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What might have happened when Jimin and Yoongi met again?
I imagine the two of them would greet each other at that gathering with everyone—politely, perhaps even a little coldly.
And both would carry a thousand unspoken questions on their tongues, their fingers aching with the quiet, burning urge to touch again, even if just a faint brush in passing.
And then fate, mischievous as always, would place them in the same car—even though Yoongi would not truly be leaving the base.
He would have gone there with one purpose only: to pick them up.
To pick Jimin up.
Inside the car, their conversation would remain lukewarm, suspended in a fragile balance, because even two other souls—the driver and the bodyguard—would feel like too many witnesses for all the words they would wish to spill.
The driver would ask into the air, "Where should I take you?"
And both of them would go still, just for a heartbeat.
They would glance sideways—Yoongi at Jimin’s small fingers tapping restlessly against his military pants; Jimin at the tension carved into Yoongi’s clenched hands resting on his lap.
In the end, Yoongi would be the one to break the silence.
"Home," he would say. "I’ve got a lot to practice."
An excuse.
An excuse for Jimin, perhaps.
Or for himself.
Because even after a year and a half preparing for this moment, Yoongi would not feel ready to face his feelings, and Jimin, again.
His heart would pound so violently that it would feel ready to burst from his chest, and his fingers would tremble so much that even tightening them into fists would fail to steady them.
Though seated, he would feel breathless, as though he had just descended a long set of stairs at full speed.
Jimin, in contrast, would glow beside him—steady, smiling, radiant.
Wrapped in that blinding aura only he knows how to carry.
He would look at Yoongi with a gentle, serene smile, and then he would finally reach across that invisible distance, letting his fingertips graze Yoongi’s knee.
"What are you working on?" he would sweetly ask.
He would be interested, of course, but deep down it would just be an excuse for them to talk a little.
Because he’d missed Yoongi’s voice, his tone, his expressions, and the way he looks at him when he talks...
maybe a little too much.
Yoongi would flush, warmth rising to his ears.
"It’s a secret," he would tease. "You’d have to kill me to find out."
Their laughter would bloom, soft at first, then warm enough to break even the bodyguard’s rigid composure and stir a ghost of a smile on the distracted driver.
The air inside the car would shift, growing warmer, almost like home.
Because they're home.
Both would wish the journey could last longer, each red light becoming a tiny miracle, a moment borrowed from time.
Then Jimin would spot a music shop as they drove through a busy street.
"Look," he would say, pointing outside—Yoongi thinking about how fucking much he’s missed that stupidly small index finger of his. "Isn’t that the brand of the guitar I have at home?"
Yoongi would nod, amused.
"The one you’ve never played. Yes."
Jimin would nudge his arm in playful protest, and Yoongi would feel a spark shoot beneath his skin at the contact.
"I’ve asked you a thousand times to teach me, Mister I’m-Too-Busy-For-My-Best-Friends."
Yoongi would laugh, running his fingers through his hair, briefly mourning the days when it had been longer.
"For my friends, maybe," he would murmur, unable to meet Jimin’s eyes. "But for you, Jimin-ah,...not so much."
All perfectly timed, because just around the corner the car had taken would lie his home.
Because those are the kinds of truths he could never speak aloud without feeling the urge to flee.
"Call me whenever you want to practice, Jiminnie."
Yoongi would practically rush out of the car, though trying to look casual.
And Jimin would remain in the vehicle with his chest compressed, his cheeks burning so hot they would feel feverish.
Patience would not come to him—not the way it would come to Yoongi—so he would type quickly, unable to wait until he reached his door:
"Tomorrow. Are you free?
For the first guitar lesson."
Yoongi would smile as the elevator carried him upward.
He would feed his little black cat while replaying the message in his mind, imagining the expression Jimin would have worn while writing it.
"Tomorrow I’ll stop by your place, then. I managed to make some room for you,"
he would reply, teasing again.
Neither of them would sleep that night, thoughts of the other lingering like a soft, stubborn echo.
"Is this a date?" Jimin would wonder.
"It’s a date," Yoongi would decide.
・・・・・
The next day, Jimin would spend the whole morning cleaning like he's lost it—even the dust beneath the vases.
He would change his clothes twenty times, would put on a brand-new perfume and the creams brands send him for free and he keeps out of guilt.
He would take out his guitar from its case and would practice with an online tutorial—how to hold it, the basic chords—trying to impress, even just a little, the famously hard-to-impress Yoongi.
He would wander from room to room, carrying the guitar with him, deciding where they would be most comfortable.
Where the acoustics would sound better.
Finally, he would choose that “leftover” room with just a couple of sofas and the giant desktop computer he never plays on.
Hours would slip by like seconds, and Yoongi’s message—the one he always sends instead of ringing the doorbell—would make his phone vibrate.
"I’m downstairs.
Will you buzz me in?"
Jimin would fly to the entrance.
His fingers would tremble as he waits behind the door, his heart beating violently against his throat.
And then he would know—he’s there.
Something instinctive, or maybe the faint trace of Yoongi’s familiar cologne seeping in beneath the door.
Something inside Jimin would feel comforted by it—by realizing that time has passed, yet Yoongi would still be Yoongi,
the same Yoongi who texts instead of ringing,
the same Yoongi who uses the same cologne he always has.
The same Yoongi had been silently loving for more than a decade.
Slowly, he would open the door.
And both of them would freeze at the sight of each other.
Yoongi would stand there with his guitar slung over his back, a dark backpack, and a convenience-store bag in one hand.
"I brought something sweet so your brain stays awake," he would say, just to break the ice.
He would think,
Seriously, that’s the first thing I say?
But Jimin would melt on the spot.
The hours they would spend in that small room—where Jimin would decide he will learn guitar—would stretch and dissolve, greedy and selfish.
Neither of them would want them to pass; neither would want to be anywhere else.
After many attempts and dramatic complaints from Jimin about how badly his fingers hurt while learning chords, Yoongi would allow him a break under the excuse of not overwhelming him.
"I’ll get the sweets. And do you have beer?" he would ask, already heading into the hallway.
"Where it always is," Jimin would reply.
Something about that familiarity—that soft, homely confidence—would warm Yoongi’s chest as he walked through the apartment.
When he returned, Jimin would be inspecting the tips of his fingers with a pained expression.
"It stings so much," he would say, a slightly childish whine leaving his lips.
And Yoongi would sit beside him, much closer than before, and would take those same fingers into his own hands.
"You have to massage them like this," he would tell him. "Whenever it becomes unbearable."
Jimin would play dumb.
"How?" he would ask, knowing perfectly well what he was doing.
And Yoongi would massage them.
Perfectly knowing what Jimin was doing.
They would stay like that for a short, charged moment, until Yoongi would suddenly stop to grab a beer.
He would open and serve one for each of them.
"Thanks, hyung" Jimin would say, smiling, the cold glass soothing his sore fingertips.
"Let’s toast," Yoongi would propose, "to us."
"To us?" Jimin would echo.
And Yoongi would nod, smiling.
"To us.
To what doesn’t change."
・・・・・
That sentence would hang in the air while they both take their first sip,
while the cold liquid slides down their throats and the foam draws playful shapes over their lips.
Yoongi would be the first to laugh at Jimin, though Jimin would laugh much louder.
"You’ve got a foam mustache!" he’d say, unable to stop laughing, almost falling off the couch.
Oh, Yoongi would find that so damn adorable about him,
always had—
how Jimin needs to laugh with every muscle in his body.
Yoongi would say something like, "Oh, yeah?" and Jimin would nod aggressively, still laughing.
And Yoongi would dip his fingers into his own beer,
and smear foam across Jimin’s cheek.
Maybe just to keep playing.
Maybe, a little, to have another excuse to touch him.
And Jimin would react dramatically—
super dramatically—
"How dare you?"
one hand to his chest, mouth dropped open, slowly rising to his feet, trying to look at least a little threatening.
And Yoongi would roll his eyes and give him that "I have no idea what you’re talking about" face before taking another sip, shooting him that sidelong, mocking look,
that half-smile,
waiting,
expecting.
And Jimin would throw himself at him,
trying to dip his tiny fingers back into the beer—
a disaster,
it would be a disaster.
And Jimin would surely end up spilling the beer all over the table,
or on one of them, or on the couch,
but it wouldn’t matter, because they’d be together,
laughing endlessly,
almost on top of each other—
no, nothing would matter then.
And then Yoongi would freeze and look Jimin in the eyes.
Maybe the beer could be an excuse,
or maybe it would be a sudden, urgent burst of bravery,
or the bitter aftertaste of having once lost someone only to get them back again—
that anxiety,
that need to hold someone between your fingers,
to slip them under your skin,
to lock them with you, forever—
maybe all of that could explain why Yoongi would take Jimin’s cheeks between his hands
and say, looking straight into his eyes,
with the seriousness that defines him:
"Fuck, Jimin, I’ve missed you so much."
And they would both go still,
and though Jimin had always assumed it would be him,
it’s Yoongi who would end up kissing him first.
How many years condensed in the brush of their lips?
More than a decade of restrained love collapsing into a single outcome.
And they would kiss,
fuck,
they would.
How long does a kiss last when it’s waited over ten years just to exist?
・・・・・
After that, the world outside that room, or that sofa, would cease to exist.
Yoongi, while holding Jimin’s cheeks in his hands,
and his nose giving eskimo kisses to Jimin’s,
and their smiles playing a game,
would think that this must be what all those things he’s always written about in his lyrics feel like—
love, romance, falling in love.
Being in love.
Understanding who he is, and understanding that it is him, Jimin, whom he loves,
whom he chooses to love.
Because loving someone in silence for more than a decade is, at the very least, an almost conscious decision.
And Jimin would laugh during the kiss,
during the first hundred.
God, he wouldn’t believe it,
has it finally, finally happened? he would think.
So this is how Yoongi kisses?
And this is how he cups my cheeks?
And this is how his cologne smells up close, mixing with his sweat?
And this is how my hands feel on his skin,
my fingertips on his flesh,
this is how two souls transcend with just a kiss?
And that first time,
first time for so many things,
to be sincere,
to truly find each other,
to finally, finally translate a little of everything they’ve been feeling and hiding...
Would be a million times better, more intense, more beautiful than either could have ever imagined before.
Yoongi would take Jimin gently, laying him down on the sofa.
"Can I kiss you here?" he would ask, his fingers gliding softly over Jimin’s shirt.
And Jimin would oblige with decision, his cheeks red, fever running through his body, the fever of anticipation, intoxicating.
And Yoongi would lift Jimin’s clothes delicately,
caressing his chest, softly squeezing his nipples,
wondering how it could be possible for nipples to be so round, so pink, so beautiful.
And Jimin would melt at every touch, every caress,
emitting soft moans, wrapping his legs around Yoongi’s,
with that stupid, anxious need for neither of them to ever escape from there.
And Yoongi would lower his face, bringing it close to his skin,
"So, can I kiss you?"
And Jimin would dissolve at the tenderness in his tone,
and at the dark, feline look he had never seen Yoongi wear before.
"Please. Do it now," he would say, his voice barely a trembling whisper.
And Yoongi would trace with his mouth the map of Jimin’s skin,
Connecting every coordinate, finding every exact point of pleasure, reaching the precise peak in every moment,
With every touch, with every pulse.
Jimin would wonder, his mind clouded by the pleasure that would fog his thoughts,
How is it possible that Yoongi knows his own pleasure better than he does,
If they’ve never done this before,
Not even talked about it.
It’s as if they were destined,
They would both think,
As if they were born for this,
To find each other, to discover each other,
To be, in sync, as one.
To be, together.
To be together.
And Jimin would explode with pleasure the moment Yoongi placed his fingertips on that exact spot,
And he would die of embarrassment,
Oh,
He would.
He would cover his face with his hands, his cheeks literally burning and glistening,
His eyes half-closed and full of tears,
And Yoongi would die of love,
Of tenderness,
Of everything collapsing inside all at once.
"Don’t hide," he would say with a smile, undoing Jimin’s hands to uncover his eyes, "I want to see you like this, Jimin."
And there, in that precise instant, with that precise tone, with that precise look from Yoongi,
And his fingers obsessed only with giving pleasure,
Jimin would climax.
And Yoongi would enjoy almost more than him the mere honor of seeing it,
Of hearing it,
Of feeling it.
Of being the one who led him there,
His fingers burning with the need to be only him from now on.
Only him.
And Jimin would cry a little afterward, barely a timid sob refusing to escape,
Curling up in the armchair,
His hands stretching out to find Yoongi, craving contact, craving something to anchor him to the Earth.
"That was…" he would stammer.
Yoongi would finish his thought for him:
"Beautiful, that was beautiful. Just like you. Beautiful like you."
And with his fingers, he would trace the curve of Jimin’s now-exposed hip.
Yoongi would retrieve his beer while Jimin catches his breath,
Taking a long sip, his fingers combing through Jimin’s hair, intoxicated by his scent, his warmth, his softness,
By him.
And Jimin would purr against his lap,
"I want more," he would say in a quiet voice.
And Yoongi would smile, because he suspected it,
That Jimin would be tireless,
That Jimin would want everything from him.
He wouldn’t know if it was a guess or rather a desire, really.
Yoongi would chuckle softly, sitting up, offering his hand to Jimin.
"Shall we find a more comfortable spot?" he’d ask, lifting him in his arms because Jimin’s legs still wouldn’t cooperate.
Yoongi would navigate Jimin’s apartment by feel, letting himself be enveloped by the sense of belonging,
of finally belonging somewhere,
To someone.
They always had, yet this would be the seal of the pact.
And carefully, with a delicacy uncharacteristic of him, he would lay Jimin on his own bed,
making him slowly shed his clothes,
savoring every millimeter of skin revealed,
every freckle or small mark,
every detail that made up Jimin’s beautiful body.
And Jimin would lie completely naked before him,
Once again enveloped in that potent, calm, confident aura that Yoongi would admire so much, that he would long to possess.
Because Yoongi’s hands would shake, and his heart threaten to burst from his chest.
Yoongi would also strip off his comfortable clothes, each movement followed by Jimin’s attentive eyes.
And then he would position himself at the foot of the bed, lying between Jimin’s legs,
"May I?" he would ask, and Jimin would only nod, gently guiding Yoongi’s head.
And Yoongi,
Oh.
Fuck.
He would take him to heaven, to paradise, to any place where pleasure is the only law,
just with the brush of his tongue on the exact spot,
Because Yoongi would know where all of Jimin’s precise points are.
And within two minutes, Jimin would climax again, making a mess across his own skin.
Yoongi would laugh, catching his breath.
"You’re incredible," he’d say, praising him, caressing his thigh, "you’re incredible."
But Jimin couldn’t respond anymore.
Slowly, clumsily, his muscles recovering from the tension, he would sit up and pull Yoongi onto him,
"I want to feel you," he would whisper,
And Yoongi would feel he could climax right then without even touching himself.
Yoongi would nod and kiss Jimin.
A silent, slow kiss. A really deep one.
And as he continued kissing him, he would slowly prepare him,
First one finger,
Jimin would close his eyes and hiss softly.
He would play with it inside him without neglecting Jimin’s mouth, nor his nipples.
Then another finger, when Yoongi felt he was ready.
He would move them slowly, moaning in rhythm with Jimin as he felt the pulse inside, the grip,
The desire.
A third and a fourth almost at once because Jimin would beg for more, not with his mouth but with his hips, with his gaze, and with his nails digging into Yoongi’s shoulders.
And then Yoongi would kiss Jimin once more.
"Are you ready?" he would kindly ask,
Jimin literally melting with love for his tenderness.
He would nod, and Yoongi, slowly, would enter him.
There would be a moment of solemn silence as their pelvises met,
As they fit together like two perfect puzzle pieces.
Jimin would release the held breath, his eyes slowly opening.
He would let go of the sheets.
His chest would deflate slowly.
"You okay?" Yoongi would ask, caressing his cheek.
"Better than ever."
And Yoongi would kiss him and begin.
He would make love to him,
reminding him, as they both came together, how much he loved him,
how much he had missed him,
and how much he would never want to lose him again.
Jimin would softly chuckle. "I'm going nowhere," he'd say, caressing Yoongi's face. "I'mma be here forever."
Yoongi would kiss him—that would be his way of saying, 'me too.'
And that night,
That night, many things would change,
And others would settle.
Their love,
hidden,
deep,
buried to the marrow,
would finally translate, finding its path, its way out, its place.
It would be them, again, or as always.
Them, as always.
What never changes.