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February 1, 2020.
“An extended sleepover,” Yoongi grumbles, repeating Jeongguk’s not-so-distant words. “Rather like extended torture if you ask me.”
“But no one asked you, darling,” Jimin purrs with a smirk, but even that can’t hide what’s going on in that mind of his. “So don’t you worry about those two, they’ll be just fine.”
Jimin himself doesn’t have complete faith in his own words; it’s obvious in the way his look drops at the end of his sentence, in the way his voice trails off in the slightest manner, but still enough for Yoongi to catch it.
There’s always a lot to catch about Jimin, that much he’s been learning for weeks—and gladly so.
“You weren’t so sure about that when they announced it.”
“I wasn’t,” Jimin concedes from the couch, eyes following Yoongi’s moving frame. “But I trust them. Ohio and Indiana aren’t that far anyway, they’ll be back in no time.”
Jimin is right, of course he is.
Jimin is right, and Yoongi knows it. Of course he does.
Jeongguk and Taehyung might be gone for a few days, but they’re together and, together, they’re pretty much the closest thing there is to invincible—but then again, they attract troubles like no one does, and that fact alone is—
“Just stop pacing up and down, will you?” Jimin’s voice cuts his inner rambling off. Soft yet assertive, a sign that, if Yoongi were to protest some more, Jimin would stand up and drag his ass straight to the couch—he’s done it more than once in the past, so Yoongi should know.
That’s how Jimin is. Quite always between two states, rarely fully red or blue; rather, a purple cloud molded by his surroundings and thoughts. Somewhat of a gentle wave and a raging tide blending together.
Curious, really. A fascinating person and, if Yoongi dares to call him so, his.
His, although Jimin could hardly be someone’s all the way. Yoongi wouldn’t even want this for his lover, truth be told. Too strong, too beautiful on his own to be only someone’s and not himself anymore.
“There,” Jimin says as Yoongi joins him. “Ass on the couch. Calm and composed.”
Calm and composed.
Yoongi used to be like that once. Has been trying to keep it that way in front of Jeongguk and Taehyung but, whenever he’s alone or with Jimin only, his mind turns into that deafening device that won’t stop worrying about his friends’ every move and decision.
Those two, Yoongi trusts them. There’s no denying this, will never be.
And yet, he cannot help it, cannot push the fear away when they’re not in sight anymore. That case has gotten way too personal and gigantic for him to remain calm and composed.
“You know what?” Jimin breaks the silence that had settled, fingers tracing Yoongi’s arm. “They’re probably safer over there than here. Hell, if anything, we’re the ones in jeopardy now.”
Yoongi arches an eyebrow. “Reassuring, Jimin, really.”
A smile, not wide enough to turn Jimin’s eyes into crescent moons. A shame. Yoongi adores it when they take that shape.
“But it’s true, isn’t it?”
“Where are you going with this?”
“Somewhere devoid of worries.”
Yoongi scoffs, a faint sound. “And scaring me is how you do that?”
“Is it working?”
“Not at all.”
Jimin’s mild smile. “Yet you stopped thinking about ‘em for a second, didn’t you?”
A silence, indicative of Yoongi unspoken answer, then one of his defeated groans.
“You think you’re so witty, uh?”
Jimin’s lips stretch a bit wider. “Am I not?”
Jimin is a lot of things and, well, yes, witty is a part of them.
“That,” Yoongi responds, heart too weak of a machine to deny it, “and a lot more.”
“There you go, darling,” a delighted Jimin says. “Thank you.”
Hours have passed and, with them, worries have resurfaced.
Worries, so many.
And it’s stupid, because once again Jimin’s previous words were and still are true. Taehyung and Jeongguk might be better off far away from Chicago, in places where those goddamn killers aren’t.
They’re together, on top of that, and together—ah, he’s a freaking broken record at this point, and his thoughts nothing but a cacophony that’s been disturbing his sleep and peace of mind.
Sleepless nights, tiring days.
And he’s not even a detective or an officer himself, just a witness of his friends’ hardships—and that, sometimes, is worse than anything else.
Powerless. Helpless. Useless.
That’s how he feels most of the time, and this very moment is no exception. Even if he tried to investigate on his own, it wouldn’t lead anywhere. There’s nothing for a pianist to do about such a case, right? That is, apart from doing his best to support Jeongguk, Taehyung, and Jimin—who isn’t part of the task force either, but it’s just...different. At least he’s here sometimes, close to the investigation in a way that Yoongi could never be.
Powerless. Helpless. Useless.
A broken record.
Again, and again, and again.
Thoughts keeping him awake in the middle of the night.
Somehow, falling asleep is, more often than not, easy—but staying that way is what’s truly hard. It’s a state of blissfulness that, it seems, Yoongi can’t afford.
But then again, he can’t mind it that much.
Because lately, whenever Yoongi rolls onto his side to feel something else than sheer guilt and helplessness, Jimin’s here.
Jimin.
Peaceful, beautiful Jimin.
Strong, reassuring Jimin.
Warm, soft Jimin.
Everything he needs, really.
“I don’t deserve you,” Yoongi whispers, so low that even he can’t hear himself. “Do I, Jimin?”
It’s easy, talking to someone that won’t hear nor answer him.
But, more often than not, it’s also easy, talking to Jimin.
Yoongi can’t remember a time when he felt that way about someone—but it doesn’t scare him as much as Jeongguk’s love for Taehyung seems to terrify the both of them, that much is sure.
It’s not linear, loving Jimin, nor is it always simple. Hell, Jimin is, under than softness of his, a bomb ready to explode at any moment, should trouble get in the way.
But it’s obvious, and gentle, and warm, and—ah, words. Rarely enough to convey the depth of raw thoughts and feelings, somewhat too strong and pure to be shaped by syllables.
Words.
They’re really not enough.
But maybe a moment anchored in time and memory could do the trick.
Good thing the camera isn’t far away, lessening his chances to wake Jimin up.
Jimin doesn’t mind being photographed; if anything, he loves it, and so it’s only natural for Yoongi to grab every opportunity he has to create tangible memories. The kind that’s evident at first sight, a rush of remembrance hitting whoever took the picture.
Click.
The sound isn’t enough to disturb Jimin’s sleep.
A perfect shot, that’s what it is. Another polaroid to add to the growing collection, a bit like Miles, Jeongguk and he used to do.
Yoongi couldn’t let that tradition die with his friend.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs to himself once the picture has started to develop, already revealing Jimin’s frame. “You don’t even have to try.”
Effortlessly pretty, sheets and body tangled up, smooth skin highlighted by the moonlight, the side of his angelic face so warm and handsome, and—Yoongi refocuses on the picture, holding it ever so carefully as if he were touching Jimin himself.
Words aren’t enough, and his heart’s that weak machine that won’t stop throbbing for Jimin.
Yoongi smiles despite himself, gently thumbing the bottom of the square memory.
The picture did the trick.
March 2, 2020.
“You’ve improved,” Yoongi breathes out, tone filled with poorly hidden pride, judging by Jimin’s pleased features. “A lot.”
But he can’t help it, not when his shoulder is brushing Jimin’s, not when Jimin’s fingers match the keyboard so well, not when Jimin is relishing his words so damn much, eager to hear more.
“Have I?” Jimin asks, just to get Yoongi’s praises again—there’s no mistaking that glow in his eyes, hungry for that particular kind of affection.
Jimin is like that sometimes, keen on whatever compliment Yoongi can offer him—and Yoongi, it seems, rarely runs out of praises. If anything, they keep overflowing his mind when it comes to Jimin. No one could ever blame him for this, though. Jimin is that easy to love and flatter, and he’s pretty sure Taehyung and Jeongguk would support that version. Hell, Taehyung would drench Jimin with praises even more than he does if he were looking at him right now.
“A lot more than you think.”
A weak machine, really. Yoongi couldn’t mind it even if he tried a lifetime. He’d gladly be whatever Jimin needs him to be.
“You should meet my teacher, then,” Jimin replies, lips still stretched in that witty smile of his. “Gotta be one of the best if not the one.”
Jimin always makes it so damn hard for Yoongi not to blush.
“Is that so?” he finds the strength to say, playing along for as long as he can.
Jimin’s smile softens as he stares at him, getting Yoongi all dizzy even without meaning to—he’s never been good at resisting Jimin’s whole being anyway, and just trying to would be a foolish and useless move. Heck, he’s been flustered ever since they first met, right here, at Jeongguk’s place.
“Yeah,” Jimin lets out as he stands up to do Lord knows what. “Lemme show you.”
“Show me?” Yoongi repeats, eyebrow arched, but he’s silenced as Jimin sits back next to him.
Jimin switches the music sheet with another, and it doesn’t take a lot more to wreck Yoongi. The truth is, the first note is enough to do so and, even if he knows the strain by heart, what’s akin to initial shock is too strong for the haze in his mind to disperse.
He’s quiet at first, jaw gone slack and pulse crazy.
Jimin is impressively good, a fast learner, but he makes a few mistakes now and then—and Yoongi should know because it’s none other than his melody, which he composed a few weeks ago on one of those cold winter nights.
“I didn’t teach you that,” Yoongi breathes out as the tune gets clearer, slowly dissipating the fog. “How did you—”
“Listen,” Jimin says, focusing hard not to mess up, but still with a gentle, discreet smile.
And so Yoongi does listen to that melody that will never feel the same again. How could it, now that Jimin’s turning it into his? Into something even more beautiful, no matter how imperfect it is.
Now that the melody’s filling the room again, Yoongi gets to remember why he loves it so damn much.
Sweet, sweet melody, contrasting with the cold outside when he created it, but a clear reminiscence of someone he cherishes dearly.
Jimin.
Yoongi wrote that melody thinking about him, and it shows.
He wonders if his muse got it or not.
When Yoongi thinks he couldn’t possibly drown deeper than this, Jimin starts humming along to the rhythm, low and gentle, and Yoongi just keeps staring until his eyes burn. Keeps staring at Jimin’s hands, then his profile, jawline perfect in the dim light, then at his hands again because, damn it, they’re just so attractive on a keyboard.
The second the last note echoes against the walls, Yoongi’s thoughts splash all over the place, shaping a sea of feelings that could kill him if it weren’t so smooth and peaceful at the moment. There are so many things he has and wants to say but, instead, he just keeps looking at Jimin, and looking, and—
Click.
The sound catches his attention as well as Jimin’s.
“Gotcha,” Jeongguk lets out with a proud smirk, lowering the camera, polaroid in hand.
“How—”
“You’re ridiculously cute and in love, Yoongi,” Taehyung utters, half-hidden behind Jeongguk, leaning against the door frame. “And so, ridiculously oblivious to your surroundings.”
“That’s how,” Jeongguk completes, a chuckle slipping through his lips. “It’s a beautiful shot, you should keep it.”
Yoongi, still a mess, just stares at the picture.
Jimin, still peaceful, thanks Jeongguk as he grabs the memory.
March 9, 2020.
Cooking breakfast early in the morning is soothing, Yoongi realized a while ago. It’s even more so when he’s doing it for Jimin, and this is exactly what’s happening now.
There’s no melody to sing along to, for Jimin’s still asleep, but Yoongi hums under his breath anyway, in a good mood for some reason.
Or, well, rather, trying to force some good vibes into his mind and body.
This is no dream he woke up from half an hour ago; if anything, it was one of those awful nightmares he’s been having. He tries not to remember those too much, but it’s hard when his brain makes it very clear that he’s not allowed to forget any of it. After all, the same pattern always repeats itself.
Jeongguk had nightmares too, that much he remembers—surely still has them—and Yoongi can fully understand why now. It’s not that he didn’t before, but...it’s another level of understanding. The kind you only encounter after living similar experiences, and Yoongi sure did that.
It hasn’t been that long since death brushed past him, and, more often than not, everything seems like a reminder of that whole day, of those two nights. Of her basement. Of her partner’s body. Of the warehouse.
Her. Her partner.
Funny, the way he’s been trying to erase their names without even meaning to—but it’s nowhere near sufficient, will never be. It’s not like he’s actually forgotten their identity anyway. No one could.
And once again, it hasn’t been that long since the case ended.
So nightmares, yes. Twisted faces, barely recognizable. Pained screamed, barely human. Sickening smell, barely tenable. Too much fake sympathy, too many contradictory signs. Too much darkness, too much anxiety. Too much blood, too many wounds.
But he’s been getting used to it.
Doesn’t mean he’s fine with it, though.
He wishes Jimin’s sole presence would be enough to make those awful dreams stop.
Jimin, who hasn’t let go of him since that night. Jimin, who’s been there all along and, it seems, who’s willing to stay there for as long as forever.
Yoongi is glad, really is. Grateful.
And so he’s cooking breakfast. Might sound stupid, but that’s how it is at the moment.
The bedroom door opens, and Yoongi almost drops the frying pan.
Jimin. It’s only Jimin, awake sooner than expected, and so Yoongi gets a grip on the pan—and himself.
It’s Jimin, and the warmth of his arms around Yoongi’s waist, the weight of his chin on Yoongi’s shoulder.
“You’re up early,” Jimin slurs in a sleepy tone, nose brushing the nape of Yoongi’s neck. “You shouldn’t.”
He giggles, but it comes out a bit raw and forced. “Good morning to you too, honey.”
Jimin’s lips wander over his nape, smooth and warm, maybe a bit too much against his cold skin. A burning contrast.
Jimin has been getting all kinds of domestic since they settled on looking for their apartment, and Yoongi won’t be the one to complain.
But still, domestic or not, Jimin is Jimin—and he never lets go of something until he’s satisfied, Yoongi learned it the hard way.
“You should be lying in bed,” Jimin insists, voice rough around the edges, “not here, making...” his voice trails off, and Yoongi’s pretty sure he’s feeling him smile against his skin, “freakin’ French toasts.”
“Shouldn’t I, Jimin?” he asks, sensing a weakness to exploit here. “I thought you loved those.”
Jimin grumbles, sound muffled by Yoongi’s hair.
“You know I do, don’t play dumb,” Jimin replies, Yoongi slides one more toast into the plate. “But still, today of all days—”
“Today or tomorrow, what’s the difference?”
A few seconds of silence pass by, during which Yoongi fights the urge to turn his head over, to see Jimin’s sleepy features and messy, gorgeous hair.
“You are,” Jimin responds, losing him for a bit. “It’s your birthday, Yoongi.”
Ah, right.
His birthday.
Jimin wouldn’t have forgotten about this, of course.
“It’s not like I could sleep a lot anyway.” Yoongi shrugs faintly, having Jimin mumble. “Let alone sleep in, even on my birthday.”
“You could’ve woken me up,” Jimin tries, lazily peppering his neck and shoulder with kisses. “Y’know I took the day off, I wouldn’t have minded cuddling in bed until noon.”
Oh, Jimin would have. He might say otherwise, but Yoongi knows better. It’s not like him to stay in bed until noon, even for goddamn cuddles on Yoongi’s goddamn birthday.
“You hardly ever take a day off, and you thought I was going to wake you up?” Another toast ready, and Yoongi realizes that, maybe, he’s made too many of them. “Come on.”
“Still,” is Jimin’s grumbled response, but the sweet smell coming from both the plate and the pan is quick to shut him up.
Yoongi lets a few beats of silence go by again, and then, “I haven’t had a decent night of sleep ever since that day.” Jimin’s hold gets stronger around his waist, but still delicate somehow. “And those nightmares are awful, so I might as well keep my head busy whenever they show up.”
They being the nightmares, but also those two goddamn murderers.
Jimin hums quietly. “Tell me about what’s keeping you busy, then. French toasts?”
Yoongi’s chuckle is less forced this time.
“It’s you,” Yoongi replies, always so earnest whenever Jimin’s around. “More often than not, you’re the one I think about.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Jimin fakes a detached tone, but Yoongi feels a content smile against his nape.
Another silence. Less tense, more peaceful, filled with low humming and cooking sounds every now and then.
Jimin is still clinging to him, moving along whenever Yoongi has to grab another ingredient or tool, but he couldn’t complain even if he wanted to. It just feels good, and warm, and safe, having Jimin right behind him in every sense of the word.
“You have really beautiful hands for an old man,” Jimin says out of the blue, eyes indeed riveted to Yoongi’s busy hands.
“Old man, uh?”
Jimin’s hands slip under his t-shirt, Yoongi shivers.
“You’re turning thirty, darling,” Jimin pushes, thumbing his belly. “That’s old.”
Yoongi rolls his eyes as he gets the tray ready.
“Don’t act so petty when you’re two years away from turning old.”
“Still,” Jimin sighs, overly dramatic, “it’ll be two years of being a dynamic young man with an old guy like you.”
Yoongi turns over this time, brow furrowed and eyes set on Jimin, all proud features and beaming energy. Look at that jerk, all alert and radiant when it comes to mocking him.
“I’ll show you how dynamic of a man I can be, you goddamn brat,” Yoongi hisses with yet no venom in his voice, hands gripping Jimin’s waist over the fabric of his hoodie.
Jimin’s smile turns into something nastier, more provocative as he replies, “Oh but I can’t wait, oldie.”
“You fucking—”
“But,” Jimin cuts him off, index pressed against Yoongi’s mouth. “Breakfast comes first.”
“Beautiful hands, really...” Jimin murmurs later that morning, somewhat of a distant sound even though he’s here, lying next to Yoongi. “Gorgeous.”
How can Jimin still have it in him to talk? Yoongi couldn’t even if he tried, throat too dry and system empty of energy. Jimin may be right and, well, it might be true that Yoongi’s turning old today.
Or maybe Jimin’s just too fucking taxing on him when they’re both full of nasty thoughts, but then again Yoongi won’t complain. He’d be an idiot to do so and, truth be told, he adores it whenever Jimin wears the hell out of him in the best way.
So no complaint, but still. He’s been running low on sleep and rest as a whole.
“Just c’mere,” Yoongi slurs, eyes closed, one hand behind his head and the other resting somewhere near Jimin.
“In a second.”
Yoongi makes a throaty sound as the bed creeks slightly, Jimin doing Lord knows what, but he keeps his eyes closed nonetheless, too exhausted to try otherwise.
A click later, Jimin snuggles up to him, a “happy birthday, darling” getting lost against his chest along with a kiss.
April 19, 2020.
“So we’re sure about this?” Jimin asks although the conversation has been stretching for almost an hour.
“Aren’t we?” Yoongi replies, half asleep to be honest, feeling way too cozy here, lying on the couch between Jimin’s legs.
Jimin glances at the files on the coffee table, that much is obvious through the motion of his chest, somewhat of a gentle rocking motion. There’s no mistaking which one he’s staring at, for they’re both thinking about the same thing.
“I mean...” Jimin’s voice trails off, mimicking his hands, mindlessly playing with the soft cuffs of Yoongi’s hoodie, too large for his frame. “I am, but are you?”
Yoongi would turn over if it didn’t mean breaking his neck in the process.
“Why wouldn’t I?” He takes one of Jimin’s hands in his, fingers then loosely intertwined. “I love that neighborhood, used to spend time there.”
“I know.” Jimin’s voice is soft, maybe too much, like he doesn’t want to break Yoongi for some reason. “That’s why, maybe—I don’t know. Too many memories?”
It would actually help him if Jimin stopped speaking in riddles, half-sentences hardly making any sense.
But, still, Yoongi gets it. Jimin’s trying to be subtle here, and that, too, he gets. Yoongi doesn’t need any kind of protection, though, he’s just fine with the decision they’re about to take—really is. Eager to formalize it, even.
“Most of my memories here weren’t made in Boystown,” he shades. “But I’ve always liked that area. Its energy.” A pause, another thought crosses his mind. “And, actually, I think it’d be a perfect way to seal the wound.”
He’d rather commemorate Miles’ life than spend his whole existence crying over his death, right? At least, that’s what his heart has been telling him to do, lately.
“Really?”
“Really.”
Jimin squeezes his hand, kisses the top of his head.
“So you’re sure?” Jimin says anyway, and that sounds a lot more like a question than a statement, having Yoongi lazily raise an eyebrow.
“’bout Boystown? Yeah, told—”
“I’m not talking about the flat,” Jimin interrupts him, tone low. “Well, not its location.”
Something nasty settles in Yoongi’s stomach and, a second later, he’s straightening up to turn and look at Jimin, whose features aren’t so confident and happy anymore. If he were to make a guess, Yoongi would say it’s particles of fear that he notices in Jimin’s eyes, and it’s far from pleasing him.
“Hey,” Yoongi breathes out, trying to probe Jimin for what it’s worth. “What’s wrong, honey?”
Jimin does a very Jimin thing: he tries to shoo the concern away with a low chuckle and a tilt of his head. Charming, but not so convincing. Maybe it’d work with random people, but not with Yoongi.
“It’s stupid, really,” he assures, coming back to his pretended composed self. “Nothing to worry about, sorry.”
“As if I’d let you go away with it.” Yoongi finds his lover’s thigh this time, presses the muscles slightly. “Tell me, Jimin.”
Jimin is tense under his fingertips but, seconds go by and, slowly, the tension starts lessening—it’s still as strong in Yoongi’s body, though, heart squeezed hard and about to drop.
“You know, it’s okay if you don’t want it anymore,” Yoongi forces the words out of his mouth, tongue like sandpaper. “We can wait. Or—”
Jimin’s chuckle is genuine this time around, and it disorients Yoongi long enough for him to smile like an idiot as his lover keeps laughing quietly, suddenly amused for a reason he can’t pinpoint.
“Wait?” Jimin utters once he’s a bit calmer. “We’ve been basically living together at your place or Jeongguk’s, and you think I wanna wait?”
“I mean—” Yoongi frowns, faintly rubs Jimin’s leg. “What’s the matter if you don’t?”
Oh. Maybe he doesn’t even want to wait.
Is this an attempt at breaking up with him? Or—fuck, no. He’s being ridiculous, but that’s Jimin’s fault for being so mysterious for nothing.
“It turned out a lot more stupid than I thought,” Jimin admits, more to himself than Yoongi. “But I just wanted to be sure if, you know, if—”
“Just spit the goddamn question out, Jimin. You’re killing me here.”
A pause, torturing him even more, clawing at his guts.
“Are you sure you wanna take that step?” Jimin finally asks, delivery quick, lips pressed together for an instant. “Like, living with me?”
I’ll marry this man one day, Yoongi thinks, and yet here’s Jimin, wondering if he still wants them to move in together. If Yoongi still wants to live with him, as if the answer hasn’t been obvious for weeks. Hell, Yoongi could already build castles in the air the first time he caught sight of Jimin, could basically envision a beautiful garden filled with laughter and a goddamn Labrador, and that idiot—for Lord’s sake.
“Well, do you see another brat I’m in love with?” Yoongi replies, eyebrows faintly frowned. “’cause I sure don’t, Jimin.”
Somehow, it’s enough for Jimin’s lips to end up pressed against his. It’s a slow and gentle kiss, everything Yoongi needs to soothe his mind, worries vanishing in thin air.
“You freakin’ idiot,” he breathes out, forehead against Jimin’s for a second. “You scared me, you—”
“Freakin’ idiot,” Jimin repeats, smug when he should be, at the very least, a tad sheepish. “Just kiss me more, will you?”
Yoongi, as the weak soul he is, just grumbles and obeys.
For some reason, what was supposed to be a matter of a few gentle kisses led on to a louder, hotter chaos.
Yeah, it happens more often than not.
But now here they are, both back at being refined, calm people, sitting around the coffee table as if Jimin’s dick wasn’t shoved deep down Yoongi’s throat an hour ago.
A mess was made, yes.
But now it’s all clean and peaceful.
“That’s the place,” Yoongi repeats for what must be the third time, pictures in both hands. “Looks so dope already, right?”
Jimin nods, all smiles and golden complexion, as he keeps looking at the rest of the file.
“And not that expensive for what it is,” Jimin replies, fingers tapping the armrest. “A true God-sent.”
Jimin is just sitting there, legs crossed and whole aura glowing as if he owns Yoongi’s place on top of owning his heart, and it’s—ah, words aren’t enough. As usual.
The true God-sent here is Jimin, he thinks—and even that sounds like a goddamn euphemism.
“It’s pretty neutral,” Jimin goes on, “and mostly empty if not for the kitchen. Beautiful kitchen, by the way.”
“I know where you’re going with this.”
Jimin smirks, all witty that he is. “Yeah?”
“The moment you’ll set foot in that apartment,” he begins, “you’re gonna turn into some goddamn interior designer. I just know it, can feel it in my bones.”
Jimin rolls his eyes but, judging by the way they’re sparkling, it’s obvious Yoongi’s right.
“We’ll see.”
“I’d bet my life on it.”
Jimin does a poor job at repressing a grin. “Whatever.”
Yoongi doesn’t even try to hold his own smile back.
There’s a silence, only filled with the ruffling of paper as Jimin leans forward to put the file away.
“What if we don’t get it, though?” Jimin utters. “It’s a nice flat, and Boystown isn’t exactly frowned upon. We gays have taste.”
They sure do.
“We’ll get it.”
“How could you know that?”
Yoongi sends him a glance, amused.
“The estate agent fell for you the minute they saw your pretty face,” Yoongi answers. “We’ll get it.”
Jimin pushes his bottom lip out, humming and staring back at him.
“Is that what beauty privilege does?” Jimin wonders, having Yoongi chuckle.
“I wouldn’t know,” he says. “You tell me, Jimin.”
And Jimin, as always, has none of it, hard gaze now set on him.
“You’re disgustingly, sickeningly pretty, Yoongi.” There he goes. “Gorgeous. Handsome. Fucking mind-blowing, and—”
“Got it.”
“Clearly, you don’t get it,” Jimin pushes, close to either pouting or kicking his ass. Both would work. “You could put me on my knees with a single snap of your fingers.” That goddamn jerk, trying to murder him with words. “Just look in a goddamn mirror, darling.”
Yoongi could swear he’s not blushing at all, but it’d be one hell of a lie.
“Whatever,” he mutters, eyes going back to the pictures.
It’s so easy to envision what could be done in the apartment that’s very likely to become theirs in a few days or weeks if they’re lucky. Lots of pictures everywhere. A big, smooth carpet in a room or two. Mild lights, perfect to build a warm atmosphere. One of those overpriced barista espresso machines in the kitchen. Yoongi’s piano, matching with a comfy black couch. A guitar not far from there, because he’s been thinking about playing it again. Wooden furniture here and there, cozy and modern. Shelves filled with books and music sheets. A stereo, blasting songs then whispering quiet melodies.
So easy.
Jimin coming home to him.
Yoongi coming home to Jimin.
Hell, he’s even ready to endure the stupid fights they’ll have every now and then, more often than not about the pettiest things. Fights that never last for long, that don’t leave any scars. They’ll have them, that’s for sure, but Yoongi couldn’t care less if it means living with Jimin. Falling asleep next to him if he’s not working the night shift, waking up to Jimin coming home if he does.
Easy.
“Are you gonna miss that place?” Jimin wonders out of the blue, gaze wandering around.
The response seems unequivocal.
“I’ve spent most of my time at Jeongguk’s since I got here, so...” He gives Jimin a tiny smile. “I guess I won’t.”
“Will you miss the memories, then?” Jimin insists softly.
“I’m taking them with me,” is the natural answer to provide. “I’m taking you with me, and that’s what matters the most.”
“Is that so?”
“You know damn well it is.”
Jimin’s content smile is making it obvious enough.
“I won’t exactly miss the house-share with Namjoon either,” Jimin says with a light shrug. “It was fun at first, but nothing compares to that.”
“That,” Yoongi repeats, tone flat on purpose.
“To you,” Jimin clarifies, much to Yoongi’s delight—sometimes, Jimin’s easy to convince. “Nothing compares to you.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Don’t act so detached when you’ve been grinning like an idiot for five minutes straight.”
He has, Jimin’s right—but who could blame him?
“You know what?” Jimin goes on, standing up on an impulse. “Let’s take one last pic here.”
“No—”
Before he can realize it, Yoongi’s talking to an empty chair.
Before he can realize it, Jimin is hugging him from behind, and a click ensues.
May 2, 2020.
“Jeongguk, no.”
“It’s been three months,” Jeongguk retorts, trying to take the cardboard box back. “I’m just fine.”
Here they go, those two, always having skirmishes that, at most, amuse Yoongi. It’s far from being actual fights and, if anything, is more akin to love and care displayed in a manner that’s none other than Taehyung’s.
“No,” Taehyung pushes, gripping the box as if his life’s depending on it. “That one’s too heavy.” He takes a step back, nods toward a small bag. “Carry that if you want.”
“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”
Taehyung isn’t kidding, but Yoongi sure is laughing under his breath not to draw Jeongguk’s attention too much. It’d be like signing his own death warrant and, today of all days, he’d love to avoid this.
Taehyung smirks and, as he walks to the cargo van, lets out, “The bag isn’t gonna carry itself alone, love.”
Jeongguk swears once more, but eventually grabs the goddamn bag and joins Taehyung.
“Adorable, aren’t they?” Jimin’s voice echoes from behind as he comes back with a large box, which Jeongguk would target if he were still around.
“I’d say freaking hilarious,” Yoongi replies with a grin. “Come on, let’s go before they kill each other.”
Jeongguk and Taehyung have, much to his surprise, not killed each other. If anything, they found some common ground in plastering all kinds of pride flags all over the apartment, because “it’s another win for the gays”.
“Freaking children,” Yoongi mutters, powerless and exhausted. “That’s what you are, the whole pack of you.”
The worst in this? Jimin decided to join them a minute ago, and now they’re all nowhere to be seen, most likely making a mess away from Yoongi’s eyes.
He couldn’t mind it for the life of him, though.
That sheer fact is still hard to process, for the last box landed on the floor not that long ago, but he’s home. They are.
They’re home, and their apartment could very well compete with Jeongguk’s as their usual meeting place. It’s not as luxurious, quite far from it, but it’s welcoming, and beautiful, and—theirs. It’s theirs, and that’s enough to prove his point.
Yoongi sighs to relieve his tense muscles, letting his back sink in the couch—one of the only things unwrapped and settled. It has to feel a bit lonely here, but they’ll soon fix this. He tilts his head back, eyes closed for a moment, and can’t help smiling as three distinct voices bounce off the walls from further away.
Glad could hardly be enough to describe how he feels right now, and happy sounds like a goddamn euphemism.
It’s just—warm, so warm.
Warmth everywhere, pooling deep in his stomach but not burning. Rather, it’s gentle, a light buzzing that keeps him awake just to hear those three idiots’ laughter again. He’s not even sure he wants to know what’s making them cackle so damn hard, but still, it feels ridiculously good.
They have come so far, the four of them. One couldn’t guess that, three months ago, they were on the verge of losing each other forever—or well, maybe they could just by looking at goddamn newspapers, but that’s not the point.
The point is, they got very lucky back then. Or, rather, Yoongi got lucky to have Jeongguk, Taehyung and Jimin looking for him, and then Taehyung got lucky to have Jeongguk, and then Jeongguk got lucky to have Taehyung, and—anyway. They’re all lucky to have each other, is all.
Those were dark times, but the darkness didn’t win in the end, right?
If, right now, you were to ask Yoongi about the recipe for happiness, he’d reply ramyeon, and loved ones sitting around a wobbly coffee table after a tiring but great day.
And happiness, fragile as it is, must be kept somewhere and remembered. Bright memories, Yoongi has learned, often come in handy when gloomy moments knock at your door unannounced.
That’s why, when bellies are full and spirits peaceful, Yoongi slips away for a moment, only to come back armed with his camera.
Jeongguk, Taehyung, and Jimin falling asleep on one another; here’s what, a click later, the memory is made of.
May 10, 2020.
Click.
Yoongi’s eyes flutter open, trying to accustom to whatever the heck’s happening.
“You’re beautiful when you shut the hell up,” Jimin’s voice echoes, muffled by the haze still filling Yoongi’s mind.
It’s hard, straightening up. Feels like a train ran over him last night, but Yoongi knows better. It wasn’t a goddamn train that wrecked him like this, that much he’s sure of. And now, now, the culprit dares to wake him up and act like the brattiest brat.
“You’re annoying when you talk nonsense,” Yoongi replies, but he’s pretty sure his tone’s more nonsensical than Jimin’s words.
“Your morning face is cute,” Jimin goes on; Yoongi groans, burying said face in the closest pillow.
“’m gonna murder you, Jimin,” he mutters, voice distorted. “Is that cute, too?”
“The way you talk is,” that jerk replies, smiling if Yoongi’s hearing has to be trusted. “The threat? Hmm, not so much.”
“Careful,” Yoongi utters, mouth still pressed against the soft pillow, “the threat’s very much real.”
Jimin chuckles. Warm, so warm, even when he acts like that, all teasing and stupidly entertaining despite the bullshit he’s putting up.
“Prove it, then.”
Now, that would make Jimin way too satisfied, so Yoongi holds back and remains quiet for a while—but he can do that for only so long.
“What did you even—” Yoongi stops as he spots the polaroid, lying at the end of the bed. “Ah, right. Of course.”
“Told you,” Jimin grins, climbing on the bed. “You’re beautiful when you—”
“Shut the hell up, got it.”
“—sleep,” Jimin finishes, having him roll his eyes.
“That’s so not what you said.”
“Sleeping and shutting the hell up are pretty much the same, aren’t they?”
Yoongi sighs but pulls Jimin in a messy hug nonetheless, giggles filling the bedroom.
July 3, 2020.
Their place is drop-dead gorgeous.
That’s what Yoongi thinks every time he comes home, and the feeling is still as strong as the first time it crossed his mind and heart.
Yoongi drops his keys in the bowl meant for that, still filled with too many Pride pins and stickers—yet maybe not even enough. Then, it’s the usual: satisfaction kicks in as he walks further into the apartment, lips stretched on their own because it just feels too fucking good to be home.
Home.
Theirs.
It’s still hard to wrap his head around all this, sometimes. Still feels goddamn surreal, and yet.
It’s here, and it’s not going anywhere. It’s solid walls and tangible memories—yet many more to create. It’s warm, familiar scents, and pictures he’ll never grow tired of looking at. It’s colors and beauty. It’s him and Jimin. It’s so perfect, as imperfect as it is.
And here it is, too, their holy camera, always waiting for someone to pick it up and capture another instant.
And here it goes, Yoongi’s urge to set a moment or a feeling in stone—or, rather, in a polaroid.
The light is beautiful, enlightening the large, smooth Pride flag plastered near the trays of vinyl records. It’s the largest flag here, bearing a lot of cute and silly sketches. Most of them were made by Jeongguk or Taehyung, that much he remembers. It was a fun afternoon, drenched in laughter and sunlight. Felt like some dream, far away from daily concerns.
With a smile, that’s what Yoongi targets.
Click.
January 30, 2021.
“There, wait,” Yoongi says as he steps back, face hidden behind the camera. “A bit closer to each other.” They do so, but then, “Without murdering Jimin, please.”
Standing by Jimin’s sides, Jeongguk and Taehyung chuckle and lessen a bit their grip around his shoulders. It’s funny and endearing all the same, the way they look much bigger than Jimin, almost overshadowing him for a moment—only for a moment, though.
No one could depose Jimin, especially not when he’s standing like this, more of a model than a freaking cop, all glowing and gorgeous in his suit. Freaking powerful, too, if you ask Yoongi.
Funny, too, the way pride’s filling his body as if he were the one that’s been promoted.
Click.
The picture’s not even fully out yet that Taehyung rushes to see it, excitation akin to a puppy’s.
“That’s it,” Taehyung grins once he’s cradling the picture in his hand. “No more uniform for your fiance, Yoongi. How does that feel?”
Hot. That’s how it feels when he and Jimin get home.
Hot all over. That’s how he feels at the sole sight of Jimin in a goddamn suit, black hair falling over his forehead, eyes shining with promises to get physical.
No more uniform, that’s right. Yoongi isn’t exactly going to miss it if that means having Jimin in a suit every day.
He’s so mind-blowing.
Jackets are sacrificed first.
A mess is made on the way to their room, breaths panting by the time they reach it. Yoongi’s glad he’s memorized every nook of the apartment by now, making the rushed journey easier.
“Detective Park,” Yoongi smirks as Jimin pushes him onto the bed, hand firm against his chest. “Now that’s hot.”
Jimin arches an eyebrow, all smug and teasing, hands now unbuttoning his shirt—too slowly to Yoongi’s liking, though.
“Oh,” he breathes out, stopping his gesture on purpose—that goddamn brat. “’cause Officer Park wasn’t, darling?”
He would rip that shit-eating grin off Jimin with kisses if only he could, but his jerk of a lover won’t move until Yoongi gives him what he wants.
And Yoongi, made of weaknesses and sheer want, is quick to give in.
“You’re hot no matter what, you dickhead,” Yoongi utters, a playful bite in his tone as he tugs at Jimin’s shirt. “Now shut up and put those new handcuffs to use, will you?”
Jimin grins even wider, says, “Gladly, sir.”
A roll of eyes later, Yoongi pulls him close for a kiss.
June 13, 2021.
That whole day happened in a dreamy blur.
Yet, Yoongi has been feeling strangely grounded all along. The good kind, the one that’s telling him that all of this is real.
It’s funny because Yoongi never thought he’d get married one day. Used to laugh a bit under his breath when people saw weddings as that glorious, necessary milestone. The best day of your life, they would say, one of the most important ones. And he laughed every time.
Well, maybe he’d still laugh as of today, because he can name quite a few things that would compete with his own wedding day, but—Jimin. It always comes down to him.
He met Jimin, and nothing had ever made that much sense. It’s stupid, really, because what the hell is love at first sight anyway, but he can’t deny what it felt like. Maybe that wasn’t it, but that sure felt like he fell in love with whatever Jimin was back then.
Yes, it’s stupid.
But now here they are, and that whole thing doesn’t seem as stupid as it used to.
How could it?
“The four of you!” Yoongi’s mother calls, having him raise his head. “Come here.”
That’s what they do, Taehyung and Jeongguk rushing from the other side of the garden, because, if there’s one truth in this world, it’s that his mother doesn’t take a second as an answer, let alone no. It’s not like any of them would oppose her anyway, she’s too sweet to be denied anything—and Yoongi’s not telling that because she’s his lovely, dear mother. Really not.
“There! Grooms and best men,” she says, all smiles, seconded by Jimin’s own mother. “Perfect. Now smile, boys.”
And smile they do—though it all turns messy real quick, Taehyung scoffing at Jimin for trying to make himself taller than Yoongi.
“You’re literally the same height,” Taehyung pushes. “Now would be a perfect time to get over it, Chim.”
“You goddamn—”
“Park Jimin!” his mother calls this time, smile soft but eyes telling a whole other story. “Quiet, son. Just smile.”
Next to him, Yoongi feels Jeongguk struggling real hard not to burst into laughter—every mom would kill him on the spot, except perhaps Taehyung’s, way too much of a softie for him.
Yoongi takes a deep breath, displays his best grin not to follow Jeongguk’s dangerous tendencies.
Click.
February 3, 2022.
More often than not, Yoongi stops before that wall, just to look at the pictures that, for some reason, they put here together. Nine polaroids, all part of a wider collection. Sometimes, they halt and both look at the pictures, holding hands or whatever, and it always feels good. Healing, even.
They fit the room’s atmosphere, Jimin had told him, but the truth is, Jimin’s just in love with those pictures and wanted them here, in their bedroom. Yoongi had agreed quietly, and now here he is again, alone, staring at that wall for what must be the hundredth time.
He’ll never grow tired of it, though.
And today, well—today’s that day. Those harsh memories still sting, but the pain has faded. They say time heals wounds, and it might be true.
And Yoongi has been thinking.
That whole night was terrifying but, in the end, everything also stopped on the third of February, and that’s what matters the most.
But the pictures, yes. Dates written at the bottom, tangible, lovely memories.
If he has to be honest, the last polaroid they put up on this wall remains his favorite, a reminder of the gentle weight he’ll always feel around his left ring finger.
“Grooms and best men,” Yoongi murmurs to himself, fingers grazing the picture, a reminder of his mother’s words. “Four idiots stupidly in love with each other, I’d say. In a way or another.”
When Jimin’s not around, it’s here, in memories, that he finds solace.
There’s a special kind of comfort in reminiscence, Yoongi thinks.
Later that night, when lights are out and the outside world nothing but a blurred reality, Jimin snuggles up to him. He’s always the clingy type around that time of the year, so it’s no surprise—hell, he’s pretty much always the clingy type, and you’ll never catch Yoongi complaining about it.
But February is just—different, yes.
And Yoongi knows why, once again.
No word is spoken for a while, their slow breaths enough to fill the room, that bubble Yoongi’s in.
But the air is tense, full of unspoken truths and distant fears that, it seems, still feel very much close.
And yet, it remains quiet for a few more minutes.
Jimin’s head is a nice weight on his chest, his arm a warm embrace around his waist, his legs a reassuring presence over his, but even this isn’t enough.
Yoongi waits, though, because pressuring Jimin rarely is a bright idea and, by now, he’s gotten a fair idea of what it’s like to upset Jimin, and that’s something he sure doesn’t want. Jimin, he’s learned, needs time to think his words when they hold fears of his.
But Jimin, he’s also learned those past months and years, always speaks his mind in the end. Beautiful, brave Jimin. His Jimin. And that, too, he’ll never grow tired of.
His lover moves a bit, slowly, and here it goes.
“It’s been two years,” Jimin begins, breathing against Yoongi’s chest, tone so low. “Two years since you—” He pauses. Doesn’t go on at all, in fact.
Yoongi keeps caressing Jimin’s low back, touch light and tender, but here. Always here.
“I know.”
“We both know it,” Jimin’s voice comes out as a strangled chuckle. It takes him a few more seconds to add, “I thought I’d lost you that night.”
That, Yoongi knows too.
Later, they also wondered if they’d lost Jeongguk, but no. And that’s what Yoongi’s been trying to cling on to; what truly happened, not what could have.
“But you didn’t,” he replies as softly as he can, then bites his lip not to smile. He’s about to say something really cheesy, but damn, also freaking true. “You didn’t,” he repeats to ground himself, “and now you have me forever, Jimin.”
He feels it, Jimin’s light smile against his chest, just like he feels Jimin’s hand finding his, playing with the alliance around his finger. Yoongi noticed it a few weeks ago, that fresh habit of his, and has been relishing it since.
“Forever,” his lover repeats, eyes set on both their hands. “I love the sound of it.”
Yoongi chuckles, chest a gentle wave.
“He says as if it’s the first time I pronounce that damn word.”
The sheets ruffle as Jimin shifts to look up, beautiful smile on display. There’s no mistaking it, even through the room’s darkness.
“Say it again.”
Yoongi doesn’t have it in him to refuse, not when Jimin’s staring at him like this, eyes overflowing with so much love that it could kill or, rather, heal any wound.
“Forever,” he breathes out, hand gently running through Jimin’s hair.
It has gotten longer. It suits him, Yoongi often catches himself thinking—it’s not like something could not suit Jimin anyway.
Yoongi’s being kissed. Slowly, gently. Lovingly.
When he isn’t anymore, Jimin’s eyes are still here to convey the same message. The same love, and Yoongi takes it all, thanks his luck for it.
“You know,” Jimin begins, fiddling with the collar of Yoongi’s t-shirt, “I would’ve turned that whole city upside down to find you.”
Another giggle slips through Yoongi’s lips, raw and low.
“That’s exactly what you did, honey.”
Jimin’s fingers brush his neck, Yoongi represses a shiver.
“Would do it all over again, then,” Jimin replies. “Though I hope you’ll never go missing once more.”
Oh, he wouldn’t dare. Jimin would murder him with his bare hands if he did.
“Never ever, Jimin.”
A satisfied little smile finds Jimin’s mouth, and then the latter finds Yoongi’s again. A bit more passionate, that’s what it feels like now, and Yoongi can’t help but smirk against Jimin’s lips at the sole idea of what could happen next.
It’s unmistakable, that difference between Jimin’s kisses and Jimin’s kisses, those that burn with sheer want, that lap at Yoongi’s mouth like Jimin’s body’s missing a part of it.
Jimin sitting astride him, Yoongi lets him intertwine their fingers again, grip firmer this time. Greedier, if the lust and love in Jimin’s gaze are anything to go by.
“Husband,” Jimin breathes out, both hands pinning Yoongi’s down over his head. “Mine.”
Ferociously gorgeous, that’s what Jimin looks like. What he is and will never stop being.
Yoongi, too, knows what he’ll never stop being, and his next words come along with a ridiculously happy smile.
“Yours, Jimin.”