lets himself think — he thinks of Jimin with a child, a sweet young cherub clinging to Jimin’s waist asking him when he can play with him. He imagines his lover putting the child to sleep. He imagines himself running around the park with the child. Something sharp twists inside Yoongi's chest, all he wanted was to be happy, with Jimin.
“I hope,” Jimin’s voice cracks, Yoongi thinks that if souls could cry, the Jimin beside him would be sobbing, “that my child is happy. I hope for his sake that they find my Yoongi. I hope he knows that I love him so much.” His voice turns thicker. “Everything I do, I do for him.”
“Jimin-ah?” Yoongi thinks of his Jimin, soft eyes turning into glass and shedding tears of grief over a man whose hands are tainted, he can almost taste the bitter feeling of self loathe and mourning settle heavily on his tongue. The Jimin beside him hums, so he continues, “do you think in any universe we are happy?”
Jimin gets up from the couch and moves towards the photo frames, he stops in front of one with Yoongi standing in front of the Namsan tower, his hair is mint and his gums peep from his smile, his hands hold a bouquet of flowers. On Yoongi’s hands, tattooed in tiny letters is PJM.
“All these pictures of Jimins and Yoongis,” Jimin sighs, “none of Jimin and Yoongi together. Fate has a cruel way of doing things, don't you think so, Hyung? Across worlds we have each other's names carved into our existences, but it seems like fate never learned how to spell.” It’s strangely poetic, Yoongi thinks, and something low in his gut stirs.
“I want to get done with whatever this is.” Yoongi takes a deep breath and moves towards the door.
“You're leaving?” Jimin asks, softly, like always, and almost like he is reluctant to part with the picture of mint haired Yoongi smiling at him.
“Yes.” Yoongi solemnly tells. “I have seen and heard enough. Anymore, and this grief will swallow me whole, rendering me helpless and unable to move over.”
“I don't understand why they put us in a room together.”
“Me neither.”
“Did you understand what the numbers outside mean?”
“I think.” Yoongi nods and looks around the room. The objects come in an odd number, seven. Seven rows of frames, seven pieces of furniture, seven books on the shelf. Yoongi doesn't know what the numbers mean but he thinks he knows what number he wants to say outside.
“I think I get it too,” Jimin whispers, “good bye, Yoongi.”
“Good bye, Jimin.”
“I hope,” Jimin looks up at Yoongi one last time before the latter opens the door, “that in some world we are happy together. Yoongi and Jimin, Jimin and Yoongi. I hope nothing pulls us apart.”
When Yoongi steps outside the room, the purgatory has visibly changed, it is no longer a heated room with high tables and chairs but something that remotely looks like a tea room. It reminds him of the time he was a child and along with his mother and elder brother, he had gone to a tea room to celebrate a wedding.
The man, Namjoon, sits behind a small low table with a black hanbok slung on his body and cups of tea in front of him. If Yoongi concentrates enough, he can see the faint outlines of his brother and him playing outside in the garden. From the large window, Yoongi sees two swallows sitting on the ledge.
“Are you ready to choose?” Namjoon breaks the quiet hush of Yoongi’s mind with a charming dimpled smile.
“Yes.” He mutters and sits down on the mat opposite to him.
“That's good,” the dimpled man nods, “why don't you drink some tea?” Yoongi knew this part was coming, so he hesitates slightly. His hands tremble at the thought of not seeing anyone he holds precious again.
“Do you think…” he tells the man in a quiet whisper, “that I can wait for someone?”
“Staying here, Yoongi,” Namjoon pensively says, “do you think Jimin would like it? Staying here means a lot of suffering, a lot of anguish and the risks of becoming like me. Do you think Jimin would want that?”
In his heart Yoongi knows that Jimin would not want it. He would not want the anguish that his dead lover might have to go through, with shaky hands Yoongi picks up the cup and drinks the tea. The liquid tastes like nothing, and it feels like nothing.
“What do you want to choose?” Namjoon asks once again.
“Seven.” Yoongi shuts his eyes and the taste of ginger and honey bursts on his tongue, like the dessert they had in a restaurant a long time ago.
Yoongi is in an orchard. Sunlight falls on his eyes and Jimin, as bright as the sun, stands in the distance. He thinks he can hear Hoseok’s laughter floating in. To his right he sees his brother and sister-in-law play with their little daughter and he can hear his mother's soft hums of a lullaby.
“Hyung!” Jimin yells, eyes as bright as stars, “where did you disappear to?” The scene feels oddly familiar, like the first anniversary celebration they had in the form of a vacation.
Yoongi feels a lump in his throat, he moves towards Jimin, not wanting to leave the other man alone.
“Jimin!” A much younger and alive Yoongi jogs up to the man, “sorry, I had to go back to the car because I was thirsty.” At a distance, dead Yoongi can see the mountains. He wonders if younger Yoongi knows that each minute he shares with Jimin is precious.
“Ah!” Jimin parts his lips, “this is such a pretty place, Hyung, I love it so much.”
“I love you.” Yoongi murmurs in a whisper. The other Yoongi softly smiles at his lover.
Yoongi knows it's time.
“Seokjin?” Jimin asks as he sits on the soft grass under the canopy of stars with a cup of coffee in his hands, “do you think my Yoongi remembers me still?”
“Do you want me to be honest?” The man asks. Jimin nods. “I don't think so, no.” Seokjin answers. “He’s not been here and he has not seeked you out, nor has he actively tried to reach anything from his past. From my experience, I think it's a case of dementia.”
“Oh.” Jimin nods solemnly. “Should I drink this?”
“Yes,” Seokjin nods, a little surprised, “a lot of people ask if they can stay here, won't you ask?”
“Not really,” he shakes his head, “my Yoongi has forgotten me and my Youngbae is too young, by the time he grows up, he shall forget me too. I think the best I can do is move on.”
“Oh Jimin,” Seokjin reaches out and holds the dead man's face in his hands, “I hope that some universe is kind to you.” Jimin lets out a broken smile and takes the first sip of the drink, it is tasteless and bland.
“What do you choose, Jimin?” Seokjin gently strokes his hair.
“Seven.” Jimin murmurs. The taste of flour, sugar, and milk erupts on his taste buds, like a slice of a perfect milk cake. He shuts his eyes.
When his eyes open, he is no longer in a purgatory under the stars with Seokjin comforting him, but inside a chapel. Jimin recognises his younger and much more alive self standing by the altar and a younger Yoongi holding his hands. He sits down on one of the pews. The officiator starts the wedding.
Jimin doesn't really hear any of the vows that young Yoongi and young Jimin say, because, at the end of the day, these vows end up broken. When the officiator asks the grooms to kiss, Jimin straightens up. He sees Jungkook whooping standing beside Yoongi as his best man, he sees Taehyung holding his sobbing mother. He sees Yoongi stare at young Jimin with utmost devotion in his eyes.
Jimin gets up and walks outside the chapel. His steps falter, he enters the bedroom that Yoongi and he shared in the early days of their marriage. Standing in the middle of the room is a young Yoongi rocking one year old Youngbae to sleep. Jimin remembers how his little baby couldn't sleep unless he was in someone's arms. Yoongi hums a lullaby, soft and soothing.
In another universe, Yoongi never left, Youngbae never grew up without parents and Jimin wasn't in the wrong place at the wrong time. He closes his eyes and breathes.
—
In some world, across the galaxies, a little boy rushes outside with his bicycle. His mother shrieks, asking him to be home by three, the boy doesn't bother answering and pedals away. The boy is seven, and he's no longer a kid for heaven's sake, he's not the cherub that his mother calls him, he can do grown up things now. Seokie hyung and Taetae’s parents never forbid them from doing whatever they want! The little cherub cycled to the park, his friends would be here very soon. With the park mostly deserted, he decides to run a few laps with his cycle. Jinnie hyung always does that! He begins cycling in circles, initially at a slow pace before gradually increasing his speed. There comes a moment when he is flying through the park. Little giggles escape the boy's lips.
It happens suddenly, one moment he is flying through the park, and in the next moment, his bicycle clashes with another and he falls down, the heavy bicycle topples over him. The little boy stares at the other boy that has fallen with him — he has a small pale face, a pair of deep set eyes that look at him in horror and tufts of thick black hair on his head. He looks like a cat. Another boy with a bicycle looks at the both of them with a dumbfounded expression.
Then, the cherub’s lips tremble and his eyes fill up with tears, soon he is crying. The world blurs around him.
“Oh no!” He hears the cat boy scream, “Joonie! He's crying!” The other boy, Joonie, takes one look at them and runs away. The cherub cries harder. With a deep sigh like he has grown over a span of few minutes, the cat boy gets up and pulls the cherub from underneath the bicycle. He makes the little boy sit on a bench and hugs him.
“There, there,” the cat boy pats, “it's okay, I’ll blow on your scratches and they’ll be healed in no time.”
“Really?” The cherub croaks.
“Yes,” the cat boy nods, “you’ll look like Kookie if you cry, and he looks ugly when he cries.” He scrunches his nose.
“Hey!” The cherub tuts, “you shouldn't call people ugly.”
“I’m sorry,” the cat boy solemnly says and takes the cherub’s hands and blows softly at the little lines of red. “Better?”
“You have to kiss it better, silly!” The cherub pouts. So, the cat boy leaves a big wet smack on his dainty hand. “I’m still sad.” The little boy pouts even more.
Cat boy has an idea!
“Wait here!” He shouts and leaves the cherub be and runs away from the park towards his house. The cherub, despite his confusion at the sight of the boy running away, waits diligently. By the time the catboy returns with his hands behind his back, the little boy has picked the bicycle up from the ground and contemplates running a few more laps.
“I have something for you.” Cat boy shyly says. He takes out his hands from behind his back shyly, in his tiny grasp is a little black kitten looking up at the cherub with startled eyes. “The spirits gave the neighbours cats three kittens, Kookie and I have two kittens at home, the third one was lonely, so I brought him for you!”
“Can I take him home?” the cherub asks, with wide, hopeful eyes.
“Of course!” the cat boy murmurs and places the kitten in the cherub's bicycle basket. “He's yours. So, um, friends?”
“Friends!” the cherub throws his arms around the cat boy “thankyou, thankyou, thankyou, my best friend!”
“What is your name?” the cat boy shyly asks with a blush coating his cheeks.
“Jimin.” The boy smiles wide with his eyes creasing into two moons. “Yours?”
“Yoongi.”
end.