Work Text:
Present Day
The newspaper clipping is yellowed now.
Jimin keeps it between the pages of a poetry book he never reads, the one Yoongi borrowed from the school library and never returned.
"They'll fine me," Yoongi had said with a shrug, shoving it into Jimin's backpack. "Keep it safe for me."
The headline is small. Buried. Just another tragedy in a city of millions.
High School Senior Found Deceased
No name in the headline. Just the facts: seventeen years old. Jumped from the rooftop during evening hours. No note. No witnesses.
Even up until today, Jimin regrets he even insisted coming home to realize that was the last time he'll ever see Yoongi.
Sometimes he blames himself that he died and chose to be, because Jimin didn't see it. That he'd been given up life, from his eyes. He'd been giving signs, but Jimin never saw neither of it.
If he didn't come home that night, then.. he could've been alive right now.
If he could take back the steps back, he would. The exact same steps before he turned around and called it a night.
Shit.
first step back.
Six Months Earlier
Jimin doesn't remember exactly what started it.
It was probably the rice ball. Jungkook had been whining about being hungry the entire walk from the science building, and Jimin was too busy laughing at him to watch where he was going.
The collision happened at the blind spot where the east hallway met the stairs, the intersection everyone complained about but no one ever fixed.
Thump.
Something plastic skittered across the floor, and Jimin stumbled backward, catching himself on Jungkook's shoulder, an apology already forming on his lips.
"I'm so sorry—"
But the person he'd crashed into was already turning.
Taller than Jimin by a few inches. Dark hair falling over his eyes.
A frown that looked less like anger and more like exhaustion carved into someone too young for it.
The blazer was worn at the sleeves, the collar slightly crooked, as if he'd put it on without looking in a mirror.
A senior. Jimin knew it immediately from the badge color, and his stomach dropped.
Behind him, Jungkook went very still. "Jimin-ssi," he whispered, the honorific slipping out before he could stop it.
The senior looked them over once—quick, dismissive. His eyes caught on Jimin's for half a second. Something flickered there, and Jimin saw it. Something he couldn't explain.
Then he was walking away.
"Wait—" Jimin started.
"He ignored us," Jungkook hissed, pulling at his sleeve. "Let's go."
But Jimin had already seen it. On the floor where the senior had been standing, a single ballpoint pen had rolled to a stop against the wall. Black. Cheap. The kind you could buy in a pack of twelve.
"He dropped something."
Jungkook groaned. "Jimin. Hyung. He literally looked at us as a sign."
"So?" Jimin was already picking up the pen. "That's even more reason to return it. He probably had a bad day."
"He hates everyone."
"You don't even know him."
"I heard some things from Jin-hyung," Jungkook lowered his voice. "Min..Yoongi? He's... you know. One of those."
Jimin turned the pen over in his fingers. "Those what?"
"The lonely ones. The ones who sit on the rooftop instead of eating lunch."
"Maybe, he just wants to be alone."
Jungkook stared at him for a long moment, then he sighed.
"You're going to chase after him, aren't you?"
Jimin was already grinning.
He searched.
The pen was small in his pocket, the plastic warming against his thigh as he walked through every hallway, checked every classroom, climbed every staircase.
He asked a senior Seokjin—who Jungkook had previously mentioned and been squinting at the description, "Min? Dark hair? Ah.. must be the one I told Jungkook before."
"That's the one."
"Went upstairs. Rooftop, probably." Seokjin tilted his head. "Careful with that one, junior. He's got shadows under his shadows."
Jimin bowed his thanks and kept climbing.
The door to the rooftop was supposed to be locked. Everyone knew that. But the lock had been broken for years, and the school had never bothered to fix it.
Jimin pushed the door open.
The wind hit him first, cold for September, carrying the smell of rain and city exhaust. Then the light, shimmering golden and fading, the sun beginning its slow slide toward the horizon.
And then—him.
Yoongi was standing at the edge.
Not close enough to fall. Not leaning. But close enough that Jimin's heart stopped anyway. Close enough that his feet moved before his brain caught up.
"Hey—hey! You're going to fall!"
Yoongi turned.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The wind caught Yoongi's hair, pushing it away from his face, and Jimin saw him properly for the first time. Pale skin. Dark eyes that he had saw before when they collided. A small mouth that was doing something unexpected now—
Curving into a smirk.
"Am I?"
"Get down from there. Please." Jimin was already walking toward him, his voice pitching higher with panic. "That's dangerous, you could—"
"I'm not going to jump."
"You're standing on the edge of a building."
"It's a four-story building."
"That doesn't make it better!"
Yoongi turned back to the view. "I come here to think. The edge helps."
"Helps what?"
"Everything." A pause. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
Jimin almost forgot. His hand went to his pocket, retrieving the pen like a nervous offering. "You dropped this. Earlier. In the hallway. I bumped into you and... I wanted to give it back."
Yoongi looked at the pen. Then at Jimin. Then back at the pen.
"You searched the whole school for a ballpoint pen."
"I asked around."
"For a pen."
"You seemed like you needed it."
Something shifted in Yoongi's expression. Not much—just a softening at the edges, a crack in whatever wall he'd built around himself. He held out his hand.
"Get down from the edge," Jimin repeated.
"I'm not going to fall."
"Then get down from the edge so I can believe you."
Yoongi laughed. It was a small sound, barely there, like he'd forgotten how and was trying to remember. He took a step back. Then another. Solid ground. Safe distance.
"Happy?"
Jimin exhaled. His hands were shaking. He didn't know why. He barely knew this person. But something about seeing him up there who's alone, wind pulling at his clothes, had lodged itself behind Jimin's ribs.
He held out the pen.
Yoongi took it. Their fingers brushed. Yoongi's hands were cold.
"You're strange," Yoongi said.
"You're the one standing on rooftops."
"Fair point." Yoongi pocketed the pen, then he just nodded once and walked toward the door.
"Wait," Jimin called.
Yoongi paused.
"I'm Park Jimin. I'm a junior. Well—second year. But everyone calls me Jimin."
"I know who you are."
"You do?"
"You're the one who won the dance competition last spring. The contemporary piece." Yoongi's voice was carefully neutral. "You cried on stage when they announced your name."
Jimin's face went hot. "I did not cry."
"You were sobbing. The entire auditorium saw."
"That was—it was emotional. You don't understand."
"I understand you're loud and you cry in public and you chase strangers across school buildings to return their pens."
Jimin opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Yoongi was smiling now. Crooked.
"You're also annoying," Yoongi added. "Don't follow me again."
Then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
Jimin stood on the rooftop for a long time after that. The wind kept blowing. The sun kept setting. And somewhere in his chest, something small and dangerous was beginning to bloom.
He followed Yoongi again the next day.
second step back.
Three Months Earlier
The abandoned train tracks became their place.
Jimin found it by accident, following a stray cat, or maybe following Yoongi. He couldn't remember anymore.
The tracks cut through a forgotten part of the city where nothing grew and no one went. Trains hadn't run here in years. The rails were rusted, the ties splintered, but the grass that grew between them was soft.
They lay there sometimes. Side by side. Looking up at the sky.
"You're going to get tetanus," Yoongi said the first time.
"I'm up to date on my shots."
"That's not how tetanus works."
"Then explain it to me."
Yoongi did. For twenty minutes. Jimin understood approximately half of what he said, but he didn't care. He was watching Yoongi's hands move as he talked, the way they traced shapes in the air like he was drawing his thoughts.
"You're not listening," Yoongi said eventually.
"I'm listening very carefully."
"To what?"
"To your voice."
Yoongi went quiet.
Jimin smiled and closed his eyes.
It happened slowly.
Jimin following Yoongi to the cafeteria, sitting across from him even when Yoongi said nothing. Jimin bringing two lunchboxes instead of one, even when Yoongi insisted he wasn't hungry. Jimin finding him on the rooftop again and again, until Yoongi stopped pretending he wanted to be alone.
They ended up in detention together. That was Taehyung's fault, but Jimin couldn't bring himself to regret it. Two hours in a stuffy classroom with Yoongi drawing in the margins of his notebook and Jimin humming under his breath, their shoulders pressed together because someone had removed every other chair.
"You don't sing," Yoongi said.
"I just did."
"Don't do it again."
"You liked it."
"I didn't."
Jimin laughed, bright and loud, and Yoongi pressed his lips together to hide his own smile.
It didn't work.
The cuts appeared in winter.
Not all at once. Slowly. Like clues in a mystery Jimin didn't know he was solving.
Long sleeves in September. Another in October. By November, Yoongi was wearing jackets indoors, and Jimin was pretending not to notice.
They were lying on the train tracks when it happened. The sun was low, the light orange and forgiving. Yoongi had pushed up his sleeves without thinking, too tired to care, and there they were.
White lines. Pink ones. Some still healing.
Jimin stared.
Yoongi noticed. His whole body went stiff, like a rabbit sensing a predator. His hand moved to pull the sleeve down.
"Does it hurt?"
The question came out before Jimin could stop it. Quiet. Not accusatory. Just... curious.
"Huh?"
"When you do it."
Yoongi didn't answer for a long time. The grass rustled. Somewhere far away, a bird called out.
"It hurts less than the other things," Yoongi said finally.
"What other things?"
"Jimin."
"I want to understand."
"Why?"
Jimin turned onto his side, propping his head on his hand. The setting sun caught his face, turning his skin gold. He looked like something holy. Something that didn't belong in a place like this, surrounded by rust and ruin.
"Because you're my friend," Jimin said. "And because I think you're sad. Really sad. And I don't know how to help if I don't understand."
Yoongi's eyes were wet. He blinked rapidly, stared at the sky.
"You don't want to know." he whispered.
"Why?"
"You're going to get hurt."
"I know."
"Then why are you still here?"
Jimin reached out. Slowly, carefully, giving Yoongi every chance to pull away. He took Yoongi's wrist, and held it gently, his thumb tracing over the raised skin like he was reading braille.
"Because you're worth it," Jimin said.
Yoongi didn't pull away.
He didn't say anything either.
But later, when they finally stood up and brushed the grass from their clothes.
The conversations happened at night.
Jimin's phone would buzz at two in the morning, three in the morning, hours when the rest of the world was sleeping. Yoongi's name on the screen. A single word. "Awake?"
Always.
Jimin would roll over in bed, press his phone to his ear, and listen.
Yoongi talked about his parents. Their fights. The way his mother looked through him instead of at him. The way his father's disappointment was heavier than any hit.
Jimin talked about his own home—the pressure, the expectations, the fear that he was never going to be enough.
"I hate going back," Jimin admitted one night. His voice was small, barely a whisper. "I love them. I do. But sometimes I sit outside the door and I just... can't."
"Then stay with me."
"What?"
"Not—" Yoongi cleared his throat. "Not literally. I mean... you could stay. With me. On the phone. Until you're ready."
Jimin's heart stuttered.
"Okay," he said.
They stayed on the phone for three hours. Neither of them said much. But Jimin could hear Yoongi breathing, could hear the pages turning as Yoongi read whatever book he'd stolen from the library this time, and it was enough.
It was more than enough.
third step back.
Two Weeks Before
The convenience store was small and brightly lit and completely ordinary.
Jimin should have known something was wrong when Yoongi suggested it. Yoongi never suggested anything. He let Jimin drag him places, let Jimin make the plans, let Jimin do all the talking. But that afternoon, Yoongi had looked at him and said, "Let's go somewhere."
Somewhere turned out to be a convenience store on the edge of town, the kind with flickering lights and a clerk who didn't look up from his phone.
"I'm going to get us something," Yoongi said.
"What?"
But Yoongi was already walking inside.
Jimin watched through the window as Yoongi moved through the aisles. Calm. Easy. Like he belonged there. His hands reached out, grabbed two cans of soda, and slid them into his jacket pockets.
No. No.
Jimin's heart dropped.
Yoongi walked out of the store like nothing had happened. He tossed one of the cans to Jimin. Jimin fumbled it, and even almost dropped it, caught it against his chest.
"What did you just do?"
"Basic skills."
"You stole these."
"I acquired them through alternative means."
"Hyung."
"Relax." Yoongi cracked open his can, took a long sip. "That place is a chain. They won't even notice."
Jimin's hands were shaking. The soda can was cold against his palms. "You can't just—what if you'd gotten caught? What if something had happened?"
"Nothing happened."
"Something could have happened."
"But it didn't." Yoongi looked at him, his eyes were soft in that way they only got around Jimin. "Drink your soda, Jimin."
Jimin shook the can. It fizzed, bubbles rising to the top. On impulse, he flicked his wrist, sending a spray of soda toward Yoongi.
Yoongi yelped.
Jimin laughed.
"You little—" Yoongi was already shaking his own can, aiming it at Jimin's face.
"Don't you dare—"
Too late.
Soda everywhere. Dripping down their faces, soaking into their clothes, filling the air with the smell of sugar and carbonation. They were both laughing now, the kind that hurt your stomach and made your eyes water.
They walked to the train tracks like that. Sticky and wet and ridiculous.
They lay down in their usual spot. Grass between the rails. Sky above.
"I want you to promise me something," Yoongi said.
Jimin turned his head. Yoongi was looking at the clouds, his profile sharp against the orange sky.
"Yeah?"
"Study hard. Get out of this city. Do something with your life."
"Okay?"
"I'm serious." Yoongi's voice was steady. Too steady. Like he'd practiced this. "Don't end up like me. Don't waste your potential on someone who's going nowhere."
"You're not going nowhere."
"Jimin."
"You're smart. You're talented. You just—you don't see it because no one's ever told you." Jimin reached over, his pinky finding Yoongi's. "You're better than you think you are."
Yoongi laughed. It was a sad sound. "Promise me."
"Promise you what?"
"That you'll be better than me. That you won't let yourself get stuck. That you'll live."
Jimin thought it was a joke. The kind of dramatic thing Yoongi said sometimes, when the world got too heavy and he needed to push it away with words.
"Okay," Jimin said. He hooked his pinky around Yoongi's. "I promise."
Yoongi smiled and closed his eyes.
That Night
The rooftop was cold.
Yoongi stood at the edge for a long time. The same edge. The same view. The same wind that had been blowing since September.
He thought about Jimin. About the way he laughed, bright and loud and unafraid. About the way he'd chased him across the school to return a pen. About the way he'd looked at his scars with curiosity instead of horror.
You're worth it, Jimin had said.
But Yoongi knew better.
Some people weren't meant to stay. Some people were only here to teach others how to leave.
He took out the ballpoint pen. The same one Jimin had returned to him. He held it for a moment, feeling its weight in his palm.
Then he set it down on the ledge. Carefully. Like he was saving it for someone.
The city was quiet below him. Lights flickering. Lives continuing.
Yoongi closed his eyes.
He thought of their pinkies hooked together. Of stolen sodas and train tracks. Of a boy who smiled like the sun and didn't know how to stop caring.
I'm sorry, he thought. I'm sorry I couldn't stay.
Then he stepped forward.
Jimin found out through a text from Jungkook.
Hyung. Something happened. At the school. Someone... I think it was that senior. The one you were friends with.
Jimin stared at the screen. The words didn't make sense. They were just shapes. Letters arranged in patterns that meant nothing.
He called Jungkook.
"Tell me it's not him."
Silence.
"Jungkook."
"They haven't released a name yet. But everyone's saying—"
Jimin hung up.
He walked to the school. His legs moved without permission. The streets were the same. The sky was the same. Everything was the same, but everything had changed.
The rooftop door was locked now.
Brand new lock. Shiny. Like they could keep death out with hardware.
Jimin pressed his forehead against the cold metal and didn't cry. He couldn't. There was something blocking the way, a dam made of disbelief.
Not Yoongi. Not him. He was just here. He was just here.
No fucking way.
Seokjin found out where it was being held. A small chapel on the other side of the city, the kind for people who couldn't afford anything bigger.
"You shouldn't go alone," Jin said.
"I have to."
"You didn't even know him for that long—"
"Please." Jimin's voice cracked. Sharp. Broken. "Don't tell me how long I'm allowed to grieve."
Jin went quiet. Then he nodded. "I'll wait outside."
The chapel was half-empty. A few students. Some older people Jimin didn't recognize. Yoongi's parents sat in the front row, stiff and separate, not touching.
There was a picture of Yoongi on the altar.
It was his school ID photo. The one where he looked tired. The one where he wasn't smiling.
Jimin almost laughed. Of course they chose that one. Of course no one had a picture of Yoongi happy.
He stood at the back. Didn't sit. Didn't approach the casket.
When the service ended, Yoongi's mother turned around. Her eyes were dry. She looked right through Jimin like he was made of glass.
You don't know my son, that look said. No one did.
But Jimin knew.
He knew that Yoongi made playlists for imaginary road trips. That he talked in his sleep during detention. That he drew constellations in the margins of his notebooks and named them after people he'd never meet.
Jimin knew that Yoongi was terrified of being forgotten.
And now he was standing in a chapel where half the people didn't even know his favorite color.
Jimin turned and walked out.
He made it to the parking lot before he threw up.
Present Day
Jimin took his final exams.
He studied until his head hurt. Until his eyes burned. Every time he wanted to give up, he pulled out the pen. He held it. He remembered.
Promise me you'll be better than me.
He didn't know if he believed in afterlife. He didn't know if Yoongi was watching. But he knew one thing:
He would not let that promise break.
He got into the university. The one Yoongi had talked about once, in a voice full of longing. "If I could go anywhere," Yoongi had said, "it would be there. By the sea."
Jimin went there.
He stood on the beach. The water was gray and endless. The wind smelled like salt.
He took out the pen. Held it up to the sky.
"I’m here, Hyung," he whispered, his voice caught and carried away instantly by the salt-thick wind. "I made it."
Jimin stepped deeper into the surf. The water was ice-cold, shocking his skin, grounding him in the now.
He didn't throw the pen into the ocean.
He couldn't.
It was the only thing left of Yoongi who stood on rooftops to feel the edge. Instead, he tucked it securely into his inner pocket, right over his heart.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cold, sharp air of a future Yoongi had wanted for him. He turned his back to the gray water and began to walk toward the university buildings visible in the distance.
For the first time, Jimin didn't look back.
He didn't need to take three steps back anymore. He was finally ready to take one step forward.