“...I now pronounce you spouses for life, and today, your kiss is one of promise. You may now kiss the groom!”
Jimin claps his hands happily, watching as Namjoon breaks down at the altar, face scrunching up from too many emotions and skin blotching red as he tries to fight back the sobs. Standing in front of him in a pretty pink tuxedo is Seokjin, the older man visibly laughing as he cups his boyfriend’s—no, his husband’s—face, gently pulling him in for a kiss, the kiss that would seal their vows, their promises to love each other until they can’t.
He dabs away a few stray tears and feels a gentle tug on his elbow. He glances to his side, sees the small round face of his plus one, one of his close friends from the dance studio.
His throat feels oddly thick and dry, but he manages a simple nod. “Yeah.”
When he turns back to the altar, Namjoon has an arm looped around Seokjin’s waist, kissing him senseless, like they didn’t have the rest of forever to do so. Jimin laughs a little, and he desperately stamps away the ugly stirrings of envy because at one point in his life, he had been close to this. To the kind of perfection that Seokjin and Namjoon had just achieved.
But Jimin knows all too well that sometimes, perfect things just aren’t meant for everyone.
Sometimes, good things don’t really last forever.
“Hyung, I’m home!”
The lights are off, the television dead, and even the heater was off. Jimin scrunched his face in wonder, dropping his house keys in the bowl by the door. He toed off his shoes by the entranceway, shuffling into their apartment to look for his boyfriend.
“Yoongi-hyung? Are you home?” Jimin flicks on the light by the switch on the wall, and a gasp escapes his lips when he sees a red string snaking from the entranceway to somewhere deep in their flat. A flush rises on his cheeks, and he can feel his heart thumping wildly in his chest. With bated breath, he carefully follows the trail, his heart threatening to burst. “Hyung, where are you?”
When Jimin rounds into their bedroom, he freezes right in the doorway.
Yoongi is standing in the middle of their room, candles burning on every surface and painting their small room with a soft orange glow. Yoongi’s wearing a university letter jacket and ripped jeans—and Jimin vaguely remembers that it’s the same outfit Yoongi wore when they first started going out.
The string on the floor snakes up to the point where Yoongi is standing, and when his boyfriend shifts a bit, Jimin sees that the string is tied to his pinky finger. He can’t help but let out a giggle.
“Hyung, what’s this?” He asks softly, padding into the room and closing the door behind him with the heel of his foot. He tilts his head to the side when Yoongi just watches him, a strange expression on his face. “Are you okay?”
“Jiminnie,” Yoongi starts, voice uncharacteristically softer than usual. He’s got a small smile on his face, and he’s looking at Jimin like he hung the stars and moon in the sky. “Hi, baby,” he says quietly as he shuffles around where he stands.
“Hi to you, too,” Jimin stops in front of Yoongi, about an arm’s length from him, careful not to step on the red string. “Did I—I didn’t forget any anniversary or anything, did I?”
“Well, no,” Yoongi says, licking his lips as he keeps one hand safely tucked in his jacket pocket, “but I’m hoping to, uh, maybe make this day an anniversary. Or at least, a day we can both remember fondly.”
Jimin raises an eyebrow at him, a smile curving his lips up. “What do you—oh,” Jimin breathes out suddenly, smile dropping and heart thundering faster in his chest.
Yoongi is suddenly down on one knee, hand still safely tucked in his pocket. With his head tilted up at Jimin, eyes twinkling with pure adoration and fondness, lips curling up into a soft smile, he pulls out his hand, and Jimin finds himself releasing a watery exhale, vision blurring with unshed tears. He hurriedly wipes them away, afraid of missing even a single second of this moment, because Min Yoongi is on his knee, taking Jimin’s hand in his, and uttering—with that deep, gravelly voice that Jimin has grown to cherish and love—
“Park Jimin, love of my life, will you do me the honor of becoming my husband?”
Jimin thinks he’s never cried so hard in his life, an ocean of ‘yes’-es and ‘I love you’s spilling out of his lips, and he thinks—he’s sure he’s never been happier.
“Yes, of course, I will, hyung.”
When Jimin steps into the large reception hall, he finds himself sucking in a sharp breath of air. There are streamers hanging delicately from the ceiling, each strip artfully curled and cut to a certain degree of perfection. The chairs and tables are covered with sheer fabrics of pink and white and cream, the tables adorned with bunches upon bunches of narcissus and aster flowers. There’s a quiet and content buzz from the crowd milling about, no unnecessary tension or noise present, and the small orchestra plays a soft lilting melody in the background. It’s a beautiful wedding, Jimin thinks, one that fits the newlyweds perfectly.
“Wow, it’s so pretty in here,” Hyesung, his friend and plus one, mumbles quietly in awe, fingers trapped tightly around the crook of Jimin’s elbow. She throws him a grateful look. “Thanks for bringing me with you. I mean, I’m not even super familiar with the newlyweds, but—this is nice.”
Jimin nods his head again, a tight smile on his face. She throws him a slight frown, and a flash of realization twinkles in her eyes. She glances around curiously, face twisted into a look of intrigue. Jimin finds himself sighing, pulling Hyesung a little closer as they navigate between the tables, and finding their own assigned seats. “Hyesung-noona, please stop craning your head like an ostrich.”
“Shush,” she mumbles, letting Jimin lead her as she keeps on squinting at everyone through her prescription glasses, “is he here? You’re only this tense when we’re talking about him.”
“Well, I don’t know, but he could be,” Jimin groans quietly, feeling a sense of relief when he sees their table finally, “I-I mean, he’s Namjoon-hyung’s best friend, of course he’s here. Maybe.”
Hyesung pinches his arm gently. “Just tell me if I have to keep my fists up, okay?”
Jimin manages a genuine smile. It’s small, but Hyesung had always been like the older sister he never had. They make their way to the table quickly and Jimin helps Hyesung get settled before he sits down himself, unbuttoning his tuxedo carefully before leaning back into his seat.
Dinner goes by fairly well and uneventful. Their other friends sit at their table—Hoseok, Jackson, Taehyung (and his boyfriend, Jungkook). There’s one suspiciously empty seat next to Jungkook, and Jimin finds himself glancing at it curiously every minute or so, quietly wondering if it would suddenly pop out a grumpy but not really grumpy blonde architect. Maybe. But that’s silly, he knows. It’s been almost half an hour into the ceremony, he probably wouldn’t pop out of a fucking chair.
Jimin distracts himself with the newlyweds—they’re just as silly as they’ve always been, or maybe even more so, their bodies visibly thrumming with barely contained joy and love. Jimin is truly, absolutely, genuinely happy for them, for Seokjin and Namjoon, but he hates how he can’t remove the dull sensation of loneliness throbbing in his heart.
Because truthfully, a wedding is probably not the best place to go to after just breaking up with your longtime boyfriend (of a whopping six years. Amazing, really).
He doesn’t know what happened. It’s been almost two months since they broke up, since Jimin bolted out of their apartment with nothing but the clothes on his back and the tears streaming down his flushed cheeks, a burning need in his gut for him to come after Jimin, to tell him to come back (but he didn’t, and that fact stings). It’s been two months, and looking back at it now, he can’t even remember what they argued about, what they broke plates and mugs for, but harsh words had been thrown, the elephant in the room had been noticed, and well. Here Jimin is, with a girl sitting beside him and his heart feeling oddly empty.
He presses his fingertip against the rim of his wine glass, slowly tracing it around. He’s aware he looks like shit, his makeup and hairstyling probably doing nothing to make him look presentable. Hoseok’s been throwing him some concerned glances since they sat down, and Jimin, well, he doesn’t want to drag the mood down—Seokjin and Namjoon deserve only the best—so he stands up quietly and excuses himself.
As soon as Jimin is out of the hall, he breathes in deeply. The air is fresh, a bit chilly, smells strongly of the pine trees surrounding the building, and his breath hitches. His throat clogs, and there it is. The sob that he’s been fighting back since he saw Seokjin walk down the aisle. It rips out of his chest painfully, and he hunches over a bit, feeling something heavy building in his throat. He feels sick. And lonely.
“Fuck,” he breathes out, a little broken, a little ragged, because he misses him, he really does, “shit, this is. This is e-embarrassing…”
Jimin whips his head up in alarm. He’d know that voice anywhere. The subtle drunken slur, the barely audible gravelly rasp—Jimin knows that. Hell, it’s tattooed onto his soul, countless hours and seconds of hearing that voice whisper words of love, praises, and empty promises into his ears, against his skin, into his heart. Jimin knows.
Jimin looks at him, and he’s standing there on the steps leading up to the hall, his blonde hair a little messy from the motorbike helmet tucked under his arm. He’s not in a tuxedo or suit or anything remotely acceptable for a wedding ceremony—hell, he’s wearing faded ripped jeans and a loose white shirt—and if it were any other time, Jimin would have laughed. Jabbed at his sides with a few teasing remarks thrown in. But it’s not any other time. It’s—it’s a bad time.
“Hyung,” Jimin whispers, unable to control himself, because Yoongi is right there. Min Yoongi, the love of his life, the only person in the world who knows what makes him tick, what makes him smile, what makes him cry, what makes him Park Jimin. He can’t help calling out to him with that broken whisper, because he still loves Yoongi. He’ll never stop.
He’ll never stop wanting to touch Yoongi. He’ll never stop yearning to hold him close, to kiss him goodnight and good morning, to make sure that Yoongi has a reason to smile every minute of every day. Jimin will never stop loving him, and he’s reminded of this universal truth at that very moment—but another universal truth, and a sad one at that, is that he can’t. Not anymore. Because they’re not Min Yoongi and Park Jimin anymore.
They’re just Min Yoongi, and Park Jimin.
Yoongi visibly freezes where he stands, and Jimin relishes in the subtle way that Yoongi’s fingers grip just a little tighter to his helmet, his other hand wrapped around his bike keys. “Jimin,” he says again, but sounding suspiciously short of breath.
Jimin decides to be the bigger person, to be the adult for once. He puffs out his chest a little, ignoring the throb in his chest, and the fact that he was sobbing only a few minutes prior to Yoongi’s late arrival. “Hello, Yoongi-hyung. It’s—it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
Yoongi looks at him, his dark eyes boring into Jimin’s before his shoulders slump a bit. He glances away before walking up the remaining steps. He dusts his leather jacket lightly, a hum in his throat as he nods his head once. “Yeah. S’been a while, Jimin.”
It has, Jimin agrees quietly, but the pain in his chest feels like they just broke up yesterday.
Jimin is on his phone, smiling dopily at his screen, knees pulled up to his chest and curled up as small as possible on the couch. It’s one of their rare coinciding days off, and Yoongi always makes it a point to cuddle up to Jimin and be as physically close to him as possible.
He crawls over to him, bag of chips tucked under his arm before he taps Jimin’s knees. Without looking at him, the younger man stretches his legs, letting Yoongi lay his head on his lap. Yoongi scoots up a little higher on his chest, head resting just below Jimin’s collarbones and framed by Jimin’s arms. He peeks at the screen on Jimin’s phone, and hums questioningly when he sees a google search of flowers.
“Why are you googling flowers?” Yoongi asks curiously, involuntarily smiling to himself when he feels Jimin’s chest rumbling with quiet giggles.
“For our wedding,” he says simply, fingers slowly scrolling up the screen.
The words make Yoongi break out into a gummy smile, and he shifts a bit to look up at Jimin, or as much as his position would allow. “Is that so?”
“Hm,” Jimin hums softly, glancing at Yoongi finally and giving him a face splitting grin, “I think maybe, we could have daffodils. And marigolds.”
Yoongi sits up, rearranging themselves so that they were side by side, one of his arms slung over Jimin’s shoulder, the younger’s head tucked under his chin. Jimin snuggles closer, draping his legs over Yoongi’s lap comfortably. “Whatever you wish, baby,” Yoongi presses a kiss onto his hair, muffling his words a bit.
“They’re our birth flowers, you see, and I want our wedding to be super pretty! Do you think Taehyung would be up to being my best man? Oh, hyung, I’m so excited! I want to be Min Jimin already, and call you my husband, and—hyung, are you listening?”
Yoongi blinks, biting his lip in slight shame when he realizes he was zoning out. Jimin’s not snuggled up against him anymore, having already sat up a while ago when Yoongi stopped humming in response. He’s got his small hands curled atop Yoongi’s chest, eyebrows scrunched in annoyance.
“Hyung, listen to me, this is important!”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, but. You’re too cute, Jiminnie, I couldn’t help it, hyung’s sorry,” Yoongi grins sheepishly at him, slouching away when Jimin threatens to hit his shoulder, but Yoongi knows he’s off the hook, if the adorable peachy flush on Jimin’s cheeks are anything to go by. He reaches out his hand, cupping Jimin’s face and pulling him closer. The younger easily melts into his touch, their lips melding together sweetly. When they pull away, Yoongi smiles at him, brushing their noses together. “I can’t wait to call you my husband, too, my Min Jiminnie.”
Jimin bites his lip to stop himself from smiling too widely, and when that fails, he wraps his arms around Yoongi’s neck, hugging him close and hiding his face on the crook of his neck. “So cheesy.”
“You love it, though, right?”
Jimin hums, nodding his head.
Inside, their table gets a little louder with the arrival of Yoongi. Namjoon has trotted over to them, a dopey smile on his face as he engulfs both Hoseok and Yoongi within his long, gangly arms. Jimin sits back down next to Hyesung, ignoring the pointed questioning looks from both her and Taehyung.
“Jimin,” Hyesung starts, half-whispering as she leans closer, “hey, Jimin. Why—I mean. You okay?”
Jimin nods his head meekly, plastering a smile on his face as he tries to tune out Namjoon’s loud voice. He’s complaining, judging by the sound of his voice, about Yoongi—something about suddenly disappearing for close to two months from the face of the earth without so much as a simple ‘be right back’. It makes Jimin’s heart beat just a little bit faster, because he can put two and two together. He wasn’t the only one hurting, it seemed.
The party goes underway, the lights dimming to make way for flashier, disco-esque lights. The small orchestra has long gone, replaced by a DJ that Namjoon probably knew personally. The whole mood of the reception takes a completely sharp turn, and Jimin can definitely see how Hoseok, Namjoon’s best man, had full control on the decisions regarding the playlist.
Most of the guests are now getting up to dance, and dancing—it’s something that Jimin loves, it’s something that makes him feel alive—but at that moment, with the man he yearns to touch just one seat away from him, he can’t bring himself to let loose. Can’t make his limbs move the way he wants them to. So he sits out half the dance time, ushering Hyesung away when Jackson asks her for a dance.
A few minutes pass with Jimin idly tapping his fingers on his glass, an awkward tension thrumming in his veins when Yoongi suddenly speaks up.
“How have you been, Jiminnie?”
The music is suddenly mute, and all Jimin can hear is the blood roaring in his ears, his heart thumping nervously in his ribcage. His fingers have stopped tapping, and he's slowly turning his head to look at Yoongi.
Yoongi is beautiful, despite the subtle dark blue shades under his eyes, despite the slight sunken look of his cheeks. He’s beautiful, always have been, and back when they were together, Jimin’s always loved waking up before Yoongi has because during those lazy seconds in the morning, he could just breathe in Yoongi and appreciate his man. Run his fingers across his smooth skin, plant kisses on his sharp jaws, on his pink lips, on his cute button nose.
Jimin licks his lips before shrugging, a sad tilt of one shoulder to make himself seem unbothered, but he’s sure that Yoongi can see through his facade. “I’m good. I-I’ve been okay, I suppose.”
Yoongi laughs dryly at his response, a bitter upturn to his lips before he glances down at his glass and downs his drink all in one go. “That makes one of us, then.” Jimin opens his mouth to say something, but he comes up blank. Yoongi looks at the dance floor. “She’s cute.”
“Your date. Your, uhm. Girlfriend?”
Jimin can see Yoongi clenching his jaw despite trying to look uninterested. Jimin shakes his head, shifting in his seat so his back was turned to the dance floor, turned just a little bit more to face Yoongi. “Not my girlfriend, hyung. You of all people should know how gay I am.”
Usually, it would’ve pulled out at least a smile from Yoongi and a gentle flick on the forehead, but Yoongi only hums mindlessly, his hand swirling his glass, the remaining dregs of his drink sloshing at the bottom. “I miss you,” he suddenly blurts out, his voice cracking at the admission, “so fucking much, Jiminnie. I fucking miss you, baby.”
Jimin’s eyes widen, his heart dropping to his feet, and before he can say anything, maybe tell Yoongi how unfair he was being, the older male shoots up from his seat, empty glass tipping over and thumping dully against the table. He bends over to pick up his helmet from the floor, a stormy look in his dark eyes, before he leaves the hall altogether, his slim figure clad in jeans and black leather jacket completely hidden by the dim lighting of the hall.
It’s only when Hyesung comes back to their table asking him if he wanted to dance that Jimin realizes his cheeks are wet from silent tears.
He did a good job, of course he did, he had practically slaved away at the dance studio for months preparing for that showcase. He did a good job, but he knows it’s not his best, because half the time, he was just wondering and worried where the hell his fiancé was.
The showcase had come and gone, the afterparty had died down, and Jimin hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Yoongi. He was worried. His phone calls were going straight to voicemail, his texts were left unread, and Jimin just felt generally bad the whole day.
When he comes home that night though, their apartment’s lights are on. There’s coffee brewing in the kitchen, and the door to Yoongi’s small study is open. Jimin hurriedly walks in, and when he sees Yoongi hunched over his table, rolls and wads of paper in front of him, blue lines blaringly stark against the white paper, Jimin can only frown.
“Hyung, you’re home?” His voice comes out small and ragged, and his hands are curling into fists.
Yoongi hums a little, nodding his head as he continues tracing his pencil over the paper in front of him. “How was work?”
Jimin huffs a little, an incredulous smile blooming on his face. He feels sick. “Oh, you know. The usual—bombed my showcase, to be honest. I’d go so far to think that I was the best dancer, but you wouldn’t know, hyung. You weren’t there, I think.”
Yoongi visibly stiffens in his seat, pencil hovering over the paper. He whips his head around to look at Jimin, and for a moment, Jimin feels bad because the older looks horrified, guilty. He opens his mouth to say something, but Jimin doesn’t feel like talking. He’s tired. He holds a hand up.
“It’s fine, you were working,” Jimin mumbles curtly, and he takes a step back when Yoongi moves to get out of his office chair, “I understand. I-I’m going to go rest. Go back to work, hyung.” Jimin turns around, hearing the chair creak again as Yoongi slumps back, and Jimin doesn’t know what overcomes him, what makes him open his mouth when he should’ve just stayed quiet. “That’s all you ever do anyway—work. Funny, I feel like I’m living with a stranger now.”
Yoongi scoffs behind him, and Jimin glances over his shoulder. Yoongi is looking at him sadly, and it makes regret boil in Jimin’s gut. “I’m sorry for missing your showcase, but you don’t have to be a baby about it.”
Jimin’s tired, he’s stressed, and honestly, he’s lonely. He can’t even remember the last time he’d gone out on a date with Yoongi, or did anything remotely intimate with him. It’s part of being a working adult, he knows, but damn it, he’s fucking lonely.
Next thing he knows, he’s screaming at Yoongi, they’re in the kitchen, and there are broken mugs by his feet. His cheeks are streaked with hot tears, and his chest is threatening to explode. Yoongi’s fists are clenched by his sides, his blood rushing up and making his usually beautifully pale skin an ugly, blotchy red.
Jimin’s out of the door before can realize what he’s doing, phone in his hand as he hurriedly blocks Yoongi’s number. He can’t see well through the tears gushing down his cheeks, can’t breathe properly when all he seems to be saying are broken variations of Yoongi’s name.
It’s only when he’s at Taehyung’s doorstep does he realize what he’s saying, why he’s clutching his left hand to his chest, the silver band around his ring finger feeling cold and hot against his skin.
“Taehyung, I fucked up, I fucked up, I’m—Yoongi-hyung, I fucked up, I’m sorry.”
He feels bad for ditching the whole wedding—fuck, it’s Namjoon’s and Seokjin’s day—but Yoongi can’t do it, not when Jimin is right there, an arm’s length away from him, looking just as breathtaking and beautiful as the last time he saw him. It was hard enough to not walk up to him when he saw him sobbing in front of the hall, God knows what Yoongi would’ve done if he stayed any longer in there.
(Ask him to come back, probably—something he should’ve done two months ago.)
Yoongi grunts tiredly as he sits down at the bar, calling over the bartender for a quick fix. When he gets his drink, he just keeps his fingers wrapped around it, his mind involuntarily taking him back to two months ago, right to the very night when his own little perfect world with Jimin finally cracked and crumbled.
He can’t remember the details much—he’d gotten himself shitfaced drunk after his calls wouldn’t go through—but he knows that both of them were at fault. Jimin half-joking, half-serious about them being almost strangers because of Yoongi’s intense workload, and Yoongi calling Jimin an insensitive baby. It’s childish, now that he looks back on it, but they were angry, stressed, lonely, yearning for each other’s warmth, and instead of pulling each other close and whispering apologies, all they did was fight and spew out hurtful words that ended in slammed doors and broken plates. Yoongi learns the hard way that regret really does come at the last minute.
He downs his drink, the bitter liquid burning down his throat.
He misses Jimin. He fucking misses him so much. He hasn’t stopped loving the younger man, probably won’t do so ever in his whole lifetime (if he’s being more sentimental as he already is, he might even go so far as saying, even in his other lifetimes). He moves to tip the remaining contents of his glass into his mouth when he hears the chair beside him squeak against the floor. He glances to the side and almost chokes when he sees Namjoon sitting down comfortably, his white tuxedo absent.
His sleeves are pulled up to his elbows, blonde hair slicked back to perfection (with a few stray locks threatening to ruin the whole look). Yoongi frowns before focusing back on his own glass. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Excuse me, one martini, please,” Namjoon calls out instead, completely ignoring Yoongi. He shifts his legs on his seat a little, squaring his shoulders and locking his elbows on the edge of the counter. He glances at Yoongi briefly, before he returns his focus back on his hands on the counter, long fingers wrapping around the martini glass as the bartender slides it to him. “Hey, hyung.”
Yoongi doesn’t say anything, just sloshes the drink around in his glass mindlessly. He licks his lips before grunting quietly. “Hey, Joon.”
“Where’ve you been?”
“How have you been?” He sips a little from his drink, his face eerily blank and composed.
“Peachy,” Yoongi mutters dryly, running his thumb across the condensation forming on his glass, “never been fuckin’ better.”
“He misses you, too, you know. I know you both love each other.” Namjoon raises his voice a little, obviously choosing to ignore Yoongi’s self-deprecation.
“You got married, Joon.” Yoongi shifts around in his seat, facing Namjoon and giving him a withering glare. “You didn’t evolve into a fuckin’ love guru.”
“I don’t need to be one to see how much you both love each other,” Namjoon retorts simply, a triumphant smirk on his face when Yoongi scowls at him, “don’t do something else you know you’ll regret, hyung. God knows how many fuck ups you already have in life—don’t let Jimin be the next one.”
And with that, he pushes his seat away, pressing a crumpled money bill on the counter. He smiles at Yoongi one last time, a mumbled, ‘my husband’s waiting for me in the car’, before leaving Yoongi to his devices, his half-full martini glass sitting beside Yoongi’s empty one.
To be away from the one you love, from the one you almost promised your forever to, is a strangely empty feeling.
Jimin spends extra hours at the studio, sweat dribbling down his skin, face flushed from exertion. Hoseok invites him to hangouts, but Jimin always has an excuse ready, an apologetic smile on his face before Hoseok’s even done asking. He can’t, he’ll say, he’s too busy.
But in reality, he’s scared. Scared of seeing Yoongi again, and of Yoongi realizing that Jimin is a child, of Yoongi realizing that he’s better off with someone else, of Yoongi taking back his promises of forever with Jimin. He’s scared, so he always refuses Hoseok’s invites.
(What he doesn’t know is that Yoongi has gone off the grid, gone with the wind without a single note of goodbye or ‘see you later’.)
Jimin is a walking shell of what he used to be. He’s lonely—lonelier than he’s ever been.
The regret is real, and Jimin hates it. All he wants to do is go back in time, to stop himself from being so immature and petty—punch himself in the face, if he has to—but it’s too late. He had been too stubborn to go back, too naive to admit that he wasn’t being rational. It’s too late.
It’s terrifying him, because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to feel Yoongi’s warm hand around his own again, feel Yoongi’s lips pressing kisses and praises down the line of his back, hear him whisper about every single thing he loves about Jimin. Jimin’s not sure of anything anymore, but he knows that the one best thing that ever happened to him, he’s just easily thrown it away.
Two weeks spent hiding at Taehyung’s place was enough for him to realize that he’s an adult, he can’t hide at his best friend’s place forever like they used to back in college. He has to face the consequences of his actions at some point. But all he goes home to in his shared apartment with Yoongi is a note. ‘Dont wait up’, it said (and Jimin cried himself to sleep that night, because he’s lost the one thing who loved him for who he is).
Jimin hasn’t come home to the sight of the lights on and the television humming softly in almost two months, and he’s not sure what he’s looking at currently, to be honest.
After that dreadful night, it had taken Jimin a week of moping around in Taehyung’s cramped flat to finally bring himself to go back home to his own apartment with Yoongi—but after all the delay he did, he’d only come back home to a note with Yoongi’s messy chicken scrawl, ‘don’t wait up’.
And that was it.
It stung. A lot. Jimin still remembers clearly how absolutely empty it felt to not have Yoongi pull him into his warm embrace, Yoongi’s lips pressing a kiss on his forehead with a quiet whisper of, ‘welcome home, sunshine’. (Yoongi was barely home, but when he was, he tried to give Jimin his undivided attention).
But now, Jimin doesn’t know what to make of the situation.
Yoongi is on their couch, leather jacket hanging precariously off the edge of the coffee table, motorbike helmet sitting by his bent legs. He’s curled up into himself, the muted colors of the television painting his face in dull shades of blue and red. His blonde hair is all messed up, the fringe going past his eyebrows, close to his eyes. He looks tired, Jimin notices, and something inside Jimin twinges at this obvious fact.
He’s probably not doing a very good job at this break up thing, but he doesn’t really want to be good at it. He sighs to himself quietly before hanging his tuxedo coat on the back of one of the dining chairs. He goes to the bedroom—their bedroom—and gets the blanket from the bed. He shuffles towards Yoongi’s prone figure on the couch.
Jimin kneels down, heart beating erratically in his chest because this is the closest he’s been to Yoongi ever since the breakup. He carefully drapes the blanket over Yoongi’s shoulders, tucking him in as gently as possible.
Yoongi’s eyes flutter open, and Jimin is surprised that he’s, well, not surprised at Yoongi waking up. One of his hands rest gently on Yoongi’s shoulder as the older looks up at him, his eyes dark, but clear.
There is a pregnant silence between them, ready to burst at the seams with things that should be talked about, words that should be uttered.
Yoongi shifts on the couch.
“Please forgive me,” he whispers softly just as Jimin mumbles a quiet, “Hyung, I’m sorry.”
Jimin blinks at Yoongi, before an awkward laugh escapes his lips. Yoongi laughs through his nose, a quiet exhale, and suddenly, the room seems a tad lighter, easier to breathe in. Yoongi doesn’t sit up, but he snakes a hand out from beneath the blanket to wrap long fingers around Jimin’s wrist. He holds him close, and Jimin feels his breath hitch at the physical contact. It’s been too long.
He notices Yoongi’s hand, then. Their engagement ring sits snugly around his finger, and Jimin feels so, so silly. He’s suddenly aware of his own ring around his own. It’s been two months, but neither of them have removed the small proof of their promise to each other.
“I missed you.” Yoongi’s voice is raspy, a little slurred and hard to make out, but Jimin’s been with him for almost seven years, six of those spent as his boyfriend. Jimin knows Yoongi well enough (and it hits him then, how stupid they’ve been—they know each other, and yet they still fought over something so stupid). “I missed you so much, Jimin, you have no idea.”
“I missed you, too, Yoongi-hyung,” Jimin says, as softly as he can, afraid of breaking the fragile bubble they have around them. He settles himself down on the floor comfortably, face level with Yoongi’s. “We—we’ve been stupid, haven’t we?”
Yoongi laughed at this, warm fingers sliding down from Jimin’s wrist to his hand. There’s one second of hesitation, before Yoongi pulls his hand close, pressing Jimin’s palm onto his cheek. “We have.”
Jimin runs his thumb along Yoongi’s cheekbone lightly, before he glances down at his lap. His eyes are prickling with incoming tears. “Hyung, I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean what I said.”
Yoongi tugs on his hand, and Jimin reluctantly looks up. Yoongi shifts a bit on the couch, making space for Jimin. He pats the space next to him, and Jimin obliges, carefully sliding in under the blanket.
He’s instantly engulfed by Yoongi, strong arms pulling him close and flush against a firm chest he’s always loved leaning against. Jimin breathes in sharply, Yoongi’s scent and warmth overwhelming his senses, and he completely breaks down at this point, two months of pining and sadness crashing down on him in one giant wave. Yoongi pets his hair softly, one hand rubbing up and down his back in a comforting gesture.
“Shh, baby, shh, don’t cry. I’m here, you’re here. W-we’re here.” He presses a kiss on Jimin’s temple, and Jimin doesn’t want to, but it only serves to make him cry harder, suddenly aware of how much he’s missed Yoongi. Terribly, terribly so. “And I should be the one apologizing, not you, Jiminnie. You were right—we were practically strangers with how much I’ve neglected you. Fuck, I can’t even believe I missed your dance performance thing.”
Jimin shakes his head, finding it all too silly now, because yes, Yoongi missed one of his big performances at the company, and it hurt at the time, but losing Yoongi was a bigger blow, and while Yoongi was definitely at fault for that, Jimin is more than willing to let it slide, because Yoongi is more important than a dance, a dance that can be repeated over and over again, and Yoongi—he’s the only one in the world. The only love of Jimin’s life. His boyfriend, his fiancé—the man he chose to love and give his heart to, is more important, than anything else.
“I’m sorry—please forgive me?”
Jimin presses his face against Yoongi’s chest, fingers bunching around the white fabric of Yoongi’s tee shirt. He nods his head, tangles their legs under the blanket. “I forgive you, idiot hyung—I love you too much.”
“I love you too, Jiminnie. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too.”
(When Jimin steps into the large reception hall, he finds himself sucking in a sharp breath of air. There are streamers hanging delicately from the ceiling, each strip artfully curled and cut to a certain degree of perfection. The chairs and tables are covered with sheer fabrics of blue and grey and cream, the tables adorned with bunches upon bunches of daffodils and marigolds. There’s a quiet and content buzz from the crowd milling about, no unnecessary tension or noise present, and the pianist at the corner of the room plays a soft lilting melody in the background.
It’s a gorgeous wedding, Jimin thinks, one that fits him and Yoongi perfectly.)